It wasn't the boy's fault, but Connor was the one sobbing and clinging onto his mother for dear life, whimpering that he was sorry, pleading for her forgiveness. If he had been schooled properly, if he had been taught to embrace what he'd been born instead of…
But, Chantal thought morosely, could you really blame the Arlessa for trying to spare him the Tower? Had her mother tried to prevent her from being taken? Chantal couldn't remember, didn't know if anyone ever loved her enough to attempt to save her.
Alistair retreated, leaving Redcliffe in her hands. He turned back into the frightened, lonely boy hiding in the stables under the Arlessa's withering disapproval. She tried not to blame him, really, but nobody let her shrivel up into the little girl she used to be in the circle, did they? If she did, Maker knew what would happen to the lot of them.
And sweet Andraste, did she want to be the girl in the circle again when she found herself outside Jowan's cell. He looked horrid as she felt, pale with dark hair lank and greasy against his skin. They'd decided to hold him until the Arl woke up, and when the Arl woke up, one of two things would happen.
They'd kill the boy who used to crawl into her bed at night when the air was so cold they could see their breaths. Or… they'd make him tranquil, nothing more than a hollow shell where once a person stood. He'd remember her, but he wouldn't care.
"You must hate me." Jowan whispered. "Not that it matters. Look at you, the mighty Grey Warden. Free, safe." He frowned bitterly, features twisted with jealousy.
"I loved you." She admitted, her voice sounding lifeless and dead to her ears. "Like you were my brother."
"Your mistake then." Jowan spat. "You should have known better than to risk loving anything, they just take it away from you. Use it."
"You used me!" She accused in a harsh whisper. She waited for the tears to come, but it seemed she was beyond tears. Grey Wardens didn't cry over betrayal, apparently.
"You're going to let them kill me." Jowan shrugged listlessly. "So what does it matter?"
"You deserve to die." Chantal gripped the bars of the cell tightly. "You poisoned a man, allowed a demon to take over a child in your charge, and then suggested blood magic to fix it. You're a monster! I can't let you hurt anyone else!"
This was her fault. She helped him escape. Not Connor, not the Arlessa, not Loghain. It was her choice and Jowan's that brought them here. And yet…
"Did you ever love me?" She asked softly.
His silence spoke louder than words and Chantal drew away from the bars. "They'll make you tranquil if they don't kill you. I'll do it myself now, so you don't have to… so you don't have to live like that."
She pulled the dagger from her belt, holding it up to the gleaming light. It belonged to Zevran, she couldn't see it without seeing the way it looked tucked in his boot when he wandered around camp. She didn't own one of her own, had no need for it. Until now.
"Give it to me." He grasped for it covetously and she shrunk back further, pulling the knife to her own chest.
"No. I know what you'll do." She snarled. "I'll kill you, but I won't let you escape. Not again. I won't kill anymore innocent people."
"They'll kill me!" Jowan protested, eyes bulging as he reached through the bars. "Chantal, please!"
She realized suddenly if it was a choice between an honorable death or a life as a shell, Jowan would choose life. He was too much of a coward to consider anything else. "You're scum, Jowan." She slipped the knife into her boot, just like Zevran did. It made her feel stronger, more grounded, like the steel could keep her straight when her bones couldn't.
"You're a traitorous whore." He growled.
Maybe, she thought as she turned away. But she was no coward. And if it was a choice between dying as herself, being a monster, or becoming a mindless zombie, Chantal knew what she would choose.
She should have foreseen Zevran waiting shirtless in the rooms she'd been given. A blind woman wouldn't have missed the way his face lit up at the thought of a real bed. That's where he laid, an offering draped over her pillows. His eyebrow shot up as soon as she entered.
"I'm missing a dagger, and a little bird informed me our illustrious leader nicked it." Zevran began playfully. "Seems bizarre, no?"
"Morrigan needs to mind her damned business." Chantal clambered up on the bed, immediately straddling Zevran's hips. His smile turned indulgent and heated immediately. She reached for the knife in her boot, pulled it out in one fluid motion, and then slammed it blade first into the Arlessa's fancy guest room headboard. Zevran didn't flinch, but glanced up at it with mild interest.
"Well, I assume you either did not murder anyone or had the foresight to clean the blood off." Zevran, blessedly, seemed remarkably nonchalant about either possibility. Thank the Maker.
Instead of offering any explanation, even a half-hearted lie, she crashed her lips against his. It was a challenge and a dare, goding him to… do something. She wasn't entirely sure what, to be honest, but she craved the way he lost control sometimes. When he was deep within her and she rolled her hips just right and his fingers clenched tight enough to bruise or when he would suddenly pull her hair back and sink his teeth into the white skin of her throat.
She trusted he'd figure out what she wanted. He always seemed to know, even when she didn't. So she attacked his lips with a relish, nipping lightly at the bottom one until he moaned against her mouth and dug his fingers into her hair, pulling her back just enough for his molten eyes to take in hers. He chuckled, breathless, before lightly pulling her hair until her ear was next to his warm, swollen lips. "As you wish, Chantal."
Before she completely understood how it happened (how in the void was he so quick? It was criminal) she was pinned beneath him, staring up at the dagger handle as Zevran ripped her tunic away. She heard the fabric tear and a distant part of her wondered how she was going to explain that to Wynne.
The rest of her rejoiced at the feeling of his tongue, his teeth, tracing and nipping down her collarbone. She whimpered as his tongue soothed the angry red marks his teeth left behind. Her body was an instrument, and he could play it like no other, coaxing sounds from her mouth that she barely recognized. Desperate gasps when he pulled her bandeau down, revealing her hard nipples. Needy little whimpers when his tongue caught the puffy tip of one and teased it mercilessly. A mewling cry of pleasure bordering on pain when his teeth caught it. Too much, too much. Not nearly enough.
"Zevran!" She cried, bucking up into his mouth as he repeated the sweet torture on the other breast. He looked up at her with feigned innocence.
"Yes, my enchantress?" He purred with a laugh.
Oh fuck that. She brought her nails to his back, let them dig into his shoulders, and summoned her lightning to her fingertips. Not much, just a spark.
It was enough to send him cursing in that beautiful language of his, enough for the cock she could feel through his soft doeskin breeches to swell even farther. Chantal laughed in spite of herself at his reaction, the pleasure of knocking Zevran off his game too novel to pass up.
His eyes went from molten to inferno in a second and he twisted her around, pressing her breasts into the mattress, wrenching her head back with one fist in her hair as he pulled her own trousers down, just enough to reveal her slick heated center.
"I'm going to pay you back for that, witch." Zevran promised in her ear in his perfect breathy whisper. Chantal couldn't help the moan his voice alone caused, the wetness that dripped down her thighs. "I'm going to fuck you so hard you beg me to stop."
Never, she thought as he slid into her, a perfect fit. His hand smacked her bare ass and she clenched down on his cock until he joined her in moaning. Yes, she thought deliriously as he began to pound into her, so hard the whole headboard knocked against the wall loudly and she needed to release a wail of pleasure. All she could think was his name, falling from her lips in a hundred little gasps, in desperate moans as she crested one orgasm, straight into another, then his deft fingers sunk to where they were joined, circling her clit and pushing her maddeningly closer to another.
"Again." Zevran demanded, thrusting into her. "Again, Chantal."
It hurt, Maker it hurt and it was fantastic, and she was screaming his name now, trying to bury her moans into her pillow. He yanked it away from her immediately before sinking his fingers back to her clit without mercy.
She lost track of how many orgasms he pushed her to before he spent himself inside her with a strangled shout of her name. She collapsed beneath him, heartbeat pounding, mind blissfully empty. He rolled beside her onto his back, one arm thrown helplessly over his eyes as if to dim the sparks she felt sure he could see as well. He was still muttering in Antivan, little phrases she knew. Others she didn't. Little witch, seductress, something about a heart.
"The next time." He finally breathed, stretching. "You do not need to steal my dagger. You can just ask nicely."
"I always ask nicely." She reasoned, widening her eyes. He laughed, warm and throaty and exhausted. "But that's not why I took your dagger."
He moved his arm, peered at her from beneath the tan skin. "So you did murder someone? Should I expect Alistair to burst in and start throwing accusations at me?"
"It was for Jowan, but I didn't kill him. He's not worth it." She stretched as well. "Maker, I feel better. I was so… ugh." She shook out her dark hair. Zevran grinned, amused.
"Frustrated?" He guessed. Chantal fought a tell-tell pink blush. "Well, I certainly hope you're not anymore, but if you are, I will be more than willing to continue to manage your frustration in about a half-hour."
"A whole half-hour?" Chantal complained, propping herself up on her elbow and beginning to idly trace the ink spanning his chest, curling over his ribs. "What will I do in the meantime?"
Zevran muttered the word minx under his breath, reaching up and wrenching the dagger free of the headboard before turning it lightly in his hand, presenting the handle to her. "Perhaps you should put this back in your boot and take the rest of your clothing off before I destroy it as well, si?"
"It's not mine." Chantal protested. Zevran smiled warmly.
"Ah, but now it is. I much prefer it on you, yes? There's a certain swagger to your hips with a blade hidden on you. And, if you were to lose access to your magic… well, at least you will not be defenseless." Zevran explained reasonably. Shyly, Chantal took the handle and felt the cold weight of it in her hand. She looked down at it, examining it closely.
"Nobody has ever given me a gift." She stated quietly. Once, she had given Jowan some gloves she knitted for him, all by herself. But nobody had ever given her anything. It brought something rising to the surface, a tightening in her chest she couldn't explain, but that felt pleasant nevertheless. She chanced a look through her eyelashes at Zevran.
His eyes, for a brief moment, were transparent. And she swore she saw fear.
Then he grinned again and the expression vanished so quickly, she questioned whether it had ever been there at all. "How could you say that?" He huffed in amusement. "I give you the gift of my presence everyday."
She laughed, tucking away the uneasy, sickly, pleasant feeling for examination. Later, when there wasn't a real bed available and Zevran wasn't pleasantly disheveled in hers. There'd be time to consider it then.