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.
Acknowledgement: Many thanks to my grammar fairy/editor, Scarylady1. Your advice and patience are much appreciated.
Of Whoresons and Nobles
Chapter 35
Things had changed again.
He wasn't sure what, exactly, had caused these changes. He only knew that they were there.
Truthfully, they were not very obvious changes, and to the less alert they would not seem so significant. But Zevran was an assassin trained to watch for changes such as these, and when these changes involved himself...
He sighed aloud, hearing the sound echo in the empty hallway. They had reached the Arl with the ashes, and managed to cure him before he slipped away to Death's embrace. A very happy Teagan had thanked the Warden, tears glistening in his eyes, before graciously inviting them to stay at the castle for the night.
A very empty castle, as it turned out. The memories of what had happened here not too long ago still lingered in everyone's minds, even if the stench of rotten flesh had been aired out, the corpses burned and ashes buried. He wasn't surprised that offers to fill the empty staff positions at the castle had been slow.
Still, an empty castle meant that he was free to wander its spacious halls. The quiet allowed him to move unseen and unobserved.
More importantly, it allowed him to think.
It had started with that drunken confession he made, he was sure. The Warden hadn't said a word about what had happened while they had gotten acquainted with that fine bottle of Antivan brandy, and Zevran had chosen not to bring up that subject again.
Nevertheless, they had somehow grown... closer. More intimate, if that was possible.
As utterly silly as it sounded, Zevran's awareness of the Warden's presense grew; his senses grew more attuned to the Warden's presence, to the subtle shifts of mood behind the usually inscrutable expression that the tall man wore. And in battle...
When they were ambushed by a group of mercenaries - a group of very well-trained mercenaries - the Warden had barked orders to the other companions, telling them what to do, who to target and so forth.
But not to Zevran. With him, the Warden simply raised his eyes, caught his gaze, and in them Zevran could read his commands, as clear as if they were spoken out loud: Take down the leader.
Then they were both moving, diving into the fray. And amongst the chaos of slashing blades and battle cries, he could feel where the Warden was, could sense his lover's presence without looking. Even as he crossed blades with the mercenary leader, he knew that the Warden was watching him as well, and when his opponent made a rash, wild swing to try knock him down, he did not simply dance back as he usually did. Instead, he lunged, ducking beneath that swing and striking out with his daggers, crippling the man, and at that moment the Warden was there, greatsword swinging, pommel smashing into the other man's face and knocking him out cold.
Zevran had sensed that move coming before he saw it. More, he had reacted entirely on instinct, not even thinking that his lover might be a moment too slow to take the opportunity, even when a misstep would put his own life in danger.
He had simply trusted the Warden to be there, where he needed him.
The very idea scared him silly.
Their fluid, instinctive teamwork had not gone unnoticed by their companions. Even Alistair had asked the Warden, once they sent the mercenary limping away, if the two of them had been training together.
To which the Warden had simply smiled — a brilliant, boyish, and happy smile that made all of them blink — and said: "I trusted him to be there."
That had certainly earned Zevran a suspicious look from Alistair, after the Warden had turned his attention back to the road, but the assassin wasn't paying attention to the dagger-sharp glare, his head spinning from the Warden's words.
I trusted him to be there.
Trust. It was, for a Crow, both a great weapon and a great danger.
A weapon, if one used it to manipulate others to gain access to the mark, or even set up the mark so that the kill would be a quick and easy one.
A danger, because a Crow cannot afford to trust anyone, not even their fellow assassins. The shadowy world in which they lived was a cutthroat one, and it was accepted that an assassin would betray his or her own mother in order to gain greater favour with the masters.
A small thing, trust, but so very dangerous in the right hands.
Yet he trusted the Warden, and apparently his lover felt the same towards him.
So what did that mean for him?
He had been letting his feet walk aimlessly, letting himself simply drift through the halls; he slowed his steps, eventually stopped.
Found himself in front of the door to the castle's chapel.
He opened the door, peeked in; found the chapel as empty as the hallways had been.
Quiet. Private. Sighing, partly relieved but mostly weary, he slipped through the door, locking it behind him out of habit, before he went to the slightly raised dais and sat down, just beside the lectern.
A demon of rage had attacked them here, he remembered, when the castle was still under the possessed Connor's control. Someone had cleansed the chapel since then, but he doubted many had returned here to pray; the air and feel of the place was strangely clean and peaceful.
Ignoring that, he turned his attention back to the subject that had left him unable to sleep, and consequently made him wander the halls in the first place.
This growing relationship he had with his Warden. Or, more specifically, his growing feelings for the Warden.
He wanted, oh how he wanted, to deny that he had ever felt that way. But he was too aware of his own self, too aware of his own emotions, to fail to realise that he was starting to think of the Warden as something more than just a bed partner.
But what was the Warden to him now?
He felt his lips curve in a smile of wry, dark humour. He recognized his feelings; they were the same as what he had felt for Rinna, right before Taliesen came to him with information of her supposed betrayal, before he had to turn against her, and kill her.
He had believed that, since that fateful error, he had hardened his heart from ever knowing such feelings again.
Evidently not.
The question remained, however: how should he deal with those feelings?
Leliana, the bright-eyed romantic amongst them, spoke of love and romance often enough in her rambling tales that it made his teeth ache, and her unsubtle encouragement of the arrangement between him and the Warden used to make him laugh cynically.
He wasn't laughing now.
He cursed softly and fluently in Antivan. He had entered this liaison with eyes wide open, sure of himself and the path he had followed; now he found himself stumbling blind from an unexpected turn... or maybe, in his arrogant foolishness, he had simply gone too far the path.
The Warden was partly to blame for this, he knew: ever since he was spared his life and allowed to join the Grey Wardens' cause against the Blight, his lover had been nothing but one surprise after another. Zevran had never been treated with such respect, such consideration before, not without a heavy price attached to it. The Warden actually cared for him, and had — to his eternal confusion — never asked for anything in return.
As for their entanglements... it was supposed to be temporary, something to occupy his attention and to satisfy his urges while he remained under the protection of the Grey Wardens. But the Warden had proved to be a surprise in that as well: a novice in sexual relations between men, yet possessing enough confidence in himself that Zevran found no difficulty in teaching him this new way of finding pleasure.
More than that, he was a wonderful lover, demanding enough to keep Zevran on his toes, but with just enough initiative to not make him feel pressured to perform. A rare and wonderful thing, certainly, even compared to the multitude of lovers that he had slept with over the years.
But it was more than just the attraction of a worthy bed partner that kept him by his lover's side. It was the Warden's very presence that he craved; the brilliant grins and the even more brilliant mind, the sharp tongue and sly humour, the firm resolve and grim determination, and beneath all of that the compassionate heart that cared so deeply for his country, his people.
He shuddered, feeling suddenly cold. You are a foolish one, Zevran, and more soft-hearted than you think.
Unbidden, Wynne's question to him when they had been climbing up the path to Haven echoed in his mind: If you are no longer in danger of being hunted by your fellow assassins, would you turn on the Warden to regain their favour?
He thought about it, thought about taking his blades and stabbing them, deep, through the Warden's heart, thought about watching as the life leeched out of those bright, brilliant eyes...
Felt a painful wrench in his own heart at the thought.
No. He could not, would not, do that. He had turned his blade in betrayal once; his blood ran cold at the thought of doing so again.
What if the Warden was there when the Crows greet you, Zevran? Would he trust you enough to let you be?
He thought about that. Grimaced. Found himself unable to find a sure answer regarding how the Warden would feel about that.
He wasn't even sure how he felt about the Warden.
With a sigh, he rose to his feet and started towards the door. Little he could do about that now, when there were too many things tangled up in his own mind. The only thing he could do, he thought to himself as he reached for the latch, was to tread softly and lightly, and hopefully not find himself fall into some indescribable pit of doo-
"I have heard so many tales of you."
The soft, feminine voice drifted from beyond the door.
Zevran blinked. His hand froze over the latch.
"Is that so?" the next voice was deeper, distinctly masculine. With the all-too-familiar accents of a highborn noble. Warden.
A high, sharp-pitched giggle from the woman. "Oh, yes, it is hard to not hear tales of the Demon Wolf of Highever. Surely you know that a noble as famed as yourself would be the centre of much gossip, yes?" The Orlesian accent grated over his ears, so different from Leliana's light, melodic lilt. "It is said that he is a handsome, charming man, and most skilled with his... sword." Lewd suggestion dripped off the word. "It makes one curious to know if the rumours are, indeed, true."
... What the ...
Frowning, he carefully undid the latch, pulled the door open ever-so-slightly — thanking the Maker that the hinges were well-oiled enough to be silent — and peered through the cracks.
The Warden was leaning against the wall opposite, arms crossed over his chest, his face expressing nothing but bored arrogance.
Standing before him, dainty hands pressing lightly on his chest and a smile lighting up her face, was Arlessa Isolde.
Zevran blinked again. Watched, stunned, as her hands drifted up to grasp the Warden's shoulders.
"Perhaps you would care to indulge my curiosity?" she asked, her smile flirtatious and her eyes far too intent.
"I think not." The Warden all but growled the words, and his eyes were cold chips of ice.
The arlessa laughed again, and – the brazen hussy! – twined her arms about the Warden's neck, pressing her body fully against his. "Come, now," she said in a chiding tone. "I know you have been on the road for a long time, mon loup. No doubt you are lacking in... female company, travelling in that group of yours."
"I am doing quite fine, thank you."
Isolde's smile widened, as if she had not heard the frosty tones in the Warden's silky voice. "But I am your hostess! A good hostess must tend to the needs of her guests, no?"
Bitch. Zevran bit back a snarl, his hands flexing by his side, longing to reach for the little knife he always wore on his belt and slice her cheating, whoring thro-
She shifted onto her toes, her hands sliding to twine in the Warden's hair, and her mouth fastening over his.
Zevran's vision swam red.
The Warden's hands reached up, encircled Isolde's slender waist. Gripped...
... and harshly pushed her away, breaking the kiss.
His face looked like it was carved from granite, all harsh unyielding planes. But the eyes...
Savage fury did not begin to describe the emotion burning in them.
"You need to pay a little more attention to the rumours, arlessa," the Warden gritted out, as Isolde stared at him in open-mouthed shock. "It is true that Wolf had many lovers. But he also took care to only have one lover at a time." His hands dropped away, before he crossed them over his chest and bowed. "If you'll excuse me."
With that, he turned on his heels, and strode purposefully away.
The arlessa stared after his retreating back in shock, before Zevran saw her face harden with cold calculation.
"It is that elf you travel with, is it not?"
The Warden froze.
Isolde smiled, no longer flirtatious now, all sharp teeth and spite. "I am not so blind that I did not see how you look at him. Oh, the yearning in your eyes. Such a charming sight. One could almost believe that you love him." Her voice dripped with honeyed sweetness, but only a fool could not sense the venom in her words.
The Warden did not turn. But Zevran could see his hands clench into fists.
The laugh that Isolde made was cruelly vicious. "How the mighty have fallen, for you to chase after a mere knife-ear. I heard that he is the son of a common whore as well!" She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "For a nobleman of your rank and breeding to stoop so low, the elf must be quite skilled as a whore hims-"
She had no chance to finish that sentence.
With a snarl, the Warden whirled. In an eyeblink, he had a hand clenched about the arlessa's neck, pinning her to the wall, while his other hand held a knife pressed to her belly. She gasped, her eyes widening, hands flying reflexively to the one closed over her throat, but the knife pressed harder, and she froze.
"Let this be a warning to you, Arlessa Isolde," he said, the softness of his voice not hiding the vicious menace. "I do not tolerate anyone insulting the people in my care; not you, not the Arl, not the Bannorn, not the King and Queen, not the Grand Cleric, and not even the Maker Himself. Zevran is one of mine, and I treat him with nothing but the respect that he deserves; I advise that you do the same."
The knife shifted away, as did the hand at Isolde's throat; the Warden stepped back, sheathing his knife, his face a mask of cold fury. "Get out of my sight, Isolde, before I slice your throat."
Eyes round and wild, white showing around her irises, Isolde shifted away, her back pressed against the wall. When the Warden did nothing but stare at her, she turned and bolted like a startled rabbit, her footsteps ringing against the stone floor.
The Warden continued to stare after her, his body tensed like a coiled spring, and only when the echoes of her footsteps had faded away did he relax, slumping back against the wall, head dropping and hand reaching up to scrub his face.
Zevran stared at his visibly weary lover, more than a little confused about that exchange; and specifically, about his reaction to said exchange.
Never, in his whole life, had he wanted to do violence to another to the extent that he had when Isolde laid her hands and mouth on the Warden. It wasn't in his nature to be that vicious, despite the Crow training. He had not wanted to just kill her: he had wanted to hurt her, to make her feel pain so excruciating that she would lose her voice from screaming at him to stop.
Confusion swamped him, sent his thoughts whirling, and it took a while before he realized something else.
The Warden's head was no longer bowed. Instead, it had lifted, and the eyes were staring at the door to the chapel.
Staring at him.
Zevran's own eyes widened. He didn't even stop to think; he leapt away, and turned, heading for the other door out of the chapel, but too late; he heard the Warden's boots ring against the stone floor, and then the door he had been hiding behind swung open.
"Zevran!"
He ignored the name, continued running for the door, his hand reaching for the latch-
A hard hand closed about his upper arm.
He stifled a yelp as he was spun around, so he ended up facing the Warden, a pair of hands gripping his arms and holding him still, sharp eyes staring down at his own.
When had the Warden learned to move so fast?
"Zevran." The Warden's voice was soft, but he could still hear the shock in the words. "How long have you been here?"
He blinked up at his lover's face. Too close, too intent; he felt too conflicted to face those too-knowing eyes right now. A blank mask slipped over his face out of habit. "Long enough."
His toneless voice made the Warden stare at him, and the grip about his arms slackened. He shrugged them off, shifted away, putting a safe distance between himself and the man that had the greatest power to hurt him.
Sharp eyes narrowed at his face. "I was looking for you," the Warden said, his tone almost accusing. "There isn't any guard here: it isn't safe to wander about alone."
Zevran raised a brow. "My dear, I am an assassin, and a well-trained one I might add. I think I can handle my own safety well enough, no?"
"Point taken." The Warden sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry you had to see that."
He sounded frustrated, and more than a little angry. For some reason, that sparked Zevran's own temper. "Really? You looked like you were enjoying yourself." The smile that accompanied those words was false, empty, devoid of any real mirth whatsoever. "There is no need to neglect your own needs because of me, you know. We both know that this is only a temporary thing."
The Warden went still. His face turned as blank as a statue's. Even his voice, when he spoke, sounded flat, devoid of emotion. "What makes you think this is temporary?"
Those reactions alone should had warned Zevran, but he was too wrapped up in confusion and fear and uncertainty and — Maker help him — jealousy to notice, or even care. "You are a nobleman born and bred, my dear, even if you have joined the Grey Wardens. Surely you would have no shortage of lovers, if you so choose; I would not be upset if you chose to turn your attention elsewhere." A lie, a painful lie, but better than knowing a truth that would hurt even more. "Our agreement was meant to ease our mutual urges, yes? If you choose to seek fulfilment elsewhere, I have no right to ask anything of you." He shrugged, started to turn towards the door.
Only to feel a hand clamp, vice-like, around his wrist.
He stiffened, swung around, his mouth opening to order the Warden to let go...
His eyes met the Warden's. And whatever angry words that had been on his tongue died.
He thought he had seen the worst of his lover's anger; thought that he had judged the other man's temperament well enough to know what he was capable of.
The violent storm that swirled in the Warden's eyes, turning them into feral, vicious orbs, told him that he had severely underestimated the depths of that temper.
He stared transfixed, stunned prey pinned by the gaze of a much larger predator, before it registered that the man gripping his wrist had not made a move towards him.
He sucked in a breath, summoned his courage, and glared at the Warden. "Let go of me."
The hand on his wrist tightened. "No."
Zevran's eyes narrowed, but the Warden's only reply to that was to smile, very slightly, the merest hint of a curve on his lips. But he still made no move to let go of Zevran, or even to subdue him.
A waiting game, Zevran realized. He is waiting to see what I would do, what I could do...
So be it. If the Warden wanted to play games, then he would play along.
He swung his free hand, flattened out like a knife, towards his captor's neck, a move meant to incapacitate. The Warden's other hand rose, caught his other wrist, and gripped hard.
Zevran's eyes widened. The tiny smile on his lover's face similarly widened, turning into a predatory grin.
Snarling, he swung his arms outward, a sudden move that managed to break the Warden's grip on him. He stepped back, spun around, already shifting towards the nearest door.
But the Warden seemed to have expected that; no, Zevran's mind corrected, had been waiting for that. He dashed forward, arm already flinging out. Zevran was quick, but the Warden had the advantage of greater height, and therefore greater reach; that arm curled around his waist, dragging him backward, yanking him back against a hard and heavy body while another arm wound around his neck and pulled his head up and backwards. His hands slapped against the forearm, a moment too late in blocking that grip.
The arm around his neck tightened, making him cough. "You do realize," the Warden said, in a light tone that was at odds with the anger Zevran could hear thrumming beneath the words, "that I won't let go of you so easily."
Zevran spat a curse, ignoring the question, testing the unyielding grip around his neck and wiggling in an attempt to break free.
"Zevran," the Warden said quietly, "stop struggling."
"When the Maker returns to the Black City," he spat, before bringing both arms up and then sharply swinging his elbows back, jabbing them hard into the Warden's gut at the same time he kicked at the other man's shin. A breath barked out over his head, ruffling his hair, and the arms around him fell away.
He sprinted for the door again, and just barely managed to reach it, but a palm slammed against hard wood, just barely inches from his head, forcing the door closed... an instant before he was suddenly pressed against the door by the Warden's body. The hand that held the door closed dropped down, caught his wrist and pulled his arm up, pinning it beside his head, at the same time his opposite arm was pulled up and pinned as well, so he was well and truly trapped.
"Zevran." Warm breath ghosted over his ear, making his skin prickle. "Why are you running?"
The words, spoken in a voice that still rang with deadly threat, nearly made him shiver; not just from fear, but desire as well. Chagrined by that reaction (Why now, of all times? )he braced his arms against the door and pressed back against the Warden.
The body behind his budged not one inch.
He was helpless, trapped between the immovable wood of the door, and the unyielding muscle and bone of the Warden's body.
A very strange sensation skittered down his spine at the realization that he was well and truly caught.
The Warden had asked him a question, he remembered; he swallowed once, his throat suddenly too tight, and rasped out, "I'm not running."
"Liar." The word was a soft, malevolent whisper in his ear, and he shivered again, suppressing a moan as lips lightly cruised over the sensitive shell. "You're running away, Zevran. You're frightened."
"I'm not-" he started to protest, before teeth closed over the tip of his ear and bit, lightly. This time he failed to suppress a moan, and then a whimper as a wet tongue flicked against that ear.
"Yes, you are," the Warden murmured. "Frightened of me; of yourself, and of what is growing between us; of the feelings growing within you." The mouth that had been nibbling against his ear shifted down and pressed at the hollow just beneath his earlobe in a light, teasing kiss. "You know that this so-called arrangement between us had grown to become something more than that, and you're afraid of what it will become, something that is more complete, more whole; something that will bring you more happiness than you could ever dream of, but only if you dare reach for it."
Zevran felt his face blank, stunned by the Warden's words, but they went on, even as the kisses drifted from his jaw, down the side of his neck and then to his nape. "You're afraid that this might hurt you, that by hoping for more you will find yourself vulnerable to more pain, more grief. You're afraid that this, all that is between us, will make you weaker, that it will make you feel."
He wasn't sure when he had stopped struggling, when he had relaxed, but the hands pinning his arms lifted away, dropping down to encircle his waist and turn him around, so he was now facing the Warden.
The eyes that looked down into his had calmed somewhat, no longer hardened by anger, but they still held enough feral temper to warn Zevran that a slight push would be enough to unleash that violent rage he now knew the Warden was capable of.
He blinked up at that gaze, before narrowing his own eyes. "You talk as if you know me," he snapped, "or own me."
The Warden's lips curved in a self-mocking smile. "I never 'owned' you, Zevran, and I don't know you as well as I want to." A hand reached up, brushing back a stray lock of blond hair and tucking it behind his ear; a gentle, affectionate gesture that made his heart skip a beat. "You don't have to be afraid of this, Zevran. Or afraid of me." The Warden leaned in, and lips brushed against his temple. "Know this, and remember it: I will never willingly hurt you, nor will I do anything that might cause you pain." A pause. "Well, except the kind of pain that you actually like, but that's not the point I'm trying to make here."
The dry comment startled a laugh out of Zevran. "I'll keep that in mind." He raised his eyes, searching the Warden's face. Saw nothing in them but openness, trust... and an emotion that Zevran could only describe as 'longing'. "What, exactly, do you want from me?"
The tiny smile that had been hovering around the Warden's mouth turned into that sharp wolf's grin. "Everything that you are willing to give, and everything that I can take."
He blinked. Stared. Felt his ears grow more than a little heated. "I'm not sure if I know how to answer that," he said, and was irritated to find that his voice sounded a little shaky.
The grin softened. "I know." The hands around his waist pulled him closer, so that he was flush against the Warden, with only their clothing separating them. "If you can't answer that yet, it's fine. I'm only asking that you take a chance with me, with us."
The Warden was watching him, his expression one of open expectation, but Zevran was standing close enough to see the shadow of doubt lingering in the keen eyes.
He is no less confident in this than I am, he realized. He knows he can hurt me, but he also knows that I can hurt him as well. Yet he is willing to take that risk, to ask for something more.
The very thought humbled him.
"I don't know what to think," he said, entirely honest.
"You don't have to think too much. Just... trust me in this."
Trust. Again, it came back to trust.
Zevran sighed, closed his eyes, and nodded. "Fine."
He sensed the Warden smile at him, just before arms enfolded him in a hug.
His own arms arose to hug back, although awkwardly so. "You're a crazy man," he muttered into the Warden's shoulder. "What exactly am I to you, that you would risk so much?"
The Warden laughed softly, pulling back. The look in his eyes was teasing, even mischievous. "For that question," he murmured, his grin entirely untrustworthy, "I think actions would serve better than words."
Zevran felt his eyebrows rise, even as an answering grin tugged at his lips. "Oh? And what kind of actions are we talking about here."
The Warden laughed again, but true to what he said, he didn't bother with words. He simply cupped Zevran's chin in his hand, tilted the tattooed face up, and bent down, covering the elf's lips with his own.
~ to be continued~
Author's Notes: Hey there! [waves] Haven't been uploading for a LONG time, and I sincerely apologise for that! Life has been a little... err, bumpy, to say the least, and I had to work part time to get some extra money.
Good news: I'm not dead yet! And the story shall go on!
Bad news: Updates will be slower than usual, until my life gets somewhat less messy, so I'm guessing another two weeks for the next chapter to be uploaded.
Sorry again for the long absence, and I hope this chapter didn't disappoint!
~Sesquip