Chapter 11: Silk Sheets

Zevran trailed Aithne as she marched back to her chambers. He tried, Maker knows he tried, not to care so much. He had told himself their intimacy was casual, an enjoyable extension of their friendship. His mind kept thrusting pictures into his vision, her distress on arriving at the castle, the almost frantic enjoyment of their earlier lovemaking, the way her too strong jaw had clenched and her face paled at the sound of Alistair's voice. He worked to shove the bitter, possessive, feeling away. She was not his, not a thing like a sword – which he could take and keep. What right did he, assassin, murderer, and betrayer; have to this honest, honorable woman? He was jealous of her reaction to the king and it angered him. They reached her chamber and he began gathering his things, staying in her room had been a mistake.

"Zev," a hesitant touch on his arm, "Why?"

A hundred little questions in that one word, he flinched away. "I am not a trophy to be displayed – 'you chose her so I'll pick him.' I won't be a pawn," he sneered, eyes a little wild. "You want a lover? Go to his bed."

"What? What are you talking about? You…us…it's not like that. I needed you in there!" Eyes flashing she blocked his exit from the room. "I had to confess to my dear friends – and to his wife – the most dishonorable thing I have ever done and you just sat there, walled up in your cold little assassin world!" Voice rising with fury she shoved him back, "you are my dearest friend, my lover, the one person who might understand and you pushed me away. Am I not good enough for you, is that it? Maybe I should be glad – you killed the only other person you ever cared about!" She stopped horrified as what she had just said, watched the blood drain from his face as he staggered backward.

"Oh, Zev I didn't mean that…I'm so sorry," she stayed, frozen to the spot by the raw hurt in his eyes as he walked out.

She sank down next to the bed, staring at the door he had slammed. Of all the things she could have said, it had to be the one thing that could truly hurt him, she wrapped her arms around her knees and sat shivering on the floor. Zevran had been there for her, his presence confidant and reassuring, taken for granted. He had sworn to assault the gates of the Black City with her if that was her desire and she had just hurt him, perhaps beyond repair, as surely as if she had wielded a dagger to his heart. No, not this time, she had kept quiet, hidden her pain with Alistair and it had gained her what? Nothing. Maybe it was time to be a little selfish, there was much in her life she could not control, but she was not going to lose Zevran – not without talking to him anyway.

That short distance down the hallway was the hardest she had ever walked; climbing the steps of Fort Drakon had not been this difficult. She watched as her hand, almost with a life of its own raised and knocked. Silence. She knocked again, "Zevran?" Nothing. She tried the knob – locked. Pulling the set of lockpicks she always carried out of a pouch, she tripped the tumblers to open the lock – he had not reset the poison trap since their return.

He was huddled in his favorite chair, staring at the cold hearth when she entered. "Zevran?" He did not even look her way. It was hard, she could choose a king, send people to die in battle on her order, risk the fate of a kingdom, but to talk to him – after what had been said – she swallowed and tried to summon the courage. "I truly did not mean it. I have no excuse…, please look at me." She knelt in front of him, trying to catch his eyes. "What I had with Alistair – that is over, has been over for a long time. He is happy with Rothana, as…as," she stumbled over her next words, afraid to confess, afraid to stay silent, "as I have been happy with you." She tentatively traced the line of his jaw, turning him to face her; an insect in amber, she was caught in his eyes. Drawing a shuddering breath her words spilled out, words she hadn't meant to say, words that could not be contained. "Zevran Arainai, Gods help me, but I love you."

Breathe in, out – he still hadn't moved, hadn't blinked. She dropped her hand; Zevran had paid dearly for his one foray into love, how could she have reminded him of it, and then lay her own heart in his lap? She freed her eyes from his and stared resolutely at the carved arm of his chair.

Later, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, his weapon callused hand fell to her shoulder as he slid to the floor. "I am an assassin, a son of a whore, an Antivan Crow, love is not for such as I." His voice was rough and his eyes were far away. "I was trained to be a killer, be cold, to take my pleasures and leave. How…how can you love," he expelled the word, "someone like that?"

"Because that is not all there is to Zevran Arainai." She caught his hand, fingers smoothing the blue vessels under his skin. "This is the hand of an assassin, true; it is also the hand of a stalwart warrior, an artist with sharpened blades, a true friend, a gentle lover, a philosopher on the experience of life, a rescuer of orphan children, an intelligent and resourceful advisor to the king, a rebuilder of a war-torn country, and a good man."

He shook his head, "I am not…."

"You are."

"I do not…cannot, give you what you wish."

"How do you know what I wish, Zevran? You made assumptions earlier, look where that led us." She tipped her head to the side, studying him. "Perhaps I am content with what you can give. For now all I wish is an honest answer, do you want me to leave, to end this between us?" It was a gamble, but she needed to know, could not live in the limbo she had existed in before. Breathe in, out; still as a pond on a windless day she awaited his answer.

"Stay," it was barely a whisper, as if he was not sure. Then his fingers tightened around hers and he drew her into his embrace. They sat silent, Aithne wrapped in Zevran's arms, her head resting on his shoulder. Neither wanted more words, wounds still raw from their fight, feelings that weren't to be discussed.

Eventually the stone floor and the chill of the room forced them to move. They stood, Zevran toying with a strand of her hair that had escaped her braid. "Will you stay with me tonight, here?"

She looked at his bed, the site of so many of his dalliances; she had preferred her own room, if only for that reason. She nodded, "I'll get the fire going, it's freezing in here."

"Not for long my Dalish lady." He turned and walked across the room to open a chest. Finding the lock undisturbed and his traps still in place, he withdrew a bottle of wine and two blown glass goblets. After the wine he removed fresh sheets from the chest and set about changing the dusty bedding. His task completed he poured the wine and brought a glass to Aithne as she built the now burning kindling into a merry blaze. He laid a blanket in front of the fire and settled next to her, sipping the fine Antivan red and watching the flickering shadows play across her face.

They shared the wine and the warmth of the fire for a time, before he gently reached up and unbraided her hair. Allowing the dark blonde – almost brown, strands to play across her shoulders he leaned over to taste her lips. She tasted of wine and sunshine and something wild. They tarried by the fire a while, until clothing lay heaped and tangled and bare flesh shivered in anticipation. He then lifted her and laid her in his bed, where the green silk sheets so perfectly matched her eyes.

Much later, as she lay sleeping, nestled against his chest, he reached down to sweep her unruly hair from her face and whispered, "Mi` amor." Zevran Arainai did not sleep much that night.

Sorry for the short chapter, I didn't want to leave you all wondering why Zevran shut down in the meeting and this needed to stand separate from the next chapter I have planned.