Zevran kept his eyes on the Warden, watching her sleep from where he sat close to the fire. For whatever reason, Nyla chose to sleep beneath the stars and had no tent of her own.
Leliana's patrolling compounded his restlessness, interrupted his thoughts, so he offered to take her watch. Her denial stung even as it made sense; of course the assassin couldn't be on watch. He wondered again what it took to become more than just the assassin, or if it were a goal worthy of his efforts.
The cover of night had always brought Zevran comfort; the world passively hiding him beneath a blanket of darkness, respite from endless lessons and trials- torture. Why did she have to fucking say that? Zevran chuckled through his nose, nibbling his thumb nail.
He had been looking forward to sleep, exhaustion leaving him glassy eyed and stifling yawns; no more, his mind instead churned with something he couldn't quite grasp. A resentment which almost made sense and wasn't about his former Master. It appeared Zevran resented his life. Or regretted it. Regret what? No, my life as a Crow was a good life.
'You wanted out of the Crows. Because they didn't break you. They couldn't.'
Dammit, Warden, why do you say such things? They weren't breaking me, they were strengthening me. Breaking, torture, slave and master; where did the Warden get this stuff?
'This one has spirit. It's a shame we have to break him.' Memories of his fade dream seemed to blur with his experiences of reality. For all he knew, the Fade dream itself could have been a repeat of what had happened in his own past, and he remained unsure of what it meant to 'break.'
Throughout the duration of his training, it often seemed to Zevran they were exceptionally hard on him; more trials than Taliesen, and more battered and bruised on the regular. It had confused Zevran at the time, giving him feelings of inadequacy, driving him to try harder. The Master seemed to have exceptional loathing for Zevran, the smallest of elves. Despite exemplary performance, there was no pleasing the Master. Still, Zevran persevered, succeeded and reaped the benefits, but he did not break. Not from the training, anyhow.
"I wouldn't betray you!" Wide, tearful eyes implored him to take her word, as if he hadn't seen her feign innocence before. "I love you, Zev."
Zevran's laugh reflected his disgust and masked his hurt as he bent down to one knee, his face inches from hers to make her meet the eyes of one she had betrayed. The time had long passed for nicknames and proclamations of 'love', as if any of them could know what that word meant. He glared and growled with teeth bared, "Even if that were true, Rinnala, why the fuck would I care?"
The twitch of her eyes, quivering lips, her bosom rising and falling with quickened, fearful breaths played in his mind's eye. Did I have to spit on her as she died? Pressing a palm to his aching chest, he couldn't recognize that cruelty in himself, couldn't imagine himself treating Rinna in such a way, and for all his training, this was not a pain for which he had been prepared. How did I do that to her?
He should have known better than to indulge in such an attachment, but he hadn't done it on purpose. He didn't choose the closeness. She was so… something. Alluring. Masterful in her work. Devious, cunning, ruthless… everything he admired in a comrade. And soft. Her touch was good! Familiar. No one had ever trusted him enough to sleep so peacefully at his side; not even Taliesen. How did I do this to her? The question left him reeling, like his memory of her.
The way her hands moved with grace as she communicated in moments of stealth, her eyes gleaming, forehead wrinkled. Breathy whispers in the night as they drifted into sleep. The way Taliesen's lips met his, the scruff on his chin scratching in a familiar and pleasant way while Rinna writhed between them. Their commingled scents after they laid spent together. Passionate moments were only made better with her involvement, just like their missions. Damn you Taliesen. He loathed the man as much as he mourned him; he was just as responsible for the violent death of Rinna as anyone.
Their trio had died with Rinna, his resentment for Taliesen too strong to have what they had before, yet he felt suffocated by the newness of his life. Too abrupt. Too big. Who am I without them? Without Crows? A stranger amongst Wardens in muddy fucking Ferelden.
It would only be a matter of time before Crows spotted him with Wardens, discovered he hadn't died. He could still kill the Wardens. He could do it right then. Leliana first, followed by dog. The Warden would wake in hearing the scuffle, she would be third. But then everyone would wake and he would be outnumbered.
Zevran's gaze drifted to the cast iron pot beside the campfire. He could sneak away and back, drop in a little something, and they would be none the wiser. Then go home.
Go home and do what? Be nothing more than a disposable tool and wait for death. There is nothing to go back to, he thought, remembering the loss of his partners in a wash of grief.
After he had become an assassin, the trials had become less about pain tolerance, and more about applying the talents they had bestowed upon him. A little skill, a great deal of luck, Zevran had done well; even better with Tali and Rinna. Within their trio, Zevran had experienced something like contentment, even happiness. That he had found it in the first place seemed to be happenstance or luck, and Maker only knew if Zevran could find it again.
Leliana patrolled past Zevran again, and he took a deep, calming breath, wondering how he got lost in his mind to writhe in his aches. These things had always been so easy to fight, why no more? He blamed the Warden with her disarming words and probing questions, but didn't have it in himself to resent her for it. The Warden's way seemed to be more about curiosity, or something of the sort, rather than forcing hurt upon him; that he hurt was his own problem.
He missed his home. Balmy night air, hot, humid days, the scent of leather and the sea, foods which included spices apart from salt. The sound of Antivan in his ears, his mother tongue, everywhere he went.
He sat with the recurring realization that he would never flourish beneath the heavy hand of Crows. If they hadn't already decided it was time for him to die, they would eventually. He had no home.
A whimper caught his attention as the Warden's mabari tromped up to him. At first, Zevran had no idea what to make of the beast's intrusion. Dog laid down and nudged the back of Zevran's hand with his wet nose. Caressing the top of Dog's head and along a velvety ear, it was soothing to offer a kind touch, and to know it to be acceptable.
Dog rested his head on Zevran's lap as if he belonged there, and it was a small comfort to have something warm and alive against him. Zevran wondered if Dog's approach was a request, or if the mabari sensed the breaking and rebreaking of a rogue's heart and sought to comfort.
With eyes on the Warden rested on her side, shoulder rising and falling with the steady rhythm of her sleeping breath, Zevran drifted off, letting sleep take him lest it never did.
"Morning."
Alistair's voice woke Zevran, and his eyes opened to see the Warden stirring a pot with a wooden spoon in one hand, a cup of tea in the other.
"Hush, love," the Warden whispered, gesturing toward Zevran with a tilt of her head.
Taking this as permission to rest a little longer, Zevran closed his eyes. On the cusp of sleep, another blanket laid over him. Peering through half closed eyes he saw Alistair walking away; if Zevran wanted another blanket, he would have retrieved one.
"Today's lesson," the trainer's voice rung out, and the children watched her with wide eyes and bated breath. Holding up a deck of cards, she continued with a smirk, "Is fun."
"Elf." Pointing at Zevran, she commanded, "Stand there across the room."
Ten-year-old Zevran obliged her, determined that whatever she commanded him to do, he would do well.
"Watch me." She held a card aloft, with arm bent at the elbow. "You hold the card loosely between two fingers, index and middle."
Her arm straightened, a flick of her wrist; Zevran hissed at the sting of a cut on his forearm, caused by a simple playing card.
"Hurts, no?" She glowered at him, flinging another card which nicked his cheek.
Zevran pursed his lips and shook his head 'no'.
"Good. Taliesen. You two so enjoy working together. If I don't see at least ten cuts on each of you by the end of the next hour, you will not eat or sleep. You will move rocks."
"Zev?"
The Warden's voice brought him to waking, and he sat up immediately, swiping a palm along the ghost of pain on his cheek, the memory of starvation and hauling stones lingering on the forefront of his thoughts.
"Don't fret. It's just me," Nyla spoke softly, reaching toward him.
In his startled, waking haze, Zevran deflected her hand with his own, glancing at her palm. A tumult of emotion rolled through him in beholding the stricken look in her eyes. She seemed hurt, but he hadn't consented to touches. Even if her touches weren't lethal, surely she didn't expect him to allow her to pet him on a whim like some kind of domesticated animal.
Dog, the soft warmth he had been leaning upon, stood up, stretched and tromped away, but unfortunately did not take his scent with him; a bath was certainly in order.
With a glance at the early morning sky, Zevran nodded and spoke, "Good morning, Warden."
"Leliana told me you arrived back at camp shortly before Alistair and I." The Warden offered a hot cup of tea and he took it from her, holding his breath, waiting for her to ask where he had been. "If you wander from the fire, I would suggest dressing warmer, given your cold nature. You look rather pale for a brown man this morning."
Zevran nodded, keeping his face neutral, unsure if her inclination to insist he dress warm was endearing or obnoxious. Perhaps both.
"We're headed east toward Denerim. This means our whole company is moving, including Bodahn and Sandal. We will make camp-" Her brow furrowed, and she tilted her head, leaning closer to him. "Have I offended?"
He shook his head and offered a small smile. If he were being honest, which he would not, he didn't feel well, physically or otherwise. He wanted her to go away before she said more disarming things, sending his thoughts to uncomfortable domains, twisting his insides and distracting him from matters at hand; he needed a break from that shit.
"Is there something you need?" She asked softly.
He performed his best lighthearted mannerisms; a small smirk, a casual shrug. "Do I look like I need anything?"
The Warden met his smile with one much warmer. "Would you ask anything of me, should you need it?"
How her kindness made his heart ache. "Are you saying I should?"
She moved her head and neck in such a way, commanding his eyes to meet hers, and only when he obliged her, she answered. "Is friendship so foreign to you?"
Don't fucking start, Warden. "Will you go be delicious elsewhere while Zevran prepares to leave?"
"Okay," she replied through a chuckle. The Warden's enjoyment of flattery was never a disappointment, as she blushed and smiled and bounded away.
And that was it. Apparently, if Zevran wanted the Warden to leave, all he had to do was ask; there was no action, no word that she could put out there that didn't cause him to ache.
"You must know that murder is wrong, I assume," Wynne spoke from beside the assassin.
This was fun, being pulled from his musings by something so random from a woman who had never offered him so much as the time of day. "I'm sorry… are you speaking to me?"
"That is why you wish to leave your Crows. A crisis of conscience."
Zevran looked at her with feigned excitement; she wouldn't be the first to imagine she understood him, not that it mattered to him whether or not she did. "Yes, that is exactly it."
"Joke if you wish," she replied in what Zevran imagined to be a practiced, grandmotherly, know-it-all tone. "But I have the feeling that deep down you regret the life you have lived."
Poignant, and completely true. But deep down? Nah, it was right there in plain sight. Regret murder? ... Sometimes. Perhaps she liked him, in order to be thinking about him at such great length. He smirked at her and shrugged. "It's true, I regret it all."
"Must you be such a child? Are you incapable of a single, serious conversation?"
Scolding, shaming, he had his share; what made her think he was susceptible to it at his age, and from a woman he barely knew? Besides, he wasn't lying.
Wynne may have been probing and observant, but she was no Warden; Wynne ultimately didn't give a shit about him, only wanted to remind him of his worth.
"I know, Wynne. I am terrible and it makes me sad. May I rest my head in your bosom? I wish to cry." He took a step closer to her.
She stepped away, amusement in her eyes which didn't match her stern tone. "You can cry well away from my bosom, I'm certain."
"Did I tell you I was an orphan?" He spoke in mock sadness, continuing with a wistful sigh. "I never knew my mother."
The sound of blades drawn caught their attention, eyes snapping to the Warden pair heading up the front. The others followed suit before Nyla called out to them.
"Darkspawn ahead. Bodahn, take cover."
The Warden stalked with more purpose. As always, her blades were held too high, leaving her midsection vulnerable. Perhaps she might allow him to guide her someday; preferably before she got stabbed.
Once Zevran got past the horror of darkspawn, which was easy after encountering abominations, killing them turned out to be fun.
Easy, in fact. Charging from one monster to the next, he spilled their blood with a laugh; Zevran was the good guy fighting alongside his fellow good guys. There was no human element to consider. He had no reason or impulse to ask the Maker's forgiveness. There was only the satisfaction of his blades piercing flesh, doing what he was born to do: Kill.
One thing that stood out about darkspawn were their rudimentary fighting skills. Arrows were often poorly aimed, weapons swung with no forethought other than to hit. Clumsy, easy targets. The only things they had going for them were their numbers and their chaos; hard to anticipate the movements of one with no plan. Still, he could do with a little more of a challenge.
A problematic archer sat up high on a hill behind the cover of the brush, plinking the occasional arrow off of Alistair's armor. Damned Ferelden and its hilly landscapes; Zevran had few arrows, and no clear shot. The Warden called to Zevran about breaking formation as he ran; he didn't stop, and he hadn't expected her to follow.
Leaping upon the archer, Zevran felled the beast with a longsword in its back. He turned just in time to see the blood spatter of a withdrawn blade… the Warden's blood taking flight, a pained and fearful cry ringing out around him, her head whipped to the side, stricken by the back of a darkspawn hand. It all happened so fast, and somehow so slowly. Everything stopped being fun.
The feral howl of a mabari warhound cut through the din of battle, and Dog barrelled toward the creature who dared harm his mistress, heavy footfalls flinging dampened earth in his wake. With a feral growl, the warhound leaped upon the darkspawn and tore at its throat. Good Dog.
The Warden writhed on the ground, blood seeping through bared teeth. With pain clouding her eyes, she still attempted to sit up; he respected that, even if it was stupid.
"Stay down!" Zevran called out, another arrow whistled past them. Two mages and none to be found as he swung his bow around, practiced fingers nocking an arrow to release it just as quickly.
Seeing her curled up and motionless on the ground hit him harder than he anticipated; another new and unpleasant feeling the Warden brought up, as per her usual. What would he do without her? Die, most likely.
Two more darkspawn approached, and he rapidly loosed another arrow. The glow of healing magics surrounded the Warden as well as a barrier, and he released a puff of air, firing another arrow at another approaching beast. Zevran surveyed their battlefield, turning to see Leliana behead the last of them.
There were distinctions which stood out to Zevran; the difference between fighting alongside Crows and fighting with the Wardens. With Crows, you either picked yourself up off the ground, or you did not, expediency oftentimes more valuable than life. Zevran watched them fuss over each other in hurried eagerness, and Wynne healed his superficial scrapes and cuts with barely a thought, not even pausing for his thanks.
"So…" Gesturing toward Nyla, a question on the tip of his tongue, he didn't want to betray his fear or examine it. "How long does she have?" He asked playfully, earning him a satisfying glare from everyone, apart from Sten who, Zevran imagined, had the same question.
"She'll be fine," Wynne spoke patiently.
They all chose a direction, and Zevran witnessed everyone survey darkspawn corpses and take anything of value. All was normal until something occurred to him, causing a fair bit of confusion. Darkspawn carry coin. What the fuck does a darkspawn do with currency? Bodahn and his boy Sandal came out of hiding and offered assistance. Alistair cradled Nyla in his arms, and Zevran stayed beside them, should they need anything.
"That was foolish," Alistair whispered, wiping the blood from her mouth.
"I'm alright," she replied, her hand raising to touch her healed middle. "I'd never been stabbed before."
"Really? Never once?" Alistair released a shaky chuckle. "How did you like it?"
"It was shitty," Nyla replied with a small smile. "Help me up."
Zevran couldn't recall the first time he had been stabbed, but he knew the pain of it, and the exhaustion that followed the loss of blood; the Wardens were fortunate to have a skilled healer and permission to use her. With eyes taking in the Warden's grey pallor, Zevran helped Alistair pull her to standing; the skin of her exposed bicep felt too cold beneath his palm, and Nyla stumbled a little while whipping her head around as she gathered her bearings.
"Easy. I'll get you some water," Alistair spoke gently, leaving Zevran alone with her.
Zevran feared she would fall as she wavered on her feet, and he helped her remain standing, positioning himself close in front of her with a firm grasp on her arms.
"I guess I can cross that off my list. Survive being run through." Nyla smiled at him, her white teeth bloodied, smearing onto plump lips he had a very sudden urge to kiss; the thrill of battle often gave him such imaginings. "Two things, actually. Survive being run through, and be simultaneously fawned over by two fine men, but I didn't expect these things to happen so close together." She giggled breathlessly, looking up at him with big, dark eyes that held a residual fear.
Normally he would have laughed, would have had the clever words she sought to hear, but the sight of blood, the thrumming of it coursing through heated limbs after the rush of battle, left him with a sense of stillness, peace, and arousal. How many times had he kissed the bloodied lips of Taliesen? Zevran pulled a clean cloth from the pouch on his hip and held it out to her.
"Thank you," Nyla whispered, taking the cloth, her tired gaze drifting away from his face as she trudged away.
Another camp next to another body of water in cold fucking Ferelden. Zevran sat in a tree and stared out on the moonlit water, a blanket over his shoulders. Gentle winds stirred dried leaves, and if he imagined hard enough, he could hear the ocean in them.
He felt significantly more relaxed compared to previous nights. He had killed undoubtedly evil things, had a bath, ate a good sized meal; a good life apart from the looming threat of an all consuming Blight, which didn't seem to trouble the assassin much at all.
The Warden walked beneath him, headed toward the lake. Why? He had waited until she had returned to camp with Alistair, clean of blood and her wet hair in a tight bun. One thing for sure, he would not be left in another awkward predicament; stuck in a tree to protect the sensibilities of an uptight Ferelden noblewoman.
"Warden," he crooned, and she stopped mid-stride, Dog bumping into her calves and making her stumble a little. Watching her eyebrows draw together, her head tilted with a subtle incline, she looked around, turning in a complete circle, meanwhile, Dog looked up at him with what appeared to be a smile.
"Zevran?" She spoke as if unsure she had heard him at all.
"You heard me, deadly sex goddess," he purred as she kept looking for him, confusion in her gaze but wearing a wide grin. "I'm fucking above you, Warden," he spoke with a chuckle.
"You're doing what above me?" She looked up at the darkness with her wide smile and big, dark eyes. "Surely you jest."
He laughed. "Come up here and find out."
Nyla's eyes flicked along the straight trunk of the tree. "How did you get up there?"
"I jumped and grabbed the lowest limb." He laid on his stomach and reached down toward her. "Come?"
Cold fingers slid along his palm. Calloused, yet delicate. Such a small hand. Such a gentle touch. He lost himself in this feeling, and she pulled away.
"Another time, Zevran," she spoke breathlessly. "I'm not well."
He sat up with a deep sigh. "As my Warden wishes."
Her eyes wandered the darkness where she knew him to be. "You're welcome to join me on the grass."
Too eager a yes, he dropped to the ground, landing on his feet and startling her. He laughed, delighting in her delicate palm laid flat on her chest. Such a noblewoman. Her arm lowered as she gathered herself; her shoulders squared, head held high. Zevran appreciated this habit of nobles. Their poise. Exuding confidence and relaxation with movement.
"Glad you're wearing a blanket." Nyla moved toward the water, and he walked beside her.
"Mmhm. Warden suggested to keep warm. I am inclined to agree."
"I rather suspected you would wear less to spite me." She sat on the grass with legs folded beneath her, and he sat beside her, her faithful mabari at her opposite side. "Or perhaps it's part of your forgetting I'm not your master."
"Spiteful, sure. I can be. But I also like being warm." He paused for a breath, and began carefully, "As far as I am concerned, Warden, you are the Master. I pledged myself to you, I am here until you release me from it."
"The word 'Master' has such connotations…" She looked down at the ground. "I don't want you to fear me. You have no reason to."
So soft. He shook his head with a tsk, having no words; such sentiments would break her if she wasn't careful.
"I could have died today." She spoke without betraying emotion, and he watched her; her gaze on the water, tongue flicking out to moisten dry lips, and Zevran wondered what it meant when she wouldn't meet his eyes with her own. "I realize this is a possibility every day, but I'm sure thinking seriously about it now."
She shuddered, and he reached out, rested his blanket on her shoulder to share. She looked at him with a warm smile; such a soft woman.
"You were afraid, Warden?"
"I feared for Alistair, and for you. And I mean no disrespect as I say this, but I don't believe either of you are prepared to be without me."
"You're right." He leaned closer to her, to allow her more blanket. "I would be killed by Alistair before the Crows had the chance, I wager."
"That would be a possibility, I'm not pleased to say." She rested her hand on his. "Though, I don't believe it will always be a possibility."
Momentarily distracted by the whisper of her touch on the back of his hand as he slowly withdrew it from hers, he replied, "Alistair's logic for doing so would be sound. No fool, he."
"And I am," the Warden replied with a snort.
"Warden said it first."
"Why am I the fool, as opposed to an excellent judge of character?" She giggled, snorting a few times. The snorting always delighted him, surprised him, as he always forgot it would happen. "You're an asshole, Zevran."
"I am not inclined to disagree." He smirked, and she inched closer, wrapping the blanket more snug around herself. The warmth of her shoulder touching his felt… just fine, and he let it be. Being with her became easier.
"What would you do, Zev, should you be left to your own devices?"
"I hadn't thought about it." Running a hand through his hair with a deep sigh, he met her dark eyes. "Parting seems too far away, and we will likely suffer gruesome deaths before the time comes."
"Would you go back to Antiva? Stay in Ferelden? Some other place?" She tilted her head at him. "Would you run further from Crows, or towards them?"
He laughed, shaking his head. "Warden, I have no fucking idea. I suppose I would keep doing what I am good at. Surviving and assassinating."
"Ah." She nodded, seemingly having no judgement. "You like that kind of thing, if I recall."
"Sometimes people just need to be assassinated." Curious about her impartial nod, he asked, "Or do you disagree?"
Her smile became a sneer for just a moment, with a flicker of anger in her eyes. "I agree."
While having no idea what transgression had come about to draw such a reaction from this soft woman, he still found it difficult to deny being turned on by such fire - a fire she needed more of. Zevran nodded.
"I digress." She shifted beneath the blanket, a few moments later holding up a small bar of gold in her palm and meeting his eyes again. "If you knew where you were going, you could sell this when you got there. So you lose nothing in the exchange. To make your coin last longer."
Staring at the shining thing in her hand, he blinked rapidly, his brow furrowed. What is this? A gift? Why? Where was she hiding it this whole time? Does she actually believe I haven't been around enough to understand how currency works? Doesn't she need this for her cause? Does she want me to leave?
"Zev?" She interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up at her again. Dark eyes on him, she bit her lip, seemed to be without words, or expecting him to say something.
"Do you wish me to leave?" With a keen ache in his chest, simultaneously hardening himself for her answer; an answer that would make sense and make him glad to see this soft creature free from the dangers of having him nearby. But if I left, how would I protect her? A double edged blade.
"No." She held the gold nearer to him, imploring him to take it. "I want you to stay, but if I die, I want you to run."
"Why?" He asked breathlessly, taking the gift from her open palm.
"So you survive."
Why she would want him to run had an obvious answer. Looking out on the water, he didn't have the wherewithal to clarify his question.
"As for why I want you to stay…" she smiled when he looked back at her. It seemed she very much enjoyed his attentions. He enjoyed hers as well, and he could feel the mutual acknowledgement of it; the warmth of it, how natural it became over time. "That was your question to begin with, wasn't it?"
Zevran nodded, feeling the smoothness of gold that had begun to warm in his hand.
"We need your help." She swallowed, glancing away from him. "I'm not so proficient a fighter. The more I watch you the more obvious it becomes. I'm more the brains of this operation, if today has been any evidence."
A smart and practical answer. He breathed a sigh of relief to hear her acknowledge her shortcomings, though he suspected she compared herself too much to him. She was formidable, underselling herself, and he was not inclined to change her mind on the point if it kept him under her wing, or her beneath his. Apart from that, it was nice to be considered complimentary to their crew; he had never been essential before, that he could recall.
"And… here are the bits that make you squirm a little. I like having you around. You are quiet, but the times you speak, you have a way of…" she paused for thought. "You're very clever. I adore how you so elegantly get Wynne to shut her fucking mouth." Nyla concluded almost inaudibly, "You're delightful."
Zevran chuckled for a moment, quickly replaced by a tingle in his nose, his lips pursed and quivered. This fucking Warden with her fucking gifts and openly sharing feelings and compliments, making him feel things… he would not cry. Clearing his throat with a sigh he spoke coolly, "Silence is not my norm, Warden."
Nudging him playfully, she purred, "Oh, I could only imagine the fun you will bring when you are better."
He sighed, shrugged, asserting with an even tone, "Zevran is fine."
Nyla shrugged to mimic his, smiled softly, meeting his eyes again. "You don't have to be fine."
I do! I am! A full belly, well rested, uninjured… this was one of the better times. His mind whirled with her words, conflicting with what he knew to be true and he wasn't inclined to argue the point or his reasons and his heart beat hard in his chest but he felt so alive and warm gazing into big, dark eyes- "Shut the fuck up, Warden."
Surprisingly, she laughed hard at this. Giggling, snorting, leaning forward, then flopping over to lean on him, and then forward again; he watched in curiosity, listened in delight, and wondered what the fuck was going on.
"Listen…" she took a deep breath, calming herself. She looked at him again, meeting his eyes, cheeks flushed.
"I am."
"Imagine you are watching someone, yes? They have such soulful eyes, and you're looking into them, anticipating their words. They take a breath, open their mouth and say… 'Shut the fuck up.'" She giggled reached out and ruffled his hair. "You can't help being delightful, it's in your ah... it's in your nature."
Nyla's gaze flicked to his shoulder and back to his eyes, her laughter quickly tapered; something seemed to have startled the Warden, and he glanced at his own shoulder and back to her eyes with a questioning hum.
"May I?" She reached toward him when he nodded, and he sat still. Was there a spider on him, perhaps? Her fingers touched his hair. "Unevenly shorn. Cut with a blade."
His heart leaped and he reacted poorly, backing away from her touch with a gasp, betraying everything.
"It is common in some cultures for one to hold their hair as such." A soft gaze on him, she placed a fist on the top of her head. "And then cut it, as an expression of-"
"Last year." He interrupted her so she wouldn't speak it.
"You're grieving," she whispered, speaking it any-fucking-way. "Is this part of what made you want to be away from your Crows?"
Where had his clever tongue gone? Why couldn't he fight her off so easily as he did Wynne? So fucking disarmed, his heart hurt, he felt suffocated, cornered.
"You don't have to speak it," she whispered, and he didn't feel better for it. "I'm sorry. We can pretend I don't know, if that is your wish."
How could he pretend she didn't know? Her understanding, such soft words only made the ache more poignant; he didn't deserve compassion for what he had done. Not hers. Not then. Not ever; the world a dream, containing nothing but big, dark, compassionate, all-consuming eyes, as if she fucking knew every-fucking-thing.
"I've lost." She continued at a whisper, "I don't want to speak of it either."
Understanding washed through him with a trembling breath; it only seemed she knew because she did. It seemed she felt his ache so keenly because it was akin to her own, and the compassion in her gaze was just the result of her feeling the same as he.
Recognizing Nyla's smile as one to suppress the impulse to weep, he couldn't recall feeling so close to another. "Warden?"
"Zev?" Her smile became genuine, and she appeared eager to hear from him.
"Why do darkspawn carry coin?"