NOTICE: New fanart up for viewing! Go to my PROFILE and click on my DeviantArt webpage link! Naked Zevran! A passionate scene! Take a look and please do comment!
Disclaimer: Bioware owns all, I earn nothing.
WARNING: This story has TWO MEN FALLING IN LOVE WITH EACH OTHER AND EXPRESSING SEMI-HEALTHY DESIRE FOR EACH OTHER'S BODIES. If you don't like homoerotic romance PLEASE BACK OFF! If that kind of thing makes you go start praying at the porcelain gods in a hurry, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. Please exit quietly using the "Back" button, thank you. Please note that if you decide to continue, we do not supply brain bleach, so bring your bleach brand of choice before your eyes start drifting further. Thank you for your cooperation, and have a nice day.
And we are back! Zevran has his clothes back on [insert sad sigh here] so we can continue with the story.
In the previous chapter, our hero Zevran had been dragged out of bed, and finds out that Leliana might actually support this odd relationship he has with the Warden. But what about the Warden's sensual 'promise'?
Of Whoresons and Nobles
Chapter 21
The Warden didn't follow up on his promise.
Zevran didn't know if he should be pleased or angry about that.
But he knew one thing for sure: he was getting worried.
Very worried.
Since that little morning interlude, the Warden had not invited Zevran back to his tent. In fact, the Warden barely talked to Zevran at all during their following two-week journey to Lake Calenhad.
He'd been irritated (and hurt, if he were honest to himself) that the Warden was avoiding him (again), but after a bit of calm thinking, something had seemed…off about the Warden's avoidance.
Careful scrutiny revealed that the Warden had not only been barely talking to Zevran—he was doing the same to everyone else.
The only people he talked with that obviously went beyond casual greetings were Morrigan and Alistair.
With the former, the Warden argued; every night, consistently, at her secluded personal spot beyond the main camp. They'd be talking in quiet tones, but with visibly angry expressions on their faces—and it would always end the same way, with Morrigan throwing up her hands in the air in obvious exasperation before she looked amongst her bags and pulled out a small flask, which she would then give the Warden.
With the latter, the Warden would approach when they set up camp. Talking in quiet tones again, but their faces would be serious, almost darkly grim. Occasionally, their conversation would heat up, with Alistair seeming to be trying to convince the Warden about something—which the Warden would, without fail, dismiss with a shake of his head, or a quick slice of his hand through the air.
On their own, he would have dismissed as the usual party 'drama'—but his instincts were alerting him that something was clearly amiss here.
He continued to observe, to watch.
And realized that the Warden had not been sleeping well. If at all.
Oh, it wasn't obvious—if only because the Warden made sure to stay out of everyone's way. But the human was growing paler with each passing night, and his eyes were growing more and more haunted. At times, the Warden would be so clearly exhausted that he seemed to barely be able to stand on his own feet.
He remembered that the Warden had awoken early when they had their morning play—if the Warden had not been sleeping consistently sense then, or even before that…
When they'd walked into the Spoiled Princess, and were then ambushed by a clearly insane group of warriors, Zevran watched the Warden as they plunged into the thick of battle.
Saw that the Warden's reflexes were slower, much slower than usual, his movements clumsy and sluggish.
At the end of the battle, when the last of the madmen fell, the Warden stabbed his own sword into the ground, and then leaned heavily on it.
Even though he was a few feet away from the Warden, Zevran could hear the human's heavy, wheezing breaths through his helmet.
It made the elf's worry turn into alarm.
And not a small bit of anger.
Cursing quietly to himself, he'd resisted the urge to stride over and demand an explanation of what was going on from the Warden—bone-stubborn human that he was, the Warden would likely either dismiss Zevran the way he'd dismissed Alistair, or he would simply shut up and not say a single word.
So he leashed the anger, and prowled, waited until nightfall.
As he'd expected, the Warden went to see Morrigan again—this time, however, instead of watching from a distance away, Zevran simply blended into the shadows and approached the two of them, close enough that he could actually hear what they were saying…
Morrigan had frowned, crossing her arms and shaking her head. "Warden, I cannot give you another dose. 'Tis too risky for you to take such a remedy for such a long period of time."
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was necessary," the Warden growled, bristling. "You yourself said that it wouldn't be fatal."
"'Twould not be so on its own," she retorted. She gave the Warden a look of concern—something that Zevran didn't think the witch could feel. "But this forced sleep you are having is not a true rest—your body, and your mind, would eventually grow tired, exhausted, and then deteriorate. If you do not collapse or go mad, your weakened state would mean that you'd tire all too quickly in a fight. I still think you should go to Wynne—"
"And then what? Let her brew a tisane, which wouldn't work? Or get her to cast a sleep spell, which wouldn't help either and would only shorten her lifespan? Or force myself to stop all of this, and let Alistair take over?" the Warden shook his head. "He's not ready yet, Morrigan. I've been talking with him. I can't stop things now, not when the darkspawn are growing in number, and we have gathered our allies, our army. We are so close, Morrigan, can't you see that?"
"And what use would you be when you die on the battlefield?" she snapped.
"Better to die on the battlefield than to back down because of weakened health." Morrigan opened her mouth to argue—the Warden raised a hand and glared at her, commanding her silence. "Our allies would see my death as an honorable sacrifice—if I quit, it would be seen as cowardice, a weakness. That is something I cannot risk, not when the ancient treaties are so shaky, not when Loghain is still a threat to the Grey Wardens."
Morrigan scowled—the Warden simply gave her a narrow-eyed stare.
A tense, dangerous silence fell. After a long moment, Morrigan sighed, an annoyed—but resigned—sound. "Have it your way, then," she muttered, going back to her belongings and again retrieving that little vial. "I do not think that I need to warn you about how much you're supposed to take, am I correct?"
"Two drops, through a shallow cut in the wrist," the Warden recited, clearly from memory.
She harrumphed, and then handed the bottle to the Warden. "This is the final time, Warden," she said warningly. "I will not give you any more—you are already too close to a complete breakdown."
The Warden laughed, a little drily, taking the bottle and tucking it a pocket in his tunic. "Well then, I suppose we'll have to hope my will is enough let me last just a little longer."
Morrigan glared. "You are mad."
"So I'm told often enough," he replied with a bright cheeriness that was completely at odds with his too-tight smile and dull eyes. "It's one of my attractive points, or so I'm told."
She hissed and waved her hand. "Just go."
He laughed, and then he dipped quickly and pressed a kiss to her cheek—which she replied with a half-hearted swipe at him, one he avoided easily. "Thank you, Morrigan."
She harrumphed again, making a shooing motion at him—but a tiny smile curved her lips as she did so.
One the Warden undoubtedly noticed—grinning, showing some of his usual vigor, he waved at Morrigan and strode off.
The swamp witch was gazing after the Warden. Her expression was troubled, concerned…and sadly wistful.
Zevran arched a brow at that, even when the coldly haughty mask reappeared as Morrigan went to her pallet. Well now, it seems Leliana wasn't the only one that was sweet on the Warden. He smirked as he slid out of his hiding spot and trailed after the Warden, a quiet and shadowy wraith in the dark. He couldn't blame Morrigan—the Warden had an almost animal magnetism that simply drew the eye, and held it tight.
He should know, having fallen victim to that.
Briefly he wondered if Alistair felt the pull, before inwardly laughing—the boy was a virgin, and straight as a ruler in all things, particularly about sex. Maybe, in an alternate universe, Alistair might actually desire the Warden, but now he simply looked up to the former nobleman like a mentor—ironic, given the Warden's junior status in both age and experience as a Grey Warden.
And then he kicked himself mentally—now was not the time to wonder about chantry-raised bastards' sexual preferences. The Warden was walking somewhat slowly—Zevran couldn't tell if it was from a lack of hurry or a lack of energy. But it suited him just fine.
He simply followed, silent and unseen. And they were on an open field, where he had no place to hide—the fact that the Warden had seemed to completely fail that he was being tailed was a telling indication of just how weary the human had become.
It only made Zevran all the angrier.
Morrigan had chosen a spot that was quite a fair distance from camp—which made the little plan that had formed in Zevran's mind rather easy to pull off. He waited until they were halfway to the main camp—which meant they were more or less out of sight and hearing from everyone—and then he darted, quick-footed, not bothering with stealth, and before the Warden realized anything amiss he'd slipped his hand into the pocket and drew out the vial.
"What the—hey!" The Warden finally realized Zevran's presence—he reached out, attempting to grab Zevran, but the elf was much quicker, even when the Warden was fully alert. The weak, slow attempt to catch him was almost comically easy to dodge; he twisted away from the hands and danced backwards, putting a somewhat safe distance between them.
He was already uncorking the vial as he moved, and lifting it to his nose.
"Zevran!" the Warden exclaimed, his expression shocked. "Wha—?"
He wasn't really listening. He wasn't even thinking—the sharp tang of the substance within the vial had pierced into his head, sending it reeling. Already he could feel a creeping lethargy settle over his limbs—and then anger, hot and fierce, burned in him, chasing away the leaden feeling of drained stamina.
He was smiling unpleasantly as he jammed the cork back into the little bottle, his gaze sharp as he eyed the Warden.
"Tell me, my dear," he crooned. "Just how long have you been poisoning yourself with soldier's bane every night?"
"It's none of your damned business, Zevran," the Warden hissed. He lunged, and again Zevran dodged, tsking as he lightly danced back out of reach.
"We could do this all night, my dear," he said mockingly, waving the vial in his hand. "But we both know who here has the advantage in both speed and stamina." His eyes narrowed. "How. Long?"
The Warden glared at him. A muscle ticked in his cheek—his eyes were snapping fire, despite the clear dark circles that ringed them. "…three weeks."
The answer, snarled through gritted teeth, momentarily knocked the anger off Zevran, replacing it with shock. Three weeks. If the Warden had been taking the exact dose Morrigan had ordered, and he had been using the same concentration of poison…
…Maker have mercy. The Warden had, effectively, been forcing his body into exhaustion in order to sleep—and because of the continued doses of poison, the hours of sleep that the Warden took would not be enough for him to recover…
The rage that exploded in him made him see red. Snarling, he turned and hurled the vial on the ground. Heard the fragile glass shatter.
"What the—?" The Warden gaped at him, but he didn't care, couldn't care, letting pure temper drive him forward and onward towards the Warden.
He didn't even fully realize what he was doing until he heard the loud slap of his palm hitting the Warden's cheek. Felt the sting in his hand at the force of it.
The Warden reeled backwards, his own hand rising to gingerly touch the blooming red mark on his face. Then he turned, his face a mask of fury, his mouth opening to roar at Zevran—
"You are an idiot." Zevran's voice was no more than quiet hiss, but the snarl that vibrated through it caused the Warden's jaw to snap shut with a click of teeth, the keen eyes widening. With shock, or fear—Zevran couldn't tell, not when the rage still clouded his mind. "Three weeks! Are you out of your mind? No one can go that long without rest, not without severe effects."
The Warden's eyes narrowed again, and his lips curled back in a snarl. "Stay out of this, Zevran. This has nothing to do with you!"
"Nothing to do with me?" Zevran made a sound that might have been a laugh, if there wasn't so much anger in the sound. "My dear, when you let me take that oath of loyalty to you, you have become very much my business." Especially when you are killing yourself like this.
"I could very well kill you and free you from that oath," the Warden snapped.
"Oh-ho-ho, in your current state? You can't even lay a finger on me, and you know it." To prove it, Zevran quickly dashed forward and, with the heel of his palm, shoved the Warden in one shoulder. Watched, with no small amount of grim satisfaction, as the Warden stumbled, tried to catch his balance, failed, and landed sprawled on his back. His breath rushed out in a whoosh at the landing.
Before the human could recover, Zevran had stepped across the Warden, straddled the human over the waist. One hand had twisted in the front of the Warden's tunic, lifting the head off the ground—the other had his dagger in hand and was pointing it under the Warden's jaw.
He felt the human go still as the dagger point lightly grazed across skin—he smiled lazily, unpleasantly, his eyes glittering with his rage.
"Why?" he asked, quietly.
The Warden glanced down at his dagger, looked up, met his gaze. Glared back. "Why do you care?"
Why did he care?
A good question. One he didn't know the answer to—but imagining the Warden's body slowly breaking down as the lack of rest took its toll, and knowing that it was self-inflicted…it made his blood boil.
And the idea that the Warden was keeping secrets from him…it felt like a cold vice had closed around his chest, and Dear Maker, it hurt.
He pushed that hurt away, mentally stomped it flat. He had no right to expect the Warden to share such secrets—they were barely friends, after all, and only lovers in the physical sense (even then Zevran acknowledged that they had only skirted the edges of physical intimacy). He was but an assassin who was on the run from his order, sworn in service to the man that had saved his life.
A whoreson-turned-killer whose life depended on the survival of the man beneath him. A man whose body longed for the heat and passion contained within the other man. A man who wanted…he didn't know what he wanted.
Ignoring the Warden's question (and the confusion it brought) he simply let his smile widen. Let his hand slip, ever so slightly, and the dagger pierced flesh, drawing blood, a thin crimson trail running down alongside the Warden's jaw.
"Why don't you just keep pushing yourself until you collapse, hm?" he hissed. "Watching you crawl in the dirt will certainly make us all feel better, no?"
The verbal jab hit its mark—hurt flashed in the brilliant eyes, and Zevran watched as the fight leeched out of the Warden's eyes, and his body. He slumped, his head falling back, his eyes fluttering closed, looking broken...defeated
The sight disgusted Zevran, even if it made his heart ache.
He let go of the tunic, drew the dagger back into its sheath. Crossing his arms, he looked down at the too-pale face. "Why?" he asked quietly.
A long moment of silence fell. He saw the lump in the Warden's throat bob as the human swallowed.
"…I tried," the Warden finally whispered. "I tried, damn it, but they wouldn't go away."
Zevran raised a brow. "Who wouldn't go away?"
"Not 'who', 'what'. The nightmares."
He blinked. Nightmares? That was what drove the Warden to exhaust himself?
Well, it made sense—in a sick way. An exhausted body could fall into a sleep slow deep it bordered on unconscious. But… "What sort of nightmares would make you willingly poison yourself for three weeks in a row?"
The Warden laughed—a thin, high laugh that had no humor in it. "Trust me, Zevran. You don't want to know."
"Hard to trust someone who keeps too many secrets to himself," Zevran retorted, and saw the Warden flinch at that, before the human glared at him.
"…all right." The words were a quiet mutter. The Warden shifted. "Just…get off me, and I'll tell you."
Zevran snorted, but he slid off the Warden, rising to his feet and extending a hand—which the Warden glared at for a bit, before snarling softly and accepting that hand, letting himself be pulled up.
"Well?" Zevran prompted, once the Warden had straightened.
The Warden was dusting off his trousers, picking out stray blades of dry grass that had clung to the wool—he glanced up briefly, then back down at his trousers. "Not here," he murmured, swatting off the last bit of grass and straightening.
Zevran raised a brow at that. "And why not?"
"Because I'm going to have to tell you a Grey Warden secret, and I'm not fond of the idea that anyone might be eavesdropping."
Out on an open field? Zevran bit back the sarcasm, smiled instead. "And what makes you think that I'd hold my tongue after you tell me that?"
"It's not a major secret," the Warden murmured with a shrug, and then flashed his wolf's grin. "And should you say a word, I'll cut your tongue out."
"A persuasive argument," Zevran said with a chuckle. "As you wish…I'll keep my mouth shut." He smirked. "So where do you want to discuss this 'secret'?"
The Warden laughed, and a wicked glint shone in his eyes. "Why, were else can I talk with you in private?"
Zevran frowned…realized…raised his brows at the Warden. "Thinking naughty thoughts even now, my dear Warden?"
"Maybe," the Warden said with a cheeky grin, before he quickly sobered. "But aside from that, my tent offers better privacy than here."
"Ah…very well…" Zevran smiled, and then shrugged. "Lead the way then."
Chucking (the sound weaker than Zevran would have liked), the Warden turned to the camp...and paused.
Zevran saw the Warden mutter something after his breath, and then the Warden turned, strode to stand before Zevran.
Strong hands gripped his waist, hauled him to a hard body—just as a hot, demanding mouth covered his.
Forced his lips apart, then the wicked tongue surged in, claiming, branding.
Devastatingly commanding. And the unleashed passion swept him—and the Warden—away.
It had only been two weeks—Zevran had been denied sex for much longer than that. But the pressure of the Warden's mouth against his suddenly broke the chains on his desire—until then smothered by his worry—and it roared free, hungry, slavering, demanding.
He pushed his arms up, draped his arms over broad shoulders, clasped the nape between his hands, and kissed back with equal fierceness, matching, dueling, engaging the Warden on a familiar battlefield of fire and passion.
An engagement that spoke of denied hunger and delayed need, and a promised mutual pleasure.
A sensual tug-of-war that neither could truly win.
The Warden murmured something against his lips, and then pulled back. Immediately Zevran felt the loss of the connection—his wits, his body, were still locked, focused on the Warden. But he allowed the Warden to lift his head, and watched, his breath coming in quick gasps, as the Warden's eyes rose and met his.
A tiny smile lifted the corners of the human's parted lips. "Andraste's blood," the Warden whispered. "Do you have any idea just how difficult it was to resist you for this long?"
The question made Zevran chuckle. "I have absolutely no idea," he murmured, smirking. He raised his brows. "Why have you resisted, then?"
The smile vanished. "Because you're too damn observant and you'd have noticed my lack of rest far too early."
Ahh. Abruptly the amusement fell flat. Zevran narrowed his eyes. "You were avoiding me."
The Warden winced. "I know. And I'm sorry." The human stepped back, his hands falling away from Zevran's waist. One of them reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean, it's not like I wanted to avoid you...but…" He sighed, shook his head. "…never mind. Let's just…go. I'll explain in the tent."
"It better be a good explanation," Zevran muttered, following as the Warden turned and headed back to camp. "You owe me that."
"Mmm…" The Warden glanced sideways at Zevran. "Were you worried about me?"
"Of course I am!" Zevran snapped hotly. "You stopped talking to me and everyone else for days on end, and then you start to look like a walking corpse with each day, and after that fight at Lake Calenhad you looked like you could've fainted and I was afr—" He bit his tongue, stopping the flood of angry words.
Too late. The Warden blinked. Raised his brows. "You were afraid for me?"
Damn. "Of course I was," he muttered, giving the Warden an angry glare. "You are our leader, and as of now my only protection against the Crows. It would be in my best interests to make sure you stay alive, no?"
"…I see." The Warden had started to grin. The eyes were piercing, and as always they saw too much. "..and that's your only reason?"
"It's the most important one," Zevran said, and that was the truth.
Just not all of it.
He wasn't sure if the Warden saw through that. Judging by the sharp grin that had lit up that face, the human had not missed the careful wording of his answer.
Chuckling, the Warden looked away, and Zevran sighed out a breath he had not realized he'd been holding. The Warden kept silent after that, and while the smug air around him prickled at Zevran, the elf was grateful that he didn't question further.
Especially because Zevran had too many questions of his own.
And he had found no answers for too many of them.
~to be continued~
Author's notes: Thank the Maker! After random drabbles, and a couple bits of fanart drawing later, I finally overcame writer's block, and we have a new chapter up for viewing!
Will be taking a physical and mental break for the next few days, and hopefully that'll get more energy and creativity flowing for this.
Because GAWSHDANGIT dancing practice is HARD. Especially if you are coordination-challenged.
Updates will be somewhat less frequent (about once-or-twice-a-week kind of frequent) until sometime after the first week of August, when I finally am done with this silly company event I've been dragged into *sigh* so I hope you can bear with me for the next three weeks.
Please leave a review and/or comment if you have any, and send me a private message through my profile mail if you find any mistakes!
Thank you!