Title: A Murder of Crows 7/?
Author: Rhion
Rating: M
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 installments. 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.
I had meant to post this a few days ago, as I'm seeking to maintain a weekly update with this now, but the weather has been C.R.A.P.P.Y.. Yes all in capitals. And spelled out with individual letters. Me and bad weather do not get along. At all. Ever.
Well, except hurricanes. Me and hurricanes tend to have a good old fist bump'o'awesome partying. Sometimes. Not always. But enough with my whinging.
As always, Spanish/Antivan comes from my wonderful helper, Ilargi. Beta'd this time by the Comma Fairy.
XXX
Murder 7
XXX
Zevran stuck close to Lahar, the trail being blazed by Sten and Allistair after they had been ambushed by Swiftrunner and his band. That had been an encounter that was put an end to quickly, with the lycanthrope fleeing as he - or she? - had before. Normally, the Antivan would prefer to lead in this, as his skills as an assassin and ranger granted him the upper hand in identifying potential problems. However, thus far the forest had proven that it didn't matter how many problems were identified, as they continued to come without abating. So, it was best to let their heavy hitters take the initial attacks, while Zevran guarded Lahar as she cast.
"So how good are you with a bow?" Lahar was reaching ahead with the tip of her staff, testing the ground before planting it and taking another step.
Zevran was walking with the light crossbow held in a relaxed-ready state in the crook of his arm, constantly scanning their surroundings. "Not as good as the fair bard, to be sure, but good enough."
"I'm surprised, actually," she commented, casting him a probing glance.
"And why would that be mi cielo?" He held back criticism of how Alistair was clomping along the trail, shoving large, low hanging branches aside with little grace. Instead, he focused on Sten who was sliding along their route almost as nimbly as he himself.
"It's hard to imagine you with anything other than your blades in hand," she said, jerking her chin towards his shoulders, where the pommels jutted out. "The thought of you with an actual bow in hand seems odd, makes you seem... more elven? I'm not sure how else to describe it." She took a moment to think about it, eyes moving to the trees, soaking everything up, clearly enjoying the break they were having since the three bears they had dispatched a quarter hour ago. "I thought you wouldn't be so comfortable out here, you seem so much more like... a..."
Supplying the description that was one of the larger reasons Zevran didn't care much for the Ferelden Dalish – they were far too racist – he said, "Flat ear. City-dwelling Alienage elf. Shemlen, in all ways but for the ears."
"Not quite how I would put it, actually." She was silent a moment; the sounds of their group were far too loud for his tastes, as they kicked up dirt and disturbed the birdsong and chittering of the squirrels who scurried through the trees. "You're more like something that should detach from shadows to strike, not something that should step from behind a tree to attack, but you move here like they do," she said, referring to the Dalish. "And if you had a bow in hand, not a crossbow, you would blend right in with them."
His lips quirked in a brief smile. "Ah, an assassin is a master of camouflage, be it forest or city. One never knows when a target will flee to the wilds, rather than hiding in rat holes."
Alistair had slowed a few paces, proving he had been listening in. "So you just don't let up, do you? Do targets ever escape?"
He nodded. "Oh yes, they escape, but an escape does not mean winning free of being a target. They are always hunted down and killed."
The almost-Templar stopped. "Soooo... what's that mean for us?"
Shrugging, Zevran reached out a hand to guide Lahar around a tangle of roots covered by fallen leaves. "Others shall be sent, of course, once the Crows realize I have failed, and once they find us, they shall attempt to kill us most gruesomely, or die trying. If enough attempts are survived – well, they will leave off, but always watch for an opportunity to present itself. The Guild is nothing, if not thorough."
Lahar didn't seem bothered, but Alistair looked disquieted. "We'll deal with that when it happens. Zev, what sorts of places do you think there would be informants?"
"Cities, large trade centers," he mused aloud. "Most of us are specialists, dealing in crowds; few are any good outside of such situations. The Master level ones, they tend to be more diverse. One does not survive to reach that rank without some... other skills."
"So, for the time being, we'll avoid Denerim and Redcliffe – those are the bigger places, right Alistair?" At the shemlen's nod, Lahar continued. "I know you want to see the Arl, but we should go as long as possible without detection by Loghain and the Crows. It will be better to have more allies to call upon for backup than to go rushing headlong into ambushes without any."
Alistair shifted impatiently, hitching his shield higher on his broad shoulders. "If you think that's best Lahar..."
"I do," she was giving the shemlen that cooly measured look as she said that.
And that was the end of the discussion.
For another half hour they went unaccosted by attackers, until there was a curse from Alistair, who swung his shield forward. "Darkspawn? Here?"
Raising his crossbow to his shoulder, Zevran took aim, letting the bolt fly. A genlock stumbled, clutching at the shaft before falling to its knees then over to its side. By then, the Antivan had reloaded, using the metal claw to draw and set the string, and let loose another. Sten was chanting in Qunari, swinging his sword in smooth arcs around him. Alistair roared, stomping the ground to draw attention to himself, the move momentarily leaving the Templar open, and Zevran hastened to put another bolt in, aiming for the eye of a charging genlock that threatened the shemlen. Two steps to his left was Lahar, her staff pointing imperiously as ice shot from the tip, knocking several darkspawn back.
Then Zevran had to drop his crossbow and yank his sword and dagger free of their sheaths as some of the Blighted creatures fell upon he and Lahar's position. Spells flew around him, aimed and timed to his movements precisely. The rare arrow coming from a darkspawn's bow whizzed past, which the assassin would lash out at, cutting it from the air before it could strike its target. The meaty and metallic thwack of his blades – hitting armor or flesh, indiscriminately – rang over and over again. A blur of motion that would be dizzying if he wasn't in the middle of it, Zevran laughed joyously.
"Now we play a little!" he crowed it at the top of his lungs, when Alistair was sent flying by. Some sort of darkspawn that he had never encountered before roared its challenge at him. Sten was held down by a knot of darkspawn warriors, unable to face the beast, but Zevran danced aside, moving to put himself between Lahar and the massive, horned creature. "Ho ho, you are a large one, my ugly friend!"
It paused, eyeing him, this small man that he was, and charged.
Tapping into that inner wellspring of speed, Zevran raced forward, low to the ground, mirroring the beasts' posture. At the last moment, he bounced upwards, like he was running on air, and the sole of his boot met the top of the creature's head. Victory goes to the daring! was the thought that darted briefly through his mind as he allowed himself to slip down, turning as the darkspawn began to straighten, and buried his blades into its back. Another roar, and Zevran turned his face aside, avoiding the spraying blood from the dual wounds. Using his sword to anchor him, he reached up, slashing at the huge veins in the beast's neck. It swayed a moment, thick, viscous black blood spurting out in a fountain. Clawing at its neck, large fingers scrambled as if it didn't understand what was happening to it. Gouting life waters fell in a river, and so too did the darkspawn, swaying drunkenly, then falling down like a tree.
Leaping free as it hit the ground, Zevran somersaulted, checking for Lahar's position.
A hurlock was menacing her, and she swung her staff inexpertly, fending it off by a narrow margin. Why does she not cast? Incredibly alarmed, he watched with detached fascination as, yet again, she merely swung her staff. Her very unwieldy staff, that Zevran had never paid much mind to. The hurlock went for the weapon, even as Zevran sped up to reach her, grabbing the heavily embellished (Impractical thing! he realized, crying out mentally), staff, yanking it from her grasp and tossing it aside like a twig. Unarmed, and not casting, for whatever reason, Lahar was defenseless.
Yelling, Zevran sought to distract the creature, but it ignored him. Desperate, Zevran paused long enough to still so he could throw his dagger, the slick ground making it impossible to run and throw at the same time. Bad footing aside, he also had to contend with the fact that he was being flanked. Sudden impact threw the Antivan aside just as he was about to let fly his offhand weapon. Tchk distracted, in battle no less, such a novice mistake. Growling in self disgust, he sprang up from the ground to turn and face his opponent. There was no choice.
With a slash at its throat, the genlock that had attacked him fell away, crumpling. He only had enough time to turn and see Lahar take a step forward, into the guard of the hurlock that was raising its blade to strike, put her shoulder into its gut, grab its arm and, in one fluid motion, half-dive between its legs to force it over her back. She stumbled backwards, hands out-stretched, and a flash of magic accompanied her gasped words, followed by a bolt of ozone-burning energy. This only wounded the darkspawn, but it had bought enough time for him to get there.
Kicking it in the face, Zevran stabbed downwards with his sword, pinning it to the ground, where it struggled, grasping at the blade, gauntleted hands finding no purchase. Jerking his arm to the side, he severed head from neck, spun on a foot, shoulders heaving as he looked about wild-eyed for something else to kill. Blood was thundering in his veins, and he was buoyant with adrenaline; a good portion of him wanted more, to be bathed in it, covered in gore, to have it slide down between the pieces of his armor, to have it cling to his flesh, to glory in the power over life and death.
To steal the last breath and to be the one to choose what lived, what died.
To be the Maker, Himself, and judge everything before him as wanting.
A shock of freezing cold slammed into him, making Zevran flinch. Turning to face this new attacker and defend Lahar, he saw the woman, elf, girl, wife standing beside him, glowing hands hovering near his shoulder. If she was healing him, then the fight must be over, but he couldn't focus. Jingle of armor – that was all the warning the Crow needed – and he brought weapons to bear, heedless of anything else, the healing ice in his veins forgotten, no matter that the sensation continued. He would take on the role of Maker and choose some more.
"Hey – wait!" Alistair shoved his shield at Zevran, batting at the blades.
Voice registering, vision settling down from the pinpoint clarity that only told Zevran of 'weak spots' and 'targets' and 'prey', he pulled back as suddenly as he had started. "Ah, Alistair. I see you survived. Pity."
"You– you attacked me." Incredulous, Alistair fumed, battered and bloody, staring down at him. "See! See Lahar, I told you bringing him was a bad idea! You should have brought Leliana. She never would have attacked me!"
"You came from the side Alistair." Lahar's tone was patient, as though speaking to a child. "We just got done with a fight; his blood is hot. What would happen if he came at you from behind, with no announcement of his presence? You would cleave him in two, pound him with your shield."
Ignoring the Wardens, Zevran made to gather up any loot that the dead may have on them. It was better than listening to the squabbling. Sten was making himself useful, a large knapsack in hand, inspecting the dead. Joining the Qunari, Zevran set to work. Armor bits were taken, to replace or repair the armor that would inevitably become damaged, or to sell. Since they wouldn't be going to any large towns – let alone cities – any time soon, scavenging was their only real recourse to maintain decent armor and supplies.
In silence they worked, side by side, digging through the corpses, and eventually dragging the dead off to one side. Piling gear and other gew-gaws away from the dead, Zevran picked over the remaining bits and pieces while Sten went to begin digging a ditch for the darkspawn. Large items, such as armor and weapons, were put in the knapsack which Zevran would have to climb a tree and hang from a limb for retrieval later. Small things like the occasional gemstone and glittering gold were tucked into his pack. And why would they have gold, of all things?, he wondered,hefting a pouch in one hand. It is not as though they barter for anything...
Sten was focused on his task, and so startled Zevran with a question that was framed as a statement, but the assassin knew it for what it was. "You are more proficient than I thought."
"Why Sten, did you think that elves cannot fight?" He rolled a sovereign he had pulled from the purse between his fingers. "Have they no elves in Qunari lands?"
"There are elves everywhere." His voice was gravel and stone, no indication that his chore was difficult.
"Ah yes, I had heard this." Nodding, he returned to his own task.
His hand hovered over a long dagger, one with a handle too short for his long fingered grip, yet it was elegantly made, the blade swaying in a gentle curve. Raising it to eye level, the Crow inspected it carefully, noting the twining design etched into its surface. Testing the edge, Zevran cast Lahar a thoughtful glance, even as she was standing there calmly reasoning with Alistair. She used Baileto hold off that hurlock for a moment, but what if she hadn't? Tucking the weapon into his pack, Zevran decided he must teach her more seriously how to defend herself. That staff of hers was no good for close quarters, and if, for whatever reason, she couldn't cast – and he could think of at least four poisons off the top of his head that would prevent her – she would need something to keep an attacker at bay, at least for a moment, and at worst, to deal with the opponent entirely on her own.
Moving to assist the Qunari with hauling the darkspawn into the ditch that had been dug, he continued the conversation as though there had been no break at all. "Crows are taught many things, my fine Qunari friend. Did you think we only use poison and such lures to do the work?"
"Yes." His answer: simple, harsh, and literal, as he began chopping up the very large darkspawn that Zevran had felled.
"Hmn, well then, now you know this is not so." Keeping his disgust to himself, he neatly picked up a leg and threw it into the hole. "I may strike from shadows and use poison, but I can fight when need be, and," punctuating this with another dismembered limb following its' predecessor, "I suppose this proves that there is a need, no?"
"You are too small to be effective, but you will do," Sten grunted, which was the closest thing to praise that Zevran had heard for anyone other than Lahar, from the Qunari. "At least you are a man."
He quirked a brow quizzically, stilling in their shared, gruesome labor. "And should I be anything else?"
With a grunt, Sten replied, "Mph, I suppose not."
XXX
Camp was an informal affair. There was a stream (which Zevran would avail himself of properly as soon as possible since the quick rinse of face, arms and hands before they made camp wasn't enough), and a fire was being laid by Alistair, however, there was no tent. They had opted to keep their packs light, bringing only medicines, some food, bedding and a few rucksacks for anything interesting they may find along the way. Lahar was the first to go and wash up, having pulled the longest straw.
He passed her a bowl and his soap, seeing that she hadn't thought of packing any. "Take mine."
She gave him a grateful smile. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
Bracing his back to a tree once he was free of his armor, he set to buffing the blood off the boiled leather of his cuirass as it rested on his knees. He was shirtless, and in little more than a spare set of leggings, the cool air raising gooseflesh over him. The temperature didn't seem to bother Alistair, who had waited until Lahar was out of sight before removing his armor and changing into leggings as well. Sparing the boy a glance, Zevran noted that there was a decent collection of scars on his muscular frame. Sten on the other hand, who had stripped down to his smalls and was quickly and efficiently oiling his armor in broad sweeps, had more scars than the assassin could count.
Ruining what would be an otherwise peaceful and familiar moment, Alistair looked over at him and did a double take. "What are those?"
"Mmn? Talking to me Chantry-boy?" Zevran asked, licking the tip of a sharp canine.
The almost-Templar pointed at the assassin's chest. "Those marks. Are they paint? Like on your face?"
"Ah, tattoos; no they are not paint. Surely you have noticed that before now?" Sighing, he hid his irritation.
"Actually, no; I thought it was paint, like women wear." Shrugging, he returned to cleaning his armor, but still watched Zevran curiously. "They're not birthmarks, and they're not paint. So what are tattoos?"
Pinching the bridge of his nose with thumb and the middle knuckle of his index finger, "Did you not notice that the Dalish have them as well? And Lahar, too. It is ink, my friend, laid into flesh with needles. It is permanent. Unless, of course, the skin were cut away, but that would mar the canvas, and be such a waste."
"Needles? Sounds painful." Grabbing the bottle of armor oil, Alistair began to work it into the metal. "So, was it very painful?" he prompted, when Zevran hadn't answered.
Mierda! Does the boy ever stop asking questions?
Pursing his lips, Zevran didn't look up. "Yes. Quite painful, actually, and it takes many hours of work. My first tattoos were quite uncomfortable, but now I enjoy it. There is something to be said for relaxing into the pain, allowing it to send you deep into a meditative state." Raising his right arm partially, he showed off Lahar's design that he had tapped into his own flesh. "But the results are remarkably beautiful. This is the one Lahar made for me. Quite elegant and lovely, yes?"
Alistair left off his chore, taking the bared arm as an invitation to examine it, rolling it up towards his chest so he could better see the inner part, and Zevran curled his fingers closed reflexively. "Looks like circles made of vines or something."
He shrugged. "It is more delicate in nature than many of mine, true, which were hammered in with a long line of needles set into a handle. Such a method for tapping in the ink does not lend itself to these lacy ones like Lahar chose for me. Since she is unfamiliar with the art herself, I did the work."
"So, what about the one on her neck? Did she design that too?" This gave Zevran an opportunity to send the boy packing. "She's pretty enough without it, but I suppose it looks good."
"No, that is my mark upon her, as her husband. I had to do so as part of the ritual," sliding his gaze up to the stormy blue eyes. "It is a brand for all to see, and know she is married: Bonded, in the Dalish fashion. Even the elves of the Alienages will know it for what it is."
Recoiling, Alistair dropped his arm as though it were a hot rock. "Oh."
"Is there something wrong, dear Alistair?" Asking it with false sweetness, Zevran smiled minutely.
"No, no, nothing's wrong." He backed away, and pointedly stayed silent for the remaining time that Zevran worked on his armor.
He ducked his head to cover his grin. I did promise, after all, to fend off unwanted suitors.
His task finished, Zevran began to leave, thinking to join Lahar, but Alistair interrupted. "Going somewhere?"
"I need to piss; do you wish to hold my hand Alistair? I assure you that I've been doing this on my own longer than you've been alive, and need no assistance." Cocking his head to the side, he gave the warrior a languid once-over. "But if you wish to join me, we could do something else afterwards...? Perhaps I could show you some of my more interesting artwork?"
Making a face of disgust, Alistair backed down. "No, that'll be quite alright. Just don't go too far; Lahar's probably still bathing and would want privacy."
Sten made a noise, barely audible, but Zevran heard it even if Alistair didn't. Frankly it had sounded like a strange version of a laugh, almost. Not quite, but almost. Definitely the closest the Antivan had ever heard before from the large Qunari, so Zevran took it as such.
Now Zevran smiled, resting his weight on one foot, leaning forward. "Ah, but she has nothing I haven't already explored. What is privacy between a man and woman who are Bonded?"
So saying, he left the tiny camp.
Finding Lahar was no trial; she was truly within a few yards of the camp, no more than shouting distance, in case of attack. She was pulling on her robes, hair dripping wet and bound up atop her head, small rivulets of water trickling down her neck. It made the cloth cling to her small curves, the collar of her robes glued to her skin, which was tugged away from flesh with a little grunt of dissatisfaction. Sneaking closer, Zevran watched. This was one of his favorite things about women, the intimate moments that were unguarded as they dressed or undressed, unaware of being watched. There was something undeniably sensual about it, no matter that sensuality was not the general goal.
Leaning against a tree, braced with a forearm, Zevran carefully snapped a twig with his boot as he spoke. "Mi cielo, you look particularly ravishing today."
"Ravishing? Mm, likely story." Unpinning her hair and bending over to twist it, she squeezed more water out of the long locks. "Are you going to make a habit of watching me bathe?"
Watching as she finished, and approached him, Zevran smiled. "If that is an invitation, then, why yes, I do believe I shall."
She presented him with his soap and bowl. "It wasn't, but my last two baths have been spied on by you, so I was only wanting to know if you were going to make it a habit."
"And would you protest if I said yes?" Accepting the bowl with one hand, while wrapping the other around her waist, he tugged her closer. "I find it quite relaxing to watch you bathe, princesa; besides, I like to think of it as a reward for ensuring no others disturbed you as you washed."
Expression quizzical, she asked, "What are you doing, Zev?"
He leaned down, closer to her face. "Speaking with you, of course."
"Fine, let me rephrase that." She rolled her eyes at him. "What are you planning on doing?"
"This," he responded, kissing her.
There was a brief moment when he thought she wouldn't open her mouth to him, that the mage would prove the offer of being able to take a kiss whenever he so desired it was false. Suddenly, that seemed important, the hope that not everything had been the drugs from the Bonding ritual. Lips parted, allowing him entrance, and Zevran let the bowl and soap fall to the ground unheeded. Wet hair tangled in his fist as Zevran tilted her head so he could gain better access. Hands went to his chest, seeking balance, Lahar making a tiny noise of surprised delight at his onslaught.
Tearing away from her lips, Zevran licked at the tattoo on her neck possessively. Lahar's voice was distinctly breathy beside his ear. "Zev, not here."
He whispered huskily in her ear. "I must apologize for the other evening, princesa. You were right: I should have informed you of my intention. Please, allow me to beg your forgiveness properly."
A hint of warning, threaded through her tone. "No begging."
He nipped at the tip of her ear delicately. "But I beg so well. And I wish to; I insist."
"Zev -" She was cut short by the wet slide of tongue over hyper-sensitive cartilage.
Working the hem of her robes up, Zevran rubbed her inner thigh. "Please, hermosa pequena mia, allow me this." He nuzzled at her cheek. "You were in a bad position today, bonita, let me feel how real you are. Let me make up for my failure in protecting you, both from others and myself."
She whimpered as his fingers swept gently along the edge of her smallclothes. "The others are nearby..."
"Then you shall have to be quiet, so we do not disturb them." Moving to nip at her lips, Zevran breathed the words against her mouth.
Lahar bit her lip, then licked his, and Zevran knew he had her. Turning so that his back was to the tree, Zevran continued kissing her, adjusting his stance so he could take her full weight pressed against him, and pushed aside the crotch of her underthings. Fingers delved into her slit, parting the folds, and he plied her clit skillfully, feeling her buck against his palm. Breaking from her mouth, Zevran gave her other ear the attention he had given the first, staring over her head the whole time at Alistair. He had heard the approach minutes ago, almost as soon as he had begun kissing his lady mage, though Lahar obviously hadn't.
I thought you might come looking. Grinning his wolfish triumph at the shemlen, he was completely uncaring that he was putting on a display. The almost-Templar couldn't see anything, after all, could only tell that Lahar's face was buried in Zevran's shoulder, that her hips were moving to his touch. Alistair was frozen, white-faced in shock, blue eyes wide with horror and embarrassment.
Narrowing his eyes at Alistair, Zevran bared his teeth, suddenly thrusting his fingers into Lahar's channel, making her gasp and moan before it was muffled by teeth biting into his shoulder. You are so pathetic it is almost comical, he thought,sneering at the intruder. Your sense of propriety and protectiveness is misguided and unwanted boy. Go.
As if he could sense Zevran's thoughts, with greater silence than the elf would have given him credit for, he backed away. Satisfied that they were alone once more, Zevran refocused his full attention on Lahar. He hadn't been lying when he told the mage he wished to apologize, or to reassure himself that she had come away from the days' fighting unscathed. Returning to her mouth, Zevran bade her to put her arms around his shoulders and hoisted her up. Legs went around his waist, locking as he stepped away from the tree, turning with her in his grasp once more, and pushed her to the trunk. Giving her sex one more caress, he pulled himself free of his leggings, rubbing against her core through the linen of her smalls.
"I wish to have you." Nibbling at her throat, Zevran groaned, asking permission in his own way.
A gasped, "Please!" was paired with undulating hips that ground against his manhood where it was trapped between them.
Supporting her weight with his hands on her bottom. "You'll have to move the fabric aside mi cielo, my hands are," squeezing firm flesh, "full."
She wiggled a hand down, and did as he asked, giving him exactly what he wanted. The coupling was frenzied, fast, and over far too quickly, but satisfactory for Zevran's needs as he pulled out after she came, allowing himself to spill outside of her sheath. No need for her to bathe fully again. He remained pressed to her tightly, cheek laying against her shoulder while her fingers stroked his neck and shoulders.
"Did you know you're actually very pretty?" It was a sighing, hesitant question.
Yes, he did know he was 'pretty'. He knew he was attractive; at least, to so many others. Zevran had borne the experiences to engender that knowledge, some of it carved into long-healed flesh. But did he know that Lahar saw him that way? No, Zevran didn't, and hadn't thought to ask.
"You think so?" Murmuring into the column of her throat, his lips brushed over the purple and black ink he had embedded there. A sharp swirl, framed by seven dots, and a curling, heavily stylized 'V' that connected to another, creating an almost unidentifiable 'Z' wound along the tendon and vein. Most any who saw it would probably think it a strange design, not noticing the letters that formed the consonants of his name. If he squinted in this position, the 'V' looked more like an 'L'. Tongue flicking out to trace the letters slowly, he murmured, "No, I did not know you thought me 'pretty'. Others, yes; I have been told that in so many words - most commonly 'handsome' - but from you, mi vida, no. I didn't expect to hear such a sentiment."
"Oh." Lahar pressed her cheek to his forehead, her cool breath tickling the tip of his ear as she spoke. "You're very pretty. Not like a girl, but pretty like a man. Beautiful even."
Chuckling under his breath, he shifted so he could stand even closer to her. "Hmn, are you saying you find me attractive, mi niña?" He rubbed his face into her cloth-covered shoulder a moment. "Then it is good I know."
She was quiet, the silence stretching between them, however, this silence was filled with soft breathing, and being held tight. Zevran had to admit to himself, at least in the confines of his own mind, that he liked it. How long has it been since someone simply held me for the sake of holding me? He was surprised that she didn't ask if he found her attractive, though, even more than he was surprised by how comfortable it was to simply stand there holding her, as she held him. Perhaps he should mention it at some point; women were notoriously insecure about their appearance and desirability.
The light was failing, and soon it would be dark. If they didn't return to Sten and Alistair soon, one or both of them would come looking. In spite of the visible - cruel, even - display Zevran had given Alistair, the warrior would feel it necessary to check on them again. Probably with Sten alongside him.
Carefully, Zevran let Lahar's legs slip from him. "We should not tarry much longer, pequeña; night falls, and it wouldn't be prudent to be caught unarmed, as we are."
Lahar leaned into him a moment, regaining her feet. "I'm never unarmed. Mage – remember?"
Zevran held his hand out to her, frowning. "You did not show that you were armed very well earlier today. Why did you not cast and smite that hurlock into the Pit?"
"Because," she began, bending down to pick up the forgotten bowl and soap, "I ran out of mana. I could have used a lyrium potion, but we should save what I've got, I think. It's not cheap, or easy to come by. Besides..." She finally took his hand; her fingers smooth and uncallused, in direct opposition to how his were. "I had a handle on it. I knew you would come."
He made a face. "You should not be so unarmed, ever, Lahar. Knowing a few moves of El Baile does not make you impervious to damage, nor well-armed." He tugged her along, his much better night vision suited to the murky light. "I think when we return to the Dalish, I shall have to undertake broadening your education in these matters."
Lahar stopped, forcing him to face her. "I didn't mean to make it sound like I was being flippant, Zevran - or like I was depending on you too much - but I knew you were on your way, and I knew all I had to do was to buy some time. That's all."
"As you say," he conceded, inclining his head towards her. "However, I insist - nay, demand - that you begin bearing something more functional than that stick. It is useless."
"It's a perfectly good staff!" Her eyes went wide in incredulity. "A very functional, practical, and useful mage staff."
"Oh?" He worked at maintaining a mild tone. "What does it do, exactly? It is top heavy, too long to strike wisely, and isn't even attractive. I have handled it a few times, myself, since this afternoon, and yes, it does make my skin crawl to hold it for very long, as if it contains some sort of charge. That doesn't make it a wise weapon in battle."
Lahar was frowning now, color blooming in her cheeks. "It boosts my mana, makes me stronger, makes me able to hold larger quantities of mana in me. It lets me cast longer, and helps me regenerate mana faster. And it doesn't have to be attractive!"
"Hmph." Not giving up, Zevran bulled ahead. "And what happens when you have no mana, the fight still continues, and you've no way to use it as a close-quarters weapon? If I hadn't been there, or if no one was near – what would you do in that situation?"
"...I'd take a lyrium potion." Her jaw was locked, and Zevran watched in fascination as the tendon flexed, standing in stark relief.
Countering, he continued. "And if you had no lyrium potions? Or if you did not have the few seconds necessary to take a lyrium potion?" Snapping his fingers as though the idea had just occurred, he said, "Or what if you had been poisoned? Hmm? I know of many poisons that take a mage's power out of commission for quite some time. Some of them even kill mages, while leaving non-mages unaffected." He leaned down so they were on eye level. "What would you do then?"
Her nostrils flared and she attempted to pull her hand from his grasp. "I would get out of it somehow."
"Ah the impetuousness of youth." He was mocking her now, very softly. "You are far from immortal, preciosa. There may come a time when what little you know of El Baile cannot save you, when your magic cannot, when someone else cannot. You must be prepared for all things, or you will fall." Cupping her chin, Zevran forced Lahar to look up at him. "So, tell me: what you would do then?"
"I would die." The admission was forced between gritted teeth and, absent-mindedly, Zevran noticed how long her lashes were, how large and luminous those hoarfrost white-grey-blue eyes were, as they stared at him, hard.
He nodded. "Yes, you would die and, depending on the enemy, that may take a very, very, very long time. By then it would even be a relief." Still holding her hand, still pinching her chin between thumb and forefingers with the other, he looked at her intently. "So, you will learn to use something more practical, for such instances. It may be a little something to save you, either by killing a foe, or yourself, if need be."
"I doubt I will ever need to kill myself." There was a defiant gleam in her eyes.
Releasing her chin, Zevran looked away. "We may all have that belief, but there may come a time when such knowledge is your only way out."
"I'm not a coward, and suicide is the coward's way out," she said, jerking against his hold.
Barely containing the flinch at her harsh tone, Zevran shook his head. "When there is nothing there for you but pain, torture and anguish, or when the knowledge in your head is worth too much – too dangerous to divulge to a foe, for the sake of others' safety... then it is not the coward's way out. It is the only way out. Discount it if you must, but I will still show you how to do it, and do it quickly."
"I will always persevere." For a second, Zevran thought she would stomp her foot, but she didn't; Lahar only glared. "I didn't make it as far as I have by not looking for other options. Being a mage isn't all fun and games; it isn't for the weak. The weak die, become possessed or are made Tranquil. Yet here I am, and I will not back down."
Refusing to let go of her hand, Zevran yanked her to him. "I only say these things because someone must. Others may be content to hide behind you, but I cannot afford to. I shall take the brunt as much as I am able, yet there will come a time when you will have to stand in front of even me, and if you are incapable of knowing all your options, then you are being young and foolish. You are young, but I don't think you foolish, Lahar."
"We are all of us fools, Zevran." Her voice evened out, that curtain of ice threatening to descend. "Some more than others. And you don't have to stand between me and everything else; isn't it supposed to be my protection you're seeking, not the other way around?"
Sighing, gentling his expression, Zevran passed a hand over Lahar's hair, smoothing it. "Si, we are all fools. Such very diverse fools. We shall protect each other then, as it is mutually beneficial, and we can be fools together." He stroked the back of his hand over her cheek. "Do not be angry for hearing things you don't like. Is it not better to have knowledge and not need it, then to have no knowledge and need it?"
Lahar rested her head against his chest, beating her head against his collarbone softly a few times, muttering, then gathered herself, squeezing his hand in hers. "A hermit on a mountain, dispensing wisdom for cookies. I swear. That's what you are."
Now Zevran smiled. "And nuttier than a Feastday cake, I believe."
"Exactly." She stood up on her toes and kissed his cheek, and Zevran knew that she would be less difficult to convince on the wisdom of certain training regimens from now on. "Now, let's go see what Alistair has made for dinner. I'm really hungry."
He made a sour face as he guided them back to the camp. "And suddenly I am not, any longer. You shall eat my portion if it is too despicable."
"Promise?" There was a hint of hopefulness in her voice as they entered the light of the campfire.
Neither Sten nor Alistair looked at them.
Zevran noted the wild flush on the young man's face, but ignored it as he nodded to Lahar. "Of course. But if it is too foul, maybe even you shouldn't eat it, hungry or not. I assure you that things that taste that bad are just as terrible on the way out."
"Hey, you're talking about my cooking!" Alistair finally spoke, holding out two sticks of … whatever it was that the shemlen called food. "Sten ate it just fine, and so did I!"
Accepting both sticks, he offered one to Lahar. "Alistair, it is blackened." He pointed at the squirrel, or maybe rabbit, if it was so overcooked that it had somehow shrunk. "How you got as large as you are with food like this, I don't know. Is it-" he poked at the meat, a piece of char flaking free, "-even chewable?"
Beside him, Lahar noisily chomped on her split animal du jour. "Hey, it's not as bad as you think. Just-" He watched as Lahar's face scrunched side to side, having to use a great deal of muscle, it looked like to Zevran. "-have to work at it a little."
"See?" On the verge of preening, the youth straightened. "Lahar knows good Ferelden cooking when she sees it! You're just too picky, Zevran."
Lahar swatted his shoulder gently, giving him a look, as Alistair waited expectantly, and Zevran rolled his gaze heavenward. "Fine. But if I break a tooth on this, I am going to be quite put out."
"It is nighttime, kadan, and you cast many spells," Sten rumbled, speaking as was his wont when tired of having to listen to too much talking. "You should take first watch. I suggest the others should sleep, once they finish their meal, and give you time to rest. You will not be strong enough for tomorrow if you wear yourself too thin, kadan."
So many words at once made Zevran's brows climb high on his head, to what felt like his hairline. He gave Lahar and Sten an appraising look. That is the most downright... fluffy... thing I do believe I have ever seen in my life.
The young Warden smiled, reaching out to lay a hand on the Qunari's massive forearm. "Thank you, Sten. I will make sure to wake you at next watch."
There was an odd expression that Zevran realized was almost a smile, more of a relaxing of the stern lines than a movement of lips. "As you will, kadan."
Now I know why Leliana insists on saying he is a 'softie', settling down next to Lahar, and attempting to eat the 'meal' Alistair had prepared. Truly, who would have believed it? The fire crackled to itself, and the forest came alive with night sounds, singing its own music, which was joined by the not-so-melodious snuffles and snores of sleep from their two other companions. Draping an arm over Lahar's shoulders, Zevran pulled her in closer, and gave her the rest of his meal.
She looked at it, then back up to him. "You need to keep your strength up, too."
"If you can stomach it, then you should eat it," he said, pressing it to her hands. "I find it rather disgusting, and eating it will only make me ill. While you, on the other hand, seem to be able to eat it. So, eat you shall, otherwise, I fear it will simply go to waste."
Her voice was pitched so it wouldn't carry. "I know it's bad, but it's food, Zev. If you keep deciding to hold out until the food is good, you may be half-starved by the time you get something 'decent'."
"As I informed you already, mi cielo, I am fully capable of doing without; besides, we have trail bread for the morning and nuts for lunch. It is not as though I will be starving myself," he said, hoping to reassure her. The incident earlier, where she had run out of mana, worried him. She said that this gathering of mana for spells, and the very spells themselves take much of her energy, and with all this physical activity, again pressing her to take the remainder of his portion, she may not last long. And are not Blights things that take time to face? Even with unified fronts, which is a luxury we do not have? "Lahar, eat. Then lean against me; I shall keep watch with you."
She protested, "You need sleep andfood Zevran. I don't care if you say you can do without, there will be times when we all have to do without, so eat now, while you have the option. Sleep when you have the chance, for you can't be sure when you will again."
Sighing, he explained, "Lahar, I won't be able to sleep here. There are too many factors that will interfere. My guard cannot relax in this situation enough for me to even attempt it, and so rather than seek frustration in a futile pursuit, I won't."
Squirming, sitting up against him, Lahar frowned. "I can put a sleep spell on you."
"Don't waste mana." Shaking his head, Zevran stroked the swell of her hip. "I shall be fine, and meditate, as I have for most of the evenings spent in your group."
That didn't satisfy her at all, it was clear. "It isn't a waste. If you're too tired in the coming days while we look for Witherfang, then what good will you be in a fight? It's as bad as if I used up all my mana and lyrium. Dangerous, too."
He caught her hand before it started to dance in the forms of a rune. "No. It will be far more dangerous for me to sleep with these others so close, out in the open. I will not awaken in a pleasant state as I do with you. I will attack, and not stop until I am put down. It is automatic, drilled into me. I can go days, weeks, a month or a little more, if need be, without full sleep. It will cost me if I must go too long, but I can do it. Eat, sleep, and replenish yourself Lahar. Do not worry. I have slept quite well the last week or so - far better than in times past. Let it lie."
"In the morning I'll put a rejuvenation glyph on you, and every morning," she said, relenting, for which Zevran was glad.
"Como desees, mi diosa," he replied, kissing her hand and letting it go.
XXX
Sten had awoken around midnight, sat up on his pallet, and eyed Zevran. "I shall take watch."
"No," he said, waving the offer off. "I will not sleep this night. I am rested well enough."
"Vashedan." Snorting, Sten lay back down.
With no further interruptions, Zevran let his muscles relax. His mind opened, and he listened with ears that were not purely physical. The forest sang, but it was discordant, hollow, as though something vastly important was missing or out of place.
The forest is sick. He turned his head so he could press his ear to the trunk of the tree he and Lahar had made as their resting place. It stinks of fouled blood beneath the sap and loam. Tree spirit, if you are here, speak to me. Nothing replied, maintaining its brooding silence. Left nothing better to do, Zevran joined the forest in its brooding as well, staring at nothing, mind not quite blank, but at rest nonetheless.
XXX
"It looks like a cozy camp." Alistair glanced around, scratching his head. "Water, bedding, tents, a fireeven. Look, we've been out here two days, maybe we should...?"
Sten growled. "Too convenient. However it is defensible."
"There's something off." Lahar was frowning, squinting at the camp. "Stay alert, let's look around a little more first, before we decide to rest here."
A deep lethargy swept through Zevran, and all he wanted to do was sit by the fire and relax. "Alert? I can barely keep my eyes... open..."
Suddenly he was alarmed by that, and Zevran jerked up straight from where he had been poking around in one of the low laying tents. Backing out, shaking his head, Zevran smacked his face several times, and then he heard Lahar's voice cracking in that liquid language she used to cast. Spinning around, dagger and sword in hand as fast as a blink, he was attacking the shade that was looming up, swirling smoke where feet should be. Or where something should be.
The fight was fast, confined as it was, with only Sten having fully fallen under the shade's sleep spell, and then the truth of the camp was revealed in each gruesome detail. Bones were scattered everywhere, and there was even a desiccated corpse or two amongst them, laying as if in repose.
"Dear Maker." It was breathed in horrified mystification by Alistair, staring down at the remains.
"It's like the Sloth demon." Lahar poked the edge of her staff into a pile of bones, making them rattle hollowly, her expression tight as she caught his eye. "Zevran, could you get that chest if it's locked?"
Doing as he was asked, Zevran went to a sturdy travel trunk, and worked the lock, knowing he needed the practice, but hating it anyway. Locks? I hate locks. Fumbling with a pick and wire, he shifted his grip on the tools, eyes closed as he listened to the tumblers, counting them as they clicked open and closed. This is what Rinna was for... The thought was sour, leaving an acrid taste in the back of his throat, that the Crow had to hang onto, using the strange emotion as fuel when the frustration was getting to him. Finally the lock was conquered, and not even bothering to examine the contents, Zevran simply shoveled everything into his pack.
Hefting it back onto his shoulders, he commented, "My dear Alistair, I do believe you should be carrying some of this soon."
"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure," he said, holding out his hands, waiting.
Zevran waved it aside. "Lahar can split it up later. It is not so heavy that I cannot carry it, only that my pack is almost full."
Later that night, Lahar was peering over his shoulder, reaching past him to grab at items in curiosity.
Giving up finally, he handed the pack to her. "Why not simply take a look for yourself, bonita? I've armor to care for."
"Sorry, I didn't mean to be nosy." However, she accepted the pack with what looked suspiciously like glee.
Shaking his head, Zevran twisted his hair up, forming a loop that was held loosely by his tied back braids. Allowing his mind to slip into blankness, armor brush in hand, he leaned into the leather of his armor to clean it. The smell of sweat-stained leather wasn't unpleasant at all, almost a warm musk that reminded Zevran of some of the oils worn in Antiva, and for a moment he was homesick. Ferelden was too wet, but that may have just been because they were tromping through backwoods and mountain passes constantly, rather than on true roads.
A brief flash of memory, of the heat and wet at the edge of the Arlathan jungle, traveling with Arainai and her tribe, crossed his mind. She had been showing him some of the more varied poisons and how they were made from snakes' and frogs' venom, extracted from living creatures that were slowly sweated near a fire, the poison gathering in tiny bowls. Ferelden bore no resemblance, other than the dampness, to Antiva and its surrounding provinces. Frogs here weren't poisonous, and while Zevran was sure there were venomous snakes, they probably kept mostly to swamps. No, here poisons came only from plant-life and spiders. Squeezing the long, flat, short bristled brush, Zevran found himself wondering if he would ever see his fair land again.
If I manage to get through this Blight, I do believe I shall have to return. This would still be a problem, as he had failed in his contract. Of course, even if he did fill the contract, it was still too late, and not worth the trouble. Perhaps I shall simply take up a Crow Masters' title, and play the Game? Pah, that will mean I have to coddle idiots and watch Culminaciónes, as well as make deals, do paperwork... Ugh. Maybe I should just take some poison and be done with it! Would be far less troublesome.
Feeling eyes on him, Zevran saw Lahar watching him intently, something folded up in her hands. "You wish something of me, mi cielo?"
"Your gloves," she pointed to his vambraces that he had taken apart so he could see if there was a way to mend them. Some spirit-mad tree had attacked them around midday, and somehow thrust roots up through his forearm – which was currently bandaged, stitched, and had several healing spells put on it – punching a dual set of holes in the thick leather. "May I see them?"
Flicking his fingers he gave his permission. "Help yourself." As you've helped yourself to my pack, why ask permission now? Tchk, women, always wanting to poke around in things... Possibly because they don't have a penis to poke others with? Shrugging mentally, Zevran checked over his blades for nicks.
The mage was inspecting the gloves, rolling them in her hands, and from the corner of his eye, Zevran watched her hold up some ornate leather to his damaged vambraces. Seeing that she would be amused at least for a little while, Zevran rose to go check the snare next to that rabbit hole he found earlier. As if to make up for the earlier bad luck of the day, the snare was holding a half-dead rabbit, a state that he quickly remedied. he returned to their camp at a brisk walk with his prize, only to halt at seeing Lahar, having exited the range of the fire's glow, peering about her as if she were looking for something.
Pulling shadow around him, Zevran snuck up on her until he was right behind her shoulder, then dropped it. "Mi vida, I don't advise going off on your own in this place at such hours." His voice made her flinch for its nearness, but he wrapped his free arm around her waist, pulling her back flush to his chest. "You never know what wolves may be prowling about." Taking a deep inhale at the nape of her neck. "And you smell good enough to eat. The scent alone may make such predators go wild."
"I was looking for you." Shivering in his arms, Lahar tilted her head to the side, so he could nuzzle the pale skin further. "Besides, I smelled you when you got closer, but before you were right on me. Since I'm fairly sure you wouldn't attack me out of turn, I knew I was safe enough."
"You were looking for me, so close to camp?" Kissing her ear, flicking it with the tip of his tongue. "Really now mi diosa I didn't know you were such an exhibitionist."
An elbow jabbed his side; Lahar said, pointedly, "Not for that. I wanted you to have something."
Growling into her ear so the vibration would travel the small distance. "And it does look like I have something, yes?" Squeezing her and rubbing his pelvis against her back, he purred, "But this time we will have to be very quiet, so as to not alert the others."
"Zev." Warning, Lahar stepped away from him, which he allowed.
"Mm, if not for that, then why were you looking for me?" Puzzled, Zevran didn't think Lahar would just waltz out from camp for many reasons, or that she would have many reasons to look for him, other than for a little one-on-one play.
The Warden pushed something into his chest, holding it there, a look of annoyance painting her features. "I think you should have these."
Accepting the object with his free hand, Zevran only gave them a glance then was looking back at her. "Gloves? You're giving me gloves?"
"Well if you don't want them or need them, then give them back, I suppose; maybe I could use them." Hands on her hips, Lahar frowned up at him. "But I think they would suit you better."
As she made to stalk off, Zevran took a closer look at the gloves. "Wait. Lahar, wait. Please."
"What?" She stopped, back to him; for all her being so petite, Lahar gave off that larger-than-life aura she drew around her when she was agitated.
"These are Dalish." His grip tightened around the embroidered leather.
"I thought as much." Her shoulder lifted in a half shrug, but still, she did not turn toward him. "It's why I thought they would suit you, more than me."
Holding the gloves close to him, Zevran found himself asking, "What do you want for them?"
"They're a gift Zev." Now she turned to him, cocking her head in clear confusion. "Your gloves are trashed; they could be mended probably, but we don't have the materials. Those look to be the right size, and so you should just take them. It's the nature of a gift – something simply given because someone needs or wants something, or the giver simply feels like giving. Hasn't anyone ever given you a gift before?"
Swallowing the lump that suddenly formed in his throat, Zevran blurted, "No one has ever given me a gift, no; not as such."
"Oh." And like that, she was there, touching his wrist. "I'm sorry."
"When I was a boy in the whorehouse," the words welled up unbidden, "I had only one thing of my mother's. A set of gloves; they were Dalish. Possibly kept as a reminder to her of what she was, who she had been, once. For me, they were a thing of dreams. I would stare at them for hours, whenever I had the chance, making up... many things about the Dalish, my mother, myself, and the world outside."
Fingers hovered over his cheek, then made contact, the touch soothing, as Lahar urged him to continue. "Is that why you left the Guild? To search for the Dalish?"
He nodded, mouth dry. "In part, yes. I hid them, and was able to bring them with me to the Guild. Eventually they were discovered, and I never saw them again. Sentiment of any sort is forbidden by the Crows. And these..." Crushing the leather even more, he gestured with them minutely before bringing them back to his chest. "...are much like the ones my mother left me. The embroidery is not as fine, and the leather is thicker, but... they are very similar."
"Keep them Zevran, wear them, they're yours now." She wrapped her hands over the one that held the gloves. "And now you've received your very first gift, and I hope you get more from now on."
He shuddered. "Am I surprised by this? Yes... Why would you give them to me, Lahar? Why?"
"Because you needed gloves, and because I wanted to; that's the nature of gifts, understand?" Taking the rabbit that was still dangling from the lax grip of his offhand, she continued, "Besides, you're the one who unlocked the chest they were in, so it's apropos, I think."
"Ah, they were in there?" He was glad to have a reason not to focus so much on the fact that he was holding the only gift he had ever been given, and so tightly he feared he may mar the leather.
A tiny smile tilted her lips upwards. "Well I said I would re-distribute the spoils to those who needed it."
"And here I thought you merely wished to rummage through my pack, the way all women like to dig in a man's belongings." Snorting, Zevran leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. "So, might I give you a kiss as payment for being nosy and rummaging through the treasures we have won?"
Lahar gave his shoulder a gentle push. "Not in payment."
"Hmm, then I shall give you one because I want to." Swooping down Zevran brushed his mouth over hers, lightning fast. "Shall we return to the others and make a decent meal out of rations and this coney?"
Looping an arm through his offered elbow, she smiled. "We shall!"
XXX
micielo - mysky
shemlen - quickchildren/human
Baile - Dance
princesa - princess
hermosapequenamia - mybeautifullittleone
bonita - prettygirl
mivida - mylife
miniña - mygirl
pequeña - littleone
preciosa - precious
Si - yes
kadan - placewheretheheartresides
Comodesees - asyouwish
midiosa - mygoddess
Vasheden - crap/shit
Culminaciónes - Culminations