Ugh. Okay. So, this happened. It took me a little while to finish, actually, because I kept getting stuck on some particularly painful parts. And then distracted by my bigger works. But I finished it! 11 and a half pages of Zevran's point of view as he comes to terms with the fact that he- an ex-Crow and assassin- is still capable of falling in love, even if he doesn't quite know how to say it.

That being said, my Surana kinda looks like my mage!Amell. Just shorter. And with brown hair. And pointy ears. And is a lot more innocent.

Zevran/M!Mage!Surana

Romance/Amgst/Hurt/Comfort. So much fluff and pain I think I died a few times writing it.

Warnings: Language, mentions of sex, mentions of attempted sexual assault, mentions of torture and a brief torture scene.

Word count: 5,620

He's not what you expected.

When you were hired to kill the remaining Wardens, you expected a group of big, buff warriors dressed in massive, blood-stained metal armor with swords as tall as themselves. You expected fearless, battle-hardened killers.

What you didn't expect was a lone, young male elf with wing-like markings across his face, dressed in rust-red and gold Tevinter robes and wielding only a staff. You didn't expect him to walk willingly right into the middle of your trap.

You didn't expect him to devastate you and the men you brought with you with a single spell.

You expected that you'd wake up dead, or, in this case, that you wouldn't wake up at all.

But you did wake up, and very much alive. And now you're lying tied up before him as he tends to your wounds. His expression is impassive, but it truly doesn't fit on his face. He has the kind of young face that should be full of life and emotion, not… He shouldn't look so dead. It twists your stomach into something uncomfortable.

You voice that line about expecting to wake up dead and add a flirty little comment about his looks, hoping to get a rise- to get something, anything- out of him. He tips his head to the side and gives you a long, confused look before going back to his work.

"I'm not going to kill you." You're surprised by how… worn, flat, he sounds. His voice still has the gentle timbre of a shy teen, but it has the edge of someone who has seen more death than he cares to remember. Like a battle-hardened warrior in the body of an adolescent.

Your stomach does a nasty flip when you realize exactly what he is; a child forced to play war. You might be an assassin, but you have morals, and harming or killing children without any reason is something you refuse to do. You might be a Crow, but you will not be like the ones who raised you.

He gives you an odd look again, and you decide then and there you will do everything in your power to ensure his safety. He's too young to have to go through all of this alone.

"So you're going to question me, huh? Well then, let me save you the effort…"

You talk for a while, and he listens carefully. His questions are few and far between,- maybe because you have a tendency to ramble a bit- but the few queries he does pose are intelligent and precise and always to the point. Who hired you? Where are you from? I suppose you got paid quite a bit, didn't you?

You answer all of his questions, holding nothing back.

"A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I think his name was? Yes, that's it. I have no idea what his issues are with you. The usual, I imagine. You threaten his power, yes? Beyond that, no, I'm not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service."

"Antiva, a rather beautiful country much farther to the north. Have you really not heard of the Antivan Crows? Where we're from, we're really quite infamous."

"I wasn't paid anything. The Crows, however, were paid rather handsomely, or so I understand. Which does make me about as poor as a chantry mouse, come to think of it. Being an Antivan Crow isn't for the ambitious, to be perfectly honest."

The Warden laughs a bit at that, and for a moment you see a brilliant flash of emotion that looks so natural on him. It's adorable. But it falls away as quickly as it appears, and he returns to the flat expression he had when you first saw him before he gives you a kind of quirky, questioning look.

"If being a Crow isn't for the ambitious, why are you one?" He asks.

"Well, aside from the distinct lack of ambition, I suppose it's because I wasn't given much of a choice. The Crows bought me young. I was a bargain, too, or so I'm led to believe." A kind of pained look crosses his face, and you see him grimace as he mouths the word "bought", as if tasting the feel of it on his tongue and finding it unpleasant. "But don't let my sad story influence you," you say quickly. "The Crows aren't so bad. They keep one well supplied: wine, women, men. Whatever you happen to fancy. Though, the whole severance package is garbage, let me tell you. If you were considering joining, I'd really think twice about it."

The corner of the Warden's lips flicks up into a half a smile again. "Thanks," he says. "I'll take that under advisement."

You really can't help the lecherous smile that creeps onto your lips when he says that, but you do your best to tone it down.

"You seem like a bright man. I'm sure you've other options."

He finally sits down, not relaxing in the slightest, and tips his head to the side in the confusion.

"Why are you telling me all of this?" he wonders. You chuckle.

"Why not?" You shoot back casually. "I wasn't paid for silence. Not that I offered it for sale, precisely."

He questions you about being at least loyal to your employers, and though he sounds serious, you can tell he's just trying to make a jab at your very few virtues.

"Loyalty is an interesting concept," you point out. "If you wish, and you're done interrogating me, we can discuss it further."

His eyebrows furrow. "I'm listening."

"Well, here's the thing. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works, if you don't kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living. And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. So, let me serve you instead." Fuck. You definitely didn't mean for that last part to come out how it did, but it's too late to take it back now. His lips twitch down in a very distinct frown.

"Can I expect the same amount of loyalty from you?" Ouch.

"I happen to be quite the loyal person, up until the point where one expects me to die for failing. That's not a fault, really, is it? I mean, unless you're the sort who would do the same thing. In which case I… I don't come very well recommended, I suppose."

"And what stops you from finishing the job later?" Double ouch. Though, not entirely unwarranted. But still, double ouch.

"To be completely honest, I was never given much choice regarding joining the Crows. They bought me on the slave market when I was a child." There it was again, the almost pained look that crossed the Warden's face. You continue despite it, though you do try to keep a lighter tone. "I think I've paid my worth back to them, plus tenfold. The only way out, however, is to sign up with someone they can't touch. Even if I did kill you now, they might kill me on the principle for failing the first time. Honestly, I'd rather take my chances with you."

The Warden bites his lip, a rather adorable little tick that makes you want to pull his cheeks or something similar that one would do to a very cute thing.

"Won't they come after you?" He asks.

"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. And if not… Well, it's not as if I had many alternatives to start with, is it?" You both chuckle, and he shakes his head, a bit of his brown hair falling loose from its braid.

"You must think I'm royally stupid," he mutters. You smirk.

"I think you're royally tough to kill. And utterly gorgeous." Yes, Zevran, shove your foot in your mouth again. "Not that I'll think you'll respond to simple flattery. But there are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex god." The Warden chokes and blushes and you can't bring yourself to feel mad at yourself for making that remark, however accurate it was.

He calms himself quickly, but the blush still burns on his cheeks. "What do you want in return?"

"Well… Let's see. Being allowed to live would be nice, and would make me marginally more useful to you. And somewhere down the line if you decide you no longer have need of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I am yours. Is that fair?"

"Why would I want your service?" He sounds as though he is still deliberating, but you're fairly certain his will is starting to slip. Which is good, because your arms are starting to go numb from where they have been tied up behind your back. A good knot, too. You have to wonder where he learned to tie it.

"Why? Because I am skilled at many things, from fighting to stealth and picking locks. I could also warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more… sophisticated… now that my attempts have failed. I could also stand around and look pretty, if you prefer. Warm your bed? Fend off unwanted suitors? No?" He laughs- an actual laugh this time, head tipped back and everything.

"Bed-warming might be nice," he says, lips still pulled into a smile. His amusement is almost infectious; you can feel yourself wanting to smile back.

"See? I knew we would find a common interest. Or two. Or three. Really, I can go all night. So, what shall it be? I'll even shine armor. You won't find a better deal, I promise."

The Warden smiles almost fondly and shakes his head, getting up and moving behind you to undo the ties.

"I don't think the bed-warming or armor-shining will be necessary, but I'd be happy to have you along," he says, offering a hand to help pull you to your feet. "My name is Cyrhel Surana."

You didn't expect him to be so generous.

The first gift Surana gives you is a pair of Dalish leather gloves. They're gorgeous, almost new. And you're confused. When you ask him about it, all he says is that it's a gift, that he doesn't expect anything out of it, that it's just something friends do. You know he couldn't have possibly known, so you tell him of it's significance, about your tragic past. He stands quietly through the whole thing, watching you with eyes filled with nothing but understanding, and when you're finished, he pulls you towards him gently and holds you. It's not what you're use to- there's space between your hips and his hands aren't clawing at your back- but that's fine. Because somehow it's more personal than anything you've experienced.

You receive a couple more gifts throughout the week. They're always small things, shiny things, but somehow always things that you enjoy. You don't know how he knows what you like, he just… knows. So you do little things for him. Like pick up his laundry when he's practically dead on his feet. Or take his watch when it's right after yours and he's had a rough day. You don't know what he likes, so you leave him little flowers, small carved wooden beads: tiny, cute gifts that you think he might like. You always see the flowers braided into his hair the next day, the beads on the small charms. He gives you a knowing smile when he catches your gaze.

You didn't expect him to be so…curious. Really the only way you could begin to describe it.

Surana had a pattern. About a week in, you could say with certainty that he has a pattern. It didn't matter if it was just the small party or the big party camp, he had a pattern and he stuck to it. The moment the camp was set, he was organizing patrols and watches. Once that was done, either he or anyone but the tongue-tied-ex-Templar or the always-drunk-dwarf would cook. Dinner was always at least rationed by whichever person was assigned to it for that night, even if it were just a bit of dried meat and bread.

Once dinner was eaten and the first patrol or watch was at their post, Surana would sit by the fire and slowly undo his waist-length braid. Every night, no matter how late, he would do so. He first pulled it over his shoulder and undid the tie, then he slowly began to unravel it, plucking out the small, colorful beaded and braided-yarn charms that had been woven into the thick brown hair (it looked red in the right light, but you like to call it brown).

It was calming just to watch him. His hands worked deftly through his locks, eyes closed, a small smile playing across his lips. He would talk to you sometimes as he did. Just about small things, things that were never really serious. Did you see the flowers on the side of the path today? The white ones? I think Leliana called them "Andraste's Grace." Isn't it so odd? It's almost as though I can smell Autumn coming. I was never able to smell the seasons change in the Tower. I guess I just never got out enough. What is it like in Antiva?

You feel yours eyes widened at that last question. You… weren't expecting that. But you don't feel like avoiding it. Not tonight, with it only the two of you still awake in the whole party camp, sitting next to each other by the dying fire in the chill of the first Autumn frost, watching the sparks lift towards the sky while Surana combs out his hair until it's glossy and smooth.

You tell him about the flowers in all their colors. You tell him about the rain, about the beauty of the city, of the people. You even slip up and tell him about where you lived, near the tanning vats, about the smell of leather that constantly permeated the air.

You tell him about how you miss it.

You notice his hesitance, but he places a comforting hand on your shoulder and smiles softly.

A few days later, after coming back from the fanatic-infested town that defended the Urn of Sacred Ashes, you find a pair of Antivan leather boots next to your bed-roll. Surana is sitting calmly by the fire, combing his hair out and laughing at Oghren's wild tales with a smile that never quite seemed to reach his eyes. But he meets your searching gaze, and those amber eyes lite up with a playful glint.

Cyrhel kisses like a teen, really- innocent and sloppy and inexperienced, but he makes it honest. Meaningful. And it takes your breath away the first time. In bed (or, the bedroll), he moved like water: he flowed easily, forming against you like he belongs there, matching every motion. He's a quiet lover, making the tiniest of sounds, of gasps and moans and whimpers. It's nothing new to you, as experienced as you are, but… Somehow it's more than your past trysts.

Curled around the little mage, covered in sweat and sticky with cum, you don't think you've ever felt more whole.

You never expected him to be so loyal.

The Crows came for you again, just as you suspected they would. It was kind of a low blow on their part to send one of your old "friends" to do the deed, but they still came for you. And you were just about ready to give yourself back to them in death.

But Cyrhel isn't having it.

"First of all," the mage says, walking towards the Crow with his hands wide and his eyes dark and the sweetest of smiles gracing his face, "Zevran owes you all nothing anymore. Second of all, allow me to quote a good friend of mine: fuck you."

If you weren't in the middle of a fight, you would applaud his use of foul language. You'd been trying to get him to talk like that ever since you first heard his very wordy, round-about way of cursing. Instead, you flash him a cheeky smile when you find yourself back-to-back with him, lightning raining hell down around you.

Somehow, you know he understands.

When the deed is done, the bodies of the hirelings laying charred and dead around you, Cyrhel gives you a half-hug. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you.

You give him your earring that evening. He accepts it gingerly, unsure of himself. He asks you what it means. You're not entirely sure how to answer- actually, you do know what the answer is, you just… For the first time in your life, your mouth won't form the words.

Instead, you answer with a kiss, soft and slow and completely unlike the hard and passionate kisses you and Cyrhel have shared before. You hope that gets across the words you can't bring yourself to say.

You didn't expect him to be so… Fragile.

Really, you should have known how easily breakable Surana was. He was still a child in many ways. Still that sheltered boy from the Tower, barely past his twentieth year.

So when he stumbles into your room in Arl Eamon's estate, robes torn and dirt on his face, you should have expected the breakdown that followed.

He all but screams. He clings to you as he all but screams, sobs and shudders wracking his body as you try to keep him together and he tries to fly apart. He buries his face in your chest and cries and you have no idea how to even begin to help him.

So you hold him. You pull him tight against you and whisper into his ear, tell him how everything is going to be okay, how he's going to be fine, how you aren't going to let anything hurt him. When that doesn't work, you start humming. It's a barely remembered melody and you're fairly certain you're dreadfully out of tune and your breath hitches every now and then, but it calms his chaos and that's all you could ask for.

Your heart hurts seeing Cyrhel like this, but you understand it's not about you at the moment. It's about what he needs. So you do your very best to make him comfortable. You help him slowly out of his tattered clothes and let him clean himself with a wet cloth when he won't let you touch him and tuck him into your own bed and wait for him to fall asleep before slipping out to his room and fetching a clean set of robes. You feed the tattered robes to the fire. You doubt either of you ever want to see them again.

You don't sleep. You stay awake, sitting next to him on the bed, soothing the crease between his eyebrows and keeping constant watch. The logical part of your mind tells you that no one would dare attack him here, under the protection of an Arl, but your very own experience as an assassin tells you that no amount of guards will keep the determined away. So you neither sleep nor leave his side until he begins to return from the Fade.

Cyrhel stirs with the tiniest of groans, stretching a bit before curling slightly around you. You can't help the smile that tugs at the corner of your lips as you stroke his hair, listening to his calm breathing. He seems okay, as though the night before never happened.

But you know you will have to ask him about it sooner or later, and it's often best to simply get things over with.

When you ask him if he wants to talk about it, you can feel the tension creeping into his limbs. He curls around your side tightly, knees pressing into your back and head in your lap. You don't push him; you know that won't do any good. You just wait for him to respond, giving him as long as he needs.

His voice comes out as a soft whisper.

He tells you about Ostagar first. You didn't know the half of the story, so the first-person account of the battle was informative to you. He tells you about how he and Alistair had to go up the Tower of Ishal and how they were forced to watch the massacre from above because the older Warden Duncan had ordered them not to leave their post, and how they had to watch Loghain abandon the king's men, and how the darkspawn swarmed up the stairs-

He tells you about how Loghain had told everyone it was the Wardens who'd killed the king. That you had known, at least.

He tells you about how he and Leliana had run into a knight who'd survived Ostagar. He didn't recognize the man, but the man had apparently recognized Cyrhel. He was angry, shouting, and the only way the mage was able to calm him down was to agree to a duel in a back-alley.

He tells you about how the knight hadn't come alone, as he'd promised to do. His voice breaks when he starts to describe what happens- every sordid detail- of the hands that reached for him, of the voices that dripped with vile intention, of Leliana's timely rescue. He's hugging you by this point, hands clenched tightly in your shirt, voice muffled from where he's pressed his face into your stomach. You curl around him protectively. Your hands itch for your blades, but you don't reach for them. There's no need for a hunt just yet. Later, when Cyrhel is better maybe, but not now.

Eventually, Cyrhel calms down. You stroke his hair out, undo it from its braid and run your fingers through it, taking out any charms he might find and setting them gently aside, until you manage to get most of the dirt and filth out of it. It still needs a wash, but at least it's not stained in as much mud (you hope that's mud) and littered with leaves. His breathing is shaky and he's trembling like he'd just run a mile too quickly, and you're pretty sure the front of your shirt is soaked with his tears, but he's… well, you can't say better. More stable, if anything, but not any better.

Cyrhel shifts fully into your lap, head tucked under your chin, and you hold him awkwardly, trying to shift your hips away so not to scare the little mage even as Cyrhel tries to snuggle closer. You don't want to push him away, so you just cough and will yourself to stay calm, damnit! He doesn't need this right now!

Then Cyrhel makes that little mewling sound, and you begin to doubt he was curling around you purely for innocent comforting.

"Ah, caro, this may, ummm, not be the best time. You've just- Cyrhel?"

The little mage lets out a little snore, nuzzling into your neck, and you thank whatever deities that watch over you. As willing as you are to take the boy in your arms, to claim him as your own, now would not be a good time for that. He's too delicate, too fragile, too barely held together.

No, now would not be a good time.

You help him lie down and pull the blankets up to his chin. He looks so small, so defenseless curled up beneath your red comforter. He breathes in deep little sighs. You pull his hair out from beneath his head so that it doesn't knot up, and he let's out a little chirr at the touch. You make a note of the reaction for later. Now… Goodness are you tired. You lay down behind Cyrhel and tuck him against your chest.

You fall asleep surrounded by the scent of oranges.

You didn't expect to become so attached to him.

When Leliana and Morrigan return from Arl Howe's estate, plus Anora but sans Alistair and Cyrhel, the first thought that passes through your head is, Oh no. You're almost certain Alistair will be fine in there, being a strong warrior and all, but Surana… Surana is a mage and an elf, and you know all too well what guards are willing to do to an elf at their mercy, regardless of gender. Your stomach drops at the thought, and you taste the bile rising up in the back of your throat as your fingers itch for your blades. It's only been a week. A week. You swore to protect him, and you've already failed him.

The only thing that stops you is Leliana's firm hand on your shoulder. "We need a plan," she says. "Rushing in recklessly might only make their situation worse."

You don't have the tongue to giver her any lip.

It's the general consensus that you and Leliana will pull off this rescue: you both are rogues, so you're both sneaky and deceptive, and you're both good enough at fighting and first aid to get them out. Hopefully.

You don't think about what might happen should this go wrong.

Getting into the estate was easy. The guards were laughably susceptible to your wily ways, especially Leliana's unabashed flirting. You just stood there and looked pretty, keeping your hood up to hide your ears and masquerading as Leliana's handman. Nobody questioned it. Despite your impatience, Leliana insisted on stopping in a few rooms along the way. Grudgingly, you have to admit it was worth it- there were a number of incriminating documents that you and Leliana rather cheerfully confiscated.

But by the time you reach the dungeons, your skin is crawling with impatience. It is eerily quiet for a dungeon, and you can't tell if you'd prefer the sound of screams to this. You hurry Leliana along, not wanting to take the lead but not wanting to take your time either. A pit of dread curls like a High Dragon in your stomach. For the first time in your life, you find yourself praying to the Maker to protect him.

It's the third level of basement when the first, unwelcome sounds reach your ears. It's the crack of a leather whip, harsh through the air, and the slightest grunt of pain. You can hear the lecherous voice, sneering, and then the softest of determined responses.

"Admit to your treason, and this ends."

"I'd sooner die than bend to you."

Another crack of the whip, and you flinch at the louder, higher squeal of suffering. You register Alistair's yell, but you don't actually hear it over the pounding of blood in your ears. Someone is going to die today. Painfully.

You bust into the room without even bothering with the lock,- the door flies inward off its hinges with one good hit- and you're greeted by a sight that is all-too familiar. Cyrhel is hung from the ceiling by bound wrists, back bared, hair undone and full of litter but thrown over his shoulder and out of the way. Alistair is chained to the wall and being forced to watch. The torturer is standing rather shell-shocked in front of Surana, leather whip in hand, and that's who you focus on right off the bat.

You leave him chained against the wall with enough just enough arsenic and deathroot in his blood to kill him slowly and painfully but without any hope of an antidote. Somehow, you still don't think it's payment enough for the pain he's caused to Surana.

Cutting Surana down is a simple affair; you catch him as he slumps forward and wrap him in your cloak before gathering him into your arms. You're glad that you decided to bring your softer cloak, because those lashes definitely hadn't been love-taps, and a number of them had roughly torn the skin. Cyrhel nuzzles his face into your chest, and you feel an unfamiliar pang in your heart as you press a gentle, comforting kiss to the top of his head.

Alistair is well enough to stand and walk on his own, as well as fight once Leliana secures him a weapon, so you're able to stand back and focus on protecting Cyrhel. You don't use up your throwing knives, but it's a close thing. By the time you're out of Arl Howe's estate, Orlesian Grey Warden and previously-imprisoned Templar/brother of a noble lady in tow, you're down to three or four knives, but nobody has been harmed any more than they already are, so you consider that a win.

Wynne bustles Cyrhel from your arms just about the moment you're through the doors of Arl Eamon's estate, despite your protests. You try to follow them, to stay with Cyrhel during the healing, but they insist you stay outside so not to distract them. So that's what you do. You sit in the hallway right outside the door, twiddling your thumbs and trying not to think about all that might have happened in forty-eight hours between Surana's capture and his rescue. It wasn't a long time by any means, but you can't help the fear that bubbles up in your throat or the trembling of your muscles it brings.

You rest your head on your knees and try to pretend the burning in your eyes is just a bit of dust, or a stray eyelash.

The sun is just on the horizon when Wynne and the other healers finally emerge from the room. You're head shoots up like a dog smelling blood, and as the other healers leave Wynne stops to speak with you. "His injuries were only superficial," she says. "There were a few scars, but he has made a full physical recovery, though he is still weak."

You breath a sigh of relief. He's okay. He hadn't been beyond healing. You start towards the door, but Wynne stops you. She gives you a fairly firm lecture about how Cyrhel is fairly delicate (like you don't know that) and that you'd better not hurt him (like you ever will). The moment she's done, you're tearing from her grip and rushing to Cyrhel's side.

You miss her approving gaze that follows you.

Cyrhel is sitting up in bed when you finally enter the room. He looks tired- there are bags under his eyes and his skin is too pale. He's wearing the same expression he had when you'd first met, the blank one. The dead one. The one that made you distinctly uncomfortable. And concerned. And protective. You stand at the door for a moment, half to make sure it's closed and locked and half because you have no idea what you're suppose to do in this kind of situation. Finally, you move to sit beside the little mage on the bed. When he doesn't react, you tug on him a bit until you're holding him with his head resting against your chest. He lets out little shaky breaths, and when he starts crying, silently and without fanfare, you just hug him and stroke his hair.

It's like this that you realize what that little knot in your chest is: love. You love him. And it makes you protective. And scared to lose him. And it hurts.

"Hey, Zev?" he gasps out, voice rough and weak, and you hum in question. "I lost your earring."

You blink a few times as your mind tries to process what he just said, and then you're laughing, clutching him tightly around the shoulders as you laugh hysterically. You bury your face in his hair. Maker, he is the most innocent, loving, selfless, stupid person you've ever met, and you love him so much it hurts. Your tears spill over in a way that you really can't blame on anything else. He tips his head up to yours, and you kiss him softly. It's an awkward angle, and it tastes like the salt of your tears, but he doesn't seem to care, because he's kissing back and somehow you know he knows. He understands, even though the words are so foreign on your tongue you still can't bring your mouth to form them. He understands.

And that- that's enough for you.