Zevran walked behind the Warden. It seemed this was his "position" within the ranks of the Warden's companions. Stuck in the middle. It galled him a little. His talents would have been put to better use scouting ahead or watching behind. Granted, the Orlesian redhead was skilled enough. It made some sense to have her scouting. But to place the Qunari, all lumbering and clanking along in his ill-fitting scale mail, in the back? Any brigand worth his salt could easily slip past him. Certainly any Crow. Perhaps the Warden's great beast of a dog would catch anything that got by the Sten.
His attempts to engage the lovely ladies to either side of him had been met with dismal failure. The dark haired apostate had a wickedly sharp tongue and an altogether unpleasant personality. Indeed, something about her set Zevran's nerves on edge. This one was far more dangerous than the Warden realized. The older mage was likewise immune to his charms, though he had to admit he found it amusing to tease her about her bosom. He could see many an opportunity in the future to fluster her with such talk.
As he trudged through the seemingly never ending Ferelden wilderness, his thoughts wandered back to that first night in camp. Tired and sore from their battle, the Warden and his companions had stopped early to rest; gathering the stragglers as they went. When the decision was made to stop, the group set up camp efficiently; each person seemed to have their own job to do which left Zevran at loose ends. He watched and tried to stay out of the way. He'd offered to clean the rabbit and partridge that the Qunari and hound had brought, only to be quickly shot down by Alistair, mumbling something about poison.
Never one to waste an opportunity to study an opponent, Zevran instead turned his attention to the Warden, watching him as he and Sten worked together to dig a small fire pit. It was obvious that the man was strong and willing to take on menial tasks without complaint. Yet the oath that the Warden had returned to Zevran made it clear that he was of noble birth. Despite that, here he was digging in the dirt.
It wasn't just how the Warden acted that Zevran noticed. With nothing else to distract him, he took the time to really look at the man. There was just something about the Warden. Something about the way he carried himself, spoke to his companions, even moved, that drew Zevran's attention. He was easily the tallest human Zevran had ever encountered. Nearly as tall as the Qunari giant and head and shoulders taller than himself.
He wasn't sure what it was that intrigued him so, perhaps it was the black hair and startling blue eyes. Certainly the man was handsome enough; tall and imposing with broad shoulders and long legs. And he wasn't just tall, he was powerfully built. When he stood next to Zevran it wasn't just his height that made him take notice, it was his sheer bulk that seemed to take up all the available space even when he didn't stand too close.
Later that night, sitting near the fire, he wondered just what he'd gotten himself into.
When the Warden had pulled off his gauntlets and cracked his knuckles, Zevran found himself mesmerized. The Warden's hands were large, with long, slender fingers and broad palms with a faint dusting of fine black hairs across the backs. Zevran stared as the Warden tore a large strip of jerky in two and ate it. He couldn't take his eyes off those hands as the Warden ate and used his thumb to wipe at his mouth. A sudden image of that thumb rubbing across his lips stole Zevran's breath. He swore to himself and tore his eyes away.
The rest of the evening, he found himself sneaking glances at the Warden's hands. Every gesture as he spoke, ate or cleaned his gear, every stroke as he scratched behind the Mabari's ear – all of those insignificant, mundane movements fascinated him, especially when the Warden petted his dog. Watching those hands stroke the russet fur was torture. Images of those hands stroking his body wrecked havoc inside him.
He, the great Zevran Araini, was jealous of a dog.
So when the Warden left the fire and headed over to the dwarves' wagon, Zevran gave a sigh of relief. Closing his eyes, he concentrated very hard at controlling his body's reaction. His eyes were still closed when the Warden's voice pulled him out his thoughts.
Remembering the amusement that had laced the Warden's voice, Zevran thought perhaps there was more to the Warden that attracted him than his hands. That beautiful voice with its odd intonations and lovely vowels had pulled at him as he first awoke after his ill-fated suicide attempt. Even with his head throbbing and ears ringing, he had noticed it's rich timbre. And now, as he sat with a clear head, that same voice managed to curl his toes. Deep and resonant, it wrapped around him and stirred something inside that he'd thought long buried. Whatever success he'd had in tempering his reaction was lost.
"Zevran, we're short on tents at the moment. We'll have to pick one up for you at Redcliffe. Until then, you'll have to share." Zevran remembered feeling the Warden's eyes on him and looking up reluctantly. The man was so damnably tall that he almost strained his neck attempting to meet his eyes.
Swallowing thickly, Zevran fell back on his natural tendencies, grinning and cocking his head to one side.
"Oh? And whose tent shall I share, hmm? Yours perhaps?"
A look passed between them, one that shot straight to Zevran's groin. Until, that is, the Warden laughed. Looking back, he thought that it was a fine laugh; and judging by the looks of astonishment on the faces of his companions, one that was not heard often. At the time, Zevran had been mortified and working hard at keeping a smile on his face.
"Not tonight. For now, Sten will be your bunk mate."
"As you wish, Warden."
The Warden merely smiled and sauntered off. Looking back over his shoulder he tossed back a comment.
"You may feel differently in the morning. Sten snores."
Sten took the first watch that night and Zevran had the tent to himself for several hours. He was unable to sleep; however, as his traitorous mind conjured up a stunning array of images of the Warden that kept him thoroughly awake. He tried to still his mind and compose himself for sleep but each time he was close to dropping off another vision of the Warden's hands doing thoroughly inventive things to his willing body would pop up unbidden and rouse him from the edge of sleep. By the time Sten's watch was complete, he was completely awake and most uncomfortably aroused.
The Qunari took up an enormous amount of space and Zevran was forced to retreat to the edge of the tent and curl up to avoid him. Once his armor was off and he stretched out on his bedroll, Sten quickly fell asleep and the Warden's warning came true. The giant did indeed snore. The sounds coming from the Qunari were ear splitting. The entire tent seemed to vibrate and with nothing to muffle the sound, Zevran despaired of getting to sleep. On the plus side, the snoring provided sufficient distraction and all thoughts of the Warden were banished. He briefly considered kicking the giant in the hopes of gaining a few moments of silence but reconsidered. The Sten seemed more than capable of killing him with his bare hands.
Sighing, Zevran uncurled from his corner of the tent and crept quietly out. Kneeling by the tent, he looked around. The fire has burned down to embers. Curled up beside the dying fire was the Warden's mabari. No one else seemed to be awake or moving. His pack was resting by the tent flap and he dug through it, looking for his cup and tea canister.
He crossed over to the fire and added a few pieces of wood from the pile nearby. Hanging from the spit was a small kettle. He shook it and decided there was enough water for his purposes. Placing the kettle over the built up flames, he settled back on his heels to wait.
He knew whoever was on watch was nearby, most likely making a perimeter check, so he waited in plain view. He waited, listening for the telltale signs of approaching feet. Picking up a nearby stick, he stirred the coals and watched the flames flare up in fits and starts with each thrust.
The dancing flames were mesmerizing and he found himself slipping into a memory. He remembered sitting around a similar campfire on a beach far away from this country that smelled like wet dog. That night Taliesin and …her… had sat beside him, sharing a bottle of Antivan brandy they'd lifted from their mark. The job had gone well and they were making their way back to Antiva City. It wasn't often that they ventured outside of the city on assignments and it was her first time sleeping under the stars. Taliesin and he took great delight in telling one lurid story after another about the savage beasts who preyed upon unsuspecting travelers on the road to Rialto. The beasts existed only in their tales, of course, but the city-bred girl didn't know that.
By the end of the evening, after much brandy and tales designed to entice her to seek the comfort of one or both of them, they had finally told one tale too outlandish even for her to believe. She was furious but soundly drunk and completely unable to do more than swear and swipe in their general direction. Which of course resulted in much laughter from himself and Taliesin, which made her even more irate until she struck out with some remnant of precision and managed to connect with Taliesin's nose. She had been immediately contrite in the face of Taliesin's sudden anger. A witty remark after taking her in his arms had calmed both of his partners.
Yes, that night had ended well. The memory of it brought a sad smile to his face.
The sudden sight of a pair of boots invading his field of vision brought him out of his memories with a start. He looked up to find the Warden gazing down at him, a glint of humor in his eyes.
"I thought the Crows were supposed to be some sort of wunderkind. And here I am, a mere dog lord. I've bested you in combat and now I've walked right up to you in the night unnoticed. All in the same day. Are you sure you're really a Crow?"
"My dear Warden, you wound me."
The Warden snorted and seated himself on a nearby stump. He stretched out his long legs and arched his back. Zevran could hear the vertebrae popping as he did so. He found himself unable to take his eyes off the warrior's lean form. The Warden twisted at the waist, stretching his side and turned to face Zevran when he was done, catching the assassin's gaze.
Zevran found it impossible to look away from those blue eyes for several moments. Finally, with a small shake of his head, he turned his attention back to the fire. Stabbing viscously with his stick, he stirred the coals and watched the sparks fly up in a mad whirlwind.
"Sten wake you up?"
"Hmm? Ah, no. "
"I know he snores like a right bastard. That's why I had him take first watch."
"Well, the thought is appreciated but I was unable to fall asleep. Though I doubt I could have stayed asleep once he began that racket."
As if to punctuate his comment, a particularly loud snort burst forth from Sten's tent, followed by a cough and audible sigh.
"I doubt it would help if he set up as far away from the rest of us as Morrigan," the Warden chuckled.
"Indeed."
"Still, if you plan on staying awake until we reach Redcliffe, I would advise against it."
"It was not my plan, I assure you, Grey Warden."
"I've taken your oath and given you my pledge, assassin. No one here will harm you."
Zevran looked up from the fire to find the Warden leaning forward, watching him intently. They held each other's eyes for several heartbeats before Zevran turned away once more. Wrapping his hand in the tail of his shirt, he pulled the kettle off the fire and poured the steaming water into his waiting cup. Taking his time, he carefully set the kettle to one side, shifting on the balls of his feet. His thighs were beginning to burn from sitting so long in a crouch, but he set aside the pain as he was trained and focused on the task at hand.
Opening the tin, he gently tapped out a portion of tealeaves into his hand and set the tin to one side. He picked up the cup and began to sift the tealeaves from his clenched fist, the steam curling up and around his fingers. He let the dried leaves filter through his fist, the last stubborn remnants falling into the cup with a flick of his fingers. He swirled the cup, watching the color slowly deepen for some time until he brought the cup up close to his face and breathed the scent. A small smile crossed his lips as his eyes drifted shut.
The quiet task of brewing tea always served to calm him, something he desperately needed. He was aware of the Warden's presence at his back, heard the quiet crunch of leaves as the human levered himself to his feet and moved closer. He continued to breath the herbal scent into his lungs, focusing on the clean tang of citrus and mild fruity smell of the chamomile and orange peel blend. He brought the cup to his lips and sipped the hot liquid, relishing in the warmth that filled his mouth and throat. He sighed and rocked back on his heels before standing.
He stretched upward, rocking onto the balls of his feet, his head thrown back in an unconsciously sensuous movement. A sudden change in the air around informed him that the Warden had stepped into his personal space, dangerously close to him. He felt one of those large hands close around his own and his eyes flew open to find the Warden staring down at him, eyes dilated and wide.
The hand folded around his own drew the cup slowly upwards to the Warden's mouth. The ghost of the larger man's breath brushed over his fingertips as the cup found its mark. He sipped and smiled as the tea crossed his tongue. The Warden's hand slipped down to grasp Zevran's from underneath the cup as he slowly dropped it back down.
Zevran swallowed heavily and forced his voice to work as he gazed into the human's eyes and tried to remember to hold on to the cup.
"Grey Warden?"
"My name is Liam."