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peopleofthedas2010-12-17 12:45 am
1smut_princess) wrote in peopleofthedas2010-12-17 12:45 am
Entry tags:
Fic: Necessary Words 1/2, M
I'm gonna go ahead and post this over here, as I'm guessing there's people who hadn't seen it as it was originally on ZevCom. Well actually kmeme first, and then ZevCom. Two warnings about this: 1 - I wrote it in a fit of insomnia 2 - I was writing it in the little LJ reply boxes which have a limited character space.. so while logical at the time, the POV swings back n'forth once it's all put together. I apologize for that... it's not my usual way.
Title: Necessary Words
Author: Rhion
Rating: M
Summary: Zevran is in love. Madly. But every advance he has made was ignored, because Dailah thought their views were incompatible. Now he has to do something he tries to never do: Talk about FEELINGS.
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue
AN: This is from an unfilled prompt on kinkmeme, which um, I suppose is now filled. It was written over the course of two days in a bout of insomnia that was eventually interrupted by passing out for a few hours and then finishing the last scene. Bellaknoti beta'd on the fly - in seven hours. There's some heavy perspective changes in this that I didn't change out because how this was posted/written was for the kinkmeme, and the reply boxes hold about four thousand characters.... so the perspective changes were logical at the time, and to change them now would make things even weirder. And cut out a huge chunk of the story. Not my usual way of doing things - rapid POV changes that is - so please forgives.
XXX
Dailah glanced up from the spidery handwritten letter with a frown. “Yes, Zev?”
The Antivan had appeared from what seemed to be thin air to lean across her desk, chin thrust forward as his eyes crossed, reading the missive upside down. “My dear Warden, I came to see what ever it could possibly be that was keeping you from our sparring.”
“Halla's nuts,” she cursed with a tired sigh. “That was today?”
Zevran hid the frown that wanted to break free. “Yes, that was today. And the demonstration for the new recruits is in the afternoon, and there is also the matter of seeing Ignacio about some Crow contacts.” He cocked his head to the side as he smoothly slid onto the edge of the desk. “Are you unwell, my dear? You have been so... forgetful of late.”
Which wasn't entirely true. Dailah had remembered to show up – and promptly, at that – to all meetings, dates and general houplah that was required of her. Unless he was attending, of course. Zevran had come to suspect that the Dalish had been avoiding him, as much as that thought pained him.
“Perhaps you should allow me to share more of your burdens,” he offered, his tone remaining light, as he watched her from the corner of one eye. “You take on too much, when you have others to rely on rather than simply your impressive self.”
With a cough, Dailah's dusky cheeks darkened, the beige tattoo on her forehead standing in stark relief. “No, but thank you Zevran. You do more than enough, as is.”
“Ah, but I insist,” plucking the letter she had been perusing earlier from her hand. “Allow me to go over these trifling missives for you, and answer those that I may, and separate out those that require your personal attention for you.”
She eyed him, knowing that her friend was up to something. “But if I don't answer them... we have different ways of writing -”
He cut her off, with a dismissive snort. “I would be a poor rogue if I couldn't forge your handwriting, my dear.” So saying, he drew up a chair beside her, crowding too close, and took half the pile of letters for himself. “Ah, it has been some time since I've had the pleasure of your close company, and doing a bit of fraud as well, thrown in for extra spice? Marvelous!”
XXX
Dailah felt hunted. In fact, she knew she was being hunted. Through the corridors of the palace, in the offices, library, and courtyards, Zevran would appear, no matter where she went. First had been his insistence on 'helping' her with the paperwork that came from bureaucracy – something Alistair and Eamon said were necessary evils of her station as Ferelden's Commander of the Grey.
Then yesterday, in the stables, he was there waiting, it seemed, for her, when she had decided – out of the blue she thought – to go for a ride, to escape, but there he had stood, speaking softly to the blue roan mare he preferred, already saddling it. Of course, Zevran had left Dailah no choice but to come with him, backing her into a corner as to why she would come to the stables, if not to go for a ride? Neatly, the Antivan elf had forced Dailah into acquiescence, when he threw out another question, one that seemed rhetorical, but probably wasn't.
“Ah, but since you are here, you wish to ride? Then why not join me, unless it is to avoid me for some reason?” A thin, dark golden brown brow raised quizzically.
Which had hit far too close to home.
It wasn't that she didn't like Zevran. In fact, the opposite was true. Dailah gnashed her teeth in frustration, tugging on the short red braid of hair that hung from her temple. Dailah quite liked Zevran, found him attractive, fun, sweet – and underneath it, quite serious. Keeper Marethari would describe the former Crow as 'a river with currents that ran deep'; far deeper than most would suspect. So, if pressed, the Dalish Warden would have to admit that she was half in love with her dandy friend.
However, Dailah knew, as deep as Zevran was, he was still the product of his life, of his training, of all his vast experiences, many of which were more than any single person should have to endure. They were piled high on Zevran's shoulders, shoulders that had rarely buckled under the weight. They added up to a man who was worthy of much, but that wasn't the problem: not his worth, but his inability to accept his value, which would allow him to stay with a single person without fear of them losing interest in him. That much Dailah could see, could feel, could know. She would be hurt by accepting any of his many advances, and now – now he was hunting her, and Dailah just wanted to get away, to get a breath, to gain the distance needed to continue to stave off Zevran and his... presence.
Spotting Leliana in an alcove, Dailah sped her steps up, hoping that the Orlesian could give her a hand with the situation. “Leli, I need your help with something.....” her voice trailied off upon seeing who the bard was speaking with.
“Oh, Dailah, we were just talking about you.” The Orlseisan clapped her hands together once, then swept her into a tight hug, placing a kiss on each of her cheeks. “You have been so busy lately, we have spent so little time together.... And Zevran and I were just saying that we should devise some sort of break for you....”
She leaned back from Leliana's embrace to see Zevran smiling faintly. “I'm fine, honest, and I see you both almost every day -”
“No, no ma petite belle, the Wardens have you running ragged!” A small shake of her shoulders, was enthusiastic enough to toss Dailah's braids forward so that the bells in them chimed. “And that Eamon – you are a Warden, not an errand boy!”
“Not a boy at all, much to my delight, and the delight of all who see you, my fair Warden,” Zevran quipped, leaning indolently against a stone wall, examining his neat nails.
She protested. “No, no, honestly, both of you, I can handle everything, that's -”
“Did you know that yesterday the good Arl ordered our fair Dailah to go over the supply lists for the castle? Isn't that a job for the Seneschal?” Zevran interrupted, cutting in over Dailah's protests.
“Quel l'enfer? This will not do!” Leliana cried out, her fair skin turning dark and red splotches blooming on her cheeks. “That is a servants' duty, not for the likes of the Hero of Ferelden! Archdemon pluck every hair of his gray beard!” A firm grip locked on Dailah's upper arm, hustling her back the way she had come. “We must remove you from the palace for a few days, get you free of his clutches. Does not Alistair say anything to this?” The last was directed at Zevran.
He slid into a smooth gait beside Dailah, so that she was pinned between the two rogues. “Not a word, I fear. Sometimes I wonder who sits the throne of Ferelden – good Alistair, or Eamon?”
Now Dailah found her voice. “Careful Zevran, walls have ears; that could be treason.”
He laughed, indelicately. “Ah, good thing then that I have friends in high places, and am beholden to the Warden Commander, and none other, no?”
Once again the Antivan Crow had deftly caught Dailah, and she saw no recourse but to follow along or fear being revealed. Dailah had no intention of giving Zevran the satisfaction of knowing that he was getting to her. She was Dalish, and would bow to no one; that also meant she wouldn't allow herself to be broken by anyone. Allowing Zevran his head with her would only end in her pain, even though that would be far from his intention she knew. It was just that she wasn't built the same way, could not make idle romance acceptable to her sensibilities.
So she submitted to Leliana's packing of her belongings, enough for several days, and admonishments of 'no arguing', while Zevran went to gain his own pack. Apparently it 'wouldn't do' for the Hero of Ferelden, slayer of Archdemons, crowner of kings, settler of disputes, to travel alone. In a city. That she had saved. Repeatedly.
Dailah sighed and watched her red-haired friend fuss, pack, unpack, repack and unpack again, grumbling quietly that some days she just couldn't win.
XXX
Zevran guided Dailah through some of the darker alleys of Denerim. “Trust me, I know where Eamon would never think to look for you.”
She made a face, sidestepping a puddle of something that smelled awful. “Yes, no one would say to themselves, 'oh, perhaps we should search for a Dalish Warden in a dirty alley, or maybe a gutter'. Really now, Zevran - oh halla piss!” She exclaimed, as she stepped into a different puddle, having only been paying attention to the first. “Nughumping, horsefeathered, vashedan!”
“Impressive! Tell that puddle where to go!” Zevran laughed heartily at her expense, his warm hand moving to cup her elbow. “To be sure, I'm impressed with such colorful language. Shall I teach you some of the choicer phrases from fair Antiva, as well?”
Making a sound of disgust, she shook her foot to the side, hoping to dislodge some of the muck from her boot. “Not. Right. Now. Ugh. Give me an honest forest! I hate cities!”
“Ah yes, full of droppings and other things as well.” He nodded sagely, nimbly leading her onwards. “Mud and dirt, dead things, rot, and have I, perchance, mentioned the dirt, and lack of bathing facilities?”
Her nose wrinkled in a way that Zevran found most endearing. “I think city folk only have such things because of the concentrated filth. Has no one ever heard of sanitation?”
“Hmm, we should travel to fair Antiva City; it is far more civilized than this place, my sweet Warden. They have proper drainage and oh, the glorious bath houses, how I do miss them.” Not relinquishing his hold on her elbow, now that he had gained a reason to touch his Warden; the Antivan would not give it up easily. “But our destination has baths aplenty, and many other amenities.”
“And where is it, exactly, you're taking me Zevran?” crossly, hitching up her small pack on her shoulders.
The golden elf cast a sly glance her way. “You shall see, soon enough.” Pointing ahead as they rounded a corner, he declared, “From the ugliest of creatures, such lovely pearls form!”
Dailah stopped, digging in her feet upon catching sight of the structure. It was several stories tall, and well-kept, despite being in one of the poorer quarters of Denerim. Gay red lanterns hung from the eaves, shining pools of sanguine reflecting around the door; that, too, was painted a glistening red. The building itself was sturdily constructed, heavy wood beams thrusting outwards at regular intervals, whitewashed plaster walls, and windows that were lined with glass, a rare commodity. A sign jutted out, almost lewdly cheerful, with a brightly painted ball in shades of white and cream.
“The Pearl?!” she sputtered, her jaw dropping.
“Yes, the finest brothel in all of Ferelden,” he said, tugging Dailah along. “And some of the best accommodations outside of Antiva. Here such a weary, overworked personage as yourself may while away all your troubles. For a price, of course.”
“Of course,” she echoed with empty heat, sounding half mad, half disbelieving and entirely too tired to come up with anything else.
XXX
This was unexpected, to say the least... but, really, Dailah should have seen it coming. Zevran, of all people, would never choose something simple, like a normal person. Staying in a brothel must have been like coming home, and the warm greetings from the.. proprietress had only driven home certain facts to Dailah. Of course, someone like him would be well known, and Dailah chafed at the reminder.
At least none of the workers – as Dailah insistently referred to the courtesans in her head, she wouldn't be so rude as to call them 'whores', not even in her own mind - had given the assassin more than a single look, as though they dismissed him as soon as he was identified. Zevran spared them not even one glance. Dailah wasn't sure how she should take that bit of observation, but filed it away as probable proof that he had already sampled their wares to a point where he discounted their presence entirely as not new.
All the way to the top floor he lead her, and unlocked a door at the furthest end of the hall with a large brass key. For a second time, Dailah stopped, jaw dropping. As the door swung open on well-oiled hinges, it revealed a room that was almost lavish, but simple. Two couches sat framing a fireplace, upholstered in a soothing blue; a low table between them, made of some dark rare wood, shined to a high gloss. The floor itself was covered in thick pile rugs that muffled their footsteps; they were woven with geometric designs of yellow, black and red thread on more blue, this time a darker navy, to contrast with the cool sky blue of the couches. Everything in the room was blue or colored to contrast strongly with the theme, granting the room an airy appearance.
“Much better than the palace, no?” Warm breath flowed over the back of her neck, making Dailah jump.
She hadn't noticed Zevran come so close.
“Ah, yes, it's... rather nice,” she admitted. She moved quickly, to put some distance between her and the other elf. “Where's your room?”
He waved a hand, as the other took her pack from her shoulders. “Through the door back there, but if you wish to bathe it will be that door-” pointing to the left, “over there.”
Dailah only saw the two doors, the one he had said was his room, the other to the bath. Licking lips that had gone dry, Dailah tried to pluck her pack from his hands, but he evaded her neatly by passing into the next room. She was unwilling to give an inch though, so refused to ask the question of where she would be sleeping. It would only make Zevran laugh, she was sure.
With a shrug, the Dalish hunter went to the bath, and yet again had to scrape her jaw off the floor, upon seeing what was behind a door. The Pearl, and Zevran, by extension, really had to stop surprising her so much. A sloped floor held a large tub: one big enough to hold several people comfortably, and even more if they were.... friendly, which, in a brothel, Dailah had to admit, was likely. It was some huge porcelain contraption that had recessed handles and a spigot that looked to be of dwarven engineering. There was a stove made of thick iron that heated the room up so that it was almost as hot as what Dailah supposed a jungle might be like. There was even a mirror; that, much like the glass in the windows, was an almost unheard-of luxury.
She frowned at the large oval; Dailah had had enough of mirrors to last a lifetime.
Warily, she approached it from the side, making sure to not catch sight of her image in it, and carefully pushed on it, testing to see if it could be moved. Putting her shoulder to it, she braced her feet, and grunted with effort as the heavy silvered glass shifted, along with its thick, bronzed base. Inch by inch, Dailah turned the mirror, pausing for breath a few times before resuming her work. The thing was easily three times Sten's weight, but it wasn't like Dailah was trying to pick the blasted thing up, only turn it away in a safe direction, like a wall.
Zevran entered when, after a time, he heard no running water, but only a few quiet grunts of effort. Alarmed, he swiftly covered the distance and threw the bathroom door open, a single dagger held out as he readied to strike. He stopped at the sight of his Warden heaving at what was probably one of the most expensive items in the Pearl.
“Has the mirror done something to offend you, my dear?” Relaxing, even as Dailah stiffened.
Dailah leaned her back on one of the mirror's supports, frowning darkly. “I don't like mirrors.”
Not understanding, “And why not? You do not like to see yourself? Strange, as I quite like seeing you, as do others. Why should you not like to gaze upon yourself? Not that you strike me as vain, dearest Dailah, but a certain amount of vanity is natural for someone as lovely as you.”
“I don't like mirrors. At all,” she reiterated, as she moved to continue her task.
Relief washed through Dailah as Zevran pressed no further questions upon her, but instead joined her, adding his muscle to the endeavor. In quick order, they had turned the hulking mirror to a wall, and Dailah heaved a thankful sigh. Beside her, she felt Zevran staring for long moments as she hung her head, arms braced widely on the mirror's back. She could feel the questions swirling through him, but he asked none, only going to fill the tub, squeaking faucets turned and adjusted. Then, the faint clinking of glass which was a precursor to fragrant steam, filling the bathroom with scents of sandalwood, patchouli, cinnamon, cloves and roses.
Now, at least, Dailah knew why it was that Zevran always smelled like that, along with his own musk of leather, polish, poison and salt.
Cautiously, Zevran approached, laying a hand on the back of her neck, turning Dailah so he could look into her eyes. The expression there stopped him, once more, from asking what reason could cause her to hold such a... distaste for mirrors, but he surmised her reasons were good, for if they could engender that hint of fear and that depth of pain in her hazel-green eyes, then she was more than justified in her dislike.
So, instead, he offered distraction. “The bath is nearly ready; shall I call for some food?”
Dailah nodded mutely, and began to undress quickly. Zevran found himself casting his eyes away; not because he didn't wish to see his Warden bare, but because he had no desire to intrude on her inner pain without invitation.
“Can we talk later?” halting his exit.
Ducking a quick bow of assent, “Of course, my sweet Dailah; of course.”
XXX
Rolling the glass of wine in his fingers, Zevran mused. Perhaps the look he had seen in Dailah's eyes was the reason she avoided him. She was most certainly attempting to do so, not that he had allowed her to do more than try. Well he knew that expression he had seen, for was it not what had looked back at him in mirrors until some point near the end of the Blight, each time he looked into one?
Someone had been taken from her, and horribly.
Dailah kept herself open and friendly with everyone, but there was an inner core that no one could touch, not even him. Zevran had done his best to show Dailah that she could open up to him, that she could allow him to touch that place she kept hidden, but she had not once taken the bait.
Amending, he sipped some of the halfway-decent Antivan red, switching to recline on the blue couch, an arm thrown over the back. Actually, Dailah had once taken his bait, he had to amend, but she had been so far in her cups that Zevran hadn't taken advantage. Instead, he had hustled her back to her rooms, carrying her on his back; her arms hung over his chest while she drunkenly slobbered on the side of his neck in sloppy kisses. He watched over her the whole night and into the midday. That was right after Alistair had been crowned, and the end of the Blight celebrated.
”So, the Blight is ended, my fair Warden,” cornering Dailah on a terrace. She had been looking uncomfortable – but beautiful – in a green dress, a bottle in her hand. “How ever shall we celebrate?”
“I thought I was supposed to ravish you.” Dailah swayed faintly to the distant music, flushed with drink but steady on her feet.
Zevran nodded amicably, smiling as he swept her into a lively set of steps. “Ah, yes, and here I thought you had forgotten that!”
Then she hiccuped, and giggled. “Not a chance. My room or -” another giggle, and now Zevran could smell how strongly her breath was laden with alcohol, “-yours?”
He weighed his words carefully. “And exactly how much have you had to drink?”
The answer of course was 'far too much', and Zevran had decided against doing anything with Dailah that night, which he didn't regret, exactly, no, not per se. But since awakening draped across his half-nude body the next day – she had thrown up all over his doublet and shirt, so he had had to remove them for no other nefarious reason than that - Dailah had avoided him as though he carried some plague. It had started slowly of course, being late to morning sparring sessions, and then escalated to outright avoidance, seeking to remove herself from any room he was in as fast as her two legs would carry her.
Listening to Dailah splash in the large tub, Zevran closed his eyes against the image it raised. The Night, as he had, at some point, started referring to it in his head, Zevran had to deal with a drunken, amorous Dailah who was also – bonus – quite ill, and had needed to be bathed. It had been different than the intimacy and camaraderie of stitching up wounds, bandaging and plastering broken ribs, and one that tested Zevran's resolve to what he thought was its limits. Her skin had been almost as dusky a color as his, but while he was deep bronze, his Dalish lady was almost a peach gold. Oh, how the water had framed her body– Cutting the thought off viciously, Zevran sat up with a shake of his head.
He poured another glass of wine, but only a half glass this time; he didn't wish to fall into his cups, especially not this early. Zevran cut off a slice of cheese and put it on a chunk of bread – too bad there was no olive oil, only butter which was something he had never gotten used to, so forwent altogether. Drinking on an empty stomach was unwise; even with his tolerance to intoxicating substances, the assassin wouldn't risk it. Not this night; not with Dailah alone with him.
If he were to pass the barriers that, at first, he thought were from embarrassment, but now realized were from pain, Zevran would need to keep his wits firmly about him.
XXX
When she finally clambered out of the tub, she was wrinkled as the flesh of a walnut. “Damnation,” she hissed, realizing she had no clothes in the bathroom but the filthy ones from earlier. The towels, while large and fluffy wouldn't do. Wrapped firmly in one of the large white towels, she poked her head out. “Zevran? A little help here?”
She saw him leaning with his elbows on his knees, a glass held in one hand, staring off into the distance. Dailah had never seen him so distracted that he couldn't hear her, off in his own world as he was. Concerned, Dailah ignored her virtual nudity and came into the sitting area, hair dripping, and went to touch his shoulder.
“Zev?” shortening his name for the first time in ages; her fingers dug gently into the meat of a broad shoulder. “What's wrong?”
Slowly his head came up as he shook off his fog. “Hmm? Nothing, my fair Warden, nothing at all.” Golden eyes blinked several times, taking in her state. “Certainly nothing that couldn't be cured by a glimpse of what is under that towel.”
She flushed in embarrassment, tugging the towel tighter around her body. “My clothes are in my pack. The ones from earlier are dusty.”
Even a short trek through Denerim, which was in the process of rebuilding, left one almost as dirty as a day of hard traveling, and if there was any choice in the matter, Dailah hated to put on dirty clothes. Shifting her weight from foot to foot, feeling vulnerable, Dailah was still unsettled from the sight of the large mirror (that had resembled the one that had taken Tamlen from her rather too closely for comfort), and the expression that she had caught on Zevran's face mere moments before. As yet, she couldn't place what it had been, but it bore thinking about.
“Ah.” A world of meaning in the utterance, and none at all. “I put our packs in the back,” jerking his head towards the door to his room, and reminding Dailah that she still wasn't sure where she was supposed to sleep. Gracefully, the Antivan rose, forcing Dailah to step back or risk being pressed up against him. He made a broadly sweeping gesture towards the other room. “After you, my Dalish lady,”
Sometimes it bugged her that the other elf always referred to her as 'my something-or-other' so often. When he had first started it, at some point after joining them – or being forcibly recruited, Dailah supposed was a more accurate description – she thought it nothing more than an affectation born of language style differences. However, not once had he called Alistair 'his'; perhaps 'our' in a plural sort of manner, signifying that Alistair belonged, was owned by the group itself, rather than belonging to him, personally, as a general rule. Except always, always, always Zevran referred to her as belonging to him. It went from irksome, at first, once she noticed that it was only her who was singled out so strongly – other members of their party were often a plural possessive unless Zevran was purposefully trying to be irritating – but rapidly became pleasant. Until, of course, Dailah had heard more of his life story.
Whereupon she came to the realization that she couldn't be Zevran's anything, because he would drop her like a hot coal once he had his fun, being the sort who wasn't likely to Bond or even stay long-term with one person, and that just wasn't something Dailah could do. She tried it, in a drunken fit of lost inhibitions, but Zevran hadn't taken her up on that one-time offer. The Dalish hunter had purposefully gotten as soused as she could, just to hopefully get it out of both their systems, so that maybe, just maybe, she could go on with her life and pick up any pieces she would be left in afterward.
Snapping her from her reverie, the man in question took both her hands and walked backwards. “Come; come amora, I wish to see your face when you catch sight of the rest of our lodgings. Perhaps I can see astonishment on your face for yet another time this day, that would be glorious, no?”
Of course, he was right; once he reached behind himself to open the door, and toe it wide, forcing her to take the last few steps over the threshold, Dailah's breath caught. Some mad painter had gone at the walls, coating everything in deep shades of brown, green, golden yellow, and russet, with hints of blue on the ceiling. It was like a forest, the deep pile brown rugs, this time free of obvious designs, but still woven in varying shades of brown – as if it were uneven soil - and finely detailed 'trees' in the foreground that faded into just the impression of unending forest. Clasping Zevran's hands tighter in hers, Dailah looked around in wonder, mouth making an 'O' of awe; everything fit. The two clothes chests looked like boulders, the armor stand in one corner melted into the trunk of a tree, and the bed: a round circle of aquamarine, little ripples stitched into the coverlet which was turned down revealing matching sheets.
It was as though someone had taken the image of a perfect little forest scene and given it breath and reality inside what was nothing more than a dirty shemlen city. The air, too, smelled of woods, incense burning somewhere scenting the room with more sweet sandalwood and loamy fresh patchouli. Taking a deep breath, eyes slipping closed in pleasure, Dailah decided that she couldn't be mad at Zevran for making her come to this stupid place. Later, perhaps, but not right now.
Her eyes popped back open when she felt callused fingertips on her cheek, and she smiled. “I hadn't realized how much I missed home. Thank you.”
His golden eyes were dark, the pupils having blown wide. “Your thanks are unnecessary, amora.” His thumb swept over her bottom lip, gaze tracking the motion. “But a kiss would be welcome as a thank you, if you are of a mind...”
Brought back to all her earlier misgivings, Dailah straightened, pulling away, even as he allowed his hand to fall. “Um.. no. I mean.. ah... just. No.”
“Another time then.” Dailah thought she heard the faintest hint of disappointment. “I laid something out for you behind the dressing screen.” Leaving the room, he cast a pointed glance, indicating where skilled craftsmanship had rendered further painting on the screen to blend with the wall behind it so she hadn't noticed it at first look.
Dressing took little time, as Zevran had laid out a dress of all things, and Dailah had to remind herself that of course it was a dress. After all Leliana had done the packing. It was unlikely that there was anything practical in her kit; at least the dress Zevran had put out was comfortable, and while it wasn't a color she would choose – some sort of gray purple, that probably had some atrocious name like 'periwinkle' or 'heather' – it did seem to suit the color of her skin as far as Dailah could tell.
No it wasn't the dressing that took Dailah so long to go back into the sitting area, but her thoughts – ones she couldn't get away from: of Tamlen and mirrors, of Zevran, brothels, Crows and lovers who had been put down like vermin – one for no good reason, the other for many good ones. Sitting on the nearest clothes chest, Dailah stared at the door, steeling herself. In thirty years, give or take, Dailah, too, would have to be put down. Zevran didn't know this, and was supposed to never find out, as he wasn't a Warden. Here, Dailah had thought, the worst that could happen was her falling for him and having him leave.
Now she had to face the fact that that wasn't the worst fear she really had. Not by far. As a friend, Zevran would have to see her succumb to the taint slowly, for Dailah could be sure of the fact that, as a friend, he would always remain by her side. However, as a lover, the Antivan would have to bear that much more – even if their affair was short-lived and he left her bed, or she his. Beyond the door sat Zevran, and Dailah was afraid.
She wanted more, but, thinking on Rinna, on Taliesin, knew that would be just selfish cruelty that Zevran didn't deserve.
XXX
With a measure of patience that few would attribute to him, Zevran waited quietly, back pressed to the wall beside the bedroom's door. He had listened for the telltale rustling of Dailah dressing, which had been done quickly, and then his ears pricked with the further sound of her sitting or laying on the bed. He crossed his arms, pressed a bare foot to the wall, and tipped his head back to rest against it. He thought that Dailah was probably sitting rather than laying down.
Leliana had conspired, along with Wynne, of all people, to keep him apprised of Dailah's movements in the palace, and to find some opening to give him this chance. Wynne was a closet romantic, and the Orlesian bard wouldn't be much of a bard if she, too, weren't a romantic. They had both admonished him – together and separately – to not waste this chance, for it may be his last. And so Zevran waited, focusing on his breathing, the pulse that pounded in his veins forcing calm with practiced ease.
”You do realize you'll loose her if you don't tell her how you feel.” Wynne had interrupted his reading, standing with her hands on her hips like she was scolding a particularly recalcitrant child.
Marking his place in the book with his thumb, glancing up. “Pardon? You are speaking to me?” he asked, mildly.
Wynne's eyes narrowed. “I wasn't aware there was anyone else that I could be speaking to, Zevran.”
“And who exactly is it that I must confess my feelings to, then? How cruel you are, dearest Wynne, for I have attempted to give you my heart several times,” he crooned, taking on a lovelorn tone just to get under the Circle mage's skin.
“I speak of the Warden of course,” she retorted, leaving off a 'you stupid man' which Zevran mentally inserted, for he certainly was. “I've seen the way you look at her; we all have. For almost two years, we've had to bear your moon-calf eyes, your over-protectiveness, and constant removal of possible rivals. Yet, now that we are in one place, you sit there and do nothing, as if you have all the time in the world to win her affections.”
Straightening, staring intently at Wynne, Zevran questioned her, voice serious as it so rarely was with any other than Dailah. “And what would you have me do, woman? She removes herself from every room I enter, doesn't show up to agreed-upon meetings, and no longer looks me in the eye when she speaks. If she has no desire for my company, I am many things, Wynne, but not the sort to force myself upon those who wish me to leave them be.”
Pointing imperiously, almost as if she were casting a spell, her words froze him as surely as any magic. “Then you are a fool. There are those of us willing to help you – help you both – in this. You don't fight for this, not because she doesn't want you, but because you are afraid. You cannot lie to me; you cannot hide it: you feel unworthy and are unwilling to face the fact that you must make yourself plain to Dailah.”
“I am a Crow,” he said, speaking softly. “Not a hero. There are things that I am unable to do, have no experience in... If I were a stronger man, I would do as you suggest... but I am not.”
Of all people, Zevran had admitted his fear and inexperience in something to Wynne. She was a far cry from the disapproving matron who had saved her most fearsome glares for him, rather than darkspawn. So even as she failed, even if only partially, to convince him as to the lack of wisdom in his current course of action, Wynne and Leliana had forced Zevran's cooperation. They sent him notes via pages and servants whenever they noticed Dailah going somewhere. Zevran, at first, had tried to resist the urge to respond to the slips of paper that said things like 'to the stables' or 'west garden', but found himself unable to do so, and within minutes of receiving these notices, Zevran would be wherever Dailah was, or arrive just before her.
It was almost like a game of cat and mouse, or one of the long, drawn-out hunts for a target. Except, rather than kill the mark, Zevran would have to do something else entirely. All the while, if it wasn't daily admonishments from Wynne about confronting Dailah and pouring out his heart – like some lovesick fool – it was Leliana coaching him about what to say, as if Zevran hadn't been whispering sweet nothings, to men and women alike, for almost twenty years.
No, the best advice had come from Oghren of all people, telling him to “...stop bein' a swishy pipe cleaner and man up, face yer dragons boy, like a man, what's the worst that can happen?”. At the time, Zevran had thought that the worst would be rejection because of his background, but now, he wasn't so sure. There were worse fates than being rejected, like causing undue pain to his lady Warden. Their lives may be placid now, but wouldn't remain so for long; such was not their lot. Violent ends were what most likely waited in the wings for the likes of them, and Zevran would willingly take any blow that was meant to kill Dailah. He would not be the one to go last, but the one to go first, which meant he would leave her, and thus gift her with a larger depth of anguish than was already held in her swirling, sometimes green, sometimes brown, eyes.
Still, he waited, knowing that he couldn't move from his current course of action. He would face down his 'dragon', and, from there, leave the decision in Dailah's capable hands. She was wiser, by far, than any of their group, even being so young, and Zevran found it easier, more natural, to defer to her authority than anyone else's. Frankly, and the thought brought a mirthless smile to his face, Dailah could have crowned herself Queen of Ferelden and been well justified. She would be a better person to shoulder that much authority than any other. Perhaps if she had become the sole monarch in some alternate world, Dailah would end all troubles and travails for everyone, heralding in an era of peace, happiness and harmony.
Snorting at the strange turn of his thoughts, Zevran shifted, and resumed his silent waiting.
XXX
Finally coming to a decision, Dailah firmed her resolve, passing nervous hands over dress and still damp hair. Maybe she should brush it first? No. Shaking her head firmly, not wishing to put it off any longer, Dailah squared her shoulders and opened the door. As she was about to scan the sitting room, a hand snaked out and took hers, surprising her, as she had expected Zevran to have made himself comfortable, rather than stand near the door.
Watching as her eyes widened, Zevran forestalled any words that could come from her bow-shaped lips, laying a finger over them. “We must speak, amora. I have things I must say, before I lose my nerve.”
Rapidly, she blinked, but allowed him to tug her close so he could wrap an arm around her shoulders, tucking his chin over her head. “Alright.”
“I could whisper sweet nothings in your ear,” he said, squeezing Dailah lightly. “But they would be nothing more than what is usually said, and have little meaning. I could touch you and caress you, speaking with my body and hands, but you would not hear the meaning in such gestures, not from me. You would think that it was just a dance that I have danced many times, with many partners, and that it would not mean as much to me as it would to you.”
Dailah shivered in his arms, staring as the apple in his throat bobbed up and down, his pulse twitching in his neck. “What are you saying, exactly?”
She wasn't sure he noticed it, but he began to sway slowly to some unheard beat, voice soft. “I am yours, as I have said often enough, but even then, dear Dailah, have you heard me?” Zevran rubbed his cheek on the crown of her head, and she smelled faint, sweet, fermented grape on his breath. “I offer you whatever you would have of me, and ask: would you take me as I am? A night, a day, a year, a lifetime, all the years I have left to me belong to you. I can make myself no more clear than this. Would you grant me that chance, a chance to do so? To forge some sort of... future together?”
“No matter what comes?” She was shaking like a leaf in a strong wind, and he sought to soothe his Dalish lady, stroking long hands up and down the line of her spine.
He nodded. “Just so: no matter what comes, though circumstance and battle may take me from you. Would you risk it?”
Dailah heaved a sigh, and Zevran felt her hesitation even as she forged ahead. “I never did tell you how I joined the Wardens.”
It seemed to have little to do with his questions, but Zevran knew Dailah wasn't one for useless questions and idle statements. Her joining to the Wardens would have some bearing on her rejection or acceptance of his proposal, and maybe it would explain questions that had remained unanswered all this time.
“No, you have not,” he affirmed.
Dailah leaned into his chest fully, unable to look at his face, burying her nose in the open collar of his shirt. “My lethallin, Tamlen, and I were patrolling our clan's borders, when we happened upon some shem. They bore a tale of a cave, filled with treasure and artifacts of elven nature, and of a demon inside it. Tamlen and I went to that cave; more of a barrow than a cave, really. Inside it were undead things, traps, and in the back... a mirror. It was huge, I had never seen such a thing before. Tamlen he -” Her voice hitched on the memory, and she squeezed her eyes shut tightly. “-he went to it, claiming to see things, and then he touched it, and the world broke apart.”
Zevran said nothing, only holding her even closer, so much so that Dailah found it hard to breathe, but that may just have been the emotion brought by the memory, rather than his strong arms. Gathering strength from the embrace, she continued. “The next thing I remember is the Keeper telling me that Tamlen was missing, that I was ill from something and that it was only her magic and the timely rescue of a shemlen named Duncan that had saved me. So, I went in search of Tamlen, not willing to leave him behind. Back to the cave, and through darkspawn, what I thought were frightful things, that I had never seen before, far more frightening than the undead that had infested the barrow earlier. And near the room with the mirror, I found Duncan. He told me that there was no saving Tamlen, that he was truly lost forever, and that I was dying of something he called the Taint.”
Dailah had to stop, and Zevran remained wordless, hoping to impart some strength to her, rocking side to side, hands traveling up and down her back, and then her shoulders and the back of her head. Knowing what he did of Dalish custom, he assumed that Tamlen was someone that Dailah had planned on Bonding to. A fellow hunter would be suited to a woman like Dailah, one steeped in tradition and racial pride. And To lose him to something like a mirror, of all things... Now one question was answered, and others, partially, even as her explanation raised more.
When Dailah had yet to continue, he prompted, “This 'Taint' of which you speak, it is the same one born of darkspawn blood, yes?”
She nodded infinitesimally, the skin of his neck suspiciously moist. “Yes. When Tamlen and I went through, in the same room as the mirror there was this... thing. We've come across one or two during the Blight, it was a bereskarn. We didn't know to be careful of the blood that flew from our blades as we fought it; some must have gotten into our mouths, or in an open cut. I don't know how, exactly, we were infected. You passed through the Blight and fought so many darkspawn, you should have been exposed, but you and the others haven't contracted the disease. But Tamlen and I, we did get it.” Well Zevran remembered Dailah's orders to never touch the blood, to get it from skin as fast as possible, and to never swallow a single drop. “Duncan said that to cure myself from the taint I would have to join the Wardens, and so I did, but there were... consequences.”
“Of what sort?” As she seemed to need further prompting, Zevran gave it. Dailah had to get this off her chest, all of it, or it would haunt her forever, and he wouldn't waste this opportunity to at least give her some solace, even if she decided it was best that they never move beyond companions. He could give her this, and wouldn't shirk his duty if it would lighten her burden. “It appears to me as if there is more than simply having a special dispensation to command troops and levy armies at will, and a ridiculously awesome title.”
A watery laugh broke free, and Dailah burrowed closer, wrapping her arms around Zevran's waist. “No, even as useful as that is. When it works, that is.” In reply, Zevran only gave a snort, while she went on. “The Dalish, our lifespans have been lengthening; did you know that?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I did not. I don't make it a habit of asking random people their ages. It tends to irritate the women, and the men just go blank.”
“My Keeper, she was almost eighty, and looks younger than Wynne,” she said, leaning back in his arms to gauge his reaction. “She will live for another forty, fifty years if the gods are kind. Many of us make it to ninety summers before we are no longer hale enough to pull our weight and go to our final sleep. How old would you say I am, Zevran?”
More questions; they seemed to be disjointed, having little to do with anything, but he answered readily. “Twenty, perhaps twenty-one, or even nineteen, but if what you say is true, you could easily be older than my thirty odd years,” he said, hoping to bring a smile to her lips.
“Twenty-seven summers I number, the same as Alistair, and I should have had as many as sixty or more to look forward to,” face becoming even sadder. “But the cure that Duncan offered was no cure at all Zevran, only a delaying tactic to stave off the worst for awhile. I am still tainted. Still infected with the darkspawn plague, and the Joining I went through... I have possibly thirty years now. Thirty, when I should have double that number.”
Ever pragmatic, Zevran shrugged a shoulder. “Thirty is better than the none that you would have had if you hadn't gone through it, is it not?” Inside he shook, though, now knowing there was a chance that he would outlive Dailah. Another loved one lost, leaving him behind. Silently, Zevran vowed that this would not be so; he would go when Dailah went, one way or another.
“Perhaps, but a shortened lifespan isn't all that I face.” She moved her hands frame his cheeks, the calluses from sword handles and bowstring worn smooth with use. I have a lack of fertility as well, and when it is time, when the Taint takes me, I must be put down or become a broodmother. Do you understand?” Her gaze bored into his. “I will die before you; I will be unable to give you the life you so deserve, one filled with laughing children, old age and grandchildren sitting on your knee begging stories. That is what I have to offer, even as I want more from you, when I have little to give in return. I want a future yes, and I do care for you, but I must be honest. You deserve no less.”
His brows drawing down, along with the corners of his mouth, into a dark frown. “You speak of what I deserve, not of what I want or need. If we may have no children of our bodies, then if it is your wish, there are plenty who need homes and love. What I want and need, amora, is you. No more, no less. Is this not enough? When it is your time, then I shall follow you as I always have, to the Black City and back. I'll not let you suffer, but do not expect me to last beyond you. I cannot do that.”
Dailah bowed her head, ashamed, for she wanted desperately to accept. “I never want to cause you pain. You've carried enough for several lifetimes.”
“And having you avoid me so causes no pain?” An edge crept into his voice that cut Dailah to the quick. “I have been holding myself out to you, offering my life to you for so long now, Dailah. Denying me saves me no pain, only brings more. Does it not hurt you as well?”
She winced. “It does.”
“Then why do it?” His voice became harsh and hoarse, the tone taking on a deeper edge of pain. “You at first seemed to soften towards me, and then suddenly nothing. Is it because of what I told you? Of the things I have done? Did it make me unsuitable? I don't care about the consequences of your Joining, beyond how they hurt you inside. Thirty years is a lifetime for many. A lack of children – it is also something many suffer through. I can think of nothing else, then, that would hold you back.” Something wet slipped over her knuckles and the back of her hands where they still cupped the Antivan's face. “You say I am deserving of many great things, yet the only thing that would make my life complete is what you deny me. Even as it wounds me, it wounds you. Why else then?”
Realizing that Zevran had tears slipping from eyes that were wide and agonized, while the rest of his face was expressionless, Dailah felt as though all breath had been knocked from her.
Picking her words with care, she said, “You told me many things Zevran.” Working saliva into her parched mouth, wishing for a stiff drink, she continued. “Many things I don't understand. You know of the Dalish, of how we keep ourselves from... romantic assignations, and how we only fight when necessary, taking no joy in the stealing of life. For all that my people claim to be wild and free, we aren't. We're bound and set in our ways, while you are truly a wild thing. You take joy in life where you may find it. You give thanks for each thing that you gain, and carry on through the bad times, looking to your future. Someone like me... couldn't hold your interest for long. I can't....” here Dailah stumbled. “I can't keep up with you, and I'm frightened.”
“You have my oath; I expect no more than you can give me.” His features took on a confused cast beneath the pain. “You think I would forsake you simply from.... what? Lust? Boredom? You are not me, and I am not you Dailah. My eyes may travel, it is instinct – and it is not as if you've never noticed others – but I will not stray from you. And I ask you again: is this not enough?”
Maddeningly Dailah seemed to ignore the rest of what he said, only pouncing on: “Oath? But I released you of that ages ago.”
He grabbed her wrists and tugged her hands from his face. “Not that one.”
“There was only the one, you know it went like, 'I am your man, without reservation, until such a time as you deem fit to release me'; all rather formal and honorable,” rattling off the words as if she had gone over them over and over again.
Maker knew that he had.
“No, not that one,” he repeated, hoping to drive his point home. “I told you that I was yours in all ways, and swore on it.”
Dailah's nose wrinkled up, face scrunching as she tried to recall when he had said such a thing. “And what in the name of the gods made you do that?”
“You asked me if I would leave you, asked if you would lose me since you had released me from your service.” Realizing that Dailah must have been too drunk to remember the reverently spoken words when he had bathed her, as she looked up at him with so much vulnerability, he sighed. “I had thought you remembered it, but obviously you were too far gone.”
“Well, I release you from that oath too – I won't force you to do anything Zevran,” she averred, rotating her wrists as though she wished to free them.
Zevran only firmed his hold. “That you cannot do amora, I purposefully left no out clause for myself.”
“You're mad!” she cried, shaking her head over and over. “You're a wild thing Zevran; you're supposed to be free, not bound to some... some.... backwoods Dalish Warden who doesn't know any of the things that the people downstairs do, or isn't beautiful the way Morrigan is, isn't smart the way Wynne is, or, or.... I'm tainted in more ways than one. You won't be free with me, and I want you to be free Zevran, I always wanted you to be free.”
“And am I not free, then? I feel free,” spreading his arms wide. “I see no shackles upon me. There is no collar on my neck. You hold no whip to punish me if I step out of line, and you will not kill me for failing in my responsibilities.” Hoping to lighten things up with something he knew Dailah would find shocking, Zevran pasted on a dirty grin. “But I wouldn't mind a little whipping and shackles every now and then. Either on you or me, the choice is yours, amora.”
Pressing her face into a palm, she moaned, “Oh gods, really?” He watched as she set her jaw, and looked him right in the eye. “So, you want this, no matter what? You truly desire to have this with me?”
“Yes amora,” he replied, nodding. “I should think it was obvious. I am an assassin, a master of subtlety and avoid brute force tactics as much as possible, but will use them when necessary. What further words do I need say to you, to prove myself? For I am tired of excuses. You have offered up the bad things, dark warnings, and fears; I have countered them. What necessary words must I utter? What further song and dance must I follow to make you believe me?”
Worrying at her bottom lip, Dailah resembled the young, inexperienced woman she truly was. “None.”
“And would you have me, then?” He slid forward so he could press her close once more.
A small, shy smile graced her lips. “I am yours.”
Title: Necessary Words
Author: Rhion
Rating: M
Summary: Zevran is in love. Madly. But every advance he has made was ignored, because Dailah thought their views were incompatible. Now he has to do something he tries to never do: Talk about FEELINGS.
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue
AN: This is from an unfilled prompt on kinkmeme, which um, I suppose is now filled. It was written over the course of two days in a bout of insomnia that was eventually interrupted by passing out for a few hours and then finishing the last scene. Bellaknoti beta'd on the fly - in seven hours. There's some heavy perspective changes in this that I didn't change out because how this was posted/written was for the kinkmeme, and the reply boxes hold about four thousand characters.... so the perspective changes were logical at the time, and to change them now would make things even weirder. And cut out a huge chunk of the story. Not my usual way of doing things - rapid POV changes that is - so please forgives.
XXX
Dailah glanced up from the spidery handwritten letter with a frown. “Yes, Zev?”
The Antivan had appeared from what seemed to be thin air to lean across her desk, chin thrust forward as his eyes crossed, reading the missive upside down. “My dear Warden, I came to see what ever it could possibly be that was keeping you from our sparring.”
“Halla's nuts,” she cursed with a tired sigh. “That was today?”
Zevran hid the frown that wanted to break free. “Yes, that was today. And the demonstration for the new recruits is in the afternoon, and there is also the matter of seeing Ignacio about some Crow contacts.” He cocked his head to the side as he smoothly slid onto the edge of the desk. “Are you unwell, my dear? You have been so... forgetful of late.”
Which wasn't entirely true. Dailah had remembered to show up – and promptly, at that – to all meetings, dates and general houplah that was required of her. Unless he was attending, of course. Zevran had come to suspect that the Dalish had been avoiding him, as much as that thought pained him.
“Perhaps you should allow me to share more of your burdens,” he offered, his tone remaining light, as he watched her from the corner of one eye. “You take on too much, when you have others to rely on rather than simply your impressive self.”
With a cough, Dailah's dusky cheeks darkened, the beige tattoo on her forehead standing in stark relief. “No, but thank you Zevran. You do more than enough, as is.”
“Ah, but I insist,” plucking the letter she had been perusing earlier from her hand. “Allow me to go over these trifling missives for you, and answer those that I may, and separate out those that require your personal attention for you.”
She eyed him, knowing that her friend was up to something. “But if I don't answer them... we have different ways of writing -”
He cut her off, with a dismissive snort. “I would be a poor rogue if I couldn't forge your handwriting, my dear.” So saying, he drew up a chair beside her, crowding too close, and took half the pile of letters for himself. “Ah, it has been some time since I've had the pleasure of your close company, and doing a bit of fraud as well, thrown in for extra spice? Marvelous!”
XXX
Dailah felt hunted. In fact, she knew she was being hunted. Through the corridors of the palace, in the offices, library, and courtyards, Zevran would appear, no matter where she went. First had been his insistence on 'helping' her with the paperwork that came from bureaucracy – something Alistair and Eamon said were necessary evils of her station as Ferelden's Commander of the Grey.
Then yesterday, in the stables, he was there waiting, it seemed, for her, when she had decided – out of the blue she thought – to go for a ride, to escape, but there he had stood, speaking softly to the blue roan mare he preferred, already saddling it. Of course, Zevran had left Dailah no choice but to come with him, backing her into a corner as to why she would come to the stables, if not to go for a ride? Neatly, the Antivan elf had forced Dailah into acquiescence, when he threw out another question, one that seemed rhetorical, but probably wasn't.
“Ah, but since you are here, you wish to ride? Then why not join me, unless it is to avoid me for some reason?” A thin, dark golden brown brow raised quizzically.
Which had hit far too close to home.
It wasn't that she didn't like Zevran. In fact, the opposite was true. Dailah gnashed her teeth in frustration, tugging on the short red braid of hair that hung from her temple. Dailah quite liked Zevran, found him attractive, fun, sweet – and underneath it, quite serious. Keeper Marethari would describe the former Crow as 'a river with currents that ran deep'; far deeper than most would suspect. So, if pressed, the Dalish Warden would have to admit that she was half in love with her dandy friend.
However, Dailah knew, as deep as Zevran was, he was still the product of his life, of his training, of all his vast experiences, many of which were more than any single person should have to endure. They were piled high on Zevran's shoulders, shoulders that had rarely buckled under the weight. They added up to a man who was worthy of much, but that wasn't the problem: not his worth, but his inability to accept his value, which would allow him to stay with a single person without fear of them losing interest in him. That much Dailah could see, could feel, could know. She would be hurt by accepting any of his many advances, and now – now he was hunting her, and Dailah just wanted to get away, to get a breath, to gain the distance needed to continue to stave off Zevran and his... presence.
Spotting Leliana in an alcove, Dailah sped her steps up, hoping that the Orlesian could give her a hand with the situation. “Leli, I need your help with something.....” her voice trailied off upon seeing who the bard was speaking with.
“Oh, Dailah, we were just talking about you.” The Orlseisan clapped her hands together once, then swept her into a tight hug, placing a kiss on each of her cheeks. “You have been so busy lately, we have spent so little time together.... And Zevran and I were just saying that we should devise some sort of break for you....”
She leaned back from Leliana's embrace to see Zevran smiling faintly. “I'm fine, honest, and I see you both almost every day -”
“No, no ma petite belle, the Wardens have you running ragged!” A small shake of her shoulders, was enthusiastic enough to toss Dailah's braids forward so that the bells in them chimed. “And that Eamon – you are a Warden, not an errand boy!”
“Not a boy at all, much to my delight, and the delight of all who see you, my fair Warden,” Zevran quipped, leaning indolently against a stone wall, examining his neat nails.
She protested. “No, no, honestly, both of you, I can handle everything, that's -”
“Did you know that yesterday the good Arl ordered our fair Dailah to go over the supply lists for the castle? Isn't that a job for the Seneschal?” Zevran interrupted, cutting in over Dailah's protests.
“Quel l'enfer? This will not do!” Leliana cried out, her fair skin turning dark and red splotches blooming on her cheeks. “That is a servants' duty, not for the likes of the Hero of Ferelden! Archdemon pluck every hair of his gray beard!” A firm grip locked on Dailah's upper arm, hustling her back the way she had come. “We must remove you from the palace for a few days, get you free of his clutches. Does not Alistair say anything to this?” The last was directed at Zevran.
He slid into a smooth gait beside Dailah, so that she was pinned between the two rogues. “Not a word, I fear. Sometimes I wonder who sits the throne of Ferelden – good Alistair, or Eamon?”
Now Dailah found her voice. “Careful Zevran, walls have ears; that could be treason.”
He laughed, indelicately. “Ah, good thing then that I have friends in high places, and am beholden to the Warden Commander, and none other, no?”
Once again the Antivan Crow had deftly caught Dailah, and she saw no recourse but to follow along or fear being revealed. Dailah had no intention of giving Zevran the satisfaction of knowing that he was getting to her. She was Dalish, and would bow to no one; that also meant she wouldn't allow herself to be broken by anyone. Allowing Zevran his head with her would only end in her pain, even though that would be far from his intention she knew. It was just that she wasn't built the same way, could not make idle romance acceptable to her sensibilities.
So she submitted to Leliana's packing of her belongings, enough for several days, and admonishments of 'no arguing', while Zevran went to gain his own pack. Apparently it 'wouldn't do' for the Hero of Ferelden, slayer of Archdemons, crowner of kings, settler of disputes, to travel alone. In a city. That she had saved. Repeatedly.
Dailah sighed and watched her red-haired friend fuss, pack, unpack, repack and unpack again, grumbling quietly that some days she just couldn't win.
XXX
Zevran guided Dailah through some of the darker alleys of Denerim. “Trust me, I know where Eamon would never think to look for you.”
She made a face, sidestepping a puddle of something that smelled awful. “Yes, no one would say to themselves, 'oh, perhaps we should search for a Dalish Warden in a dirty alley, or maybe a gutter'. Really now, Zevran - oh halla piss!” She exclaimed, as she stepped into a different puddle, having only been paying attention to the first. “Nughumping, horsefeathered, vashedan!”
“Impressive! Tell that puddle where to go!” Zevran laughed heartily at her expense, his warm hand moving to cup her elbow. “To be sure, I'm impressed with such colorful language. Shall I teach you some of the choicer phrases from fair Antiva, as well?”
Making a sound of disgust, she shook her foot to the side, hoping to dislodge some of the muck from her boot. “Not. Right. Now. Ugh. Give me an honest forest! I hate cities!”
“Ah yes, full of droppings and other things as well.” He nodded sagely, nimbly leading her onwards. “Mud and dirt, dead things, rot, and have I, perchance, mentioned the dirt, and lack of bathing facilities?”
Her nose wrinkled in a way that Zevran found most endearing. “I think city folk only have such things because of the concentrated filth. Has no one ever heard of sanitation?”
“Hmm, we should travel to fair Antiva City; it is far more civilized than this place, my sweet Warden. They have proper drainage and oh, the glorious bath houses, how I do miss them.” Not relinquishing his hold on her elbow, now that he had gained a reason to touch his Warden; the Antivan would not give it up easily. “But our destination has baths aplenty, and many other amenities.”
“And where is it, exactly, you're taking me Zevran?” crossly, hitching up her small pack on her shoulders.
The golden elf cast a sly glance her way. “You shall see, soon enough.” Pointing ahead as they rounded a corner, he declared, “From the ugliest of creatures, such lovely pearls form!”
Dailah stopped, digging in her feet upon catching sight of the structure. It was several stories tall, and well-kept, despite being in one of the poorer quarters of Denerim. Gay red lanterns hung from the eaves, shining pools of sanguine reflecting around the door; that, too, was painted a glistening red. The building itself was sturdily constructed, heavy wood beams thrusting outwards at regular intervals, whitewashed plaster walls, and windows that were lined with glass, a rare commodity. A sign jutted out, almost lewdly cheerful, with a brightly painted ball in shades of white and cream.
“The Pearl?!” she sputtered, her jaw dropping.
“Yes, the finest brothel in all of Ferelden,” he said, tugging Dailah along. “And some of the best accommodations outside of Antiva. Here such a weary, overworked personage as yourself may while away all your troubles. For a price, of course.”
“Of course,” she echoed with empty heat, sounding half mad, half disbelieving and entirely too tired to come up with anything else.
XXX
This was unexpected, to say the least... but, really, Dailah should have seen it coming. Zevran, of all people, would never choose something simple, like a normal person. Staying in a brothel must have been like coming home, and the warm greetings from the.. proprietress had only driven home certain facts to Dailah. Of course, someone like him would be well known, and Dailah chafed at the reminder.
At least none of the workers – as Dailah insistently referred to the courtesans in her head, she wouldn't be so rude as to call them 'whores', not even in her own mind - had given the assassin more than a single look, as though they dismissed him as soon as he was identified. Zevran spared them not even one glance. Dailah wasn't sure how she should take that bit of observation, but filed it away as probable proof that he had already sampled their wares to a point where he discounted their presence entirely as not new.
All the way to the top floor he lead her, and unlocked a door at the furthest end of the hall with a large brass key. For a second time, Dailah stopped, jaw dropping. As the door swung open on well-oiled hinges, it revealed a room that was almost lavish, but simple. Two couches sat framing a fireplace, upholstered in a soothing blue; a low table between them, made of some dark rare wood, shined to a high gloss. The floor itself was covered in thick pile rugs that muffled their footsteps; they were woven with geometric designs of yellow, black and red thread on more blue, this time a darker navy, to contrast with the cool sky blue of the couches. Everything in the room was blue or colored to contrast strongly with the theme, granting the room an airy appearance.
“Much better than the palace, no?” Warm breath flowed over the back of her neck, making Dailah jump.
She hadn't noticed Zevran come so close.
“Ah, yes, it's... rather nice,” she admitted. She moved quickly, to put some distance between her and the other elf. “Where's your room?”
He waved a hand, as the other took her pack from her shoulders. “Through the door back there, but if you wish to bathe it will be that door-” pointing to the left, “over there.”
Dailah only saw the two doors, the one he had said was his room, the other to the bath. Licking lips that had gone dry, Dailah tried to pluck her pack from his hands, but he evaded her neatly by passing into the next room. She was unwilling to give an inch though, so refused to ask the question of where she would be sleeping. It would only make Zevran laugh, she was sure.
With a shrug, the Dalish hunter went to the bath, and yet again had to scrape her jaw off the floor, upon seeing what was behind a door. The Pearl, and Zevran, by extension, really had to stop surprising her so much. A sloped floor held a large tub: one big enough to hold several people comfortably, and even more if they were.... friendly, which, in a brothel, Dailah had to admit, was likely. It was some huge porcelain contraption that had recessed handles and a spigot that looked to be of dwarven engineering. There was a stove made of thick iron that heated the room up so that it was almost as hot as what Dailah supposed a jungle might be like. There was even a mirror; that, much like the glass in the windows, was an almost unheard-of luxury.
She frowned at the large oval; Dailah had had enough of mirrors to last a lifetime.
Warily, she approached it from the side, making sure to not catch sight of her image in it, and carefully pushed on it, testing to see if it could be moved. Putting her shoulder to it, she braced her feet, and grunted with effort as the heavy silvered glass shifted, along with its thick, bronzed base. Inch by inch, Dailah turned the mirror, pausing for breath a few times before resuming her work. The thing was easily three times Sten's weight, but it wasn't like Dailah was trying to pick the blasted thing up, only turn it away in a safe direction, like a wall.
Zevran entered when, after a time, he heard no running water, but only a few quiet grunts of effort. Alarmed, he swiftly covered the distance and threw the bathroom door open, a single dagger held out as he readied to strike. He stopped at the sight of his Warden heaving at what was probably one of the most expensive items in the Pearl.
“Has the mirror done something to offend you, my dear?” Relaxing, even as Dailah stiffened.
Dailah leaned her back on one of the mirror's supports, frowning darkly. “I don't like mirrors.”
Not understanding, “And why not? You do not like to see yourself? Strange, as I quite like seeing you, as do others. Why should you not like to gaze upon yourself? Not that you strike me as vain, dearest Dailah, but a certain amount of vanity is natural for someone as lovely as you.”
“I don't like mirrors. At all,” she reiterated, as she moved to continue her task.
Relief washed through Dailah as Zevran pressed no further questions upon her, but instead joined her, adding his muscle to the endeavor. In quick order, they had turned the hulking mirror to a wall, and Dailah heaved a thankful sigh. Beside her, she felt Zevran staring for long moments as she hung her head, arms braced widely on the mirror's back. She could feel the questions swirling through him, but he asked none, only going to fill the tub, squeaking faucets turned and adjusted. Then, the faint clinking of glass which was a precursor to fragrant steam, filling the bathroom with scents of sandalwood, patchouli, cinnamon, cloves and roses.
Now, at least, Dailah knew why it was that Zevran always smelled like that, along with his own musk of leather, polish, poison and salt.
Cautiously, Zevran approached, laying a hand on the back of her neck, turning Dailah so he could look into her eyes. The expression there stopped him, once more, from asking what reason could cause her to hold such a... distaste for mirrors, but he surmised her reasons were good, for if they could engender that hint of fear and that depth of pain in her hazel-green eyes, then she was more than justified in her dislike.
So, instead, he offered distraction. “The bath is nearly ready; shall I call for some food?”
Dailah nodded mutely, and began to undress quickly. Zevran found himself casting his eyes away; not because he didn't wish to see his Warden bare, but because he had no desire to intrude on her inner pain without invitation.
“Can we talk later?” halting his exit.
Ducking a quick bow of assent, “Of course, my sweet Dailah; of course.”
XXX
Rolling the glass of wine in his fingers, Zevran mused. Perhaps the look he had seen in Dailah's eyes was the reason she avoided him. She was most certainly attempting to do so, not that he had allowed her to do more than try. Well he knew that expression he had seen, for was it not what had looked back at him in mirrors until some point near the end of the Blight, each time he looked into one?
Someone had been taken from her, and horribly.
Dailah kept herself open and friendly with everyone, but there was an inner core that no one could touch, not even him. Zevran had done his best to show Dailah that she could open up to him, that she could allow him to touch that place she kept hidden, but she had not once taken the bait.
Amending, he sipped some of the halfway-decent Antivan red, switching to recline on the blue couch, an arm thrown over the back. Actually, Dailah had once taken his bait, he had to amend, but she had been so far in her cups that Zevran hadn't taken advantage. Instead, he had hustled her back to her rooms, carrying her on his back; her arms hung over his chest while she drunkenly slobbered on the side of his neck in sloppy kisses. He watched over her the whole night and into the midday. That was right after Alistair had been crowned, and the end of the Blight celebrated.
”So, the Blight is ended, my fair Warden,” cornering Dailah on a terrace. She had been looking uncomfortable – but beautiful – in a green dress, a bottle in her hand. “How ever shall we celebrate?”
“I thought I was supposed to ravish you.” Dailah swayed faintly to the distant music, flushed with drink but steady on her feet.
Zevran nodded amicably, smiling as he swept her into a lively set of steps. “Ah, yes, and here I thought you had forgotten that!”
Then she hiccuped, and giggled. “Not a chance. My room or -” another giggle, and now Zevran could smell how strongly her breath was laden with alcohol, “-yours?”
He weighed his words carefully. “And exactly how much have you had to drink?”
The answer of course was 'far too much', and Zevran had decided against doing anything with Dailah that night, which he didn't regret, exactly, no, not per se. But since awakening draped across his half-nude body the next day – she had thrown up all over his doublet and shirt, so he had had to remove them for no other nefarious reason than that - Dailah had avoided him as though he carried some plague. It had started slowly of course, being late to morning sparring sessions, and then escalated to outright avoidance, seeking to remove herself from any room he was in as fast as her two legs would carry her.
Listening to Dailah splash in the large tub, Zevran closed his eyes against the image it raised. The Night, as he had, at some point, started referring to it in his head, Zevran had to deal with a drunken, amorous Dailah who was also – bonus – quite ill, and had needed to be bathed. It had been different than the intimacy and camaraderie of stitching up wounds, bandaging and plastering broken ribs, and one that tested Zevran's resolve to what he thought was its limits. Her skin had been almost as dusky a color as his, but while he was deep bronze, his Dalish lady was almost a peach gold. Oh, how the water had framed her body– Cutting the thought off viciously, Zevran sat up with a shake of his head.
He poured another glass of wine, but only a half glass this time; he didn't wish to fall into his cups, especially not this early. Zevran cut off a slice of cheese and put it on a chunk of bread – too bad there was no olive oil, only butter which was something he had never gotten used to, so forwent altogether. Drinking on an empty stomach was unwise; even with his tolerance to intoxicating substances, the assassin wouldn't risk it. Not this night; not with Dailah alone with him.
If he were to pass the barriers that, at first, he thought were from embarrassment, but now realized were from pain, Zevran would need to keep his wits firmly about him.
XXX
When she finally clambered out of the tub, she was wrinkled as the flesh of a walnut. “Damnation,” she hissed, realizing she had no clothes in the bathroom but the filthy ones from earlier. The towels, while large and fluffy wouldn't do. Wrapped firmly in one of the large white towels, she poked her head out. “Zevran? A little help here?”
She saw him leaning with his elbows on his knees, a glass held in one hand, staring off into the distance. Dailah had never seen him so distracted that he couldn't hear her, off in his own world as he was. Concerned, Dailah ignored her virtual nudity and came into the sitting area, hair dripping, and went to touch his shoulder.
“Zev?” shortening his name for the first time in ages; her fingers dug gently into the meat of a broad shoulder. “What's wrong?”
Slowly his head came up as he shook off his fog. “Hmm? Nothing, my fair Warden, nothing at all.” Golden eyes blinked several times, taking in her state. “Certainly nothing that couldn't be cured by a glimpse of what is under that towel.”
She flushed in embarrassment, tugging the towel tighter around her body. “My clothes are in my pack. The ones from earlier are dusty.”
Even a short trek through Denerim, which was in the process of rebuilding, left one almost as dirty as a day of hard traveling, and if there was any choice in the matter, Dailah hated to put on dirty clothes. Shifting her weight from foot to foot, feeling vulnerable, Dailah was still unsettled from the sight of the large mirror (that had resembled the one that had taken Tamlen from her rather too closely for comfort), and the expression that she had caught on Zevran's face mere moments before. As yet, she couldn't place what it had been, but it bore thinking about.
“Ah.” A world of meaning in the utterance, and none at all. “I put our packs in the back,” jerking his head towards the door to his room, and reminding Dailah that she still wasn't sure where she was supposed to sleep. Gracefully, the Antivan rose, forcing Dailah to step back or risk being pressed up against him. He made a broadly sweeping gesture towards the other room. “After you, my Dalish lady,”
Sometimes it bugged her that the other elf always referred to her as 'my something-or-other' so often. When he had first started it, at some point after joining them – or being forcibly recruited, Dailah supposed was a more accurate description – she thought it nothing more than an affectation born of language style differences. However, not once had he called Alistair 'his'; perhaps 'our' in a plural sort of manner, signifying that Alistair belonged, was owned by the group itself, rather than belonging to him, personally, as a general rule. Except always, always, always Zevran referred to her as belonging to him. It went from irksome, at first, once she noticed that it was only her who was singled out so strongly – other members of their party were often a plural possessive unless Zevran was purposefully trying to be irritating – but rapidly became pleasant. Until, of course, Dailah had heard more of his life story.
Whereupon she came to the realization that she couldn't be Zevran's anything, because he would drop her like a hot coal once he had his fun, being the sort who wasn't likely to Bond or even stay long-term with one person, and that just wasn't something Dailah could do. She tried it, in a drunken fit of lost inhibitions, but Zevran hadn't taken her up on that one-time offer. The Dalish hunter had purposefully gotten as soused as she could, just to hopefully get it out of both their systems, so that maybe, just maybe, she could go on with her life and pick up any pieces she would be left in afterward.
Snapping her from her reverie, the man in question took both her hands and walked backwards. “Come; come amora, I wish to see your face when you catch sight of the rest of our lodgings. Perhaps I can see astonishment on your face for yet another time this day, that would be glorious, no?”
Of course, he was right; once he reached behind himself to open the door, and toe it wide, forcing her to take the last few steps over the threshold, Dailah's breath caught. Some mad painter had gone at the walls, coating everything in deep shades of brown, green, golden yellow, and russet, with hints of blue on the ceiling. It was like a forest, the deep pile brown rugs, this time free of obvious designs, but still woven in varying shades of brown – as if it were uneven soil - and finely detailed 'trees' in the foreground that faded into just the impression of unending forest. Clasping Zevran's hands tighter in hers, Dailah looked around in wonder, mouth making an 'O' of awe; everything fit. The two clothes chests looked like boulders, the armor stand in one corner melted into the trunk of a tree, and the bed: a round circle of aquamarine, little ripples stitched into the coverlet which was turned down revealing matching sheets.
It was as though someone had taken the image of a perfect little forest scene and given it breath and reality inside what was nothing more than a dirty shemlen city. The air, too, smelled of woods, incense burning somewhere scenting the room with more sweet sandalwood and loamy fresh patchouli. Taking a deep breath, eyes slipping closed in pleasure, Dailah decided that she couldn't be mad at Zevran for making her come to this stupid place. Later, perhaps, but not right now.
Her eyes popped back open when she felt callused fingertips on her cheek, and she smiled. “I hadn't realized how much I missed home. Thank you.”
His golden eyes were dark, the pupils having blown wide. “Your thanks are unnecessary, amora.” His thumb swept over her bottom lip, gaze tracking the motion. “But a kiss would be welcome as a thank you, if you are of a mind...”
Brought back to all her earlier misgivings, Dailah straightened, pulling away, even as he allowed his hand to fall. “Um.. no. I mean.. ah... just. No.”
“Another time then.” Dailah thought she heard the faintest hint of disappointment. “I laid something out for you behind the dressing screen.” Leaving the room, he cast a pointed glance, indicating where skilled craftsmanship had rendered further painting on the screen to blend with the wall behind it so she hadn't noticed it at first look.
Dressing took little time, as Zevran had laid out a dress of all things, and Dailah had to remind herself that of course it was a dress. After all Leliana had done the packing. It was unlikely that there was anything practical in her kit; at least the dress Zevran had put out was comfortable, and while it wasn't a color she would choose – some sort of gray purple, that probably had some atrocious name like 'periwinkle' or 'heather' – it did seem to suit the color of her skin as far as Dailah could tell.
No it wasn't the dressing that took Dailah so long to go back into the sitting area, but her thoughts – ones she couldn't get away from: of Tamlen and mirrors, of Zevran, brothels, Crows and lovers who had been put down like vermin – one for no good reason, the other for many good ones. Sitting on the nearest clothes chest, Dailah stared at the door, steeling herself. In thirty years, give or take, Dailah, too, would have to be put down. Zevran didn't know this, and was supposed to never find out, as he wasn't a Warden. Here, Dailah had thought, the worst that could happen was her falling for him and having him leave.
Now she had to face the fact that that wasn't the worst fear she really had. Not by far. As a friend, Zevran would have to see her succumb to the taint slowly, for Dailah could be sure of the fact that, as a friend, he would always remain by her side. However, as a lover, the Antivan would have to bear that much more – even if their affair was short-lived and he left her bed, or she his. Beyond the door sat Zevran, and Dailah was afraid.
She wanted more, but, thinking on Rinna, on Taliesin, knew that would be just selfish cruelty that Zevran didn't deserve.
XXX
With a measure of patience that few would attribute to him, Zevran waited quietly, back pressed to the wall beside the bedroom's door. He had listened for the telltale rustling of Dailah dressing, which had been done quickly, and then his ears pricked with the further sound of her sitting or laying on the bed. He crossed his arms, pressed a bare foot to the wall, and tipped his head back to rest against it. He thought that Dailah was probably sitting rather than laying down.
Leliana had conspired, along with Wynne, of all people, to keep him apprised of Dailah's movements in the palace, and to find some opening to give him this chance. Wynne was a closet romantic, and the Orlesian bard wouldn't be much of a bard if she, too, weren't a romantic. They had both admonished him – together and separately – to not waste this chance, for it may be his last. And so Zevran waited, focusing on his breathing, the pulse that pounded in his veins forcing calm with practiced ease.
”You do realize you'll loose her if you don't tell her how you feel.” Wynne had interrupted his reading, standing with her hands on her hips like she was scolding a particularly recalcitrant child.
Marking his place in the book with his thumb, glancing up. “Pardon? You are speaking to me?” he asked, mildly.
Wynne's eyes narrowed. “I wasn't aware there was anyone else that I could be speaking to, Zevran.”
“And who exactly is it that I must confess my feelings to, then? How cruel you are, dearest Wynne, for I have attempted to give you my heart several times,” he crooned, taking on a lovelorn tone just to get under the Circle mage's skin.
“I speak of the Warden of course,” she retorted, leaving off a 'you stupid man' which Zevran mentally inserted, for he certainly was. “I've seen the way you look at her; we all have. For almost two years, we've had to bear your moon-calf eyes, your over-protectiveness, and constant removal of possible rivals. Yet, now that we are in one place, you sit there and do nothing, as if you have all the time in the world to win her affections.”
Straightening, staring intently at Wynne, Zevran questioned her, voice serious as it so rarely was with any other than Dailah. “And what would you have me do, woman? She removes herself from every room I enter, doesn't show up to agreed-upon meetings, and no longer looks me in the eye when she speaks. If she has no desire for my company, I am many things, Wynne, but not the sort to force myself upon those who wish me to leave them be.”
Pointing imperiously, almost as if she were casting a spell, her words froze him as surely as any magic. “Then you are a fool. There are those of us willing to help you – help you both – in this. You don't fight for this, not because she doesn't want you, but because you are afraid. You cannot lie to me; you cannot hide it: you feel unworthy and are unwilling to face the fact that you must make yourself plain to Dailah.”
“I am a Crow,” he said, speaking softly. “Not a hero. There are things that I am unable to do, have no experience in... If I were a stronger man, I would do as you suggest... but I am not.”
Of all people, Zevran had admitted his fear and inexperience in something to Wynne. She was a far cry from the disapproving matron who had saved her most fearsome glares for him, rather than darkspawn. So even as she failed, even if only partially, to convince him as to the lack of wisdom in his current course of action, Wynne and Leliana had forced Zevran's cooperation. They sent him notes via pages and servants whenever they noticed Dailah going somewhere. Zevran, at first, had tried to resist the urge to respond to the slips of paper that said things like 'to the stables' or 'west garden', but found himself unable to do so, and within minutes of receiving these notices, Zevran would be wherever Dailah was, or arrive just before her.
It was almost like a game of cat and mouse, or one of the long, drawn-out hunts for a target. Except, rather than kill the mark, Zevran would have to do something else entirely. All the while, if it wasn't daily admonishments from Wynne about confronting Dailah and pouring out his heart – like some lovesick fool – it was Leliana coaching him about what to say, as if Zevran hadn't been whispering sweet nothings, to men and women alike, for almost twenty years.
No, the best advice had come from Oghren of all people, telling him to “...stop bein' a swishy pipe cleaner and man up, face yer dragons boy, like a man, what's the worst that can happen?”. At the time, Zevran had thought that the worst would be rejection because of his background, but now, he wasn't so sure. There were worse fates than being rejected, like causing undue pain to his lady Warden. Their lives may be placid now, but wouldn't remain so for long; such was not their lot. Violent ends were what most likely waited in the wings for the likes of them, and Zevran would willingly take any blow that was meant to kill Dailah. He would not be the one to go last, but the one to go first, which meant he would leave her, and thus gift her with a larger depth of anguish than was already held in her swirling, sometimes green, sometimes brown, eyes.
Still, he waited, knowing that he couldn't move from his current course of action. He would face down his 'dragon', and, from there, leave the decision in Dailah's capable hands. She was wiser, by far, than any of their group, even being so young, and Zevran found it easier, more natural, to defer to her authority than anyone else's. Frankly, and the thought brought a mirthless smile to his face, Dailah could have crowned herself Queen of Ferelden and been well justified. She would be a better person to shoulder that much authority than any other. Perhaps if she had become the sole monarch in some alternate world, Dailah would end all troubles and travails for everyone, heralding in an era of peace, happiness and harmony.
Snorting at the strange turn of his thoughts, Zevran shifted, and resumed his silent waiting.
XXX
Finally coming to a decision, Dailah firmed her resolve, passing nervous hands over dress and still damp hair. Maybe she should brush it first? No. Shaking her head firmly, not wishing to put it off any longer, Dailah squared her shoulders and opened the door. As she was about to scan the sitting room, a hand snaked out and took hers, surprising her, as she had expected Zevran to have made himself comfortable, rather than stand near the door.
Watching as her eyes widened, Zevran forestalled any words that could come from her bow-shaped lips, laying a finger over them. “We must speak, amora. I have things I must say, before I lose my nerve.”
Rapidly, she blinked, but allowed him to tug her close so he could wrap an arm around her shoulders, tucking his chin over her head. “Alright.”
“I could whisper sweet nothings in your ear,” he said, squeezing Dailah lightly. “But they would be nothing more than what is usually said, and have little meaning. I could touch you and caress you, speaking with my body and hands, but you would not hear the meaning in such gestures, not from me. You would think that it was just a dance that I have danced many times, with many partners, and that it would not mean as much to me as it would to you.”
Dailah shivered in his arms, staring as the apple in his throat bobbed up and down, his pulse twitching in his neck. “What are you saying, exactly?”
She wasn't sure he noticed it, but he began to sway slowly to some unheard beat, voice soft. “I am yours, as I have said often enough, but even then, dear Dailah, have you heard me?” Zevran rubbed his cheek on the crown of her head, and she smelled faint, sweet, fermented grape on his breath. “I offer you whatever you would have of me, and ask: would you take me as I am? A night, a day, a year, a lifetime, all the years I have left to me belong to you. I can make myself no more clear than this. Would you grant me that chance, a chance to do so? To forge some sort of... future together?”
“No matter what comes?” She was shaking like a leaf in a strong wind, and he sought to soothe his Dalish lady, stroking long hands up and down the line of her spine.
He nodded. “Just so: no matter what comes, though circumstance and battle may take me from you. Would you risk it?”
Dailah heaved a sigh, and Zevran felt her hesitation even as she forged ahead. “I never did tell you how I joined the Wardens.”
It seemed to have little to do with his questions, but Zevran knew Dailah wasn't one for useless questions and idle statements. Her joining to the Wardens would have some bearing on her rejection or acceptance of his proposal, and maybe it would explain questions that had remained unanswered all this time.
“No, you have not,” he affirmed.
Dailah leaned into his chest fully, unable to look at his face, burying her nose in the open collar of his shirt. “My lethallin, Tamlen, and I were patrolling our clan's borders, when we happened upon some shem. They bore a tale of a cave, filled with treasure and artifacts of elven nature, and of a demon inside it. Tamlen and I went to that cave; more of a barrow than a cave, really. Inside it were undead things, traps, and in the back... a mirror. It was huge, I had never seen such a thing before. Tamlen he -” Her voice hitched on the memory, and she squeezed her eyes shut tightly. “-he went to it, claiming to see things, and then he touched it, and the world broke apart.”
Zevran said nothing, only holding her even closer, so much so that Dailah found it hard to breathe, but that may just have been the emotion brought by the memory, rather than his strong arms. Gathering strength from the embrace, she continued. “The next thing I remember is the Keeper telling me that Tamlen was missing, that I was ill from something and that it was only her magic and the timely rescue of a shemlen named Duncan that had saved me. So, I went in search of Tamlen, not willing to leave him behind. Back to the cave, and through darkspawn, what I thought were frightful things, that I had never seen before, far more frightening than the undead that had infested the barrow earlier. And near the room with the mirror, I found Duncan. He told me that there was no saving Tamlen, that he was truly lost forever, and that I was dying of something he called the Taint.”
Dailah had to stop, and Zevran remained wordless, hoping to impart some strength to her, rocking side to side, hands traveling up and down her back, and then her shoulders and the back of her head. Knowing what he did of Dalish custom, he assumed that Tamlen was someone that Dailah had planned on Bonding to. A fellow hunter would be suited to a woman like Dailah, one steeped in tradition and racial pride. And To lose him to something like a mirror, of all things... Now one question was answered, and others, partially, even as her explanation raised more.
When Dailah had yet to continue, he prompted, “This 'Taint' of which you speak, it is the same one born of darkspawn blood, yes?”
She nodded infinitesimally, the skin of his neck suspiciously moist. “Yes. When Tamlen and I went through, in the same room as the mirror there was this... thing. We've come across one or two during the Blight, it was a bereskarn. We didn't know to be careful of the blood that flew from our blades as we fought it; some must have gotten into our mouths, or in an open cut. I don't know how, exactly, we were infected. You passed through the Blight and fought so many darkspawn, you should have been exposed, but you and the others haven't contracted the disease. But Tamlen and I, we did get it.” Well Zevran remembered Dailah's orders to never touch the blood, to get it from skin as fast as possible, and to never swallow a single drop. “Duncan said that to cure myself from the taint I would have to join the Wardens, and so I did, but there were... consequences.”
“Of what sort?” As she seemed to need further prompting, Zevran gave it. Dailah had to get this off her chest, all of it, or it would haunt her forever, and he wouldn't waste this opportunity to at least give her some solace, even if she decided it was best that they never move beyond companions. He could give her this, and wouldn't shirk his duty if it would lighten her burden. “It appears to me as if there is more than simply having a special dispensation to command troops and levy armies at will, and a ridiculously awesome title.”
A watery laugh broke free, and Dailah burrowed closer, wrapping her arms around Zevran's waist. “No, even as useful as that is. When it works, that is.” In reply, Zevran only gave a snort, while she went on. “The Dalish, our lifespans have been lengthening; did you know that?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I did not. I don't make it a habit of asking random people their ages. It tends to irritate the women, and the men just go blank.”
“My Keeper, she was almost eighty, and looks younger than Wynne,” she said, leaning back in his arms to gauge his reaction. “She will live for another forty, fifty years if the gods are kind. Many of us make it to ninety summers before we are no longer hale enough to pull our weight and go to our final sleep. How old would you say I am, Zevran?”
More questions; they seemed to be disjointed, having little to do with anything, but he answered readily. “Twenty, perhaps twenty-one, or even nineteen, but if what you say is true, you could easily be older than my thirty odd years,” he said, hoping to bring a smile to her lips.
“Twenty-seven summers I number, the same as Alistair, and I should have had as many as sixty or more to look forward to,” face becoming even sadder. “But the cure that Duncan offered was no cure at all Zevran, only a delaying tactic to stave off the worst for awhile. I am still tainted. Still infected with the darkspawn plague, and the Joining I went through... I have possibly thirty years now. Thirty, when I should have double that number.”
Ever pragmatic, Zevran shrugged a shoulder. “Thirty is better than the none that you would have had if you hadn't gone through it, is it not?” Inside he shook, though, now knowing there was a chance that he would outlive Dailah. Another loved one lost, leaving him behind. Silently, Zevran vowed that this would not be so; he would go when Dailah went, one way or another.
“Perhaps, but a shortened lifespan isn't all that I face.” She moved her hands frame his cheeks, the calluses from sword handles and bowstring worn smooth with use. I have a lack of fertility as well, and when it is time, when the Taint takes me, I must be put down or become a broodmother. Do you understand?” Her gaze bored into his. “I will die before you; I will be unable to give you the life you so deserve, one filled with laughing children, old age and grandchildren sitting on your knee begging stories. That is what I have to offer, even as I want more from you, when I have little to give in return. I want a future yes, and I do care for you, but I must be honest. You deserve no less.”
His brows drawing down, along with the corners of his mouth, into a dark frown. “You speak of what I deserve, not of what I want or need. If we may have no children of our bodies, then if it is your wish, there are plenty who need homes and love. What I want and need, amora, is you. No more, no less. Is this not enough? When it is your time, then I shall follow you as I always have, to the Black City and back. I'll not let you suffer, but do not expect me to last beyond you. I cannot do that.”
Dailah bowed her head, ashamed, for she wanted desperately to accept. “I never want to cause you pain. You've carried enough for several lifetimes.”
“And having you avoid me so causes no pain?” An edge crept into his voice that cut Dailah to the quick. “I have been holding myself out to you, offering my life to you for so long now, Dailah. Denying me saves me no pain, only brings more. Does it not hurt you as well?”
She winced. “It does.”
“Then why do it?” His voice became harsh and hoarse, the tone taking on a deeper edge of pain. “You at first seemed to soften towards me, and then suddenly nothing. Is it because of what I told you? Of the things I have done? Did it make me unsuitable? I don't care about the consequences of your Joining, beyond how they hurt you inside. Thirty years is a lifetime for many. A lack of children – it is also something many suffer through. I can think of nothing else, then, that would hold you back.” Something wet slipped over her knuckles and the back of her hands where they still cupped the Antivan's face. “You say I am deserving of many great things, yet the only thing that would make my life complete is what you deny me. Even as it wounds me, it wounds you. Why else then?”
Realizing that Zevran had tears slipping from eyes that were wide and agonized, while the rest of his face was expressionless, Dailah felt as though all breath had been knocked from her.
Picking her words with care, she said, “You told me many things Zevran.” Working saliva into her parched mouth, wishing for a stiff drink, she continued. “Many things I don't understand. You know of the Dalish, of how we keep ourselves from... romantic assignations, and how we only fight when necessary, taking no joy in the stealing of life. For all that my people claim to be wild and free, we aren't. We're bound and set in our ways, while you are truly a wild thing. You take joy in life where you may find it. You give thanks for each thing that you gain, and carry on through the bad times, looking to your future. Someone like me... couldn't hold your interest for long. I can't....” here Dailah stumbled. “I can't keep up with you, and I'm frightened.”
“You have my oath; I expect no more than you can give me.” His features took on a confused cast beneath the pain. “You think I would forsake you simply from.... what? Lust? Boredom? You are not me, and I am not you Dailah. My eyes may travel, it is instinct – and it is not as if you've never noticed others – but I will not stray from you. And I ask you again: is this not enough?”
Maddeningly Dailah seemed to ignore the rest of what he said, only pouncing on: “Oath? But I released you of that ages ago.”
He grabbed her wrists and tugged her hands from his face. “Not that one.”
“There was only the one, you know it went like, 'I am your man, without reservation, until such a time as you deem fit to release me'; all rather formal and honorable,” rattling off the words as if she had gone over them over and over again.
Maker knew that he had.
“No, not that one,” he repeated, hoping to drive his point home. “I told you that I was yours in all ways, and swore on it.”
Dailah's nose wrinkled up, face scrunching as she tried to recall when he had said such a thing. “And what in the name of the gods made you do that?”
“You asked me if I would leave you, asked if you would lose me since you had released me from your service.” Realizing that Dailah must have been too drunk to remember the reverently spoken words when he had bathed her, as she looked up at him with so much vulnerability, he sighed. “I had thought you remembered it, but obviously you were too far gone.”
“Well, I release you from that oath too – I won't force you to do anything Zevran,” she averred, rotating her wrists as though she wished to free them.
Zevran only firmed his hold. “That you cannot do amora, I purposefully left no out clause for myself.”
“You're mad!” she cried, shaking her head over and over. “You're a wild thing Zevran; you're supposed to be free, not bound to some... some.... backwoods Dalish Warden who doesn't know any of the things that the people downstairs do, or isn't beautiful the way Morrigan is, isn't smart the way Wynne is, or, or.... I'm tainted in more ways than one. You won't be free with me, and I want you to be free Zevran, I always wanted you to be free.”
“And am I not free, then? I feel free,” spreading his arms wide. “I see no shackles upon me. There is no collar on my neck. You hold no whip to punish me if I step out of line, and you will not kill me for failing in my responsibilities.” Hoping to lighten things up with something he knew Dailah would find shocking, Zevran pasted on a dirty grin. “But I wouldn't mind a little whipping and shackles every now and then. Either on you or me, the choice is yours, amora.”
Pressing her face into a palm, she moaned, “Oh gods, really?” He watched as she set her jaw, and looked him right in the eye. “So, you want this, no matter what? You truly desire to have this with me?”
“Yes amora,” he replied, nodding. “I should think it was obvious. I am an assassin, a master of subtlety and avoid brute force tactics as much as possible, but will use them when necessary. What further words do I need say to you, to prove myself? For I am tired of excuses. You have offered up the bad things, dark warnings, and fears; I have countered them. What necessary words must I utter? What further song and dance must I follow to make you believe me?”
Worrying at her bottom lip, Dailah resembled the young, inexperienced woman she truly was. “None.”
“And would you have me, then?” He slid forward so he could press her close once more.
A small, shy smile graced her lips. “I am yours.”