Italic sentences are in Antivan. Aedan Cousland does not speak this language, so does not know what is said.
It was a tenuous rebuilding of the relationship, recovering little by little, day by day. Aedan did not force Zevran in anything, and Zevran did not leave. Dangerous questions were not asked, by mutual unspoken agreement. Neither remarked on the fact that Zevran always seemed to smell faintly of healing poultices, nor that Aedan would not fall asleep in the presence of the elf. They did not speak of the past, nor the future, instead talking at great length on the quality of wine and food Aedan brought into Zevran's room, or the difference in the sunsets between Antiva and Ferelden.
Little by little, Zevran found that he could stay calm when Aedan walked in the room, and day by day, Aedan seemed to relax in the assassin's company. There were flare ups, when Zevran would make some lighthearted comment which Aedan found cause for offence, or when Aedan would lose control of his temper and snap without reason, but generally, things were progressing in a manner that both found acceptable. Soon, the elf was able to walk without wincing, and was given Aedan's somewhat brief and gruff tour of the house he was renting.
"Kitchen, help yourself."
"Front door, do not go through it without checking with me first."
"Washroom, you can collect water from the back pump."
"My quarters, stay out."
"Do not assassinate or bed the cleaning lady." This last comment was uttered with a hint of a smile, rare and welcome.
The cleaning lady in question was an aged Antivan human fishwife, hands too arthritic to gut fish but able to push a mop around the marble floors. Small, and shrived like a piece of fruit left too long out in the searing Antivan sun, but with the deep laughter lines only earning by years of good humour. She was in the process of wiping down the dining table, when they walked by. She took one look at Zevran, eyeing him suspiciously and then demanded to speak to Aedan, with a series of flapping hand gestures and grabbled Ferelden.
Aedan looked at Zevran, "Will you act as translator? She doesn't speak enough Ferelden that i can understand her, and my Antivan is nonexistent. I don't even know her name, but she does a good job keeping the place tidy."
Zevran gave a bow to the lady, shallow but smiling.
"My dear lady, the master of the house wishes me to act as interpreter between yourselves. What is it you need to communicate?"
This seemed to incite the cleaning lady to grab Aedan (his hand clenched, Zevran noted) and try to drag him away.
"Poisonous. Much bad poisonous!" she said, pointing at Zevran with a desperate finger.
"Ah. Would seem she recognises me for a crow, and is concerned for your wellbeing... Quite touching actually, to have such commitment in your staff..." Zevran took a step backwards, a faint smile playing upon his face. He held his hands out to show he was unarmed, and took a deep breath.
"I think she is committed to her wage..." Aedan muttered sourly, shaking the lady from his hand. He made a hush gesture with his hand and sighed. The poor bewildered lady ceased her attempts to warn Aedan, and shot Zevran a distrusting glare.
"Get yourself from here! I know what you are, assassin!"
Zevran tried not to laugh, fearing it would only make matter worse. Instead he settled for leaning against the dining table, and offering a chair.
"I shall try to explain, though I have no doubt you will distrust everything I say. You might as well hear me out however. Might I have your name, my lady?"
"Liunet. Miss Liunet to you. And don't you go thinking you can charm me. I've heard every line you've got and then some."
She sat, and crossed her arms. Zevran gestured to Aedan, who by now had poured himself a glass of wine and was standing, looking very much like like he wished he had something stronger available.
"He knows that I am an assassin. We have worked together in the past. I will be staying here, as his guest, for a long time. You will worry yourself a whole head of grey if you do not trust when I say that neither you or he is at risk from my blade."
"The day I trust a crow is the day I sprout fins and jump into the sea!"
Zevran turned to Aedan, laying his head against his hand, still trying to hide his mirth at the situation.
"Lo and behold, she doesn't quite trust me. And you have not the skill in Antivan to regal her with our epic background. So... any ideas?"
"I can dismiss her, and hire someone else."
"A little drastic, and we may well face a repeat with the next. The crows are rather infamous, and we have certain telltale signs. Something in the way we walk, and these tattoos are certainly popular." Zevran pointed to his face, and looked at Liunet, almost in sympathy. He had to admit a growing endearment to the lady, who would waggle a finger at a crow.
Aedan followed his gaze to observe the elderly woman, who was sitting puffed up like an irate chicken. He grunted briefly, walking across and very pointedly shook Zevran's hand, speaking in a voice twice his normal volume and in Ferelden common
"Zevran... friend..."
If Zevran had wanted to chuckle before, he now wanted to burst with laughter. Liunet frowned, and jerked her head at Aedan.
"He doesn't speak any Antivan, does he?"
"Barely a word."
"Figures... Right. I want a written paper from him, with-no-input-from-yourself," she jabbed fingers as she spoke, voice determined, "saying that he knows you are a crow. And an assassin. And probably going to murder him in his bed. I gots a friend who can read Ferelden, so he'll tell me what it says."
Zevran was honestly surprised at the woman's ingenuity, but shook his head slightly.
"It is not very healthy for myself to go about broadcasting my past on little bits of paper... Would something a touch more subtle suffice?"
She twisted her mouth at this, but eventually gave a nod.
"Suppose so..."
"Very well."
Zevran relayed her instructions to Aedan, as well as his own concerns that having a message about a crow and an assassin might lead to more trouble. The nobleman nodded, bemused by the hassle, and left to go into his private bedroom.
Zevran let his grin break, and poured himself some wine, offering a glass to Liunet. She shook her head, scowling.
"If you speak very little Ferelden, and he almost no Antivan, how on earth did you come into his service I wonder...?"
"Bloke at the bar mediated. Took a whole silver too. Your man, he is not very good at haggling. I would offer to fetch his shopping, I daresay he pays through the nose, but when I tried to explain, he thought I was hungry and gave me an apple."
"He is from Ferelden. they do not haggle there, so yes, I would say he most likely does go about spending far too much. If you would be so good as to take over the shopping, perhaps I will fail to mention that he is probably overpaying yourself by quite a bit."
She gave a short snort, and Zevran shrugged innocently.
Aedan came down with a piece of parchment, and handed it to Liunet. Zevran moved over to a window overlooking the city, and gestured the grey warden across as Liunet tucked the paper away, then, seeing that things were in a good state of cleanliness, took her leave. No doubt to go and pester her contact with Ferelden writings, though Zevran wryly.
"I should have perhaps warned her that your handwriting is like chicken scratches? No matter, I'm sure she will trust me as far as she could throw me, despite anything you might have written... What did you write, out of interest?"
Aedan rested himself on the sill, arms crossed and frowning that even as the sun was setting, the air showed no signs of cooling.
"It said that I can take care of myself, and that nosey housemaids should mind their own business..."
Zevran looked for a hint of smile that might suggest that this was a jest, but when Aedan looked at him coldly, he held a hand to his mouth, covering a wide smile.
"Oh.. she is not going to like that!"
Zevran laughed, and Aedan's lips gave a small curl of amusement.
"She did mention taking on the shopping as part of her duties however, and I suggest you take her up on that. I fear you are being swindled, my dear Aedan, and your little Liunet will not so easily by conned out of coin."
"Liunet? That's her name?"
"Indeed."
Aedan frowned, and his fist clenched. Zevran reached and put a hand upon his shoulder, concerned.
"I thought that was the sodding name of the city!" Aedan growled, low and looking out of the window.
Zevran laughed again, unable to catch himself in time and Aedan jerked his shoulder from his touch. He saw the fist, and dropped reflexively, as Aedan hit out at where his head would have been.
He straightened, taking quick steps away from Aedan. The blow would have hurt, probably broken his nose or jaw, had he not managed to move out the way in time. Aedan was looking at his fist, rubbing it with his other hand slowly. His chest heaved in deep breaths, and his teeth were tight against each other.
He muttered an apology, but did not look up. Zevran was somewhat thankful for that, because had Aedan met his eyes, he'd have seen that the elf was dismayed that he had lost his temper over such a trifling thing, and just a touch of fear.
He excused himself, and went to his room, leaving Aedan by the window. Slowly, the grey warden managed to unclench his hands, and, sighing heavily, he put his head in them.
Aedan had always had a temper. The assassin had seen it often enough on their past travels, flaring when his actions were called into question, or when he knew a hard decision had to be made, no matter whose lives it might impact upon. He had a grim determination, and a focus on the final goal that held no room for guilt or regret. Zevran had come up against that anger when the two grey wardens, Sten and the dog had come back from the Dalish camp. They brought with them a stoney silence, and none would speak of the events that transpired. It was a werewolf, who followed days later and sat itself by the camp that had told Zevran of the Dalish massacre.
Zevran would have come round to the idea, given time. He could see the werewolf was strong, and fast, and could well imagine against an army of darkspawn werewolves would be welcomely able allies. Aedan however, had brought up his own Dalish roots too soon, and he had bitterly questioned when Aedan was going to let him know that he had helped the werewolves to murder every elf in the Dalish encampment. Aedan had come up close to the elf, towering over him, armor rattling as he shook with unbridled rage. Even as the grey warden had snarled about duty, and about the choices he had to make so that the blight was ended before it completed destroyed the land, Zevran had not once been afraid that Aedan would strike him.
Thinking back, he wondered if perhaps he had too easily discounted Aedan's increasing bouts of rage as an outlet to the gathering stress of organising and deploying a hasty collected army against an archdemon. Towards the end, he had seen Aedan shout at Leianna for missing with her bow, or threatening Morrigan with bodily harm if she caught him in one of her magic blasts again. The serious nature of their quest probably held them together, when Aedan's anger might have pushed his companions away, and the magnitude of their venture might have well helped him still his hand or tongue at his more heated moments.
In some ways, Zevran suspected that without his inner fury, Aedan would not have had the strength to succeed. In battle he was a champion, shouting and driving into hoards of enemies with a bloodlust that could not be matched. Aedan should have died, on more than one occasion, but his sheer will had pulled him from the brink of death. The fire inside might have made him a hero, but now it seemed to be out of control.
Or was it the taint? Zevran hated the idea of the taint they had fought within every leering darkspawn growing inside his grey warden. He knew about the joining, and the darkness Aedan had consumed in order to join the grey wardens. Alistair had spoken of it around the camp, and Zevran had at first not believed that anyone would be so stupid as to purposefully take on such poison. He'd seen corrupted dwarfs and blighted spiders and wolfs, creatures twisted by the foul blood. He had thought better to openly argue it with Alistair, who was devoted to his lost order. Aedan however, held a grudging acceptance most of the time, but sometimes would speak of things he would not ever have. There had been such sadness in his voice when he spoke of his nephew, or his old ideas of leading a peaceful life overseeing lands and the people within. Zevran knew that the taint could not be reversed, and so let the grey wardens keep their secret. It seemed cruel to speak of things that could not be changed.
He wished now that he had learnt what he could of the grey wardens and their dark burden when Alistair was alive. Zevran feared Aedan would react aggressively to any queries he might have, especially if he were to bring up Aedan's increasing anger.
So the assassin was left wondering if it was taint he was seeing in his grey warden's eyes, or something that had always been there.
Aedan poured himself a large glass of sweet wine, and looked to Zevran's room. The door was closed.
The assassin had carefully withdrawn some hours ago, and not since emerged. The slow sick feeling of shame lingered in the grey warden's mind, and he debated whether to knock and force confrontation over the 'incident'.
He had not meant to strike out at the assassin, but his own embarrassment at his mistake about the town's name had grated against his frustration of Antiva in general. Zevran's light laughter had simply pushed him too far.
Yet... he knew that he had overreacted, that Zevran had not deserved to be hit out against, whether the blow connected or not. He knew this, and it made him uncomfortable.
The wine was heady, and thick, and served to distract him as he sat by the dining room, able to watch Zevran's door whilst not wearing the soles of his shoes out pacing. He paced more often these days, and, he quietly admitted to himself, he was losing his temper on a regular basis. Jik had seen it, before when they were traveling. The little man had steered clear when Aedan grew cold and quiet, the lull before the storm breaks. Zevran was too entangled to back off, and though he was following Aedan's lead in making small talk and little else of substance, it would not be long before he started to ask questions Aedan did not want to answer.
He did not want to speak of the events of the last year, and he certainly did not wish to talk about what happened when he had first found Zevran in Antiva.
His hand tightened on the glass, and he he took a further drink. He had been furious at Zevran for running away. It had felt like a betrayal, and had stacked with Loghain's treachery of the grey wardens, and Howe's traitorous actions against his family. It had hurt, and he wanted to make the elf hurt in return. After he left Denerim, he found he could not trust in anyone, and while he fought through the new hoards of darkspawn, he felt disconnected, ungrounded. So he decided to find Zevran.
Through months of searching, Jik tentatively following him across Antivan soil, he had let the idea of finding Zevran occupy him. It was easier than dwelling on the past. It was easier than trying to accept that Zevran was gone forever and move on.
It became easier to blame Zevran. Zevran had caused this terrible anger. So he placed all his faults and misdeeds upon the elf, and satisfied himself that he would make Zevran answer for running off and leaving him this way. He had not made plans for what he might do, once he had finally sought out the assassin.
When he saw Zevran laying there, trying to explain, he had not listened. It was easier to believe that the elf was lying, rather than absolve Zevran of the blame he had attributed him. The hurt he had carried inside him surfaced, and mixed with his lust at seeing his lover after so long, and he had raped him.
He no longer thought that Zevran had been lying, and this made his actions all the more horrific.
Aedan sighed, and resisted the temptation to refill his glass. He found it quite hard enough to stay in control without alcohol.
In all his battles and fated duties, Aedan had felt forced into the role of hero. Alistair, kind and dedicated Alistair, would have made a better hero. His determination to 'do the right thing' set an excellent example, and his sincerity gave people reason to believe him. Aedan knew that Wynn would have left the group long before they ever reached the archdemon, Aedan plainly telling her he wanted none of her 'sagely advice', if not for Alistair's intervention on Aedan's behalf. Aedan might had lead them, but it was Alistair who held everyone together. He had made sure Morrigan had not fireballed Leianna for singing while they walked, nor Sten challenge Oghren to a fight to the death over the dwarf's drunken implications about qunari women. It might have been coincidence rather than design, but by being the subject of ridicule and in Morrigan's case, irritation, he absorbed the brunt of the others' negative emotions, and was good natured enough that it did not make the slightest dent in his humour.
Alistair refused to take charge though, and so Aedan had to take on that role, with all its strains and stresses.
Since Howe slaughtered his family, and Duncan recruited him, Aedan had little say in the path he was made to walk upon. No choice in being a grey warden, no control in having the fate of Thedas rest upon his shoulders. It was a great weight, and he struggled with it.
The one thing he chose for himself, was Zevran.
Alistair had not liked that they took in the assassin. Morrigan refused to eat anything the elf prepared. Wynn had made her views on his growing relationship with Zevran perfectly clear, and Aedan had not cared. He needed to have something he could say he decided for himself. He also knew he could trust Zevran, at least trust his intentions. He'd made it clear that should Zevran ever lie to him, their relationship would be over. Zevran, for his part, accepted that, and seemed content with the arrangement.
It had been pleasing to have Zevran's warm body curl next to him at night, but more important was the sense that he had regained some control in his life.
When Zevran left, something inside Aedan broke. It was not his heart, nothing so poetic, but rather the thin grip he had on himself. He'd been made a reluctant hero, a savior and a champion. There was very little left of Aedan Cousland, once the titles and honorifics had been stripped away. His quest completed, his lover absconded, he felt empty inside.
Anger had filled him, stopped him from simply slipping into the role of dutiful grey warden again. He had gone to Highever, as commanded, but he had not saved the land. Resenting every day, he pushed back the darkspawn, but at great cost. He had not cared. He left as soon as he was able, and set about seeking out Zevran.
He didn't just want to find Zevran, he wanted to bring him back under his control. So he'd threatened the elf. He'd tied his lover up. He'd hurt him.
He'd not expected Zevran to stay willingly.
He wanted to trust Zevran, but after so long being angry he was conflicted. He did not want to feel that terrible pain again, did not want to risk it. He was almost certain that losing Zevran again would destroy him.
Yet, he longed for company. longed to hear someone whisper his name, and share heated kisses long into the night. He longed for the closeness he had felt with Zevran, but his anger remained, the hurt running too deep to let him forget.
So he sat, mind in turmoil, watching Zevran's door, unable to bring himself to knock, unwilling to look away.
