With his bid accepted, Zevran would pursue the remaining Wardens, and then... whatever.
Standing on the deck of a Ferelden-bound ship and looking upon moonlit waters, the city of Rialto, place of his birth, disappeared from the skyline. The assassin relaxed as well as any assassin could; with constant and keen attention on his surroundings. Like a good assassin.
They identified one Warden as a woman, and Zevran wondered what she was like. Dark hair, dark eyes, fair skin, average stature, one they called the last Cousland; their vague descriptions did not sate his curiosity, and nothing would give him more pleasure than the challenge of a powerful woman - at least, he imagined her as such, and hoped.
Familiar pangs of anger, guilt, remorse and longing rolled through him as his gaze rested on a cliffside on the outskirts of Salle, taking it all in as if for the last time.
How many women had he killed in his lifetime? Did it matter? He should have known better than to care, and Rinna should not have had to pay; could the Maker forgive him for that one as well? Taliesen knew everything, that little shit. If Taliesin had felt anything at all about the loss of her, he hadn't let on. Then again, Zevran hadn't much let on to his own emotions, either. Expression would have given way to vulnerability and possibly their demise. Ultimately, blaming Taliesen got him nowhere, as he hadn't even tried to spare her.
Their perfect trio had died with her and remaining a duo would not serve them, despite Taliesin's apparent desire. Without her, they were nothing more than a whore and a thug.
More than anything he wanted to hear her laugh at his jests just once more, to erase the sound of her pleading. We needed her. With a deep breath Zevran closed his eyes, tilting his head to stretch his neck to distract from the the all-consuming ache; it did, and he felt nothing.
If he killed this Warden Cousland and her comrades, it could be convincing enough a feat to make him Master... if he wanted to hold such a station. What did he want? I'll think about it later. He stretched his neck, rolled his shoulders, and the looming ache in his chest surrendered to habitual and impulsive self-soothing, leaving him empty. Leaning on the side of the ship, forearms rested on dampened wood, the sea air, fresh and crisp, sat thick in his lungs, frustrating his need for a deep, cleansing breath.
Four days to muddy-fucking-Ferelden.
The Warden responded to the most poorly executed cry for help with great enthusiasm; surely she had suspected their trap and braced for an ambush. Zevran had sent his worst, a mage with unrivaled skills in combat magics, but lacking in pretty much anything else. Upon returning to Zevran at a saunter - not the urgent run of someone in need of help - the decoy gave him a nod and smile, perhaps for her own job well done. Idiot. Hilarious. Perfect. He acknowledged her with a wry smile and looked toward his salvation; the fabled Grey Wardens.
A potent moment, when the Warden met his eyes. This woman subtly cocked her head with brow furrowed, dark eyes staring at him with the compassion of beholding a lost child. Or had he imagined it? In any case, it was annoying.
She evaded his tree-trap, which gave a loud creak and several seconds warning; hopefully convincing enough for them to have no mercy. Perhaps he would at least have a little challenge.
"The Warden dies here." He glowered, stalking toward her with weapons drawn.
What happened after, Zevran could not say, as he woke with a pained groan, head throbbing and body sore, sitting uncomfortably against a tree with hands bound behind his back.
He blinked slowly as she came into focus. Ooh, pretty. Nice cheekbones. He had not expected to be fucking spared. Who spares the assassin? They captured him of all the assholes he dragged along. They could have interrogated anyone else just as thoroughly. They said nothing, apparently waiting for him to speak.
"I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven't killed me yet."
This Warden-Cousland seemed very big from his vantage point on the ground. A noble, he would wager; hair in a tight, elegant bun, standing with squared shoulders, chin held high and hands clasped at her middle. Dark eyes surveyed Zevran for a few moments before crouching down in front of him with a soft and inquisitive stare. Apparently she wanted him to do all the talking.
"My name is Zevran. Zev, to my friends." Her gaze intensified with a nod, an invitation to continue. "I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at." To his surprise, the Warden gave a subtle smile and spoke to him for the first time.
"I noticed," she purred, shifting to sit on one leg and stretch out the other. Resting her chin on the heel of her hand, she kept her eyes on him. "Morrigan, heal him."
A wash of healing went through him, telling him what a good working over he must have experienced given the stark relief from pain. Perhaps she intended to spare him. Why heal those to be killed?
"A rather generous offer, Warden." Zevran moved his arms still tethered behind his back, wiggling his cold and numb fingers.
"You were rather generous first, Zevran," the Warden responded plainly, as if her reasoning should have been clear. "Do you know who sent you?"
"I see you know something of Crows." Shifting for comfort, he folded his legs beneath himself and froze as a sword appeared at his neck.
"Yes, I know something of Crows." Her gaze fell on the sword wielding man, waving him away. "It's all right, Alistair."
"It's not, Nyla."
"His hands are bound. What's he going to do? Headbutt me to death?"
"He tried to kill us," he replied in an incredulous tone, enunciating with overly expressive eyebrows.
"I noticed." Nyla reached out to move the blade away from Zevran with a delicate nudge. "Go clean that thing. He won't do anything."
"I won't?" Zevran spoke with playful inflections followed by a show of skill, the rope sliding from his wrists. With a satisfied sigh he rested his hands in his lap, flexing his fingers, massaging away the tingling ache. "Need to learn to tie people. Just because it is painfully tight doesn't mean it is effective."
Alistair pointed his sword at Zevran's face again, and responded to the Warden's pointed glare with a single step back.
"Do you know who sent you, Zevran?" The Warden repeated her earlier question with equal patience.
Between the appropriate distrust of one and the abundance of trust from the other, Zevran did not understand what the fuck was going on. "A rather taciturn fellow in the capital-"
"Loghain." Nyla snorted with a roll of her eyes.
"Yes…" Zevran tilted his head at her and smirked, "Friend of yours?"
"No, Zev," the Warden spoke dismissively, her gaze flicking briefly toward Alistair and then back to him.
"Are the Warden and I friends now?" He teased, taking a moment to pry his nervous attention from the dark eyes of the Warden and look around.
Apart from Alistair, a scantily clad woman watched them with an impatient glare and a flame hovering above her hand, a disgruntled looking Qunari stood beside her. What had at first seemed to be cold and smooth calculation from them, began to seem a rag tag bunch of overworked people.
"I dunno." Nyla's simple response betrayed nothing of her intent, and Zevran guessed her to be genuinely unsure.
"Are we going to sit and chat all day?" Morrigan's impatient tone interrupted their pause and she stepped closer. "Just kill him and be done with it."
"Morrigan, please," Nyla spoke politely, holding a palm up.
"For once, I agree with the witch."
"Alistair, please." Her raised hand faced Alistair, and her attention turned back to Zevran.
"Well, here's the thing-" Even with his looming demise, the assassin wondered why her eyes were always on his eyes when he spoke. Disarming, uncomfortably intimate, difficult to look away though he had a sense of wanting to; it may not have been as such if he knew its purpose. Perhaps she was trying to manipulate him, a fear tactic akin to the persistent stare of a master, only with excessive softness behind it. "I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me the Crows will."
Nyla's lips pursed, brows lowered and scrunched together. "Rather extreme."
"I agree. Thing is, I like living. And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause."
"Obvious how?" She tilted her head at him with a curious stare.
Too probing a question for Zevran, as he remembered how eager he had been to take the contract when no one else would. Other than that, he only had obvious answers. Because everyone is fucking terrified of you? Shaking his head with a dismissive gesture of his hand, he continued, "Let me serve you, instead."
She nibbled the inside of her upper lip, and Zevran felt the eerie sense of being transparent as her gaze flicked over him and back to his eyes. "So you would be protected from Crows, and we would have your expertise."
"Yes," Zevran responded with an emphatic nod.
"My biggest concern is that you might finish the job later."
"Ah," Zevran thought for a few moments, trying to explain himself without being uncomfortably revealing. This Warden seemed to put things in such a way that made him want to talk, and it fucked with him. "I am not inclined to continue to serve the Crows."
"You don't want to be a Crow?" Nyla spoke as if genuinely surprised, and continued to unabashedly meet his eyes. He could feel her curiosity, which wouldn't have been so odd if they hadn't just met. How disarming.
"They purchased me as a child. Until now, no other choice has been presented to me." He spoke it with as much depth as he felt it; none at all.
"So…" she began, pausing for thought and a breath. "You never wanted to be a Crow?"
He was too tired for this shit, he thought with a shrug. "Being a Crow has its benefits, but it seems my death is inevitable if I return to them for failing the first time even if I succeeded in a second attempt."
"It seems inevitable, or-"
"It is inevitable," Zevran spoke with raised eyebrows, unsure if he hated or loved having someone examine his every fucking word. "Being allowed to live would be nice, and make me marginally more useful to you."
"Marginally," she mimicked, pursing her lips; people were not supposed to point at his self-deprecating jokes while reading into them. "Do you believe they would come for you?"
"Possibly. I happen to know their wily ways, however. I can protect myself as well as you. Not that you seem to need much help."
"Your earlier performance, Zevran, strategic and otherwise, does not reflect your offer," she purred in her thick, Ferelden accent.
The assassin couldn't help a chuckle and smile. Would you just fucking end me already?
Hard to bullshit your way into a better life arrangement when the person you dealt with paid far too close attention. Even if his 'earlier performance' had been so terribly unconvincing, he wasn't about to tell the Warden he had wanted to fail. He squirmed beneath her inquisitive stare. "I have many skills apart from fighting. Stealth. Picking locks. I could warn you should the Crows attempt something more sophisticated."
She spoke to him with more kindness than he felt he deserved. "It's only fair, Zevran, that you know traveling with us would not be easier than being a Crow."
Oh, if she only knew... "I could stand around and look pretty, if you prefer."
"There are darkspawn and the dangers of dealing with them."
"Warm your bed." Zevran heard an irritated tsk to his left; Alistair apparently had feelings about this particular offer, and the sound of tinkling laughter came from the Warden, followed by several undignified-yet-endearing snorts.
"No, I'm good," the Warden spoke quickly, but with a good natured tone, resuming with seriousness. "The general populous of Ferelden is lead to believe Grey Wardens are the enemy, Zevran. Ferelden is against us as we are trying to save it from the Blight... I mean to say, this is going to be very fucking hard."
"I could fend off unwanted suitors. I'll even shine armor." He flashed her a smirk, tilting his head with a questioning hum. "You won't find a better deal, I promise."
She paused for a breath, a playful smirk and glare directed at him. "You are hearing the stuff I'm saying, yes?" When Zevran nodded and repressed an even bigger smile, she replied with an elegant nod. "Very well. I accept your offer."
"What? We're taking the assassin with us now?" Went Alistair and his dancing eyebrows.
"Don't question me," she spoke softly, but firm, a glimpse of frustration and exhaustion behind her eyes.
She stood and extended a hand to Zevran, helping him to his feet with surprising strength for her somewhat diminutive size. This woman spared the assassin, accepted him under her lead despite objections from others she relied upon... Lucky for him, she was kind of stupid.
"I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man without reservation… this I swear."
The Warden acknowledged him with a smile reaching a hand out to pat his back, which he dodged with a simple step aside; he didn't recall saying it was alright to touch him. The Warden took his reaction in stride, her hands resting by her sides.
"Can you cook, Zev?"
Hushed voices woke Zevran from his light sleep, his eyes flicking around the tent she had given him. The Warden assigned him his own personal space near the rest of them… so dumb. His new master was a generous one, telling him to rest after brief introductions with her crew, an eclectic bunch with their own skills to offer. So many personalities, unlike the Crows. Not a lot of differences apparent between Crows unless one grew too close to another, and they all knew what happened if one grew too close to another.
"I can't sleep with the assassin one tent over," Alistair spoke in a hushed voice. "He shouldn't be here. If he kills us in our sleep it could be a detriment to, I don't know, the entire world."
If they were going to converse about him, perhaps they should have done it somewhere other than right outside of his fucking tent. Apart from having exceptional hearing, Zevran was literally right there with nothing but a thin layer of fabric between them.
"I hear you." Nyla spoke patiently. "He will be an asset to us, Alistair. Perhaps even a friend if we give him the chance."
Zevran could absolutely meet the criteria of asset, after all, he had always been one. But, a friend? This Warden moved fast.
Stretching out his legs with hands clasped behind his head, Zevran listened with interest as they continued.
"Why are you so sure about him?" Alistair asked, surprising Zevran with his respectful tone. The Warden herself commanded respect, as nobility often did, and she had apparently built such a rapport with her handsome fellow Warden; that he would hear the Warden out when he disagreed with her so vehemently spoke highly of them.
"Did you listen to what he said?" Nyla chuckled, though it seemed her patience grew a little thin. "Did you hear him at all? Did you see him at all?"
"I heard and saw an assassin bargain for his life," Alistair spoke with equal incredulity. "Nyla, he tried to kill us."
"I don't think he did. He, ah..." Nyla's voice trailed off for a moment. "It seemed he forfeited."
"What does it matter if he forfeited?" Alistair's voice remained calm, though it felt like a fight. "The rest of the Crows still tried to kill us."
"It matters. The ambush was obvious, poorly planned, the distress of the woman clearly false, and really, a tree?"
"That almost fell on you."
"Hardly," she chuckled. "Listen, he made an intentional blunder leaving himself vulnerable. So I booted him in the side of the head instead of killing him. "
Alistair sputtered, "And… um, why exactly, would you do that?" He could practically hear Alistair's eyebrows raise, and Zevran palmed his face; had he been so transparent, or did this woman simply notice every-fucking-thing?
"To question him." Nyla spoke softly, and Zevran had almost a breath of relief from the simplicity and practicality of her answer. "When he woke, he said something. 'I rather thought I'd wake up dead.' He expected to die."
"I thought he meant he thought he would lose against Grey Wardens. A safe assumption."
"Normally I might translate his words the same, but after his surrender…" her voice trailed off. "And then being alive makes him marginally more useful to us."
"That was pretty funny. I like his humor, I have to admit."
If Zevran's eyebrows lowered, and he smirked; were he around long enough, he wagered the handsome Warden would absolutely revoke that assessment.
"Yes, that is a joke you might make. Albeit, not a very laughable one." Nyla let out a groan consistent with a stretch. "Listen, I don't mean to sound… crazy here. He seemed a bit... off . His words having one meaning, his eyes speaking something else."
"Mmm. Yes , very deep. A cry for help masked as an ambush. Let's be his friend." Alistair's legitimate frustration had begun to show. "Get to the part that makes all of this mean he should be part of our company."
"I'm curious. He may see himself as just a pretty, murdering, bed warmer, but there is far more to the boy. Crow or death are not the only two options. I want him to see that."
As if shaken awake, slapped in the face and then comforted, Zevran gasped, his head turning toward the sound of her voice. Lost, he could readily admit. Boy? Maybe not so much. Perhaps she used the term loosely. Another word for male. More importantly, Zevran wondered what it was like to believe there was more to life than being a tool.
"Nyla..." Alistair sighed with annoyance. "That is, a lot of profundity right there, and a lovely sentiment, but, the world could pay for this mistake."
"He has potential . How about you go on and tell me the goddamn difference between him and Sten? Or our lunatic, ginger bard? Just like with the others, I don't intend to live completely unwary, but it still stands. If we must live in blighted fucking lands, let us at least embrace what's left of humanity. Let me have my goddamn altruistic moments, or something."
"That does help, you know. Hearing you're at least wary."
"Alistair." She tsked in her annoyance. "I imagined you would infer it."
"You charged him with cooking breakfast."
"No." Nyla laughed and snorted. "I asked him if he could cook, not if he would ."
"Then why ask?"
"Because I love food?"
All things considered, Zevran found Alistair to be the smart one. Then again, they would probably be without allies if she hadn't been so willing to take these risks. Perhaps the Warden was the smart one. Then again, she invited the skeevy assassin. That just seemed extra dumb.
Such was his luck; still alive, largely due to someone else's stupidity.
These people were... entertaining. He liked them so far, and might as well, being stuck with them and all. He especially liked Nyla's mabari so aptly named Dog, and the small one, Sandal, their innocence a delight to witness. And the Warden, who unreasonably had his back, she was good. She had a lot of faith in him. Success had always been an outright demand with death as the price of failure. Zevran couldn't recall a time someone had faith in him.
He knew a word for this; when someone wanted to see you succeed, thrive, often intervening in some way to see it happen, but with kindness. Distinct from demands for success with death as the price of failure. Intent? Good intent? Encouragement? He bit his lip, confused and frustrated with thoughts spinning, and something occurred to him. A breath of fresh air filled his lungs for the first time in so long; care. It seemed she cared, though he could never say this out loud with any surety. And she did such a thing so unabashedly, stood by it, defended it; brave little shit.
He thought with a breathy chuckle through his nose, if anything, he should stick around to protect this soft creature from herself… not that he cared.
