Inspired by a few fanarts and the spectacular lack of love for Zevran out there, which struck yours truly as somewhat unfair. Sure, Alistair is a wonderful character and a well-written romance, but a different viewpoint than just Lawful Good fem!Cousland seems more interesting at times. Most likely a one-shot and most likely more of these to come eventually. The PC is my elven mage, who also features in my other one-shot Seasons, though she isn't mentioned by name there. Anyone who might have problems with the pronunciation, it's Nee-moo-ay, taken from the Arthurian Lady of the Lake. Symbolism, anyone?
EDIT: Tense/spelling mistakes corrected, thanks to Athena. I was writing this quite late at night and kept switching two perspectives, so there were quite a lot of tense switches that were highly unnatural and illogical. My thanks for letting me know of that. Hopefully, it's better now.
o.O.o
Fracture
o.O.o
After weeks – or months already, it had to be – of scampering around all of Ferelden on a mad crusade to bring all of the country's peoples together against the actual problem (this being the Blight), one had to get used to being attacked by random creatures. Bandits, darkspawn, wild animals; there was no telling what travelers might expect on the road, even well-armed travelers with a massive mabari hound in tow. Consequently, injuries had also become a regular part of life for everyone involved in this camp-based lifestyle.
It was likely a sign of becoming a successful Grey Warden when the sight of your blood-splattered clothing didn't frighten one any longer and you could handle taking a few bumps and bruises without dropping your weapon and cursing colorfully for a few minutes. However, the line had to be drawn somewhere, and of course the Maker would choose the most inconvenient moment for such a thing out of some sense of wicked amusement. But then again, this was the deity who supposedly created the first darkspawn and then let them plague the rest of Thedas, so perhaps this sort of sadistic humor was to be anticipated.
Nimue supposed it was also partly her own fault – not that she would ever admit this out loud – for wishing to explore the ancient ruins where they had ended the werewolf curse some more. After all, who could blame her after finding the strange phylactery, the woodland spirits and the elven ghosts? Most of her life had been spent in scholarly pursuits and the chance to find out more about her race's ancestors seemed a dream come true. She had the time now before they would return to the Dalish encampment for good and they had enough supplies and firepower to deal with anything they encountered…
The thing was, though, that when one was battling undead opponents, it payed off to make certain they were fully and completely dead. Otherwise, skeletons with a clearly shattered spine might grab your ankle when you're least expecting it and reacquaint you with the very firm stone floor more than happily. A stone floor with rather sharp rubble and debris lying around on it.
The others finished matters quickly after her yelp of surprise and rather spectacular crash. When she tried to get back up, though, things proceeded far less smoothly than planned, considering the simple motion; there was a sickening grinding sound for a moment, a sharp pain. And the next thing she was on the floor again in a heap of robes, barely even registering the string of insults that was passing through her mind – as a mage, she had been taught to control her cursing, lest Templars consider it a sign of corruption. Absurd, perhaps, but considering the zealotry of some of them, one couldn't put it past them.
"Ow!" She settled for a more eloquent expression of her personal discomfort, wincing when she tried to move the leg in question. "Ow ow ow, demons and damnation!"
Post-battle cursing wasn't like her, which was the reason her current entourage realized something was amiss.
"May I?"
Out of the three of them, it was also easy to guess why Zevran would be the one to inspect the situation more closely; Morrigan cared little for the discomfort of others and the elf had quite easily spotted the blush of what he privately considered maidenly panic on Alistair's face when their fearless leader didn't hesitate to drag the embroidered fabric of her robe out of the way to reveal a most lovely but rapidly swelling leg. Such a shame that him removing articles of clothing from the mage's body (boots, in this case) was for such a mundane purpose.
"I suppo- OW!" It didn't take much medical knowledge to come to a most unfavorable conclusion.
"Broken, without a doubt." She could groan most pleasingly as well, though frustration and pain wasn't too becoming. "Can you heal it yourself?
The glare she offered in return was answer enough. The most she could do was stabilize it for a while. Fixing this would require a proficient healer, not the type of mage who preferred to make things explode and set darkspawn (and others, pun fully intended) on fire – not that those weren't extremely useful abilities in their line of work. It just wasn't too convenient right then.
"'Tis most fortunate that you choose to break your leg after the battle." Morrigan finally deigned the situation worthy of her commentary, apparently, looming over them with her arms folded. It was easy to form a mask of scoffing indifference when was clear that Nimue would live, and if the witch excelled at feinting any sentiment, this would be it. "Now, you'll only slow us down considerably instead of killing us."
Being a hypocrite and aware of it, Nimue didn't enjoy when sarcastic banter was directed at her and reacted appropriately. "Morrigan, unless you've become a Spirit Healer when I wasn't looking, please refrain from making me think passing on the pain would ease my own somewhat."
"How very uncharitable of you." the witch quipped chidingly. But there was potential for amusement here, though, and it certainly wouldn't go to waste on her account. "But the situation isn't without its bright side for some, I suppose."
"There's a bright side to feeling like an ogre is tap-dancing on my leg?" their leader asked incredulously, not quite grasping the situation yet. She had at least given up on trying to stand up herself. The other pieces would soon fall into place.
Morrigan, both inwardly amused by the discomfort on various sides that will follow once the situation played itself out as it must and obviously irritated by being snapped at by a most unlikely source moved towards the exit of the chamber. "Don't just stand there; let us be off."
"But Nimue-"
"Do you require me to say it in very small words?" Of course he did, because templars were useless by definition and cannot be trusted to do anything without someone giving the command word. "One of you will carry her."
Credit had to be given that Alistair didn't splutter at the very suggestion of this extent of bodily contact with the mage. "And if we get attacked on the way back, what then?" he demanded, actually somewhat reasonably. Maybe he did prefer following someone, but if that someone wasn't to his tastes, well… "We can't rely on your magic alone."
Another hypocrite right there, because if the situation of the two women was reversed, he'd be perfectly willing to trust Nimue's magic, but Morrigan could admit that infatuation of such a degree could addle a simple mind to the degree that autonomous thinking had to be banished. Just a biased fool, then.
"I can still cast spe-" Nimue's suggestion turned into a yelp that stopped Morrigan from giving Alistair her opinion on how reliable his incomplete combat skills were in comparison, but there was no further noteworthy commotion, mostly because the mage was trying not to overbalance and end up back on the ground.
"Well, then, shall we get going?" Zevran remarked blithely, obviously not at all bothered by any hypothetical difficulties they might run into as long as life was good now.
Nimue had the sense not to wiggle for her own sake, but practiced her glare a little. "What are you doing?"
"As our lovely witch has noted, you would slow us down considerably." Throwing indisputable truths into the face of a reasonable person was a cruel, cruel thing. It was also one of the more enjoyable ways to frustrate those who prided themselves in using honesty to maneuver their way through situations. "And if we are attacked, you must be looked after, no?"
"You're-"
"And, as Alistair is no doubt about to suggest, he is the more proficient in, shall we say, blunt assault?"
This applied to both of the Grey Wardens, of course, but most of this little spiel was meant for the templar. The man was remarkably easy to guilt-trip, among other things. The lady Surana was aware that the combination of elf and mage spelled doom on a great many diplomatic efforts and thus remained appropriately cynical towards kindness.
"Besides, you don't need to have your injury pressing against heavy armor, do you now?" Not to mention that most likely the knight would prove remarkably useless in even carrying her if the degree of redness around his ears was anything to go by – obviously, even templars had imagination, however limited. "Under the circumstances, I believe the choice is rather easy."
Neither of them could argue against that.
"I'll unbalance you if I cast spells; I could try summoning a bear or some other-"
Well, not too much, anyway.
"And leave you to the mercy of a beast that could charge at everything that frightens it?" Animals, even the summoned ones, reacted instinctively, thus it was difficult even for their masters to control them when assaulted. "We cannot have that, my dear."
Nimue's left eyelid gave a small twitch, which tended to happen whenever an endearment such as this was directed at her – or, at least when he did it. Any attempts to get him to use her first name only had resulted only in suggestions of different ones, some that had made her face darken a little, others that she barely hid a laugh at.
"Very well, then." she capitulated to his logic and followed her own as well, wincing just a little when she moved her arm out of the way and around his back to better support her balance by the palm resting on his shoulder. It was helpful and most appreciated, as it removed the main obstruction to having the upper half of that peculiar corset-armor-like contraption she wore over her robes press against him quite freely. "Just… just get me to Wynne quickly."
"If you're quite finished, perhaps we could move on?" Morrigan, who had returned to the room after examining the corridor ahead of them with faint disinterest, was indeed finding her predicted amusement in Alistair's pointedly forced ignorance of the proceedings – because the choice was logical, naturally – and Nimue's stiff discomfort, which perhaps couldn't entirely be attributed to the injury, no matter how fresh. The little things in life were the pleasures that counted. "I'm certain the horde of creatures waiting for us ahead must be getting quite bored of waiting."
Thankfully, with the absence of werewolves, the ruins seemed to be peaceful now; not even the already-shattered corpses gave them any further trouble, since there were mostly only a few bones left scattered around and none had any urge to be broken again or return to life in any shape or form.
Which is not to say that the journey back to the Dalish camp was peaceful or relaxing.
Morrigan, having lost patience with all this nonsense some hours ago, determinedly stalked ahead of them all, but couldn't really be considered their surrogate leader, simply because there was no such thing. Then came Zevran and their patient, who was paler than ever from the pain she was doubtlessly trying to suppress and finally Alistair bringing up the rear in case something tried to jump them and a distraction be needed to allow the mages to gather up their spells.
Even though the templar said next to nothing most of the time – the mercy of not having Morrigan comment on things was a blessed thing – Zevran could very easily feel the human's eyes boring into him and his precious cargo almost constantly, darting between the two of them and likely speculating. It was an amusing spectacle, really, that humans (or perhaps it's just besotted templars, considering their limited experience with emotion and the outside world) consider even the slightest action of a man towards a woman a claim or (in the case of thwarted assassins, most likely) some kind of hidden scheme.
At times, he inquired if Nimue was feeling all right, to which she always politely replied that she was indeed, but there was a tightness to the words, which translated as something like: My leg is broken and I get the feeling that some of you are assuming things that will bite me in the backside later on. Of course I'm not all right!
The elf smirked a little at the crown of his charge's head. With regards to the object of their (current) desires, a failed attempt at killing her and a lifetime of training as a mage-hunter might stand on a rather similar ground. Not that he believed this to be anything but a good-natured (well, maybe a little less than that) rivalry; the final decision would be up to the lady; all that could be done about that was determine what she wanted and offer her that.
Now, if only she weren't as rigid as a hare that was doing its best to pretend it was no more than a molehill while being watched by a particularly observant hawk.
"No need to be so tense, my dear." he noted finally. Were it not for the steady rhythm of her breathing – a means of calming down, clearly – and the repeating motion of her supple breasts pressing against his armor, she might even pass for a corpse entering the early stages of rigor mortis. Certainly not an appreciated sensation in one's partner when physical contact is involved.
However, there were ways around that.
"Shall we find out if you can relax with a broken leg when we get back to camp?" Fortunately, she wasn't in an entirely foul mood any longer, it seemed, because her response was flippant yet without any real menace behind it. Knowing her, though, it could still be considered a promise.
"So eager to get your hands on me?" Zevran chuckled, taking care not to knock her injured leg against tree trunks as they passed through particularly dense foliage. "You need only ask and I will gladly return the favor. I'm certain we could reach a compromise of sorts enjoyable for all."
One of the marvelous things about mages – actual magic aside, of course – was that their lives out of social conventions make it much more difficult to scandalize them in any way. He even suspected one of the reasons Nimue had allowed him to live was because these overtures amused her. Today, she offered a resigned sigh instead of a laugh, though.
"You'll not give up until I consent, will you?"
Ah, so they were at until and not unless now, were they?
"Not if I'm making progress, and I seem to be. You need not worry about that now." Fractured limbs were hardly productive to pleasure, after all. They limited movement, for one, and could easily break the mood. "When you consent, there will be no broken bones involved. It doesn't seem you're into that kind of thing."
The mage scoffed under her breath, blowing some hair out of her face in the process. "Well, you get points for determination, at least."
She was rewarded with another smirk. "See? Progress."
"Whatever you say." Nimue noted, but this time, she likely assured that she wouldn't be subjected to more than this unavoidable minor molestation (if it could be called that, since it wasn't as if she minded if the situation was truly out of her hands) and allowed her head to drop to his shoulder to get some sleep.
If she was to walk through hell later on, she might as well get some sleep while possible.
o.O.o
In retrospect, Nimue supposed she should have considered studying biology and healing much more during her apprenticeship, but it had never seemed particularly interesting to her then and now that she needed it, she had a trained healer to turn to whenever needed. Besides, if one had the time to heal injuries, chances were that the battle was already over, and her magic was often better used against enemies than for herself and her allies. There was more than one way to keep a person alive, obviously.
Wynne had set her leg quite easily, chiding only a little and lecturing on not being overhasty. She would have to rest for a few days and her muscles would feel rather stiff afterwards. Leliana had stopped by as well to help with the bandages and remark on the necessity of proper footwear – a notion that the elf had taken to heart, though perhaps not in the manner the bard had intended. She would perhaps even consider getting something more practical than mage robes to wear, since their length didn't necessarily allow speedy movement in combat; maybe something closer to what Morrigan wore, at least from the waist down.
The waist up part… well, after going through the Deep Roads, she certainly didn't want any darkspawn being too certain that she was female and, more pressingly, it certainly wouldn't have a positive effect on the attention span on about half of her companions. She had heard enough drunk and delusional propositions from Oghren to dread at what the actual ones might be (assuming, of course, that the dwarf ever forsook his beloved liquor for long enough to actually sober up), amusing as the former were. And that was just one of her current problems.
Another being…
There were hands on her shoulders, moving methodically, forcing her to straighten up from her slouch by the campfire. Once it became clear that the grip didn't have the intention of moving in the general direction of her throat and tighten considerably, she allowed herself to relax, only half-heartedly evaluating who it must be by the fact that she hadn't heard them approach, the hands weren't feminine and her personal space was being invaded without much of a care for her opinion on the matter.
Easy enough.
"Mmmmrgh." That about summed up her feelings on the matter until the movement stopped and she automatically snapped back into a straight position, lest she slump back entirely. Which was hardly a good idea. "Not that it isn't appreciated, but try to warn me first before jumping me like that."
That advice might have worked on others, but Zevran was of the opinion that once one got past the first line of defense – this being the implied threat of I'm A Mage, Don't Piss Me Off Or I'll Crush Your Skull With My Mind – there was a great deal of suppressed carefree wildness in the elven lass, which was simply waiting for the correct stimuli to get out. It had worked on other mage girls before, in his experience, if one didn't back off immediately. The remark that she was a deadly sex goddess hadn't been just a throwaway compliment; the former, she had already mastered and the latter… well, he could certainly help with perfecting that part.
"And give you time to tense up even more?" he asked merrily, settling in a spot close enough to her that would usually cause Wynne to give him her matronly version of the evil eye, as if he were trying to corrupt their messiah.
Next time, he'd have to suggest that she was more than welcome to join the fun. Right now, the whole camp was mostly in disarray, some still replenishing supplies with the Dalish, others already asleep to make certain to be awake for their watches later on.
"Unlikely."
"Tense mages can lead to explosions if one's wandering hands aren't kept in check." Nimue remarked patiently when the hands returned, the motions actually making her discard the book she was reading (somehow, she managed to make it look intentional, even though it wasn't entirely true by then).
"We'll just have to help you relax somewhat, won't we?"
By that point, however, she had gotten so used to Zevran's utter frankness about wanting to sleep with her that husky words close to her ear might have been substituted with her warhound's barking for all the reaction they provoked. But this very open attitude was something she appreciated as well; if she knew what to expect, she could be prepared for any methods used, or so she believed.
"My leg got mended an hour ago." she noted, and this was payback for being cornered by logic last time. "Even if I intended to thank you for carrying me through the forest in such a manner, it would be a rather poor repayment. Besides," The smile she shot was cheeky, because she had learned to actually enjoy this game, which was the odd crossing of the cat and mouse chase and a game where the ball is tossed from one end of the court to another. The loser was the one who failed to retaliate, of course. "I'd lose a source of amusement."
A pale eyebrow rose in response to that, rising up to the challenge. "Oh? This should be good; do explain."
"You'd lose interest in coming up with reasons why I should consent."
And she would perhaps lose some self-respect. It wasn't that she was looking for love – at the present, that could most likely end in tragedy and any man who would fall in love with a mage was a few pages short of a book in her opinion – but she considered herself a little better than to fall into bed with the first attractive man who expressed interest in her for no apparent reason. Not that she wasn't considering the matter, but playing coy was more fun at times, she was discovering.
"I never know what you'll come up with next." So far, they weren't at the stage where he'd try to claim it was fate. That was too unimaginative in any case.
"Now that isn't a very good reason to refuse, is it?"
Zevran could never quite master the whole hurt puppy eyes act that those less jaded sometimes excelled at, not that it mattered now. A clever woman and a playful minx (how nice to see that side surface as well) would see through that easily. Besides, now that they were getting closer to the heart of the matter, it didn't seem like more guilt and hurt was something she wanted. She wished for freedom and recklessness, but kept herself in check through denial and circumstances. And, if these early indicators were anything to go by, he very much doubted that a single sampling would be enough for her or that it would be anything but an enjoyable challenge to chip away all of her restraint piece by piece.
"I like to think there will always be plenty of reasons to convince you."
"Mm, tempting, but I'll pass nonetheless."
A despaired sigh, though, Zevran could affect relatively well. "Such cruelty from such a beautiful woman."
Not that he thought obvious flattery – not that she seemed anywhere close to willing to accept it as truth, because apparently most of the mages and templars were blind, stupid or insane (a combination of all these things was most likely)… or asexual (or possibly impotent) – or blatant guilt-tripping would get him a different response.
Nimue could do a theatrical sigh herself when so inclined. "And here I was about to suggest a compromise since I'm feeling generous." There were yet surprises in the world even for him.
"You have my full attention." And that was an undisputed fact. Perhaps good things would yet come to those who waited?
"Tell me about the lands you've traveled; the places you've visited." There was that glint of eagerness in her eyes, the combination of a scholar and a child. "And you can continue with what you're doing." she added in reference to the resumed presence of his hands near her shoulders.
"Now, now, that's hardly a fair compromise if only you benefit from the arrangement." he chided, though this was certainly a delightful response that could be interpreted in a number of ways. If, say, he were to move towards the bindings of the absurdly high neckline of her robes, it would still apply, from a certain point of view. There was yet time for making such a move, though.
"You're the one who so cheerfully accepted being my slave, so there you have it."
So she, too, remembered the deadly sex goddess bit? Interesting. For her benefit, he pondered the thought momentarily, mostly regarding a few creative interpretations of the very general words. "An interesting suggestion, certainly, but I have a counteroffer."
Her back tensed a little, even though she most certainly knew what was coming. She asked anyway. "That being?"
That was the cue for a redoubling of efforts, since she responded so well to a certain manner of physical contact. Growing among whores taught one the more crass side of the oldest profession, certainly, but the Antivan red light district women hadn't achieved their renown simply for being good at sex alone; the buildup to the act was just as important, if not more so, since it determined how relaxed and eager the partner was, which saved a lot of effort later on. One could have this very baiting down to an art; Zevran believed himself to be one of the fortunate few.
"That we move the massage to a place of more privacy – such as your tent, conveniently nearby as it is – where I may fulfill any wish you have more easily." He would have to be gentle with the injured leg, of course, but the first point on the agenda was to get her to enjoy such attentions before they could progress to the wilder fun. With any luck, that would be once she got back to full health.
"I promise to give the suggestion very careful consideration while you talk." Nimue responded with a content smile, but deliberately moved out of the reach of his hands the moment he paused to give her reason to say yes. Perhaps she was craftier in this game than she made herself out to be, the glint of a challenge in her eyes. "You'll never have an audience more attentive."
Resisting curious and enraptured eyes is a difficult thing, even if the reason for those emotions in them isn't ideal. Progress was progress nonetheless.
And so he span her a few tales of Antiva and Orlais and many other places that his career had taken him to before encountering her and being spectacularly derailed from that path. The mage listened carefully, and there was no mistaking the deep longing in her blue eyes when he described the people, the customs, the atmosphere of these distant lands.
Now with that look, a woman like her could spin the head of anyone in her path – and it very nearly moved even him, the sheer yearning she's unable to conceal (certainly it crossed the line once or twice when she directed it at him without even knowing it, which was both fascinating and unnerving) – but while she politely enquired about the assassinations and made surprisingly insightful comments regarding some poison effects (she knew nothing of swordplay, but her knowledge of herbs and toxins wasimpressive), her true interest rested elsewhere.
Were it not for the fact that it was very likely that the rest of their little ragtag group wouldn't come after him with no less than lethal intentions, he would consider offering to show her these places (it would be interesting to see her react to all the things she had read about in her books come to life in a decadent fashion). As things stand, what he can offer her is only a taste of these foreign lands, which he did without delay.
Unsurprisingly, she offered a smile that was almost demure in return and thanked him politely for the story, claiming to be most happy to have him along for the ride – which is mutual, of course, though she is reminded once again of the fact that she is most welcome to have him in a variety of different ways.
"I have to hold you to your promise, naturally." he warned good-naturedly, rather pleased by the lack of immediate change in her expression.
"So you do." Nimue nodded, quite aware that he wasn't berating her for wording said promise in such a manner. Interested though he might be, Zevran was overconfident to the point where she was quite certain that him pressing the issue too hard was out of the question. "And I am giving the matter a great degree of consideration."
To her own surprise, that had gone from thank you, but I'm not into things likely involving daggers in the back to most likely going for it once I manage to justify it to myself in not too long a time.
It was a witty but cheap shot, predictably, and both had expected her to go for it. It was part of the game, but the dance always moved a little closer to the center of the loop. As long as things remained the same, they would reach the destination eventually. The problem, of course, was that that required coaxing out the flighty, selfish and irresistible creature behind the façade of an honorable Grey Warden, and the more she came out, the less certain it became who would walk away from all this their mask still intact.
If they would walk away at all.
"Ah, once the Blight is over, I could recommend excellent ways of starting a career as a thief or con-artist." Zevran noted instead of pressing the issue, because if they are alike in anything, it's the unwillingness to be backed into a corner. And that's what everyone has been doing to her for a while now. "You've already mastered some of the necessary skills."
It's partly true, partly a backhand sort of compliment and partly baiting to which she doesn't rise.
"You didn't specify a time limit for my consideration." Nimue retorted, attempting with some care to rise to her feet. Even without her leg in its current state, her reflexes weren't spectacular, so it wasn't too surprising when she found herself being helped to her feet – not that the hands pulling her up moved an inch once that's over with.
"So tired you look, my dear. It's irresponsible to leave an injured lady on her own." he purred instead, trapping her in place. The prey's eyes widened only for an instant, as if she's only now realizing that she only has to say the word – not even that, perhaps – and this will happen. Hesitation is generally a good sign, if one remembers that things can still tip either way from the knife's edge. "Perhaps I should carry you to your tent and you can consider whatever you wish there, hmm?"
For a few seconds, Nimue seriously considered taking the plunge and doing what a great part of her wanted, the side she had learned to suppress through the years of living in a place where the slightest show of corruption can be grounds for execution or the removal of emotions and dreams. But there's no way the careful harmony in their little band can remain intact if she does, and even though she has no problem with antagonizing most people, she doesn't fancy having to face lectures about responsibility and disapproval and whatever else they – the ones who see her as a Grey Warden first – would bring up.
Having one's desires thwarted by one's own sense of responsibility deserves some degree of appeasement, though, a peace offering. Besides, she somehow still had to get out of this without offending… ah, the joys of being in charge of a very conflicting band of people.
Some of whom were now returning from the Dalish camp for the night, one might add.
"Have no worry on that account." she said at last, foregoing the idea of being unnecessarily sado-masochistic by going any further.
Ask me again later, she allowed her smile to say before her form melted into light and instead of her, there was a swarm of wasps where her form had stood moments ago. It's a trick of Morrigan's she's picked up, the shapeshifting. The buzzing cloud separated and flew off to the general direction of her tent, presumably to rematerialize out of sight before the others settle who should have the next watch.
It's one step closer to victory, despite the disappointment of the highly timely arrival of the rest of their little entourage, Zevran summarized with an inward chuckle when he received a few curious and mistrustful glances from those who arrived just in time to see their transform leader depart in such an extravagant fashion and simply assume a failed attempt at talking her either to death or to his bed – some of them probably aren't sure which. For them, the dance continues, one step at a time.
After all, if she didn't know the steps, she would have remembered to transform back in the ruins.