Jowan leaned out the window, scattering a handful of torn-up pieces of bread on the slates outside, then settled down in the window embrasure and waited quietly, watching. The bread only drew the attention of two pigeons and a lone seagull at first, then a handful of sparrows joined them, pecking up the smaller crumbs. He was beginning to think he was once again going to spend the morning sitting there without sight of any of the larger birds, when a shadow swept over the slates and all of the birds except the seagull took to the air, looking for cover. There was a thump on the roof overhead a moment later. The seagull mantled its wings, looking warily up at something perched out of his line of sight, then snatched up a piece of bread and flew hurriedly off.
Nothing happened for a minute, and then a dark shape dropped down from the dormer roof above the window to land beside the bread below; a raven, and quite a large one. It stood there a moment, head turning from side to side as it surveyed the scene out of first one golden eye, then the other, then it hopped a few paces across the slates before ducking its head to peck at a chunk of bread.
There were suddenly more shadows, and loud creaking caws, and the first raven was joined by two more, all of them eyeing each other suspiciously as they pecked up and hurriedly swallowed pieces of the bread, sometimes lifting wings or snaking their heads at each other in threat. He leaned forward a little, trying to get a closer look at them. One caught sight of the motion, as slight as it had been, and startled into the air; the three flew away. Jowan bit back a curse, settled more comfortably, and resumed waiting.
The sparrows returned, hurriedly pecking apart a chunk of bread into smaller pieces, snatching up and carrying off the bits as fast as they could tear them free. Then they took flight and fled again, as one of the ravens returned, thumping down to an awkward-looking landing on the slates. It sat there for some time, looking at him where he sat motionless inside the still-opened window, then jumped forward to snatch up another piece of bread before flying a few feet further away again. He stayed frozen, watching out of the corner of his eyes as it studied him while it ate the bit of bread, before sidling back toward the scattered bread to snatch another piece and retreat again.
Another of the ravens returned; this one was bolder, staying by the bread and peering at him in between pecks at the bread. The sparrows returned, fluttering down to grab the crumbs that scattered around it. It snapped at one that came too close to the piece of bread it was currently tearing chunks off of, but otherwise ignored them.
Jowan stared back, studying it, meeting that wary golden gaze. He imagined what it would feel like, to be that bird; that size, with those stiff black feathers, with golden eyes and a sharp-pointed black beak. With those long clawed feet, the claw-tips scratching against the slate tiles underfoot. That wariness. To be a raven, and not be a man...
There was a shimmer, a strangeness. His view of everything changed. Sounds changed; smell almost vanished. Sight became unusually acute. He opened his mouth, and the sound he made was no human sound, but a croaking caw instead. Wings fluttered wildly nearby, and he startled backwards, falling down off the window seat to the floor. Not a long fall, but he landed poorly, on his back, and panicked, wings flailing and distressed cawing sounds breaking from him as he struggled to right himself, wings twitching spasmodically.
The door opened, and someone hurried into the room, which only made him feel more frightened; the movement of something that large and close made him want to flee away from whatever it was. Too large, too close, it sent his heart hammering in fright. He managed to flip himself over and take wing at last, but the person – Alistair, some part of him dimly recognized – had already reached and closed the window, trapping him. He flew clumsily around the room, barely avoiding crashing into the walls and cawing loudly in panic while Alistair shouted something, before fouling his wings on a turn, and falling to land with a thump on the bed. Claws tightened and tangled in bedding. He lay there for a moment, feeling dazed and frightened, one wing half-spread and the other bent painfully beneath him.
More people appeared at the door, peering in, then a sharp voice spoke and they withdrew. Someone entered the room, and Alistair hurriedly sat down. Then the new person vanished, and another bird was there; a crow, smaller than he. Female. Morrigan, he recognized, and calmed at last as she spoke reassuringly to him, her crow-language not far from what this raven-body knew. He straightened one wing, folded the other, managed to loosen the grip of his claws as his heartbeat settled, as panic receded. Alistair remained where he was, seated quietly on the window seat, and after a while Jowan took to the air again, a single strong flap of his powerful wings sufficing to carry him the little distance to land unsteadily on Alistair's leg. Worried amber eyes peered down into wary golden one as they studied each other.
Morrigan became herself again, but his fear was gone, now that things were quiet and no one was rushing around. She spoke softly, steadily, and Alistair slowly lifted one hand. Jowan tensed a moment, watching it, then relaxed again, and stood still as it moved toward him, the backs of slightly-curled fingers coming to rest against his feathered breast. He bent his own head, poking at the hand with his beak – cautiously, as gently as he could manage, knowing that he might damage Alistair if he poked too hard. Alistair was making a noise now, a crooning sound, speaking words that he didn't understand. Briar-the-mabari would have known what Alistair was saying, he dimly recognized, but to Jowan-the-raven they were just sounds, unimportant and uninformative.
He was suddenly human again, Alistair catching him before he otherwise would have toppled off of the larger man's lap and onto the floor.
"That was very odd," Jowan managed to say, as a wave of exhaustion swept over him. Morrigan had said smaller shapes were more work to hold, and that certainly seemed true; he could have spent most of the day as a mabari, without tiring himself anywhere near as much as his brief change to a raven had. Though he supposed some of that was just the newness of the shape, and how confusing it had felt to him; not to mention than panic was a very tiring emotion.
Morrigan was looking pleased. "That was very well done," she said approvingly. "Tomorrow once you are rested you should try it again, and perhaps you and I can practise flying. Indoors at first, I think, until you are used to taking the shape, and dealing with the instincts it gives you. For now, you should rest," she said firmly, and nodded farewell to Alistair before leaving the room.
"That was amazing," Alistair said once she'd gone, making no effort to hide the awe in his voice. "Sorry I scared you; I was worried you were going to fly away."
"I almost did," Jowan admitted, leaning tiredly against him. "Just as well you closed the window, or I might have. Thank you."
Alistair smiled warmly at him, and the two exchanged a brief but reassuring kiss.
"Bed?" Alistair asked softly.
"Yes. But only to sleep," Jowan said, a little regretfully.
Alistair laughed. "I'll stay with you anyway," he said, and did just that, curling up on the bed with Jowan while the mage took a nap.
"Do you think this is really making any real difference?" Jowan worriedly asked the others that night, after working his spell on Tria; the third night in a row he'd spent time in her dreams, returning the small-sword to her innermost dream-self's hand.
"I think it's doing something," Owen assured him. "She seemed much more... awake, today. More here, instead of wherever it is she's been hiding inside her head."
Zevran nodded in agreement. "I overheard her talking to Mara for a while today; only a short conversation, about the new clothing Mara was making for her, but she sounded quite rational throughout it. Considering the state she was in when we took her in, I would say she is much improved," he said quite seriously.
Jowan smiled, looking relieved. "I'm glad," he said. "She seems to be doing better in her dreams; they're quieter, the outer dreams, and in the inner dream she only lost hold of the sword two or three times. Though it's still just as tiring for me to stay there as when I was having to put it back into her hand over and over again."
Owen smiled. "You are helping her, never doubt that," he said firmly, then glanced at Alistair, who helped the mage to his feet and led him off to bed. Owen, meanwhile, leaned down to deepen the sleep on the elf. He hesitated a moment, glancing over to where Zevran was preparing for bed, then touched her head a second time, weaving the sleep as deeply as he could.
Days, since he and Zevran had last managed any time together. Almost two weeks now, since they'd left Arl Eamon's estate to move in here, and having the elf constantly so close to hand but not being able to do anything... just the occasional brief touch, the occasional all-too-short heated kiss... it was driving him mad. Tonight, he was determined to do something about it, regardless of Tria's presence in their room.
Three steps brought him up behind the naked assassin. He trusted Zevran's reflexes enough to say nothing, to just lift him up and toss him onto the bed, before peeling rapidly out of his own clothes. Zevran rolled over, raising himself up on his elbows and lifting one eyebrow enquiringly at him, before looking pointedly toward where Tria slept.
"I've put her as deeply under as I can," Owen explained quietly as he skinned out of his leggings and stockings. "She shouldn't wake."
Zevran smiled toothily, then lay back down, wiggling a little to make himself comfortable on the bed. The elf's body was betraying interest in the proceedings even before Owen dropped his own smalls to the floor and climbed up on the bed with him. Owen was half-erect already too, at the thought of finally spending some time enjoying himself with his lover. He knelt there beside Zevran for a long moment, just running his eyes hungrily over the elf's naked body. Zevran smiled, and twisted his hips to one side slightly, his shoulders to the other, then stretched, toes pointing and arms raised up over his head.
Owen growled approvingly, moving to straddle the elf's legs. He caught at Zevran's crossed wrists with one hand, pinning them down against the bed, running his other hand possessively down the elf's side and flank before leaning down to kiss him demandingly. Zevran moaned, mouth opening to allow Owen's tongue entrance. The mage took full advantage of that, his own tongue thoroughly exploring Zevran's mouth while his free hand roamed over what he could reach of the elf's body; long petting strokes down Zevran's torso from neck and shoulders to hips and groin, paying special attention to sensitive spots along the way, like nipples and belly, the skin between thigh and groin, brief teasing touched to his cock. He slid his hand underneath Zevran, cupping and massaging at his buttocks, lifting him slightly off the bed as his hand twisted and probed, one fingertip finding and pressing against the puckered folds of flesh hidden there, drawing a needy sound from the elf.
He cursed silently over there having been no time for a proper preparation; as large as he was, as small as the elf was, he daren't take Zevran there without careful stretching first, and would have to be satisfied with some other activity tonight. Soon, he promised himself, just as soon as Tria recovered enough that they'd have enough privacy in the evenings again. For now... well, there were many other things he and Zevran could do to bring pleasure to each other, and as long as it had been since they'd done anything even halfway satisfactory, almost anything would please him tonight.
Owen paused for a moment, just looking at the elf so wantonly spread out underneath him, both of them fully erect now, Zevran's lips swollen and moist from kissing, eyes dark with lust, hair in disarray. He leaned down for a brief final kiss, then began arranging the elf the way he wanted him, regretting briefly as he sometimes did that the great difference in their heights made it tricky to find positions in which they could take pleasure of each other, where he himself could kiss or lick anything more interesting than the top of the elf's head.
For tonight he settled for a very simple position, Zevran's legs spread wide, his own weight mostly on his knees between them. He cast a simple grease spell and smeared quantities of the slick stuff over both of them before lowering himself enough to bring their groins into contact, with just enough weight to press Zevran down against the mattress. He'd liked how it felt, pinning Zevran down at the start of things, and did it again now, his weight on his elbows to either side of the elf, his hands grasping Zevran's wrists, holding them up and out to the sides. Zevran wiggled around, which had some quite interesting effects where their erections were in such close contact with each other, and then warm lips closed around one of Owen's nipples. He hissed and shivered as a wet tongue licked enticingly at him, as sharp teeth worried gently at his flesh, and regretted a little less their difference in height, since it put Zevran's head at such an intriguingly useful height.
"More," he husked out, closing his eyes and giving himself over to sensation as Zevran lavished attention on his nipples, straining upwards to lick and suck at the flesh below the base of Owen's neck. The mage moaned appreciatively, then began rocking his weight a little back and forth to rub them together. Zevran gasped, a faint cry escaping him as Owen's greater weight settled briefly on him, the rub and pinch of their erect flesh between them almost painful in its intensity before Owen eased off again.
They quickly forgot everything but the feeling of flesh sliding against flesh, Zevran's cries of pleasure muffled against Owen's chest, Owen's own gasps and cries as he ground against the slight elf far louder. He felt dizzy with the enjoyment of if, some part of him knowing he was currently gripping Zevran's wrists hard enough to leave bruises, and yet also knowing that it was all right to do so; that the pain added to the elf's pleasure, not detracted from it, and it was only a small hurt, something he could easily heal once they were done.
A weight hit his own back with sudden, bruising force, legs closing around him, a hand knotting in his hair and yanking his head painfully far back. Zevran screamed, wrists pulling free of Owen's grip as effortlessly as if he'd not been holding him down at all, the elf's cry full of anger, rage, despair, horror, all wrapped out in that one sudden sound. They froze, all three of them, Owen and Zevran and whomever it was on his back. He couldn't see who it was; all he could see was the canopy overhead, a glimpse of an arm slanting up and back out of the corner of one eye. There was something pressed hard against his throat. He could smell blood.
"No," Zevran pleaded, from somewhere below him. "If you kill him, you must kill me as well."
