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Title: A Guild-ed Cage 7/?
Author: Rhion
Rating: M - oh look an upgrade!
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.
Summary: AU. Zev never went to Ferelden. Now, Miolanai, Hero of Ferelden finds herself in Antiva. Master Ignacio assigns her a bodyguard and guide. A guide who just so happens to have been friends with the Crow she killed so long ago during the beginnings of the Blight.
AN: All I gotta say is, minimal voice and anemia don't go well together. I'm not feelin' so hot. my writin' is down to nil. I've been busy doin' the car shoppin' all week, and some doc visits.
Good news is: I have a car. It is teal. It is a Jetta, 2002 GLS, has a nice little 4 cylinder engine, a 12gallon/liter tank (approximately), and I get about 300miles/480kms to the tank. It is cute. It has a cd player and a sunroof. And it has only 65,000miles/103,000kms on its engine. And for a car that is 9 years old, that is flippin' awesome. On my Oldsmobile, which I've had for about 3 years, I've put 120,000 miles on it. Just as an example. So, now I have a cute, perfect little car to take to Duestchland. And me and the hubbles will either be in Grafenwoehr or Heidelberg. I'm prayin' for Heidelberg.
As usual beta'd by bellaknoti
XXX
Guild-ed 7
XXX
Her stomach growled. Ember, who had been asleep, sat up, his head turning towards her in surprise and curiosity, ears swiveling. He chirped at her, nosing at her chin and laying a paw over her stomach. He had to be almost as smart as Ser Iptitious, he was so perceptive.
She scratched his head. "Yes, Emi, I'm hungry."
Zevran called from his position at his easel, "Allow me to finish this section, and I shall see what might be had from my kitchen, and perhaps I can show you a few things, in case you ever wish to try your hand at it."
Sitting up slowly Miolanai stretched, rising smoothly to her feet, joints popping. "Sounds good."
Wandering over to one of the Crow's weapons racks, she admired some of the blades he had. Most looked custom made, some even had rune slots. Running a finger down one long, swooping sword, the power in it thrummed up her digit, singing softly to itself with magic. Cocking her head and squinting she thought she detected elvish runes chased in almost identical metal as the blade's bulk.
"Ah, my enansal mi'lin." Zevran came up behind her, pulling the weapon from the rack.
She frowned in curiosity. "That sounds elvish."
"It is," he acknowledged, lips curling. "My mother was Dalish."
Taking another look at him, a better one than she had afforded herself before, Miolanai gave a little start. His features that she had taken as being merely handsome, were not soft enough to be purely a city elf's. His nose was far too sharp, his mouth too wide, and his forehead too high, and that was not to mention his ears, which were some of the largest she had ever seen. The high cheekbones, and sweeping slope of his chin, the very shape of his eyes, down to his shoulders - he was built for battle the way a Dalish was. Whipcord and lupine muscle, the bones deceptive for their thinness - which was countered by the very broad setting of his body from head to toe. No one could ever mistake him for what he really was - if they actually looked.
No, he was quite clearly not of city stock.
"I thought you said you were born in a whorehouse?" she asked, confused now.
"I was." He stepped back so he could begin gliding from one stance to another, so slowly it looked awkward. "And before you ask, yes, she was a whore. She was sold for her husband's debts when he died from the marsh fever that spreads some summers, but I never knew much more than that of her, for she died birthing me." She could see his eyes were closed, features peaceful, the blade being swung and slashed through the air, as he began to weave in and out of shadow that shouldn't be there. "I gained life and breath from her, a set of gloves, my name and my looks."
The Warden leaned against the wall watching him move like poetry. "So how did you get your... enansal mi'lin?"
Eventually the Antivan swirled to a stop, darkness tattering around him, one hand wrapping around the blade near the hilt, blood welling from the wound, and slipping down the grooves. "I left Antiva City in search of the Dalish, and I found them. From tribe to tribe I was passed, until I met with what had been my mother's clan."
Viscous blood slithered down the dark length, pooling between knuckles, and eventually only a single drop hit the floor. Miolanai's skin crawled at the sight, because the air hummed loudly with a beat that was sourceless, against her flesh. Like drums echoing, just beyond the range of hearing, but not of sensing. With a start, she realized that the sword was drinking Zevran's blood.
Shuddering, she stared at it. "What is it?"
"The blade of blessed blood." Unwrapping his fingers from the naked metal, he showed his bloodied palm. "It bonds to its bearer, more alive than mere metal, and becomes a home for the blood of the warrior who carries it. It contains a soul's fragment, the wealth of knowledge and experience condensed within. They are passed down generation to generation, with very few newly minted each passing century..."
Taking his hand cautiously, Miolanai inspected it for what would have to be a horrid wound for a fighter, let alone an artist. "What? It's.. gone. There's no mark!" Her head snapped up to level a narrow-eye look at him. "What sort of fel magic is that?"
"A Keeper's magic, a craftsman's skill, the knowledge of many lives," he said, shrugging. "A Keeper's life is long, but if the Creators are merciful, the Keeper has time to add their essence and will to an enansal mi'lin. It is the highest honor for a family to gain a blooding blade. If a family has no suitable or worthy warriors the blade goes to one who qualifies."
Staring down at the sword he held casually, she swallowed. "How did you get this... one?"
"It belonged to my mother," he replied, shrugging again. "She left it behind with the clan, not so selfish as to think she should take it with her. Keeper Harathin gave it to me as a way to bid me to stay with the tribe. Since I could not stay away from the Guild, she told me to take it with me, anyway, so that I would always have to come back to them... or so she believes. Who am I to know if this has the power to hold me in a geas to the clan?"
A Warden was called 'gray' for many reasons. Maleficars, apostates, mages, rogues, murderers, assassins, monsters in the mortal flesh, kings, queens, princes, Templars, bakers and destitute, all were welcome and all could be called upon by the Wardens. Any tool could be and had been used to protect Thedas from darkspawn. Ethics was a commodity that Wardens couldn't always afford. But Miolanai had been raised in the belief of the Maker and the Chantry. She had seen Andraste's Ashes, miracles and curses and witches and monsters called 'men' and 'heroes', and even so this enansal mi'lin made her queasy with discomfort. It was not that she had any particular objection to blood magic in theory, only how it was used.
In spite of that, she was elven, and a piece of her itched to connect to the thing, like it was singing for her blood to be added to its reservoir. To distract herself from responding to that call, she asked, "What does it do, exactly, with this... knowledge?"
"It teaches those who wield it, guiding the holder in more styles of fighting," he said, flipping the sword and presenting it to her hilt-first. "If you can still your mind, you may even hear voices instructing you. The experience is different from individual to individual. The most deaf can hear nothing, feel nothing from it, but those who are in tune with their natures and minds will at least feel the urge to move into previously unknown stances that are suddenly familiar. Inspiration to try something else comes, like when you have consumed too much drink, you wish to dance even if you cannot, or sing, no matter that you can carry no tune."
Hand reaching out against her will, she took the hilt. It vibrated sharply, sending a jolt up her shoulder, then settled down quickly into a bare shivering pulse. Warmth bloomed in her palm then, the bone hilt was unwrapped, but shallow channels were etched into it. Staggering forward, Miolanai was only held up by Zevran's arm that came around her shoulders as he stepped to one side, the other hand still remaining clasped on the lower end of the hilt. An overlay of images rushed through her mind too fast for her to catch, and with a cry she threw herself away from Crow and haunted blade.
Surprise painted Zevran's face as he followed quickly, keeping the sword away from her. "Warden? What is it?"
"It... it..." Eyes painfully wide, her breath came in gasps as she clutched at her chest.
Squatting, the Crow set the enansal mi'lin down. "It what?"
"It wants me," she whispered. Drawing her knees up, wrapping her arms around her legs, she trembled, staring at the still-hungry sword. "It was... showing me things. It wants... something... me... blood?"
"Hmmn." His gold eyes turned speculative. "Do you bear any Dalish blood that you know of? I know little of your mother's lineage. Your father's family have been carpenters for centuries, so it could not come from him."
"No," she said, shaking her head. "I don't know much about my mother's life. She just... she just was 'Mother', who cooked, cleaned, and taught me to pick locks and use daggers. She didn't have any vallislin, but I didn't even know she came from the north until you told me."
The pink of his tongue darted out, sweeping over his bottom lip. "Perhaps she became uhalamlin before she was marked an adult - forsworn - but enansal mi'linen know only blood, and experience. Perhaps it sensed yours. If so, all it wishes is to have a taste, to add to the trove of knowledge it already has." Zevran stood up and put the blade away. "Until you can still your mind, it is best if you do not touch it, yes?"
With that, she could agree.
Scrunching her eyes tightly, the Warden shivered again, until warm hands rested on her shoulders. "I'm fine."
"Certainly." Amber sweet oil filled her nose, the musk of man, and for a moment all she wanted to do was turn towards him and press her face into his chest.
It would be nice to lean on someone again.
Standing abruptly, Miolanai went to Zevran's bathroom, crossing the flat in quick strides. Afterimages burned her retinas, making everything sway like Isabella's Siren's Call in rough waters. The experience had imparted better balance, so she could fake a steady tread, no matter that her ears were ringing. 'Whispers' the Crow had said; well, what she was hearing were screams, like the begging of the dying for the pain to stop or a last drink of water, or maybe a colic-y babe. At worst, it was a plea and accusation rolled into one thing that rose and fell in wordless chanting. Going to the spigot, she twisted the cold onto full blast and shoved her head into the basin, the surprisingly cool water soaking through her short, ragged locks. Releasing the breath she hadn't been aware she was holding, the fingers of one hand were curled tightly around the tap's handle, the other in a death grip on the basin's edge.
Sucking in water tinged air, the Warden fought the images that still cajoled her. Before the night was through, she worried she would have to open a vein and let the blade drink her in, if only to stop the howling in trees, calling animals and croaking hisses of words that may not have been words. Miolanai felt more than heard Zevran come behind her, so she didn't startle when he touched her again. He was always reaching out to touch her. It was aggravating and irritating and very much wanted. If he wasn't practically old enough to be her father, she would find him more attractive. Of course, her lonely skin couldn't tell the difference between an old man and a young one, but she could, and Miolanai always drew the line at a decade's difference.
It was why when she figured out Leliana's age she shied away, and Isabella had been unsuitable as well. Not... too old to be with, but too hardened by years. That's what age did, she thought, and having two people together who were unable to see the wonder of life, to show the one who was blind to it by age - no. The Warden was well aware that she needed someone fresher, younger, who could still laugh and cry and giggle over children's games, so that maybe she could learn how to be innocent again, too.
But the warm hands, so warm, radiating heat and strength were soothing upon her back. Circles were stroked over the light material of her deep purple tunic-vest, and it was this, more than the shock of cold water, that brought her back. The haunting sounds were still in her head, but they had faded to a deep buzz and could be tucked away and ignored.
"I need a drink." Blowing the water from her mouth, she finally turned the tap off.
"Then a drink you shall have, my dear." A towel falling over her wet head before she could reach for one on her own, brisk rubbing squeezed the excess away before being twisted into a strange mound atop her head. "Wine would not do, if the look on your face is anything that I might judge by."
"The stronger and stiffer the better," she mumbled as she followed him into his kitchen area. There was an armoire-like, free-standing pantry that he opened, pulling fruit and a bottle out. "Just gimme some of the bottle, don't need any food in the stomach yet."
The Crow ignored her, jerking his chin back towards the sleeping area. "Go to the roof and pick some mint, if you know what it looks like."
She blinked at him slowly. "Why?"
"I would say 'trust me', but few take it well when a Crow makes such a request," he replied, humor flashing over his face quickly as he fished out a few of those ubiquitous glasses.
Sighing, knowing that she would get no straight answer, the Warden ascended the steps to the platform that held his sleeping and reading area. The bed looked inviting as she passed it; the sanguine and royal blue bedding was turned down, probably something Sula had done, as she herself hadn't, when she made the bed yesterday.
Miolanai climbed the twisting stair to the roof, and pushed the slanted door open. The sun was a fat orange disc in the sky, shedding light over the white-washed roof, but the sides of the roof had partial walls that carried slanting peaks inwards as well as outwards, providing a square of shade around the entire building. Or at least she supposed so, as the roof seemed to be split in half, with Zevran's side being partially covered by a triangular canvas awning.
Blinking against the sudden light, her eyes adjusted slowly, taking in the tiered bench up against one wall that held urns, pots and long boxes of plants, glazed terracotta throwing back blue glows in the air. Then there were the large boxes that held some straight stalked plant, with long green pods on them, remaining straight with the help of a trellis. Another held ripening tomatoes, and other vegetables as well. Like the jardines, it seemed the Crow had made this little rooftop garden for the purpose of being prepared. There was a large tub as well, with pipes that carried water to it, that seemed to be for some sort of rain storage. Exploring that end of the roof slowly, she sniffed at some plants that looked familiar; half were poisonous, the other half for herbal remedies, or so it seemed. Eventually she came to the crisp and coolly sweet smelling mint, but to be sure she plucked a single leaf, crushing it and inhaling its fragrance.
Once she was assured that it was mint and nothing more, she pulled off a few more sprigs. Satisfied with her little prize she continued her circuit, coming upon a glass box filled with rock and sand. As she leaned close, a sudden hissing came from the case, along with a hard strike against it, too fast for her eye to track, and she straighted up, leaning away. Inside was a snake that blended almost perfectly with the contents of the case. Its triangular head was fat in the cheeks, and had a snub nose with a little horn on it. It was coiled tightly, head bobbing back and forth low to its body, ready for another strike.
Swallowing her disgust, Miolanai turned to flee back down to the safer environs of the flat, just as Zevran was coming up, one of those ever-present trays in hand.
Holding out a glass, he suggested, "Chew a piece of mint while you drink this."
"I don't need anything fancy." She shrugged, even as she did as he said.
The mint was soothing and smooth in her mouth, and when the liquor hit her tongue, it was like a riot of thick honey that burned as it went down. It was the contrast between sharp heat and soothing cool that was surprising and quite pleasing. Draining the glass, she had only a moment before his laughter filled her ears. The alcohol had an unexpected kick, and she felt her cheeks flush with the flood of chemicals.
"Whew, that stuff's... stronger than I thought it'd be," she said, peering at the empty cup. Her mouth wanted more, but her head told her that that wouldn't be too smart.
"Ron miel has that effect," he said, smiling at her. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by your speedy consumption. Here." He picked up his glass, pouring half the contents into her cup. "Now simply sip it, and let it roll through you. It is a thing to be savored and enjoyed; it is not like the paint-thinner that you Fereldens drink. For something to be strong, it need not always be unpleasant."
Following him to a divan big enough for two, Miolanai plopped down on it, her head fuzzy from the strong drink. "You could make a killing selling that stuff."
"There are many things that we Antivans do not export: coffee, tea, things of that nature." Sipping slowly, he laid back against the woven wicker support. "Rice also. Other countries have barley and wheat, which we also have, but for the most part rice is a staple of meals at home. Bread is for fast meals."
Her stomach gurgled at the mention of food. "That reminds me. Food. I'm kinda hungry. That platter of cheese and stuff, it was good, but I'm hungry again."
"Mmn, a moment; allow us to relax for a short time, and then I can show you how we make suitable food here." His eyes were closed, an arm tucked behind his head, chest rising and falling where he lay beside her.
From time to time he would sip his drink, without the benefit of the mint she had picked earlier. To quell the rumbling in her stomach, the Warden chewed on the leaves, watching him with lidded eyes. The smell of him was similar to the taste of the ron miel, with none of the acrid bite of alcohol, and in some ways it made her head swim just as much as the alcohol had. Allowing herself to lay back, it was a monumental effort of will to not roll onto her side facing him. He had removed the vest he was wearing earlier, leaving his torso bare to the air, and ink sworled over his sides and shoulders, almost meeting in the center of his chest over his heart, but not quite. Up the left side of his neck more ink flowed, all in shades of black over every inch of the bronze skin. In some places - like the three lines on his cheek - the black had faded to a deep, dark, red-brown.
With a mind of its own, one of her hands reached up, tracing one thick line that ran along the underside of his bicep. "How long did this take?"
A lazy gold eye opened before sinking closed again. "Perhaps an hour. I never spend less than three or four hours on Zamitie's table. It is not worth her time or mine for anything less. Beneath the black are other colors, other kinds of tattoos."
"But you've covered them up?" she asked, unable to decipher any reason for that.
"Spells and prayers are one and the same." Muscles flexing, he sat up enough to drag his pantleg up. "Beneath each tattoo I have are layers of other work. They are not aesthetic, though they are beautiful. Zamitie started off with blue and pale brown for my first works - sigils and such - and then when I returned for more, she overlaid those with other patterns, until now, where she merely uses black upon me."
"What about all those drawings of... things, she had in her books? I saw animals and things, not... not much like what you describe." Absentmindedly stroking his bicep, she followed and re-followed the single line of ink she could see.
The Antivan returned to lounging fully, a low hum issuing from his throat. "She does not work on Crows at all. It is her rule."
She snorted. "Seems like she breaks rules for you."
"Ah, but to her, I am still a little boy who was all limbs and large eyes, with messy hair," he replied, obviously deeply amused. "She was one of the whores who raised me, until one of the pintores saw the work she had been doing even in such sad settings, and purchased her debt. Sa'id payed off every single scrap of it, and made her his apprentice."
That explained her manner with him. "So, she raised you, and then taught you, too."
"Mmmn-yes, I spent most of my days that I was allowed freedom as a youth in her shop, learning from her and from Maestro Sa'id ibn-Rashid." He held up his hand, fingers splayed. "Because of the skills I learned from them, I was slotted to be a painter by the Guild, rather than going into metal-working, like I had wanted." A flick of his thumb over her ear made the tiny hoops jingle in a way that almost tickled. "But I can still make some small things, yes? Anypintor with enough spice left to breathe can make at the least the things that their patrons wear initially. My hands were always busy with chains and wire. That is how Zamitie teaches. She lets you watch her work, while your hands must always stay nimble with wire and files and cutters."
"But I still don't get why you have so many... layers." Her mouth tugged down into a frown when she realized that she had been about to prop her chin on his shoulder as they spoke. Forcibly, she pulled her hand away from his arm, as well. "Even if she doesn't work on Crows, that's not what I'm talking 'bout. I mean why are your 'paintings' the way the are, and not like the ones she has on display?"
He was still for a moment, as though he were suspended in amber, before he said, "Because what one does for family is different than what is offered to others who pay with coin, not blood. Is this not the way of it in your family?"
"Family is... not something I really have anymore." Waving her hand, the Warden sat up, crossing her legs. "My blood wouldn't know me, and I wouldn't know them. The family that I earned through blood is dead or scattered."
The divan creaked as the Crow shifted, one knee coming up and a long arm moving to prop her back up. "Layers upon layers. Blood is shed, it is made and poured and remade. The family we have at birth is not the family we have at death, my dear. Besides, what is family, but a group of people who try and meet each others' needs?"
Shaking her head, she looked at him askance. "By that definition, that makes you my family, so, not a very good way to put it, I don't think."
"Truly? Mmn, it is not so bad." He swayed towards her enough to nudge her playfully. "Or, at least, the view is not so bad."
Surprised, a small laugh came from her, and she swatted him. "Maybe for me it's not so bad."
"And what other view could I have been speaking of?" The Antivan's expression was sardonic, and slightly self-mocking.
Miolanai held her hands up before her chest. "I don't know, maybe the view you have? I feel like I'm supposed to be in some place dancing and serving customers, with my tits hanging out like this."
"If only you would wear the binder I tried to hand you this morning, you would not be gracing so many with such a fine demonstration of your elven assets." She watched his eyes roll and they sparkled in an unfamiliar way. Some of the Dalish of Lanaya's clan had eyes like that, and Sten's violet orbs had held a strange flickering fire in them of a similar nature. Zevran's were like beaten metal, or shined glass: sharp and cutting. "Not that I mind; a woman should not wear them when she is not in armor."
She snorted at him. "Yeah, well, you try carrying these soft, squishy boulders around without your back getting thrown out."
"Ah, an invitation! Splendid." One hand reached out as though he expected her to let him actually touch her like that.
Ducking away, she scrambled to the end of the divan. "Oh no, you don't!"
He laughed. "Tchk, oh, you wound me! To tempt such a man as I with the promise of such luscious delights and then withdraw them in the next breath! Truly you are a most vicious woman, my dear."
"That's what they all say," she replied glibly, dusting her hands and rolling onto her feet. "Food now, before you start looking too tasty to resist taking a bite."
From the way he smirked up at her, Miolanai dreaded what he would say next. Thankfully he shot off no quip, only bowing mockingly and gesturing to the door. Fleeing before he could change his mind, she knew she would have to watch her mouth a little more closely.
XXX
"You said you knew how to cook," she said, watching, as the Crow kept up a steady stream of curses.
"Comemierda, hija de puta, braska! You stupid, cabrone..." he hissed, trailing off and switching back to Antivan faster than he had gone to Common.
The kitchen was filled with the raucous scent of burnt rice and too many spices. First, there hadn't been enough water in the rice, and then he had added too much yogurt, or so he said, and all because she had asked why he was doing what he was doing to the food, and what he hoped to accomplish with certain actions... Like anyone would if they were trying to learn how to make something. However, the unflappable Crow was rather flapped, and in some ways she almost expected him to start hopping from side to side like an agitated, squawking bird.
Catching the knife he threw at the counter when it rebounded from the force, she said, "Look, maybe we should just throw in the towel and go to a cafe."
"No! This, is... this..." He rubbed hands over his face, as though he could wipe away the irritation so easily. Miolanai knew well what that was like. "I do know how to cook. Tchk, you are just so... distracting, peppering me with questions the way a street vendor over-spices their food! You do not know even the basic combinations or foods or... or anything!"
Setting the knife down, she tried to be reasonable. "Hey, it was your idea to teach me how to cook Antivan stuff. I'd have been happy with some rice or whatever."
"Aurgh, yes, that was before I found out that you have no nose!" he snapped.
She muffled her laughter in her hand. "I have a nose, and it works rather well."
"No it does not!" he replied querulously, shuffling pots and pans over the strange cooking grills that lay over lit coals. "If it did, you would know that you must smell the spices, not choke on them."
"You're the one who told me it needed more turmeric, and that I was being 'too stingy'," she pointed out, mildly.
He was clearly struggling for his usual aplomb. "And then you saw fit to dump half the tin into the rice. I said be free with it, not... drown everything."
Shrugging, Miolanai went to his sack of rice, and scooped some into another pot. "I think it's time I taught you how to make pudding."
Behind her Zevran was quiet. "You think to teach me how to cook? I cook just fine! When I'm not being pestered..."
"Oh shut up and be a man," she retorted, plunking the small pan on a free grill and then getting some water and milk.
Watching water boil was a rather boring affair, but Miolanai did so, ignoring the hovering elf. That is, until he began pouring spices and honey and some of that pungent alcohol into her pudding. She was too hungry to let him ruin her meal, and her own patience was frayed.
She caught his wrist. "Hey! Stop that! This is proper lunch pudding; I don't want you mucking it up, or I will eat you. A hungry Warden is no laughing matter."
"It will be filthy bland if you leave it just so," he said, frowning at her deeply, shifting his wrist about in her grasp.
"Better bland than inedible," she said, stirring the pot, watching as it bubbled to itself wetly. "Not everything has to taste good, for it to fill you up."
He gave an almost huffily, rebellious dash of more spices, hot cinnamon, clove, allspice, and nutmeg, wafting in the air. "But it is better to have it taste good than bad, if it is possible, yes?"
Eventually she ladled the finished product into bowls, which the other elf insisted on adding dried currants and pistachios to. At least he hadn't burnt the coffee, like he had the other food, including the date-stuffed chicken breasts, that the very sight of him flavoring as he had sprinkled spices atop it had made Miolanai bite her lip. The pudding she had made contained more money's-worth of spices than her entire Alienage saw in a year, and he had dashed them onto everything like they were free.
The mash was sticky, but yes, she had to admit it was tasty. Finishing her first bowl, the Warden went back for seconds. The memory of her mother making pudding for her when she was ill, and the fact that on birthday mornings, Adaia would somehow come up with a little cinnamon or clove to dash over the milky mash was one she hadn't thought on in years. But the smell of milk and grain was a thing that had been tucked away in the hollow halls of memory, collecting dust. Until today, Miolanai had never really recalled the tiny details of the pudding Adaia would make her. That faint hint of sweetness and the savory flash of something spicy from far-off places. It was almost like it was trying to recreate what she herself had made today.
Heavy with milk fat and grain, dried fruit and nuts, it was as like and unlike Adaia's pudding as it could get.
And so, Miolanai dug in, filling her belly with more than just food, but moldering memories. They were twice as filling as the rice mixture. With quick, jerky shoveling motions, her bowl was emptied a second time, uncaring of propriety, the gnawing emptiness in her stomach screaming for her to fill it, fill it, fill it, until she burst. When she was just about to go grab a refill, she realized that Ember was sitting on a pillow beside Zevran, and he had his own bowl.
...And was scooping little pawsful up to his mouth so he could lick it away daintily.
Just like Zevran was doing.
Except Zevran wasn't licking his hand or fingers. Well, his fingers every now and then, but he had refrained from using a spoon.
Plunking back down on her own cushion, she said, stunned, "This doesn't have any meat, though. Why's he eating it?"
"It has milk, and he quite likes food of all varieties," the Crow replied, shrugging and scooping some of the thick pudding up. "Later, I shall shred what was ruined in the kitchen for his meal, but he likes to eat when I eat. So, a small bowl of this will not hurt him. In fact, he is rather fond of figs, cooked, dried, or fresh, almost as much as anything with garlic in it."
Baffled, Miolanai stared for a few seconds, until the feline realized she was watching him. Then he chirped, holding out a pawful to her, like he was trying to share. A strange melting sensation welled up in her chest; the cat was so childlike and earnest.
Reaching out she touched the top of his paw. "Thank you, Emi, but that's all for you." She pushed gently on his foot to show him that he could keep his little bowl of pudding for himself, smiling down at him so he would know she meant it.
Looking away from Zevran who had started petting Ember, giving his own encouragement to the cat, Miolanai stared down into her bowl, long and hard. Those two were very much family, just as everyone on this street was Zevran's family. He knew people's names, their histories, and they knew him. Maybe not his history but they knew the man who played with children in the street, and painted the apartment building in wild sprays of color. Alistair had been her family after she was forced to leave the Alienage. Wynne had been a slightly judgemental grandmother, Leliana sometimes a sister, sometimes a mother. Morrigan - the Chasind... she had been as much Miolanai's blood in all the ways that counted, the way that Alistair was. Ogrehn was the drunk, annoying uncle, who meant well. Sten had been the sort of man she would have been proud to call father. Anders, Nathaniel, Velanna - they were like shadow replacements for those who had gone through the Blight with her. Well-meaning, but not quite filling the void. Even so, they too, were like family.
There wasn't much she wouldn't do for them.
Playing with her horn spoon in the bowl, scraping the sides free of the last vestiges of pudding - no nuts or fruit left in the bowl, as those had already been eaten - Miolanai slowly savored the last little mouthful. No, the family one had when one died, is never the one that one was born with, raised with, or lived with, necessarily. Closing her eyes, the Warden sighed softly as the pudding finished melting on her tongue before it was swallowed.
And wasn't it so strange that the very spices Zevran used so heavily were the same that Adaia had, but with the light touch of making do?
Pursing her lips, her eyes popped open. Bronto shit. I need another drink...
XXX
"S'alright," she said, making an effort not to slur. "Hit me again." She held out her glass. "That is some seriously good shit."
There was sloshing from the bottle when he shook it at her. "Ah, ron miel: it is both the working man's drink and the aristocrat's."
Between them was a plate filled with sliced green fruit he called 'limes', and some sunnily yellow ones he called 'lemons'. She had never seen the fruit before, outside of the custards and jams that were popular in Amaranthine. Miolanai had to say she liked them fresh much better, though their tartness made her lips pucker at the sour, but it was a nice sort of thing, and it also went well in a glass of that liquor he kept pouring.
Picking up a wedge of lime and sucking on it, she asked, "So, so what is it? 'Sides good that is."
"Made from sugarcane and honey," he said, topping off her glass, and then his own. "Similar to rum, however, I do not know if you have ever had that, either."
Damn him, he wasn't even showing any effects other than a permanent twinkle and flush. It wasn't fair, especially since it had been since just before she left the Vigil that she had bothered with physical necessity, and he was busy looking tasty like a tall, spicy glass of honey-sweet rum. Rather than do anything foolish, Miolanai distracted herself with another deep draw on her own glass, and then reached for more mint to chew.
"Shit," she said, fingers meeting an empty bowl. "We're outta mint." She looked over at Zevran just in time to see him with the last sprig between his fingers, and a roguish gleam to his eye.
"Not entirely," he averred, a self-satisfied smirk playing around his lips.
Owlishly, she blinked at him. "Heeey. You haven't been usin' it. I have. Lemme have that."
"Oh? Is that any way to ask for something?" He put the sprig between his teeth, brows rising high on his forehead.
Leaning forward, Miolanai went to pull it from his mouth. "C'mon, please?"
The Crow was too fast - and obviously not drunk enough, damn him - for her and he twitched to the side before she could snag it. "Mm-no. You have to be nice to get it."
Huffing, she crossed her arms. "I am nice!"
"So says the woman who continues to insist everyone is old." He snorted, still sucking on the mint's stem, rolling it side to side, so the verdant leaf twirled from one end of his mouth to the other.
"I said 'please', what more do you expect?" She snorted back at him, and took his drink from him so she could polish it off as punishment. "And you are old. Maybe I should start calling you Papae, since by your definition we're family."
Nostrils flared as he snorted again, leaning back on his hands. "I am only Emi's papi. If I was yours I'd have taken you over my knee years ago. Tchk, so misbehaved."
Playfulness fell from her, a flash of cold coming over her, lucidity returning like a slap. "I wouldn't try that particular tactic. Ever. Particularly if you like breathing normally, and keeping your skin on your muscles, and not made into new armor for me."
His quick glance was surprised. "And have I ever said I would do such a thing? Do not mistake what I said I would have done if I was your father, with what I would do since I am not your father. I happen to think not being your father carries a great many more advantages than being such." Curling forward, his tattoos suddenly became a distraction as they curled and twisted over his shifting muscles.
And he still had her mint.
"Alright, so if 'please' isn't nice enough, what is?" she asked, eyeing the leaf.
Infuriatingly, he shrugged. "I don't know, why not tell me?" The little leaf shivered as the sprig bobbed along his lip in time with his words.
He wouldn't let her take it with her hands, but if she leaned in close, she might be able to snatch it from him with her own teeth before he realized what she was about. After all, he had to be at least a little drunk, too, so his reflexes couldn't be all that great.
Shifting, she leaned closer, the smell of mint, rum, limes, spices and amber filling her senses, making her dizzy, and she remembered yesterday - was it really only yesterday? - how his tongue had felt in her mouth. Smooth and silken, and the taste of the spices he so regularly ate flooding her mouth. He hadn't been like any man she had kissed before; it had been languid and warm, so very unlike other men. No biting or hard sucking, making her feel like her head was about to be snapped off. No, his mouth had been hot, and exploring, his lips soft as rose petals. Almost like a woman, but unlike one in that he had been thorough, and opened his lips to her wide, so that nowhere that his tongue could reach went unexplored.
Reaching out to find better balance, her hands landed on his shoulders, and his skin was silken hot, dense with muscle. Leaning even closer, seeking to grab the sprig of mint from his lips, Miolanai thought of all that in a moment, and forgot about the herb, even as her mouth came into contact with his. Heat spread like the taste of mint in her mouth, the leaf forgotten even when it was rolled into his mouth, pulling her tongue along with it. Inhaling deeply, it was like downing an entire bottle of ron miel in one go.
Moaning softly, she leaned in against him, her breasts crushing against his hard chest as she wound her arms around his shoulders. For balance. Just for balance, that was all. And the leg she had to pull forward to lay across his lap, that was for balance too, so she wouldn't fall forward. Of course. That was logical. Very logical.
What she couldn't justify with logic was her other leg wrapping around his waist... or her hand wandering into his hair, freeing it of some of the many charms that bound it into loose ropes. Not that logic mattered much when there was a low thrum vibrating from his throat and into her mouth, which she returned, scooting closer to him, crawling further into his lap. With a tilt of his head, his mouth broke free of hers, taking the taste of honey and mint from her. Miolanai whined low in annoyance, but quickly stopped when the Crow began nuzzling at her jaw, nipping just under her ear.
The room swam, and she had to close her eyes to block it, her hands cupping his head, holding him closer as she arched when his arms came around her waist. Beneath her crotch she could feel the shifting swell of his manhood filling with interest, and she bore down on it, hungrily, rubbing against him hard. For this she was rewarded by teeth being raked down her neck before they were buried in the junction of shoulder and neck. Whimpering, the Warden's fuzzy head couldn't remember even a shadow of logic, only the feeling of heat and man and drink.
A large-palmed hand slipped around her waist to her front, curling around one of her silk-covered, unbound breasts, squeezing and testing the weight. It feltso good to be touched like that. It had really been too long. Pulling his head away from her, Miolanai went to his mouth, which parted, meeting her halfway, and again that heady mix filled her mind.
A low moan was drug from her as her hips automatically rolled forward against his, pressing that suddenly hard length firmly against her. Wriggling a hand down between them, she measured it by the length of her fingers, breath catching in her throat as it twitched under her palm and grew even larger. If his mouth tasted so good, what would his skin taste like? The very thought of it made her head spin, and she arched against him again.
Tipping her head forward, she pressed her lips to his shoulder, inhaling his essence, her tongue darting out to taste him; the salty-sweet tang of a man washed over her tongue, in counterpoint to the honey and mint, and she found herself hungrily tasting, biting, licking her way across his chest and over his stomach as he leaned back again, giving her room to move. His hands slid up her back and over her shoulders, gentle and sure fingers gliding through her hair, gathering it up and away from her face as she rubbed her cheek over the hard muscles of his abdomen, her hands sliding over the soft black silk of the pants he wore. Maddeningly thin, they covered everything, but hid nothing, and she could feel the heat of him through them, as though he wore nothing at all.
Nuzzling at his stomach, she mumbled as she nipped at one of the ridges of muscle, "Maker you smell good."
"I do?" She was pleased that it sounded somewhat hoarse, his fingers tangling tighter in her hair.
"Hmmn-yeah," she purred, tracing his bellybutton with her tongue, a hand rubbing the thick, silk-covered length of him. Glancing up through hazy eyes, she saw how flushed he was, his expression intense. "Don't play, you know you smell good," she said, squeezing him hard in her hand. "You know you look good, too."
His chuckle was liquid heat, his prick flexing under the silk, and throbbing in her hand. "Ah, I know some find me attractive enough." One of his hands left her hair, so he could take her hand and rub it over him. "It is nice to know that you are one of them."
That reminded her of something.
Something important.
But what was it?
It was hard to think, touching him like she was, her head filled with haze. The Crow's grip was strong in her hair, urging her on, and then she remembered what it was she had to remember. Why she shouldn't be doing this. Not with him.
"Wait," she said, shaking her head, trying to clear it. "We... we shouldn't do this."
A throaty groan came from Zevran, fingers untangling from her hair, stroking over her face. "And why not, my dear Warden?"
"Because..." She blinked, trying to hold on the 'why'. It was near impossible, for he was curling over her, so he could kiss her again. She mumbled against his mouth, "Because it'd be... using unfair... advantage."
His tongue was in her mouth again, that insanely wonderful muscle, and despite the way her neck craned she really didn't care to put up a fight.
As his mouth broke away from her, she muttered, "Dear Maker, you taste so good, and you smell so good," she whispered, inhaling the potent mix of him like a drug. "Bronto shit, you feel good too." She squeezed him in her hand, just to feel him jump and flex again. "What... why was I... objecting?" A tongue sliding along her ear, tugging at the rings in them, silenced her last clear thought.
His hot breath was whispering in her ear, "I have not the foggiest clue."
Well, neither did she. Giving up the struggle, Miolanai returned to licking his stomach, pushing him to lay flat, and tugging at his pants so she could see that pulsing member. A wave of fatigue swept her up, crashing and she just wanted to give his toned stomach one last nip before seeing what had been hiding in his pants.
Again, a flash of memory, and she paused before sinking down to take a look. "Wait! I remember. You... you're old and stuff."
xxx
enansal mi'lin - blessed blood blade, blessing blade/blood blade
vallislin - blood writing, spiritual facial tattoos
uhalamlin - One without blood/family, meaning forsworn
jardines, S - Gardens
ron miel, S - honey rum
pintores, S - painters
comemierda, hija de puta,S - shit eating son of a whore/bitch, similar to mother fucking asshole, or other expletive strings like that
braska, Antivan - just a general swear similar to 'crap' or 'shit' or 'fuck'. Expletive from Antiva
cabrone, S - asshole/bastard
