the best lack all conviction
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Summary: Leske dies Brosca deals. Zevran waits.
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Brosca wouldn't say a word.
Not that she was particularly demonstrative at the best of times, but this was different. Her eyes were blank. The brand seemed to grow bigger, dominating her face now that her eyes were dimmed. She hadn't said one word since they'd returned (bloody, bruised, and in Alistair's case, hands still trembling from a persistent toxin on Jarvia's blades) from the carta's hideout.
Zevran saw to her, of course.
The others stayed down in the common room of the cramped, merchant-quarter inn they'd managed to rent for the duration of the election. Zevran walked Brosca up the stairs before him, one hand guiding at the small of her back, murmuring caution on the last, uneven step.
She paid him no mind. She moved, as always, with her head ducked down and a stiff roll to her gait, betraying nothing.
She paused at the top of the stairs, and Zevran kept his hand in the small of her back, steering her towards her room.
Once inside, he closed the door, and after a moment's thought, locked it. Turning, he set one hand casually upon her shoulder and sat her on the end of the bed, a stream of murmuring, meaningless small talk escaping his lips- the state of the inn, the lamentable lack of windows, the constant tang of smoke in the air that, to his great regret, did nothing for her complexion,
Brosca said nothing. The only indication she gave that she even realized he was there was the slight recoil she gave when he bumped a full glass of brandy against her hand. He didn't move away, and didn't desist until she uncurled stiff, bloodstained fingers and wrapped them around the glass. Even then, he persisted, smiling benignly as he encouraged her to drink, and didn't stop until she took her first reluctant sip. He nodded, there, that's good, we'll make good company of you yet, and leaned back in his chair and started telling a long, rambling story of Antiva in his liquid voice while he watched her, eyes half closed, nodding and smiling softly every time she raised the glass to her lips.
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When Natia met him, Leske had a certain sharpness about him that the other children lacked. He was just as underfed, just as filthy, and he looked to Beraht, the fucker, for his next meal as much as the rest of them, but he possessed a steak of sheer, mongrel healthiness that kept him going long after the others dropped.
He fought dirty. He had a habit of cruelly pinching her the minute her back was turned, and snickering as she whirled around, snarling, but always too slow, never quick enough to heap punishment on his head. He said he liked making her angry. He was always the fastest, always the one who gave the lazy alert that sent them all scattering from the guard. Natia never gave him much attention, never had much use for him, but time and time again they'd wind up in the same bolthole, breathing the same hot, damp air as the guards cursed and combed the alleyways for them. Leske would lock his arms around her waist from behind (saving space, he always said.) and laugh helplessly, breathlessly as she squirmed and hissed whispers at him to shut up you stupid sod, we're gonna get caught.
He didn't want to lead. Natia did. When the time came for her to step up and take control of their little group of outcasts and gutter-droppings, he gave her the surprise of her life by shrugging and standing at her back, tossing and catching a rock meaningfully in one hand.
She took down her only serious opponent straight off. Knocked his teeth out, then went to work on him. When his supporters rushed her, Leske produced a knife the size of his smallest finger from some hidden pocket and dove in, laughing and swiping all at once.
She won.
When she scowled, and asked him about it later, he just shrugged. You're the boss. The gleam of his sharp grin. Still. Think it'll get me in with your sister?
Leske was the one leaning against the wall of her house as she burst out, face mottled white and red with rage, and it was his voice that broke through.
Hey, he said, grinning that sharp, crooked-toothed grin. You're out. Let's go.
He nodded at her face, at the rapidly rising swelling. Nice shiner. Wine bottle?
Close, Natia said, her voice muffled. Clipped me with her mug when I passed too near her chair.
He shrugged. A roll of his shoulders. Rica coming? Casual and disinterested.
She huffed a breath. No. Reluctantly, She's at Beraht's. Being…. tutored.
Leske laughed. Yeah? Always heard sucking cock and pouring drinks was something girls knew from the start.
She lunged at him, white faced with fury, and laughing, he danced out of her reach, laughing. Always out of her reach, but never out of sight.
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Brosca gave few outward indications that the brandy and conversation were having any effect, but the mild, half-smile on Zevran's face firmed as she took a deep breath, then let it out.
The screaming tension in her shoulders had not abated, but he felt it wisest that he did not touch her.
He refilled her glass to the rim, and proposed a toast to Bhelen. When she didn't drink, he smiled sardonically and proposed a toast to any king who found himself suddenly owing her a great many favors. When even that didn't work, he leaned over and gently, gently set fingers on the bottom of her glass and pushed up, her arm following, sluggishly until she completed the action by taking another drink.
Zevran smiled, and leaned back, and began to tell of the time he'd found himself Templar-hunting in the Free Marches. Brosca stared at the fireplace, her chest steadily rising and falling, her eyes as dry as the ashes there.
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Maddeningly, Leske soon proved to be her only friend who was worth a damn.
Very soon, Dust Town never referred to the one without mentioning the other. There was no Natia or Leske, merely Natia-and-Leske, two of the most abysmally ambitious dusters on Beraht's payroll.
He went with her when she had her face scrawled over with new tattoos, arching geometric patterns that made the brand a part of her face, rather than the sole glaring feature. He remarked acidly on her every pained hiss until she chose to spite him by giving no indication of the searing bite of the needle across her temple, her cheeks, and high across her forehead.
When it came to his turn, he snorted, are you nuts? And ruin this face? and cackled as she swore and stalked out of the tattooist's without him, only lagging behind to drop payment on the counter. Her face oozed black and green ink for three weeks, but when the last of the scabs fell away and swelling down, he nodded approvingly, flashing that crooked grin. Suits you, salroka. A real, hard-ass duster.
Flustered, she looked away, and his smile grew positively predatory, but luckily he turned the conversation back to the familiar topic what he'd do with her sister if he ever get his hands on her.
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One of the things I've always admired about you, my dear Warden, is your remarkable stoicism in the face of conflict, Zevran remarked sweetly as he topped up her glass once more. The cork from the newest bottle rolled forgotten underneath his chair, the golden scent of Antivan brandy filling the room. But stoicism, he continued, like many things, has its proper time and place, I feel. But ah, where are my manners. Let me refill your glass.
Lightly, he added, Did I ever tell you of my adventures with the Reverend Mother in Nevarra? No? It's simply shocking the imagination some of the more pious types have once given the opportunity, let me tell you.
A constant stream of pleasant, occasionally shocking nonsense poured from Zevran's lips as he watched Brosca sway slightly in her seat, blinking rather more than was necessary. She still hadn't said a word. And Zevran, who had undergone more than one experience nearly exactly like this before, and knew that if she didn't break now she never would, smiled charmingly as he stood, made a show of stretching, and sat languidly next to her on the bed.
The newly-opened bottle clinked against her glass. That's it. Just one more drink, I insist. We are companions, yes? This is what companions do. Drink and talk about their adventures. Yes, very good, the rumors about your folk are all true, where are you keeping all of it. Just one more drink. For me.
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Leske lived in a one-room rathole owned and operated by the carta. He kept nothing more there than a handful of cheap, stolen items, a stained pallet, and an even larger collection of empty bottles than Natia'a mother.
They'd retreat there often enough after a job gone well. Or poorly, which did happen. When Beraht snarled that he didn't want to see hide nor hair of them until the guard calmed down, Leske would wait till they were out of eyesight, curse, then sling an arm around her shoulders and say, what's say we wait this out with some class, yeah?
Class usually meant the cheapest lichen gut-rot from Tapsters, bought by the case. They'd haul it back to his place, puffing and swearing as hard as they could, then stay up till the morning bells, talking of running off and becoming Stone-deaf Surfacers, owing no allegiance to anybody.
They didn't talk about what leaving Rica would mean. They didn't talk about the meager prospects a pair of small-time thieves would have in the Surface with all that empty, howling sky.
One night, after Rica came home with smeared paint on her lips and a haunted look in her eyes, Natia barged into Leske's place and ignored his protests as she broke into his best bottle of Valenta's Red.
He tried to snatch it out of her hands. Tried to persuade her, C'mon Brosca, that was my best pull all week, that's valuable, but eventually gave up and matched her, drink for drink.
At the end of the evening, the bottle dropped out of her reluctant grip, and she settled for muttering angrily at no one in particular. They sprawled, not touching, on Leske's pallet, the only piece of furniture in his rooms.
Leske watched her, amusement plain in his eyes. Then, blinking slowly, he seemed to come to a kind of decision. He reached for her, the tips of his fingers sinking briefly into the hair at the side of her face. She swung at him, her face twisting in anger, but then freezing into confusion as he closed the distance between them and slowly, slowly, bore her down onto her back.
It was quick, and without grace or preamble. She didn't resist. He put no more thought into it than he put into anything else in his life, and she made no sound other than a harsh, muted noise in the back of her throat when he hooked a hand under her knee and hauled it upwards, driving deeper into her with every short jerk.
At the end, he spied the blood on his mattress and cursed. He looked up guiltily, and caught the tale end of the expression on Natia's face and tried to cover it up with a joke. No shit. Thought Beraht woulda taken care of that years ago.
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Zevran's arm settled casually on the back of her neck, squeezing gently. She didn't make a sound, didn't react as he kneaded the flesh there, finding tension and soothing it away. His voice was neutral, coaxing, as he set the rim of his own glass to her lips and tipped it carefully towards her mouth.
She fought. For the first time all evening, she fought, twisting. He chided her gently, liquor sloshing over his fine-boned wrist, and his hand tightened like a band of iron on the back of her neck. Yes, that's fine, that's good, he said, as he pulled her steadily back towards him, his hand still clamped on the back of her neck. It's only one more drink. One more, I implore you. and he tilted the glass towards her mouth until she choked. Sputtered. He didn't relent, merely tightened the hand on the back of her neck and kept the glass to her lips until she made the choice between drinking or drowning, and drank. Zevran gave soothing encouragement until the glass was drained, politely ignoring the spilled brandy on his lap, and finally relaxed his grip, rubbing her shoulders slowly as she bent over and coughed until he thought she'd be sick.
Brosca moaned, and tried to pull away from him. Zevran's eyes went flat, and he removed his arm without so much as a break in his speech, smoothly recounting his travels in one city or another as Brosca wrapped her arms around her middle and bent double, breathing hard.
She said nothing.
Without pause, Zevran refilled her glass.
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They never spoke of that night on the pallet. They never repeated it.
The next time Natia ran into him, he laughed nervously and made terrible joke after terrible joke until she relented and just hit him already.
When he picked himself up from the ground, rubbing his jaw, Natia glared at him. Beraht wants us. Says he's got a new job for us.
Can't wait, salroka, he murmured back. She jerked her eyes away, biting her lip.
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Her eyes looked swollen in her face. She rocked back and forth, the first two knuckles of her hand crammed into her mouth. She said nothing.
Zevran poured the last of the brandy into his glass, and finished it off in one pull. He wrapped one arm around her, tucking his hand between her shivering arm and her ribs. His voice grew lighter as he leaned his head in close. That's the last of it, my dear Warden. You've well and truly vanquished me, I'm afraid. I shall never show my face in public again.
The glibness of his tone aside, his eyes were hard as flint as he watched her. Any moment now.
Brosca said nothing. Her eyes were swimming, but she had braved Ostagar without a word, she'd seen the meat hooks hanging in the kitchens of Redcliffe castle and hadn't broken. She was silent, she was stone. She said nothing.
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In her own defense, she thought Leske's scheme at the Proving was the stupidest sodding idea she'd ever heard.
However, like all of his ideas, it was the only one they had.
In her own defense, it went perfectly well right up until they asked her to take off the helmet.
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Brosca drew in a ragged breath. Gulped hard. She tried to rise to her feet, wallowing like a cow trapped in mud, when he set careful hands to her shoulders and pressed her back down to the bed.
She rocked harder, and surprised him by leaning against him hard. He rested his chin on top of her head and tried hard not to think of Taliesin's botched attempts at comfort. She was a traitor, brother. She deserved what she got.
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Natia cut Beraht's throat.
She did it for Rica, who had a patron, who had a future. Who read all those blighted Surfacer fairy tales and believed them, happy ever afters and all. Who wasn't going to be passed round to all his carta lieutenants, who wasn't going to spend the rest of her life servicing nobleman after nobleman because Natia was going to save her. She did it for Leske, who was shouting somewhere behind her, occupied with the knives of the carta bodyguard she'd forgotten. Who was the rotten, vibrant, grinning center to her whole dust-covered world, because Natia-and-Leske wouldn't mean much if Natia didn't have a Leske around anymore to dig at her sore spots and ply her with booze and make passes at her sister and came up with a hundred insane plans every day to get rich, to make it big, to get out of here. She fought for him because she hadn't chosen him, like she hadn't chosen her sister or her mother or to be born branded, but he was family and you didn't choose family.
She didn't do it for herself, because Natia defined herself by those around her. By her sister, by her mother, and by her stupid blighted salroka partner. She didn't do it for herself because it had never been about her in the first place, and that, out of all of them, Rica was the only one approaching the hero of this story.
Natia killed him. And she turned and killed the man who had Leske backed into a corner and then she took him by the hand and hauled him all the way back to the merchant quarter, the most she'd touched him since he'd smiled and touched her hair and pinned her down and jerked against her in that choked, smoky little room. He babbled behind her, still excited, still disbelieving at what they'd actually done, when they finally escaped the tunnels.
For a few minutes there, it felt like they might actually make it.
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Zevran used his thumb to absently brush away the first tear that appeared on her cheek, mindful of her continued rocking. He sucked it, absently, off his finger, his smile entirely gone from his face.
He watched. He waited.
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A yellow, crooked smile in a tired face. Nah, salroka, you go on with the Wardens. I'll be fine. Shit always floats to the top, right?
If you want, I'll look after your sister for you. See how she's getting on, if you catch my drift.
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They wound up on the bed, Zevran curved around Brosca's back with his arms curved round her, not moving. Shhh. The lamp had guttered out. The room lay choked in darkness. Shhh.
She shook. Shook like she was fever struck- small, hard noises escaping her throat. Not sobs, not quite yet, but more noise than she'd made all evening.
Zevran lay with her, his hand soothing circles on her ribs, and didn't speak, and didn't try anything more. He lay in the dark with his Warden, whom he dared not seduce, who dared not to allow herself to be seduced by him for fear of her own reaction and thought of Rinna, thought of that long night where he had not wept, had not thought of what he'd done with anything more than a sort of vague numbness.
He did not wish that on her. He did not wish that on anyone.
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She returned to Dust Town harder than when she'd left, and in the company of other Surfacers. She had two shining swords on her back, and sleek leathers on her flanks. Her tattoos had faded in the sun and wind of the free air, the brand that much dimmer against her skin.
He hadn't changed. He hadn't changed at all, his braids were still gathered up behind his head and his knives were still on his belt and he was alive and so real that her throat closed up.
Hey, salroka. A purr. A gleam of teeth.. You look good.
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Her stomach convulsed. Zevran remained still. She curled forward, clutching at the arm around her and keened.
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In her defense, she never pictured him working for Jarvia.
She always saw him as that gap-toothed, skinny nugbrain behind her, tossing that rock into the air. The ragged edge of a grin. Got your back, boss. She always saw him as the only person besides her romantic, foolish, loving sister that she could see herself dying for.
For a long moment, she didn't understand. For a split second, she thought Natia-and-Leske-and-Jarvia and had to choke back hysterical laughter.
Leske smiled hard and drew his knives, standing casually at Jarvia's flank.
Jarvia burst out laughing, and her center broke.
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Zevran was the one who found her, in the end. Jarvia had gone down cursing and foaming both. He wiped his blades off carefully on a nearby wall hanging. Potent poison. Expensive and hard to mix, but worth it.
He saw her as he slipped his knives back into their sheathes. Saw her with her hand locked on the hilt of her short sword, trembling like she was caught in a gale.
The dwarf with the braids in whose stomach her sword was buried held onto the tip with both hands, which were covered in gore to the wrist. He smiled at her. Blood coated his teeth.
Zevran saw how hard Brosca was breathing, saw the white-eyed panic in her eyes. This from a woman who did not panic. Who fought darkspawn hordes matter-of-factly and brutally and with an air of near constant, palpable, boredom.
The dwarf said something. Grinned wider, then coughed.
Brosca blurted something out, and started to let go of her sword, started to jerk away, when the dwarf on the ground reached out and grabbed her ankle. Squeezed. She went still. Still as stone, her face twisted.
The dwarf spoke once more, then died. Without a fuss.
Brosca said absolutely nothing. She continued to say nothing the entire long hike through the tunnels back up to the merchant quarter. She didn't bark commands, as was her usual role as the commander, and she didn't even so much as react as the citizens around her recoiled and spat at her feet as she passed.
Zevran watched all this, and when they returned to the inn, he immediately procured three bottles of finest Antivan from his pack and shooed her, without ceremony, to her rooms, where he made her drink until she fell apart in his arms. He did not leave that whole, long night.
In the morning, he carefully disentangled himself. He changed his clothing. He pulled a servant bell and had water sent up for bathing, and food to break his fast. He sat in a chair across from her bed until she showed signs of stirring, at which point he wordlessly set a cup of precious willow bark tea and a warm, buttered end of bread on the table by her head.
He had cleaned and sharpened her knives. He had washed the blood from her face and hands while she slept.
He said nothing. Only waited for her to speak.
In several hours time, they reported to Bhelen's estate to confirm the removal of the carta.
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