a slightly different format here, quite heavy emotional narative. back to normal by next chapter. continued thanks for reviews.

Things left unsaid

Zevran knew Aedan was not sleeping, his breaths were just a little too forced, and if he stilled his own breathing he could hear Aedan hold his own in response. Taking a nap during the hottest hours of the day was common in Antiva, and he wondered just how long Aedan would be able to resist the lull of the warm air and soft bed. It was an issue of trust, he knew that much. Aedan was not one to allow people close to him, especially in his moments of vulnerability. He would not let his guard down if he did not trust those around him.

Zevran was used to being kept at an emotional arm's reach, no-one in their right mind would actually go as far as to place trust in an assassin. Respect and fear, but never trust. Aedan however, had appreciated his open manner, right from when he had told the details of who had hired him on the assassination attempt. It had taken time, but slowly, Aedan had started to believe in the Antivan. It had been a strange sensation at first, almost a burden. It reminded him too much of Rinna, and the conflicting desire to push Aedan back to a more comfortable distance, or draw him closer kept him awake many nights.

It was on those nights, he had plotted how he would complete his mission, detailing how he might go about murdering the camp. Poison in the food, nothing deadly, but something to dull the senses and slow the mind. Harder to detect, and less dangerous should someone not eat and give away his treachery. He would take down Morrigan first, her far off camp would mean he could cut her down and hide her, and walk back without anyone being wiser. Wynne next, or Leianna, both long range attacks would leave him exposed, but he guessed he would be able to approach them easily, feigning a wish to discuss something private. With luck, both would be dead before he had to start making his moves out in the open.

He would kill Oghren, who would hopefully be an easy target, passed out near his tent, then the dog, before the beast was able to smell the blood in the air. By then the alert would have been raised, and he'd have to face off against the giant. Sten was a fearsome warrior, but slowed by his attachment to that heavy two-handed blade. The assassin was quicker, and would be able to daze the qunari and plunge a dagger into his neck and into his chest, like so many ogres. Alistair would charge blindly when he saw Zevran's true colours, and get himself caught in one of the traps he would have laid out. He'd be able then to circle the ex-templar, and cut into his exposed back.

That left Aedan. Strong and fast, powerful, Zevran was not sure he could best the warrior. In their sparring matches, it had tended to be even who claimed the point. Zevran sometimes managed to strike in where Aedan wasn't guarding, and Aedan could often overpower Zevran, forcing him to the ground, both daggers deflected by his blade. Aedan might suffer the effects of the poison, but Zevran would be tired from the fight. He had never planned out what might happen next, the idea of turning his daggers on Aedan sitting uncomfortably in his mind.

He never admitted these thoughts and plans, not to anyone. He had come close, to either slitting Aedan's throat in the night and disappearing, or taking on the whole campsite, but each time he would look at the grey warden nobleman, his eyes deep and hair tinged with auburn, hinting at the rage and the passion contained within. At the sight, his murderous impulses would leave him, but then fill his head with a whole new torrent of thoughts, keeping him from sleep still.

These thoughts were complicated, to this day, Aedan's very presence seeming to unravel all the emotions Zevran thought he had mastered. He had hoped to regain the grip he once possessed, when he had left. Like taking poison, he had thought that cutting all ties would hurt, but that the wound would heal given time. As well as grant him strength against it in future. It seemed ironic that his crow training would not leave him, that he thought this the best course of action.

Of course, Zevran could not rid himself of Aedan. He had found himself selecting men of a certain build, strong, with red/brown hair as a preference, as bedding partners. He would teach them words in Ferelden, and call them by His name, and pretend. Pleasant distractions, at the time, but those conquests leave him uneasy, longing for the real thing. He would not sleep with those men a second time, instead moving on, trying to leave behind the ache he felt but refused to name.
He wondered if Aedan had felt the same, in the long months they were apart. True, Aedan masked his emotions, letting them churn inside him, rather than deny them as was Zevran's tactic. For the first time, Zevran wondered if it was perhaps his fault that Aedan seemed so changed, his anger like a poison in his veins. He could blame Aedan's inner anger, or even the darkspawn taint, but none of these could have hurt Aedan as deeply as leaving without so much as a word.

It could not have been easy, to be left with no-one and a further impossible duty to perform. The sudden departure could have seem a vicious parting blow, or a callous action showing that he did not care for what Aedan might feel for him. Zevran had not though enough of himself that someone would come to care for him, that by leaving he could cause pain and distress, rather than relieve and freedom.

If that was the case, then perhaps Aedan could be healed. It might take time, and require a show of truthfulness, but Zevran though he might be able to earn back the trust he had once held.

But there was one thing Zevran could not tell Aedan.

The man, the crow that had come to the house and tried to poison them, was not just a crow.

He remembered how he had come creeping in through a window one night months ago, when the crows were still sending assassins after him. they had fought. When he lay, defeated on the ground and waiting for death, Zevran offered him a chance to leave the crows. He had gladly taken it, and Zevran had bade him good luck. His fighting skills had not improved, and it seemed that in releasing him from the crow control, he had just let a murderer loose upon the streets of Antiva.
He should have known better, an assassin can hardly change overnight, and take up an honest trade. He had not foreseen that the crows he had let go would continue their dark and shady undertakings, and only now he realised the great wrong he had done. Worse, he had been trying to do something good. The bitter sting of the truth irked him, and he doubted that even with his silver tongue, he'd be able to convince Aedan of his honourable intentions. So it lay, buried inside along with all the mistakes of his life.

Unleashing a fleet of assassins into his homeland had been a mistake, leaving Aedan had been a mistake, letting Aedan knock him out in the market place had been a terrible mistake. Now, he could not help but wonder if perhaps he was making a grievous error in staying.

He trusted in Aedan, despite the nobleman's own disendevours, and in doing so, he realised he left himself open and without his defences. He'd nearly been poisoned, when he allowed his guard to drop. He had nearly been too slow to stop Aedan from striking him, when Aedan had allowed his control to slip. He did not know if he could depend upon his luck definitely, and he did not know if Aedan could keep his promise to keep a tighter hold on his rage.

Zevran trusted in Aedan, but he also believed that grey warden would follow through on his threats to hound him should he leave a second time. He'd seen the possessive gleam in his eyes, and in truth, it frightened him.

Should he wish to leave, he would need to make sure that Aedan was not able to pursue. That thought sent a chill through him, as he realised he already had a set of plans and schemes for assassinating Aedan, should ever the need arise...

Perhaps, he reflected, it was best Aedan did not sleep in his presence.

Aedan could feel Zevran laying by him, lighting pressing against his shoulder with his elbow. The elf seemed to be cat napping, but occasionally made little pained noises under his breath, as if having a bad dream.

He was struck by how irritating the sounds were, and was able to give Zevran a sharp shove when he caught himself.

He was managing to catch himself from these urges to lash out at the slightest provocation more these days, for Zevran's sake. The thought had he had to keep such a close watch on himself was unnerving though, and he wondered why his nerves constantly felt stretched to breaking point.

Even when facing off against an archdemon, the blight on their heels and their nights rest disrupted by shrieking darkspawn, he had not felt so.. overwhelmed. It was like a never ending battle against his own mind, dark resentment twisting his memories of his companions into something bereft of the fondness he had held for them. He wondered if he was strong enough to stand against such onslaught.

For Zevran, he would try. Though he would not share his turmoil. He doubted the assassin could begin to understand, and he was not sure he could express these thoughts without sounding as deranged as Leianna. No, some things could not be spoken about.

Like how he had taken a sick pleasure in having Zevran writhe beneath him, bound and protesting. Something in the way he'd held Zevran at his complete control, that he could take from the elf without consent as he whimpered helplessly, it fed some dark urge. He regretted it, and every day wished he could undo the damage he'd wrought. That Zevran could bare to look at him at all was a blessing, that he willing lay with him was nothing but miraculous. The memory had not faded though, and the hunger for being able to dominate him again remained. Slowly, he could felt it begin to gnaw at him once more.

He knew something was wrong, something dark and unhinged within himself. Without blight, or darkspawn, or even hunting down the assassin across Antiva to distract him, he could sense it. Even in the peaceful afternoon, he was tense.

It would be better if he could pinpoint the cause. He'd been assuming it sourced from Zevran, and that way he had left, but now he was not sure. His trust in the assassin was restored, partly, at least. He still wondered if Zevran did not have some ulterior motive for staying with him, or a secret plan to leave him again, but such paranoid thoughts seemed groundless as he contemplated the elf's recent actions. So there had to be something else, something unresolved continuing to weight upon him.

The fact that he had been made a hero, yet then held accountable for the drastic measures needed to save the land, that did not sit well with Aedan Cousland. He had given everything for Ferelden, for the grey wardens. Alistair may have ended the blight with his life, but Aedan had lost his future, and had to live knowing he would never have any chance at a normal existence. A life not soaked in blood, the stains upon his being that would not wash away.

Some small part of him felt that he was due his dark desires. That after saving them all, the least the people could do was grant him his happiness, in whatever form it took. He was the hero of Ferelden, hated or not, he should be able to take some of what had been denied him back. Forcefully if need be. If he wanted a certain elf, contained and caged, for his pleasure, who would really dare challenge him?

Yet, Zevran did not deserve that.

Aedan gave a long sigh. Was he tempting fate, allowing Zevran to stay beside him when he harboured such thoughts? Perhaps, it would be better to let Zevran go, and save him from these dangerous inclinations. He did not know if he could bare to lose the elf again, did not know if he could bring himself to release the assassin, even to save him. And he did not think the elf would leave willingly. Zevran would not say it out loud, but it was clear he cared for Aedan, despite all that had transpired.

Entangled together, hopelessly knotted emotions, Aedan and Zevran were bound by their shared past, and neither would let go. Both were too sodding stubborn.
Aedan feared that this might be to their detriment. Zevran would not give up on Aedan, even if the anger inside him grew beyond his control. His hold on it even now was fluctuating at best, and he could not count on being able to contain it indefinitely.

But... Zevran was no victim. He had survived crow training, and the hazardous life of an assassin. Aedan knew there was a limit to what he would stand, and once pushed past those boundaries... Zevran would fight back.

Aedan Cousland had done the necessary to end the blight before it could truly begin, if it came to it, he knew he could count on the assassin to put a stop to him before he had a chance to hurt the elf again. In this, he had complete trust in Zevran.

As the afternoon wore on, they lay, side by side, with the weight of things left unsaid hanging over them. Eventually, Zevran gave a long stretch, and sat up. Aedan continued to breath deep and slow, his eyes closed. Not sleeping but not fooling the assassin.

Silently, Zevran got up to leave, intending to wash under the water pump. As he tiptoed out the door, he cast a lingering look back at the warrior. He looked at peace, at least, and he idly wondered what the grey warden was contemplating to grant him such a serene air.