AN: Thank you for continuing to read! Feel free to let me know what you think – I would greatly appreciate comments of any kind. Happy reading!

Part Two, Chapter Six

He awoke sprawled on his mat. Somewhat carelessly placed there, the group only briefly thought to lean him on left side over his right. Only his slacks remained on him too, and the sunbeams on his feet suggested that it was near midday. Slowly, Zevran sat up and looked around the small space. He was alone. He felt alone. The backside of his shoulder throbbed, and the thought brought back memories that forced a chill to cut through him. He dared not touch it. The wound needed to be covered.

Closing his eyes, he wished he were back on the Steps. In the kitchen, he was shown how to use a special salve in case he touched the shelf near the bread stove or the cookery without proper tools. Cuts that threatened with infection were often treated with rinet, a common moss mixed with fine silt and bone meal. The Master said the moss lived off the soil mixture and kept the cut sealed. If treated early, no mark was left behind.

He strained to think of another alternative. It was unlikely he would find such an herb in Dockside or Tern. The Chantry was out of the question; in his mind, he could hear the old man's stern lecture stretch from beyond the grave.

At first, he was concerned about his new injury. But then, as the day wore on he became angry. There was no warning. No explanation. If this was their way of welcoming him, he was done for it. Zevran tore off a piece of worn cloth from his old tunic and soaked it in some water from the well. The coolness made the burn ache with the briefest of relief before the heat resurfaced again. Gently feeling around with the cloth, he could tell it was circular and about the size of his palm, the raised rim just circling his shoulder blade.

Careful to conceal his misery, the lad braved the street with caution. As bustling the house was the previous evening, it seemed everyone was gone. He had no coin to spare, but that did not deter him from finding a merchant who might be willing to indulge a favor.

Izeek and Nabul, the pair of Nevarran brothers, originated from the Silent Plains near Solas and ran the two stalls that Zevran often dealt with. Their father's brother's cousins left the family some time before and migrated south to Cumberland. Three generations of sailors were since dispatched upon Thedas and made homes from Tallo all the way down to Denerim. The nomadic nature of their lives seemed at odds with the way they described the Nevarran kingdom, however. The brothers described lush valleys to the Daedric, the stonewalled city, and the ancient Cathes Bridge that separated the harsh drylands to the north from the wetlands to the south. They told of the rich varieties of nuts and grain, much of which was imported into Antiva among other places. It was this reason there were so many Nevarrans in Tern to begin with. Those who came with the shipments simply never left.

Ultimately, it was a drought and tribal warfare fed by the Tevinter Imperium that drove their families to seek better land. Izeek would wax about the old songs his sister sung in the desert when he was small. Nabul, the older of the pair, waved off such sentiment dismissively, suggesting that all things happen for a reason.

As usual, they were excited to see Zevran. The lad guessed they were this way with everyone, but took the warm greeting kindly.

"Come! Come, come!" Izeek exclaimed, offering a spot in the shade behind his stall. The two shops faced opposite each other and sold a variety of different things that arrived on the shipments each month. Throughout the day, the pair would amuse themselves by heckling the occasional passerby. It was slow at the moment, and the younger, at least, was bored. Offering some wine, the Shem chimed, "Tell us a story! Too long since we see you, brother."

He could tell them a story. He could tell them how he longed to sail from this place, but then where would he go? He rightly bit his tongue and sighed, "Perhaps another time. I have a request, if you're nigh so troubled."

"For you, anything." The statement was so full of conviction that the Daedric stumbled on his words.

"I'm looking for a herb," He began hesitantly. The brothers carried many, many spices. Most of them Zevran never heard of before, but he started purchasing small parcels at the request of the weekly maid. She said it softened the meats when she prepared them to be cured, and the brothers knew her so they often had exactly what she wanted. He continued, "It's nigh to eat, rather I need something that I could use on a burn."

"Honey." Nabul called from his side of the stall.

Zevran made a face, but was stopped short of responding as Izeek waded in on the problem, "How bad is this burn?"

"Fairly bad."

"Honey." Nabul called again.

He was not in the mood, "What is he on about?"

Izeek smiled. He had a dark complexion with a round face partially hidden by the hooded white robe Antivan merchants customarily wore. He pointed at a bottle of mead to his side, "Honey cures many things. It is divine."

In all his years reading about random roots and plants from the marshes of Nahashin to the Daelish Wood, he never encountered a book that discussed, nor did the Master ever lecture about, the many supposed uses of honey. Sure, it was used to mask the taste in some elixirs the old man made, but it was never a main ingredient in anything he touched. Scrutiny surfaced as the lad squinted and replied with a flat tone, "Divinity will nigh help if you succumb to fatigue."

"Honey." His friend rephrased as best he could in the minced Antivan that he knew, "My uncle once horribly burned retrieving hamar from plains one summer. The sun was too great. My mother covered him in honey. Wrapped him. Prayed for him. In one week, he was cured."

"All true," the elder brother crowed. He stood up from his bench and walked over to the pair in the shade, a woven fan fluttering in his hand. From within his robe, he retrieved a small brown jar and dropped it on the table casually, "You use pollen mixed with honey." He rubbed his fingers together with his description, "Thicker that way. Cover the wound and add more every two days. In one week, change the dressing and again until healed. Will work. I promise."

Zevran was skeptical, but could not explain why. Their willingness to help him seemed gracious, but then again, he thought things were going better at the House too. His choices were to let the injury fester and hope for the best, try to find rinet or something else from his past he knew would work, or trust the generosity of these foreigners. Tentatively, the lad took the jar and nodded his thanks.

Then it dawned on him, "If I know of an herb, can you find it for me?"

They both smiled and bobbed their heads happily, "Of course! Nevarrans can get anything."

That evening, he carefully stripped apart his makeshift pillow into a series of small bandages and washed them with well water. Zevran had to admit he expected something different when he opened the brown jar and was just a tad disappointed to find a thick mixture with a sweet odor greet him. He took a narrow twig from the back forum and winnowed one end to spread a thin layer onto the cloth square. Just as he was about to place it on the burn, he heard a voice from the doorway.

"What are you doing?"

He stilled himself and peered up from his spot. Ren stood halfway into the room and regarded his roommate warily. They looked at each other for a moment before Zevran, his irritation finally getting the chance to lash out at someone, muttered a curse and flippant reply, "What of it?"

Ren seemed not to really care as he waltzed to his space beside the Daedric and dug into a small locked cupboard fitted into the wall above his cot. On any other evening, Zevran would be interested in what the Daelish man was up to, careful to discretely observe him without drawing any attention. Ren was very private and avoided most of the Salty Brood all together unless called upon by Taliesen. He worked alone and would be gone for long stretches of time before resurfacing. Zevran imagined he must be exhausted from such travel because his roommate would sleep for several days before resuming his routine. They never spoke, and Ren never offered any advice other than for the younger to keep his nose where it belonged.

Tonight, Zevran deliberately chose not to care in return. He tried too hard and it gained him nothing but contempt from someone he did nothing to. The dressing oddly felt comforting, but he was worried the bandage would slip if not secured. Carefully, he wrapped the cloth square with another piece of his old tunic and sat back with a wince.

A small bag dropped to his side. He looked up into the shadow above to see Ren's bland gaze returned.

"It will help with the pain," was all he said before lying down.

A bit caught off guard, the lad did not know what to do. He pulled the parcel toward him and searched its contents.

"Carnassi?" Zevran jerked back up in disbelief.

"It's called du'in." Ren's response was sharp. He sat up again and hissed, "You chew on it. Now, leave me be."

Zevran knew what the herb was, although the name Ren called it was novel. The dried, musky leaves were one of the first he got to experiment with back at the villa. The effects were relatively harmless, making Zevran drowsy more than anything. Not one to take a gift lightly though, he took a couple leaves for later, and tried to find a comfortable position to sleep.

The Nevarrans were right. Within several days, the pain in his shoulder was gone except when he touched it, or more likely, when Taliesen took a stick to it. That part of his back became a favored target in their daily spars. The Shem would chuckle a little when the lad buckled, giving a tisk and telling him to move faster in his usual jovial way.

"Let me see it," The housemaster demanded. "I want to know how it's healing."

Zevran glared at him and ignored the request to fill a cup with water instead. That did not suit the Shem as he marched over and grabbed the younger's upper arm to peer into his shirt. He eyes lit up and gave an impressed huff before letting the Daedric squirm out his grip, "Oh, are you trying mend it?"

"So!" He spat back, shocked at such invasion of his space. He rolled his shoulder uncomfortably, "What if I am!"

Taliesen grinned and laughed, picking up his discarded stick before turning back to the student, "Careful, if it heals too well, we might just have to do it again."

Zevran tightened his jaw and sent the coldest stare could muster, which only earned another guffaw.

"One day, you will wear it with pride, trust me," the housemaster said, pointing the end of his stick in Zevran's direction as he retreated into the center of the forum. Swinging the wood coolly, he wondered, "We should mark it, no?"

Mark it? Zevran frowned and contemplated throwing away his losses for the day.

"I'm sure Ren would oblige," He continued. "With a proper bribe, of course."

He scoffed in defeat, "He nigh speaks to me, what makes you think he would do anything I ask?"

"He's alright." Taliesen quirked his chin and nodded, "You nigh ask him the right questions, is all. You should have seen the look on his face when we attempted welcome him! Oh! Took two tries and a good amount of brandy!"

He stopped his pouting long enough to catch the final sentence, "You all are burned."

"Of course," he said it like it was obvious and normal. Taliesen dropped the wooden blade and pulled up his shirt to make his point. On his upper right shoulder was embossed with a darkened disk divided into quarters, each compartment of which extended a left-facing furl from the rim. He careened his head back to describe it better, "This is the House of Arnii. You are now one us, my friend."

He did not ask to be one of them, and Zevran did not like the way such wonton inclusion made him feel. But the results were rather permanent. Taliesen caught on to the dissatisfied grimace and thought to send a more candid reminder of the Daedric's reality, "You should nigh fuss so. Things could be way worse. We could have sent you back, and then where would you go? To the Hounds? Ha!"

"What are the Hounds?"

He scrunched his face like he smelt something bad, "The Hounds are where you go when you have nigh have a place to go. Mark me, they breed assassins that you neh should cross, but they're bastards in leather, they are."

Part of Zevran wanted to inquire further simply to better understand, but the other half of him felt bitter at the a description of a Guild his Master had such glowing fondness for.

Taliesen was not in the mood to explain anyway. He referenced back at the lad, "It nigh matters anymore. You are here and it is my task to train you to actually do something useful, yes?"