Down a corridor, bypassing nobles and servants with a briskness that was nearly violent, Zevran found precisely what he was looking for. A small room, for storage it seemed like, and he herded Keelin inside before jamming the door behind them with a dagger thrust hard between the latch and the frame. It wouldn't stop someone very determined from forcing entrance, but your average domestic would be stymied.
She let her staff fall away with a clatter and sat heavily on a dusty wooden trunk, elbows on her knees and hands clenched. A large wardrobe butted against the wall along with several boxes and other items made for a bit of a tight squeeze, but Zevran was nothing if not flexible. Kicking a box aside, heedless of the ominous crunch his action caused, he knelt at her feet.
"Breathe, my sweet girl," he said softly, and reached out to stroke her forearms with his bare hands. Her skin was awash with gooseflesh, as if chilled to the bone. "Please, deep breaths."
Her eyes were fixed on some point far beyond him, her pupils wide and unfocused, but she did attempt to inhale deeply through her still-swollen nose. The breath caught in a weak sob, and it was pure instinct and the Maker's own luck that Zevran managed to grab a rather beautiful vase for Keelin to empty her stomach into, rather than all over their tiny hiding place.
She was retching painfully, her entire body wracked in a way that made his muscles ache to see it. Keeping one hand in a firm grip on the vase, Zevran pushed loose tendrils of hair away from her damp brow. When her vomiting faded into weakening dry heaves, he set the vase aside and gently wiped the foulness from her bruised face, ignoring embarrassed noises she made at his tending. A mix of blood, bile, and breakfast was hardly the most disgusting thing he'd ever had on his hands, after all.
"Hush, mi amora." There was a pile of slightly musty linens nearby, and he rubbed the mess away absently. "Stop your fussing."
Keeping his movements slow and measured, he eased up to perch beside her on the trunk and pulled her nearly limp body into a loose embrace. The room smelled awful, like sweat, fear, and sick, and that familiar stench was far from comforting. It was, however, easily disregarded.
Her forehead was clammy against the side of his neck, her heartbeat quick and uneven, and when she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. "What I… it was monstrous."
He made no attempt to correct her, though monstrous was not a term he would apply to the woman in his arms. Perhaps he had met too many monsters.
"I should not feel such pain for him," she continued brokenly, and he heard tears in her words before he felt their heat on his skin. "But his eyes, Zevran… I can't… He had surrendered, wholly, and I killed him—"
"I am sorry," he murmured, uselessly, but what else could he say? She was weeping against his chest, clinging to him, and Zevran shoved his own burgeoning panic aside. He had agreed to this, to be needed and depended upon, and he would force himself to be good enough for her even when it terrified him.
It helped that Alistair was skittering about like a beaten dog. Had he attempted to approach Keelin again, Zevran might have buried a knife in his throat, and that would have simply complicated things further.
They were off to Redcliffe, or so it appeared, while his dear lady was quietly struggling against her shattered composure. Exchanging a comfortable bed and convenient hearth for bedroll and drafty tent was less than ideal, but perhaps escaping Denerim for a time would be beneficial. He understood the burning need for whatever temporary comfort fleeing could bring; running from the ghosts of the past was something of a speciality of his.
Trudging down muddy autumn roads with the rest of their moody, motley band, Zevran considered the first time he had killed a defenceless opponent. He'd been… eight years old, if he recalled correctly, or perhaps nine. His earliest months within the House of Crows blurred together rather hazy and red, but he vividly recalled the feel of hot blood gushing all over his small hands.
He hadn't known so at the time, of course, but the Crows always bought an excess of urchins. Some, those with beauty, strength, or obviously malleable minds, were chosen as steel to be forged into blades, while others were chosen as whetstones. Zevran had begun to be truly honed on one of those latter children, a dark-eyed girl whose name he'd long ago forgotten.
The entire point of his unpleasant musing was an attempt to recapture the grief he must have experienced at that time, virginal as he was in such things, but thus far he remembered nothing except the girl's eyes, wide and afraid, and the feel of his master's belt flaying his back for hesitating before he slit her throat.
All he wanted was to offer some comfort his lover, some true empathy or the correct words; he was willing to revisit past trauma if it could possibly help, but such things seemed so distant. Digging back through much of his training and trying to find the emotions beyond the lessons, Zevran could feel nothing but numbness. It was frustrating, though an odd kind of relief as well.
"You are very far away, Zevran." Shaking the cobwebs of memory away, he glanced at the bard who had suddenly taken up residence near his elbow. It was where Keelin would be were she not lagging behind speaking with Wynne, but the mages were engrossed in some talk of entropy, and Zevran was loath to disturb whatever diversion his lady had found.
Leliana's expression was gently concerned, and the pull of deeply ingrained instincts forced a lazy smirk onto his face in response. "Warm and exotic climes, my dear," he drawled playfully. "With beating sun and far less clothing. Shall I describe it to you?"
His arch manner earned a small frown, but did not afford him a reprieve. Instead, Leliana stepped marginally closer and lowered her voice to a perfect murmur— the sound of one who knows true quiet and how to achieve it.
"You do not have to be everything for her." He tensed, but the precarious nature of his situation meant he could not afford to blindly dismiss advice, even if it was uninvited. When she was not rejected outright, Leliana seemed to take the hint to continue. "I think it would be unwise for you to try, actually. Allow her friends their parts in this, and be there for her as you are— as she chose you— and she will overcome this ugliness much more smoothly."
The idea that he had become so transparent was more than a little irksome. Had it been any of the others besides his fellow rogue peering so sharply and so accurately into his dilemma, Zevran would have been horrified. He was somewhat put out by Leliana's meddling, but it was bearable at least. Over the years, he had known many individuals with bardic training, and he knew better than to underestimate this woman's skill.
Still, he was not so enthused by the advice that he would encourage it, or indeed suffer it for long. "I will take it under advisement," he said blandly, then turned his attention to the rest of their party. "Oghren! I think I have a joke for you, my fine dwarven friend."
Eamon had fled to Redcliffe before them, as though the horde was already on his heels— if the rumours were true, losing the chance to put his former ward on the throne had chafed the arl rather badly. It was difficult for Zevran to imagine how he could care less, but such a fit of pique did make for a miserable journey of slogging through roads already stomped to mire by Eamon's contingent of guards.
Zevran first arrived in Ferelden at the beginning of what passed for summer among these rough southern folk. He'd survived one incredibly soggy autumn already, but he had forgotten what a unique blend of sensations such a season could produce. It was drizzling with a hellish, slushy rain, and one idiotic misstep over the crest of a hill had ended with mud and corruption seeping up under his greaves. His lips were chapped and his nose would not stop dripping from the bitter wind that was gusting up from the Southron Hills, and there was a swamp congealed in his boots.
Stopping for the night was a blessing. One more sickening squelch, and he might have done something rash.
"Ah, damn you, you bleeding, poxy— brasca!" He yanked harshly at the boot that was suctioned firmly onto his foot, trying to keep his cursing to a dull snarl. He would be no fit dining companion until he'd changed his socks, and thank the Maker he'd had the presence of mind to retreat to his tent before making a fool of himself. Bested by footwear, by Andraste's blessed blood—
The tent flap opened unexpectedly, informing him precisely how distracted he had allowed himself to become, and Keelin slipped inside with a small frown tugging at her lips.
"You're going to get mud all over the bedrolls," she said, almost scolding, and he bit his tongue. They were all tense, but he refused to snap at her.
Frown deepening just slightly when it became clear he was not about to respond, his lady crawled further inside and flopped down beside his knees. Given that he had been a hairsbreadth away from grabbing a dagger and slicing himself free of the fine Antivan leather, he did not protest when she swatted his hands aside and began her own attempt.
It took a few moments, a bit of wriggling, and a squawk when she twisted his ankle uncomfortably, but then he found himself one boot shy quicker than he'd imagined. When she peeled his sock away, leaving him with toes wiggling bare and damp, Zevran finally found his mind again in the haze of frustration that had been growing all day.
"Thank you," he said quietly, reaching out to brush his fingers along the line of her jaw, then up to tame the wisps of cornsilk hair slicked to her forehead by rain. "You are a darling woman, Keelin."
His shift in mood surprised her, he could tell, but he thought it might please her also. She paused her attentions on his remaining boot, turning her head just slightly into his touch, and there was a flicker of warmth in the sideways gaze with which he was favoured. Then, just as quickly, she was back to liberating his heel.
The second boot pulled free soon after, with his sock following, and his lover did not resist the gentle pressure of his hand drawing her closer. Leaning forward, he pressed a tender kiss against her mouth, then another on the blotchy redness such a foul day on the road had brought to her cheek. His hand had fallen to the side of her neck, and he smiled slightly at the feel of her small shudder and the skip in her heartbeat.
"Sweet man," she whispered, breath warm on his skin, then slowly pulled away. "Leliana's made supper."
"There is hope, then," he replied with a smirk, the reached around to dig dry socks from his pack. He'd filched an old, rough pair of boots from the communal crate of spare goods Feddic toted about for them, and it hardly mattered that they were too large and nearly worn through at the toes. They were dry and at hand, and that was more than good enough. "Shall we, mi amora?"
Leliana's suggestion seemed to hold some sense, after all, which was fortuitous and a little humbling. Zevran reminded himself that while his charm was finely sharpened, his knowledge of significant relationships was still developing. He would learn.
Light spices and delicately cooked vegetables filled his stomach comfortably, the rain had stopped for the moment, and Keelin was smiling. It was, thus far, a much better evening than he had expected.
"—and that should do it," his lady announced, sounding rather satisfied with herself as the final cluster of crystals slotted into place with a pulse of magic. The hulk of a golem, who had deigned to lumber near the fire and all the squishy company that entailed, made a deep grinding sound Zevran thought might be its closest equivalent to flexing muscle. Brilliant blue light cast a strange hue over Keelin's skin as she reached up to pat Shale's massive chest. "Feel better?"
"Much." There was more grinding, and his slight, squishy lover took the opportunity to step back. "My thanks, Grey Warden. It is not an entirely dreadful creature, for a mage."
Wynne tutted softly, but did not look up from mending one of the shirts she'd been patching since finishing her meal. Most members of their group were engaged in some tedious yet necessary task or another; it felt as though finding such odd jobs to fill the dangerously quiet, thoughtful times would be the order of the day until this archdemon business was sorted. Zevran certainly had no ardent need to sit and ponder the imminent menace of a slavering horde of darkspawn, and killing a dragon (or near enough, in the case of Flemeth) once in his life was more than sufficient, thank you very much.
So instead he sat too near the crackling fire, ignoring the sweat just beginning to pop on his brow, and carefully stirred the small iron pot of what would soon become some very potent poison. It was a recipe he'd picked up somewhere years before, and it was finicky enough to take a fair portion of his attention, which was precisely what he'd planned. He could not allow himself to agonise, if he was to give Leliana's suggestion any chance at all.
Shale rumbled back to its usual spot, limbs glowing brighter than before as night continued to creep in around the edges of their camp. Leaning back from the pot for the moment, Zevran palmed his knife and scraped up more mashed deathroot from the small slab of stone he'd been using as a cutting board. Adding the dark paste to the bubbling mixture, he wiped his hands on the grass and sat back to wait for it to thicken, risking a few moments to watch his lover without distraction.
She was wrapped in one of Leliana's shawls, a simple thing of soft wool with a hint of dark embroidery around the edges, and now that her golem maintenance was finished, she bent to refill her teacup. Her eyes betrayed a mind travelling somewhere distant, her small smile dimmed with whatever thoughts were drawing her away, and Zevran did nothing to hide his own frown.
Alistair was still sulking, but the cold, bitter tension between the Wardens had faded to a mild discomfort. It was a thing of some concern, simply because Zevran knew his lady considered her fellow Warden a dear friend, but it had been Zevran who held her close and watched her battle worsening nightmares every night since she'd stopped Loghain's heart in his chest. She insisted her troubled sleep was simply further proof the archdemon was rallying an offensive, but Zevran was unconvinced that was the whole of it.
They could have tossed Loghain in the dungeons to wait for one of those proper public executions nobility so often revelled in, with a proper executioner. Gather crowds of peasants to witness justice being served, and to remind them precisely what awaited those who stepped out of line. They might have even poured darkspawn blood down the teyrn's throat and watched him choke to death, for Riordan's suggestion was not an utterly terrible one given the average rate of survival for potential Wardens…
Still rather unfocused, Keelin wandered over in his direction, and Zevran snatched a few empty flasks off of the half-rotted deadfall he'd claimed as a makeshift table, moving them out of her way before she ended up with a bottom full of broken glass. She sat on the mossy trunk, both hands wrapped around the pale wood of her teacup, and Zevran imagined he could make out a hint of violets through the pungent odour of his poison. It evoked extraordinarily pleasant memories of the taste of violet and honey on her tongue, and despite his worry, Zevran found himself nudging her leg with his shoulder. She glanced down at him, looking almost startled as if shaking off a dream, then returned the smile he offered.
"Hello," she said softly, and the brief kiss he pressed against her knee earned him a sweet giggle.
"Bonita," he replied, mouth curling into an expression decidedly less chaste than the kiss. "May I have a taste?"
As he'd hoped, a lovely flush of colour washed over her cheeks, but before the spark that lit her eyes could burn through his self-control, Zevran nodded towards her tea. "I thirst, my dear, but until I properly wash my hands… if you don't mind, of course."
Laughing again, the sound ringing warm with indulgence, his lady carefully brought her cup to his lips. The tea was hot, but not unbearably so, and achingly familiar as the flavour washed over his senses. He swallowed, allowing his eyes to drift closed, then hummed contentedly as a thumb brushed against the corner of his mouth.
Regardless of the very promising path he was now treading, there was still a portion of his mind concerned with the poison brewing nearby. It was with great reluctance that Zevran leaned back from his beautifully blushing lover, shifting around to give the pot a slow stir and pull it away from the coals to cool. A glance confirmed that Keelin was watching him rather intently, sipping her tea and looking for all the world like a treat he would very much enjoy unwrapping.
Be there for her as you are. He could certainly try.
It had been a challenge, but he'd managed not to scald his fingers or otherwise incapacitate himself while rushing through the last few steps of his batch of poison. The deadly concoction was bottled and safely sealed, finally, his hands were tingling from their vigorous scrubbing in cold pond water, and Keelin was expecting him in their tent.
"I'm going to bed," she'd whispered sometime earlier, her breath warm against his ear just as he'd finished adding a dram of corrupter to the thickened mix. "I'll be waiting up."
The faint light of a spell wisp glowing through canvas was a very good sign, and Zevran made no attempt to disguise the haste in his step. He crawled inside, shoving his pack into one corner, and his anticipation flared at the sight of long bare legs and a welcoming smile.
"Hello, cariño," he said, quickly unbuckling his baldric and belt and tossing them aside. Keelin was already down to the last layer of her robes, lying across their bedrolls with one knee bent and a book propped open against her raised thigh. Even in the peculiar glow of the wisp, the view he was afforded by that pose was… delicious.
She seemed content to watch him shed his leathers like a madman, which was entirely acceptable given his current frame of mind. The feel of her slender hands tugging him free of his clothes and armour was usually quite inspiring, but this time a bit of his own practiced speed was preferable. Leaving his leggings loosened but in place, Zevran shucked his shirt and slithered up to kneel beside her calves, loosely mirroring her earlier assistance with his boots.
When he kissed her knee again, this time without the thin barrier of stockings keeping him from the feel of her skin, his darling girl made a thrilling, purring sound from deep in her throat. Clean hands meant freedom to touch, and he was eager to indulge— continuing slow, light kisses along her leg, he slid the pads of his fingers over the velvety softness of her inner thigh, teasing under the hem of her skirt.
Her breathing was quickening, her chest shuddering temptingly under the fabric of her shift, and the shadows began to flicker as the wisp bobbed madly. Her hand on his stomach felt like lightning, skating up along his ribs, and if this was to be his part in banishing the grief from her eyes, he supposed would simply have to endure.
"Zevran," she breathed out in the rapidly warming air of their tent, voice soft and quivering. It was a very lovely sound. "Mmm, may I have a taste?"
His chuckle bubbled up almost unexpectedly, but then he thought he might be growing accustomed to the way she drew such joy from him. He had enjoyed the benefits of adventurous lovers in the past, affectionate ones, the thrilling and the sweet, occasionally the peerless, but this woman was something different. Something altogether magnificent.
He leaned forward, propping himself up over her prone form until he could nuzzle her jaw, moving slowly towards her lips. He did not remove his hand from its leisurely, tortuous journey towards his final prize, revelling in the rhythmic twitching of her hips as she sought his touch. "As you wish," he murmured, arching into the bite of her short nails scratching along his bare back. "Whatever you wish, mi amora."
She did not wish to sleep, despite some of his very best efforts to exhaust her. Having been subjected to the aftermath of her recent, hellish nightmares, however, Zevran could scarcely fault her.
"You go ahead," she insisted again, tracing invisible patterns along his chest with one delicate finger. The same finger had mapped his tattoos earlier, beginning with the lines on his face, then low on his spine, his hip… A wet, naughty little tongue had followed, and Zevran felt a warm curl of renewed interest winding through him at the memory. "Please? Sleep, dear man."
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but just barely. Sleep, while she lay silently with only her dark thoughts and regrets for company? Hardly.
Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, Zevran shifted until her head could loll more comfortably against his shoulder. "I'm told I'm a terrible conversationalist while sleeping," he said, settling in under their blankets as the cosy atmosphere of their lovemaking gave way to cooling sweat and the chill of the night. "And some filthy slanderer has been spreading a rumour that I drool. I simply won't risk it."
That earned him an amused glance and a tweak to his nipple, but it was clear his lady was not hinting for further play. Abandoning her patterns, Keelin wrapped her arm firmly across his chest as if he were a very large child's toy, resting her chin over his heart and looking up into his face.
"It's only a little drool, usually." He mock-scowled at her through the darkness, the wisp long ago extinguished, and was rewarded with a peck of a kiss against his collarbone. "Less than the dog, at least."
There were jibes about her delectable cruelty caught on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them back. He had no idea how such banter would be received, given her current temper, and it was certainly not his intention to drive her back into her melancholy after having worked so hard to allow her at least a short while to forget. Instead, he kept silent, stroking her silky hair and listening closely as her breathing began to slow, drifting little by little into slumber despite her protests.
Then, when he was almost sure sleep had taken her, her muffled words startled him nearly enough to jump. "What does cariño mean?"
His throat tensed, the answer lodged firmly and unpleasantly somewhere in his chest. There were some rather benign if mawkish things he called her in Antivan, certainly, but the thought of a dangerous, thus-far unspoken question immediately stole his voice.
And what about mi amora, Zevran? You've called me that quite often, recently.
He did. He had said those words more often to her in the past few weeks than he had likely ever spoken them before. It was simply so much easier to say them when she was ignorant of their true meaning... he still wasn't entirely certain of the meaning himself, Maker save him.
He knew how he felt, theoretically. It was more than he'd ever known one could feel; certainly more than was wise or healthy. It burned in his blood, under his skin... to put words to it... brasca. He was such an idiot.
"Zevran?" Her tongue was thick with weariness, but he still heard an edge of worry creep in. He had been silent too long.
Very careful to keep his discomfort hidden by a front of bleary consideration, Zevran braced himself for whatever might follow. "Hm? Ah, well, the closest in the Common Tongue would be... sweetheart, I suppose. Just a term of affection, my dear."
"Sweetheart." Had she not been lying on his chest, he might have held his breath. "Hm. I rather like that." If asked, he would blame the flutter of his heart on the gentle kiss she brushed against his neck. "Cariño. Thank you, Zev."
Humming wordless acknowledgement, he silently prayed that would be the end of it until he could gather himself. He wasn't fool enough to think such specific, powerful feelings would never be inquired about, but he needed a bit more time to figure out what his answer was going to be. Of course, luck chose that moment to abandon him, and his ever-curious lover was far from finished.
"What's bonita, then? There's something lovely in your eyes when you call me that."
Despite the tension, made all the worse by his attempts to hide it, Zevran felt his mouth twitch up in a small smile. There certainly was something lovely before his eyes...
"Pretty," he replied, quicker this time, and injected a yawn at the end for good measure. "Lovely. Beautiful. All those things."
She kissed him again, this time on the mouth, and it was deeper than he expected. He could taste the barest hint of honey, the familiar sweetness of her, and his own flavour as well. The combination was heady, addictive, and if the tingle down his spine were any indication, their night may not have wound down completely. Her leg snuck across his hips, her hand pulling his shoulder for leverage, and the feel of her weight settling over him, the heat and the wetness pressed against—
No, definitely not wound down just yet.
He broke the kiss to groan, shifting up against her infernal teasing, and her dark chuckle against his ear did terrible, wonderful things to him. Sliding his hands firmly up her ribs to cup the breasts brushing against his own chest, Zevran felt her echoing, broken groan wash over him like a caress.
"Cariño," she murmured, fingers catching in the snarls their previous lovemaking had left in his hair. It was an incredible word from her lips, pitched low with pleasure, and his hips bucked up without thought, seeking. "You— you think I'm all those things?"
When she reached back, taking him in hand, he sucked in a short, desperate breath. By now, she knew his rhythms very well; it would not be long at all before he was ready to go again, and that was a glorious thought.
"More—" It wasn't precisely begging if he was answering her question, but either way, the sentiment was the same. "Even more. Bonita, perfecta, ah—" He bit off the most dangerous word at the first trace of its sound, not quite a complete moron even with his attention so occupied. Now that she had him awake, aware, and more than willing, his lover seemed determined to set a snail's pace, but Zevran was content to lie back and enjoy the ride if it meant distracting her.
"Perfecta?" Blinking up into the shadow, he swore he could see her teeth flashing, and he could certainly hear the breathless grin in her voice. "I think I can guess at that one. Flatterer."
"Diosa," he forced through his own gritted teeth, every muscle tightening as she sunk so very gradually down upon him. He was still especially sensitive, and his palms were itching to grip her hips, but that was not the game. "A goddess. My darling girl."
"That last one—" Her fingers were on his lips, his tongue and teeth greeting them. "You've called me that for so long. Darling." He nipped the base of her thumb, and was rewarded as she began an unhurried, maddening rocking. "Yours. My Zevran."
He should have been prepared when she braced her hand on his chest, but that— my Zevran— well, he was preoccupied by the heat that bloomed fiery and brutal, deep in his core. Then, suddenly, there was nothing unhurried or teasing, but there was a woman slamming hard against him, squeezing tight around him, and everything blurred somewhat from there.
Later, perhaps closer to dawn than he might have liked, given that Keelin had not yet slept, Zevran found himself utterly sated and perhaps a little sore.
"You minx," he purred, boneless and warm with his lover pressed close beside him once again. "I feel so magnificently used."
"Shhh…" She patted his cheek limply, exhaustion overtaking her at long last. "Sleep now."
He'd done it, miraculously, and he still had a few hours before she awoke to sort out an answer that made at least some sense. What about mi amora, Zevran?
Love. He silently weighed the word in his mouth, considering—
"Hmp..." Keelin snuffled, and he watched her face turn up towards his with a strange dread. "Forgot. One more."
Damn, damn, damn. Maker no, not yet—
She stretched, nuzzling the crook of his neck. "Hmm. What does rinna mean?"
AN: I don't usually do the cliffhanger thing. I made an exception just for you. :D
My sincere thanks for reading, as always. With any luck, I'll have the next bit up soon.
