Thinking was never one of her strong suits. It was always "get up and go", not "stop and think". Everyone said she was the brains of her little operation, but the truth was much different. Brains were hardly involved at all. It was the same as it was back at her clan; pick up her bow, nock the arrow, draw the string, and fire. It was a process, an instinct, that required little-to-no thought. She very rarely had to think about which boot went on which foot, or whether or not she put her armor on backwards, but even that was trivial, small, meaningless thought. So why was she thinking so deeply into this one subject?
Thaeryn's tent was quiet enough to think for a very long time, but she missed thinking to the creaking of the aravels. The sounds were soothing to her in a time where she welcomed thought and philosophy. Now, thinking too hard brought memories, and memories were unwelcome. Her current thoughts, however, were focused on something that impacted the future rather than the past. She was debating something with herself, whether or not she should do something or ask for something. Her mind told her not to, but her heart screamed for her to do it. She'd been sitting there on the blanket she slept on, knees pulled to her chest and arms folded, resting upon them. Her brow had furrowed in concentration a while ago, and her forehead started to hurt. It didn't take long until this uncomfortable thinking phase was interrupted.
The point of a dagger peeked in from between the tent's opening flaps, and when it moved to the left a little, she discovered someone standing there. Tall for an elf, dark skin, light hair, however that worked, tattoos curling elegantly down his face and strands of blonde over his eyes. His expression was one of curiosity, but something within it made her sense a snarky comment coming on.
"You've been here for quite a while. The light suggests you're still awake, yet you haven't said anything, or made any kind of sound, really. Either something is wrong, or I should simply…leave you to it." His voice, intoxicating and perfectly accented, made Thaeryn shiver, but she had to press it down to avoid notice. She knew he was implying she was doing something he'd be interested in, which was no doubt bad for her. However, she bit anyway.
"Nothing's wrong. Just thinking." The man laughed, and she glared at him.
"What fun is that, thinking all by yourself? Such an occasion should be shared, no? Why can you not simply think outside, where everyone has perfect view of—"
"Don't." He smirked, and she let her glare relax. The blissful smirk of Zevran Arainai would be enough to calm anyone down. That's what she believed, at least.
"Well then, if you're so intent on being secretive, I'll take my leave." She allowed her eyes to wander to the views outside, checking to see if anyone was watching. It didn't look like anyone was bothering to pay attention to them. As Zevran started to retreat, very nearly letting his dagger close the tent behind him, Thaeryn reached up and took his hand. He looked down at her, surprised.
"Will you sit with me? I wanted to ask something of you." The curiosity in his expression returned as he walked into the tent, closing the flap by sheathing his dagger, and sat next to her.
"Anything, my Grey Warden." The way he maintained that smirk, that look that just bled sass, infuriated her. How did he do that? How could he stay so, for want of a better term, happy all the time?
She spent a second looking at the marks on his face before speaking again. "Those tattoos of yours," she started, "how did you get them?" Zevran reached up and touched his face, smiling.
"Very carefully. Done not long after leaving apprenticehood for the Crows by one of my first marks, if I remember correctly."
"They stuck needles in your face, and you killed them? I find that hard to believe."
"Ha, I doubt that tale is more unbelievable than the time I was sent to kill one of the fabled Grey Wardens, failed, and was then spared. To me, that one seems more outlandish." She rested her chin on her arms again and shrugged.
"And…you learned how to do them yourself, didn't you? You and Alistair talk very loudly, you know." He gave a short nod.
"I did pick up a few things on the art in Antiva. Though…why do you ask? It's not as if you just noticed them. I've been here for quite a while now, of course." Slightly blushing, Thaeryn half-buried her face in her arms, and she could sense Zevran's gaze upon her. It was that leer that he seemed to have permanently on his face, the one where she didn't know if it was simple curiosity or actually trying to be annoying. The one where he kept one eyebrow slightly raised, making one of his markings grow to match the stretch of skin. The one where he gave a hint of that half-smile that she ador—no, she couldn't say that. It was far too soon, wasn't it? She closed her eyes tightly and opened them quickly, letting her vision swim as those thoughts disappeared. An icy fist clenched around her heart; she wasn't used to asking for things. The very thought of asking for something made her heart pound. She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and lifted her head to look at him.
"Could you do one for me?" she asked, her voice shaking a little. His expression of surprise returned. This expression did not help her fear of requesting, nor did the hint of confusion in his voice.
"Unless my eyes aren't working correctly, I believe you already have a rather intricate design on that pretty face of yours. What do the Dalish call it…vallaslin, yes?" She nodded, regretting having said anything.
"That was more blood than actual ink, Zevran," she explained, wishing he hadn't made such a valid point. "That's where the dark-reddish color comes from—blood. Few do what I did and use very little ink. Most hide the wounds behind pretty colors. I like it this way."
"Then why do you want more?" She'd asked herself that question multiple times. Every answer she'd come up with was either ridiculous or a total lie, and everything eventually came down to something cheesy and romantic. She wanted to let her words wander, simply let herself speak instead of stopping and revising what she said mid-sentence.
"Because," she wanted to say, "I want to feel your hands on my back, firmly holding me so I don't move unless you want me to. I want to feel the pain of the needles jabbing into my skin, but also the security of you right behind me as it happens. I want to feel your breath curling down my spine as you lean in closer in concentration. I want your hand to snake around my waist as you work, even though I'll keep constant watch to ensure you don't go anywhere you're not supposed to. That, Zevran, is why I want more." But she didn't say any of that. She didn't want to, knew she couldn't. Instead, she did the worst possible thing.
She simply shrugged.
Zevran looked at her for a moment, puzzled, then started laughing. Burying her face in her arms again, she decided she would never speak to anyone again. She was content with that decision, that blissfully safe decision, before he spoke.
"Well, my dear, with such a compelling argument, how could I refuse? Only if you're absolutely sure, however. It does involve a great deal of pain, and the mark is rather permanent." The thought of all of those needles jabbing into her skin sent shivers up her spine. Simply thinking the word "needle" made her muscles tense. During the vallaslin ritual, there were small knives, not needles. She'd never experienced one's pain before, nor was she in a rush to remedy that, but she wanted some way to sneak her way closer to her assassin's heart. Whether or not it would work was irrelevant; the thought was nice, at least.
"I can handle it," was all she could think to say, but even she knew she was lying. If he saw right through her, noticed that she was terrified out of her wits, he didn't show it. He only nodded, still smiling.
"All right then, if you're sure. Though I will admit, it has been a little while." That's reassuring, she thought, hugging her knees closer to her chest. Zevran stood, his attention no longer upon her. As he walked out of the tent, isolating Thaeryn once more, she released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her mind wandered to the day she received her vallaslin. It had been a painful process, obviously—who wouldn't feel the pain of little knives cutting into their skin, or wince at the burn of the ink that settled in the wound?—but it hadn't been more painful than the many scratches from swords, daggers, and other things she'd acquired over her travels. Some of those scratches were even from Zevran, and here she was, awaiting him to give her more. The fact that she would do this willingly was pure madness in itself, but to get closer to him, to want him to see under her armor… What was more than madness, what was a word that would describe her ridiculous level of insanity? How would she be able to explain his coming and going from her tent to the others? "No worries, everyone, he was just stabbing me with needles to put a pretty picture on my back." Is that what she should say? The only thing she knew was she wanted it on her back. She didn't want to be able to look at the thing that screamed at her, telling her she allowed someone who tried to kill her to do this. True madness, she now understood, was not of the mind, but clearly of the heart.
She sat in silence for a long while, debating with herself again. She debated telling him she'd changed her mind, but what would that say? The answer was simple: it would say she was a coward, afraid of the tiniest jab from the tiniest weapon possible, and she was the one everyone trusted to defend against the Blight. It would tell everyone else the same thing if they heard her screaming, scrambling to get away from the little silver points. It was very likely that would happen, though, and she knew it. She didn't have any real way of preventing that. Biting down on something might help a little, but all she had within reach was her own arm, and that wasn't much of an option.
Her heart sank when her tent finally opened again. Zevran walked in carrying an assortment of things, some held in his hands, others piled up in his arms. She didn't see anything that would be called a needle, but that didn't keep her from wondering if Zevran could see how pale she was turning. The split second sideways glance suggested he did.
He sat down next to her and she repositioned herself to face him. The things he held mad a clattering noise as he put them down, and the number of items and their sizes made her wonder where he kept it all. Simply looking at it all, the little vials of ink and the boxes containing who knows what, made her skin tingle. She deeply regretted this decision, but she wasn't going to have Zevran pack up and leave after walking all the way over here with that stuff.
"I've got everything we could possibly need right here," he said, moving his hand above the items in front of him. He put his hand over a piece of cloth. "Wet towel," he moved his hand over the vials, "the ink," then over a small wooden box, "the needles," she resisted wincing, and he picked up a thick looking piece of cloth and threw it at her, "and something for you to bite on." He said the last softly, mockingly, along with that damnable smirk. She caught the cloth—felt more like leather, really—clumsily, barely grabbing it before it flew over her head. "Before anything, though, I will ask you again: are you absolutely sure? I have no problem with getting up and going, should that be your wish."
"No, I'm sure," Thaeryn lied. Whether or not he could see through her wasn't evident. She wanted to keep talking to him, to prolong the time between the fear and meeting the thing she was actually afraid of. She knew he'd figure out what she was doing, however, and she knew he would just laugh at her for trying. Hearing that laugh may not be such a terrible thing, but knowing he would be laughing at her rather than with her was what she wanted to avoid.
The expression on Zevran's face suggested he didn't really know where to start, what words to begin with, what place to begin with. She didn't know, either.
"Well then," he began, his tone uncertain, "where do I go?" Unsure of what he meant, she sat there staring at him, puzzled. He sighed. "Where do you want it?"
"Oh." That fist came around her heart again, knowing that telling someone exactly what she wanted was another way of asking for things. She didn't want to sound bossy or rude, nor did she want to feel extremely picky, so she wasn't exactly sure how to continue. Asking Master Ilen for a bow what felt like a lifetime ago had been pure torture, but this was death itself. "My back?" Again, he laughed.
"Is it a question or a request?" She didn't want to say anything else, her throat already closed from this chain of asking. The heat in her face increased as she sat there, staring at the poorly thrown-together floor of her tent, and the fear made way for embarrassment.
"Well, I…eh…" She couldn't think of any decent sentences anymore, focusing more on how Zevran was perceiving the redness of her face. He sat there staring at her, the look on his face impossible to put into words, head slightly tilted in possible confusion. Then, he surprised her.
"Take off the armor, then." Her eyes widened. The way he had just told her to strip was so casual, as if he did it all the time—which he probably did. But to her? She didn't know what exactly she expected him to say, but that, and said so bluntly, wasn't it. He closed his eyes and sighed in frustration. "I cannot work in a place I cannot reach. Armor," he pointed to her chest, "off." Why she had to remove her armor still wasn't clear to her. Still wearing the traditional Dalish hunting gear, much of her back was already exposed. It was possible he wanted her more exposed for his own benefit, which she honestly didn't want to deny him, but it still didn't make a lot of sense to her. In spite of it, however, she began working on her chest piece, then stood and removed the leather skirt before sitting back down, folding the leather pieces as best as she could and putting them aside. Her embarrassment grew, as she was in nothing more than rather skimpy smallclothes, though she was surprised to discover that Zevran had kept his eyes elsewhere. He turned his head back to her, and she noticed he swallowed a little when he saw her. He then snapped his fingers and pointed at her chest again.
"This too?" she asked, pointing to her own chest and certain she was impossibly red now. He nodded, his face neutral, for which she was grateful. She sighed and turned around, unwilling to take the slim, slim chance that he didn't just want to see her naked, even though that's probably what it was. But still, she removed the piece, letting out a breath as she did so. She looked around for something to at least cover the front with, but there was nothing. Nothing but that piece of leather-cloth that was barely big enough to cover half her chest, never mind the whole thing. She looked back over her shoulder to glare at him. "You did this on purpose." He smiled and shrugged. She wasn't going to give him too much satisfaction, though. Knowing it was impossible to prevent him from getting the quickest glance, she quickly turned and laid down on her stomach, crossing her arms to give her head more comfort than the hard ground. "I hate you so much."
"Now, now, my Grey Warden, remember who holds the needles here." She winced and buried her face in her arms. She heard him move closer to her, whether "scooting" or actually walking, she couldn't say, and she prepared herself for the points of the needles to enter her skin. Apparently, that wasn't how it worked. It was as if they played with your mind in Antiva, made you wait for the pain with things that everyone else didn't think mattered. She felt something cold and wet on her back, something that felt like a towel, something she hoped was a towel, and she felt it going up and down, side to side, covering every possible spot. This made her wonder what he was going to do. "So, anything specific in mind?" Silently and in her own mind, she begged him to stop making her ask for things, and simply shrugged, humming the words "I don't know". She turned her head to look at him. He'd discarded the towel and held a needle in his hand, already dripping with ink that had a color she couldn't put a name to.
"Just…nothing bad, okay? Nothing anyone would laugh at."
"Ah, self conscious, are we? I would never have noticed." She grunted and rested her chin on her arms, scowling. Then, all of a sudden, there was the tiniest pain to the right of her back. It took a few seconds for it to actually burn a little, no doubt the result of ink mixing with blood. She clawed at the ground and shut her eyes so tightly she may not be able to open them again. One of her hands reached the leather-cloth piece, and she brought it to her mouth and bit down hard. "That badly, huh? I could just stop, leave that little dot there."
"I will murder you." He gave another laugh, bigger, more wholehearted.
"All right, then. But if you cry, I will stop."
"I am not going to cry." She already knew that it was very likely that this was not going to be held true. More tiny bits of pain lined her back, staying on one side and occasionally reaching the center of her spine, but going no further than that. The pain of each individual needle, combined with the pain in her jaw from biting down so hard for so long, mixed together to make one giant painful abomination that she wondered was ever going to go away. At this rate, it seemed unlikely. Zevran moved quickly, one needle going in a split second after another, and though Thaeryn was impressed by the speed and efficiency, the ache that crawled up her spine made her lose all ability to admire. He kept his free hand on her other side, keeping her still, and the skin tingled under his hand. He seemed to inch higher and lower with the needles, stilling the places parallel to where he worked. She was completely unable to mentally map what he was doing to her back, as the tendrils of hotness curled around each other to make it impossible to tell where it all started. She refused to cry out or make the slightest bit of noise beyond a groan into the leather-cloth. If she had cried during the vallaslin, the ritual would have been stopped all together, and she would have been deemed not yet ready to be an adult. Stubborn as she was, she had allowed the blood to pour down her face with little more than a few winces as Keeper looked at her, pleased.
After an eternity, Thaeryn felt the needles being plucked out one by one—though only barely, as her back was very numb by that point—and then the feeling of the cold, wet towel on her back again, rubbing about in quick motions and seeming to absorb the pain that had settled in her spine. She had a feeling this meant it was finally over.
"All complete," Zevran stated proudly, confirming her thoughts. She could hear him dusting off his hands, likely stiff and covered in ink. "And I must say, I am very impressed with your lack of crying. I truly thought you were going to break." She wanted to punch him so badly, but that would mean moving, maneuvering in a way that would require her to both show her exposed chest and move her fire-filled spine. She did her best to sit up without throwing shocks up her back, putting one arm across her chest as the other hunted for her clothing. She turned around again and dressed herself, trying to ignore the pain of the leather pressing down on the newly acquired wounds. It appeared to go from her waist to just above the end of her chest piece, though she was still unable to mentally picture the design. Zevran made sure she didn't have to, though. "Here," he said as she turned around to face him, and he handed her a small silver mirror, "hold this." She took it from him, welcoming the coolness of the handle after being bombarded by hot aches throughout her body. She watched as Zevran dug through his things and pulled out another mirror, this one square and golden, and held it up as he stood behind her. Multiple times he reached out and repositioned the mirror in her hand, until eventually she could see the new design on her back.
It may as well have been done by one of the Keepers, the way it looked. Though the color perfectly matched that of Zevran's markings, the designs were so earthen, so intricate, one wouldn't have believed it was done by an Antivan assassin from the city. Vines curled around each other, tiny flowers blooming on them, slashes and lines scattered about in a way that made it look like wind, leaves growing out of random places and hardly attached to anything. The detail he put into everything was breathtaking—not perfect, but not intended to be so. The simplicity of it was what made it beautiful.
"Zevran, I…I don't know what to say." This time, she actually told the truth. The terrors of the needles going in and out of her skin, the embarrassment of being so exposed, it was worth it for the beautiful marks that twisted and turned up and down the side of her back. She allowed herself a minute to simply stand there, staring at the shapes, so entranced that she didn't even notice that Zevran's arm had gone around her waist. He leaned in close and whispered in her ear.
"I will assume that means you like it. Not much use in trying to get rid of it." So badly she wanted to shiver, let her reaction to that voice finally show, but the ache in her back and the embarrassment it would cause was hardly worth it. Wasn't it?
She shivered, and he touched his forehead to her shoulder and laughed.
"I did work rather hard on it, you know." He lifted his head up again, his lips barely brushing her ear, and she swallowed. "Nice to know you appreciate it." Then, rather abruptly, he released her and began picking up his things, acting as if nothing had just happened.
"Zevran," Thaeryn spoke up, just before he was about to walk out of the tent, his things cluttered in his arms once again. "Ma serannas. Thank you." He smirked again—dammit—and gave a very quick nod. Through the flaps of the tent that stayed open ever so briefly, she could see almost everyone outside. She heard Leliana "ooh" and giggle as Zevran walked away. She saw Alistair glare at the elf, then glance at her tent before looking back to the fire. She watched as Sten, arms crossed and scowl turned into a look of a mix of wonder and concern, shook his head in disapproval and turned back, staring at the nothingness behind Bodahn's cart. Painfully, she twisted herself to get the slightest glance at her new mark, and touched it. She ignored the burning sensation it caused, instead taking pleasure in knowing that it was Zevran, the one no one in the camp appeared to trust, who had given her such a beautiful thing.
It was hardly the romantic fantasy she'd wanted, but she'd get that soon enough, in time. Though with this, these feelings for a city elf—flat-ear, as her people called them—and a painful mark he'd given her, she actually felt Dalish again. While she was among the Dalish, she truly felt alive, free, and, Creators forbid, loved. Zevran didn't consider himself Dalish, but she did. Only because it made it hurt a lot less.