If this chapter seems a little angstier and deeper than the usual standard for this fic, that's because I've been reading The Shape of Things to Come, a wonderful fic by devilherdue, which explores the relationships between characters far more deeply than most recent DA fics. So yes, Zevran-centric chapter because I felt like it and because the scene drew out to a much, much longer section than I anticipated. Fear not, Alistair and Teagan lovers; the next chapter will be focused on everyone's favorite templar and the one after that will see the return of Morrigan. And, of course, the fact that Teagan's proposal will be made official to his competition and the general party, which can only mean major panic.
So bear with me, please, and give me a little feedback, whether you like it or not. I'm proud of this chapter, darker as it is. The humor will be returning soon enough.
A merry belated Christmas to everyone!
o.O.o
Questioning Ever After
o.O.o
If anyone thought that the brief time they had remaining at Redcliffe castle was going to deter Leliana's efforts – whatever their aim – then that person was to be sorely mistaken. The bard had burst into Nimue's room early in the morning without excuse or explanation, practically tossing a pile of fabric at the barely-awake elf with a shark's grin and a mad glint in her eyes (or so it appeared to her audience). Though she herself was attired finely, as befitted a guest at a noble's house, she seemed to delight most in making Nimue appear more doll than woman, unnaturally groomed and ready to draw the gaze of anyone and everyone who saw her.
At least, this was the impression Zevran was getting when he saw their leader march (or stagger, depending on her degree of grace at any given moment) into the castle's gardens in the afternoon. She was both obviously running from Leliana and – less obviously – seeking some advice regarding their departure the next day. After all, the Dalish were closer kin to the two of them than any other others travelling with them, as far as blood was concerned. It might have even been better to have just the two of them approach them at first, given the attitude the nomadic elves had towards other races, let alone humans. And shemlen made up the majority of their group, which would hardly be viewed as a placating gesture.
Nimue never felt the need to announce her presence to him, because she was never able to get close quietly enough for the need to arise. In the confined space of the castle, with its barred gates and stone floors, it was even more difficult to sneak upon someone. But even without the steady clip-clop of the heels she was still being forced to wear, she held no pretentions to being able to outmatch the assassin in a game of hide and seek. This awareness, almost preternatural to her, appeared as easy as breathing to him, as natural as her magic to her. Whenever she looked at him, he met her eyes readily, as if gifted with precognition.
In those moments, she readily thanked whatever supernatural entity was watching over her – be it the Maker, the Creators or some benevolent Fade spirit – that she had taken every care to extend the laurels of peace along with a hand of friendship to this man. Because if he had tried anything more conventional than a full-frontal assault on her (not usually what one associated with assassin standards, really), there was the distinct likelihood that a sharp metal object would be adorning her ribcage before she had the time to even draw breath for a spell.
As things stood, all that got sent her way was another of the many penetrating stares that had a way of making a person feel distinctly uncomfortable, for reasons that varied almost as much as the intentions behind them.
It was always her own eyes that these looks were focused on, though, even if he swept her unconventional attire with a glance that one might attribute to a cartographer preparing to map out their territory.
"You have evaded your noble captors for long enough to escape the castle itself? Spending so much time in Leliana's company seems to have paid off, I see."
"I was hoping to speak with you before we leave."
If she had chosen to do so the day before, containing his own stare at the sight of her would have been a difficult task even for the easy cover-up his practiced ways. They were like a second skin now, after all these years, both shielding (shutting out) and ready to reflect a few of the thorns send that way; nothing worth paying attention to. But she was like a mirror, this one, always returning the barbs, always with the retaliations; some of the quips, rebounding so much, must have ricocheted their way past his potent defenses eventually.
Because the passing fancy for her smile refused to fade away, even now – especially now – when all that made her Nimue had been smoothed out and replaced with what the ignorant would consider beauty.
The dagger he had been holding hit the nearest tree with a thud, faster than her eye could see, and then, Zevran was smiling at her, as if this were nothing, as if the whole world could come crashing around their ears right now and it wouldn't really matter, because this was now.
"You have my rapt attention."
This scared the mage more than she would admit.
"With luck, we'll find one of the clans within a few weeks. I wanted to ask if you know anything more about them than you already said." The stories about his adventures, as she called them, with her innocent (no longer) eyes, had remained imprinted in her mind deeply. "You said your mother was one."
Oldest tale in the book…
A princess is born, sent to the tallest tower, waiting for a prince to slay the dragon guarding her and rescue her from this imprisonment.
If Nimue had waited for a prince, she would have been one of the broken abominations lying dead on the tower's floor now. And, in the end, if she wasn't a princess, she could never have a happy ending with one who was of royal blood, could she now? Zevran took some grim satisfaction in that fact, along with knowing that the mage realized as such, because she had been broken into believing that there would never be happiness for those cursed with magic.
It was to be the Circle and I till death do us part. Strange, isn't it? I chose to save a hated spouse from death instead of freeing myself.
And such jealousy their respective owners could display…
"I also mentioned that she was my first victim, so to speak." Nimue did have a tendency of remembering only things that were convenient to her, then forgetting them just as quickly until a new need for the information arose. From the crease near her brow, Zevran couldn't really tell if she had remembered this time and had simply hoped that this wasn't the case. It seemed that way, nonetheless. "You would know more than I, most likely."
"The Circle's library isn't particularly broad on that subject." Her hands were slight enough to have made her a pickpocket par excellence in a different lifetime, for all the power they held in this. She dusted a nearby bench absent-mindedly and, contrary to her previous concerns about her gown, sat down without pomp or ceremony. "I only remember a few tales from the alienage, that's all. From what I know, they welcome their own kind, assuming they have chosen to forsake cities."
Perhaps as a child, she had been forced to put her fingers to such use. It was difficult to imagine her in rags and powerless, but Zevran had seen enough of his own kind – those that had accepted the human way of things – thrust into similar fates that the picture wasn't entirely foreign. She did stare a bit too intensely at the weapons he was putting aside for the time being, as if remembering something that shouldn't have been forgotten, but got lost along the way.
"You have given the idea some thought."
Anyone with half a brain and living in an alienage would. Those precious few that had managed to get through their magical training without having the Chantry doctrine beaten into them certainly must have; Zevran had the small fortune of rarely seeing the bars of his cage. But the entrapment in a fortress of stone with no doors and sealed windows would surely have been enough to drive weaker minds mad. Certainly that said as much about their Warden as it did about those imprisoning her.
When she shrugged, the fabric of her gown shifted slightly, offering a glimpse of pale skin. Even dressed as a human, there was an unmistakable individuality in her that refused to subside, no matter how a hairstyle would cleverly cover up the pointed tips of her ears.
In Antiva, where blondes were rare enough to be considered an ideal of beauty, pale skin remained a sign of high-breeding and the danger of murder pulsing through a woman's veins was one of the greatest ways to heighten the anticipation of excitement, men would have most likely mobbed her on the street in an attempt to gain a fraction of her favor.
These Fereldans, with their warped standards…
"At times. Haven't you?" Nimue asked, her head tilting slightly in interest. Usually, it took a heavy tome of arcane technique or a particularly ugly statue to get such a gesture out of her.
The assassin did his best to keep the wryness out of his indulgent smile. One whose walls and guards had been clearly visible and defined would probably not see much point in attempting to escape. But when the only bars in your way were legends and whispers, when only reputation and not swords preceded your killers, then it was easy to believe you were free and could vanish at a moment's notice.
Of course, you had to forget all that was common knowledge – and sense – in Antiva to dare anything more than dream of escaping the Crows, unless you truly longed for death, as he had.
A second dagger made contact with the tree's trunk, at a distance approximately accurate to that of a human's heart from their already-pierced jugular. As the mage was seated, the flinching motion passing through her wasn't nearly as obvious as it could have been otherwise.
"My pursuers would have been able to track me just as efficiently as the templars would have done to you." After having met Ignacio, even their leader could appreciate the finer aspects of subtlety the Crows were capable of. Spotting one of them in the crowd was next to impossible, unless they wished for you to know of their approach. "More so, I dare say, as they wouldn't blindly charge after me in plain sight and eye-catching uniforms. I never considered that I might be given the possibility of escaping them without having to lay down my life."
Before the massacre in the tower, before having demon-possessed templars (but templars nonetheless) charge at her with weapons raised and death in their eyes, Nimue might not have understood the desperation that accompanied such struggles. But the way Zevran spoke so casually about his own demise gave her a thought.
"But you were ready to do just that, if it meant freedom."
Finally, the assassin glanced at her once more and she wouldn't have been able to move from her spot even if she had the intention. Many would have mistaken it for pure hardness, but she had seen that sentiment reflected in many mirrors on not one night in the tower.
"Your friend Jowan would have us believe you once hoped the same." It was a mere observation, but the suddenly broken eye contact was an answer in itself.
Before being sent off to his doom, the apostate had spoken briefly to their leader. As this was one of the few links to her past life they were about to witness up close, Zevran had taken care to observe the doomed man with the appropriate attention. His being human wasn't entirely surprising, as it was common knowledge that race was superseded by the ability to do magic in anyone's eyes and the Circle treated this accordingly – there was far less racial bigotry among the mages. Tall, skinny after his imprisonment (though it didn't seem as though he had ever been less than wraith-pale, like Nimue herself) with dark hair and eyes that had seen too much horror over a short time.
All mages released from their tower had that look nowadays.
But this one had called Nimue friend even as she herself sentenced him, the cold sorrow in her face unprecedented, not to be repeated. Only after this incident did she heal the thin wound near her right eye that blood magic had caused, a reminder of this past. She was washing her hands of the events, figuratively, choosing to look forward only and take the plunge into the present.
Having one's scars slowly healed instead of learning to ignore and live with them was worth at least a little envy. It perhaps helped that there had been no trace of anything besides broken friendship in their parting eyes, but they had found the closure Zevran would never receive. His own betrayal offered no possibility of atonement, because not even magic could warrant speaking to the dead.
But the woman who sighed was not Rinna; she knew nothing of being cast down from an imaginary pedestal by a dagger in the ribs, even though she had lost much.
"I was naïve and overconfident." The former rang untrue for either of them, but the latter, they shared, perhaps in the present. They were supposed to be the best, the brightest, the most promising; it had been difficult to picture how quickly the carefully-built houses of cards that made up their confined existence could be blown away. "The moment you believe you rule your magic is when you are proven wrong."
Whispers at the edge of dreams. Demons lurking in the shadows of one's mind.
True tests never end.
"Wynne believes otherwise. You are capable of keeping your calm in the face of foes that would frighten many a trained warrior." Yet she flinched again (though more subtly – she was learning) when yet another dagger swished through the air. Even if she could hear it before she saw it this time.
Everyone seemed ready to believe that Nimue could stand up to the Fade's demons without breaking a sweat. That is, mostly those who knew nothing of demons, the real as well as the figurative ones. But even Wynne believed, even if it perhaps said more about her own willingness to hope Ferelden had a savior in the making rather than the younger mage, who never fell asleep before midday and who carefully snuck off in the early morning to watch the sunrise.
"Sometimes I wonder how come my dreams don't tear the Veil accidentally."
Nimue didn't really know why she was saying things better spoken of to Wynne or even Morrigan to someone who knew very little of magic the way she perceived it. But whenever the conversation topic didn't steer towards her neckline, she knew the assassin would have many things to say that would come in useful, without any judgment or expectations. Mentioning that she actually felt comfortable talking to him would have no doubt drawn much surprise from the others, who had never managed to fight their way past his favorite method of deflecting any attempt at conversation due to sheer frustration.
"I suppose you can get used even to dreaming about mutated Old Gods in dragon form. It's peculiar, having dreams without conscious will. How can you stand it?"
Now that was a surprise; the next dagger almost missed its target – the figurative eye – and landed square in the middle of the imagined forehead. "Mm? You've never had dreams before?"
That would explain quite a few things, actually, not just (but particularly) about her; about magi in general.
"Mages enter the Fade at will, not just in dreams." Simple words, no evasiveness, calm, still waters instead of frost and ice. This was the truth. "While we can't control what we see there, we can influence events. I've only had dreams since…" she didn't finish the thought.
While the Joining (a most peculiar choice of name for a ritual so secret, yet apparently so quick and potentially lethal) was hardly common knowledge, the fact that there were only two Wardens remaining in Ferelden and one seemed as capable at stealth and quiet speech as their warhound was at fencing… let it simply be said that Zevran had learned quite a lot about the Grey Wardens in the past months, some things through simple observation (choosing the subject to observe purely on the basis that she had been afflicted for a shorter time and was the more aesthetically pleasing alternative), others thanks to loud conversations.
Dreaming of archdemons could hardly be comforting, especially if she had no experience with dreams of any kind, let alone good ones.
With the experience of a hunter trying his best not to alert a yet oblivious prey to a foreign presence, Zevran maintained a socially acceptable distance (for Ferelden, anyway) as he sat down near her. The daggers weren't in dire need of some words, after all, nor did he have a personal interest in their good disposition towards him, provided they served as his extended arm.
"I would say it is part of being a Grey Warden, overcoming hardships most people never have to deal with. But you wish for the truth, I take it?" Silence could count as an answer or a severely impolite lack of attention, which the careful next step could remedy. "Truthfully… you should smile more, my dear." Instead of her brow, her fingers twitched in a motion that may or may not have been preparation for a quick spell. But the motion died, along with the intention to edge away from the hand keeping her head at an angle where she was forced to look at Zevran or seem very impolite. "Save your frowns and dark glances for the archdemon. By the time you encounter it, they will no doubt be sufficient to slay it without you needing to lift a finger."
Finally, Nimue drew back and returned to her original position before her imagination had the time to wake up from its usual stupor and suggest that they had gone through an entire conversation without one reference to her without clothes. That had to count for something.
"I haven't had too many reasons to smile. Well… not just now. It's always seemed somewhat unnecessary to me. If something pleases you, it's better to say so."
Reason suggested that she take offense to the fact that Zevran laughed at her, even as he swung off the bench with all the grace her current footwear had sapped from her. "That is the time you've spent around constipated templars showing, my dear. There, you see?" Honestly, the man had to be hiding a second pair of eyes under that long hair if he saw the quiet snicker; Morrigan would no doubt attest to that, given how much time she claimed the assassin spent on grooming it. "Much better."
This time, she could let it go. If it meant they could stop talking about darkspawn and Jowan… and Nimue wasn't entirely certain which of those two topics was worse or had more potential for pain.
"You bring out the best of me when you put your mind to it. Just don't tell Wynne I said that, or she'll have my ears." For safety reasons, Nimue's eyes very briefly swept the courtyard, improbable as it was that the senior enchanter might be anywhere nearby. After all, part of the gardens was visible from the higher floors of the castle, where most of them had their temporary rooms. And, by now, Wynne knew better than to try and initiate even a semi-serious conversation with Zevran if she wasn't prepared for fighting off comments about the marvels of her apparently high-standard bosom.
Of course, she might be persuaded to come down if Nimue's presence was attested to, with her being the long-running prime target for conversations of this nature.
"We can't have that, can we? Especially after Leliana went through so much trouble to arrange your hair in such a lovely human fashion." To make her seem more acceptable for the human surroundings or for her own particular brand of amusement? Now that was indeed a fair question. While their leader treated the bard with wary acceptance, she maintained a cordial distance that sheer disdain for Chantry zealots didn't fully explain.
Perhaps she was not quite as inattentive to these impulses as she would have them all believe, but the new developments had muddled the clear view of the playing field. With her own intentions remaining unclear, Leliana could manipulate her way past all of their perceptions of things and secure the outcome she wished. Unless a counter-maneuver was employed, of course.
At least Nimue didn't seem to have a fancy for the pretty if useless clothing she seemed bombarded with nowadays and spared her current fashionably human attire a glance of disdain.
"I feel like her mannequin." she muttered, not quite understanding how a person could put up with this amount of sequins on a daily basis without damaging their eyesight, at the very least. "It's not too comfortable."
"Comfort isn't a word Orlesians would recognize, I imagine." Especially when style had the chance of superseding it.
Zevran watched with amusement as the final straw came in the form of stray hair in the Warden's eyes – which she loathed – and their normally calm and collected leader proceeded to almost rip the clasp binding her hair out. How come the nearly violent motion didn't result in a chunk of hair ending up twisted around the accessory was inexplicable, but the way she proceeded to free her hair from the impractical braid was almost comical. Spending too much time around dogs who rid themselves of anything trapped in their fur by twisting around until it was gone had clearly made a certain lasting impression on the mage.
"I do wonder why you would consent to such fashions when we are to leave on the morrow." Tousled as Nimue's hair was, it allowed the tips of her ears to resurface and it was her once again, not the painted doll Leliana was struggling to present to perfection. What warped standards these humans had if they couldn't appreciate what would usually be an indication of a decidedly sleepless night, the assassin would never know. "I fear that we might actually be thrown out if you continue outshining the lady of the castle so regularly."
Usually, the thinning of the fair Warden's lips signified that she intended to say something entirely different to her actual response, but chose not to. "There are reasons."
Of course there were; doubtless Leliana had some. As did the person who had chosen these clothes for Nimue – be it the shrieking lady of the castle or the visiting lord whose eyes lingered on the young woman to the point that even she couldn't ignore them. But requesting simpler attire would have been a request no one could have denied their champion, especially not if she insisted. Therefore she had to have some reasons of her own, which was the interesting part.
As was finding out the fun part, really; Zevran once more awarded her with the smile she had learned to steel herself against.
"If it is for my benefit, then I appreciate the sentiment, unnecessary as it is. Your beauty would be just as bright even in the filthiest rags as it is in a golden gown." Before he could add something along the lines of clothing only diminishing her beauty, there was that carefully calculated patience in her eyes that he often witnessed during the more dire spats between Alistair and Morrigan. Mindreading was entirely possible in those moments, especially since her energy was focused on maintaining a façade of calm and not making it seem that she wasn't doing just that. "Punishing words of truth is hardly befitting a Grey Warden, you know."
I am calm. I am stillness. I am water.
I will not succumb to the urge to call upon an army of demons to resolve my trivial problems.
No matter how tempting it might be at the present moment.
It would be much too embarrassing if I had to spend eternity with another creature living in my head and we wouldn't get along. While here, I might not survive the apocalypse.
Breathe.
This rather nihilistic train of thought fortunately ended up broken and lost literally in the blink of an eye, as Nimue heard another dagger make impact with a potentially lethal spot, if its target were a person and not in fact a tree.
"How do you do that?" She was rather bewildered that Zevran, of all people, could give her the time to cool down and retaliate properly instead of rushing into things. As with all things she couldn't comprehend, Nimue remained intrigued. "I never understand it."
How did he not see her as the quaint little label others were so quick to staple to her forehead to categorize and file her? Zevran wasn't quite certain, actually. Perhaps it was the quirk of her smile that wiped away any trace of her mask, or the sustenance for the journey this provided him with. Just one more word, one more step, and there would be yet another scrap to get by. He had traded a master he had never chosen for one who had been a slave herself and thus couldn't condone such things.
Perhaps she was a benevolent tyrant precisely because of these things; knowing that the leash could snap back at any time, that one misstep could summon the hounds that wouldn't stop until their blood fed the flowers of the earth…
Zevran buried these thoughts beneath the image of her, a sight he drank deeply. She was nothing like the Antivan beauties that his homeland was fabled for, dark and delicious, or the women he usually seduced. Those were most often humans, falling prey to his own particular brand of charm quicker than a fly would soar towards honey. Even attired as one of them and surrounded by their influence, Nimue remained a fish out of water, sticking out like an amateur assassin in a crowd.
A fish and a bird might love one another… but where would they live together?
"I'd almost say it's magic, but I'd feel that." Nimue continued, "You have incredible speed and dexterity."
"This, you mean?" Spinning the remaining dagger between his fingers with almost idle nonchalance, the assassin proceeded to retrieve the remaining weapons from their spots in the tree. If Nimue had tried, she would have likely been forced to summon help to pull even a single one out. "Practice. Years and years of it, in fact. I could try and teach you, but I doubt you have the time or the patience. Besides… you dislike blades." The mage looked utterly bewildered, but didn't even make a sporting attempt at a denial. "There is no need to be ashamed of it. But I do find it peculiar that you can make a creature explode without batting an eyelash, but the thought of cutting someone brings you unease."
To gain any semblance of balance, Nimue slid off the ribbon-adorned Orlesian shoes she was still being forced to wear and stood up, crossing the small distance to the weapons Zevran had discarded before starting this rudimentary practice with much more ease than that upon her arrival. She picked up one of the twin swords the assassin usually wielded in close combat with the bluntness of the uninitiated and unsheathed it in a manner that suggested she was daring it to bite her. But her grip was steady, if uncertain, and carefully mimicked after months upon months of watching others wield such weapons.
"Before the Blight… I had never killed anything. Aside from squishing a few bugs, of course, but even then, we'd sooner catch them for experiments than harm them." There was an odd tension to her face, like a fabric spread out so tightly, it was ready to rip. Seeing a person watching a weapon and struggling not to recall the many lives it must have ended was an odd experience, but Nimue seemed to practically be trying to will the very blade out of existence. "It just… feels more real." Blinking a few times, as if awakening from a drugged stupor, she returned the blade to its sheath and returned it to its place on the other bench. She had looked at it like one would at a display in a museum; something that didn't belong into her hands at all. "I don't know."
The Crows stood by the philosophy that experience was the best teacher; you were either born to fight or born to die. Which one was to be your fate was decided the moment practice was over and you were thrown to the mercy of the world – and your fellow initiates. Once again, it seemed that someone shared his incredible luck, by the simple virtue of not having been born in the wrong part of Thedas. After all, elves were prime candidates for the assassins due to their appeal and the way she had learned to mimic and anticipate their movements…
He'd really have to make certain that their little bird wouldn't choose to fly off in the direction of Antiva once their quest was over, especially with the opportunistic way Ignacio had looked at her. The respect he had never shown any Crow – at least in Zevran's rather long experience – the little weasel didn't hesitate to display to their fair Warden. It was something to be wary of, if the Crows were indeed so interested in her. Catching their eye in any way was a dangerous thing, but as a potential recruit…
"You could attempt to seek the Dalish out once the Blight is over." the assassin suggested, returning all the blades to the carefully-arranged supply.
Better to quench these fires quickly, in case they have the potential for spreading. Besides, following her to Antiva would be somewhat problematic even (especially) for the likes of him, given the information he still had from Ignacio. Despite this, Zevran continued to hope that Taliesen wouldn't try to complete the fool's errand of seeking Nimue out and challenging her, especially with the other Crows interested in her survival. That would truly be a messy deal, having to choose between saving the life of a friend or that of… what was she to him, really?
A decidedly non-sporting target for his lust, if only to prove that she was as flesh-and-blood as the rest of them? An amiable master to whom he was honor-bound, who never specified any rules to their arrangement? A friend who had shown him nothing but wary kindness and curiosity?
Yet with her pensive expression at the suggestion of a life free of all constraints, she was, first and foremost, Not-Rinna, the antithesis of the distant memory of love and hope.
"Assuming you survive, that is. I am certain they would be most welcoming of a hero. Then you could finally be persuaded to wear that intriguing armor they seem fond of." Zevran added, so that there couldn't be any deeper sentiment found beneath his studious gaze. It was highly fortunate, then, that it was most easy to show so without any pretense. "It seems to invite rather than intimidate. Curious."
Given her interest in the sudden suggestion, Nimue completely glossed over the possible implications without as much as a pause.
"Would you?" And this was cheating, asking for another's opinion while refusing to offer the same courtesy. She was learning. "You said you wanted to search for a new beginning. Perhaps this could be the way. The Dalish never stay in one place for long… and their communities would hardly be ill-protected against possible assassins." And they would see much of the world, though perhaps not in the way she would hope. A nomadic life among animals and trees, living as one with the nature…
It was quite a contrast to the life in a walled fortress (though she would be free to come and go), to be revered as a hero and yet paraded as someone's wife, put above her own kind in the eyes of the very different beasts she would be living in and reminded of her good fortune at every turn. And the Dalish had their own magic, their keepers (she thought that was the word), who could have knowledge of the past she had only made up to herself to make her own history (of magic) lessons seem more interesting.
The elegant shrug she received in response didn't really give her much of an actual opinion. "It is a possibility to consider, certainly. As it is, the Crows might still show up and claim both our heads before such a thing happens. But if it came to that, it would also depend on the company." There was a balance between intruding on one's personal space and approaching slowly, waiting for the barest sign to stop; Zevran managed to achieve this if proceeding with care. No sign of any kind came from the young woman, attentive as she had learned to be in cases such as these. "You couldn't expect me to just walk off with a band of unfamiliar people, could you now? I would be upset if that were the case."
The way she skillfully grabbed onto every chance to twist the conversation away from seriousness until she became comfortable with it was also a coping mechanism unlike anything Zevran had witnessed in a woman – or person, really – before, even with her wickedest of smiles. "With no bosom to cry on, I take it?"
Too innocent to be a yes, too sparkling to be a no. Certainly too daring to mean nothing.
"I wouldn't go that far, perhaps, but it certainly wouldn't be a bosom as fine as it could be." Despite being circled, Nimue appeared calm. Bizarrely, once she was ready for these comments and understood them to be a game, the mage could handle it without problems and even return a strike or two. It was the moments when the line between game and reality seemed to blur that caused her high unease, even if she managed to convince herself otherwise afterwards. "Our time together has set a rather high standard on that account."
"Oghren is that high a standard?" Zevran stopped sharply, the mask of nonchalance and potentially lecherous interest cracking in two just at an angle where his prey could spot it most easily. "Ah, so there are things that can shock even you. I'll have to remember that."
Maybe she'll trust you, maybe she'll understand you, maybe she'll laugh with you, but she'll not come within reach, the sing-song of Rinna's voice echoed, but the sound was drowned out by the reality of the woman who was nothing like her laughing with merriment, despite his quick recovery to the jibe.
"That was a low, underhanded blow." And once the horrors of it were forgotten in light of their continued proximity, the slow grip continued to spread on the assassin's face as he stopped his pacing. It was even praiseworthy, the way she had remembered his idle mocking of the dwarf's general attempts at conversation. "A masterpiece. Are there any other hidden talents of yours I should know of?"
"Unless you count a penchant for getting into needless trouble…" That didn't necessarily count as a hidden talent, but her ability to deal with the trouble in question certainly was. "Then no, absolutely none, I'm proud to say. I've only had a limited time to learn."
With time and training, she could be anything she wished and have anything she desired, without some human who would always consider her an exotic accessory (to some degree, in the deepest depths of his heart) and not an equal (which she would never be, of course). Thinking that he deserved her was presumptuous as well, but then again, humbled as he had been by his failure to protect Rinna, Zevran wasn't anywhere near selfless enough to believe anything he fancied was too far above him.
"Would you like to?" he asked, watching the smile he delighted in freeze into confusion. "Leave everything behind; the Circle, the Wardens, for the time being, and simply wander the world?" After the Blight, most likely but even now, it was a valid question.
Instead of the many dark promises that usually came in place of an answer to the question only Wynne had cynically voiced (And what would you do if you had me?), there was a question in return (Would you give yourself to me alone if the opportunity arose?).
The game was over.
Nimue could no longer draw breath without forcing the motion like an unnatural impulse. Without the chance to deflect, to evade, to stall, the question pierced right through her as those daggers should have, once upon a time.
And, for a moment, she was Rinna, dying with love in her eyes and forgiveness in her heart, but dying nonetheless.
"I can't." she said to the ground with less conviction that even Alistair would be persuaded by and, forgetting the bareness of her feet, forgetting her own ability to transform into any manner of beast or bird, walked away as swiftly as she could without breaking into a run.
This time, Zevran watched her slip away, still feeling the sudden unexpected stab of the look he hoped never to witness again; even if he had imagined the similarity, it was a thing to be considered. Especially since the time would soon come to tell the fair Warden this last of secrets, considering most of hers were likely in his possession already.
You know how to hunt, but not how to tame. To kill, but not to capture. Rinna smiled. She will run again.
But the smile she had given had eclipsed the fear and the chase, even the memory of despair and ancient wounds. And it was that she couldn't – or so she believed – not that she didn't want to. Which didn't necessarily imply anything beyond obstacles. And what was the life of an assassin if not the removal of obstacles, in any sense of the word?
At the silence of the voice of the past, the hunter in Zevran awoke as he watched his prize retreat hastily, a skilled observation showing the signs of hesitation and doubt and pondering.
No, he decided firmly as even her slender silhouette retreated into the grey walls. This game was far from over.
