FENRIS
An apprehensive silence looms over the Hanged Man. It has followed our group ever since this 'Zevran' character first joined our ranks, and has only intensified after the assassin spoke with Serena at the caves in private. The two have nary said a word to each other since, even throughout our subsequent battle with the Crows, or on the long trek back to Kirkwall. And now, they've sequestered themselves with Isabela alone in her room, leaving Hawke and I to wait at our usual tavern table below by the hearth.
But if what I know what Serena thought to be true, these results are only be expected.
I stare down at my near empty tankard, my arms and legs still stiff and sore from the long day's trials. The last bit of froth clinging to the bottom of the mug serves as yet another frustrating reminder that remnants of the past cannot be so easily dismissed or forgotten, regardless of one's dedication or actions—Serena and I being no exception.
A loud door slam echoes upstairs.
Isabela immediately storms down the stairwell, her face scrunched up in an infuriated scowl. "They're both stubborn idiots," she mutters under her breath to us, in passing. She marches over to the bar, quickly calling over the barkeep for a bottle of her favorite whiskey.
Not a good sign, if one were to harbor a guess.
A secondary set of rushed footsteps descend the staircase a moment later.
Hawke and I both turn to find it's Zevran, also scowling. He slows his advance near the bottom upon noticing us. With a cold, calculating smirk, he struts up to our table with his chin held high, taking us both in with unrestrained contempt, emitting potential promissory death one might expect from a professional killer.
"I believe we may have gotten off on the wrong foot," the Crow says in the same upbeat manner he'd offered us before at our meeting, as if the past few hours of his sour mood were merely a deceptive illusion.
He sits down in the seat adjacent to Hawke. Leaning all the way back into it, he crosses his arms and lifts one thumb to his bare chin, giving him a more pensive and defensive look to those foolish enough to trust a biding assassin.
I am not one of them.
"Let me . . . apologize for the unsightliness of our earlier encounter," he continues with a flamboyant wave of the same hand. "As I'm quite sure you're already aware, our situation included quite a few misunderstandings on both our parts, to say the least. Such things could have been avoided, had I known what I know now. But alas, here we are. I must thank you for looking after my enchanting wife during my absence. Your efforts are appreciated." He sneers at us at the last word.
Gooseflesh rises along the back of my neck at the unexpected tone and sight.
But not out of fear, no. Out of recognition.
His glare. It is identical to Serena's when confronting a potential magister or slaver. A bloodthirsty look that insists he enjoys the hunt, the kill. He thrives on it. Only right now, he has narrowed such focus on us.
"Is she alright?" Hawke asks, seeming unfazed by the obvious aggression.
Zevran's expression softens, grows more solemn, relaxed. "She will be." He nods. "With time. I trust she has gotten most of her anger out for the moment. However, I do not recommend broaching the subject just yet. Not if you value your fingers at least. But that warning might only apply to myself!" He laughs out loud at his own joke, bold and full of amusement and mirth. The broad smile tugging at his lips suggests he might not have a true lasting concern in the world—Serena or her honest well-being included.
Hawke glares at him. "You don't sound like you feel guilty about this at all."
That is an understatement.
Zevran frowns, turning cold again. "And what would you know about how I feel? Hm?" He tilts his head at Hawke, his prior aggression returning. "I left the woman I love for years, in order to secure our chances at a better future, only to return to discover the hardships she has endured, alone, without me by her side. And let us not forget to mention the two foreigners, who tried sneaking into her bed while I was away."
He squints at both of us at the last comment.
Hawke pales, and I tense up, my grip tightening instinctively around my tankard.
"That's . . . That's not—" Hawke stutters.
Zevran holds a hand up, shutting his eyes. "Ah, no need for an explanation," he says. "I have already heard plenty for one night. And besides, you both thought I was dead, yes? One can hardly fault another for such an unanticipated misconception, and it is not as though she was an unwilling party from what I hear. Otherwise, you'd both be dead already."
I gulp at the blunt threat. The implications of his words still permeating the air.
He is serious. And I do not doubt it.
Zevran pauses and takes in a long, deep breath, a flash of unexpected vulnerability entering his gaze, despite his intimidating aura a second earlier. "I will be honest. This has not been an easy pill to swallow," he confesses in an almost inaudible whisper. "However, I am not opposed to . . . setting up an arrangement in the future, as it were, once this current storm has passed."
"Arrangement?" Hawke furrows his brow at him. "What are you talking about?"
Zevran looks up from the table at us. "Love is not such a simple feeling, no? And the Warden is no simple woman. Far from it, in fact. As such, if she were to ask me, I would not be opposed to welcoming some newcomers into our bed from time to time. However, some ground rules would need to be established and agreed upon, and the individuals involved must be of equal mindset. Expectations must be managed, lest all plummet into chaos. More so than now."
My body locks up in shock.
Sharing?
Is he proposing we share her?
Together?
Hawke sits back and blinks wildly. "Are you . . . Are you suggesting what I think you are?" he sputters, struggling to get the words out. But still doing a far better job than I.
"That depends. What exactly do you think I'm proposing?" Zevran asks with a mocking lift of an eyebrow.
Hawke huffs, continuing to gawk at the tanned elf. "You don't honestly believe she'd ever be okay with such a thing, do you?"
"That depends." Zevran smirks. "My warden and I . . . we both have insatiable appetites, you see. And the two of us have always been up for a bit of . . . adventure." He fixates his leer onto me, and the whole room stills. All thought leaving my head in an instant.
"I can't believe I'm hearing this," Hawke whispers, slouching forward, over the edge of the table. "First, I'm all but certain you're planning to kill us, and now you're propositioning us? Like this?"
"I know! I know! Terrible!" Zevran chuckles. "But who am I to deny my warden's needs? Especially with such delectable looking participants?"
He admires the two of us as if we're both potential snacks, up for grabs. A bunch of frilly cakes, served on a platter, prime for the taking.
But then, that playfulness of his vanishes, returning to business once again. "Like I said, however. This would all depend on her, and on whether or not she even asks. I will not coax the issue. She has always been my priority, and always will be, so whatever she says goes. You would be wise to think the same . . . That is, assuming you both truly claim to love her?"
Love? I . . .
I think of Serena, the last night I pushed her up against the mansion foyer's wall and tasted her lips. The addictive sweetness it had to it, like a batch of fresh strawberries on a hot summer's day. The memory of her touch still lingers, cascading in gentle phantom caresses across my skin. Just as soft, vivid, and electrifying, as if they happened yesterday.
And then, there's Danarius.
Calling out to me the night of my escape.
His glare boring into my lyrium infused brands.
His masterpiece carved into my flesh and bones. Into my soul.
It is the whole reason I have kept my distance from her, since. Why I have delayed any further pursuit, amid my ongoing search for resolution these past few years. For how could I endanger another, while he yet lives? When she already had one magister to worry about?
A hard lump forms in my throat at the thought. Its presence almost choking me.
Hawke rakes his hand through his hair and stands up. "I-I need some air," he whispers, hurrying out the tavern door.
It takes a moment for me to process his rushed departure. But as soon as I fully realize he's gone, and I'm alone with the Crow, my frustration overflows.
I snap out of my daze and glare at the smirking assassin, despising how he's regarding us as nothing but a bunch of toys to manipulate and remove at his disposal. "What is your goal in all of this?" I growl, grasping my tankard. My suspicion and fury fueling my inferno.
"Goal? What goal? What is it you are implying, my dear, scowling friend?"
"Do not play coy with me!" I bang one fist hard on the table. "Any fool could see there must be some sort of catch to this offer of yours! No man would so quickly offer up a space in their lover's bed. Not unless they had a plan!"
Zevran clicks his tongue and shakes his head at me. "You are far too suspicious. Why must I have a plan? Why can we not simply enjoy each other as we wish? Hm?"
". . . Because," I snap him. "I doubt Serena would approve of this."
"Then perhaps you do not know the Warden's wilder side as well as I do, hm? We have shared our bed with two other women before. What kind of lover would I be to refuse two men for her? Especially if they do genuinely care for her and I approve?"
His confession surprises me, but I do not waver. Nothing can convince me that this isn't a game to him. Riling bait and nothing more.
"Do you not fear that one of us might steal her out from under you?" I persist. "That we might take your place?"
"You may certainly try." Zevran shrugs. "But you might find yourself sorely disappointed."
His earlier look of contempt returns. Challenging me. Waiting. Exuding a confidence that seems impossible to breach.
Clenching my jaw, I push myself up out of my seat and stomp over toward the tavern exit, detesting the fact that he might be right. That this argument might be for naught, if Serena's feelings for this scoundrel somehow remain true. Against all reason.
"Heading out, I see?" Zevran calls out to me, over my shoulder, making me stop. "How sad."
The sarcasm in his voice sends me boiling over the edge.
With a loud, infuriated grunt, I tug at the exit's already loose door handle, slam the door wide open, and stalk out into the night, wishing Serena had never joined us on the journey to Sundermount, so I might've had the excuse to rip the assassin's jaw out earlier myself.
SERENA
After all these years of twists and turns, and unspeakable bad luck, I would've thought I'd be accustomed to things going haywire so fast.
Earlier this week, my concerns were already many: the lies of the clan, the nobility finding out my identity, being declared a unique Dreamer that's caused the magisterium to hunt me for years, as well as everything that might mean about my past, the visions, and my understandings of who and what I am going into the future.
And now, on top of all that mess, there's this.
Zevran's back. Basically from the dead.
I had hoped after a brief night of rest the reality would better sink in, make more sense. But it doesn't. It still feels fake, a well thought-out deception, crafted by a cunning desire demon. Only this time, it's real, and it hurts.
The confusion's tantamount to an axe to the head. I'm not even certain how I should feel anymore.
Happy? Happy he's alive? That he's returned safely, in one piece?
Angry? Angry that he all but abandoned me for six years, without so much as a word or coming to search for me, until now?
Or regret? Regret that I didn't search harder? That I allowed everything to evolve into this, over a massive misunderstanding and mistake?
No. None of them alone will do. I feel them all at once, like an internal torrent, spiraling into an out-of-control cyclone. And a frustrated rage lurks beneath its surface.
Infuriated by all of it, I pace back and forth in my house in the alienage, stepping over minefields of books and papers that lie scattered across every surface.
Gods, I can't even bury myself in my research like I want to! Not like this. Since when did I become such a haphazard fool?
A loud knock raps at the front door, making me flinch. "Go away!" I snap, not caring who it might be, regardless of the situation.
The knock comes again, just as steady and unwavering as the last.
My rage burns to the surface.
Clenching my fists and jaw, I stomp over to the door and swing it wide open. "I said, go away!" I shout, glaring at the intruder.
Only for my breath to catch in my throat.
It's Zevran, holding a small basket of bright, colored fruits in the afternoon sunlight. "Still upset I see," he quips with his characteristic wily smirk. The one I fell for so long ago. "Should I come back at another time?" He raises a playful eyebrow at me and points back at the steps, leading to Lowtown.
"No . . . please." I gulp and motion for him to come in, the rage within me quickly ebbing, shifting to that of shame, recognizing my rude behavior.
Zevran bows his head and ducks inside, seeming to be no less bothered by my sharp tongue than the last time we saw each other, years prior. "You weren't jesting about the hovel," he whispers, glancing around, as I shut the door behind us. "Although, a part of me almost wishes you had. I rather expected you to call that painted tree in the alienage square your home over this."
His face scrunches up with noticeable skepticism and disgust. A reaction I often imagined from him over the years, should he ever learn of my mess.
I laugh. "That tree would've been my home, if Hawke and the others hadn't insisted that I buy this place years ago. They were worried I was attracting too much attention alone. Plus, I was growing tired of having to store all my supplies at Hawke's, Merrill's, or Isabela's places. Can't close one eye out here or you might end up getting robbed blind."
Zevran smiles at that. "No wonder this city appeals to you. You have always had the most peculiar itch to courting danger, my dear." The kindness of his teasing words reaches his eyes, adding a familiar affection to his molten amber gaze—the soft intensity akin to a glorious sunset that sends my heart aflutter. "Speaking of courting," he continues, standing up straight. He sets the basket down on the nearby letter table. "I have something I wish to speak to you about, if I may."
He watches me, pointedly. Waiting. As if expecting me to bark out my acceptance or refusal.
"What is it?" I tilt my head at him, uncertain by his sudden change of attitude.
He crosses his arms and puts a thoughtful hand to his chin. "Those men you told me about—Hawke and Fenris, yes? I spoke with them the other night, after our little chat."
My eyes widen. Dread penetrates deep into my bones, sinking all the way into the marrow. "No, Zevran. You didn't . . ."
"It must be addressed sometime, no? Why delay the inevitable?"
He says it like there's nothing to be mortified over. Just a casual occurrence that anyone should expect. All I can do is gawk at him, as he leans against the back of the nearby couch.
"Anyways, they seem a decent sort," he moves on. "You, however, now face quite the decision, my dear . . . Now that I'm free from the Crows, and the last of my pursuing brethren has fallen, I can choose to remain here, with you. At last. We could start our new life together—here, in Ferelden, wherever you wish . . . However, should you prefer to send me away, I could not fault you for doing so. The choice remains yours, however. What would you do with me?"
He asks the question in the same manner he did the night we defeated Tallisen in the Denerim alleys. Trying to keep a controlled distance, while his true desires remain plain underneath, begging for an answer. For permission.
"Zevran, you can't . . . You can't just throw something like this at me right now." I put one hand to my head, wanting to curl back into myself.
"But I must." He steps closer to me. "If I do not, when else would you make a decision, mi amor?"
He strokes two gentle fingers across my cheek, sending a pleasant bout of shivers bolting down my spine, making me shudder. My breath catches in my throat at his touch, the feelings foreign now, but still powerful and ground-shaking, like lightning striking out at my feet from the heavens.
For a moment, Zevran merely stares at me like this. Neither of us moving. Our gazes locked onto each other. My breath coming no more easily each passing attempt.
Then, there's a flicker of pain in his eyes.
Followed by doubt. Reluctant withdrawal. Then surrender.
"I understand things are . . . complicated." He lowers his hand. "What with your new feelings for the other two, and the home you have no doubt built up here in Kirkwall. However, none of that needs to be deal breaker, my dear warden."
A mischievous smile returns to his face. The likes he shows when scheming something. Something fun. Flirtatious.
"What are you saying?" I squint at him.
"Hm. What indeed?" he hums, walking back over to the fruit basket.
He grabs one of the red apples on top, tossing it up in the air, then catches it, demonstrating nimble finesse.
"I will leave the consideration up to you." He points the apple out at me. "Take some time to think it over. I am certain the answer will come to you."
With a flirty wink, he takes a bite of the apple and walks over to the dining room table. He doesn't stop grinning at me, even when he plops down into one of the table's wobbly seats, watching me with a mute curiosity, until I yield and finally come join him.
