I want to thank everyone for still reading, and for the reviews and the adds. It means a lot to me. Thank you also to my betas for catching one huge glaring mistake that I had already worked out in my mind but did not make clear to my readers. Shame on me.

Here, we finally meet poor Zevran – and reveal the connection between him and Renaldo. If you have questions, please ask. Or perhaps they will be answered down the line.

LCailan

CHAPTER THREE

Part of every misery is,

so to speak,

the misery's shadow or reflection:

the fact that you don't merely suffer but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer. – C.S. Lewis

Antiva City – Renaldo Alfieri's dungeons

-o-

He stood to stretch his legs, leaning against the slimy, moss covered walls of his cell and groaning as he worked knots out of each of his thighs. Every sodden inch of him hurt – down to the tips of his toes. There was no room in the prison cell to move and it was quite irritating really. Renaldo Alfieri had always kept his prisoners in places much too small for any real man to be locked within. It made no sense seeing as the man had more coin than most elves would ever see in their lifetime – he could certainly afford better accommodations for his prisoners.

It is something to think about at least, no?

Zevran Arainai could not recall how many weeks had passed since he had returned to Antiva City, and subsequently been shut off from the world and caged like some kind of degenerate prisoner. Imprisonment within these walls made it more difficult to keep track of the time – there was nothing here but slime, mold and dripping water. It was cold too. Colder than the Ferelden temperatures he had complained about for so long. And there were rats, mostly big ones with sharp teeth.

These creatures are worthy of a man's fear indeed.

He groaned again, took a few steps across his empty cell and then lowered himself back down to the ground. He watched a particularly fat rat scurry across the wet, slippery stones on the other side of his cell and cringed with distaste. He put his head back, resting it against the damp wall, a strand of blond hair falling across his face unheeded. There was nothing to do in this forsaken place but think – and Zevran found he was doing too much of that.

He had failed – failed his Master and the Crows. This he knew for sure.

Failed not just my Master, but my father.

Each time he thought of this, it made him feel strange inside.

To be the only son of the Antivan Master of Crows was not something easily kept a secret, and yet all his life Zevran had done just that. He had never been treated differently – none of the others had ever been the wiser. Like the other assassins, Zevran had felt pain, anguish, fear, he had worked just as hard, and never had he believed Renaldo found him more special or more worthy simply because of the blood that connected them. Zevran would also pay like all the others who failed. He knew that somehow he would have to pay – for they all did.

The only thing he did not know was why Renaldo had not slit his throat upon his immediate return to the city. This was most peculiar for it was what he had expected. Zevran knew his father, and the man never spared a life apart from the necessity.

No, instead, Renaldo had been eerily calm – and had simply ordered his former apprentice and son caged. For how long he had never been told – and it seemed to the assassin that he had been imprisoned for a time immemorial. He was grateful, however, to Renaldo because Zevran did not relish death (at least not any longer) – and the Crow Master had allowed him to live.

But why? Is it because I am his son?

It was a disconcerting thought as Zevran knew that a Crow never did anything without a price. He belonged to Renaldo in every way, by guild and by blood – and crossing him would not come at a cheap price for it was a double betrayal. He knew his father and the violence he had been capable of in the past, violence which Zevran had wholly embraced as well – but the deepest part of him hoped, truly hoped that there was a reason for everything his father had done.

Perhaps like me, he had no choice? Had this life been thrust upon him as welll? Was ut just the need to survive? Justified killing?

In any case, Zevran had indeed failed.

He had been sent to Ferelden on a mission – and the one marked still lived.

Perhaps I did not as much fail as I chose… not to complete.

Either way, any other Crow would have been dead already for Renaldo cared little for the small technicalities.

Dropping his head, Zevran stared thoughtfully at his hands, seeing the familiar shape of his fingers and the faint markings of battle scars marring his skin like memories.

Why did I not kill her when I should have? I should have set up ambush from the start, had it done with right away.

A pair of startling emerald eyes flashed across his conscience for one bittersweet moment – and the image stirred him just as it had when he had first looked upon her so many months ago. Seeing her had been the beginning of his downfall – and to think! A woman, of all things. He should have known better. As he shuddered slightly, his Father's voice whispered in his mind once more.

"To Ferelden, Zevran. Her name is Lucia Cousland and she is a Grey Warden. Her goal to defeat the archdemon threatens Ferelden's political future. Our client wishes her...eliminated before she gains enough influence within their government to put a new king on their throne. The wrong king, apparently. Though I do not care for political talk, least of all in a cesspool like Ferelden, he has offered a great price for her head…"

He would never forget the look on his father's face, the gleeful hunger and the bloodless smirk as he had said those things, as if this assassination meant more to him than the others.

Zevran stood again, frustrated now, and he began to pace his cell like a wild animal eager to escape.

I am an assassin! One of the best in Antiva City – even all of Antiva. I live to kill!

He was bitter, irritated with Antiva, his past and his lot in life. His fists clenched as he grabbed the bars of his prison.

Antiva City…the gem of Thedas.

What a bunch of rubbish that was. She did indeed look like a splendidly sparkling gem. She was pastel colored skies with marshmallow clouds and sparkling sands that lined blue seas spanning an eternal horizon. She was balmy breezes rich with the scents of the sea and of spices. She was laughter, joyous music, frivolity and decadent foods. She was as fresh as a virgin's first blush and as old as the elders. Her nights were sultry and heavy with seduction. Her days were bright and full of hope.

And within that sparkling gem lay the life Zevran had known.

You, my dearest Antiva City, are only as lovely as the rotting decay of northeastern civilization that lives just below your pristine outer beauty.

Antiva City was beautiful and she was admired, but she desperately hid secrets of those who were the downtrodden, lost, forsaken and forever trapped within her run down, dirty, death-ridden streets.

In spite of this, he, the son of a Dalish born Antivan whore, had risen to the ranks of the most feared in Antiva – the Crows. He had at first stumbled through those long forgotten back alleys and streets with their stink of death, destruction, piss and ale as a forsaken little boy. It had been Renaldo Alfieri who had saved him from his certain death when he had bought him from his mother's whorehouse in the eastern district. The Crow Master had taught Zevran to make his mark as a most promising of Crow apprentices and then finally as one of its most famed members. No more would he be called a flea infested dirty little elf. No more would he have to cower before humans because he was not equal to them. It was only the cherry on top of the proverbial sundae that his master had turned out to be his father as well.

The scars never went away – Zevran was living proof of this. He would forever be branded with faint scars of a multitude of beatings and tortures he had endured. But the Crows had given him a chance to fight back, to gain his equality – at least in one way. He had taken his vengeance and created this most coveted equality with a dagger, ripping through flesh effortlessly and spilling blood upon the ground with no remorse. It was simply payback for all the pain and abuse in his past. After all, some people required killing. It was that simple, plus revenge did taste quite sweet. He had slain commoners, nobles, men and women, shop owners and even three Orlesian chevaliers in one night! He had assisted in poisoning an Antivan prince! Only a few were as quick and nimble on foot and with a blade as he - and yet – a woman had been his undoing.

A bitter chuckle escaped him.

Stories were told of men who fell at women's feet – and it was sad to say that he was one of those men. Zevran was, however, a man who was quick to defend his own actions even be they unsavory. And so as he pictured those eyes once more, he sighed in contentment.

It had been a woman – but oh – what a woman!

Zevran had slain many women in his time – beautiful and homely, quiet and outspoken, weak and strong, noble and commoner. Women who had charmed him and wined him, danced for him, and seduced him. But none had captured him quite like the Grey Warden. She was captivating in more ways than one – and that was without mention of the fact that she was storybook beautiful.

At the thought, Zevran sighed with satisfaction.

Thick curls as vivid and wild as fire had framed a porcelain perfect face marked only with a smattering of freckles like stars scattered along the skies. And those eyes! It had been difficult to remember his purpose when those eyes had turned on him, glowing impishly or shining with tenderness or happiness. It had been so easy to forget that she had been marked for death when that lilting laughter rang out into the fire lit nights he spent in camp with her as she talked of her past and her future and everything in between.

Yes, she was the one he should never have desired.

Lucia had been more than heart-stoppingly beautiful (though clearly Zevran had not minded that part). Killing a woman with a beautiful face was not difficult. No – it was more than just that. She had been more than what she seemed – a woman as small and delicate looking should not have been such a tank on the battlefield. But Lucia Cousland had wielded a sword and dagger better than half the male comrades he had known in his life. And that made her more desirable, simply because she was his equal.

The Crows had helped him find her – Ferelden was a huge country abundant with lush forests, frosty blue and purple mountains, arid landscapes and splendid cities. To find a woman in such a country would have been impossible save for his skills and the help of his brothers. They had been traveling along what Ferelden citizens called the Imperial highway towards the Brecilian Forest to meet with (ironically) the Dalish when Zevran had stumbled upon them.

One beautiful woman and her ragtag entourage.

It had been quite amusing though Zevran had never uttered a laugh. He had playfully and conversationally ingratiated himself within them without stating his true purpose. Lies fell from his lips like a breathtaking waterfall, and because he was such a good conniver and liar no one had been the wiser.

He had become the silver tongued snake that had slithered within their group; the secret enemy amongst them.

Slaying a Grey Warden will be no easy task, my Zevran. But you...you know the dance of death, do you not?

The smooth, deep voice of his father broke into Zevran's more fevered thoughts. He could almost see the Master's smile of glee.

Yes – the dance of death.

Zevran bowed his head again, thinking of Taliesen and of Rinna.

Oh Rinna!

What a dance that had been! It was because of Rinna that he was in his current situation. Perhaps not because of her – but because of her death. Lucia Cousland had been a formidable mark. To assassinate her and those she traveled with would have meant Crow fame or an untimely death.

He had voted for the latter quite easily. After Rinna's death his life had meant nothing to Zevran any longer.

Yes, a torn, deadened heart had still been beating within his body, but he had stopped living with the last breath Rinna had taken. He had begun wishing for death – perhaps even hoping. It would have been a respite, the sweetest of blessings (and those did not come often, quite honestly). Zevran had wanted to seal his fate – a death equal to the one Taliesen had dealt when Rinna fell at his feet, bleeding out into the hot parched dust.

And I had laughed at her, spat in her face – I the man who had loved her more than life itself. She had died believing I hated her.

Zevran shuddered, his lips trembling with emotion he refused to feel. He managed a slight choking sound.

The mission had been quite simple.

Assassinate the Grey Wardens of Ferelden for his Father or die trying. He had already made his choice.

He should have known – should have learned –the hard, cruel lesson imparted on him by Rinna before her untimely demise – that there was no room in the life of an assassin for feelings. They were fleeting in a world that was gray and dark and although Zevran took his pleasures where he could find them, never turning away a good drink, delicious bite, or the company of a man or woman he fancied, but he had always been careful of allowing feelings of any kind.

That was…until Rinna.

She had awakened more than desire in him, more than just cheap sensation. She had been his first love. And a whole sodden lot of good it had done him in the end. He had told himself a thousand times, a thousand and ONE times that he would never again feel that way for anyone as it brought him no benefit. He was an assassin. He did not feel - he simply acted.

And then….there had been Lucia.

In spite of his fight against everything Zevran knew was wrong – still something about the Grey Warden had captured his interest, and she refused to let him go. Why it was he did not know for sure, although Zevran could have come up with more than one reason.

Perhaps it was that in Lucia Cousland he had discovered a part of himself. Given to the task at hand, he had fought alongside her, playing the ally as he waited for her to let her guard down. He had played her friend. There had been time abounding during which he had learned about her. She was tenacious on the battlefield and wielded strength as a leader. She was infuriatingly (and therefore very much alluringly) stubborn. She was smart, quick, and moved without hesitation. She accepted what came without faltering and she made choices so quickly that often times she made mistakes. Mistakes that she easily took ownership for and instead of bemoaning those choices, she simply corrected them and moved on.

And oh, she was feisty! Her tongue was as sharp as her sword and she spoke without thinking which was quite delightful. Her language was not that of a lady – and in this way too – she was not what she appeared to be. Zevran had learned in their travels (from some very loose lipped companions) that Lucia was the only daughter of one of the highest nobility in Ferelden. In fact, her father was the footstool to the throne. This meant that she had been bred as a lady, taught how to talk, walk and act as such. It was much more interesting then, that she was undeniably not a lady – and equally matched against any man. Here was a woman who was willing to fight, think, talk and rival all other men.

This to Zevran was incredibly attractive.

Her impressive skills she had learned from her mother and she later revealed to him of her untimely death – for which she had not yet had closure. It turned out that the woman had fallen by the blade of one of his own – a Crow. It was ironic to him then that she had unknowingly revealed this to him since he himself was also a Crow.

To this day in the prison cell, Zevran wondered who had slain Teryna Cousland and what man had wanted her dead. But as always, he had never asked questions.

During their time together, Lucia had fought with feeling unequal to her male counterparts and her brother – and she had resented her father for his inability to trust her to handle the dark truths of her mother's death even though it was abundantly clear that she could. He learned that she was a woman given an impossible task and yet she accepted and flourished as she moved to complete it.

Zevran sighed, listening to the nearby dripping from the ceiling. Thinking of Lucia over the last several weeks had done nothing for him and yet – here he was once again.

He had loved Rinna; this was the truth. He had admired her, conspired with her, made love to her, and then had allowed her destruction. With Rinna it had been like a bolt of lighting - sudden, heart stopping, and electrifying. Love had been a sudden, sweet pain. With Lucia Cousland love had come softly, like the sweetest seduction, overwhelming him only after it was too late.

It had been as amazingly beautiful as it was impossible. And yet, he had hoped…

Hope. That had been his mother's favorite word. Could it have been so? Lucia had awoken hope in his black heart? Maker forbid it.

Zevran did not know when things had changed. He did not know when his admiration at her fighting skills had turned into furtive, longing gazes at her lithe body and the way she turned and twisted in the throes of battle like a dancer, her glorious hair falling freely around her. He could no longer recall when he had started spending his evenings near her tent, telling her of (certain) parts of his life whilst she listened and then told him of her life. He did not remember when he had stopped laughing at Alistair's awkward advances towards her and begun brooding because there was a nasty, jealous twisting in the pit of his stomach that he had taken great care to hide. And when had he realized that he found her amazingly beautiful – that he had found her thus from the very beginning? How was it that he deemed himself smart and yet he had been so blind until it was too late? Lucia had rekindled life within his long dead heart, reminding him of how it felt to be a man once more. The irony was bitter to swallow – that it was this woman – the woman he was to kill – who had brought him back to life unbeknownst to them both.

He had allowed himself his unspoken feelings – for that was the most he could have. He, the master of seduction. It seemed preposterous to not say a word, but Zevran never had. After all, if stripped from the heavy burden she had accepted, and cleaned of the Grey Warden taint in her body and soul, she was of nobility. The daughter of a Teryn and therefore a woman of power meant for great things. Once she was finished fighting the Blight she would return home and take up other noble – for lack of a better term – tasks.

And he was nothing, indeed. A lowly city elf – disgusting flea infested flat ear – as the humans had liked to call him. In Ferelden, whilst playing the assassin he had been something at least. But now, home in the lovely sweltering heat of Antiva – he was nothing to a noblewoman. Perhaps even less than the dirt beneath her dainty little boots.

I should have taken her life as I had been ordered. What of love if I am alone and imprisoned now? When did I become like this – when did I choose this? Here I am imprisoned and for what?

Another well fed rat rushed across the cell, closer to him this time and Zevran almost killed it – in the end not wanting to put forth the effort. Sighing he looked up along the damp walls of his prison at the small window along the top which let in the meager afternoon sunlight.

It was then that the far door of the vast room in the dungeon opened, the sound echoing across the vast, darkened space. Zevran did not move, assuming it was simply his one daily meal being brought to him as usual. He waited for the tell tale sound of metal tin being placed on the cold stone by his cell. Strangely, it did not come, and the blond assassin turned his head to look.

The man who stood on the other side of the bars had a round, tanned face and large black eyes which gave him a look reminiscent of a well fed calf. His ruddy face was framed by thick black curls that fell into his eyes, and his nose was pudgy and as round as his face. A single fresh tattoo ran down his temple and along his full cheek. He was young – Zevran could not be certain of his age – and in spite of all his small imperfections he was innocently beautiful.

Zevran could see the jeweled hilt of a new dagger sheathed at the boy's side, which was a sign of full Crow membership.

Zevran found it quite befitting the boy – for in spite of the permanent stupid expression on his face – Antonio Felsi was incredibly skilled, especially with small daggers. Perhaps that was what made him such a good assassin – the mark did not expect the boy to be so lethal for he certainly did not look so.

"Antonio! My friend, I have not seen you in months!"

Zevran stood to face the boy in a sprightly manner, a smile lighting up his much paler face. It was Zevran's nature to be as charming as possible – with everyone.

Antonio, however, did not share such enthusiasm. Pity, it was.

"You have been away, si?"

His tone was higher pitched than expected from a boy his size and build.

"On a mission, alas," replied Zevran, refusing to elaborate more even though he could see the spark of hunger in Antonio's eyes. "I thought you were my supper," he continued conversationally, offering a light laugh. "Glad I am to see you, my friend."

"Indeed."

Antonio's reply was reserved as his black eyes roamed the cell with curiosity.

Zevran found himself being scrutinized as well – and once again he felt like a caged animal with no place to escape. He could not call many people his friends – the Crows did not befriend each other under normal circumstances – and besides Taliesen, Antonio was the closest thing he had to a friend. They would have been much closer save for the jealousy that Antonio had always exhibited around Zevran, which quickly got rather old. It was as if the younger Crow was always trying to do something better, faster, more ingeniously than Zevran himself, and their conquests had become proverbial pissing matches.

Zevran hated them. Even now, Antonio surveyed Zevran with suspicion.

"What did you do to end up in the cell?" he questioned.

Zevran only laughed.

"I do not know myself! If I failed the Master, I would be dead, yes? My mission did not go as planned, perhaps that is it."

Antonio nodded.

"You? Botching up a mission? Does that happen to the great Zevran?"

The boy's words were sour and his round eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion.

"Assuredly it has and does."

The blond Crow offered up a charming smile that lit up his eyes and masked any deception. His tone was like velvet.

"And to what reason do I owe the honor of your presence?"

Antonio grew visibly uncomfortable, his cheeks turning pink as he looked away, clearing his throat.

"The Master wishes to see you. I was sent to bring you to him."

He spoke rather gruffly and held up a silver key which he placed into the lock to open the barred cell door. He moved his large body so that the elf could pass and a long silence ensued causing Zevran to grow unusually antsy, but he thought it best to keep the conversation flowing. His eyes moved to the dagger sheathed at Antonio's fleshy hip.

"I see you are no longer an apprentice, yes? That is a splendid dagger indeed."

This time, Antonio flushed with pride, his black eyes sparkling like two onyx gems.

"Only just last month! The Master was proud! I do need some work with my sword, but he states that there is no one who wields a dagger quite like I do," he was quick to say – as if this too, was a competition.

Zevran hid his annoyance by a bright smile.

"And he is correct, my friend! You are quite skilled."

Perhaps it was not what the curly haired Crow had expected, for he was flustered into a tense silence.

"Come then," he finally said, motioning towards the long hall beyond the metal door which would lead out of the dungeons into the light.

Antonio went first and Zevran, quite curiously, followed.