Chapter Warnings: Vomiting.
Disclaimer: The characters, background plot, and setting all belong to BioWare, excluding the specifics of Fynnea's characterization. Penny Arcade coined the name Barkspawn for the mabari.
Temper, Temper
"You're not actually considering this," Alistair mutters close to her ear so that Kolgrim can't catch the words. "You're not actually thinking about defiling the Ashes of Andraste because he's being secretive about something you might want." His anger towards her has softened since Redcliffe, during the journey to Denerim, then to Lake Calenhad, then back to Denerim, and finally up this mountain, but it seems to be easily called back. At least he's talking to her again, even if his tone is less than congenial. They've gained some sort of tense understanding since she insisted they stop in to meet Goldanna and Fynnea defended Alistair against the woman's verbal attacks, feeling guilty that she had fucked up even this attempt at reconciliation. Somehow, she hadn't fucked up entirely, or at least Alistair didn't blame her for all of it. In fact, he had seemed touched that she had remembered, despite their mutual anger.
Of course, she's always only a few steps to the left of disappointing or frustrating or annoying him again. Now, on top of a mountain, she turns to look at him with an intent and hopeful expression and he glares, and she turns to look at Wynne and she glares, and she finally looks at Zevran, and he shrugs and smiles.
Maker's breath, but he makes her want to do stupid things (not that she needs much help with the motivation). But Wynne seems distressingly devout and Fynnea now relies on her to fix her broken body after battles where the little elf flings herself into the middle without a thought for how she's going to get out, so really, defiling the Ashes isn't an option.
But she's still curious.
"What sort of power?" she asks, slowly, looking up at Kolgrim through her lashes and wondering if her beautiful elven charms work when she's in splint armor and soaked in blood and drake guts.
"You have seen how Andraste's followers fight!" He's still using that exhortative cry, and it's getting on her nerves. She really wants to run him through, wants to stab both of her blades into his stomach and rip outwards, but then she'll never know what he's hiding.
She steps a little closer, her swords remaining sheathed on her back. "They do fight very well, indeed." She lets him tower above her; it likely makes him feel less intimidated by the woman who has cut through all of his cult's defenses and murdered full-grown drakes in their dens. Fynnea has marked the fighting style these mountain people use, the way they seem to become demons in battle, draw in energy from their fallen comrades. It's her sort of combat. She wants to know so badly how they do it.
A thought comes to her, and she leans in and whispers conspiratorially, "Does it have something to do with blood?"
He looks startled and backpedals away from her, swallowing and raising his axe between them. "You sly- we shall never give over Andraste's secrets to you!" And she knows she's right. Blood- it made her a Grey Warden, and it can make men into- what had one of the leaders shouted? Reavers, to arms! Blood will make her a Reaver, too.
And given how Kolgrim can think of nothing else but his beloved Andraste-
"Hm, 'Andraste's blood'?" she tries, and his enraged gurgle and the way he suddenly rushes towards her seals it.
There, no need to defile the Ashes at all, and before she pitches full into battle, she grins back at her companions.
"We just-" Alistair tries, panting and attempting to lever himself up from the uneven, broken, sulfurous ground, "we just killed a dragon?"
"I believe so, yes," Zevran responds, having to shout for his voice to carry through the bitter wind. "Yes, yes, that does appear to be a dragon. And it does appear to be dead. Wynne? I am sure a beautiful older woman such as yourself has- experience with serpents. What say you?"
Wynne rolls her eyes, leaning on her staff. "It is a high dragon, and it is dead," she finally concedes. "Fynnea-"
Fynnea is rummaging through Wynne's pack and comes out with a few vials, smiling cheerfully before heading over to the dragon's corpse. She had, of course, gloried in the battle, thrived on running between scaled legs, dodging fiery blasts, rolled and struck and laughed and goaded even though Alistair was supposed to be the one to keep the beast's attention fixed. She'd fallen twice, but Wynne brought her back each time. After all, as self-destructive as Fynnea can be (and as good at starting trouble as she is), they rely heavily on her thrill to violence to see them through the worst battles.
Now that same battle lust, which could easily have become anger or cruelty, is channeled into good cheer. "Zevran, you harvest some scales, Wade might like them. Though I think we should get him to do his thing with the drake scales we got earlier..." Fynnea shook her head, focusing again with a broad smile. "I, meanwhile, am going to test my theory about Kolgrim's men."
"We have Ashes to retrieve," Alistair pointed out. "You know, bits of burnt saint, far more fancy and rare than dragon's blood? And besides, this thing will be here when we get out."
"But the blood won't be fresh," Fynnea replies as she crouches at the beast's neck and punctures another hole. The blood dribbles slowly, and she frowns at it. "Should've taken it as it was dying. This might not even be fresh enough."
"It might not even work," Alistair counters, finally back up on his feet. "Besides, what if it makes you go crazy? Those cultists, they seemed pretty loony. I bet it's from drinking dragon blood, like- like darkspawn blood?"
"That's my point!" Fynnea stands triumphantly with two filled vials. Nothing can stop her when she feels like this, driven and mighty and beautiful, standing quite literally on the top of a mountain with a dead dragon at her feet.
Alistair sighs and watches, giving up on any hope of stopping her. "If you're planning on drinking it, why not just... just put your mouth up to its flank, or something?"
"I'm not barbaric, Alistair!" She rolls her eyes, then grins at the other three. "Alright, anybody up for doing this with me?"
"Absolutely not."
"My Warden, I do not think I could fight like that - I've too much speed, not enough strength, yes?"
"I am not exposing myself to whatever dangers are in those vials."
"Fine," Fynnea says, shrugging. She's confidant in her deductions and eager to rub her success in their faces when she inevitably rises even stronger than before. Her expression glows as she grins and tosses her hair out of her eyes. "Your loss. Bottoms up!"
And then, impulsive and confident as always, she tips both vials into her mouth at once, swallows, grins at her comrades, and promptly collapses to the ground.
The first thing she knows when she comes to is vomiting, hot bile tinged with a taste of copper in her mouth, her stomach contracting and her fists clenched in the dirt beneath her. She smells scented oil and leather and feels warm hands on her back - Zevran. He strokes her spine, and it eases some of the terrible pain and nausea. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, shivering, and then looks up.
Alistair looks angry again, Wynne looks exasperated and a little worried, and Zevran- is still behind her, so she can't tell, but he feels good. She manages a weak smile.
And then she thinks a moment and rolls her shoulders and stands. "Hm. Not bad."
"You are never allowed to go around drinking blood again," Alistair says, gesturing to the mess now at her feet. "What if you had died, Fynnea? The deathly sort of die, the kind you don't just get back up from? The kind that Wynne can't fix?"
"I always get back up," Fynnea responds, though her legs are trembling again. She feels... stronger, though. More durable, and with a renewed lust for carnage. That lust hovers in the background, thankfully, because there aren't many people around her to kill and she doesn't think Alistair would appreciate a good fast spar right now. "I think it worked, at any rate."
Alistair just stares at her while she beams, and then looks away as she bends double and vomits again.
"My Warden, I do think we should have waited to do your experiment. I'm not sure that you can make it through this... Gauntlet we are called upon to defeat. And while I am a great fan of heaving bosoms, this is not quite what I had in mind." Zevran is now at her side, taking her chin in hand and tilting her face this way and that, looking at her eyes and the color of her cheeks.
"Of course I can make it." Fynnea waves a hand, and the other elf catches it, pulls her back to full standing, and then holds her gaze. She flushes.
"... Of course you can," he agrees after a moment, and Alistair groans and moves past them, all clanking metal. Alistair still refuses to trust Zevran, trusts him even less now that he and the others are treated almost nightly to the dulcet tones of Zevran wrenching pleasure from their high-strung commander. (How had he put it when he'd pulled Fynnea aside to voice his concerns? Something like "He's an assassin and you're letting him stick things in you and really, he could kill you anytime he wants because when he makes those eyes at you, you turn into... into... I don't even want to know what you turn into." Except with a lot more stammering and a lot more anger and a lingering ounce of jealousy.) As a point of honor, Alistair has been disagreeing with Zevran on every topic. But now he simply gestures for them to follow, shoulders sagging with exhaustion.
"We kill a dragon," she can hear him muttering, "and the first thing she does is drink its blood. Maker, why did I ever think she made sense?"
She makes it, of course.
She can't say that she has a revelation when she passes all-but-naked through the flames and approaches the real Andraste's ashes. In fact, she's more in agreement with Zevran that the urn is quite nice, but the contents, less than interesting. Wynne and Alistair stare in awe, though, until she sighs and pushes past them to scoop up some of the fabled mythic panacea. Her hands are shaking and she's still not feeling good, but at least now they can head back to camp.
Fynnea periodically has to stop and empty the very few remaining contents of her stomach on the way down the mountain. Alistair continues to point out that he Knew This Was A Bad Idea All Along, Wynne casts minor healing spells to patch the damage in her stomach and her throat, and Zevran stays close to her, looking... concerned? Though, she considers as she straightens up and pushes on towards the old temple, he has reason to be worried. If she dies, Alistair will probably take his head off.
On their way back through the temple, they pause to check a room they had passed by before, collecting a few useful items, and are met at the door by the last few angry looking cultists. Fynnea goes from leaning heavily against a high table to roaring into action, and Alistair looks away from the carnage as she finally fully indulges the urges newly boiling in her blood. Even sick, she moves with her usual energy and swiftness, dancing around in informally trained but effective movements, whirling and diving, swords outstretched. She seeks blood even more fervently than before, ending up coated with it as she laughs triumphantly. But when the last cultist ceases to writhe upon the floor, pinned to it by her blades, Fynnea sinks to her knees and retches again. Zevran helps her back to her feet and they continue on, exchanging hurried, terse words with Brother Genitivi and finally leaving the cult's lair.
Despite her new weakness, as they trudge through the snow back towards and through Haven she thinks that she is quite happy with her decision. At any rate, the weakness should pass. Eventually.
They finally make it into camp, and once her tent is up and her pack stowed, she drops down to sit by the fire. Zevran doesn't follow immediately, but instead brings an empty pail to her side and sits down behind her, fingers finding her shoulders and beginning to knead the sore muscles there while she wipes at the dried blood crusted on her face.
"Do you know," he muses, trying to sound detached, "if it has all been your blood coming up?" There's that little bit of worry again, and it's more than a little confusing. "It has looked a bit peculiar, but I confess I didn't look at it as closely as I should have."
"Don't know," she mutters back, eyes closing, determined to just get through this bit of things. The nausea isn't always there, but it comes in waves and when it crests, she can't fight it. Right now, the sea is low. Low enough that Zevran being attached unmoving to her side is beginning to make her uneasy even as it soothes her tired body.
She opens her eyes again when Alistair starts up again with, "You're a complete and utter idiot." Alistair is sitting across the fire from her, and has apparently been telling everybody who will listen just what she did, finally settled on telling her all about it. Again. "People say I'm stupid, well, now I'm just going to point at you."
"Stop it," Wynne chides, watering down a bowl of soup for Fynnea. "She was just trying to become stronger, to fight the Blight, as we all are. You know that."
"Yes, well, if she survives I'll concede the point." Alistair fidgets, frowning. "I hope she survives. Fynnea, I hope you survive."
"I heard you," the elf Warden says, shaking her head and then immediately regretting it. She takes the bowl from Wynne and sips at the thin broth carefully. "I'll survive. I always have so far."
"There is so much wrong with that statement," Alistair complains, but then leaves it be, except for the soft mutters of dragon and blood and Andraste as he tries to put together everything that happened. Zevran chuckles and leans lightly against her.
He invites himself back to her tent.
She protests, pointing out hurriedly that this is obviously not a good time, and why is he even interested when she tastes and smells like sweat, blood, and bile? but he waves it off. He lifts the so-far unused pail, then helps her to her tent. He's set out her bedroll - and his, she notices - and has a pail right by her small, hard pillow. He makes her stand just outside the tent as he releases her from her armor with his quick, nimble fingers, and she watches with confusion and trepidation.
"What," she says, softly, when he kneels before her to help with her greaves, "are you doing?"
He just grins up at her.
They've been growing closer since Redcliffe. They walk together, they laugh together, and they tell each other stories. He's told her of his adventures with the Crows and in bed, and she's only felt a twinge of- not jealousy, but envy- once. He'd told her about the woman, Rinna, one night in Denerim. She'd been upset about the Alienage gates being closed, but he hadn't known that. She hadn't mentioned it. She'd been, instead, stalking the market long after the stalls had shut down for the night, refusing to come back to their camp outside the city walls.
He'd slipped up beside her, and she'd nearly taken his head off. He'd just smiled and gestured for her to follow, and he'd taken her on a meandering path that led out of the city without her even realizing it. And along the way, he'd told her of his last mission, and confessed that he'd hoped, at first, that she would kill him. He'd added with a grin that he was very glad things had worked out differently. She'd been completely distracted. Tonight, though, his distractions are pointedly not working, and the only thing that keeps her from kicking him (lightly! and only enough to get his attention!) is the fact that she keeps fighting the urge to bend double with the pain in her stomach.
He doesn't speak until he has her in her smallclothes and he makes her settle onto her bedroll. As he pulls his own armor free, he says, "Tonight, you shall be attended to by Nurse Zevran. You may thank me in coin or kisses."
She groans. "I told you, I'm not in the mood-"
"I know," he cuts her off, sitting down beside her once he's down to his smalls and the skirt of his armor. He touches her upper arm lightly. "I don't demand payment in advance. In fact, I am such a good doctor that I shall wait until you are completely recovered."
"I don't need a healer," she mumbles, still uncertain at this gentle care of his. "Why?"
He laughs, the sound soothing. "Because, my Warden, I do not like seeing you this ill. Just as I didn't like seeing you so angry and removed after that fight with Alistair, after Redcliffe."
Fynnea shoots him a Look. "You kept your distance when we were fighting."
"Only because I thought it was what you wanted."
"It... it was, for a while," she confesses, after a moment, and he laughs again.
"See! Zevran Arainai is not entirely a fool." He settles down on his bedroll and pulls her into his arms. His fingers stroke her stomach and her arms, and she shivers and closes her eyes. "And as much," he murmurs after a moment, "as I would have liked to watch Leliana keeping you company tonight, she did not volunteer, and you need somebody to make sure you do not choke on your own vomit. That is not the most beautiful way to go."
Fynnea makes an annoyed sound, trying to draw away, but he just chuckles and keeps her close, kissing at her jaw.
"I," he adds, "am nothing but attentive to my lovers."
"So, part of the bargain of getting you in my tent whenever I like is that I have to let you play nursemaid when I get the sniffles?"
"And you have to let me strip you bare to do it," he responds with good cheer. "And when you can't sleep, you must let me regale you with stories of Antiva."
That sparks a memory. "Oh!"
He chuckles. "There will be many Ohs in these tales, y-"
"No, no, I-" and she worms her way out of his arms. He lets her, this time, and watches as she sits up and reaches up for her pack. "I found something. In Haven, when we were looking around. On the way up." A wave of nausea crashes over her, but she fights it down. As her fingers close on soft leather, she grins and pulls out her prize, holding it out to Zevran proudly.
He stares at the boots for a moment before his eyes shoot up to her eyes. "I know that smell," he says, and his voice is- soft? It loses the flirtatious, teasing edge for just a moment.
Fynnea can't help but smile.
"These are Antivan boots," he continues, taking them from her gingerly.
"You should try them on," she points out.
"No, no, I shall- enjoy them as they are, for now. I can try them on in the morning, yes?" He can't seem to decide if he should look at her or the leather, and Fynnea feels a slight blush cover her cheeks and shoulders. "After, of course, you ravish me. I fully expect ravishings in the morning."
Every so often, she has to remind herself that this isn't a relationship, that this is more an arrangement and a friendship, but she's been good with having no expectations. It's more that her heart flutters and her stomach tightens sometimes when he looks at her a particular way, or when she remembers how it felt for him to thumb dried juice from her cheek. And since her experiment with the dragon blood, he's been attentive, and it's starting to bring out the same nervous, happy response.
She pushes past it, just like she pushes past the nausea.
"Of course. You like them?"
"I love them," he agrees, another laugh edging out past his smile. "Now, if only you could find me a prostitute or two, a bowl of fish chowder, and a corrupt politician, I'd really feel like I was home!"
Fynnea is laughing with him until she begins to cough, then retch. The pail that Zevran brought in with them is on the other end of the tent, so she instead rips the tent flap open and stumbles outside. Zevran drops his boots and follows her, managing to get to her side and hold her hair back just before she begins bringing up more blood. His touch is gentle and his free hand strokes her back as she convulses, barely supporting herself.
The campsite is otherwise quiet, the others mostly having retired, but Alistair is on watch and watching them and Barkspawn is whining. Zevran murmurs soft sounds to her, and when she finally comes to a shuddering halt, her face streaked with hot, salty tears and her throat raw, he sits back on his heels and pulls her into his arms.
Cradling her to his chest, he peers past her, and smiles a little. "My Warden," he murmurs, "I do not think your blood is purple with a faint green sheen."
She makes a small, wordless sound of confusion.
"I consider myself a bit of an expert on the subject of blood, and I can recognize yours quite well. This? Is not it. However, I think I can also now recognize the blood of Andraste. After all, your armor is coated with it."
She turns a little to look up at him, and he grins.
"There is quite a bit of dragon blood there, my Warden. I think that perhaps once you've purged it all from your system, you'll be just fine."
There's another male voice sighing in relief, and Fynnea looks over to find Alistair standing uneasily nearby, closer than he was when she rushed from her tent. "Thank the Maker," he says, softly, then slowly grows pink as his anxiety fades and he notices - really notices - their lack of clothing. He coughs, averting his gaze. "Er. I- Zevran. Thanks... thanks for looking after her."
Fynnea's about to growl out that she doesn't need looking after, but Zevran cuts her off, hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. "It was no trouble at all. I enjoy my Warden-" my, not our as he usually says to other people, and her heart is in her throat and she couldn't make a sound even if his hand wasn't been there- "writhing and sweating."
Alistair is bright, bright red, though it's less than noticeable in the dim dying firelight. "Er."
Zevran beams.
"I'm just," Alistair manages, "going to go. Over there. Yes. Um. Keep up- keep up the good work. And, er. Keep on. Enjoying. ... Oh Maker," and he's retreated back to the fire, where Barkspawn still watches, now with an amused cant of his head.
Fynnea taps Zevran's hand and he uncurls his fingers from around her jaw, albeit slowly.
"How do you feel?" he murmurs, soft and low and sweet in her ear.
"Mmm." She can't help but purr. But he needs an answer, so she swallows and focuses and that lingering nausea is- gone. "Much better."
"Good!" Fynnea wants to melt into that happy noise, and she blames it on how she's tired and ready to just fall over and sleep for days. "Then we shall get you some water to clear your mouth, and then bed! Unless..." His fingers slide along her jaw, then dance across her lips, and he hums thoughtfully. "If your healer might suggest an alternative to the water-"
"No," and it's so hard to turn him down, hard enough that she has to laugh to manage the word. But she's tired, and he can tell. He lets her go with no more teasing, pulling her to her feet and helping her to the bucket of boiled water that sits by the campfire. Alistair has retreated to the perimeter of the camp, and so it's only Barkspawn that watches them, tail stump wagging. Fynnea smiles at her mabari and motions to Zevran with her head. He barks, tail wagging a little harder.
"Shhh!" she whispers, and Barkspawn just grins, and she's grinning back because Barkspawn trusts and likes Zevran and that feels so good.
The water does too, when Zevran, oblivious to this little exchange, lifts a ladle of it to her lips and she drinks greedily.
When they are back in her tent, he settles her down like he did before, sheds the last of his clothes, and slides in beside her. He drapes an arm over her, lazily.
"Thank you," Fynnea murmurs, softly.
He smiles against her shoulder. "It was no problem. No problem at all. And I have a reward to look forward to, yes?"
She laughs and nods, snuggling back against him. "Many, many rewards."
"Oh, was I that good a nursemaid?" he teases, and then, when she shakes her head, says with mock-affront, "No?"
She looks over her shoulder at him. "You were wonderful. So wonderful that I think Alistair might trust you now."
"Me?" He quirks a brow. "The assassin? The dastardly Antivan who slid in and stole his Warden from him?" He laughs while she rolls her eyes. "Somehow, lovely one, I doubt that. I doubt that a great deal. No, I believe our companions will never trust me, on principle. I do not mind- I understand it."
"I think he trusts you more than he did," she maintains, yawning. "And Barkspawn likes you."
"I still do not quite believe you named your mabari that." He kisses her slowly before nudging her back to lying down. "But. We can talk in the morning. I must earn my keep, and so you must go to sleep."
"Are you ordering me?"
"Mmm, if you would like that, then yes. Yes, my Warden, go to sleep."
She's blushing and he's laughing gently as sleep reaches out fast to take her. Her last thought has something to do with how beautiful his voice sounds when he's taking command.