THE BROKEN SWORD
"By the Maker's hairy balls, it's cold." Zevran muttered as he stoked the small fire.
The private room on the upper level of the Broken Sword was comfortable enough, but the cold bite of winter hung in the air and could not be considered welcoming by any stretch of the imagination.
See, there were certain things he missed about Ferelden.
The Warden obviously.
The food, okay it was rustic but it was always filling.
The countryside. Antiva was lacking in wide open spaces, if you didn't count the place between a whore's legs….
But the weather, no. He definitely did not miss the weather.
Antiva was as just like a beautiful woman. If the mood took her she could be warm and wet and even in the winter when the rain held a certain chill, it was nothing to make a man shiver in his boots.
In Ferelden however, it was always from one extreme to another. If it wasn't blisteringly hot and dry, it was as cold as the embrace of a chantry sister and as if that wasn't enough, there was always the snow.
At least it gave the people something to talk about other than the dogs, the Blight or whether it was now socially acceptable to allow Orlesian travellers to roam their lands without suspicion. Even so, it was a country that he could quite cheerfully leave and never see again.
But right now, it held more promise of happiness and fulfilment than he could ever have dreamed about, even in his beloved Antiva City.
Tonight, she was coming to him.
Tonight, he was going to meet his son.
Tonight, there wasn't anywhere in the world where he would rather be.
Throwing another log onto the small blaze, Zevran settled back into the cushioned chair and sighed. In the space of a few days, his life had been turned upside down and now here he was, back in Ferelden once more listening to every footstep on the stairs in case it was her.
Patience, Zevran…patience.
When he had informed Cesare that he was leaving Antiva for a few days, of course he had protested at his departure.
What could possibly demand the attention of the Guild Master so much, that he must leave without delay and without attending to the contracts that had once more started to come in from all the four corners of Thedas?
Zevran had shrugged and made his excuses, after all was it not Cesare himself who suggested that he get reacquainted with the Queen-Consort of Ferelden?
Well, an opportunity had presented itself and therefore he was going to take it. What could be a better way of gaining her favour, than returning the magnificent sword that those two idiotes had stolen from Vigil's Keep?
If he delivered Vigilance back into the hands of the Warden Commander, then Antiva would gain both an ally and a favour, no?
Cesare had reluctantly come around to his way of thinking and had agreed to oversee the running of the Guild while he was gone. Zevran did not plan to be away for too long anyway and he knew the old man enough to trust that he would put only the best contracts up for auction and hold out for the best price.
There were rumours that a very large and potentially very lucrative contact had come in and Zevran could see himself making a lot of money from it if the right assassin bid the right amount for the work. He could trust that Cesare would keep a firm grip on the proceedings and not let his natural tendency toward greed override his good sense in getting the best man or woman to do the job.
The name of Arainai had weight now. Sloppy work by his underlings would do nothing for his reputation as a competent Guild Master.
Content that his House was in order, Zevran searched for the swiftest ship he could find that was leaving the harbour in Antiva City bound for Ferelden. A slender trading vessel, the Mermaid's Kiss was leaving that very morning for the shores of Amarathine and Zevran had paid handsomely for the use of the captain's cabin.
Cesare had insisted he take men with him, pirates operated in the Waking Sea after all, but Zevran felt no need for such measures confidant as he was in his abilities as a master of the twin blades. Besides, the sailors would have to drink and eat and if any of them so much as glanced his way in a manner he found unpleasant, they would find themselves dead of a mystery illness within the hour.
Poison was a constant and very reliable travelling companion.
As it was, there were no such incidents and for a change, even the Waking Sea itself was as calm as a Templar in a prayer meeting. Still…it did give him time to think.
Just what would it be like to hold a child in his arms, knowing that it was truly a part of him? How would it feel to look into his eyes and see himself reflected back in the gaze of his son? What if the babe didn't take to him and cried out instead for Alistair…?
Then of course, there was the Warden.
What was he going to say to her? How did he explain his silence for all this time when it was obviously him that she had needed? How did he tell her that he'd always loved her when he'd spent so long denying it to himself?
After that, he had given up on thinking for a while.
When they finally made landfall, he'd purchased a fine horse from one of the merchants in the City of Amaranthine. He had been surprised to find the place in such a state of ruin, but the trader had explained that it had been almost destroyed during what had come to be known locally as the Awakening of the darkspawn.
A simultaneous attack on both the city itself and Vigil's Keep to the south had forced the Warden to divert all her forces to the defence of the old stronghold of the Grey, leaving the city to burn and even though the merchant naturally thought it a necessary measure, there were apparently those who said that she had only acted in that way to gain favour at court.
Zevran had scowled and shrugged his shoulders dismissively. If such people truly believed that of the Warden, then they deserved their fates.
The merchant had agreed. Well, he would…Zevran hadn't paid him yet.
Once coin had changed hands and the horse had been saddled, there had then been a long cold ride the city of Denerim.
Seeing its heavy gates again had brought back such a rush of memory that he felt as if he had never left. After stabling the horse, he slipped in easily past the City guards and headed toward the Pearl but then turned off, as the Broken Sword lay just to the east against the city wall. Making his way through the darkened alleyways he swore he could almost see her there as he had so long ago, standing against Taliesin and the other assassins who had tried to convince him to return to the Crows or die at their blades.
The look on her face as she had fought at his side for the chance to give him a taste of true freedom had made his heart throb as achingly as his loins. Ah yes, right then and there he felt something stirring deep within that he had sought to end by accepting the contract on her life in the first place.
That she was ready to give her life for him for no other reason than the sake of friendship, was not exactly a revelation. She had already risked her neck for the sexy bard come chantry-sister whom she had picked up on her travels, and she even fought a dragon to save the witch of the wilds who would so soon after share her husband's bed and yet it was not the action that had surprised him so.
Merely the feelings that had coursed through his veins afterward.
After months of being at her side fighting the darkspawn hordes and travelling the length and breadth of the country, Zevran had indeed found that his old life had indeed come to end and a new one had begun.
The night he entered her body, it was not just his seed that he had left inside her…she had also taken a piece of his soul.
Ah mi amora…and now here he was, again seeking to be by her side.
When he finally made it to the rowdy and decidedly shabby looking tavern, Howe had been waiting for him in the bar. As Zevran had strode across the floor shaking the snow from his boots, the human had looked at him curiously, surprised that he had made it here so quickly, perhaps? Zevran had flashed him a charming grin nonetheless and the stoic male had merely scowled even more darkly than usual.
Such warm and friendly companions the Warden surrounded herself with these days…
As he sat at Howe's table, Aldous the barkeep had brought over a platter of cheeses, bread and some cold cuts of meat along with a fine bottle of Ferelden's best red wine. Such a shame that Ferelden's best tasted just like Antiva's worst really…
As Zevran had pressed the appropriate amount of coin into his hand, the rotund dwarf had spoken the phrases known only to certain members of the House of Crows. It seemed that Howe had done his job fairly well in relaying his instructions to the stubby fellow. Zevran acknowledged the barkeep's efficiency with a nod of the head and a rather large tip before sampling the delights of the food placed before him.
Howe had declined to eat anything, rather rude of him he thought. The kitchen staff must have been so offended. When questioned on it, he had merely stated that eating in a tavern that he now knew to be a safe-house of the Crows was something he deemed hazardous to his health, that was of course unless the patrons which seemed to comprise of nothing but assassins, thieves and mercenaries didn't end it first.
Zevran had laughed heartily. Did he really think anyone was going to attempt anything when he was in the company of the Guild Master? Howe had just shook his head and frowned.
Giving up on pleasantries, he had asked after the Warden and a strange feeling lurched in his stomach as he did so. Howe had paled a little and said 'not here'. The look on his face was enough to convince Zevran that something was wrong so he hurriedly finished his meal and then gestured for the human to follow him.
Aldous joined them as they mounted the stairs and led them past the communal lodgings to a hidden panel leading to the loft space. With a wary look at Howe, the dwarf slid it back to reveal some decidedly sturdy looking doors beyond and then handed Zevran a black key before respectfully bowing his head and making his way back to the bawdy tavern below.
With a wink, Zevran unlatched the door at the far end and stepped into the room beyond. He was pleased to note that Howe was shocked to see such luxury in what he obviously thought was nothing more than a rundown hovel. As he had closed the door behind them, the human had sighed heavily and met Zevran's questioning gaze with an even stare before speaking.
The Warden was struggling.
Her marriage to King Alistair was most certainly over and though not officially public knowledge, their disharmony was spilling over into court life where it was plain to see for those who had a care to look.
Though most of her time was filled with a charade of normality, sitting at Alistair's side receiving the nobles and their tedious petitions concerning their lands, their subjects, the cost of running their estates, her nights were spent in the palace nursery with only her son and her handmaid for company. She desperately wanted to tell Alistair the truth. The deception was eating away at her and she had struggled these past days to contain herself.
Arl Eamon Guerrin had paid her several visits, urging her to speak to the King and tell him of her ills so that they could move forward and rekindle that which they had lost. The Arl seemed content to blame all on her being a new mother and how it must be overwhelming her. He had even suggested that she should once again take to the king's bed as fear of conception might be the thing that was keeping them apart.
One night spent under the loving efforts of his Majesty might just be the thing that solved all their problems…
Even Howe had looked sickened at that.
The Warden had told the old man to stay away. She had seen his letters to the former King Cailan, urging him to leave Anora because she was childless and seek instead the hand of the Empress of Orlais. Just how long would it be before he was advising Alistair to take another wife?
The Arl had replied that the country already had an heir and if Alistair should decide to annul the marriage, the boy would be taken from her and remain within the palace. For the sake of the country you understand…
Zevran had felt his anger then. How dare he speak so of his son! How dare he speak so to his beloved!
Howe had then told him not to worry and that for now, the boy was safe. Neither Arl Eamon nor King Alistair had any idea that Zevran was in Ferelden and that he was the reason for the Warden's current state of anxiety.
Was it just his imagination or was there an accusatory tone in Howe's voice just then.
Zevran had whirled on the human, his temper rising both at the thought of the Warden's pain and of their own son being used as a threat against her. By Andraste's Blood, he would have spared her this pain if her could. Did Howe really think that this was what he had wanted for her or for the boy? There was so much more at stake…
Howe's eyes had fallen onto the crib resting on the floor next to the bed and he had coloured.
Ahh.
It seemed the Warden had told him everything…
Zevran was hardly surprised, after all she seemed to trust this man more than most but he did wonder at why he was still helping? His loyalty to the crown and his obvious dislike of handsome Antivan elves aside, there was nothing to be gained by his actions…in fact, the opposite was true if he were caught aiding them in this way!
Howe had merely shrugged and again reiterated that he did not do it for him but for her sake and the sake of her child, their child.
Such honesty was rare in people. Especially people who dealt with assassins! Zevran was starting to see now why she trusted him.
Then there had been an awkward moment and one that took some explaining.
As Zevran divested himself of his travelling cloak, the human's eyes had fallen upon the sword slung across his hip. Oh how he had carried on when he realised it was her sword, Vigilance. The dark look he gave him as he had gestured at the blade was priceless, reminded Zevran of the look he had last seen of the face of an outraged husband when he caught him in bed with his wife and his sister at the same time.
That particular problem had been easily solved when Zevran had asked him to join them.
Ahhh…those were simpler times, no!
Anyway, whether Howe had believed him or not when he said that he was not responsible for its theft seemed to be a moot point. He had simply scowled even more darkly and then insisted on taking the blade to her. When Zevran pointed out that it was his intent to return it himself, Howe had asked rather impertinently if he was hoping that the lady would fall into his arms in gratitude.
Zevran had grinned wickedly and said he would rather she fall into his bed.
After that comment, it appeared that the time for friendly banter was over. With a look of disgust, Howe had pointedly declared that it was time to tell the Warden of Zevran's arrival. He would make his way to the palace, request an audience and then if all went well, escort her to the Broken Sword under cover of darkness. Zevran had calmly agreed and had told Howe the password to give to Aldous that would allow him to access the rooms once more.
With a final shake of his head, the human had left and Zevran finally surrendered to the nerves that had been gnawing at his stomach since he had arrived. He stood in the centre of the room, shaking like a colt and gulping down breaths of air like a poisoned man gulps down antidote.
She was going to be here…in this very room…with his son...
This time, this very moment he had dreamed of was about to become reality and he was terrified.
With a heavy sigh, Zevran looked out of the window and watched as snowflakes began to fall past the thick panes of glass. It would be getting colder soon and he was sure that the baby needed to be warm.
A pile of logs were stacked in the fireplace and he used a nearby tinderbox to light the kindling beneath. Soon, a pleasant fire burned in the hearth and the room began to warm to is glow.
To keep his mind from wandering, he unpacked the few belongings he had brought with him and then arranged a few candles and lamps about the place to give it a more welcome feel. He placed his silverite longsword atop the dresser, hilt toward the centre of the room in case he needed it in a hurry and the fine dragonbone dagger he'd had crafted by the Crow weapon-smiths, he positioned next to the bed in case of…disturbance.
Next he removed his armour and placed it away from the fire. Drakeskin, like any leather was liable to crack if dried out too suddenly and this particular set had got him through far too many battles unscathed to lose it to simple carelessness.
The Warden's sword, he lay reverently atop the large bed and then smiled to himself, feeling a surge of warmth both to his loins and his heart as he pressed down on the firm mattress. It was certainly well sprung and the covers though slightly worn were soft and thick enough to keep two bodies warm on a cold night after any energetic exertions.
As his gaze fell upon the crib at his feet, his brow furrowed in consternation. Would it be warm enough for the little fellow in there? Did he have enough woollen blankets? Did he need to be closer to the fire or further away?
Ah Zevran…
He knew a hundred different ways to kill a man, but looking after one tiny baby was something of a mystery.
He briefly wondered what Aldous must have thought when he asked for the crib as part of the preparations for his visit, something sordid and unpleasant no doubt, and then dismissed his suspicions as uncharitable. The dwarf had five children of his own after all.
Sighing heavily, he tapped the crib lightly with his foot and watched as it rocked back and forth.
An old pain suddenly stirred deep within his consciousness and for a moment he thought could hear the voice of his mother, singing softly in her native Dalish while he dozed in her arms. The words were of course were a mystery to him but he could almost imagine her tone and the way he would have felt as she stroked his hair and smiled down at him with love in her eyes.
In such moments, he could forget that he had never known such things, never known her at all for that matter, but it was a bittersweet illusion nonetheless…
Now-now, Zevran. Such maudlin thoughts would do him no good.
Shaking his head as if to banish the imagined memories, he suddenly felt winter's chill once again trying to intrude upon the room. Without the extra layers provided by his armour he was even more aware of the coldness of the season and taking up the iron poker near the hearth he coaxed yet more warmth out of the fire.
Glancing out of the window he could see that it was snowing thickly now, the heavy white flakes standing out starkly against the darkening sky. Night was falling and very soon she would be coming to him.
There was a noise outside and he whirled as the sound of footsteps echoed in the corridor beyond, but it must have been another guest taking to their bed.
Relax, relax, relax.
Taking a calming breath, he forced himself to unwind and sank into the chair by the fire.
If he could wait patiently for hours in order to kill a mark, he could damn well wait for her and once she was in his sights, he was never letting her go again.