Are you ok he asked? By the maker's ass…I should just run off to the Chantry.
Elishka slammed the door and made quick work of the lock. If she could very well hang a 'do not disturb' sign on the door, she probably would have as well. Patience and nerves had drunk in their fill. All she wanted to do was sink into a bath and drown.
Thankfully, the bath she had requested earlier in the evening arrived while she was otherwise occupied. Fingers dipped tentative into the water, testing the temperature. Warm, but not hot. Tolerable. A cold bath would have done just as well, though. Perhaps she could shock Alistair and the memory of his touch out of her system.
Stupid laces and idiotic felt covered buckles hindered Elishka's quick escape from the remnants of the dress she still wore. She simply could not get the dress off fast enough. The glint of steel caught her eye. One of Zevran's many daggers sat atop the vanity at the other end of the room. That's one way to get out of a dress. A cut here, a cut there and the dress was discarded, fresh fuel for the fire.
Toes first, then legs, bottom and finally torso, she sank into the water, letting it surround her in liquid lukewarm blanketing. A good cleansing, that is what she needed. The fragrance of him overfilled her nose. If only she had a clothespin handy…
The enclosed embrace of the water finally allowed the steady stream of adrenaline pumping through her system to stall and putter out. And with its cessation, she began to become more keenly aware the effects her moonlight interlude had on her body. The dull pain of developing bruises throbbed upon her upper arms and inner thighs. She could feel the sting of scraped flesh along the lower portion of her back and bum. At some point, her lip was bitten as well, a small welt of a blister already starting to develop along the inner lining of her mouth.
What was I thinking?
She sank into the water, letting it completely cover her. Drowning. Yes, it was a good solution. Or maybe she could find magic to grow gills and live under water the rest of her life like some carefree fish. She could swim about and sup on plants. She could travel the seas and have new adventures. She could change her name to Efishka.
The gills never came, though. Human lungs screamed out for air, forcing her to leave her underwater santuary. Standing next to the tub, staring down at her, was... "Zevran," she shrieked, a jolt of surprise rocking her at the sight of him. He had snuck in, played tricky games with the lock, all while she tried to take on an aquatic persona. "Don't sneak up on a person like that. You'll give my heart a stop."
"Yes, I do believe you've had enough excitement for one night, no?" He knew. She could see it written all over his face – that knowing way in which he examined her body, eyes tracing her visible bruises. A new bout of shame poured into her. "We both wear his marks tonight." Agile fingers gesture to Zevran's own blossoming facial discoloration. "I will give him this. He is quite..passionate."
Meek and a teeming with embarrassment, Eliskha mumbled a quick, "Yes," before dipping her head beneath the water once again.
Why hadn't I had Morrigan show me how to shapeshift? Ugh.
When she came up for air once again, Zevran no longer stood next to the tub. Had he left? Her neck craned, a searching gaze taking in the landscape of the room until it settled upon her Antivan. He stood adjacent to the vanity, already in a partial state of disrobing. Firelight reflected gold off the tanned and sinewy musculature of his stomach and chest.
Fish. Fish.
She couldn't look at Zevran, feel the weight of his gaze upon her, the weight of his knowing. It was bad enough that every time she closed her eyes she saw Alistair's face. A huge breath was drawn in, filling her lungs to capacity. Woosh. Under the water she went once again.
Hands upon her shoulders pulled her up and forward. Zevran fully intended to claim his own spot of tubspace. She gave no protest. If he was behind her, she wouldn't have to look at him. And there was that whole taut tummy thing to consider as well.
He slid effortlessly behind her, allowing her to rest the back of her head against his chest and shoulders. A small bit of the tension she had been feeling unwound as she relaxed against him.
And she began talking. She told him about Alistair's offer. She told him how she said no. She told him how for a few moments she lost herself completely, overwhelmed with a torrent of emotions and needs that scared her. She told him her last words to Alistair. And then she grew silent, a huge lump in her throat swallowed down, anticipation in her breath as she awaited his response and judgment.
Zevran was a good listener. He had listened in the past when the Templar first broke a mage's heart. He wiped away the tears. He poured the drinks. He held her hair when it needed holding.
And on a night like many others in the past, he listened as she told him of an offer least flattering -- mistress. He listened as Elishka recounted her bestial liaison with Alistair. He listened to the way her breath heavied at the memory of it all. He listened as she attempted to choke back tears and put up the front of the brave little Warden that could – the little warrior mage living in a house of easily shattered glass. He listened as he heard the tiny creak of his heart's door opening just a little further.
Feather soft, his fingers brushed against the jagged outline of a burgeoning arm bruise. His face nuzzled into the top of her head, breathing in the scent of freshly washed hair. "You had mentioned something about honey earlier, no?" The waters had become far too deep and dark. A bit of levity was in order. Zevran was nothing, if not, the master of jest. He even had the tight pants to prove it.
Throbbing pain radiated from Alistair's right fist. He sat in the kitchen, the cook and old nursemaid he had known many years back examining his hand. "Alistair, I believe it is broken," she said with a tsk tsk tone. "You are not a little boy building moats and castles out of mud and pebbles anymore. You should be more careful."
An herbal salve was slapped liberally atop Alistair's hurt fist. His stomach lurched as the rotten smell of eggs and overly dirty socks penetrated his nostrils. "What is that," he hissed, his head turning aside to try to avoid smelling in more of the rank cream.
"Quit being such a big baby," the old woman chided, even going so far as to smack the King on his shoulder disapprovingly. And as an afterthought, she added, "My liege." Time withered lips broke into a gap toothed smile.
Gag. "It's just so awful." Tears began to well as the fumes reached his eyes. "You sure it will work?"
Another smack, this time upside the back of his head. Thwap! "Listen, you may be King. But I will not hesitate to take you over my knee and spank you like I did when you were a boy if you do not shut up. I know that thinking is hard for you but do try to next time before you..fall off your horse, was it?" The woman could see right through him. Always could. Whatever tale Alistair had spun to explain his injury, it was quite obvious she was not buying it.
"Gretta, you minx," Alistair teased, his eyebrows even giving a little wiggle. The woman always had been good for his spirits. There was something about her curmudgeonly manner that brought out the trickster in him. Perhaps it was the desire to see just how far he could push the envelope and how many shades of red and purple he could make her face become.
Muslin cloth scraps were placed atop the folksie healing remedy, offering a small respite from the stench. Cut string wrapped around the bandages, holding the covering in place. She poked down on her piece of work, jabbing at the sensitive hand. "There, you are done. Now I'm going back to sleep. If you hurt yourself again, well…leave me out of it." She gave him a stern look, wrinkled eyes squinting raisin like.
"You are just plain mean, Gretta." But he got the point. Don't test her. "Good night. I won't wake you again..well, unless I want an omelette." He would test her just a little bit. His lack of self control required it. Duck and cover. He barely avoided the hurled body of a rotten apple aimed squarely at his head as the woman left the kitchen.
A lightness of mood, the first he had felt since Elishka first walked in the main hall, took a hold of Alistair.
The look on Zevran's face..
There had been many a time when Alistair had wanted to punch the assassin in his egotistical face. A broken nose would improved Zevran's face greatly. But he always restrained himself because of Elishka.
And like that, his aura shifted from yellows of honey gold to an ashen gray. The mere thought of her name tugged his mood down to the floor.
"Wine, I need wine," Alistair declared to empty air. The world might look better through wine glazed port holes. He dislodged himself from a wooden stool and walked over to the larder door. Wine was not hard to find. Teagan had always had a weak spot for the stuff and made sure the castle was well stocked with the fermented juice of the grape vine. With his one good hand, Alistair grabbed a bottle and returned to his kitchen throne.
Thumb and forefinger pressed against the bottle's cork, but without the aid of another hand to stabilize the bottle, he found it impossible to get it open. "Of course, I can't even get drunk like a real man. I bet Zevran could open this with his teeth or his crotch." Yes..crotch!. He slid the bottle between his legs. Maybe that would work.
"I think his ass is a far more likely candidate." Words pierced Alistair's mopey solitude. Ruh roh. Someone overheard him. He looked over to the kitchen door, wine bottle held firm between his legs. It was not the most regal position to be caught in, most unfitting a King. Cullen stood there, an apologetic look plastered upon his face.
"I should not have said anything, my lord." His chin fell in respectful dip. Everyone always did that around Alistair now. It was something he wasn't sure he'd ever get used to.
"Cullen is it?" He very much knew that was the other man's name and didn't wait on confirmation. "Come help me with this. I very much wish to get drunk and you are going to help me. It's bad enough the castle will be filled with gossip tomorrow. I can't have them saying I am a drunk that drinks alone as well."
"Yes, my lord." Cullen walked to the kitchen table and took a seat adjacent to Alistair. His two good hands made quick work of the bottle and relieved it of its corky stop. A curious expression claimed Cullen's features. "What happened to you, my lord?" His hand was really only one of his injuries. Alistair still wore the same clothing from earlier in the evening.
Alistair wrapped fingers around the neck of the bottle and upended it. One swallow, two swallows, three, he gulped down a hearty pull of wine. His tongue swiped quick over his lips, cleaning off the ruddy residue. "For starters, it's just Alistair. You are a Grey Warden now. You can call me that. All the 'my lord' stuff makes me feel as if I'm about to be lectured." The stinky ointment had begun to work, the pain in his hand ebbing slightly. It had become more of a warm thumpa thumpa than a red hot poker of a stabbity stab. "I fell off my horse." That was his story and he was sticking to it.
Cullen's stomach took this moment to scream out in a loud rumble. Embarrassment flushed Cullen's cheeks, "I came in for some cake."
Alistair leaned back atop his stool and swept his bandaged hand about the room, "Then by all means, have yourself some cake. Don't let me stop you." As an aside, "You will eventually learn how to handle the hunger." Alistair readily remembered those days when there was not enough food in the world to satiate his appetite. His biggest worry in life was what was for dinner. Those days of innocence had long past. Another chug from the bottle did not bring them back either no matter how much Alistair might wish it so.
An awkward discomfort filled Cullen's movements as he appropriated a cake from the larder and brought it back to the table. "I had almost forgotten you were a Warden too, my…"
Rue twisted Alistair's grin, "Yes, well, I have to admit, I almost forget sometimes too." His life has become filled with paperwork and noble arguments.
But my lord, I was promised that land.
He would have much preferred to be dealing with where to camp for the night rather than what castle to summer at.
"I remember you from the Circle," Alistair noted while reaching forward and taking a rather huge chunk of cake into his hand. Crumbs cascaded down along the table top as he bit down on the fluffy confection. "Have you known her long?" It was inevitable that the conversation would eventually drift into dark haired, brown eyed waters. Alistair steered directly towards those choppy seas.
And Cullen began to talk. He spoke of a child Templar and a child mage playing games of tag along the Circle corridors. He spoke of a teenage Templar and a teenage mage, sneaking in shadows and stealing sips of forbidden wine. He spoke of a young adult Templar watching over the sleeping body of a young adult mage at her Harrowing. He spoke of that Templar's relief when the mage awoke as if nothing had happened and she had merely dozed off, dreaming of flowers and puppies. He spoke of an adult ex-Templar and the adult mage running into one another in Lothering and how the mage saved the ex-Templar from himself and others. He spoke of his Joining and the understanding that came from it.
Through it all, Alistair listened, the missing pieces of a puzzle coming together in his mind. He had only known the Grey Warden. He had never really known the woman, the girl, the child – not in the way this other man knew her. He felt a sense of longing and loss, strong and foreboding.
The pair grew silent as Cullen ended his tale – the cake and wine long finished. Each man trapped in thoughtful repose.
Eventually, the quiet was breached, a tickle of comedy encroaching upon the lilt of Alistair's voice, "She does have a way of picking up sad little strays, doesn't she?"
Without missing a step, the straight man to his joke, Cullen quipped, "Yes, just look at Zevran." Both men simultaneously burst into laughter. A friendship had been born over left over cake, freely flowing wine, and at the expense of one Antivan assassin.