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Chapter Three: Mazes

Small sconces lit the corridors behind the taproom, and the air smelled of old stone and dust and mildew. When Zevran spun him again so that his shoulders hit the wall, Darrian laughed. "You know," he said, and threaded his hands through the assassin's hair again. "This isn't getting us to the bedroom any quicker."

"Oh? Is there a need to hurry?"

He grasped the assassin's hips and hauled him closer. Deliberately, he worked one thigh between both of Zevran's, and grinned when he heard the assassin sigh. "Zevran," he said, and nipped at the soft skin beneath the assassin's jaw. "I have been sitting there all afternoon watching you watching me, and all I have been able to do is think about what I want to do to you."

"Oh? Have you?"

"In great detail."

Zevran laughed. He stepped away, and Darrian went with him, and somehow together they stumbled into the Warden's room wrapped around each other. Darrian kicked the door shut and staggered. Balance lost, he let his weight take them both onto the end of the bed. He heard the assassin's breathless laugh, and then Zevran was above him, hands busy at belts and buckles. Awkwardly, he sat up, and when he tried to help, his fingers tangled against the assassin's and the last of the buckles confused him.

"And you led our disparate collection of companions all the way to Andraste's Ashes and back?" Zevran smirked and batted his hands away. "Lie down and let me."

Darrian obeyed, and when he felt the assassin's hands on his bare skin, he hissed. Zevran worked his boots off and his breeches down. His hands slipped beneath Darrian's thighs, and he guided the Warden up until he was sitting on the end of the bed, Zevran between his knees.

"Oh," Darrian managed. He tried to think of something else to say, but the demanding pressure of Zevran's mouth stole his thoughts. "Zevran?"

"No, my Warden. No more words." Zevran grinned and very gently, he bit at the inside of Darrian's thigh. "You can call this my revenge, if you want."

"Oh," Darrian said again, uselessly. He dug his fingers against Zevran's scalp, and when Zevran teased him with his hands and the deliberate, sucking motion of his mouth, he shuddered. "Wait," he said, between heaving gasps. "Not like that."

"No?" Zevran did not let him go, and the wet, stroking warmth of his tongue made Darrian groan. "Such a shame, my Warden."

Darrian knotted his fingers in Zevran's hair and drew him to his feet. He kissed Zevran, insistent and messy. He unfastened the assassin's leathers, pulled impatiently until the assassin's dusky skin was beneath his hands, warm and pliant. He traced the swirling lines of Zevran's tattoos, followed where they curled around his shoulders, where they wrapped around his hip. "These are beautiful."

He found scars as well, old ones that tracked across the backs of Zevran's thighs and twisted between the dip of his shoulderblades. Below the assassin's collarbone he found the newest scar, thick and wide and shiny, and he swallowed. "That was me, wasn't it?"

"I was trying to kill you," Zevran said, and covered Darrian's hand with his. "It healed well, my Warden. Do not trouble yourself."

He nodded. "Yes, I know."

"Good," Zevran said, and before he could speak again, the assassin pushed him back onto the bed.

He caught Zevran's weight against his chest, instinctively brought his legs up around the assassin's waist. Zevran was all lean muscle and the sliding friction between them had Darrian arching up desperately. He caught at Zevran's hips and rocked them together until he was gasping into the assassin's mouth.

Zevran's hand slipped under his thigh again. "Yes?"

"Yes," Darrian said, and his voice was rough. "Please."

The assassin guided Darrian's legs apart. He was gentle, and patient, and slowly he coaxed Darrian's body into a shuddering response. When he had two fingers buried in the Warden, he leaned over him, and urgently, Darrian sought the warmth of his mouth.

"Zevran," he said, raggedly.

"There is no rush, my Warden. No rush at all."

He lingered over Darrian a moment longer, his hair dragging against the Warden's collarbone. Darrian watched the play of the candlelight over his shoulders and the taut lines of his chest, and he grinned.

"Yes, my Warden?"

"Very nice."

"Nice?"

An instant later, Zevran was closer, and his mouth was all full of the musky scent of warm oil. He felt the assassin's fingers again, and the pressure of them was not nearly enough. He lifted his knees, and when Zevran slid into him, the breath locked up in his throat.

"No," Zevran murmured, and his fingers combed through Darrian's hair. "Keep breathing, my Warden."

"Been a long time," he said. He rolled his hips up against Zevran's and was rewarded by the assassin's hitching gasp. "Slowly?"

Zevran's smile softened slightly. With long, languid strokes, he thrust into Darrian until the Warden writhed. He closed one hand around Darrian's aching shaft and stroked, matching his own rhythm. Darrian twisted, and when his climax wracked him, Zevran cradled the back of his head. He felt it as the assassin followed him into an arching release, Zevran's mouth pressed hard against his shoulder.

In the idle silence afterwards, Darrian rolled onto his side. Admiringly, he eyed the assassin's bare skin and blond hair, loose in tumbled disarray.

"Why didn't we do this sooner?"

"You kept turning me down, my cruel Warden. You are lucky that I am so persistent."

Darrian laughed and trailed one hand down the solid planes of the assassin's chest. "That's one way of putting it."

"You were too much the challenge, my Warden. So strange, do you not think, to spare an assassin's life?"

He smoothed one hand over Zevran's hip, and asked, "So was that just a thank-you for it?"

"And if it was? Would that be so bad?"

"No," Darrian admitted.

"My dear Warden, I have never failed quite so spectacularly before. It is hardly as if tumbling into bed with a benevolent survivor is quite my usual approach."

"No?"

"No. Normally I'd kill them afterwards."

"That's not all that funny."

"Oh? But I thought I saw you smiling. My mistake," Zevran said, and he drew Darrian's face to his and kissed him. "I wanted you, yes, and you wanted me, and this is normally what occurs when two people want each other, yes?"

"Oh, I can think of a few things we haven't tried yet," Darrian retorted mildly. He let his hand wander down Zevran's stomach, and grinned when he felt muscles tensing beneath the soft skin there. "Care to stay a little longer, then?"


Zevran lay on the tangled sheets and watched the dying candlelight. Sidelong, he admired the Warden's lazy, naked sprawl, all loose black hair and sweat-sheened skin. He was aware of the slope of the ceiling above, and the cluttered gloom of the beams, and how the small room had no windows.

"So," Zevran said, and kept his tone insouciant. "After this last treaty of yours is gained. What then?"

One side of Darrian's mouth slid up. "Is this the part where you want to mix pleasure with business?"

"I am curious, I will admit that."

"I don't know," Darrian said. "We'll go back to Arl Eamon, I suppose, and see what happens then."

Zevran let his fingers play down the slope of the Warden's shoulder, felt the corded tension that was in him, that was still in him. He remembered the wind-raked darkness of the camp in the rolling flatlands, and the Warden sitting hunched beneath the fall of the rain.

"Does it never stop raining here?"

"No," Darrian answered, stiffly.

"No?" Zevran sighed. "And where is it that you will be expecting me to shed my blood tomorrow?"

"Redcliffe," the Warden said. "And I'm hoping we won't have to shed all that much blood."

"No? You're expecting our luck to change, then, my Warden?"

The Warden laughed then, and the rigid line of his shoulders eased slightly. "That would be too much to hope for, wouldn't it?"

"Not at all."

More stories had followed, Zevran remembered. He had told the Warden a half-honest story about how he had once slipped into his target's bedchamber, seduced and slaughtered the woman, and wasted the rest of the afternoon with her brother. The Warden had rolled his eyes, and laughed again, and retorted with some tale about stealing bread from the wrong merchant and spending the afternoon fleeing down the twisting alleyways of Denerim.

"You sound like you miss the Crows."

"Some of it," he said, and it was nearly true. "It gets you whatever you want. Women. Men. Whatever it is that you fancy."

The Warden went still, and the rain ran in thick ribbons through his black hair. "And what is it that you fancy?"

"Oh," Zevran said, and grinned, deliberately sly. "I fancy many things. Things that are beautiful. Things that are dangerous and things that are exciting. Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?"

The Warden's gaze lifted, pale blue and fierce. "No," he said. "I would not."

"And until then?" Zevran asked.

"Until then? I suppose we'll have to find ways to entertain ourselves."

Zevran grinned, and when the Warden turned, he rolled against him so that they were cleaved together. The Warden twisted in his arms, and Zevran found scars on him, new ones striping his shoulder and his hip and halfway up his back. There were smaller ones on his arms, one curving all the way around his elbow, and he murmured that he had once been foolish enough to fall off his father's roof in the Alienage and tumble against something sharp. Zevran laughed and kissed him again, deep and lingering, until the Warden yielded under him. Slowly and patiently, he explored the pale contours of the Warden's body. He found that kissing the hollow of Darrian's hip made him inhale sharply, that smoothing both hands up the inside of his thighs made him shudder.

"Zevran," the Warden said, and his name came out heavy and breathless. "Stop teasing."

"Teasing? This is not teasing, my Grey Warden. This is seducing. Exploring. Learning."

"Learning?" Darrian's back arched delightfully, and he turned his face into the sheets. "Learning what?"

"How I might make you lose yourself," Zevran murmured back. "Now, stop fretting, and let me enjoy you."


Lanterns hung from the arches and threw small spots of light against the stone beneath. Alistair ran the whetstone down his sword again and eyed the edge of the blade, not quite satisfied. The silence was strange here, he thought, the air all still and sluggish and stifled by the dreadful weight of the stone.

Ten days ago at the Proving, in the huge round arena, he had fought beside Darrian until each breath had come uneven and rapid and his eyes stung with sweat. Even here, in the high-roofed guest chambers, his shirt clung to his shoulders and he was too aware of each breath against his lips.

The door swung open, and he looked up in time to see Darrian stalk across the threshold, his head down and one hand latched around his sword hilt.

"So," Alistair said, and mustered a smile. "Did you get the dwarf to agree on a time to go?"

"Yes. This afternoon."

The elf's voice was terse and bitten-off, and he quartered the room with sharp, snapping steps. Alistair laid his sword and whetstone down, and quietly, he said, "Talk to me."

"About what?"

"We're getting somewhere," Alistair said. "Finally, I will admit, but we are."

"Yes, and we get to go down into the Deep Roads," Darrian flung back at him. He stopped, and his hands clenched around his belt. "I'm sorry. I'm not…we've been played with, and now we have to go there."

"I know," Alistair said, and something twisted in his belly. The Deep Roads, the emptiness beneath the earth, and he would have to go there, go there with Darrian and the dwarf until they found Caridin's Cross and whatever lay after that. "I don't like it either."

"You and me," Darrian said. "You, me, Shale, and the dwarf. No one else."

"Yes." It was safer, he knew, so much safer not to bring the others, not into the blighted places where the darkspawn lived.

"I'm frightened," Darrian said, close to a whisper. As if to distract himself, he unbuckled his sword belt, dropped it onto the table. "I've been able to convince myself that we're alright on the surface. I don't like it down here, and I don't want to go any deeper."

"I know it doesn't help, but if it's any consolation at all, I'm absolutely terrified."

"No, it doesn't help," the elf replied, and the corners of his mouth moved slightly.

"We got through everything else."

"Blind luck."

"And my overwhelming courage."

The elf was still pacing, his heels striking hard against the stone. "That, too."

"It will be alright."

"Will it?"

Alistair nodded, but when he searched for something to say, the words died in his throat.


"No," Zevran said. "I am going with you, and that is all there to this matter."

"Don't argue."

"I am not arguing. I am telling."

"Zevran," Darrian said, and turned away.

"No. You will not close me out of this."

"You're not a Grey Warden."

"The dwarf is not a Grey Warden."

Darrian spun, his blue eyes on fire amid the sharp angles of his face. "The dwarf is the one with the paragon wife gone missing somewhere near Caridin's Cross. I am going with him and with Alistair and with Shale and we will be fine."

"While we wait here? Forgive me, my Warden, but the ale here bores me on the surface. Why would whatever they drink down here beneath the earth tempt my sophisticated palette?"

"Find something that will," Darrian snarled.

"Tell me why."

"The blood. The blood, Zevran. The blood in the darkspawn that is poisonous, the blood we are so very careful to clean off our weapons every day that we are ambushed."

"Oh, so now you care? Now you care that this blood and this taint of yours will trouble me? Now?" He could hear his own voice turn brittle, and he did not care. "Every other day was inconsequential, was it?"

"No." Darrian's fingers curled. "No, it wasn't. The Deep Roads are full of them. There won't be time…Zevran, I am not going to take you down there only for you to swallow a gallon of darkspawn blood and have it change you."

"Ah, my Warden." Softer, he said, "I can look out for myself. And of all the strange things I have had in my mouth over the years, I won't be adding darkspawn blood to that list, by the gallon or the glass."

Darrian turned away, braced both hands against the span of the mantelpiece. "I don't like it down here. I don't like the way the air doesn't move."

"You're evading."

"The deeper you go, the worse it gets. Least that's what Oghren said." Darrian's head turned, and the flamelight swam in his eyes. "You're staying."

Zevran closed the distance between them and slipped his fingers into the Warden's loose black hair. "Let me come with you."

"No."

He increased the pressure of his fingertips against the back of Darrian's neck, and grinned when heard the Warden's slight sigh.

"Zev," he said, reproachfully. "That's a poor attempt at seduction."

"Oh? I can try harder, if you like." He urged the Warden around, and slowly, he wound his fingers through the thick black strands again. "Let me go with you."

"No."

"I will not stay here."

"Why?" He nipped at the ends of Zevran's fingers. "Because we spent a few days in bed and now you can't bear to be without me?"

"It is about my oath," Zevran said, and the words spilled out, trembling and cold and honest. "My oath. To keep you safe and watch over you. How can I do that from here, if you go away from me into the Deep Roads?"

"I don't know," Darrian said, and Zevran felt the slow shudder of his exhalation. "If something happens down there, then…"

"Nothing is going to happen."

Some of the tension emptied from the Warden's shoulders, and mutely, he turned his face into Zevran's hand. His lips trembled against Zevran's palm, and he murmured, "It had better not."

Deliberately fast, Zevran hooked one foot behind Darrian's ankle and toppled him. He heard the Warden's startled laugh. He landed on top of the Warden, knees either side of his hips. He caught Darrian's wrists and swung them above his head. He leaned over him until he could feel each of the Warden's breaths against his mouth, uneven and warm.

"We're to be leaving soon?"

"Yes," Darrian said, and rolled his hips up.

"Well then," Zevran said, and kissed the Warden's mouth, and his jaw, and the fluttering pulse in his throat. "We don't have much time, do we?"

Darrian twisted, and rolled them both other, his crossed wrists pressing down against Zevran's. Delightfully trapped, Zevran shifted so that the weight of Darrian's thighs pressed between his.

"No," Darrian said, and tightened his grip on Zevran's hands. "We don't."


Darrian shouldered the weight of his pack and tried to quell the twisting unease that had lodged in his stomach. His sword was clean and their supplies were tidied away and his leathers gleamed, recently brushed. He had Wynne's salves and potion bottles, and Leliana's demand to be back soon and Sten's brisk assurance that he would look out for the others while they waited.

"My Warden," Zevran said, and adjusted the balance of the daggers at his waist. "You are ready?"

"Not at all," he mumbled back. He swallowed and crossed the threshold before he could convince himself otherwise. Outside, he found Alistair leaning against the wall, Shale towering beside him, and a bemused expression on his face.

"What happened to me, you, Shale and the dwarf?"

Darrian growled something, almost inaudible. "He's useful."

"Indeed I am," Zevran said, and smirked. "And if you really want, I can tell you all about what I did to him to convince him that I would be equally useful down here."

"No, thank you," Alistair muttered. "You're sure?"

No, Darrian thought. Not sure at all. "Let's see if we all get back alive, and then I'll answer."


Torches lit the way into the Deep Roads, and the guards there bowed and stepped away from them. Darrian looked at the high curve of the stone above, and the way the shadows crawled across dips and hollows. Against his mouth, the air was dry and hot. The dwarf, Oghren, had already muttered something about there being lanterns in some chambers deeper in, and shafts hewn clear through the stone so that the daylight could trickle in, faded and full of dust.

"Hey," Oghren said, and nudged him. "You done standing around and gawping at the walls?"

He considered sniping back at the dwarf, but the torch smoke was acrid, and his heartbeat was jumping, so he settled for muttering, "Yes, thank you, so much."

He hesitated a moment longer, and then he was moving, stepping into the shadows until the maw of the tunnel fell behind. Soft light fell from small lamps, touching the edges of the stone corridor. The tunnel plunged down, steep and narrow, and in the strange, flickering half-darkness, he could not tell how long they had walked. Columns rose up on both sides, and between them, the road led away into the darkness. When he felt the strain down the backs of his legs and across his shoulders, he called a halt. They followed the dwarf past high columns and away from the wide spread of the road and through a gap in the stone. Beneath the low, scooped-out shelf of rock, the ground was rougher, and the press of the stone made Darrian's skin prickle.

They made no fire, and the small lanterns threw yellow light against the slope of the rocks. He saw tiny white specks glittering there, and almost absently, he touched them. He unslung his pack and sank back on his heels. Somewhere nearby, he heard Zevran and Oghren as they bickered over who might share sentry duty.

Quietly, Alistair sat beside him and pressed a waterskin into his hands. "Can I ask you something?"

Darrian tipped his head back against the stone. Deliberately, he waited until Zevran's footsteps vanished somewhere near the mouth of the small cave. "Can I guess what it is?"

"You and Zevran," Alistair said, as hushed. He sat, his back hunched awkwardly beneath the arch of the stone.

"Yes," Darrian said, and mustered up a grin. "Am I that obvious?"

"No, I just, you and Zevran, together…"

"Relax," he said, and clipped the man's shoulder. "At least this way I won't be competing with you for Morrigan's affections."

"Oh, Maker, you're evil."

"Don't tell me you didn't guess?"

"Maybe," Alistair said, wryly. "Things you said. Or didn't say. So is this the part where I pretend to be your father and tell you to be careful?"

"Alistair, I'm as old as you are."

"You look younger."

"Of course I do," Darrian said, and grinned properly. "I'm an elf. We're all devastatingly beautiful and it's just impossible to guess how old we are."

"Oh, very funny." Alistair's mouth moved into a slow smile, and he added, "Be careful, alright?"

Whatever he wanted to say dried up, and he met Alistair's smile and said, "Course I will."


He could feel them in the walls and in the stone beneath his feet and in the heavy, rank air that filled his mouth. The darkspawn lived down here and died down here, and they sought out the songs of the old gods beneath the earth and raised them. The first night, he dreamed of their fires, and the way they ran in their twisting tunnels, and he woke crying out.

"Darrian," Zevran murmured, and slipped both arms around his shoulders. "It was a dream, my Warden. Nothing more."

He said nothing, and turned into the welcome circle of Zevran's embrace. He let the Crow soothe him with hands threading through his hair and rubbing across his shoulders. He did not sleep again that night, and when they cleared the camp and prepared to move on, he saw Alistair, his face all ashen and his mouth tight.

"I know," Alistair said, when Darrian turned to him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he said, and tried for a smile. "Not your fault."

"I know. It's just…" The man shook his head. "I wish I knew more about it. I wish I could tell you more."

"I know." He clasped Alistair's shoulder. "Come on. We shouldn't linger here."

The second night, he thought he heard them, the darkspawn, thought he heard their claws and their feet against the stone. He thought he heard them screaming, and when he jolted out of his half-sleep, nothing but the firelight met him.

He jerked the blankets aside and desperately, he tried to steady his own breathing. He pressed his hands over his eyes and thought of the small room he had slept in until the day his father woke him for his wedding. Four walls and a window and the sunlight slanting in, and at the loudest part of the day, the wind brought in the smell of the mud and the grime and the green leaves that curled around the vhenadahl.

His bare feet brushed the stone, and he cringed. Clumsily, he heaved his boots on, and fumbled with his sword belt. At the fire, he found Alistair, his arms wrapped around his shins and his eyes on the gap in the stone. He looked at Alistair and saw his own thoughts in the man's eyes, in the hunched, rigid way the man was sitting. So he sat silently, and waited out the darkness, and kept his eyes on the small, fitful flames.