Edited 20 December 2011
There are relatively few things I own in this world… DA is not one of them.
I do, however, hold a firm grasp of English Grammar, Usage, and Mechanics, as well as a fertile and dirty imagination. Please enjoy.
~~X~~
Chapter 3
Day 1
Zevran froze at the knock on his door, his hand gripping the hilt of the dagger under his pillow.
"Ser? It's Benj, ser. Master said you wanted to be woken. I also have your laundry and breakfast."
Zevran groaned and rolled out of the bed, taking his dagger and wrapping the blanket around his waist. He squinted as he cracked open the door, and, making sure that it really was only Benj, he opened the door for the youth. Benj handed him the taper for his lanterns, then, using the light from the hallway, proceeded to put the laundry packet on the bed before laying out Zevran's meal. Zevran moved around the room, lighting the lanterns.
"Ser? Shall I make your bed?"
"No, that will be quite all right." Benj dropped his head in respect and turned to the door. "Benj, wait for a moment." Zevran crossed to his belt and dug through his money pouch. After pressing a couple of coins into the boy's hand, he dismissed him with a wave.
As soon as the door was closed, he dropped the sheet back onto the bed. While the room had become well and truly his own room when he returned the previous evening to find that all trace of Alistair had been removed—including the mattress—Zevran still felt slightly self-conscious walking around in the nude. He had gotten used to covering himself for Alistair's sake.
Zevran had to admit it to himself; it had been a shock when he had come back to their room last night to find that all of Alistair's belongings were gone. Zevran had planned on the almost-Templar spending the night on the floor again before waking to join Analisse, but it transpired that Alistair had had entirely different plans. Zevran supposed that it had something to do with the kiss.
The kiss. Even sitting and eating his breakfast, Zevran could imagine the feel of Alistair's lips on his own, although the whole experience couldn't have lasted more than a couple of heartbeats. Zevran had given and been on the receiving end of his share of blistering, lust-filled kisses that left him hard and aching, but none of them had stayed with him the way Alistair's had. At least, he thought to himself, not since Rinna.
Day 2
The sun was beating down on Zevran's shoulders, but he didn't feel the heat.
He did feel the weight of the amulet on his chest.
He was in the courtyard of Redcliffe Castle, drilling. He moved through the forms quickly, never pausing to allow himself a break, reveling in the monotony of the well-practiced movements and muscle memory. The forms were never meant to be used in actual combat, but they helped the assassin develop grace and fluidity, as well as focus of the mind. While Zevran was actually doing everything within his power to keep from thinking, because his thoughts seemed always to drift back to Alistair and that damned kiss (damned because it haunted his waking thoughts and sleeping dreams), he was trying to tire his body out to the point where there would be no possible way for him to have dreams that night. No, he wanted none of the dreams like the one he had had last night.
It had started out exquisitely, a dream of making love to Alistair, but even as he had reached orgasm in his sleep, Rinna had appeared, plunging a dagger into Alistair's heart before plunging one into her own. Zevran had woken, covered in a clammy sweat, his dagger in his hand, and his sheets sticky with semen.
"Assassin." Zevran stilled his daggers and turned to look at the Qunari. Sten was standing with his arms folded across his chest, his customary scowl fixed firmly on his face. "Assassin, do away with this drilling. It will not serve your purpose."
Zevran's face tightened and he holstered his daggers before imitating the giant's stance and looking up to meet his eye. "And what, my friend, precisely does that mean?"
Quicker than Zevran would have thought was possible, Sten withdrew the huge sword he had strapped to his back. "This is a weapon." He swung it through the air in a complicated series of wrist, hand, and arm movements. "I can kill a man with this. I can kill scores of men with this." And, as quickly as he had drawn the weapon, he replaced it, his arms across his chest again. "It is a good weapon; it is a fine sword. But, it is not my soul."
"Ah, yes, the Qunari and their soul blades. We have, of course, heard of such things in the Crows, having employed a few… what do you call them? Ah, yes, Tal-Vashoth over the years. I understand that a Qunari is lost without his true blade unless he can find it again. What does such a thing have to do with me?"
"It means, Assassin, that until your Warden is back at your side, you will feel lost. Half of your self is gone. No amount of drilling or exhaustion can change that." As abruptly as he had interrupted Zevran's afternoon, he turned and left without so much as a word of farewell.
Zevran stayed unmoving in the courtyard for some minutes longer before he too left to go back to his lonely, empty room.
Day 4
It was much cooler that morning than it had been in the past several days, a typical Fereldan spring that could not decide if it was leaving winter behind or moving into summer. Zevran was sitting on the floor in meditation, his legs crossed and his hands resting palm up on his knees. He was clothed in only a light pair of breeches. The feel of the amulet still lay heavy around his neck and on his chest. His eyes were opened, but he saw nothing in his room. Instead, he was floating through Ferelden.
Even in his trance state, he couldn't allow himself to appreciate the beauty of the lands that still remained untouched by the Blight. His senses, magic, talent—or whatever it was that allowed him to find lost things—took him to Lake Calenhad, Orzamar, and finally back to the docks of Redcliffe. He got to his feet, his body and mind fully in the control of his talent as he left his room and walked through the tavern, down the hill, and eventually to a house on the water's edge. His eyes blinked and he became aware of his surroundings again, and of the pain in his bare feet. He recognized the home, if one could call it a home, as belonging to the dwarf Dwyn, whom Analisse had recruited to aid in the fight against the corpses. Zevran smiled. Retrieving the sword would be simpler than he could have hoped.
~~X~~
The Qunari wrapped his hands around the hilt of his sword. He closed his eyes. Zevran said nothing. He recognized the look on Sten's face as being one of completion, a feeling he himself had not felt in some time. He listened to the sounds of the birds in the courtyard. He breathed in the smells of spring. In the past few days, he had used his Dalish gift to help two people without any desire or expectation of repayment. He felt strangely good.
"Do you know what I call her, Assassin?" Sten kept his eyes closed. Zevran did not reply, for he knew that the Qunari was not expecting an answer. "She is Asala, my soul." He opened his eyes and met Zevran's. "Thank you, Assassin. When the time comes, I will aid you."
Before Zevran could reply or ask him to what time he referred, the Qunari stalked back into the castle.
~~X~~
