Zevran's second night in Kirkwall was as humid and hot as the first. This time, he toted a small backpack that fit snugly against his side and did not hinder his ability to draw his daggers. He had spent a pleasant morning in the marketplace before retiring to his room at the Hanged Man for an afternoon siesta. The atmosphere at the Hanged Man was jovial and promised an evening of delightful conversation and cards, but he had a different mission tonight.
The brooding, handsome elf with the intricate white tattoos intrigued Zevran. He had always been drawn to people who carried their pain like heavy-plate armor coated with thorns that turned inward and buried themselves in sensitive flesh. Perhaps this was due to the fact that Zevran had once been like this also, wearing his anger and defiance like an emblem. Fortunately, he had learned at a young age that maintaining this kind of shield was self-destructive, and he had chosen humor instead.
Zevran also had the empathic skill of sensing pain in others and was adept at drawing out the soul's poison with little more than soft words and a knowing touch. The Crow Masters had often paired him with other assassins who were in danger of collapsing under the smothering walls of despair. It was a process that healed Zevran as much as his partner, reminding him always of the importance of keeping one's head above the darkness that waited to swallow the heart. After Rinna's death, he had almost dived into the night headfirst, and it had taken the efforts of a Fereldan Warden to not only save Zevran but to restore a simple necessity. Hope.
The assassin emerged from the shadows onto the same mansion he had visited the previous night, scanning the roof for silver hair and forest-green eyes. He didn't realize he had been holding his breath until he saw a dark form shift by the chimney, a silent acknowledgment that his presence was known. Zevran hadn't been certain that Fenris would return, and the lanky silhouette made him a little giddier than he would have cared to admit. And no drawn sword this time. Progress!
"Good evening, my friend. I hope you do not mind enduring my presence for another evening? It is just so much cooler up here where the wind blows so freely." His only response was a grunt, but Zevran considered it a victory and seated himself slightly closer to Fenris than he had the previous night.
He could see Fenris better here and looked him over appreciatively from under lowered eyelashes while pulling a decanter from his backpack. The warrior had exchanged his bristly armor for a black v-neck tunic and simple matching linen trousers. As always, he was barefoot, the toughened skin exhibiting more of the enticing tattoos that climbed like vines up a surprisingly delicate ankle and disappeared under the frayed hem of his pants. More of the same white lines trailed from his chin to dip down his throat and swirl along what chest was visible above the shirt. Beautiful and deadly. Such a potent combination.
An empty bottle rested at Fenris's side, and Zevran withdrew two goblets from his pack along with the red wine he had purchased that morning.
"I could not impose on you for a second night without bringing something in exchange for your gracious acceptance of my intrusionon your home. Would you care to share some Antivan red with me? It is not quite as dry as those made in Tevinter, but I think you'll enjoy the spicy flavor." Without waiting for a reply, Zevran gracefully poured the wine into both glasses and handed one to Fenris. The other elf reached for it silently, and Zevran allowed one slender finger to casually slide against the back of Fenris's hand. He watched carefully for any sign of a flinch, but Fenris seemed unbothered by the subtle caress.
"Thank you." The deep voice was gruff and hesitant, obviously unused to offering any form of gratitude, but this was to be expected. Zevran could remember his own surprise when the Warden had offered him the gift of Antivan boots. Slaves were not given presents… were not offered kindnesses that acknowledged their presence as being anything more than a useful piece of furniture. Compassion and generosity were for sentient beings, not for servants for whom duty required obedience rather than intellect.
Zevran gazed down at the Blooming Rose while Fenris took an exploratory sip of the wine.
"And how goes business in our highly-esteemed establishment tonight?" He twirled the stem of his goblet under his nose, savoring the scent of cinnamon and cloves that reminded him so much of his beloved Antiva.
Fenris took a larger swallow of the wine, closing his eyes in evident satisfaction. "This is… not bad." He spared a derisive look for the brothel below. "Two templars entered earlier. They had removed their armor, but their clothes still bore the templar emblem and did little to hide their identity."
Zevran chuckled and raised his goblet toward the Rose in salute. "May they find delight in corrupting the Order!" He tilted his head back and drained the glass in one gulp, licking his lips afterward with half-closed eyes. "This is an especially good vintage, is it not? It reminds me of the delightful smells and sights of the Antivan marketplace: stalls of herbal soaps, ripe melons, and silken dresses interspersed with the occasional stealthy pickpocket. If you're lucky, you might get to witness a stunning assassination by a Crow of high caliber. The perfect end to a perfect day!" Fenris merely raised an eyebrow, and Zevran grinned as he poured them both a second glass. "Come, my friend, do you have no place in memory that you can remember with fondness?"
The silence stretched out long enough for Zevran to empty his goblet before Fenris finally spoke. "On Seheron, there was a beach on the northern side of the island that was more rock than sand. No ships dared to land there; the water was treacherous and filled with fury. All day long, the waves crashed mercilessly against the jagged boulders that bordered the beach as if they were struggling to tear down every last defense the earth had to offer. The wind howled and the surf roared, but those rocks have stood for centuries beyond memory, and they stand still." Fenris drained his cup in one smooth draught. "I would sit for hours and observe nature's battle. It brought peace when there was none to be had."
It was the most Zevran had heard Fenris speak, and the warrior's words resonated with something buried deep inside the assassin, a part of himself he usually kept hidden beneath smooth assurance and wide smiles. This is no mere ex-slave. He sees more than he knows, and he carries a strength beyond physical. How is it that he is alone?
Zevran reached into his pack and withdrew a round paper package, which he opened to reveal a bunch of burgundy grapes still attached to their vine. "It has been long since I indulged in fruit from the delightful vineyards of Rivain. I simply couldn't pass by the stall selling them in the marketplace today." He tore the vine in half and offered it to Fenris, who accepted it without any hesitation this time. Zevran watched Fenris pluck a grape and pop it into his mouth, a small drop of juice forming at the corner as he bit down. The assassin ruminated briefly of how it would feel to lick it off, to taste pouty lips as well as fruit.
"If you are no longer a Crow, what is it you do?" The voice like dark chocolate interrupted the comfortable silence, and Zevran actually twitched with surprise. It was the first time Fenris had spoken without being prompted.
"Ah... well, the first few years after the Blight ended, I travelled a great deal. There were sights to see, cultures to explore, and Crows to dodge. They don't particularly care for deserters, you see." Zevran smiled fondly as if remembering a favortite crotchety grandmother. "After some time, I grew weary of assassins always interrupting my pleasures and decided to return the courtesy, as it were. Three years of playing cat-and-mouse finally convinced them that truly, I'm not worth their trouble. Occasionally, some ambitious upstart will test himself in the hope of capturing the infamous Zevran Arainai, but he inevitably fails. Such a sad waste of young talent, no?"
"Hmm." Fenris appeared unimpressed, but Zevran was undaunted.
"My reputation is well-known among certain people, and I continue to accept lucrative contracts to support my lifestyle. Once an assassin, always an assassin." Zevran quaffed the remainder of his wine, licking the last taste of cinnamon from his lips with relish. He pretended not to notice certain mossy eyes watching him intently.
"Do you not tire of killing?"
"It is all I know, my friend. Well... in addition to the glorious art of seduction. I received extensive training in that also. Sex, in all its forms, is not always as easy as it seems, especially if pleasure takes a different direction than you might like. But that depends on the whim of your assigned partner, and one must be prepared to endure whatever delights he or she might prefer." Suddenly realizing that the conversation was entering sensitive territory, Zevran fell silent, lying back to gaze at the stars.
"You would use seduction even if it was undesirable on your part?"
Mierda. The wine has loosened my tongue too much. "You do what you are told in the Guild. Sex is a means of making your mark vulnerable. If sometimes it should require... reluctant submission, you endure it until you can make the kill. After a while, it is nothing." Zevran kept his eyes fixed on the night sky. It was unwise to look directly in another's eyes when speaking a lie. Not that he wasn't good at lying, but Fenris was quite perceptive.
"It is not... nothing." Glittering green faded into the darkness as Fenris turned his head sharply away. One hand clenched briefly, then loosened as if responding to a command.
A flicker of anger stirred within the shadows of Zevran's heart. So, he suffered that as well. He did not pause to wonder why Fenris's past should bother him more than his own.
"You speak true, my friend," he said softly. "But sometimes one must hold on to what steers him straight until the time comes for vengeance." He could feel the heat burning in his eyes, but he did not try to hide it. Zevran Arainai does not cower like a whipped dog but bides his time until that perfect moment to pay his debts.
"That time will come," said Fenris. No fury colored his words; they were spoken with a dispassionate self-assurance. Zevran had seen what the lyrium-empowered elf could do. He did not envy Fenris's enemy.
"I wish I could be there to see it." No flirtation, that, and he met Fenris's surprised gaze with a calm one of his own.
Zevran rolled smoothly to a sitting position and gently placed the empty goblets back in his pack. "The night grows late, and I have farther to go to reach my room this evening. Or is it morning, now?"
Fenris watched him secure the backpack once more against his side. "You stay in a different place each day?"
"Alas, the life of a hunted assassin," laughed Zevran. "It is best to always stay one stealthy step ahead of the enemy, no? Nuncio has disappeared from the story, but there will be others." He flashed Fenris a toothy smile. "What can I say? Everyone wants to dance with the famous Zevran Arainai."
Fenris raised one eyebrow. "In that case, I wish for you a partner with two left feet."
Zevran blinked slowly in astonishment before throwing back his head in pleased laughter. He bent his knees and dropped down to rest on the balls of his boots. "You have a saucy tongue, mi amigo. This, I like." He reached out slowly to brush back the shaggy locks of white hair with a single finger, tenderly caressing the smooth skin of Fenris's forehead. When Fenris did not flinch but returned his gaze steadily, Zevran smiled and brushed his finger across one cheek as he withdrew it.
Standing, he adjusted his pack and daggers. "I bid you good evening, my friend. As before, your company was most entertaining. Perhaps I shall drop by again tomorrow." He stepped to the edge of the roof and leapt to the adjoining house, merging into the shadows beyond.
Fenris stretched stiffly and climbed down to his bedroom window, sliding into the dank room dimly lit by the fire in the sooty hearth. As he collapsed onto the sagging bed, he allowed his fingers to touch the cheek Zevran had stroked earlier, retracing the warmth that had brought goose bumps to skin that was not cold. He dreamed of Antiva that night: of grapes and brandy, of brightly-colored dresses and doublets, of sun-baked bricks beneath his bare feet, of three sinuous tattoos adorning a dusky cheek, framed by cornsilk hair that fluttered wildly in a salty breeze.