Title: A Murder of Crows 6/?
Author: Rhion
Rating: AO for sexy time
Summary: F!Surana and Zevran each have their secrets. Some are stranger than others. The trouble with secrets is that they are best kept by only one person. But there's always someone else who knows the hidden things.
AN: I know chapter five and six are focusing heavily on the whole 'Bonding' ritual and as a result there's lots of... action that has nothing to do with sticking people with sharp objects and/or blowing shit up. Don't worry, there'll be plenty of that coming along in future instalments. But I figure it's important to set up the whole gist of Zevran and Lahar's relationship, and some private time completely alone from the other party members is necessary methinks. Especially because of some of the upcoming plot points I've got planned.
Beta'd by bellaknoti on the fly.

cut

XXX
Murder 6
XXX

Mossy undergrowth lay in a thick carpet in the places where not enough sunlight filtered down through the canopy for grass to grow, and cushioned the Antivan's silent footsteps. He was following the thin babbling brook, judging that the whole thing had been encouraged to form more from the hands of elves than the hand of nature. Naked as the day he was born, he knew that by some trick of the light he could be mistaken for nothing more than a shaft of sunlight striking through the leafy overhead. Not even the Dalish scouts would notice him.

Falling to a squat, bracing a palm against the coarse bark of a tree, for a second Zevran tilted his head, listening. It was as though there were a conscious pulse emanating from the tree he touched, but then it was gone, as fast as he had taken note of it. Lessons that Arainai had imparted over the course of two years, in an attempt to make Zevran a Dalish ranger, came back in a rush.

As if the willowy red-head were bending down near him, Zevran could pretend he heard her voice. The trees are speaking amongst themselves... listen da'assani. Do you hear it?

He whispered to the memory. "Aie, I do. Trespassers."

Something comes, it hunts. Watch for it... it seeks to rid itself of the diseased flesh that has invaded. The hallucinatory image tipped its head back, sniffing the air like a dog.

No – like a wolf. Copying the movement, Zevran took the time to pick out the different scents.

Signs of prey hung heavy: rabbits, squirrels, and other wild things. Overlaying it was the hidden tang of rancid blood; it was only a trace, barely there. In his heightened state of awareness – hallucinations, pleasures and all – Zevran keyed into that hidden space. Arainai had done a better job of making him a ranger than she had known, far better than the Crows ever learned, as well. Since setting foot in the Brecilian Forest, skills that had been left mostly to rot forced themselves to the forefront. Whether it was to hunt food or call allies in battle, Zevran had been doing it, as well as finding the best paths for the party, using unobtrusive methods of guiding them along. The trees whispered their silent language in the back of his head, unacknowledged by him consciously, but still there nevertheless.

Fighting the urge to sing to the forest, to ask the trees where the intruders were, Zevran straightened. He had to find Morrigan; there was no way he could tolerate spending three nights and almost five whole days in this state. Slinking forward, tongue firmly held between teeth to control the need to sing, to call out, he folded the light and shadow around himself with skilled ease, and continued to search. Marking the places where he saw signs of watchers in his mind for later, Zevran held his breath when a creaking limb suddenly revealed a giant raven overhead.

He shuddered. Dirthamen, keep your pets from my sight!

Edging away from the bad omen, Zevran stumbled when the larger-than-average beast swooped from its perch. Sulphur, a heavy stink that he should have picked up on sooner, swirled around the black feathers, and just as cruel talons touched ground, feet sprouted. Upwards the transformation travelled, and in the space of several heartbeats, Morrigan stood, casually leaning against the tree she had so recently inhabited, arms crossed.

The witch took him in with a cursory glance. "Ho there, elf. I see you are embracing your nature." A perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched high on the plane of her forehead. "Why are you not with Lahar?"

Collecting himself, Zevran frowned. "I was looking for you."

This took her by surprise. "For me? And what business would you have with me, elf? Were your body's needs not well fulfilled by the Warden?"

He gave her a non-committal shrug and smile. "My needs were more than met by our fair Warden, and as lovely as you are, dear Morrigan, I have none left that you should worry over, in that manner."

She rolled her eyes, and huffed. "Good, because as intriguing as your prowess is, you're far too short for my tastes, elf, and too full of yourself. My mother would like you though – you're just the sort no one would miss."

He chuckled. "She sounds intriguing; if she's as beautiful as you, and I ever find myself in need, perhaps I shall stop by for a visit?"

"Only if you want her to rip your face off, suck your soul out, and then use your bones for soup... after she's ridden you for all you're worth, and then some." A flash of disgust was quickly hidden behind her own particular brand of humor.

"Sounds fun," he quipped, falling into easy sparring with words and wit. "It has been some time since a woman was that feisty with me; I should relish the chance!"

This was something Zevran knew inside out, and was comfortable with. Morrigan was acerbic, quick and hard. She knew the score, and was more like him than she probably cared to admit.

Flames flickered at Morrigan's fingertips, a nervous habit he had observed. "Do all assassins have such death wishes?"

"Only the really good ones," he replied, mirroring her stance.

A delicate snort was her only response, as she changed the subject. "Tell me, what business pushed you to leave Lahar so unprotected?"

"Ah, the matter at hand," he said, shaking loose locks from his face. "Those cups bore a mixture of herbs, particularly well known in certain circles for their pleasurable effects. Which as much as I enjoy a good state of inebriation as the next man, it is not conducive to keeping my wits properly about me."

"As if your wits are ever about." She leaned forward, arms still crossed, eyes narrowing. "And what would you like me to do about it?"

"At the moment? Nothing at all." Spreading his hands palm up, Zevran shrugged with measured eloquence. "But I cannot afford to be so addled that I am unable to defend Lahar, should it come to that. It is unlikely, but there is a possibility that over the next few days some threat may arise. The food, and most certainly the drink, provided has been laced with more ah... I don't know what it is called here, but in Antiva we called it 'Especia feliz'. So I shall need to have food that is free of it."

Morrigan straightened, irritated detachment giving way to true anger. "And what of Lahar? You would allow her to stay in such a state?" Tongues of flame flittered from clenched fists, and the smell of burning grass came from under Morrigan's soft boots as she hissed, "It iwould make her easier to influence, but it would also leave her defenseless to you."

That almost made Zevran angry. It wasn't that he was above taking advantage of someone with lowered inhibitions, but the Chasind witch was supposed to be the Warden's friend, which was supposed to mean she had an inkling of Lahar's varied issues. Wouldn't a friend want Lahar to be able to learn to enjoy life fully?

He grunted once before turning his back on the witch. "If you know my dear Warden as well as she thinks, then you would understand why I want the obstacles she throws up removed. As I see that this is not the case, I shall find another way to find untainted sustenance for myself while leaving Lahar the bulk of supplies provided."

"You -" Her tone was surprised, shocked even, and a burning hot hand shot out to latch onto his shoulder. "You're trying to... undo it aren't you? The damage done by the Circle. Why? What's in it for you, elf?"

The move wasn't unexpected, in fact he had purposefully invited it – let Morrigan believe she was in control, so Zevran didn't turn to the dark mage. Instead he paused for effect, as if he were having to find reasons within himself for the 'why' of it. Zevran's reasons were rather simple, and quite selfish: he wanted Lahar malleable and trusting, that way he could keep the upper hand, which should be obvious to any natural cynic.

"Perhaps I feel that some things in this world are worth keeping sacred." He ignored the scalding sensation. Hopefully she would heal it, or at least give him a salve to apply before he returned to Lahar. "To sully something that is to be for pleasure, not pain... I am a hedonist my dear Morrigan, and for someone to have been denied the true pleasures of the flesh, to have it warped seems to be an item I have such an aversion to that I find it intolerable." Turning, he plastered a grin on his face. "Besides, since none of the others would be accommodating, why not find my own little joys, hmm? It makes this struggle against the Blight acceptable to me, no?"

There was a hot sting as the blistering flesh of his shoulder healed. "Ah. 'Tis as I thought then, lecherous as usual. Fine, you shall have your supplies."

Zevran only just picked up on the fact that Morrigan's tone wasn't quite right, but the Chasind mage was going to do as he requested, and that was all the assassin could hope for. With another crackle of fell fire, Morrigan's body flowed into that of a raven once more before flying off.

I am a Crow, as is she – which of us is Fear and the other Deceit I wonder?

XXX

Cool fingers were stroking up and down his length, an altogether splendid way to wake up from a nap. Cracking a lid to investigate, he saw Lahar leaning over his waist, staring down at his member with wide, curious eyes. Not alerting the Warden to his state of awareness, Zevran watched with no small amount of humour as Lahar gave him an experimental poke. This caused his erection to move, first to the side in the direction she had poked him, and then bounce back with the usual resilience of such pieces of anatomy.

Shoulders shook in a soundless giggle, as if she had found the best toy in all of Thedas, as she repeatedly poked him for a few seconds, bottom lip folded over her teeth.

And then she was sliding the skin up and down, which made Zevran's indulgent smile fall from his face to be replaced by focus – for now this was about her and he didn't plan on interrupting her exploration. His Warden was still unaware of his scrutiny which was how he wished to keep it for the time being. Let her explore on her own terms, he thought, shrugging mentally. This went on for some time, this earnest play, as if she had never seen an erect penis before. Chances were she may not have, at least under favourable conditions.

As an experiment – and just to see what would happen – Zevran started humming tunelessly and flexing to the rhythm without any warning. A yelp and Lahar scrambled back, like a startled cat. Laughing, Zevran propped himself up on his elbows, inclining his head towards her. If her eyes got any bigger, Zevran thought they may pop out of her head.

"Blood and stone! Zevran!" She flushed all over. "How long have you been awake?"

He grinned toothily. "Long enough pequeña, and while I didn't wish to interrupt your fun, as turnabout's fair play, I just couldn't help myself."

She pressed her hands to her cheeks – probably in a vain hope to cool the blush of embarrassment. "Oh blood..."

"Come now." He sat up, crossing his legs, hands braced on knees. "Don't be embarrassed encantadora, I would be pleased for you to continue your play, if you wish. I've nothing to be ashamed of, and neither do you, in this." Lahar still wasn't quite looking at him. "I could pretend to be asleep once more, if that is what it takes."

Lahar rolled her eyes heavenward. "Oh, and that wouldn't be obvious."

"Then perhaps a lesson in anatomy," he suggested playfully. "You point to something, and I tell you all the filthy and fun words for it." He palmed his erection. "Let's see - Antivan or Ferelden? Hmm? Or maybe a mix of both? Yes, I think that shall do! Minga, polla, pito... which are rather boring, I suppose. Ah, I know -" He watched the young Warden squirm, hiding her face in her hands. "Here is a favourite I learned in Ferleden: pork sword!"

That made Lahar throw back her head and laugh. "Oh, Maker! Zev! Quit it! You're so bad."

"Terrible, I know." He crawled over the grass and pulled Lahar to kneel in front of him. "Ah, another one: ham wallet."

She frowned, face scrunching up. "A... what?"

He danced his fingers over the thatch of hair between her legs. "Ham wallet. For the pork sword."

Sputtering, she pushed her face into his shoulder, giggling. "Oh that's disgusting."

"Purple-helmeted yogurt slinging warrior," he continued, pulling more phrases from memory and laughing along with her.

"What? That's nasty! How is it... a... oh Maker I'm not even going to repeat that," she stuttered, biting her fist.

Leaning back, Zevran gestured, pressing the hood back. "See the helmet? Like a warrior wears. Yes?"

"It's not purple," she averred, sneaking a glance down at him. "Maybe... red-ish, somewhat? Biege-y pink? I don't know what I would call that... but it's not purple."

He snickered. "Not everyone looks the same bonita, but all men sling... yogurt, of a sort."

His Warden spluttered. "Who in the name of all that's holy comes up with these... terms?"

"Oh, that is easy enough to answer." Taking one of her hands and wrapping it around his base, he explained. "Men are a rowdy bunch. The more insane a euphemism is, the more it is used."

Thrusting into her lax grip, Zevran slid his hands up her arms and into her hair, covering her mouth with his before she could say more. Reflexively Lahar's hand tightened around him, giving him the friction he desired. The Warden's mouth opened up willingly, which made him glad, his tongue sweeping in and tangling with hers. At least in this she relaxed.

Parting from her, he asked in a low purr, "And would you like further instructions in anatomy?"

She blinked up at him with glazed eyes, her lips already swollen. "I think so. What do you suggest?"

Zevran almost laughed at the so-serious tone, but refrained. "Hmm, where to start, where to start? There are so many interesting things I could show you, my sweet." He reached down to cup her bottom, pulling her tight against him, her hand still wrapped around his manhood. "Shall we go over the basics again?"

Falling back to his haunches, Zevran bade Lahar to straddle his thighs in one swift motion. With only a minor adjustment of angle, the crown of his cock was pressing to her core, and sheathed all the way, as the young elf bucked in surprise. Grasping her hips, Zevran guided Lahar who was staring at him in shock, to rock against him. Quieting any protests with his mouth as he had before, the assassin claimed her lips, groaning. She was so tight around him, this part of her body molten hot in contrast to the iciness of the rest of her skin were it rubbed against his. Rolling his hips upwards, Zevran moved from his enchantress' mouth so he could latch onto a nipple, nibbling it so it would swell. Nails bit at his flesh, Lahar's fingers tangled in his hair, a breathy mewl that crescendoed suddenly as the rocking friction their position granted against her nerve centre worked its' magic. Giving a sharp smile of triumph, Zevran made Lahar ride him harder and faster, driving her onwards through her release until he found his.

Allowing his legs to cross beneath him, Zevran flopped back. "Ah the basics, so rudimentary, but such pleasurable play, no?"

Lahar shook her head. "You didn't warn me." Slipping away, the mage flailed, reaching for her long-since-discarded robe. "You didn't ask!"

"Should I have?" His brow creased. "Shall I inform you of everything I intend to do, before I do it? Must I ask permission for every little concession?"

She was fumbling with the robe and flinched away when he reached out to assist. "You... you..."

"Ah, now that you've had pleasure you wish to put me in the same group as those others, hmn?" Ignoring her protests, Zevran yanked the garment from Lahar after her rejection of help, irritated well and truly, flinging it far enough that she would have no easy time regaining it. He grabbed the Warden by the arms just above her elbows, his voice almost conversational. "Did I hurt you? No? Did you seek to push me away? No? Were you afraid that I would hurt you? No, and no and no? Yes, I see. I am a despicable man who does not explain everything he does before he does it, when there is a woman there willing to be kissed, veritably begging to be shown bliss." Pulling Lahar up to her knees, and tight to his chest, he slowly forced her to rise, as he stood. "So you think I forced you. Am I surprised by this? Yes. Apparently you think that my vow is only a little bit of breath - meaningless."

"You took what you wanted." Straightening up, Lahar summoned the poise Zevran had so admired in her dealings with others. "With no thought to ask me if that was what I wanted as well. If you had asked, it would have been given freely; instead you stole it."

He bared his teeth at her. "I take what I want bonita, but I gave in kind. What did you think I meant when I asked if you wished to play?"

"Not -" Lahar began, but Zevran froze, senses raising the alarm as the forest shouted of wrongness, and he slapped his hand over her mouth, silencing her.

There was an animalistic snarl, verging on roar, as something huge, hairy and lupine burst through the under-brush. In the not-so-far distance there were screams from elven watchers, and more roars. Shoving Lahar behind him, Zevran howled, demanding backup from forest allies against the giant beast that was currently leaping towards them.

Over his shoulder a sizzling bolt of energy shot, striking the beast – Werewolf! his mind supplied – in the center of the chest, throwing it backwards. Others dashed into the clearing, surrounding Zevran, who was unarmed, but braced for combat nonetheless. Several wolves came bounding into the clearing, crying mournfully but not attacking, milling back and forth between the werewolves and Zevran, obviously undecided on whose side to take.

"Ah riavati minou cas'theira!" Liquid-sounding syllables twisted out of Lahar's mouth; Zevran was, for the first time, close enough to hear the chanting clearly. A gust of icy wind blew through the trees, rapidly growing in strength.

The largest werewolf, with brown fur and scarred face, sniffed the air. "Mage!"

Lahar's chanting behind him faltered at the gutturally grunted word. "Miasa'annen -"

"Mage hurrr - stop your spell! I would speak with you!" This time it spoke a whole sentence, and Zevran took a step back in shock.

"You can speak?" Reaching back, Zevran clamped a hand over Lahar's wrist, stilling the motions of her casting, his forest sense urging caution, yet demanding he listen. "You are... sentient?"

"I am Swiftrunner, hurrr, traitorous Dalish." He stood straight on back-bent hind-legs before rocking forward into a crouch. "And let the thought of my sentience fill you with fear!"

The Warden stepped away from Zevran, hands held at the ready to begin casting anew. "Zathrian said you were simple beasts. I see that this is not so, Swiftrunner, but menacing my mate and killing the scouts will not gain positive attention from me."

Swiftrunner growled, which was echoed by the other werewolves, and taken up by the normal forest wolves as well, before responding. "They need to suffer the same curse as we have, until Zathrian listens to us! We shall gladly watch them and make them pay."

"And what is it you wish of the Keeper?" Zevran asked, drawing attention away from Lahar. If the lycanthropes were to attack, Lahar would be the first to go down, as she was not as nimble as he, so it was best to keep their focus on him rather than her. The assassin was assessing weak points, senses reaching into the forest, listening for the usual spirits, wondering if they could be called to assist. They were silent, keeping their own counsel from his earth sense. "What have they done to you?"

Swiftrunner growled again. "The Keeper wishes to kill Witherfang. The treacherous Dalish will send you. I will not allow it. Hurrr, you do not belong here, leave now while you still can."

One of the flanking werewolves surged forward, coming to stop just before Zevran, jaws clacking shut close to his face, breathing foul breath upon him. "This one is Dalish, he stinks of it."

Reacting on instinct, Zevran lashed out with his fist, striking the beast in the nose, forcing a yowl of pain from the creature. "I am not of these Dalish. I've no quarrel with you, and I advise you don't start one with me."

The others snarled, making as though to attack, but a burst of cold after a tersely snapped syllable stopped the one that Zevran struck in its tracks. Crystalline tinkling as the ice formed up around the werewolf who struggled before freezing solid was eerie in the silence that followed. A pack wolf yipped, nosing at the statue forlornly.

"Daynai!" Swiftrunner hissed, voice twisted but still recognizably anguished at the plight of the frozen werewolf. He swung his gaze back towards Lahar. "Mage - you do not know all. Leave now. We will let you be if you go."

"I can't do that Swiftrunner; I am a Grey Warden and there is a Blight." Energy coalesced and crackled from finger to finger in lightening blue currents. "And the Dalish must honour their treaties with the Wardens. Keeper Zathrian refuses until we aid his tribe."

"Blight? Hrrr." Beady eyes narrowed, crouching lower so that he, she or it - Zevran wasn't entirely sure, and a quick glance between the beasts' legs didn't reveal anything to clarify - was on Lahar's level. "What care do we have of Dalish problems? Of human problems?"

He placed himself once more between Lahar and the threat, gradually having backed up, pushing Lahar so that her back was to a tree. If necessary, he could hoist her into the branches, where the beasts wouldn't be able to reach her, until help arrived, sparing no thought to himself. Where is that damned Witch? Where are you Morrigan? I could use some backup... "A Blight is a problem for everyone, be they beast, plant or two legged."

"Gurrr, you will not listen! Then we will let the forest deal with you!" Swiftrunner backed away, as the sound of breaking ice heralded the werewolf Daynai's release from the spell. "You have been warned! Come brothers and sisters - we retreat!"

With that, the lycanthropes turned and fled.

XXX

Floating on his back in the pool - that had been obligingly heated from arctic to tolerable with Lahar's very basic fire magic - Zevran went over the encounter with the werewolves. A scout had come earlier to inform them that their seclusion would have to end early, but that they had another day to themselves. With the death of the Dalish who had been watching over he and Lahar, that left the clan with too few to keep to their usual patrol routes. Neither he nor the Warden had mentioned that the lycanthropes had spoken to them; those questions were best saved for Keeper Zathrian.

Not that he shall answer with any truth, he thought, grunting, staring at the hole in the canopy of trees, counting the stars in the sky. I doubt he will be surprised by knowing these 'beasts' have retained their minds. As I thought before - this curse is far more than we were told.

From near the small fire that he had built for them, Lahar called, "Are you hungry? There's some kind of cheese and mystery meat in these packs. It's got to be better than anything Alistair would make though. In fact I think it's actually his turn to cook tonight. Good thing we're out here!"

Grunting, the Antivan rolled to a stand in the water. "That is not saying much mi cielo. The last I ate of Dalish food, it was not so bad. Somewhat bland for my tastes, but hearty fare." He splashed his face before clambering from the pool. "If there is a chance we may stop in a town or trade with a caravan, I must get some spices. This Ferelden food you eat makes my stomach turn."

"Maybe if we can make it back to the Tower." Lahar presented a wedge of halla cheese that had been cut into thin slices on waxed paper, and the haunch of some small animal that had been deep fried. "They always get rare things in that no one else does. I miss spices, too. The Tranquil make these little biscuits with cinnamon and cloves, and one of them would make this lamb that was just... ahh." She shivered in eloquent ecstasy, followed by a shrug. "But what can you do? Ferelden doesn't have a good spice-growing climate, not like the more northern countries."

Accepting the simple meal, Zevran made himself comfortable, folding to sit beside Lahar, intentionally remaining nude, set on forcing the mage to acclimate to his nakedness and even prefer it of him. "That does not seem to stop them importing salt preciosa. Fereldens slather everything in salt, leaching away whatever natural flavours there were beforehand." Picking at the meat, he gave it a sniff, then ate a small piece, allowing his taste-buds to analyze the food for any 'added' ingredients. He spit the bite into the fire, though he found no added 'bonuses' in the food. "Ugh. Even these Ferelden Dalish ruin a decent meal with salt."

She plucked the meat from his improvised plate. "If you don't want it, then I'll eat it. I haven't gotten a good meal since leaving the Tower. Between walking, casting, nightmares and dealing with you lot I'm wearing down to nothing it's so... draining."

Brushing away the hair that had fallen to cover his Warden's face, the assassin examined her more closely. "There is more to magic than than using your mind?" There were slight hollows under Lahar's cheekbones, hinting that she had recently lost weight. "We elvhen tend to be slight; however even for our race, you are slim. This is due to your powers, and not your natural state?"

Grimacing, she broke the thigh in half, and daintily stripped meat from bone with thumb and forefinger - a delicate way of eating that Zevran frequently saw in the desert peoples in the badlands of Antiva, but never anywhere else before now. "Mana isn't some renewable resource that just poofs out of thin air. It takes concentration to pull energy from the Fade, and channel it into usable forces. Not just mental strength, Zev, otherwise anyone strong enough could do it, which would mean not so many idiots would be 'gifted' like me."

Nodding, Zevran began to eat the cheese, finding that it was far more pungent than he was used to halla cheese being, and much softer in texture than the Antivan Dalish he had come across would make it. "I imagine that such an innate talent would require intelligence, but I suppose that this is not always so. Since it requires more than a sharp intellect, I still fail to grasp why it would drain you so badly."

She punctuated her point with a gesture, waving the unidentified, over salted food around. "Casting takes breath, unless it's a spell you've used every day and practised so much that you can subvocalaize. Now, pair breathing that I can describe in no other way than 'circular', mental concentration, and moving around to dodge attacks, along with making sure that, no matter what, you don't mispronounce anything at all - and I mean at all Zevran. If I make one misstep, I'll be summoning a demon and not a storm, or I could become an abomination."

"I did not know it was so tricky." He curled his fingers in a psuedo-magical gesture he had seen Lahar make many times. "All I see and hear is some gibberish and flickering fingers - and then a light show. Never did I suspect it would require... so much more."

"Every school has its language, tone, and images we must hold in our minds, maintaining the lines and paths forged by those who've gone before." The mage leaned against his shoulder, still consuming her food at an alarming rate, pausing to even eye his cheese, which he offered but she waved off. "Spells I'm familiar with only require a small image, as I've burned the pathways into my mind so often, and a short focused word. The more complex the spell, and the less experience I have with it, the harder I have to work." She leaned away from him, drawing in the dirt with a finger, making a spiral within a circle that double-backed on itself, surrounded by a square. "Have you ever seen anything like this?"

He examined it in the light of the fire, squinting. "It looks like a meditation labyrinth."

The last time Zevran had encountered one was when living under Arainai's care, as she taught him ranger skills, drilling the meditations into his mind with far more care than the Crows had used when making him learn their style of mental focus. Arainai had a stone, almost the size of a dinner plate, carved in a labyrinth that she had made him trace with his fingers, his eyes, his mind, until all he had to do was call the image into his mind and he could fall into the state required to listen to the land.

"Similar, yes." She nodded. More symbols were drawn, linking the square with others. "We're taught to assign phrases to images, but first we have to learn the images, memorize them until our very breath comes out in these shapes, with our thoughts, if that makes any sense. Then we can learn the words, and summon the elements needed. Without order there is chaos, but without chaos, there is no order. The Fade is chaos, and our world is order. We pierce the Veil with mage-talent – anyone who develops it can do that much – but to control it, we need these things. Like, Wynne can heal without speaking, for simple things, because she's been controlling those energies for so long, and any mage can See the energy that passes between the Fade and here, just as anyone with mage talent can pierce the Veil. However, without control, the Veil is torn."

"That would be bad?" He forced her to take half of his cheese as his head got muzzier, realizing that while the meat hadn't been drugged, the cheese certainly was. With the earlier attacks, Zevran knew he must keep a clear head. "That is why the mages are locked away in the Towers, yes?"

She sighed, wiping away her drawings with an angry swat. "'Bad' doesn't even begin to cover it. Mages are locked away so if we lose control, we are in a concentrated place and can be put down like dogs."

"The Chantry teaches that magic, or more specifically magic users, are evil." He stroked her jaw, seeking to soothe her and to gain information. "That such powers breed a desire for more power, and make mages mad for it, until they resort to blood magic and wield it over the minds of mankind."

And I've had my fair share of blood magic worked on me. He worried that it was a possibility - as remote as it may be - that Lahar would turn into one of those that Zevran had encountered in the Guild.

"Is the assassin who kills a target evil, or is the person who cared so little for someone else's life that they would purchase a death the evil one?" she countered. Lahar grabbed his hand, flipping it over to trace the lines of his palm. "Is the thief who steals food evil, or the noble who taxes the populace into poverty the one in the wrong? Cause and effect. For every reaction there is an equal and opposing reaction. Good and evil are nebulous ideals that people put into categories that mean something to them. One person's evil is another's good. Who are you to judge, who am I to judge, who are they to judge?" The young Warden tapped his palm dead centre on an old scar. "Power is a tool, and like any tool, it can be misused. There is a balance that can be struck, don't you think?"

"Perhaps," he conceded. Not that he didn't agree with Lahar entirely, because he did, but Zevran noted the dark clouds that hung about Lahar's face, her mind having gone to some place he couldn't follow. He changed the subject, gently. "Eat the rest, and have something to drink. Unlike me, you are not used to doing without; you must keep up your strength."

She looked as though she wished to protest, then relented. "I suppose you're right." She shoved a piece of cheese into her mouth and spoke around it in such a way as to not show off the contents of her mouth. "Did you know there used to be a division in the Tower that wanted us to become physically stronger? To increase our stamina?"

Nabbing the waterskin, Zevran poured some of what looked like tea, but the fragrance was off - letting him know that this too had been altered - into one of the cups the Dalish had provided. "Mmm, would that not make it easier for you to cast under duress?"

"Yes." She accepted the drink and nibbled on the remaining cheese she had originally brought out for their combined repast. "Knight-Commander Greagoir stopped that right away, after this one mage kept using the outdoor exercises as a way to attempt escape. Not that many of the students wanted to take the classes anyway; most were uncomfortable outdoors. I was only able to attend one or two classes before they were cancelled." She sipped and made a face, glancing down at her cup. "Needs honey." She cast a hopeful glance at him that almost made him laugh for how large her eyes went. "Did you happen to bring that chunk of honeycomb with you?"

"Ah, alas, I did not." He laughed in earnest when Lahar came the closest to pouting he had ever seen. "I have been remiss mi diosa, please forgive me. Your look makes me sad, and I wish to cry, may I lay my head upon your bosom?"

That gained him the reaction he was looking for. "Oh blood, Zev! Do I look like Wynne to you?"

Pushing at the bottom of her cup, he urged his Warden to drink. "No, you do not. Your bosom is much nicer. Smaller, but nicer. We shall have to see about feeding you more; I have heard that the first thing to go when a woman loses too much weight are her bosoms, and I like yours too much to see them leave."

"I wouldn't mind them disappearing entirely." She tossed the tea back and made the sourest whiskey face Zevran had ever seen in his entire life. "Men see breasts and a small body and think 'prey'. If I looked more like a boy, I don't think I would have encountered the same problems that I have."

Satisfied that Lahar would soon be well lubricated again, once the drugs kicked in, Zevran gathered her into his arms and lay them down on their sides. "Doubtful. Men who would prey upon anyone do not care much one way or the other if their victim is male or female, preciosa. It is the power they crave, it is a reward in of itself." He combed his fingers through her long sable locks. "But come, think not on these dark matters. Put them from your mind; there are enough things to worry about without borrowing trouble. Enjoy tonight and tomorrow as much as you can; who knows when we shall have such a chance to rest away from the prying eyes of our compatriots?"

"You know what Zev?" The words were half-slurred into his shoulder as the drugs took effect quicker than that morning's dose.

"Hmm?" Tucking her in closer, Zevran continued stroking Lahar's hair. When he deemed her relaxed enough, he would tell her the last part of the Bonding ceremony.

For now, he would humour her.

"You belong on a mountaintop dispensing wisdom." Head lolling back, Lahar blinked owlishly. "You're always coming up with some weird thing that makes too much sense to be thought of by mortals. A hermit, probably nuttier than a Feastday cake, trading pearls of wisdom for cookies."

Snorting, Zevran closed his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. "I do believe that you have mistaken me for our large Qunari friend and Wynne, mi niña. The only sweet treats I can be bribed with are ones that I can lick off of you. Nor do I go about telling people how to act whilst standing on the proverbial soapbox, unable to accept how the other half live."

"You really don't like her do you?" In her eyes, hoarfrost had deepened to wintry sky blue, the black of pupils merging with the iris, piercing through Zevran.

Grimacing, Zevran shifted uncomfortably. "Wynne is nice enough, I simply do not care to expose myself to such high and mighty persons over-much. Their prodding and demands become rather tiring."

"You mean you don't like being judged." A palm pressed to a scar-distorted tattoo on his shoulder that had once been a stylized crow.

"It is not her judgment that bothers me, pequeña, for she is correct – most likely – in her assessments; only the ignorance and nagging about things that cannot be changed drives me to heights of aggravation." He gave Lahar's bottom a pinch through her robes, jolting her in his arms.

Zevran had absolutely no desire to discuss that with Lahar. Not because he particularly minded being thought of as a vile, dirty miscreant – for he was, and there was little way to deny it – but simply because standing on moral high ground required choices, and choices were something that slaves rarely got. While Wynne may have lived her life in the Tower of Magi for the most part, it was secure, she had respect amongst peers, and never had to worry where she would find food next, or if she was going to be killed by a partner during a job, or if the Master Crow who owned her was in a mood and wanting to do a little damage. The mage would have always known that there was a ceiling to any violence done to her, while Zevran hadn't.

Wynne was ignorant, for she had the luxury to be so.

All in all, it left a filthy taste in the assassin's mouth.

Maybe I should tell the old bat a story of a training facility? Or maybe about the Crows who show mage talent during training and are made into blood mages instead of being sent to the Circle? Better yet, ask the puta if she noticed anything different about me as she worked her healing magics?

"We're all sheltered from some things Zevran." She was staring at him still, cold seeping into his skin where her hand clutched at the mangled tattoo.

He growled. "Let it be, princesa."

This time the Warden changed the subject, to his relief, heeding his warning. "The packs have some weird implements in them. Maybe you could tell me what they are?" Before he could ask what implements she meant, Lahar rolled away, yanking a small bundle from a pack and presenting it to him. "This - it's needles, and vials."

A glance was all he needed. "Ah. Tattoos. Vallasin, as the Dalish would say, but not like the ones made for the ritual of attaining adulthood that are on the face, but elsewhere. The last part of the Bonding is to put our marks into the other's flesh."

"Oh..." Her gaze tripped over his body, noting once more all the designs in his skin, and Zev cupped her cheek. "It will hurt won't it?"

"That is why you should drink more of that tea." He ran his thumb up and down the pulse point of her neck. "The place I think I shall ink tends to be... sensitive."

Drunkenly Lahar swayed as she sat up straight. "That's why you haven't eaten anything, really."

"Ah, you've found me out." He nodded, mirroring her actions, taking the bundle of needles and inks from her grasp. "It will dull the pain. I think I shall mark your neck, here." He dragged a finger from the corner behind her ear, along the jugular, to her collarbone. "It can be covered by your hair, but also pushed back to reveal it, if you ever encounter troublesome Dalish again. That will show you to be adult and claimed, even if I am not there, in spite of not being Dalish, yourself."

"And where am I supposed to mark you?" Thankfully, she accepting the wisdom of his suggestion.

He held out his right forearm. "Draw the design here." He tapped the corded muscle and slightly paler skin of the inner part. "I shall lay the ink in for you. I am originally left-handed, so it shall be no trouble to do so, as long as you keep the skin tight for me, and hold the ink vials out as I need them. Also, I will need you to wipe away the leakage as it seeps to the surface."

Lahar took a deep breath and twisted her hair into a loose knot. "I don't need more tea. A little pain now is worth being sober enough to heal myself afterward."

He nipped a kiss from her pale lips. "Excellent."

XXX

da'assan, E - little arrow
Especia feliz, S - Happy Spice
pequeña, S - little one
encantadora, S - enchantress
Minga, polla, pito, S - all words for penis
bonita, S - pretty girl/beautiful
Ah riavati minou cas'theira – meaningless to any other than a mage, words that are more a string of sounds to focus the mind.
Miasa'annen -meaningless to any other than a mage, words that are more a string of sounds to focus the mind.
mi cielo, S - my sky
preciosa, S - precious
mi diosa, S - my goddess
mi niña, S - my girl
puta, S - bitch/whore
vallasin, E - blood writing/tattoos