A/N: This was my very first attempt at writing for all of the characters present in this fanfic, and it was a great challenge! I do hope you all feel that I've done them justice and enjoy the story I've given them.
As a fair warning to any and all who may wish to read, there are a couple potentially triggering topics mentioned within this story in very short, minimally-detailed moments. Abortion is discussed, as well as a mention of sexual assault which does not take place within the timeframe of this particular fic.
Please note: any opinions about potentially controversial topics which may or may not be gleaned from this story are not necessarily my own, and are simply meant to reflect how I thought the individual characters would feel about them.
Also, I'm super sorry to any of my followers who got an alert for this story twice. There was a problem with posting where a large chunk of the story was deleted from chapter 2 while uploading, and wouldn't let me fix it no matter what I tried. I ended up having to delete the whole story and try uploading it a second time. Again, so sorry!
The Merchant and the Sparrow - Chapter 1
The first time she lays eyes on him is through the sight of her bow, an arrow nocked and trained on the center of his chest.
"State your business here, shemlen," she says, spitting out the word as though it is venom on her tongue, "and be quick about it. My brethren and I have little tolerance for your presence."
Hareth grunts in agreement beside her while Lenaila steadies herself behind them, the creak of bowstrings thunderous in the silence which has descended upon the makeshift camp. Their quarry, a brunette human still tangled in the mess of blankets which had been dragged from his tent with him, raises his hands in pacification.
"My dear lady," he says, voice thick with sleep and an accent Arianni has never heard, "I assure you, whatever trespasses I have committed against your people were entirely unintentional. Please, allow me to properly introduce myself."
"She did not ask for your name, nathair," Hareth says, snarling through bared teeth.
"Regardless, I give it freely. I am Vincento, former apprentice to the merchant Santo of Antiva and current owner of Vincento's Northern Merchandise. At your service," the shem says, his attempted bow towards her hindered by his woolen tether. "And you, cara mia. May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"
"A peddler, is it? You're an awfully long way from your market," she says, ignoring his question and not bothering to hide her contempt.
"Truer words have yet to be spoken. The others in the city, they told me that this would happen. 'Do not be absurd,' they said, 'the Dalish would sooner cut you down than speak with you.'"
"Your friends are wise, it is a pity you were not intelligent enough to heed their warnings."
Lenaila takes a step forward, pulling even between Arianni and Hareth. "Enough of your stalling, shem. Either tell us why you have come or prepare to meet to whichever gods you pray."
"Fair enough, fair enough," he says, surprisingly calm in the face of his predicament. "I have come seeking an audience with your leader. I wish to discuss a business proposition I believe they will find most advantageous for your people."
"The clan has no need of whatever it is you have to offer, and our Keeper no time for fools."
"Ah, but I believe that is where you will find you are wrong, Passera," the shem says, a corner of his mouth quirking in the face of Arianni's glower. "The craftsmen of your people, they are always in need of new materials, are they not? Ores, tools, fabrics - things not easily found so deep into the wilds as you are. I, on the other hand, find myself with abundant access to such things, all of which are of the highest quality to be found this side of the Waking Sea."
The tip of her arrow dips towards the ground as she regards the man, brows knitting over her eyes. "You wish to trade with our clan, then?"
The human nods in confirmation, his hands slowly lowering to rest on his legs. "Precisely."
"How do we know he's telling the truth?" Lenaila asks, eyes still firmly trained on him. "This could be a bluff. There could be more shem waiting for us to lead him to the camp."
"Had I companions lying in wait, do you truly think they would leave me in such a... delicate situation as long as they have?"
"If they valued their lives."
"Yes, I suppose I can see your point," the man jerks his head, gesturing behind himself. "See for yourself if you must. My cart and wares are just beyond the tent. I guarantee you will find nothing more threatening than sewing needles and a few smithy hammers."
"And what of you?" Arianni asks, watching as Hareth slips behind the tent, the sound of rustled canvas and jostled crates drifting towards them as he searches through the man's belongings. "Do you carry any weapons?"
"I have a knife tucked into my belt and a small dagger in my left boot," he says without hesitation, making no move to remove them himself. "If you would be so kind as to allow me to stand without firing an arrow into my heart, you may have them as a show of good intentions."
She motions with her bow, the string still taut between her fingers. "Get up. Slowly. Keep your hands away from your sides."
"As you wish, Passera."
The human stands in one fluid movement, kicking his mess of blankets into the open flap of the tent before turning to face the remaining elves. Arianni relaxes the tension of her weapon and places it in its holster on her back, lips tight and eyes narrowed as she takes her first tentative step towards him, comforted by the continued train of Lenaila's arrow on his chest. The leg of his breeches is rucked up, revealing the hilt of a blade just visible along the cuff of his boot. She jerks the dagger away without care, tucking it into the pouch at her hip.
"You are not an especially gentle creature, are you cara mia?" he asks with a laugh as she begins pawing at his sides in search of the knife. "It seems far from likely that I will make it through this day without bloodshed after all."
"Quiet, shem," Arianni says with a sneer, her nose wrinkling at the smell which wafts towards her as she tugs at his tunic. He reeks of dirt and musk, tinged with some other heated scent, like spices from a foreign land. The knife is found low on his hip, and is removed with the same brisk efficiency as Hareth returns from the cart. The human offers her a smile at her retreat. She returns it with a poisonous scowl and stuffs his blade into her pouch with its fellow.
"Well?" Lenaila asks Hareth. "Did you find anything?"
The elf shakes his head. "The shemlen spoke the truth about his wares, and I found no signs of others nearby."
"Magnificent," the man says, still grinning as he lowers his hands to adjust his clothing. "Now as you can see, I have been more than cooperative in your interrogations. I would be most appreciative if you might take me to your camp as I requested - or at least allow me to return to Kirkwall without further injury to my person."
"What say you, Lethallan?" Hareth asks Arianni, his bow returned to his hands and once again pointed towards the human. "Shall we take him to the Keeper, or leave him to the mercy of the Creators?"
Her answer does not come at once, tongue stalled by her continued scrutiny of the man and the contemplation of their options. There is a part of her which wishes for nothing more than to see him run off yelping into the wilds like the dog he is, whining in fear with his tail tucked between his legs. Yet, as tempting a thought it is, she is not arrogant enough to believe her personal convictions make her worthy of passing such judgment - this is a decision which must be turned over to the Keeper. Supplies are troublingly low in camp of late, their relocation into the Planasene Forest too recent for them to have found trustworthy trading partners amongst the merchants of the Free Marches. Whatever proposition this shem holds could very well be a much needed windfall for the clan. Hispresence may be insulting and glibness infuriating, but if her tolerance of it means the benefit of her people, she simply will have to endure.
She groans and presses two fingers to the bridge of her nose, resigned to the annoyance she is about to bestow upon herself. "Pack up your things, and be quick about it. We leave for camp in ten minutes' time, with or without your company."
"You have my humblest of thanks, Passera," the human says, canting head towards her in thanks. "You will not come to regret this mercy, I promise you."
The trek back to camp, normally made in an hour's time, takes their group the rest of the afternoon to complete. Roots and thick underbrush catch and pull at the wheels of the shemlen's handcart, resulting in a frequent need for them to pause while he finagles his way around whatever obstacle lies before him. Finally, with tempers short and the sun well on it's way to setting, the Dalish and their human charge find themselves at the edge of a wide forest clearing, the red canvas covers of the clan's aravels a welcome sight for weary travelers.
The hunters' companion gains the curiosity of every elf they meet as they make their way by the first row of shelters, many of the elders throwing whispers to one another behind their hands while the young ones simply gawk or laugh at his stunted ears. News of the unorthodox guest spreads like a wildfire. They have no more than reached the midway point of the camp before their group is approached by a middle-aged woman dressed in green robes, the staff of their clan's First nestled between her shoulders. She spares the shemlen little more than a polite glance before bringing her attention to Arianni, no more perturbed by the outsider's appearance within their camp than one might be for a passing cloud on a clear day.
"Andaran atish'an, da'len. It is good to see you have returned safely," she says, hands folding behind her back. "Many were concerned there had been trouble during your hunt."
Arianni crosses an arm over her chest, hand resting over her breast as she bends in greeting. "Lethséal ghathai, Marethari. As you can see, we happened upon an... unexpected delay during our journey."
"So it would appear." The woman's eyes fall onto the human once more, though this time they do not turn away. "Tell me, child, what name do you go by?"
"I am Vincento, la miasignora," he says, rushing to drop the handles of his buggy to offer her a bow of his own. "Most pleased to have made your acquaintance."
"Such refined manners. Tell me then, Vincento, what brings you this far into the forest?"
"The shem is a merchant," Lenaila says, spitting out her answer before the human has time to blink. "He comes to speak with Keeper Seril about establishing a trade agreement."
Marethari hums in acknowledgment, though her focus does not falter from the man's face. "Is this true?"
"It is as the lady has said."
"Very well. If you will follow me, I will take you to Keeper Seril. I believe he will be most eager to meet with you."
The woman turns in place without another word, her course deliberate as the human trails in her wake with the hunters close behind. Those of the clan still milling nearby part to allow the First's passing, their curiosity palpable enough that Arianni feels it dance like electricity over her skin.
Keeper Seril's aravel is not far from the center of camp, the golden flags adorning its posts high enough to graze the branches of the ancient oak it sits beneath. A fire burns in the pit beside it, the smoke and flames obscuring the outline of a man bent over as he tends to its coals. He looks up at the sound of their approach, his hunched posture revealed to be not the result of his task, but of exceptionally old age. Deep wrinkles crease his face, and the hand which comes to rest along the shaft of his stave is as gnarled as the roots of the tree behind him.
"Aneth ara, Marethari," the elderly elf says, voice thin and rasped, though brown eyes shine almost unnaturally bright. He looks over the assembled group with a calculating gaze. "You have brought guests."
"Yes, Keeper," their First says, dipping forward in greeting. "This human, Vincento, wishes to speak with you. An offer of commerce, it would seem."
"It is an honor to be allowed amongst your clan," the shem says as he steps forward to greet him, dipping low enough that his nose nearly brushes his knees. "Your people have been most – hospitable."
The Keeper gives a huff of laughter at the human's words, looking from his drooped head to the mix of indifference and disgust playing across the faces of his escorts. "Please, dear child, flattery is not needed in matters of business. Particularly when it is so blatantly false."
The man smirks as he raises himself upright. Arianni has to fight the urge to roll her eyes. "You are a wise and perceptive man, signore. A fortunate set of traits. It will be a simple matter for us to reach an accord we both deem acceptable."
"We shall see," the Keeper says as he steps towards the entrance of his quarters, pushing the covering aside with his staff before looking back to the human and his First. They follow him inside silently, the canvas door falling shut behind them with a soft swish.
"Has the Keeper gone mad?" Arianni asks incredulously, unrepentant despite the irked glares her shouting earns her. "It's one thing to tolerate the filthy shem long enough to trade with him, but this? Making me give his weapons back was bad enough."
Night has fallen over the forest in earnest now, the camp's clearing illuminated by the glow of scattered campfires and a pale wash of moonlight. Many of the clan have settled in for the evening, having tucked their young ones into bed and gathered themselves around their flames for a meal and murmured conversation. Arianni sits on one of the benches arranged in a circle outside of the aravel she shares with Lenaila and three other of the clan's maidens. A small fire burns at her feet, the scowl she wears made deeper by the flickered shadows it casts across her face.
"calma fein," Marethari says quietly, leaning over to place a warm hand on her knee. "Keeper Seril did not make his decision lightly. He has only the best interests of the People in mind."
The First's reassurances do little to quell Arianni's anger, giving a derisive snort as she tilts forward to rest her head in her hand. "I see no benefit in allowing a human to stay within our camp. Why not make him go further into the forest?"
"There is greater safety in numbers, you know this as well as I. The woods are dangerous for a single man."
"That seems to be more a benefit than a downfall. Perhaps the wolves would have driven him off. Or eaten him."
Marethari stiffens at her words, disapproval pulling at the corners of her mouth. "That is a terrible thing to say, da'len. I am surprised at you - such cruelty is not part of your character."
Arianni heaves a heavy sigh, glancing up to find the human still standing by Ashalle's fire, gratefully accepting what is either his third or fourth helping of stew. He is smiling warmly at her, stepping closer to whisper something in her ear. She giggles, a hand coming up to cover her mouth before she swats playfully at him with her serving spoon. Something hot and acrid twists in the pit of her stomach at the sight of them, and Arianni looks away with a peevish humph.
" Lethséal ghathai, Marethari," she says in lackluster apology, returning her attention to the bowl of her half-eaten meal. She dips a piece of bread into the gravy before bringing it to her mouth, the First's chiding tsks unheard over the sound of breaking crust as she chews.
A few long moments later the relative silence which has fallen between herself and the First is broken by the sound of shuffled feet through grass, a pair of worn boots appearing at the edge of her vision. She glances up at the newcomer, only to have her ire flare back into life at the sight of Vincento, bowl of stew in hand and arrogant grin still firmly in place.
"Ladies," he inclines his head to each of them in turn. "Might I have the pleasure of joining you?"
"Find another fire, there's no room for you here." Arianni says shortly, irritated to find the glower she shoots him does nothing but make his smirk widen.
"Come now, da'len, there is no need for such rudeness," Marethari's brows pull together, frowning at her churlishness before looking to the human. "Please, Vincento, make yourself at home."
"My thanks, la mia signora," he says happily as he drops onto the open half of Arianni's bench, placing himself far closer to her than necessary given the size of the seat. His body pushes against her side, the same aroma of heat and spices wafting past as he takes his time settling in. She pulls herself as far from him as the bench will allow, sliding away so she is left perching on the very edge, his arm and leg still uncomfortably close to her own.
The man, either unaware or untroubled by her discomfort, continues to watch her, fiddling with a piece of potato on his spoon before saying, "It seems with all the excitement of this afternoon, I have still managed not to learn your name, cara mia. Please, tell me, what may I call you by? A woman as lovely as yourself must surely possess a name of equal quality."
"My name is my own, shem." she says hotly, prodding at a piece of venison and pointedly avoiding his gaze. "I will not share it with the likes of you. Turn your attentions elsewhere, they are unwanted here."
"Ah, but you wound me!" his hand clutches theatrically at his chest, head falling back. "I simply wish to know more about the woman responsible for my safe passage. You were the one who agreed to allow me amongst your clan, after all. What harm is there in giving me your name?"
"Let me make this perfectly clear," Arianni snaps, setting what remains of her dinner on the ground before she turns to glare at him. "I brought you here for the well-being of my people, not out of any concern for you. Any benefit you get out of the arrangement you have made with the Keeper means nothing to me. I do not care to know any more about you and I would sooner snap my bow in half than share anything about myself. Now, if you are quite finished with your prattling, I suggest you leave me be."
"Ah, and so my curiosity is denied once again," the human says with a mournful sigh, his expression shifting to sly in a matter of seconds. "Not to worry. I am a very patient man, Passera. You will tell me in your own time, I am certain of it."
"I wouldn't hold your breath." She brings herself to her feet, eager to be away from the contemptible man. Her dishes are collected and dumped into the washing basin with unnecessary fervor, the slow, exasperated shake of Marethari's head ignored as she storms past the campfire to the entrance of her aravel. The wooden base of the landship creaks as she hoists herself in, turning to face the human long enough to throw a last caustic glare before she yanks the entrance cover shut. She wastes no time nestling herself underneath her covers, eyes screwing shut with a huff as she does her best to will her temper into dormancy.
The sound of the man's laughter coupled with an enthusiastic wish for her pleasant dreams does little to help.