Sorry. This chapter isn't very good, and took me forever to get done. Transition chapter is transitiony and boring. Hopefully the next chapters will make up for this.
The following two days were a lesson in "everyone is hiding something." It didn't surprise Zevran in the slightest, honestly; everyone is out for themselves in the end, no matter how important the information may be, your 'friend' will keep it to themselves in an attempt to save face, or get what they really want. Yes, he knew the betrayal of friends and lovers all too well to be shocked by the numerous revelations, but what surprised him was that Catherine took it all with a sort of resigned indifference.
Morrigan had mentioned her mother had some grimoire taken from her by the Chantry, a decent story and seemingly harmless in nature - a way to, perhaps, humanize herself in the small band of misfits (no matter how much she may scoff at conformity, he knew better). Regardless of any desires the witch might have had to 'fit in', Zevran was – again – unsurprised to learn that her thirst for power and supremacy overrode such frivolities quickly, to the point of asking Catherine for help in retrieving the tome from the Circle, to which the dark-skinned mage simply nodded.
Catherine was no altruist; Zevran imagined she wanted the grimoire for herself as much as she wanted to return it to Morrigan, – they obviously had some odd form of friendship, or at least mutual respect – probably even more so.
Zevran had thought that would have been enough for her to have to deal with, truly, but the not-so-innocent Chantry sister had other plans. He had only just caught the conversation, Leliana admitting to being a bard, and a very good one by the sounds of it. Despite finally divulging her rather sordid past of seduction and information gathering, she was still hiding something – something that no doubt could harm Catherine. Not that he cared if some bitter noble came for revenge and got the mage in the process, it would, in fact, make his life easier; Zevran was not one who enjoyed being indebted to someone, no matter how ravishing they might be.
Part of him – that cruel, ruthless part that made him such and efficient Crow – wanted to finish the job he was sent to do, just to be free of her, even though she made no claims on him. He fought with it every day, it seemed; Catherine seemed so trusting of him, so at ease it made him feel ill at times – anyone foolish enough to trust him ended up dead. The woman was this incredibly odd mixture of cold pragmatism and calculating wit, with a sort-of-but-not-really innocence that came from being locked away in a tower her entire life. Catherine was by no means naive; the very thought of her being gullible or nonsensical would have no doubt been enough to convince him to leave. Not that he hadn't ever taken advantage of some young, confused thing before – he had and with great pleasure, even – but it had very little... draw for him; Zevran preferred partners that understood the game, to an extent.
As the hours crept by, the thoughts became all-consuming, though he never let on. She wasn't distracting, per se; he never felt like he was in danger from thinking of her so often, but she was an intriguing puzzle. The flirtatious mage was on one hand, very entertaining and engaging in conversation, intelligent and quick to barb with her dagger-like tongue, but on the other hand, she was often silently awed by simple things. Zevran one caught her dropping back behind the group to pick a flower, wistful smile plastered on her face as she twirled the stem between her thumb and forefinger, not unlike a young child finding some secret. He watched her from the corner of his eye as she took the little treasure and placed it between the pages of a small, worn book, before slipping it back into her pack; that beautiful, unguarded curve of her lips disappeared almost as soon as it had begun.
Her interest in simple things made sense given her lifetime surrounded by stone, but it was still bewildering at times, especially given her ruthlessness in battle. It seemed to be some unspoken agreement between the entire party that they humor Catherine's seemingly endless questions about life outside of her Tower. He had amused her on multiple occasions during their walks with talk of Antiva City's docks, the smell of Rialto Bay, and a tale or two of some of his earlier works as a Crow. For some unknown reason, he found himself... skimming over some of the more disgusting details of his sightings and exploits – the smell of rotting flesh and people selling themselves for a handful of copper didn't exactly make Antiva seem all that mystical.
The strangest thing was that he was quite sure Catherine knew he was leaving out the more morbid details, at times, and said nothing; she seemed completely content to close her eyes as he spoke of the hills of wildflowers in constant bloom, taking in every little detail he could remember of the colors and smells. When he was done with his tales, she would nod her head – whether in thanks or acknowledgment, he wasn't sure – give him a small quirk of her mouth, then continue on with whatever she was doing in camp before he had distracted her.
Eventually, he realized that, while the party seemed to be willing to go into details of their childhood or home, they never seemed to bring up Catherine. At first, he simply thought they had already discussed it, or perhaps that they all thought that because she was trapped in a prison, she had nothing interesting to add, but as time went on, he never once heard her drop even the smallest of details about her once-home, the only thing she ever seemed to talk about was someone named Arella, and even though it was obvious she cared about whomever this Arella was, she still rarely brought her up. This didn't set well with Zevran at all; he hated being at a disadvantage, and the worst part of it was that he did this to himself by... what was he trying to do by regaling her slightly exaggerated stories of his home? Of his work? It wasn't as if accidentally killing a mage was very impressive.
Maker, he hated her sometimes and it was all he could do to keep himself from slitting her throat while she slept. Occasionally, he could have sworn he heard Rinna's malicious laugh in the back of his head, mocking him for being saved by someone who would do nothing but remind him of his betrayal.
The assassin shook his head in a desperate attempt to ward away the images that always came with that line of thinking. In an endeavor to distract himself from Rinna's taunting, and his own guilt, Zevran set out from his tent in search for this merry band's fearless leader. It was night on their fourth day of travel, and the Circle Tower loomed on the horizon; a tall, shadowy sentinel amidst Lake Calenhad's near-black, thrashing waters. Catherine had insisted that they break camp out in the surrounding forest, rather than using the inn by the lake's shore; no one deemed to argue with her command.
To his trained eyes, she was obviously tense. Subtle things like her shoulders bunching, or her jaw clenching as she ground her teeth, and most of all, her large, chocolate-colored eyes kept flicking to where the shadowy pillar stood, despite not being able to actually see it through the trees. Now that the camp was settled and she had no watch for the night, she took her place by the fire, across from his currently standing position.
Catherine's little post-watch(or no-watch, as the case was) ritual well known to him. Not because he watched her constantly, mind you, but because of the absolutely stunning view she laid before him when she attempted to relax, book in hand and Damon as a pillow. The slight, but curvaceous woman wore a shift that was far too small for her, and were it not for her incredibly tight trousers, he would have gotten an even better show – though, honestly, with the pants as snug as they were... well they didn't leave much to the imagination, not that Zevran was complaining. Catherine let her hair down from it's messy bun, revealing that she had lustrous locks that flowed all the way down to her waist. The strands were jet-black and naturally wavy and the perfect length to make undressing her even more enticing than it already was.
The thought of her clothed only with her hair, bathed in firelight as she was now... he felt a small whimper emanate from his throat. Maker's Breath, he thought, rather angry as himself, I need to bed that woman.
Her purposefully husky chuckle drew him from his reverie. "Imagining me naked, Zevran?"
Zevran grinned and slunk over to her side, sitting down on the bedroll she had laid outside her tent in a seemingly single movement. "Not at all." he returned with a playful finger stroking the arch of her bare foot. "Technically, you were covered."
Her response was a roll of the eyes, but she made no move to stop his touching; the assassin decided it was an invitation, thus he twisted himself about so that he could prop her abused feet on his lap, and began to work both thumbs into the ball of one. Catherine let out an appreciative groan, closing her book, setting it aside almost in a reverent fashion.
"Mmm. I knew it was a good idea to keep you around." she murmured, gasping as his thumbs dug down into the arch. "Maker's balls, I should have known you'd be good at this."
A smug smirk crept onto his face, but he kept the number of lascivious comments on the tip of his tongue to himself. As enticing as it was to banter with his now-moaning savior, Zevran wanted to see if he could rub some answers out of her. If nothing else, this would at least let her know what she was missing.
"So, my kitten," he drawled, running his palms up and down the length of her sole, "I am curious: who is this Arella you've mentioned?" His hands moved to continue his ministrations on the neglected foot. "You don't seem the type to be so attached to a former lover."
The snort he heard would have done a horse proud – even the laughter afterwords was so hysterical is was akin to whinny. Confused, and more than a little concerned she was having some sort of female episode, Zevran stopped his massage, and gently began extricating himself from under her legs. He was almost free when a soft hand on his wrist stopped him. Catherine shook her head, a few errant locks of hair covering her eyes; he pointedly ignored the impulse to brush the hairs away.
"I'm sorry" she said between subsiding giggles, waving her hands about as if she were warding off some evil spirit. "It's just... the thought of... 'Rell and.. and" Catherine snorted again and clutched her stomach, whining in pain as she laughed so hard, tears came to her eyes. The clearly insane woman was completely unfazed when her living-pillow huffed and wandered off toward the monolithic Sten, causing her head to hit the ground with a dull 'thunk'. If she was hurt, the only indication Zevran got was the small, pathetic whimpering noises she made as she desperately tried to calm herself through a series of quick, ragged breaths.
Zevran had no idea how long it took her to calm down; asking her 'if she was done yet' only caused her to giggle even more to the point that he had to laugh with her. He had no idea what was so funny, or why he was laughing, but her sweet, slightly husky titters were contagious; he figured if he had to be infected by something, laughter with his little mage was an agreeable disease.
After Maker knows how long, they both finally seemed to be freed of whatever giggle-monster had suddenly decided to take hold of them, though it was more from exhaustion than any real desire to stop. Zevran decided to take hold of the reigns and let his fingers rub firm circles into her ankle, motioning with a nod of his head for her to continue.
Catherine's eyes drifted close, small smile gracing her lips as she spoke. "Arella Surana: she's this Elf I met when I first came to the tower." The smile grew a bit wider as she flexed her ankle in his hands. "She was annoying, bouncy, and all-smiles. Rell loved the Tower, even though she wasn't really amazing at anything. Well, until Wynne got a hold of her."
His hands crept up the curve of her cloth-covered calf, squeezing firmly in encouragement; she sighed heavily and nodded. "Wynne was this old biddy with a stick up her ass. She hated me, and tormented me because I couldn't get a handle on healing, while Arella mastered it within a few lessons." Catherine nudged his thigh with her untended foot in an unspoken command; Zevran obeyed, dragging his calloused hands up and down her shin.
"A friend, then?" he prodded.
"Yeah. A friend." she confirmed. "I miss her." The raw emotion in her voice caused his hands to stop; the soft, weak voice demanded that he look into her eyes. If he didn't know better, he would've sworn that her normally intense, mirthful eyes were damp.
Awkwardly, she drew her knees up to her chest and gave him a pathetic excuse for a smile, clearly distressed. "Thanks for the rubdown, Zev." A trembling hand patted him on his thigh. "Maybe next time we can nix the clothing, huh?"
With that, she drug her book and bedroll into her tent, not bothering to wait for an answer. He sat there for a time, brow furrowed to the point of giving himself a headache; he had no idea what just happened.
Figuring it was best for everyone that he forget this night ever happened, the elf hefted himself up and went over to his own abode, across the way from Catherine's. As he mechanically unbuckled the straps of his armor, he heard Rinna return with a vengeance.
Oh, how delightful, the sickeningly sweet voice of his once-lover taunted, your new pet feels comfortable around you. I wonder if she'd feel so safe if she knew you thought of slitting her throat more often than making love to her.
Zevran growled to himself, grinding his teeth painfully as he toed off his boots and slid on the trousers he used to sleep in, before slipping into his bedroll. If he just ignored her...
Aw. What is it, Zev? She's no more beautiful than I was... and I bet she's nowhere near as flexible. Images of Rinna tangled in his bedsheets flashed before his eyes. Nights of wild, passionate love-making, bodies covered in sweat and other bodily fluids. It was primal and loud and--
Suddenly, the image of his elven assassin lying next to him was clear; he remembered that night. It was the night of their mission, and Taliesin had told him of her 'betrayal. The chestnut haired woman lying in the crook of his arm was sleeping peacefully, contentedly, occasionally snuggling in closer in unconscious state.
Despite the loving scene in his mind, Zevran had no tender feelings from that evening. Contempt. Hatred. Betrayal. All of those things burned in his heart as his memory-self pressed his lips against her forehead.
"Fino a quando ci incontreremo di nuovo, caro mia*." he breathed against her skin.
Tears stung his eyes, but did not fall free; it was always the same when he thought of that night, remembering so clearly the pain, like a hot poker burning a hole in his chest. He had so desperately wanted to confess his feelings, perhaps to turn her away from her betrayal, but his inner Crow wouldn't allow it. Rinna betrayed him, betrayed their mission, betrayed the Crows and death would be her punishment. Honestly, it was far kinder than the unspeakable things the masters enjoyed subjecting traitors to, even loyalists got the treatment on occasion, to remind them. Or, at least, that's how he rationalized it.
Zevran shuddered involuntarily and clenched his eyes closed, tossing and turning in an attempt to ward off the next scene that always followed. His entire body tensed in anticipation and fear... but nothing came. No blood, no tears, no declarations of love. A sigh of relief whooshed out of him as he let himself relax slightly, slowing allowing sleep to overtake him, praying fervently for a dreamless night.
*Fino a quando ci incontreremo di nuovo, caro mia. = Until we meet again, my dear.