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Title: A Murder of Crows 13/?
Author: Rhion
Rating: AO
Summary: F!Surana and Zevran each have their secrets. Some are stranger than others. The trouble with secrets is that they are best kept by only one person. But there's always someone else who knows the hidden things.
AN: Okay, so, let's have a rundown, shall we? I have A Murder of Crows, A Guild-ed Cage, Children of Shattered Arlathan, and The Faithless Mark. Can I get an official "Rhion you are fucking insane"?
jannifer got to this one before bellaknoti did. Let's thank both of them for their love and support and kicking in my pants. They both try so hard to keep me on track, and it... succeeds. For the most part. Well, at least The Faithless Mark is a short story. Relatively speaking. Okay fine, short series. Six chapters. Maybe seven. CoSA is longer. Much longer. As is Murder and Guilded. I'm still stalled on G12 though, but that's okay, next week I post the next chapter of CoSA.

XXX
Murder 13
XXX

Ser Prize trotted back to him, the little sack Zevran had fashioned for the mabari dragged behind him, "Ah, more onions and potatoes?" A grunt and the dog deposited his prize at the Crow's feet, woofing while shaking his stout bottom this way and that. Chuckling, the Antivan scooped up the bag, sorting through it as he walked before handing it off to Wynne so he could reward Ser Prize. "Ah, you are a very smart dog my friend. A fine dog." Scratching the beast's head behind the ears and down to the heavy shoulders, "And Alistair said it could not be done! Huzzah, we shall show him, yes?"

"I always said that he was the stupidest one," Morrigan looked as though she would smile. "'Tis a marvel that you had the patience to teach that beast to dig for such."

Ser Prize ran in a circle, chasing his non-existent tail, before going on his hind legs to lick Zevran's shoulder. "All it takes is showing him what is to be done a few times, my good wild witch. Is it not he who digs our firepits and latrines each eve? It has been that way since I joined this splendid group, so I shall assume that he learned that from somewhere," giving a few last vigorous rubs to the mabari's sides and back.

Morrigan smirked, "Well, 'tis apparent that the adage about dogs is not always true."

Curiosity piqued, "I am unfamiliar with it."

Wynne cleared her throat. "The saying goes that you cannot teach an old dog, new tricks. Have you not heard it before?"

"My olive bowl is not empty, dearest Wynne," laying on a thick, glowing tone of voice, leering at her faintly.

"Your... olive.. bowl?" giving him an odd look.

Leaning back, arms hooked behind his head, "It is a saying. It means stupid. An olive bowl should never be empty, and when it is – it is no good to anyone. Just as a stupid person is of no use."

"Oh, I can think of a few uses for the mindless," Morrigan murmured softly.

"That's a strange saying," the Circle mage ignored the apostate's statement. "I've never heard it."

"And how many languages do you speak, darling Wynne?" prodding her, the Antivan maintained a light exterior. It was the easiest way of dealing with the woman he had found, as it generally made her too flustered to continue bothering him. "I am quite the cunning linguist and speak three fluently, and five passably. I do not find it hard to imagine that your tongue may be more nimble than mine, such a fine bird would have accumulated many... tricks by now."

"I am conversant in Tevinter and Ferelden of course," mouth thinning to a flat line.

Kicking at a small stone on the track they were following, "Ah, and do you know all of Tevinter's many, colorful expressions?" Smiling broadly, "Have you had cause to use it in day to day affairs, such as I have? Experienced and well traveled my tongue may be, but not even I could claim to know all the delightful ways things twist about in the mouth."

A soft sound of disgust, before speeding up her steps, "Must you make light of everything?"

This left he and Morrigan back in their small bubble of space, "Ah, now there is an old dog who has no ability to learn new tricks. Tchk, a shame."

"'Tis a good thing she is incapable," a sneer twisting her face on one side up. "Otherwise, she would take up blood magic simply to silence you."

"Or to turn me into a toad?" winking, letting his arms drop back down to his sides.

The apostate sniffed, "Not even my mother could redo what is already done."

Leaning over so he could nudge the taller woman with his shoulder, in overt familiarity just to watch her flinch. "So what tricks do you think she should learn? Mmn? To dismount from her high horse? Now that would be an excellent trick."

Morrigan sighed, reaching out as though she would touch him as she stopped, "No, the trick she should learn most is to stay away from others' business."

"Others'...business...?" eyes narrowing as he turned fully to look at her. "And whose business has she been in?"

"Someone who is too impressionable at times," her bottom lip folded in over her teeth, then popped out as she spoke, uneasy. "Someone who would not be glad to take advantage of others and her position over those in her care..."

Blood rushed to his head, and he cast a hard glance ahead, the name guttural in his mouth, "Wynne." Fists clenched, rounding back on the apostate, "And what did she say?"

"It is not my place to say, elf," a hesitation on the words. "I can only tell you that there are reasons that you have been...alone of late. And that they are not of your making."

Throat tight in controlled anger, "How much of the healing arts do you know, fair Witch?"

"Little," it was an aggravated sigh. "Otherwise I would counsel you to do as you are inclined."

"Pfah, commeidrda, hija de puta," grunting and forcing himself to be satisfied with that for now.

But there would be a reckoning.

XXX

The leash he had been holding himself on snapped. He had been doing his best to ignore Lahar's conversation with Alistair, who had been making noises of affection at her. However, next thing he knew he was jumping through the campfire, flames licking at his clothes but not quite catching, as he aimed for Alistair and hauled him away from Lahar by the back of his chest-plate, using leverage and momentum with the rush of adrenaline screaming in his veins to slam the sturdy Templar to the ground. A hand pressed tight to Alistair's neck holding him in place, while his other rocked back to slam forward into the young man's face. Bone crunched, and the boy roared, bucking as he regathered his wits. Flipping backwards onto his hands, spinning his legs from the hip down, he clipped the man in the jaw, the force of the blow sending him stumbling back.

Keeping himself between Lahar and the shem, the Antivan began to weave side to side, waiting to hear his mage being pulled away by Leliana. And then he dove forward once more, latching onto Alistair's waist in a bum's rush, so that even though the Templar had been moving forward, Zevran's speed and hidden sturdiness carried them several meters back and away from the fire. An armored elbow cracked the crown of his un-helmeted head, doing nothing more than rattling his brain in his skull.

Grunting, "Tchk, you think that will do anything, boy?"

"Have you gone mad? Let me go, Zevran!" Alistair was struggling, but even as strong as he was, Zevran's weight added to the Templar armor was making it difficult to move.

Spinning up from the ground, forearm locking around the human's neck, Zevran began dragging Alistair behind him, who had to resort to an awkward backwards scramble to keep his neck from breaking. "You ask if I have gone mad?" Once they were far enough from the others, who were all in a flurry of motion from the scuffle, the Crow released the young man to fall to the ground. Planting his foot on the center of the Templar trained youth's chest, pinning him to the ground, "What made you think it was wise to kiss her?"

Hands locked around his ankle, but could not budge or throw him off, "You don't own her! She owns you!"

Bending over, Zevran felt his muscles bulge as he hauled the shem up to stand, voice suddenly cool and collected, "And this gives you leave to kiss her?"

"She left you behind," stormy eyes glared at him with open hostility. "Lahar doesn't take you anywhere anymore. You're in the dust – where you belong. Away from her."

Cold seeped through his hardened bones, and Zevran stepped back casually before rounding a hard kick into the sword embossed plate of Alistair's armor, denting it. "That may be so, Templar, but she is a mage."

"Templar trained!" yelling before diving for Zevran in a fair imitation of the elf's earlier actions.

Stepping aside before grabbing the boy again, hard enough that leather strained and groaned before the straps snapped, "Close enough!" Yanking the metal from the boy, he slammed the offensive armor into the trunk of a tree. "A Templar in all but vows and name! One of her jailors." Hissing he dropped the plate to the ground, lunging and tearing the helmet that hung from Alistair's belt away, squeezing the cheek-plates, which moaned in metallic pain. "Wearing Templar armor you kissed her! Dressed as a menace and a jailor and a cruel reminder of a life she is glad to be rid of!" The helmet creaked, squealing as Zevran vented his anger on the metal.

"Maker! What are you doing?" scrambling away in obvious horror as Zevran punished the offensive metal.

Baring his teeth, the Crow snarled, "Removing the trash and stench of this abomination." Allowing the partially crumpled helmet to fall beside the breastplate, he stalked the Fereldan, murder on his mind. It had been Templars, he was sure, who had abused Lahar so much, and this fool boyhad dared to force a touch of intimate nature upon her. "You had best allow me to take that filth from you. Or I will remove it from your corpse."

Alistair drew himself up, "It's just armor."

"That is not 'just armor'," darting in close to yank at the purple skirt, the heavy, lyrium thread woven material tearing loudly. "Templars are the source of all woes that fall upon mages. And you go to her dressed as one?"

"Maker! I would never hurt her!" spitting in righteous anger, swinging a fist at him.

Feet kicking and fists flying, they fell in a tangle, but Zevran would not leave off. He would pry the marks from the human, or he would wind up killing him for the trespass. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't kill Alistair anyway. The look of terror on Lahar's face as Alistair had cupped her head in gauntleted hands, the resignation and fruitless hopelessness in her tiny little sound of anguish, the way her body froze, unable to fend off the advance – that was screaming in the assassin's head. He had seen that look, he had had that look before. He had always hated that look. On anyone, even targets. And this...this...Oh he had no words for what Alistair was. Dead man, he is a dead man! a litany of anger and frustration.

By the time Zevran had stripped all of the metal and trappings from the shem, his rage had slackened enough so there was little likelihood that he would turn it on anyone else. At least, not fully. So long as no one set him off again. Too long without sleep moaned inside the confines of his mind.

Panting over the pile of ruined armor, he turned his gaze on the shocked Templar. "No matter if she left me behind Alistair. Mark my words, someone who has the ability to rob her of the things that make her who she is, is not someone she would ever have truck with." Pointing at the pile, "Sell it for scrap. Burn it. Bury it. Do whatever you must. But if you ever dress as a Templar near her again, I will not spare you. And if you even entertain using your abilities on her – you will wish I killed you this night for a thousand more, because I will turn everything I know on you, and you will understand pain." Kicking the crumpled helmet so that it landed squarely in Alistair's lap. "And even then, it will not be a fraction of what your kind have heaped upon her."

Shakily the young man stared at him. "Maker's Breath...what...what did they do to her to make you..."

"Pray you never find out, boy," completely calm once more, running hands through his mussed hair.

There was a loud gulp as he examined the mangled helmet. "You...ah...you've gotten stronger?"

Sighing, Zevran relented, thankful for the change of subject. "No."

"Maker's Breath," rolling the helmet this way and that before glancing up at him, "But, I've seen you fight. You're...you're no raw recruit, but...this?" holding up the helmet.

"Fighting in the Crows is not like fighting here. Battle cannot be so open and obvious, boy, or nothing would get done," shrugging. Making a hand into a partial claw that was not fully revealed in the dusky light, "Your bones in places are thick, like your shield arm, or you would not be able to bash things so hard. Mine are thick everywhere." Rapping knuckles on his temple, "You may pack a punch, Alistair, but you would need a shovel to do much to my head. Now, enough of Crow secrets. I must see to Lahar and repair any damage you caused if she will allow it. I advise you do not go near her for a time."

XXX

Lelianna and Morrigan were hovering around Lahar who was doing her level best to make them go away.

"Please, I don't know why you're fussing, but I'm fine," calm but slightly annoyed. "It was nothing."

"I could turn him into a toad for you," Morrigan was offering, "that is if the assassin has not relieved him of his useless head. Or at least lock him in a dream that makes him believe he is a toad."

The bard shook her head, "I don't think he would do that. Zevran is a good man."

"Ah, your vote of confidence is appreciated," dipping a fast bow at the Orlesian. "However, dear Alistair needs some company."

Faster than Lahar could argue, Morrigan was grabbing Leliana and heading off with her in tow. "I suppose we should see what condition the buffoon is in, else we shall never hear the end of it!"

Alone with Lahar for the first time – while she was awake, that is - since the meeting by the stream, Zevran schooled his features carefully. "He will not be doing that again, bonita. You have nothing at all to fear from him. He has promised never to turn his abilities on you as well."

He was fudging that a little, for he had received neither promise from the shemlen, but it was best to let her think that Alistair had volunteered such a pledge rather than be more in fear of life and limb.

"You didn't have to do that," she wasn't looking at him exactly, but she wasn't looking away from him either. "I know he wouldn't hurt me. I should go and tell him that we're okay, and I'm not mad, that...that he had just caught me off-guard."

Zevran moved to stand before her, wary of touching her yet, "Amante, leave it. Let it lie. Allow yourself a little time, yes? Him as well, he needs to collect his tattered pride."

"No, Zevran, I overreacted," shaking her head, Lahar finally met his gaze. There was that ill concealed pain in them, that never forgotten horror brought close to the surface. Haunted. "I just forgot for a moment who he was, and how...innocent he is. If he had known anything about what it was like, he wouldn't have done that."

"Mi cielo, tell me what it was like," saying softly, reaching up to touch her chin with a single crooked finger. "I am here, and I am willing to listen."

"It's...it's not fair to you, Zev," gaze dropping away from him. "I rely on you too much. You never get any rest, and...and...you carry me too much. It isn't right to use you like that."

Keeping the touch gentle, he pushed her chin up, urging her to look at him again. "And who would tell you such a thing, preciosa?"

"Zevran, it's...do you do this because you think you have to?" her fingers curling around his wrist. "Because you think you're supposed to?"

"If I were not enamored of the idea, I would have abandoned it some time ago beyond when it was necessary," stepping closer, but not increasing their contact until he was sure it would not be met with fear. "Lahar, it is not as though I do much, I listen while you work out whatever problem is at hand. Occasionally I offer advice – mostly it is when you ask, that I give it." Running his thumb along her chapped and swollen bottom lip, indicating the sexual aspect of their relationship, "And I share this with you because I like to. It is a relief from the day to day, the time we spend alone."

She closed her eyes, but leaned away, a pained expression on her face, poorly hidden. "I'm a Warden, I need to stand on my own. I'm supposed to. And, I can't keep standing only by the will of the people around me. If I can't stand on my own, I shouldn't be leading at all."

"No leader stands entirely on their own," closing the remaining distance, pulling her to him in a loose hold that she would be able to leave easily. "A leader must have followers, otherwise there is nothing to lead. You must rely on that at least, you must be aware of it. Understand that. A leader is only as strong as their weakest follower, and the group is only as strong as its weakest link." Tucking his chin over her head, "A leader is the voice, face and mind of a group. It can function without a hand or a leg, but the body suffers, as does the task set it. But it can work, mi diosa. Yet remove the ability to give will and voice and thought – the direction is aimless. Have you ever seen a chicken killed?"

Lahar shook her head. "No."

"Cut the head off and the body runs around for several minutes before collapsing in a pile of its own waste," using that to drive his point home. "None of us could lead or accept a leader other than you. You do not tolerate our differences. Your baggage and personality do not allow for us to quibble in such a way that we cannot continue forward. Without you, we will collapse after bits of us run around. Morrigan would leave, I would kill Alistair and Wynne, Sten would go off and try to find the Archdemon and die. Leliana will go to a monastery and die fighting the darkspawn. Eventually the Guild would find me, as I have taken too long, and I would be killed for dithering." Squeezing her to him, "Surely you see this,amante?"

"You led just fine while I was in a coma," it wasn't accusing, merely an observation. "If something happened to me, it would be you who could actually do something."

Sighing into her hair, he closed his eyes. "Ah, however we were assured that you would recover, and I was the only Dalish one in our number. The only 'expert'."

"So I lead by default, because there's no one else?" Her breath was cold, as was her face where it pressed into his hunched shoulder. "That's stupid. You do know that's stupid, right?"

Smiling, "Oh yes, I am very aware of that. But, how much do you know of history? People do what they must when there is no one else to do what must be done."

"Practicality is the only true hero," mumbling into his chest. "Then again, if that's true, why don't I see any statues to you around? They should be everywhere."

Laughing in surprise at the insight, he was able to counter with a fact that was not well known, even in the Crows. "Actually, there are several in fact."

Lahar leaned back from him, frowning in disbelief. "What? Where?"

"Hmmn, the last one I posed for was ah...what? Four years ago?" plumbing memory. "In a few gardens around the more elite villas on Antiva City's outskirts. And one positively vulgar one in Lord Pednicci's bedroom."

"Blood and stone!" giggling. "How did that happen?"

Shrugging, glad to see the darkness fall away from her features if even for a moment and even at his expense, "It seems I got around certain circles. There was even a feud between two sculptors once over who had the rights to use me in their art." That was an amusing memory, at least up to a point, which didn't need to be said. The disagreement had escalated to a point where they had taken contracts out on each other, and neither man had known that he was a Crow. So of course the House of Crows, being the model of efficiency that it was, gave him both assignments. But he had not completed them until after they had finished their last pieces. Aware of the fact that the complete story would be too twisted for Lahar, Zevran went with the edited events. "Sadly it resulted in their untimely deaths. Then again, the value of their last works went up exponentially. Which were both of me..."

However, Lahar was intelligent and started laughing harder. "Dear Maker! I should be horrified, but I just can't be!"

Cocking his head to the side, the Antivan pursed his lips. "And why should you be horrified?"

"Oh, don't play innocent," giggling so hard she had to lean her head back into his chest, "you're the one who took the contracts I bet."

Snorting, "Ah, that is a bet I shall have to respectfully decline, as you have found me out."

Arms slipped slowly around his waist, her words suddenly quiet, "Zev...um. Would...would you like to share a...a tent with me tonight? If...if that's acceptable to you."

Hoping to return the tone back to lightness, in light of her decidedly black humor, "Oh? Is there something that needs assassinating in there? That is my specialty."

"Actually," she was looking up at him, a hand coming to touch his jaw, "I suppose so. When you stay, you chase the bad things away. There's monsters in the Fade, and they...they stay away when I'm with you." The tiny Warden turned crimson when she added, "Maybe because you wear me out too much for them to bother with me."

Turning his face enough so her fingertips coasted over his lips, "Hmn, and here I thought it was my sheer awesome monster killing capabilities that kept them away. Antivans find that keeping a pet assassin in their bed tends to keep the riffraff away. Excluding the assassin of course."

"While yes, I do have to agree your tendency to make ground meat of any monsters in your way is awe inspiring," Lahar wove their fingers together, her expression earnest, "you're still not riffraff. Nor are you anyone's pet, least of all mine."

Ah, but my dear, I am, keeping that to himself. Rather he tugged on their twined hands. "Come then, let us test out the suitability of our pallet so that I may prepare for both wearing you out and banishing any impertinent monsters who might bother you."

He stood next to the tent, holding the flap wide, and swept his other hand out in an inviting gesture. "After you, amante."

She crawled in, casting him a strange look over her shoulder as he followed her within. "Why do you call me that...all those things?" she asked quietly, pulling off her boots.

The canvas flooring was better than bare ground, and though the Crow hadn't used it in the weeks Lahar had spent keeping herself separate, he had set up their tent the same way each night. Their pallets were both combined and far nicer than what they had when they first met the Dalish. A veritable pile of blankets were made into a nest that would roll up neatly when not in use, and even a small sack that could be made into a pillow by stuffing the unnecessary blankets into it. Or dirty laundry. Which was what he usually used, at least for Lahar as she had that strange affection for the scent of the clothing he had already worn. Not that she generally used the pillow feature much, as he was usually relegated to that status. However, Zevran had replicated the way they had come to agree upon as theirs for the set up of their small sleeping space, minus only two things: his Warden and her pack.

Sitting on the pallet beside her, copying her movements and discarding his own footwear, "Perdonemé, mi hermosa pequeña, it is a long standing habit of calling beautiful things as they are. That and," shifting as he shucked out of his shirt, holding it out to her, "I have always felt odd saying them in Ferelden."

Lahar's hand reached out to take his shirt from his grasp, hand hovering with indecision for a moment. "Why is that?"

Setting the tunic aside, he went to work on the stays of her short robes, figuring that that would be the fastest way to get them back in normal territory. "It is a coarse language, no poetry. The flow, it is all wrong."

"Oh," going to her knees the tiny Warden wiggled out of her outer layers.

Slipping his palms over her shoulders, he kissed her forehead. "Preciosa, it means 'precious'." Cupping her cheeks, Zevran nuzzled at her face, lips not quite touching hers. "Because you are in many ways." He wanted to rid Lahar of that haunted look in her eyes, and if that meant he had to be like this, he could do that. Up until now he had not used words in this way with her, shying away from it, not wanting to murmur sweet nothings that were often nothing more than empty air. "Princesa, because to me, you are like a little snow princess," this garnered him a small giggle, which might have to do with how light his touch was on the small of her back or the sentiment itself. Unhooking her breast-bind, "Mi niña for my girl, and see, does that not sound strange in Ferelden? The layers of meaning are different here." Dipping down so he could swirl his tongue over one of her nipples, "Bonita, beautiful girl, and you are. Look at this face you have," running a finger along her jaw, "you are pretty and lovely."

Lahar's eyes darted over his face, searching him for sincerity. "Surely you've seen better."

"Of face or body - I would be lying pequeña, my little one, if I said that I had not," tracing the winged arches of her eyebrows and the high lines of her cheekbones. "Yet, they were not you. A pretty face or a voluptuous body does not make up for ugly insides, did you not say this as well? You are rare in that you are outside what you are inside. But make no mistake - you are far from plain."

"If you say so," uncertain, but clearly not sure whether to question him or to accept it.

His personal vote was for her to accept his words. Why is it different to say these things to her? I have said much similar and intense things to others. However, I did tell Alistair I would fix whatever damage he had done with his reckless, unthinking assault.

"Mmn, I say so, hermosa pequeña mia, my lovely little one," picking and choosing the layers of meaning that were closest he could find in Ferelden, rather than literal ones. Urging her to lay back on the pile of bedding, he hovered, braced on one arm so he could run his other hand over her torso. "Mi cielo, for my sky. It is a sweet thing, in Ferelden the closest I can think of is 'my sweet', but calling you that just sounds odd." Laying slow, open mouthed kisses over her chest, working his way down to the underside of a round breast. "Perhaps I could call you, mi dulce vida, my sweet life, would you like that?"

Fingers went to his hair, taking the braids out so she could work the digits through the strands. "I only want to hear what you think. If that's what you think, then you can say it. I don't want...empty things."

Pausing, the Antivan slid back up to her face, so he could look her right in the eye. "I could serenade you with many of those things. But I have not as you are right, empty things do not belong between us. So I have only ever said what I have thought with you, when I speak."

"Good," she leaned up, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, hugging him. "Me too, just...just so you know."

Pressing down on her so he could push his arms under her back, returning the hug, "I know mi diosa, my goddess, my dangerous, deadly, sexy goddess."

"That is over the top, you realize that, right?" He could feel her lips curving into a smile against his neck though. "I'll grant you the deadly, but sexy...not so much."

The Crow chuckled, not relinquishing his tight hold on her, partially because she didn't seem ready to release him either. "Ah, you do not know the mind of a man. It is a dark and strange place, a man's mind is. There is this thing you do when you are confused and unguarded. Your nose it...crinkles. And your lips - they purse, becoming plump and pink. It is all very...ah...enticing."

Demonstrating the very behaviour he had just described, his Warden tipped her head back so she could see him. "Enticing? What? Why?"

"Because, it is very much the same face you make right after you have gained an orgasm, and it reminds me of that fact every time." Leaving unsaid what should be rather obvious - that with each reminder, he wished to see that face again.

"Oh," squirming under him, hands stroking the backs of his shoulders.

He could tell she was simply trying to gain more contact with his skin and not being purposefully sensual. That did not detract from the pleasantness of cool hands touching the tightness of his muscles. Alistair may not have done any damage to him, but Zevran's body was not so used to flexing that way anymore with no warning. Possibly a hallmark of age, Tchk, but it is most likely an indication of how easy I've been taking it since...Rinna. And as usual he shied away from that thought.

Distracting himself, he pulled away from Lahar, returning once again to kissing her body, taking a meandering path to her hips. "Mmn, what else are you? Ah, I know." Pressing his mouth to linen covered pubic mound as he breathed deep of the earthiness that was 'woman'. "Mi tierra, my earth, to go with my sky. I am kept here, alive, with you overhead and you below me. See? You are my goddess of earth and air, elements you smell of, that you wield." Pulling at the ties of her smallclothes, where the little knots were at her hips, "You may lead, but you trust me to be on top. To protect you, to travel your lands, in ways you have not let others."

"But...but I have, I...I let..." her muscles stood in sudden relief.

Stopping what he was doing immediately; he had no intention whatsoever of frightening her, not right now, for she was in a delicate state, no matter the strong front she presented. "No, you did not let them do anything. They took. There was no 'letting'. But with me, you 'let'. You even ask sometimes, you allow me what you have never allowed another."

Rolling onto his knees, Zevran grabbed his long forgotten shirt, tugging at her shoulder so she would half sit up. Pulling the linen and silk blended tunic over her head and watching as she pushed her arms through the sleeves, he felt frighteningly protective. Tonight was probably too soon anyway to expect sex, and besides, he was tired. Not only that, but his head still hurt. An armored elbow to the skull may not crack his, but it still left a good headache. For a moment he debated removing his trews, but held off, instead laying down beside his mage. She snagged the blankets and got them situated around them, even tucking the fabric around his feet, before she snuggled into him.

"Do you...not want to?" Peach soft cheek rubbing over his shoulder, arm draped around his middle, fingers touching the ties to his pants.

Licking his lips, he stilled his woman's nervous plucking. "We do not have to. It has been a long day, and we are both tired."

Propping herself up on an elbow, Lahar worked at the knots, loosening them. "I can do whatever you need me to."

Allowing it, Zevran made himself relax. "If you wish to touch me, amante, my lover, that would be...a relief."

It was only after Lahar was curled up asleep, that he realized that she had avoided answering him about anything he asked. Again. Rubbing his forehead, the Crow fought the embrace of sleep for a while longer. Always side-stepping me, changing the subject without seeming to, arching his back just enough for his spine to give a soft 'pop', Tchk, either I am losing my touch, or she is simply that masterful. I wonder – does she even realize she does this? Is it on purpose? He pushed one of his legs between hers as he rolled onto his side, making sure he didn't dislodge her head from the pillow of his folded arm. Or is it some survival instinct?

The thought was a plague, yet a goodly portion of the Antivan was sure she didn't do it to be difficult, nor to be maddening. Nuzzling at the nape of her neck, pushing some of her hair away, Zevran kissed the skin with uncharacteristic affection, At least it makes her interesting. By now he usually had lovers completely broken down and put into their respective compartments. People were not that tricky in general. Also by now, he would generally be bored with someone so easily picked apart.

Lahar was an enigma, not so much a thing that was hard to understand – for she was rather easy in that regard – but difficult to know fully. Much like he was. And again with the similarities. As though they were like opposite ends of a pendulum's swing.

XXX

A good night's sleep was exactly what he had needed most, Zevran decided. However it was tempered by the fact that Lahar had still left him to guard the party's cart. Which meant he was once more in Wynne's company. Wynne, who had been shooting him not so surreptitious glowers. Or as close to glowers as the old woman would admit to giving. The old bat was dignified in her disapproval, carrying herself as regally as any queen.

After several hours of such treatment, his own irritation finally flared. "Sometimes I feel like I am still in Antiva."

Morrigan was walking beside him as usual. "Oh? And why would that be, elf?"

"Such as I tend to incur the looks that could kill from many," shrugging. "In Antiva, men walking with their daughters would often interpose themselves between myself and their offspring. As if the very sight of an armed elf would sully them. Mothers would hide their faces, looking away upon seeing me frequently."

"'Tis a fact that perhaps they just thought you ugly," casting him a glance.

"Sadly, no. If that were the case I would not have minded much," rubbing his chin in mock thought. "Wynne, could you perhaps hazard a guess as to why they would treat me in such a way?"

The mage chose her words carefully, "I can not claim to know. It might have been your bearing, or your...overt personality."

"Ah, but in Antiva all are gilded in sensuality," waving it off. "Surely there must have been some reason for me to be subjected to such cruelty?"

"Your impertinence and manner speak loudly to anyone. You shout out your devil-may-care attitude, and there is only ever one thing on your mind," the old woman said, as if she could even claim to know what was on his mind.

Ugh, you are as one-sided as a Chantry argument! silently fuming.

Instead he countered, "Ah, but such as I, an assassin and an elf – our frequently short lives are far too cruel! If I did not find joys and laughter where I could, I would never have any." Feigning a sad sniff, "Oh Fortuna, she is harsh to we elves. It makes me wish to cry..."

Dripping disapproval, "Do keep your filthy self away from my bosom."

"Oh, but I wish to cry, my darling Wynne, and your bosom looks so soothing," crooning at her, half hoping to incite her to say something that would invite him to shoot off a verbal beating, so he could vent at her while of course maintaining his facade of 'playing well with others'. He didn't want to give Wynne any ammunition to use against him to Lahar. Not that he thought she would listen, but the superior woman had already proved that she could guilt his Warden into setting him aside. Hopefully it wouldn't work a second time, but he was unwilling to chance it.

With imperious scorn, Wynne huffed, "I do not understand why Lahar would waste her time with a... philanderer like you."

Pouncing on the opening she so nicely gave him, "Ah, but it is her choice, is it not? She is an adult and as such can make her own choices, all by herself, just like the big girl she is." Pointing out what should be obvious, "It is her life, and not yours, yes? Then just as a parent watches their child take their first steps and first falls, should you not allow her to take her own falls and steps without interference?"

"Oh, your words may be wise, but your intent is not. Seeking to put me off in my counsel for your own ends is not the hallmark of a good man." She drew herself up. "My advice is only given so that she may keep her attention squarely where it should be - upon the Blight and her duties as a Warden."

Morrigan's pace slowed, a sound of complete disgust issuing from her throat, with which Zevran agreed completely. As though Lahar taking a lover would keep her from her duties. Pfah! Meddlesome and superior bitches should know their places!

Narrowing his eyes, "And how exactly does my being her Bonded and lover keep her from such a focus?" Pointing out, "When have I ever sought to distract her from this? When has she undertaken some quest in my name to ease the burdens of guilt? Which, I may add, she has done for you. We returned to the Dalish not four days after leaving, so that you could find information on your lost apprentice. And then we sought him out. Was that not a distraction?"

"No, it was a kindness that I am grateful for." Obviously unable to see the flaw in her logic, no matter that he was pushing it squarely in her face.

The Crow could feel his facial muscles trying to twitch in irritation. There is no arguing logic with the devoutly thick headed. Why do I even bother? Counting to a thousand via prime numbers, Zevran forcibly held his tongue firmly in his mouth, or he would say things that were not only rude, but counterproductive. But oh how tempting it was to simply let loose.

Rubbing his forehead, "I have nothing invested here except to serve Lahar and discharge my blood debt in return for life and freedom. Since my Warden serves to combat the Blight, this means that as I serve her, I serve to combat the Blight as well. What more can you possibly expect?"

"I expect for you to cease distracting her." The Circle mage cast him a glance, "But I see I've made you angry. You don't like being taken to task for your ills. Fortunately, I am not sad to do so. Eventually, someone will put you in your place."

"Braska, you are a judgmental, ignorant and truly blind woman," shaking his head, his fingers going to a small vial in his baldric after he slipped a needle from an inner pocket near his belt, dipping it in the vial of magebane. "You cannot even see the world from the way you carry yourself, nose so high in the air. Can you be so truly blind that you can't understand that people like me exist so that people like you can have the chance to have some sort of choice in your lives? And you look down on me for it? Someone has to do the dirty work, whether we have some choice in what we become or are forced into it! It could just as easily have been you becoming what I am, if not for an accident of birth!"

"I would never sink to such a level," Wynne snapped at him waspishly.

"Oh, it stings having the shoe on the other foot?" Zevran moved closer to her so he could nick her with the magebane dipped needle before she could guess his intent.

Wynne sucked in a sharp breath, clapping a hand over her other. "You! What have you done? I knew it – assassin and whore you are, pricking everything in your way to get rid of it!"

Catching the woman as she crumpled, Zevran snarled. "I am a whore, a very highly priced, skilled and artistic one, thank you." Seeing the sudden fear in her eyes brought him no joy, "I used only enough magebane to keep you malleable, so that perhaps you will listen to what I am saying. It may be a vain hope that you hear my words and comprehend them, but for Lahar's sake I will try. So, I ask you, is the healer better than the Templar? Is the barrel maker better than the smith? They are jobs and artisans. They are roles in society that must be filled." Lifting her to his shoulders, Zevran carried her back to Bodhan's cart, depositing her in it. "And so you despise me, no matter that I fill a function that someone always must fill. You cannot see that I am a person beyond a job description. How like the Tevinter Archons you are, handing down judgments, never mind that it is not your job. Would you like the power of life and death to be in your hands? How many would you rule as being unnecessary, just as they did? How many slaves would you label as evil for simple fact that they do what they are ordered to so that they may have a illusion of life?"

Wynne's mouth opened and closed futilely, struggling to grind out, "Lahar...will hear of this."

"Oh yes, she will, as I will tell her." Whistling sharply for Ser Prize, he pointed at the mage. "Sit on her. Do not let her fall from the cart. I shall go find us a camp now." Bodhan and Sandal were staring at him, having long since stopped the wagon as soon as Wynne began to falter moments ago. Waving a hand at them, "Do not worry yourselves my friends, she will be well shortly. But now I must take my leave to search for a camp."

Morrigan was smirking in satisfaction, nodding at him as he left. He knew she was capable of guarding the cart on her own, that and Bodhan was handy enough in a fight when pressed. As was Sandal. Not only that, Zevran didn't think he would have to go far afield to find a place to spend the night. The bronzed elf felt better and worse for having let his temper get the better of him, but he was sick of dealing with Wynne and her bitter pill presence. There had been enough people in his life in Antiva peering down at him like a bug, that more of it when it was uncalled for made him sick. And to judge Lahar as being foolish for finding even a modicum of pleasantness in her entirely unpleasant life made him so ill with disgust he sometimes felt like vomiting. No, as unwise as it had been to poison Wynne, it was that or resort to killing the old woman in retribution. Zevran was an assassin, a killer – not a murderer. He didn't kill people simply out of passion and anger.

And not for anything - well, almost anything – would Zevran sink to that level. Certainly not for the likes of Wynne. People like her weren't worth it.

xxx

Commeidrda, hija de puta, S - shit eating child (daughter) of a whore/bitch
Bonita, S - pretty girl, beautiful girl
Amante, S - lover
Mi cielo, S - my sky
Preciosa, S - precious
Mi diosa, S - my goddess
Perdonemé, mi hermosa pequeña, S - excuse/pardon me, my beautiful little one