Title: A Murder of Crows 8/?
Author: Rhion
Rating: T - some violence
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: Still with the yucky weather. Oh, and my car broke. Yes, it brokedided. So - I have a MUSTANG for a rental. Yay. Except the bitch (which just so happens to be CANDY APPLE RED) is a petrol guzzling whore. And since it's a V8 engine, it's all high performance and crap. Which means whenever I touch the gas peddle, it wants to leap forward. Now, granted, I get the economy rate for it, as I'm an Avis Preferred Customer (yay for freebies - all for signing up for free!) but I've only driven 300kms and I've had to fill up. TWICE. :annoyed:
So, my Oldmobile (which is supposed to be a gas guzzling, two-bit, dockwhore, but awesomely enough I get almost 30miles to the gallon - about 40kms to 4litres) is in the shop. I have no idea how much that is gonna cost. Hopefully not too much. Next month we're buyin' a Saab SE, for less than fifteen hundred as a backup car (and I'm gonna finally teach my hubbles how to drive a shittin' car...) and if the repairs cost too much, then that'll mean the Saab's a no-go for two months rather than one. Oh well.
XXX
Murder 8
XXX
It wasn't the werewolves, for none of them had been bitten, nor was it any blow that he hadn't prevented from falling, nor a trap that he hadn't disarmed. However, Zevran wasn't entirely sure what it was that caused Lahar to go still, make a small strangled noise, clutch her temples and collapse. He had been vigilant in guarding her, and guiding the party through the labyrinthine ruins that they had come across. As for Sten and Alistair, they had ensured that only a few enemies got anywhere near Lahar's position, which Zevran had, of course, quickly dispatched.
Diving for her as the Warden crumpled, Zevran caught her before she hit the floor. His knees were skinned against broken flagstones, but he was staring down at her wild-eyed. Shoving hair away from her face, Zevran checked her pulse. It was thready, but there.
"What the hell?" Alistair was glaring around him, searching for any hidden adversaries, but there were none to be found.
Shrugging out of his pack, Zevran began unfastening his breastplate. "I don't know what's wrong with her. She needs a healer. I'm going back to the Dalish." Dropping the leather, he said, "Sten, Alistair, follow behind me, as fast as you can."
"What?" Alistair raised his sword as though he would strike. "You can't just leave with her!"
Sten stopped him. "He is the swiftest."
He scooped up the youngest Warden and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. "She needs Wynne's magic. Or even Zathrian's. Whoever, it doesn't matter. Continue on without me, or follow – it's your choice – but I'm going now."
"You will need water." The Qunari held out two waterskins, dangling and looking small in comparison to his monolithic size.
Snatching the skins from him, Zevran draped them over his neck. "Thank you."
Without a backwards look, he was sprinting.
XXX
Muscles burned like fire, thighs straining, feet pounding, Lahar's hanging arms thudding against his buttocks, and on Zevran ran. Every fifteen minutes he slowed to a jog for fifteen then picked up speed once more, pacing himself as much as he would allow. The pattern made his lungs ache, wind whipping his hair with hard fingers behind him. It was as if his feet barely touched the ground before being in the air again, and he didn't bother to worry about the noise he was making.
Time was of the essence.
Mind blank, he swerved, avoiding a tree, leapt over a root, and landed badly; falling forward, free hand reaching out to touch the ground, he pressed himself onward. Some distant part of his brain kept the time, measuring the traveling light that filtered through the trees, and an hour later, Zevran slowed. Swinging Lahar down from his shoulders, he checked her pulse once more, put his ear near her lips, listened for breathing. It was hard to hear, next to impossible really, over the pounding of blood in his veins, his own breathing like a bellows. Propping her up against a tree, Zevran unstopped a waterskin, forcing himself to drink slowly.
"Aie, mi cielo what has done this to you?" Shaking his head, Zevran calmed his racing and shuddering body, taking as much of a break as he could.
Of course, the mage didn't answer.
"Tchk, fine." He took a long pull and re-corked the skin. He heaved Lahar back onto his shoulder, switching sides to give the first one a rest. "Be that way,mi diosa, but we shall have words later."
And he was off again.
Green and brown and gold flashes swam in and out of his view, barely registering as solid shapes. Settling into a distance-devouring lope, the initial adrenaline having worn off, Zevran conserved his strength. Who knew if he would run into any of the forests' denizens? And then he would need enough strength to outpace them, to dash past as fast as his fleet feet could carry he and Lahar.
He splashed through a shallow stream, river rocks a slippery footing, so much so that in his haste he almost fell, but he did lose his hold on Lahar. She landed in the water, and Zevran cursed darkly, wishing he had taken the time to tie her to his back like a bizarre pack. No, his only thought had been to get her to a healer, nevermind that this small delay was only moments, it still cost valuable time.
He didn't know if he had time.
Upon reaching the scouts patrol area past midday the next day, Zevran sped up, not heeding the call that was shouted to him. The scout broke from his hiding place, matching the Antivan's pace, taking in the scene of Zevran carrying Lahar as he was. Nothing was said, but the scout let loose a hawks' cry, probably a call for assistance. At least, that's what it had been in Arainai's tribe. They weren't near the camp yet, not enough so that Zevran would be willing to slow, even though fatigue was making his muscles tremble and shake, his body drenched in sweat. Two more scouts appeared shortly, flanking and guarding him and his burden, before the first one sped up, leaving them behind to alert the camp.
They broke through the brush that surrounded the Dalish encampment, Lanaya, Wynne and Morrigan waiting.
"What happened?" the Dalish woman was asking in a no-nonsense tone of voice, reaching for Lahar.
"Zevran -" Wynne started.
"Lahar!" The last word from Morrigan, who beat the other two to helping Zevran to lay the young mage on the ground with uncharacteristic gentleness. "Is she..?"
Bent double, hands on knees, Zevran shook his head. "No. Alive. Collapsed." He pointed behind him vaguely, gasping. "Not poison. Not curse. Grabbed head. No warning. Others following. Early morning, yesterday."
Wynne's face was white with shock. "You ran the whole way here?"
He crumpled to the ground in a poorly controlled fall. "Si." His under-tunic was plastered to him, the leather of his battle kilt gummy with sweat. He waved off the concerned hand Leliana offered him when she appeared because of the commotion. "Am. Fine. Merely. Tired."
XXX
He had thought the dreams wouldn't return. Zevran was in the Fade, and Crow was there, waiting, and he did not seem happy. Well, neither was Zevran.
"I wish I could say it was good to see you Crow." He bared his teeth in a grimace.
"I told you I would bring you back here." The words were conversational, but the Fade spirit's tone was hard. "Did you think you could get away?"
He braced for an attack, ready to launch an attack himself, as it was. "Call me an optimist."
"I would call you an idiot actually," he replied, seeming to swell as he approached Zevran.
Their surroundings were different: no monastery, no orchards in the distance, no scent of fruit on wind. In fact, the entire place was blank, a universal burnt beige.
"And you wouldn't be the first," he said, circling to the left, wary, as Crow moved with him. "Nor the last."
"No, certainly not the last." Agreeing, Crow nodded. "At least, not yet."
Zevran's lips twitched in a mirthless smile. "So, are you here to spar with words and call me childish names, Crow, or are you going to finally attack me?"
With this, Crow's steadily increasing presence and size diminished. "No. Both would be wastes of time."
Feinting to the right, Zevran lunged. "I have no such worries!"
They grappled, broke apart, and both resumed circling. Like a wolf, Zevran was crouching as he moved, keeping his muscles coiled, ready to spring at the first opening he saw. He was sick of the game Crow played, and had no wish to continue it. Crow lashed out with a high kick, which Zevran caught between crossed wrists, hands shifting to lock around the spirit's ankle and twist it sharply, forcing Crow to follow the motion. Momentum carried them both to the side, swaying, as though they were dancing.
"You may be an idiot, but I didn't think you such a fool," Crow snapped, falling back on his hands in a back bend that he turned into a flip, landing on his feet like a cat. "We have things to talk about."
Zevran nimbly danced aside when Crow threw a punch, attempting to pull him back into a grapple. "I have nothing to say to you. I am tired of your games, tired of these dreams, and tired of you."
Crow shrugged. "You have no choice in the matter Zevran Arainai, but fight me if you must, to work out your aggression."
"Shut up!" Snarling, Zevran went silent himself, delivering a flurry of blows.
Most of them were dodged, but Crow was only avoiding him now, letting Zevran vent the pent up energy that coiled in his body. There were no retaliating strikes, and enough of his blows hit their mark to give the elf some satisfaction, but no more than that. Spent faster than he would have ever imagined, Zevran glowered and let his body slip into a ready stance, making no further attacks, having long since known that they were futile, beyond the pleasure of lashing out.
"Done so quickly?" Mocking, Crow crossed his arms. "Are you tired boy?"
As suddenly as that, Zevran was sent back to memory.
….
"Are you tired boy?" A hand lashed out, cuffing him on the temple.
His mouth was full of blood, but Zevran knew better than to spit it out. It would be a sign of weakness, so he swallowed it. And he had already shown more than enough weakness, swaying on his feet, battered and bruised as he was, having gone days without sleep before having been sent into this series of sparring matches. At thirteen, he was already broadening, out-massing the other elven trainees, but that spared him nothing. The partners he was paired with were almost always human, heavy in shoulder, barrel-chested, and long-armed, as was customary for their species. Zevran took it as a point of pride that the Master and trainers set him up against such large opponents, knowing it meant they believed he could take it.
The other option – that they were purposely trying extra hard to kill him, rather than train him – didn't bear thinking about.
No, the half-Dalish elf had long since decided that the extra work that they gave him was because he held so much promise. If they had wanted him dead, they would have simply saved time and killed him outright. It was not the way of the Crows to dance about when there were more expedient ways of solving problems. Subterfuge was for other, far more important matters than dealing with a troublesome trainee.
Drawing himself up, Zevran dipped a small bow. "No Maestro Soloise."
"No? Then you're up for another match." Snapping his fingers, the salt-and-pepper haired, craggy-faced man gestured. "Taliesen will be your next opponent."
A flicker of doubt dashed through his mind; Taliesen was his friend - as much as any Crow, or trainee, could be. He was a protector, and guide, of sorts, and two years Zevran's senior. Also, Zevran had always thought this particular young man to be handsome, almost as much as himself. Of course, if the instructors had known about the regard Zevran held for the older boy, and they probably did, that would mean that this was yet another test.
Refusing to fail it, Zevran held his daggers up, pushing his worn body to readiness. "Yes, Maestro."
His friend, and psuedo-mentor spared Zevran nothing, and neither did Zevran pull his strikes. Such was the way of assassins. Nonetheless, the smaller, already tired and beaten elf was the one to fall to the sand of the practice ring. Bleeding from a dozen cuts, he lay there panting, knowing that he mustrise up and continue.
….
Taliesen was beside his pallet, covering Zevran's mouth with a hand, holding up a finger to his lips, cautioning the elf to silence. Nodding his understanding, Zevran sat up, hiding his pained grimace. Together they moved through the intermediate student barracks, and into a closet.
"At this rate you'll be dead soon." Pulling out a jar and bandages, a tin of needle and thread in hand, the human was examining Zevran intently.
Cracking his neck, Zevran moved to take the poultice, but Taliesen held it just out of reach. "Ah, yes, and you would be so broken up over it."
"It would be a pity to ruin such good looks, but you give them too much lip." He pressed Zevran to turn, so that he could see the gash that was poorly bandaged on his back. "They're trying to break you, and you keep resisting, rather than conforming to what you're supposed to be."
He hissed as blunt fingers probed the wound. "Resisting? That is what they like about me. Show my strength, so that they know I will be the greatest Crow ever, that is the way of it, no?"
"First you have to survive." Shockingly cool salve was swiped over and massaged into the gash. "You shouldn't irritate them so much."
Scoffing, Zevran felt the familiar sensation of needle piercing flesh, thread being dragged through the tiny holes made, skin forced to hold together. "You say this because you wish to be the greatest Crow. Not all of us are fortunate enough to be the son of a Master Crow who is in control of four cells." He turned as there was another push, so that Taliesen could check the other marks on his body. "How else will I set myself apart, hmm? I am a half-Dalish, son of a whore, with aught else to make me stand out from all the other slaves."
"When I become a full Crow, I'll take you as an apprentice." Taliesen finished tending to the worst of the wounds, most of which only needed a strong poultice and cleaning. Straightening, he stood a full head taller over Zevran. "And I'll make you my second when I gain my cell, and who cares if you're a son of a whore; by then it won't matter."
He shook his head as he laughed. "And when I become a Crow first, maybe I'll take you as my apprentice instead."
"See, that's what I mean." He waggled a finger at Zevran. "I may like that mouth of yours, but they don't. You're not so good that they won't crush you."
Cocking his head, Zevran leaned forward. "So you like my mouth, eh? Maybe I should show you what else it's good for..."
"Oh? It's good for more than bragging?" A flush of interest made the large brown eyes glow.
Licking his lips, Zevran grabbed Taliesen, pushing him against a shelf. "It's good for much more than that, yes," he purred, before pulling the other boy into a searing kiss, a hand worming into the other trainee's pants.
…
"You've no right to be in my head Crow." Zevran blinked the memories away to find Crow standing before him, hands pressed to the sides of his skull.
Crow's face was always a swirling thing, undefined, yet for some reason Zevran could read the expressions now, and the one he bore was rueful. "I don't think you have any say. It isn't by my choice that you went to Ferelden. Nor would I pick someone like you to be party to this Blight. You're a particularly useless bastard."
"My mother was a whore, so it should stand to reason that I'm a bastard," he replied, swatting the hands away. "I couldn't tell you what my father was, and neither could my mother. It is rather freeing to simply embrace my nature, and so I do, but that doesn't mean I'm useless."
Snorting, Crow gave Zevran space. "From what I can see, you are rather useless. So far you've yet to prove your worth, as you've done a very poor job being a Crow, and now that you are amongst others who were never trained like you, you still do a poor job playing your part in a group."
"And what do you think my part is?" Curious, finally numb to the irritation, the elf stared. "If you are so much better informed than I, perhaps you should share."
Now Crow chuckled. "No, I think not. That is for you to find out on your own. You can lead a horse to water, but can't force it to drink, after all."
XXX
Zevran grimly buckled his armor, back to the aravel that held Lahar's comatose body. He needed to be doing something. Once Wynne had assured him that Lahar hadn't been poisoned, that what ailed her wasn't something physical, but something in her spirit, Zevran became too restless to be of any use. So, he had intended to go meet Alistair and Sten, who had put themselves to a forced march, and had arrived at midnight the same day he returned to the Dalish camp.
Amongst the group had been very little arguing as to their next course of action. The werewolves still had to be dealt with, and since there wasn't anything that they could do for Lahar than what had already been done, they all agreed to find Witherfang. Leliana would guard Lahar and Wynne, while Morrigan took the youngest Warden's place as their caster. There was a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless, that the curse the Dalish were under had something to do with Lahar's illness, but Zevran was unconvinced.
Nevertheless, he needed action to distract him from the unfamiliar sick feeling in his stomach.
"You say she wasn't bitten." Zathrian was patronizing. "But she may have healed herself to hide the wound. Now it's imperative that you find Witherfang, or she will be taken by the curse."
Not deigning to answer, Zevran waved at Alistair, Sten and Morrigan. "Ready?"
"The sooner we do this, the sooner it's over," Alistair replied. The warrior was tossing concerned glances towards the aravel, but was calm, hands steady, all business.
As one, they set out, all ignoring Zathrian, who was making noises about Witherfang, and that they must cut out the beast's heart and soon. Frankly I'm more tempted to cut his heart out, but, alas, he may be able to do something with Witherfang's heart to effect a positive outcome for Lahar, if it holds as much power as he says it does.
XXX
"As I thought." Staring at the forest spirit, Lady, Zevran stood beside Alistair. "This curse is Zathrian's doing."
"Zevran..." A metal-encased hand waved, encompassing the Lady and her werewolves. "...can we... justify doing what the Keeper wants?"
Morrigan snorted, leaning on her staff. "Why not just turn against the Dalish? It would serve them right."
Shaking his head, Zevran agreed in theory, but saw it as unwise, never mind the distant kinship he held with them. "No. They have Lahar, Wynne and Leliana. Any attack made against the tribe will result in swift retribution. Besides, there are children there."
"The Keeper, we shall seek him," Sten rumbled, giving voice to his opinion, the first time he had spoken since handing Zevran the waterskins three days ago.
"And do what?" Alistair faced the Qunari, jabbing a finger towards the Lady, who held her peace. "Tell him 'hey, we hear you're a blood mage, and you're the reason the werewolves are around, so do you think you could please just die already and free everyone from their curse?' Yeah. I don't see that going so well."
Sharing a look with Morrigan, Zevran cupped his chin in thought. "There are many methods of persuasion, Alistair. We shall utilize them as necessity dictates."
"What? What, you mean – torture?" Accusing, Alistair spun to tower over Zevran forcing the elf to lean back so he could look at him. "You mean torture don't you? And you don't think that's wrong at all, do you?"
"And what would you suggest, you senseless oaf? A gift of chocolates and flowers?" Acerbic as always, Morrigan's voice could cut glass. "The elf is right, we will do what is needed. As will I; I'm not without my own methods of persuasion."
"I only wish for you to speak with Zathrian, convince him to talk to us," Lady finally added. Her finger-roots twined as she shifted in place, her loam-green-black hair moving as if in a breeze. "We have sent so many messages to him, begging him to listen, to heed our plight, and he has done nothing, so we attacked, to force him to listen."
Signaling to Morrigan, he turned toward the warriors. "We are the fastest; Sten, Alistair – remain here. If we are not back in two days, do what you must."
"Oh no, no, you're not in charge." The almost-Templar squared his shoulders. "We'll all go. I don't trust either of you to not do something stupid and particularly eee-vil."
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Zevran pulled the shemlen aside. "You will be in the way. Surely you can understand this?"
"No." Shaking his head in the negative, the generally blundering idiot showed more brains than the elf was used to. "I've got Templar skills: I can power-blast him and prevent him from casting, and Sten can haul him along like a naughty child by his pointy ears."
Grinning at the suggestion, Zevran clapped him on the shoulder. "Ah, you are not as stupid as I thought you. Perhaps there is hope for you yet."
Holding a hand up, thumb and forefinger showing a small distance between them, Alistair smirked. "Just a smidge of hope. But don't think this means I approve of your methods."
"Oh no, we wouldn't want that." Rolling his eyes, Zevran jerked his head, urging the others to follow.
Strangely enough, they did.
XXX
Such motivations men like him bear within their dark hearts, Zevran thought, noting the casual way the Keeper was examining the corpses around him on the first floor of the ruins. Immortality, blood, power. Cowardice. The avarice of claiming what is not fairly won by them, no matter the price to others.The others fanned out into a half circle, relaxed in their bearing.
"You knew of this place." Alistair spoke first, sounding more man than boy. "That would have cut much of our travel-time down, if you'd only told us."
The Dalish Keeper shrugged, the sharp cast of his features hard and disdainful. "And what of it? You are a Grey Warden, and were well prepared, I knew you would reach these ruins." That flash of greed welled in the eyes, impatience showing in each minute movement. "And do you have Witherfang's heart?"
"'Tis a most curious thing." Cocking her hip suggestively, Morrigan gestured with her staff. "These beasts speak. They reason. 'Twould seem passing strange that you made no mention of it." There was sulfur and brimstone in the air, a perfume Zevran was sure meant she was drawing on her magic, ready to make mischief as needed. "And these so-called 'beasts', they tell an interesting tale."
"Make no mistake: they may speak, but they are animals!" The conviction was unshaken in Zathrian, but Zevran supposed in someone who was more than four centuries old that hate was all that ran in his veins. "And what lies have they told?"
"Alas, far less than you." Zevran almost drew his weapons, but made himself wait, choosing to not escalate the situation until necessary. "In fact, I think it would be a pity if you do not do the honor of speaking with them, as they have been requesting for some time... since you are here, already. Don't you think, hmm?"
Features twisted, Zathrian drew himself to his inconsiderable height. "And what makes you think you can tell me what to do?"
Zevran allowed a hard smile to curl his lips, eyes going sharp and dead in that flat stare all Crows were trained in. "Ah, you show your colors? See, good Alistair here is Templar trained. You do know what a Templar can do, yes?" The Keeper's eyes widened in surprise, clearly having never guessed that Alistair had anything other than the strength of his arm to call upon, and Zevran carried on without mercy. "I see that you do. I bear skills that have broken many; I am able to inflict pains that you cannot imagine, so sheltered you are. As for Morrigan, she has enough healing magic to ensure that you survive everything I do to you." His teeth bared as his lips pulled further back on his face. "Not to forget our fine, strapping Qunari friend, who is large enough to carry whatever is left of you to the Lady if you don't cooperate."
"You do realize that the Lady is Witherfang?" Zevran knew a weak stall when he saw one, and Zathrian's question was a very weak bid for more time.
He nodded, crossing his arms, while flicking his hand in dismissal. "Of course. It is obvious. Alas, it seems to be that you have a tendency to underestimate those around you. Now, shall we begin with your hands, or your feet?"
Slamming the tip of his staff down, Zathrian snapped, "Fine! I will speak with these creatures!"
Then again, they had left him no choice but to give in. They nothing so much as herded the Keeper back to the werewolves' lair, taking the shortcut that had been created by the open door to the lower level. I shall have to see about gaining ingredients for magebane. Staring at the Keeper's back as Zathrian descended down the stairs, going first, Zevran ran the tips of his fingers along the inner line of his baldric, trying to choose what poison he would use if - when - it was needed. He wasn't entirely sure of which side they would choose, but knew well that the werewolves were the ones being wronged, so he was sure that Lahar would have sided with the lycanthropes over the Dalish. That, and Zathrian made all sorts of alarms go off in Zevran's mind, every instinct telling him that the Keeper was no good at all, and that even if they had brought Witherfang's heart, the Keeper would go back on his word.
Probably even order the clan to attack the party, justifying it as righteousness.
They attained the Lady's chamber, where she held court with the werewolves, Switfrunner to her left, and the Gatekeeper at her right. When the cursed creatures saw Zathrian, striding along as though he owned the place, they howled. At a calming gesture from the Lady, they quieted, plunging the chamber into eerie silence. No sounds came, not even breathing, the entire ruins silent as the grave.
"So, spirit." Breaking the silence, Zathrian's voice was all hissing and slithering things given speech. "I hear you wish to speak with me."
Swiftrunner snarled, "You will address her as the Lady!"
"Peace, Swiftrunner." Reaching out she lay a hand on a great hairy forearm. "Zathrian, you've come, finally." Zevran almost thought he heard a hint of a scorned lover's hate in her words. "I hadn't expected you to arrive so soon."
The Keeper glowered. "So, you've taken a name, spirit, and given these... creatures names, as well. If this is what you wished to speak with me about, then I find myself unimpressed, still. Call off your dogs," he sneered, tossing a derisive stare at Zevran and the others, "and let me be on my way."
"I have given no name to Swiftrunner and the others, they are names they chose for themselves, and it is they who named me Zathrian, bringing me back from madness." Her full lips were pursed, eyes narrowed. "A madness that you caused, for what, at the time, were good reasons, but have not we all suffered long enough?"
"No!" Any sense of composure was broken as the Keeper shouted. "No – my retribution is boundless for what they -" he cut the air with an angry thrust of his arm, "- did to my children! To my beautiful Llyaomyina, to my small son... Einir. They shall pay for all time!"
Zevran slipped up behind the Keeper, having pulled a small poignard from its sheath under his battle skirt, allowing the tip to press into the small of Zathrian's back. "Have you no other reasons? Vengeance is good money for such as I. However, to my way of thinking, there is more, yes?" He pushed the dagger's tip a little more into the Dalish's back. "Your life it is tied to this... curse according to the Lady. I wonder, what should happen if my grip were to slip on the pommel of this blade and it were to plunge into such soft tender flesh? Perhaps the curse wound end, no? "
Zathrian snarled, face twisting as much as a werewolf's in barely suppressed rage. "You dare!"
"Please, we are here to speak, not to attack," Lady urged them both, her face pleading, an expression that, for a moment, made Zevran think of Lahar. "Nothing is gained by further violence. We have made our point, Zathrian is here, and now I only wish to make my case, to beg for freedom."
Zevran inclined his head. "That may be so, however, I still believe there are other reasons." Laying a hand on Zathrian's shoulder, he forced the Keeper to remain still, and to grant himself better leverage for a kidney blow. "Think of this as an assurance that he shall listen to you."
"Only I know the final rites of the ritual, and I'll never finish it." Every line shouted smugness, and a disregard for the blade Zevran held to him. "Kill me, and there will never be a chance for the curse to be lifted, and Lanaya shall kill those back at the camp."
Behind him, Sten growled, and Alistair swore vehemently, using language that Zevran had never believed the young man knew. Zathrian's threat had hit home with the group, and Zevran only narrowly resisted the desire to wrap his arm around the Dalish's neck so he could bury his blade in Zathrian's kidney. Thinking quickly, Zevran kicked the Keeper's staff from his grasp, and locked his hand over the mage's mouth.
Forcing the taller man to bend backwards so he could say directly into the Dalish elf's ear, he hissed, "I don't have to kill you, I merely have to convinceyou that you should finish the ritual. This could be a civil conversation, or an uncivil one. Your decision." Not yet ready to release Zathrian's mouth, Zevran put as much menace into his voice as possible. "Now, to my way of thinking, it appears you cling to this curse not for justice, but for some other desire, of which I am not entirely sure. Your tribe has been decimated by the werewolves in their desire to force you to listen to reason, but you ignore them, and their pleas, not because you desire to continue punishing them, but for something else." Now he removed his hand, but maintained his firm hold on the Keeper. "Now, speak civilly and change my mind on this and I won't cut your non-vital organs out one by one."
"His life is tied to the curse." Lady spoke before Zathrian could say anything. "The ritual he used required blood, and as long as the curse lives on, so does he."
"That isn't why! The punishment your beasts bear should be never-ending!" Shaking in rage, the Keeper bore an uncanny resemblance to Swiftrunner and his compatriots. "They shall suffer, and feel the anguish I live with each day."
Incredulous, Alistair's voice was soft, but bore a weight of shock and lack of understanding for such unreasoning enmity. "Are you so filled with hate that you will willingly sacrifice those you're supposed to guide and protect? After so long, you are willing to do the very same to your people that was done to your children?" The Templar-trained warrior moved closer, stepping into the Keeper's field of vision, expression grave. "You are supposed to be a leader. A protector. How can you cast it aside for this?" he asked, gesturing at the werewolves. "Is hate the only thing you exist for? What purpose does it have?"
"Hate is a lonely bedfellow," Zevran sighed, speaking from experience. Best not think on that, he thought, grimacing. "...And is always hungry for more to join it, a hunger that never slacks, is never satisfied. It drags everything it touches down into its depths, refusing to release anything it has captured." Stepping away from the Keeper, he shook his head. "Dress it up as you like Zathrian, but your hate only defiles that which you are supposed to hold above all others."
"You are fools! You know nothing!" The words summoned a great upwelling of blood-stench, the Keeper drawing from magical reserves.
Just as he was lunging forward, Zevran was dragged back, caught mid-motion as a large root wrapped around his waist. The world skewed crazily as he was shaken back and forth, struggling to hang onto his sword and dagger. Lashing out, the Antivan laughed as the edge bit into wood. Splinters flew, the sharp tang of sap filling his nose. A flash of blue was Alistair sucking the magic from Zathrian, Templar training coming to the fore. The crazed and controlled sylvan dropped Zevran, heading towards Alistair who was raising his fist high, ready to throw a holy smite on the Dalish. Flame engulfed the sylvan, Morrigan's doing, while Zevran regained his feet, diving for Zathrian.
Tackling the lighter elf to the ground, Zevran caught a swimming image of Sten hacking at another sylvan as though he were a lumberjack felling a tree, even as Zevran pinned the Keeper's arms up like pigeon wings. Burying a knee into Zathrian's back, he snaked one hand around to the Dalish's mouth, covering it, so the mage could no longer cast. Around him the mobilized trees were made into so much kindling, and Alistair was holding a mana-draining field around the two elves.
"That was most unwise of you." He pulled Zathrian's head back by cupping his jaw, the position straining the mage's throat.
A muffled grunt and thrashing legs as he sought to dislodge Zevran was all the reply given.
The Lady approached and knelt in front of Zathrian. "Why must everyone suffer, when those you sought to punish are dead and gone?"
Zevran allowed his grip to loosen enough so that the Keeper could speak. "They should know my pain."
"And many do know your pain, Zathrian. Yet, do you truly wish to become that which you hate so much?" Her voice sorrowful, pleading as she was. "Must every person, so many of whom are innocent, bear the same scars you do? Have you no room in your heart for mercy?"
"How can you speak of mercy, when you are as savage as any, holding within you the same paradox of beauty and rage?" The Keeper wasn't struggling, having gone limp with some sort of defeat.
"We all must struggle with our bestial natures." Finger-roots caressed the bald dome of the elf's head. "It is what we do with that which makes us who we are. It is our ability to forgive and to let go of the pain that defines the virtue of our being."
Zevran could sense that some inner battle had been lost as Zathrian sighed. "Your ability to forgive makes a mockery of my desire for vengeance."
"I assure you, it is not intended to be that way Zathrian." The Lady laid a hand on Zevran's shoulder, urging him to release the Keeper, whose head she drew into her lap. "Please Zathrian, I beg of you, we beg of you – free us."
"Is this truly your desire? Both of our lives are tied to it; you will cease to be, if I complete it." Zevran thought he saw a shadow of a man, the one who had loved his children so much that he had been willing to become a monster, in Zathrian's face.
She smiled down at him. "You are my maker; you gave me life, and a body. I have known joy, as I have known pain. I have known hate, as I have known forgiveness. All of that is enough; I have lived long, and long in this way. It is time for us to let go of this mortal flesh."
"You humble me." Zathrian rose with the spirit's help, bowing his head to her. "I shall do as you ask; I am... ashamed, when faced by you and yours."
"There is no shame in your reasons for doling out punishment." Lady was soothing him, stroking her roots tenderly over the expanse of tattooed skin. "And any shame you had will be forgotten, once you release your hate fully."
Zevran felt a hush fall over the chamber, for all knew that the fight had been truly won. The curse would be released, the werewolves freed, the Dalish hunters allowed to regain themselves and rejoin their people - at the cost of Zathrian's and the Lady's lives, but it was a cost that everyone had known, and it was a price that was paid freely.
"Morrigan, stall them; I must get to the camp. Give me as much time as you can. Do not stop them – just stall them." Not waiting to see what happened, Zevran grabbed Morrigan's attention. "Now, put a rejuvination spell on me, as well as something to increase my speed, if you know of such."
Morrigan nodded her agreement, and went through gestures, along with a twisting set of sounds that were nowhere as fluid as the language Lahar used. A rush of strength filled him, swelling Zevran up to impossible heights. He had never felt so good without drugs being involved. Dipping a quick bow of thanks, Zevran swiftly fled the chamber, knowing two things: Zathrian would die in there, breaking the curse, and somehow Lanaya would know – and the Dalish would exact vengeance unjustly.
The trek through the forest went faster than the last – he wasn't burdened by Lahar's weight, and now he was flying high on the glyphs the Wild Witch had put on him. He estimated that on their first go through the forest to the ruins, that they had only managed to go ten miles a day, for three days. There had been too many fights to slow them down, but now the way was clear, and so Zevran ran, fighting the urge to go full out, knowing he had to conserve strength for when he got to the Dalish. Hopefully the Dalish wouldn't attack immediately, or perhaps there would be some sort of further delay in Lanaya knowing that Zathrian was dead.
Time was of the essence, but so was the need to retain his energy for an upcoming fight.
The light traveled, changing direction as the sun moved high in the unseen sky. Zevran barely noticed it, some internal timer telling him that he was close to the camp, and that he had been running for going on two hours. But then, it was there: rising up ahead, the markers for the camp's inner boundaries. Picking up the pace, he exploded through the underbrush, leaping over someone's campfire. Coming upon a scout who had been checking his arrows, seated calmly on a bedroll, Zevran reached out, snatching up the bow that sat beside the scout, and kept on going. There were shouts of surprise and alarm trailing him across the camp, but they were not important.
Getting to the aravel was.
Blowing straight through the camp, Zevran reached his and Lahar's aravel. Leliana was rising, surprise on her face, a question forming on her lips. Zevran said nothing, bending down and grabbing her bundle of arrows, then leapt the steps to aravel. Kicking the door open, he saw Wynne startle, a rare curse coming from her. Seeing that Lahar was still in the bed, unharmed for now, Zevran turned, swinging the bow down and into the ready position, nocking an arrow and drawing it halfway. Falling to a squat at the short railing, he waited. It didn't take long for the Dalish to gather, Lanaya at their head.
"What is the meaning of this?" She waved a hand, encompassing the camp and his ready stance.
Feathers at his cheek, the bow creaking as he drew it all the way, he aimed right at the default Keeper, saying what no tribe would ever want to hear, knowing that by now his words would be true. "The Keeper is dead."
Gasps of shock rippled outwards through the crowd. Shouts of 'kill the shems', 'death to betrayers' and 'elvehn'alas'. It was the latter one that made the Antivan wince internally. He had been called that frequently in Antiva, by Arainai's clan, if they had seen him after being reclaimed by the Guild. Tamping that ugly memory down, he waited as Lanaya waved everyone to silence.
Leliana had armed herself as well, positioning herself to the side, so she could lay down a suppressive line of fire. Wynne was standing at his back in the narrow doorway to the landship, the lavender of her magic a heavy smell that hung in the air. Ser Prize was crouched, ready to leap, growling at the foot of the stairs. All four of them were ready to attack at the least hostile motion from the crowd, but Lanaya's sheer force of will was holding back the clan.
"And did you kill him, after having shared the hospitality of the clan?" Her face was impassive.
"No, he chose his path." He held steady by dint of will, the glyph the Wilds witch cast upon him seeping away like blood from a deep wound. "He freed the werewolves from the curse. Look to your hunters, see that it is true."
Lanaya nodded at the crowd, and several broke away, heading towards the camp healer's tent. One of the dispatched elves returned, shaking his head. His look boded ill. Zevran tensed, the bowstring creaking quietly beside his ear as he pulled it just a hair further ready to release the shaft.
Lanaya frowned at the elf. "And? What news Uriemen?"
The brunette's face twisted into a grimace. "Healer Kaurthra says that their pains have eased, their transformations halted. Improvement may or may not come later. However, she says the curse's progress has been halted in its tracks."
The flaxen-haired mage shook her head. "I had thought I felt his passing, but I could not be sure." Raising her voice, she said, "If it is as you say, then it is well. We shall await the arrival of Zathrian's body to take any action." She leveled a steady gaze at him, ignoring the fact that he had not once wavered in his holding her in his sights. "I trust that your companions would know to show at least that much respect?"
"They should; I see no reason why they would not," he replied cautiously, hoping that at least over-sensitive Alistair would have that much sense. Sten would show no respect for one he felt was honorless, and Morrigan disdained everyone but Lahar. That only left Alistair to depend on, whose common sense could fill a thimble, by Zevran's estimation. However, the shemlen warrior was faithful and loyal, a regular do-gooder, probably raised up on stories of heroes, and wishing nothing more than to join such august ranks. He, at the least, would feel duty dictated bringing back Zatrhian's corpse.
Or so Zevran prayed.
Lanaya turned to the gathered Dalish. "Return to your activities, my people; we will await further news." There were grumbles, but she cut them off. "Enough. We are Dalish; we will not violate guesting laws, so until there is clear proof otherwise, we shall not raise hands against our guests. It is our duty to see to it that we keep our honor untouched."
Zevran watched as the clanspeople dispersed, many of them throwing hateful looks towards the aravel, and particularly at him. His mouth was pressed to a thin, stubborn line, and even yet he refused to relax his stance, maintaining his vigilance. Not until everyone but Lanaya had left did he even let his body relax one bit.
Rising from his crouch slowly, knees and shoulders protesting their abuse, he addressed her. "Lethallan, you have questions, do you not?"
"They can wait; I merely wished to ensure that no one acted brashly and escalated things to full violence." She was curt, dismissive. "I shall stay here in your end of camp until the others return."
Surprised – She offers herself up knowingly as hostage? - Zevran frowned. "That may not be wise, young one."
One side of her lips quirked. "'Young one'? And how old are you to say that to me, flat ear?"
"Old enough." He unstrung the bow so that it would not strain and warp. "Old enough to know that if they perceive a threat to the only Keeper they have left, they may act with swift violence, brash and illogical. It is the nature of desperate people."
The combined weight of three women's heavy gazes measuring him, weighing him carefully, was uncomfortable. Rarely had the Antivan been looked at like this. Usually, there was fear, or lust, or disdain, in the gazes of others, when they landed on him. Now there was a speculative gleam in each eye. Leliana – that was easy, Zevran could see the recognition. Ah, so you begin to reveal yourself? Lanaya hid a hint of respect, a touch of avarice as well, and a hefty dose of hope, sitting side-by-side. And what games do you play at da'len? Such a hopeful gaze, it borders on worship. Wynne was predicable, though. It would be too much to hope for, for the heavy, silent disapproval to ease up. Old bitch, I do not see you doing anything to win us free of this! Keep your condescending looks to yourself.
"What you say does have some merit," Lanaya conceded, nodding. "But there must be some way to ensure my clan's caution."
Rubbing the side of his nose, he suggested, "Children."
Behind him, Wynne gasped. "You'll do no such thing."
He turned to face her. "And do you have a suggestion? Some way to deter a lynch mob coming to us? No?"
"Holding children hostage – it is unconscionable," the older mage snapped, hands going to hips. "They are defenseless!"
He growled in exasperation. "We would do nothing to them! They would simply play at this end of the camp and have their bedrolls here, if the others take their time getting here!"
Leliana spoke up, something she rarely did. "Wynne, we would not hurt them, you know this. Even if we were attacked. Isn't that right Zevran?"
"If attacked, I cannot guarantee a lack of collateral damage," the Antivan warned, frowning, "But it would not be at my hand."
Lanaya agreed with him. "The children of the tribe are important, mage. Important enough to give my people pause."
"But not important enough to drive them to action." Reiterating, Zevran held Wynne's eyes, using every bit of force he could muster in the look. "Lanaya is their keeper of lore, a mage, and one who holds the legacy of Arlathan. A Keeper is the clan's soul, and any perceived threat – real or imagined – to a Keeper is met with swift violence."
"I must voice my disagreement," the tall, willowy shemlen stated firmly. "But I am out-voted. And Leliana – I expected better of you."
Lanaya scowled. "It is not your decision to make. It never was. I am the acting Keeper until Zathrian has been put the ground. What I say goes in this place, and you are guests; your protection and safety is as much my burden as my clan's."
Zevran felt a thrill of gratification at the way Wynne flinched. With Lahar not in the land of the aware and awake, there were none that the old woman listened to unless the others disagreed with her. So, seeing the mage put in her place was satisfying to the extreme.
"I have said my piece," she replied, shaking her head in disapproval. "If I go to the Maker, I can tell Him honestly that I have done my best."
XXX
Mi cielo - my sky (my sweet, in implication)
Mi diosa - my goddess
si - yes
elvehn'alas - dirt elf
lethallan - friend/cousin - female
da'len - little one