Sparring

Leliana

Even after her time in the Chantry, the blades still sit easily in her hands, their weight reassuring.

She spars with her shadow, the moves familiar but somehow made anew by her circumstances: in a camp, travelling to Orzammar, with companions, not in...

Orlais. The memories flow back to her unbidden, cold water seeming to trickle down her spine.

For all that she thinks herself Fereldan, she misses the lights of Val Royeaux, the magnificent Chantries built to honour their Maker, - the ones here are squat and simplistic, by comparison. She misses the fashions. And oh, the rain. The ever-constant Fereldan rain.

She sighs, bringing the blade round in a quick, deadly twirl, stepping forward into a slash that could cut through a man's chest like butter, her breath puffing in her ears.

Unspeakable horrors. Dungeons, the sickly, metallic scent of blood and betrayal, her friend lying lifeless on the rack...

She shuts her eyes and exhales, being very careful not to move; then she remarks quietly, "Very good, Zev."

She can almost feel him smile, the blade at her throat slowly withdrawn, and he purrs, "Not quite as rusty as I had thought."

She turns to see him standing, head cocked to one side, considering her, and he asks, after a pause, "Your bardmaster?"

She almost doesn't answer. It would be so easy to simply deny him. "Marjolaine Vareau."

"Ah," he says, looking past her. He seems lost in thought, the smile falling from his face. "An impressive woman. Not one I would like to meet again, if I may say." He takes his other dagger in hand, the smile returning. "A match?"

She nods, feeling the familiar grin come to her face. There was a time when the thought of killing for a rich man's whim would have raised this smile, this pleasure in another's blood. She almost fights it, then relents, letting the thrill seep through her. "If you like."

They circle each other, and the elf says casually, "I should have recognised her work. I am ashamed that I didn't."

Something in her clenches, but she has always been good at lying with her body, and keeps circling him, not even batting an eyelid. "Her 'work'?"

He laughs, but it's rough and not quite convincing. "Oh, the stories she told." He steps forward, the move lightning-fast, and nearly catches her with a blade to the stomach; she sidesteps just in time, raising her dagger to his own arm. He simply grins. "You were not her first, nor her last."

She grits her teeth, the sudden news unwelcome, and brings her blade close to his throat before he dodges, too fast.

"Distractions, distractions," he chides, his breath on her neck, and she twirls, bringing the blade to slash across his face. He puts a palm to the slash across his nose and cheeks, his hand coming away bloody. He cocks his head once again, this time in a slight surrender, and looks at her. "Better."

"Not the last?" she asks, stepping backwards.

He shakes his head. "Even assassins have their habits." He suddenly rolls in the dirt, his blade again aiming for her neck as he makes to stand, but she kicks him hard in the stomach. He makes a small, winded, "Oof," sprawling on the ground. Something in the air has changed, become more than just a friendly sparring match. She lunges with her dagger, but he easily rolls to the side; as she falls, he takes hold of her wrist, the dagger dropping, and reaches out a leg to pin hers to the ground, smiling at her rakishly and remarking, "I am sure many men would envy me at this moment." His face sobers as he looks at her. "Surely you have made your fair share of... mistakes? Some must be fed to the wolves for all to survive."

She scowls at him. "No. Never."

He stands, brushes himself off, and says breezily, "You will. Our kind are much the same, at their heart."

She looks up at him. "I am not like you. Or her."

He saunters back towards his corner of camp, looking at her over his shoulder with what is almost, but not quite, a smirk. "We are all killers, are we not?"

She would like to say no. She is a sister, a warrior for her country, and she fights for justice.

Yet...

There is so much blood on her hands, and his words ring horribly true.

She is left sitting in the mud, her thoughts swimming in uncomfortable directions.