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peopleofthedas2011-01-15 08:10 pm
1smut_princess) wrote in peopleofthedas2011-01-15 08:10 pm
Fic: A Guild-ed Cage 2/? T for now
Title: A Guild-ed Cage 2/?
Author: Rhion
Rating: T for now, AO - eventually
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.
Summary: AU. Zev never went to Ferelden. Now, Miolanai, Hero of Ferelden finds herself in Antiva. Master Ignacio assigns her a bodyguard and guide. A guide who just so happens to have been friends with the Crow she killed so long ago during the beginnings of the Blight.
AN: Horrid weather is horrid. Fail. And I'm almost out of my Caboclo espresso. And my car is being all farked up. And I'm out of my 'good' Djarums, and my next shipment can't be ordered until Tuesday, and then I'll hafta wait 8 to 14 business days to get them. Ugh. Don't start smoking kids, it's crap.
XXX
Guild-ed 2
XXX
He had absolutely no idea what to do with the Hero of Ferelden. On one hand, there were his orders: protect at all costs, guide through the intricate dance of politics and intrigue, gather information she may miss and impart it to her. Master Ignacio had basically given him away to a free-agent Master-level Crow, for that was to be the status of the Hero in the Guild. While it wasn't unheard of for a person that had never been trained by the Guild to be accepted as a highly proficient fighter, and as a free agent member, it was rare, and no such position had ever been granted to someone who knew so little of Antiva. There had been several Rivainians in somewhat recent memory, and the rare Tevinter. Never someone from such a backwards place as Ferelden. Nor from Orlais – there was no such thing as a true free agent bard from that nest of poisonous whores.
But what was unheard of, was... giving, for all intents and purposes, a highly trained, top-level Crow to one of these free agents. Ignacio, that wily little weasel, had basically done this by not putting a time limit at all upon the lending of 'guide' and 'bodyguard'. The shemlen probably thought that Zevran craved elevation in status, such as the sort gained by killing his Master. And so Ignacio had taken down two things with one fell swoop. Keeping an eye on the Warden, and foisting off a potential threat at the same time. Here Zevran had thought he had ingratiated himself enough to avoid being killed or traded off like most of the others that had been part of his original cell.
Right before the end of the Blight, Ignacio had returned to Antiva, triumphant and secure in his position, and killed Zevran's original master, Yago, taking over easily. He then proceeded to ignore the contract that had still been out for the Wardens, that had been purchased by the now-dead Loghain and Howe. Of course, it was Ignacio's prerogative to do such, but it was frowned upon. Except no one in the Guild was saying anything – the Guild well knew what could have happened with an unchecked Blight, and so showed grace where it could. Even so....
Sighing in aggravation, the bronzed elf dropped the tray off in the kitchens, and made his way back to the Warden's assigned apartment. It wasn't lavish at least, and quite tasteful, similar to his own tastes, actually. That was one of Ignacio's hallmarks. Gilding everything was not his style. Professionalism was a must – Ignacio's Crows were to be enigmatic, calm, and measured, except when off-duty, or if a contract called for something else. For Zevran, such a thing wasn't his usual modus operandi. He excelled at warmth, drawing in everyone like a moth to a flame, be they Crow, or mark, or just a person on the street. It made his life easier, made him less of a target, let others think he was too stupid, and too busy futtering, to have any serious thoughts in his head, or ability to be dangerous. Strangely though, he was still well-known within the Guild, and there had been the occasional inquiry from his peers and lessers as to the reasons behind his not having a cell of his own. There had been offers to join him if he had decided to collect a cell, but every time, Zevran had simply smiled and changed the subject.
It was how he had survived thus far, and probably the only reason Ignacio had spared him the assignments that would lead to his untimely demise, the way other Crows from his cell had been. True, he had proved his loyalty as well – what was another master to Zevran? Just someone who told him who to kill, where to go, and he had no interest in doing more than that. Even so, Ignacio was far from stupid, and was correct that if Zevran had wanted to become a Crow Master – rather than simply remain at his current level – he could.
But there was still the matter of the Warden Miolanai – and the contract that, while technically active, was for all intents and purposes not – and the minor fact that since Taliesen and his band had so clearly failed in their attempt on the Warden's life, meant that she had been the one to kill Zevran's long-time friend and his first apprentice, at that. There was a certain.... honor... amongst killers, and it demanded he do something. However, he could not. Here he was, bound and commanded to protect – at all costs – the very person whom his every instinct told him to kill.
It was definitely a troublesome predicament.
Making sure to keep his tread upon the stairs near the apartments audible, Zevran entered the sitting room. He half expected the Warden to have fallen asleep, with all that theatrical yawning she had been doing, but no, she was up, staring through the open door of the watercloset. While the Crow had come across Fereldens before, they had mostly been wealthy, or dockhands – two very different sets of people. The wealthy knew how to move about Antiva's finer establishments, while the dockhands Zevran had associated with had mostly been to pump them for information, and he never had to wonder if they knew the basics of civilization. This Warden, on the other hand, was like a curious child, ignorant and impatient. Smothering the glower that wished to break free, he wondered for a moment if he would have to show her how to work the facilities.
Instead, she turned, leaning a shoulder on the door frame, and said conversationally, “You know, the only times I saw running water were in Orzammar, and in my personal quarters at Vigil's Keep, and that was just for the tubs.” Crossing her arms she jerked her chin towards the bath. “But there's a privy, a bath, and even a washbasin here with spigots. Is everywhere here like that?”
A sigh of relief tickled the back of his throat, but he covered it with a cough – at least he wouldn't have to explain the bathroom to her. “Most. Not all flats have them, but many have them at least in the building, usually one set for each floor. And if that is not the way of it, then there are the public baths, which are on every seventh or eighth corner.”
He watched as her green eyes grew round, lending her already youthful appearance a veneer of childlike surprise. “Public baths?”
“Yes.” He refrained, just barely, from drawing the word out in vague irritation, feeling as though he were speaking to a simpleton. “Public baths are a social setting, often. There are pools with hot water, some with cold, while others are a mix of the two.”
“That seems a waste, I mean, what if there's a bunch of customers? What do they do, just bathe together?” There was disbelieving confusion all over her face, lips twisted and brow furrowed as though she were trying to imagine something like that.
Counseling himself to patience, Zevran took a deep, fortifying breath. Ignorant child, indeed. Stupidity was one of those things he loathed in others; no amount of half-pleasing looks could make up for brains that were similar to mashed potatoes. Licking his lips, he replied, “That is exactly what they do.”
“Everybody does? All together? Dear Maker, that would scandalize some people I know, so much.” She giggled and clapped her hands, sharply. “What fun! Ohh, Wynne's expression would have been priceless!”
Confused himself now, Zevran moved to be seated, sinking gratefully into the plush cushions. “Then... how do your people get... clean?”
She hopped over the other couch's back, landing with a broad smile, tucking her legs under her. “Small basins. Most people only bathe once or twice a week.”
He choked in disbelief. “Once.... or twice... a week?”
“Some people, even less,” she amended, shrugging. “In the Alienage, clean water was hard to come by; why waste it on skin that's just about to get dirty once more, in short order?”
Trying very hard to not imagine the stench, Zevran rubbed his temples with both hands now. He could only pray to some distant, uncaring Maker that the Warden bathed with some sort of regularity, otherwise he would go mad. If they were on the trail he could understand, but with normal amenities to hand, bathing less than three times a week was detestable.
“I suppose in that instance it would be, understandable,” he said, slowly, still trying to imagine – or well, trying very hard not to imagine – what the populace of Ferelden was like.
She played with a silver ring on one finger, rolling it with her thumb. “Well, once I got to the Arling of Amaranthine, and was made Arlessa -” here she snorted indelicately, as if she thought that was a strange thing indeed, “I found that the only way to ease the aches and headache of having to deal with so many people was to sink myself up to my neck in hot water as often as possible. Wash away the care and all that. My cousin Shianni, when she found out, teased me mercilessly about it. But, then again, she was always the sort to simply bull into everything, and anyone who made a bad comment whatsoever got their nose broken. And just their nose if they were lucky...” Smiling broadly, this woman was full of the damn things which for some reason made him want to respond in kind, she continued, “I don't think anyone would dare to give her enough trouble to make her have a headache. And some people think I roll over anything that gets in my way...”
Deciding that she wasn't stupid, and simply a product of a place with no civilization whatsoever, Zevran forced himself to reexamine her. Blunt, certainly. Then again, that was the charm of Fereldens, he was told. There was no polish to her, to this Miolanai: her clothes were simple, her speech easy and free, her movements graceful in a particular, playful way. The cast of her features made her appear somewhere between too young and mid-twenties, but she had fought an Archdemon and won.
And survived it.
That meant there was a hard core somewhere in her. Maybe that meant that all this was simply her persona in public. A shiny, silly, simple thing, that disarmed those around her, much like his own facade of sensuality. Not that he wasn't a hedonist at times, but he was far more pragmatic than most gave him credit for. Keeping that in mind, Zevran had to wonder at what approach would be best. Settling into the role of long-term bodyguard and overall servant took a bit of finesse. Careful handling would be needed in educating this Ferelden.
He must have been quiet too long, for she prompted him. “So what are these baths like?”
Crossing his legs at the knee, he picked his words carefully. “The finer baths have slaves who come and assist in washing the patrons, amongst other services: drinks, food, companionship and conversation.” He tapped a random beat on the hard, yet supple, Antivan leather of the guard that covered his kneecap. “There are smaller inner baths, for small groups, or individuals. I once had a mark in El Agua Dorada. Quite a fine place; many of the tiles in the private baths had gems inset in them. Mother-of-pearl abounded – absolutely gorgeous. If one is to die, it was a good place to do so. So many more unpleasant places, yes?”
Tilting her head, so strands of white hair fell across her cheek, she looked at him. “Dangerous I would think. All that water... easy to get drowned if they get a better grip on you than you have on them.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But I prefer to take them unawares; it is the best way. Do not let the mark suffer. If they fight too much, then their deaths are drawn out. Clean death is better. It is why I prefer poisons to disable them, after they have been... exhausted properly.”
To this she nodded. “I'm mostly used to straight-up fights. It isn't like you can say to an ogre, 'hey, I'm going to feed this to you so you won't fight so much, so I can kill you quick and merciful-like. But first, would you like a backrub?' They don't tend to respond well. People though, I can see that being a definite tactical advantage.”
He laughed at the image she painted. “No, I imagine it would not be taken well.”
Suddenly she leaned forward, pert nose crinkling. “So wait, people, they... don't wash themselves at these places?”
“The rich do not; often they do not even dress themselves. That is what slaves are for,” he replied, shrugging.
Her face scrunched to one side. “Really? It... isn't all that complicated! It's just water, soap and a cloth. And they can't even... put clothes on by themselves? Really? Anyone over five should be able to manage that on their own...”
“Ah, so I take it this means you require no assistance? Tchk, a shame, I was looking forward to it.” He slipped into his usual teasing and banter; it seemed the best route with her, considering the way she had picked at him already several times.
XXX
Waking early the next morning, Zevran lay abed, listening. From the way the Warden behaved yesterday, he knew some of how he needed to proceed. She was clearly exhausted from her voyage, and would need time to adjust. Rubbing his forehead, staring at the ceiling, the Crow repressed a groan. Miolanai would be useful to the Guild, he supposed, but first she had to be rested, and then somehow educated.
He would have to teach her Antivan, give her a general rundown on history, the factions, and things like that. Then he would have to show her the cultural high and low points, and how to navigate the Guild itself. But how educated was she in general? Zevran wasn't even sure she could read. It was like being thrown a new apprentice, but one who hadn't even gone through the basics of training. How to eat, how to sleep in the heat, when times were safe, and unsafe. What sorts of clothes to wear, what sorts of things were polite conversation, and others that were impolite.
In the other room he heard a grunt and tossed covers followed by bare feet on rug covered wood. Another thump, then quick breathing that was only just this side of audible through the thick walls. Slipping from his bed, the creamy blue and yellow linen contrasting one color to the other. Snagging his loose silk sleep half-trews and tugging them on, Zevran listened intently. Sharp inhales and exhales came in a measured rhythm, that continued even as he made his way around the screen that only partially blocked his room from the sitting area. Cocking his head when he got to the Warden's room, he pressed his ear to the door before squatting to peer through the keyhole. What a strange sight met his spying eye, his fellow elf was pressing herself up and down over the ground, resting her weight on toes and palms, with her back rigid. Then Miolanai was rolling over onto her back, hands tucked behind her head, feet planted firmly on the ground and sitting up and laying back down repeatedly. Frowning at the odd exercises, Zevran straightened, knocking on her door.
From behind the wood came another grunt. “S'open!”
Taking that for an invitation, the Crow pushed the door wide. “Do you require anything?”
“Uhn?” She paused, half way between the ground and her knees. “Nope. No – wait, could you hold my feet steady, there's nothing for me to hook them around.”
Doing as she asked, Zevran cautiously probed, “And what is this that you are doing?”
“Situps.” She expelled the word in a gust. “Gotta do two hundred.”
He moved from her feet, gaining a better grip on her ankles. “Two hundred of these... exercises? Why?”
He watched as her lips moved soundlessly, those odd green eyes clenched shut, clearly keeping count. Quickly she finished, levering herself back into a backbend, and Zevran was forced to tighten his hands around her ankles to keep her steady. Beneath his fingers, he felt tight muscles and tendons looping around the slim bones. There was a resounding series of pops and cracks from her spine, knees and shoulders, that made her moan in a rather... enticing way, he had to admit.
And then she was flopping back down on the floor, tugging at his hold on her as she said, “Fighting trim. Helps get the blood started. Is there anywhere I can run? I need to do about five miles.”
“Not anywhere inside the city, unless it is on someone's property.” He sat back on his heels, measuring her.
She had clearly spent the night wearing leggings and tunic, for they were rumpled, much like her hair. Atop the bed he spied her sword, blade bared. Not even he slept with a naked blade in bed. Too easy to roll over or shift in one's sleep, making for unfortunate accidents.
Miolanai ran hands through her hair, sitting cross-legged in front of him. “Blast. How do you Crows stay in shape if you don't have anywhere to run? Is there some sort of saille or other we could go to? Preferably nearby.”
“Most of us reside in safehouses that have a training room,” he replied, shrugging. “We would need to gain permission from one of the owners, to make use of one.”
She frowned, sucking on her bottom lip. “What about the ones who don't live in the safehouses?”
Zevran shifted, uncomfortably. His loft in the tannery quarter of town had plenty of room for practice, as well as various equipment that he used to stay in top physical form... but that was a private place, that, while the Guild knew about it, he had never brought anyone there that had any Guild association.
“I could easily ask Master Ignacio for access to one of the safehouses,” he offered instead.
With a sigh, Miolanai nodded. “Fine. What's one day?”
“I would think,” he started, hazarding to voice his thoughts, “that you might wish to rest for a few days, now that you are back on land. After that, take in some of the city sights. Master Ignacio doesn't expect to introduce you to the Guild until you have had some time to yourself.”
...And time to be prepared for the dances that would ensue.
She was blinking at him in that odd fashion that made him feel like she was about to call him 'crazy'. “Time enough to rest when I'm dead, and if I don't keep sharp, that'll happen sooner, rather than later.”
He tried to hide his grimace. “Everyone needs a holiday, Warden. You should take the time to become acquainted with Antiva and its culture before seeking to dash headlong into things that will get you dead far more quickly than taking some time off.”
“Is that a recommendation, or part of your thing as guide?” she asked, leaning her chin on a fist as she propped an elbow on one knee.
Pursing his lips, Zevran kept a curse back. “I have been tasked with guiding you in all things here, as well as watching your back. This includes ensuring that you take care of yourself.”
Miolanai stood and went to her armoire, pulling out a fresh change of clothes. “I've been taking care of myself a long time. I'm alive, so I must be doing just fine.”
Averting his gaze politely as she stripped and changed, Zevran clutched at his thighs. Headstrong and ignorant. Hasty, and refusing to respond to gentle guiding. At this rate, he would have to hit her on the head, tie her up, and explain to her in small words exactly how things were to be. Ignacio had made it abundantly clear that having the Hero of Ferelden in his employ, even as a free agent, was a coup that was not to be missed. Such opportunities were rare, and keeping her loyalty to Ignacio was paramount, which meant keeping her safe from idiotic decisions, not just the general riffraff and Crows.
Miolanai was stepping around him, removing her armor from its stand and buckling it on quickly. Zevran took a moment to appreciate that – it was one of those rare things to behold, someone who knew their gear and could don the complicated armor with such speed and dexterity. Then again, from the way she sighed in relief once it was on her, he supposed she had been wearing armor day in, day out for quite some time.
Because of this he found himself asking, “How does one become a Warden?”
“Drink some blood, choke on it, pass out, have some fucked up nightmares, and wake up if you're lucky, with a pounding headache that never truly goes away,” she replied shortly, pulling on her baldrics and getting them settled, then changed the subject. “So, since there's nowhere for me to exercise, why not show me some of these sights you're on about?”
XXX
Two armed and armored elves was not exactly a normal occurrence, not when one of the elves was obviously playing 'tour guide', but Zevran knew that stubborn look in the Warden's eyes, he had seen it on long-time soldiers, had seen it in his own eyes on occasion. It was a look that said 'try to part me from my weapons and armor, and I'll part you from your life'. Of course, such a thing had its uses, but this was Antiva City. Its dangers were not the sort that were best met with steel, but with wit.
Even so, he walked beside her, pointing out various landmarks, humoring her for now. “That is the Plaza de la Mercede.” He gestured towards the large square, tree lined as it was, splashing fountains dotting it at all four corners and two in the center, each bearing sculptures of famous monarchs killed by the Guild. “There are small cafes lining the streets that wrap around the square, mostly catering to foreigners. Each major faction of the Guild has at least one cafe, listening for news and gossip.”
“Are any of them any good?” She pushed away some of the hair that perpetually fell into her eyes. He supposed that the small concession she'd granted by not wearing a helmet meant that the hair that normally was kept back, now no longer was, was something she was currently cursing. “I could eat half a bronto.”
His lips twitched. “A bronto? And only half of one? Hmm, here I thought you might swallow it whole.”
“It's a dwarven thing, sort of a pack animal,” she said, nose wrinkling. “Ugly as sin; looked like a fat, bloated darkspawn, or a corrupted ox.”
“There hasn't been a sighting of darkspawn in Antiva in near a hundred years,” he pointed out, “so I have no idea what they actually look like.”
Guiding her to the northwest corner of the Mercede, Zevran watched for thieves. Most were only giving them sidelong glances; he was well known here, enough so that most of them tended to leave him alone, except the occasional band of playing street urchins, but today there were none nearby.
Miolanai took a deep breath and he could tell she was about to start going over some lengthy list of details. “Genlocks. Let's see... They come from dwarven females that have been made into brood mothers. Short, similar build to a dwarf, faces like dying rats, all teeth, narrow, pinched, melted skin. Green to grey. They smell. Stink actually.”
Zevran interrupted her as they neared one of the smallest cafes. “Pardon? They... are... part dwarf?”
“Uhn? Oh, yeah.” Nodding vigorously, she continued, “Females are taken captive every time. They're... twisted by the darkspawn, by the taint. They can spawn dozens of darkspawn in a day.”
A sense of disquiet fell over him. “I was given to understand that Wardens are tainted.”
“How would you know that?” Miolanai reached out, grabbing his arm, pulling him to a stop. She was staring up at him intently. “That's a Warden secret.”
Grunting, Zevran met her gaze steadily. “There is no such thing as a secret that the Guild can't find out.” He glanced back the way they came, toward the streets that would hold Ignacio's villa. “I was given materials to read, when I was informed of what my next assignment was to be. Wardens sense darkspawn, because they are part darkspawn. Only Wardens can kill Archdemons. Wardens go through a ritual that has been named The Joining. Wardens have the Right of Conscription and in most places will exercise it regularly, to keep their numbers bolstered, except in Ferelden. The fact that Wardens 'meddled' in political affairs got them exiled two hundred years ago, which means that any Warden in Ferelden is to be watched closely.”
“Anything else you know that isn't common knowledge?” Her eyes were skipping over his face intently.
“When you were ten you were almost arrested by the Denerim guard for pickpocketing.” Twisting his arm in her grasp gently, Zevran pulled her along to the cafe. “Your mother died during a riot when you were fourteen. She came to Ferelden from somewhere north. Your cousin Soris was with you the day you killed Bann Vaughan Kendell. The Grey Warden Duncan lent a sword to him, as well as to the man you were to marry. Somehow the two foolish boys stormed into the Arl's Denerim estate and in the fracas your betrothed – one Nelaros – was killed. You once shoved a human out of a window for calling you 'knife ears'. Would you like me to continue? I have been briefed on everything I need to know.” Holding up two fingers to one of the waiters, he called out “Dos cafes con leche, doubles, tres sucres. Tambien melone con jamon y veinte churros.”
He swiveled in his chair to face her fully. “I know everything necessary to protect you that was easily found. Ignacio is nothing if not thorough, and I am nothing if not professional.” Before she could ask what he ordered them, he continued. “You will like the coffee, but first watch how I make mine. The rest, eat as much as you like, however I recommend going a little slow. Enough people are staring at us, we don't need more.”
When the food arrived, the Warden simply watched him for a moment, before copying him as she had the night before. He thought she was probably getting her thoughts in order, while he was preparing to answer whatever questions she had, or deflect them, as the case may be.
Picking up and nibbling cautiously at a piece of honeydew wrapped in thin slices of cured ham, she asked, “Why would Ignacio do that?”
“Ah, an easy enough answer there,” he replied, crossing his legs at the ankles under the table, stretching out. “You are a respected personage here. Many Guildsmen would work very hard to woo you to their side, and barring that, kill you, if it became necessary. To find what makes you tick like the hands of a dwarven clock, to find what moves you, what dirt can be used to keep you in check... these are the weapons they would bring to bear.” Setting his glass of creamy coffee down, he continued, “Ignacio desires to keep you a nominally free agent, one that might bring him gossip and intrigues from the other Masters. They will say much in front of you as they try to win your... ah... affections, as it were. Like a great funnel of information, you are to be. This is the way you would earn your wealth, here. Jobs for one such as you, like the ones I would generally carry out, would be difficult. Yet, at the same time, you could still do them, using me as the blade who does the deed, as you distract the targets.”
She blinked slowly in surprise, worrying at her lip, frowning down at the plate between them. “Oh. So, I'm to be a pawn?”
“My dear, we are all pawns.” He chuckled and shook his head.
“Then why join the Crows? You don't strike me as the sort to sign yourself up to be someone's gamepiece.” The statement, when matched with her earlier one of not wanting servant.... was telling.
She had no idea that he was a slave.
Sighing, Zevran shifted forward, sprinkling a spoonful of sugar over his churros. “Truth be told, it is that I was never given much choice.”
Miolanai ate another slice of melon. “What? They forcefully recruit all the highly skilled rogues in the city?”
Zevran didn't much mind the fact that he was a slave, he just knew others could be funny about such matters. His life was good; he had possessions, prestige, and skills that non-slaves rarely ever achieved without family connections in this country, or in any other country, for that matter. Antiva was good to its slaves, by and large; few had to worry for food or shelter. The laws in place forced owners to be judicious with the resource of slaves. Of course, that didn't stop owners from beating unruly slaves and the like, but, at least there were standards.
“My dear, I was born in a whorehouse, and when I was about seven years of age, I was sold for hmm... I would say it converts to three sovereigns,” he said, taking a bite of a churro. “That is how the Crows buy all their trainees: young. Raise them up to know nothing but murder and killing. But,” he hastened to add, seeing her horror, “it isn't without its rewards. Being a Crow gets you respect, wealth, wine, women, men – anything you desire. The Guards look away from your transgressions, and people don't bother you. You are educated in matters beyond blade and poison; there is no such thing as an uneducated Crow. We all read, write, are taught art forms. Be they in dance, metalworking, painting – we are cultured weapons.” Snorting a little, Zevran took another sip of coffee, rolling the thick taste around his mouth. “There are many rewards to being a Crow, but there are many rules, and you must always do what you are told. It is a cage we live in: pretty, but confining.”
“That's... terrible, Zevran.” Her eyes were wide, the almond shape almost round, and he could clearly see that there was a strange ring of silver around her iris. She reached out, laying a callused hand atop his. “I'm so sorry.”
He raised a brow at her. “Ah, Warden – compassionate as well as lovely and dangerous.” He shook his head. “But you, too, live in a cage; we all do, my dear. No one is spared; we each have roles we play, tunes we dance to. Resisting those calls only results in pain for one and all, no?”
He watched as Miolanai mulled that over, her gaze turning inward. “Some of us are thrust into situations – cages – that are too big for us, bound in chains that won't break no matter that they're invisible.”
Zevran flipped his hand over, wrapping his fingers around hers, understanding intimately of what she spoke. “'Hero' is a hefty title to wear, yes?”
“Making decisions in a crisis... is different than making the day to day ones.” He let her pull her hand back to her side of the table, watching it curl into a fist. “Who gets what grain, what bann to support in their claims. Proofs that say one thing, witnesses that claim another. Being responsible for everything – from what armor and weapons your followers wear, to what spells they learn.... It's hard enough being responsible for just myself and my actions.” She sighed, turning away to gaze out over the Mercede. “Sometimes, I just wish someone would tell me what to do, and take care of the details.”
“And so you seek the Guild,” he said, gaining a bit of insight he hadn't had before. “They point you in a direction, you attack, taking out something using the skills you have. You don't have to think or worry for anything. That is what you thought this would be like for you, yes?”
Her look was pointed. “You're saying it won't be.”
Picking up his glass, he held it by the bottom, the dyed glass glittering. “Is this a cup?”
Miolanai crossed her arms, leaning away from him. “Yes.”
“And shall it always be a cup? Is it simply a container for drink?” Pursing his lips, he measured her expression. “Can it not become a weapon, or a gift? A cup can just as surely kill or save as a 'hero'. But who decides what this cup shall do?”
“You do,” she grunted, her mannerisms rough and male; other than her features Miolanai was utterly male at times.
He finished his coffee, and waggled a finger at her. “A cup has no sentience; it does not choose what it does. You and I do, or someone else does. You come here seeking to be like this cup, but you are not a cup, you are a person, a 'hero'. There is no one but you who can fill you and choose what to be filled with.”
“You're saying that not even amongst slaves and their owners will I find someone who will simply tell me where to go, what to do,” she said, muttering darkly.
Spreading his hands, Zevran smiled ruefully. “No one is large enough to pour contents into your cup. No one is strong enough to tell you what to do. No one is able to shoulder your burdens, and take responsibility for your actions. It is part of finding a place in life, of being an adult. Not even I, a slave born and raised, am absolved of each thing I do.” Leaning on his elbows, he forced her to let him catch her eyes. “There are many things I have no choice in, or only a little, but how I handle those things is fully my choice, and for choosing to accept what I do, who I was made to be, I am well rewarded.”
“You sound sort of like Sten and Wynne, talking like that,” she replied wearily, looking as if the weight of the world was on her slim shoulders.
And it was, to a degree. Heroes were good for when a group needed a leader, and a focus for rallying against insurmountable odds. But what happened to 'heroes' when the battle was over? Zevran had seen Crows like Miolanai that returned from long contracts, or too many battles. Beaten down by the constant pressures, they knew no other way to be than what situations had molded them into.
They either cracked or recovered. Sometimes it was one and the same. Which the Warden would be, Zevran was unsure of at the moment. However, he did know one thing: it was his responsibility to ensure she recovered enough to function for Ignacio's purposes.
“Qun'ari tend to have a peculiar wisdom, I have found, even the Tal Vashoth,” he agreeed easily. “I have known three Stens of the Beresad; they make for good mercenaries and interesting drinking partners. As for this Wynne, who is that?”
“I guess you weren't fully informed of everything? She was an Enchanter of the Circle,” she replied, smirking at him.
Zevran shrugged once more. “Your party members are not who I am assigned to. Their identities are unimportant, beyond Alistair Theirin and Leliana.”
XXX
They were walking along, and he could feel the tension building in the Warden. Every now and again he caught her scanning their surroundings, the streets, peering at the faces of people that moved past them, as if she were looking for and assessing threats. He would think it foolish, but he only had to remember that she was keyed up still, never having truly removed and set aside that armor for more than a night. Even though she had jokingly said she had been relieved to take the weight off last night, her current actions and the ones of the morning belied that. Miolanai wouldn't know what to do without her armor acting as a constant buffer between her and others.
Laying a hand on her shoulder, he stepped close, leaning down, and pointed to the west. “Look there.”
Quickly she turned in the direction he was pointing, squinting around, hand moving up to the hilts of her weapons. “What? Where?”
“No, look up there; sight along my arm,” he murmured in her gently pointed ear.
For another moment, Zevran half expected her to arm herself and ready for an attack. He could feel when she saw what he was pointing to. Her breath caught, and she turned to glance at him, her face close to his. This close, he could see that there was a thin-as-gossamer set of scars, running from below her ear down into the top of her armor.
“What is that?” she whispered, her mouth opening in awe.
“The minarets of Al Bastión de Flores Abrasadoras.” Translating for her quickly, he added, “The Bastion of Burning Flowers.”
“What?” A puzzled laugh came from her. “They massacre a lot of flowerbeds there? Oh no – we attack with the awesomeness of floral arrangements! And set them afire! Oh yes, smell that fragrant smoky scent!”
Laughing, Zevran shook his head. “No, look at the spires. They are like roses atop long stems, yes?”
Miolanai squinted those queer emerald eyes, chin jutting a touch as she focused. “I suppose. Oh!” A startled gasp broke free. “They're tiled!”
“Yes.” He nodded, still leaning with his face near enough to hers for her to feel it, though she couldn't see it. “Like petals, with glass. As the sun sets, they flame bright, reflecting all the colors of sunset and sky. Like flowers made of flame.”
“How is that even remotely practical?” She asked, shaking her head, jaw still dropped in awe.
He urged her to resume walking. “It serves as guide for ships in the harbor, and near the tops of the minarets there are scouting platforms with special lenses. They can see far and wide, and ships can be rescued if need be, or defenses can be mounted in an attack.” He snorted. “Though, the last who were able to do so and succeed were the Qun'ari. No other would be so foolish.”
“Is everything here like that? All beauty and death?” She sounded so confused.
He licked his lips. “There is beauty in everything, no matter how ugly it is. Just as there is ugliness in everything beautiful. It is... a paradox.”
“Well, I suppose we're all born dying,” Miolanai muttered, still casting glances towards the fine spires. “And to truly feel alive is to skate the narrow edge of a knife, knowing that one misstep, and you fall to your doom, and that with every correct step you're slicing off a little bit more time...”
“Such dark thoughts.” Pausing at a flower selling girl with a basket looped over her arm, he paid for a little bouquet, turning to present it to Miolanai. “For someone so lovely. Smile more, it brightens your face, just as these,” he touched one of the dark violet black petals as he tucked the flowers behind one of her pointed ears, “bring out the light in your eyes.”
She jerked back in surprise but he had been too fast. “Wha-what?”
Tapping her chin, Zevran gave her a playful grin. “Smile, for you are lovely, Warden, and have a face that is not suited for these dark glowers you cast every which way.”
He watched as Miolanai shifted uncomfortably, not looking at him. “Lovely, is it? Hmph, flattery is unnecessary. I'm just... antsy. All these people, milling about, and I have all this... energy, and nothing to do with it.”
“I can think of several things to do with boundless energy, Warden,” he responded, adding a sultriness to the words in the hopes of teasing out a smile.
What was more attention-grabbing than two, heavily armored people – who were also elves – was one of the pair looking ready to kill anything at any moment. Which wouldn't do at all. For the price of a few coppers and some breath, he would count this act as worth it. And besides, what woman didn't like being complimented?
Miolanai didn't answer, except to go back to walking. “The effort is appreciated, but unnecessary Zevran. I'm too... keyed up to play.” It was a low mumble but he caught it: “Vashedan, I could do with a fight.”
Containing his irritation, and feigning unawareness of the strange looks being cast their way, Zevran caught up. “If you are feeling that energetic, I know of a place we could spar.”
“You do?” Her tone perked up, and everything in her followed suit. “Really?”
Sucking in a deep breath, Zevran braced himself. “My loft has plenty of space to practice in.”
A huge, bright smile – a grateful one too – broke over Miolanai's face, chasing all the darkness away. “That would just make my day!”
XXX
El Agua Dorada - The Golden Water (which now when I look at that, I'm thinking 'oh crap, that is not the implication I had intended....)
Plaza de la Mercede - Plaza of the Mercede
Dos cafes con leche, doubles, tres sucres. Tambien melone con jamon y veinte churros. - Two coffees with milk - double size, three sugars. Also, melon with aged ham and twenty churros. (Mmmlight breakfast..... what I used to share with my friend Luis when I was in Spain, most mornings.... well, fine. Late mornings. And we usually added a shot or two of ron miel - honey rum from the Canary Islands - to our meal. Hey, drinkin' in the mornin' ain't abnormal there! So long as it's within reason)
Vashedan - Crap (implications and uses for 'fuck' or 'shit', but can be used mildly).
Author: Rhion
Rating: T for now, AO - eventually
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.
Summary: AU. Zev never went to Ferelden. Now, Miolanai, Hero of Ferelden finds herself in Antiva. Master Ignacio assigns her a bodyguard and guide. A guide who just so happens to have been friends with the Crow she killed so long ago during the beginnings of the Blight.
AN: Horrid weather is horrid. Fail. And I'm almost out of my Caboclo espresso. And my car is being all farked up. And I'm out of my 'good' Djarums, and my next shipment can't be ordered until Tuesday, and then I'll hafta wait 8 to 14 business days to get them. Ugh. Don't start smoking kids, it's crap.
XXX
Guild-ed 2
XXX
He had absolutely no idea what to do with the Hero of Ferelden. On one hand, there were his orders: protect at all costs, guide through the intricate dance of politics and intrigue, gather information she may miss and impart it to her. Master Ignacio had basically given him away to a free-agent Master-level Crow, for that was to be the status of the Hero in the Guild. While it wasn't unheard of for a person that had never been trained by the Guild to be accepted as a highly proficient fighter, and as a free agent member, it was rare, and no such position had ever been granted to someone who knew so little of Antiva. There had been several Rivainians in somewhat recent memory, and the rare Tevinter. Never someone from such a backwards place as Ferelden. Nor from Orlais – there was no such thing as a true free agent bard from that nest of poisonous whores.
But what was unheard of, was... giving, for all intents and purposes, a highly trained, top-level Crow to one of these free agents. Ignacio, that wily little weasel, had basically done this by not putting a time limit at all upon the lending of 'guide' and 'bodyguard'. The shemlen probably thought that Zevran craved elevation in status, such as the sort gained by killing his Master. And so Ignacio had taken down two things with one fell swoop. Keeping an eye on the Warden, and foisting off a potential threat at the same time. Here Zevran had thought he had ingratiated himself enough to avoid being killed or traded off like most of the others that had been part of his original cell.
Right before the end of the Blight, Ignacio had returned to Antiva, triumphant and secure in his position, and killed Zevran's original master, Yago, taking over easily. He then proceeded to ignore the contract that had still been out for the Wardens, that had been purchased by the now-dead Loghain and Howe. Of course, it was Ignacio's prerogative to do such, but it was frowned upon. Except no one in the Guild was saying anything – the Guild well knew what could have happened with an unchecked Blight, and so showed grace where it could. Even so....
Sighing in aggravation, the bronzed elf dropped the tray off in the kitchens, and made his way back to the Warden's assigned apartment. It wasn't lavish at least, and quite tasteful, similar to his own tastes, actually. That was one of Ignacio's hallmarks. Gilding everything was not his style. Professionalism was a must – Ignacio's Crows were to be enigmatic, calm, and measured, except when off-duty, or if a contract called for something else. For Zevran, such a thing wasn't his usual modus operandi. He excelled at warmth, drawing in everyone like a moth to a flame, be they Crow, or mark, or just a person on the street. It made his life easier, made him less of a target, let others think he was too stupid, and too busy futtering, to have any serious thoughts in his head, or ability to be dangerous. Strangely though, he was still well-known within the Guild, and there had been the occasional inquiry from his peers and lessers as to the reasons behind his not having a cell of his own. There had been offers to join him if he had decided to collect a cell, but every time, Zevran had simply smiled and changed the subject.
It was how he had survived thus far, and probably the only reason Ignacio had spared him the assignments that would lead to his untimely demise, the way other Crows from his cell had been. True, he had proved his loyalty as well – what was another master to Zevran? Just someone who told him who to kill, where to go, and he had no interest in doing more than that. Even so, Ignacio was far from stupid, and was correct that if Zevran had wanted to become a Crow Master – rather than simply remain at his current level – he could.
But there was still the matter of the Warden Miolanai – and the contract that, while technically active, was for all intents and purposes not – and the minor fact that since Taliesen and his band had so clearly failed in their attempt on the Warden's life, meant that she had been the one to kill Zevran's long-time friend and his first apprentice, at that. There was a certain.... honor... amongst killers, and it demanded he do something. However, he could not. Here he was, bound and commanded to protect – at all costs – the very person whom his every instinct told him to kill.
It was definitely a troublesome predicament.
Making sure to keep his tread upon the stairs near the apartments audible, Zevran entered the sitting room. He half expected the Warden to have fallen asleep, with all that theatrical yawning she had been doing, but no, she was up, staring through the open door of the watercloset. While the Crow had come across Fereldens before, they had mostly been wealthy, or dockhands – two very different sets of people. The wealthy knew how to move about Antiva's finer establishments, while the dockhands Zevran had associated with had mostly been to pump them for information, and he never had to wonder if they knew the basics of civilization. This Warden, on the other hand, was like a curious child, ignorant and impatient. Smothering the glower that wished to break free, he wondered for a moment if he would have to show her how to work the facilities.
Instead, she turned, leaning a shoulder on the door frame, and said conversationally, “You know, the only times I saw running water were in Orzammar, and in my personal quarters at Vigil's Keep, and that was just for the tubs.” Crossing her arms she jerked her chin towards the bath. “But there's a privy, a bath, and even a washbasin here with spigots. Is everywhere here like that?”
A sigh of relief tickled the back of his throat, but he covered it with a cough – at least he wouldn't have to explain the bathroom to her. “Most. Not all flats have them, but many have them at least in the building, usually one set for each floor. And if that is not the way of it, then there are the public baths, which are on every seventh or eighth corner.”
He watched as her green eyes grew round, lending her already youthful appearance a veneer of childlike surprise. “Public baths?”
“Yes.” He refrained, just barely, from drawing the word out in vague irritation, feeling as though he were speaking to a simpleton. “Public baths are a social setting, often. There are pools with hot water, some with cold, while others are a mix of the two.”
“That seems a waste, I mean, what if there's a bunch of customers? What do they do, just bathe together?” There was disbelieving confusion all over her face, lips twisted and brow furrowed as though she were trying to imagine something like that.
Counseling himself to patience, Zevran took a deep, fortifying breath. Ignorant child, indeed. Stupidity was one of those things he loathed in others; no amount of half-pleasing looks could make up for brains that were similar to mashed potatoes. Licking his lips, he replied, “That is exactly what they do.”
“Everybody does? All together? Dear Maker, that would scandalize some people I know, so much.” She giggled and clapped her hands, sharply. “What fun! Ohh, Wynne's expression would have been priceless!”
Confused himself now, Zevran moved to be seated, sinking gratefully into the plush cushions. “Then... how do your people get... clean?”
She hopped over the other couch's back, landing with a broad smile, tucking her legs under her. “Small basins. Most people only bathe once or twice a week.”
He choked in disbelief. “Once.... or twice... a week?”
“Some people, even less,” she amended, shrugging. “In the Alienage, clean water was hard to come by; why waste it on skin that's just about to get dirty once more, in short order?”
Trying very hard to not imagine the stench, Zevran rubbed his temples with both hands now. He could only pray to some distant, uncaring Maker that the Warden bathed with some sort of regularity, otherwise he would go mad. If they were on the trail he could understand, but with normal amenities to hand, bathing less than three times a week was detestable.
“I suppose in that instance it would be, understandable,” he said, slowly, still trying to imagine – or well, trying very hard not to imagine – what the populace of Ferelden was like.
She played with a silver ring on one finger, rolling it with her thumb. “Well, once I got to the Arling of Amaranthine, and was made Arlessa -” here she snorted indelicately, as if she thought that was a strange thing indeed, “I found that the only way to ease the aches and headache of having to deal with so many people was to sink myself up to my neck in hot water as often as possible. Wash away the care and all that. My cousin Shianni, when she found out, teased me mercilessly about it. But, then again, she was always the sort to simply bull into everything, and anyone who made a bad comment whatsoever got their nose broken. And just their nose if they were lucky...” Smiling broadly, this woman was full of the damn things which for some reason made him want to respond in kind, she continued, “I don't think anyone would dare to give her enough trouble to make her have a headache. And some people think I roll over anything that gets in my way...”
Deciding that she wasn't stupid, and simply a product of a place with no civilization whatsoever, Zevran forced himself to reexamine her. Blunt, certainly. Then again, that was the charm of Fereldens, he was told. There was no polish to her, to this Miolanai: her clothes were simple, her speech easy and free, her movements graceful in a particular, playful way. The cast of her features made her appear somewhere between too young and mid-twenties, but she had fought an Archdemon and won.
And survived it.
That meant there was a hard core somewhere in her. Maybe that meant that all this was simply her persona in public. A shiny, silly, simple thing, that disarmed those around her, much like his own facade of sensuality. Not that he wasn't a hedonist at times, but he was far more pragmatic than most gave him credit for. Keeping that in mind, Zevran had to wonder at what approach would be best. Settling into the role of long-term bodyguard and overall servant took a bit of finesse. Careful handling would be needed in educating this Ferelden.
He must have been quiet too long, for she prompted him. “So what are these baths like?”
Crossing his legs at the knee, he picked his words carefully. “The finer baths have slaves who come and assist in washing the patrons, amongst other services: drinks, food, companionship and conversation.” He tapped a random beat on the hard, yet supple, Antivan leather of the guard that covered his kneecap. “There are smaller inner baths, for small groups, or individuals. I once had a mark in El Agua Dorada. Quite a fine place; many of the tiles in the private baths had gems inset in them. Mother-of-pearl abounded – absolutely gorgeous. If one is to die, it was a good place to do so. So many more unpleasant places, yes?”
Tilting her head, so strands of white hair fell across her cheek, she looked at him. “Dangerous I would think. All that water... easy to get drowned if they get a better grip on you than you have on them.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But I prefer to take them unawares; it is the best way. Do not let the mark suffer. If they fight too much, then their deaths are drawn out. Clean death is better. It is why I prefer poisons to disable them, after they have been... exhausted properly.”
To this she nodded. “I'm mostly used to straight-up fights. It isn't like you can say to an ogre, 'hey, I'm going to feed this to you so you won't fight so much, so I can kill you quick and merciful-like. But first, would you like a backrub?' They don't tend to respond well. People though, I can see that being a definite tactical advantage.”
He laughed at the image she painted. “No, I imagine it would not be taken well.”
Suddenly she leaned forward, pert nose crinkling. “So wait, people, they... don't wash themselves at these places?”
“The rich do not; often they do not even dress themselves. That is what slaves are for,” he replied, shrugging.
Her face scrunched to one side. “Really? It... isn't all that complicated! It's just water, soap and a cloth. And they can't even... put clothes on by themselves? Really? Anyone over five should be able to manage that on their own...”
“Ah, so I take it this means you require no assistance? Tchk, a shame, I was looking forward to it.” He slipped into his usual teasing and banter; it seemed the best route with her, considering the way she had picked at him already several times.
XXX
Waking early the next morning, Zevran lay abed, listening. From the way the Warden behaved yesterday, he knew some of how he needed to proceed. She was clearly exhausted from her voyage, and would need time to adjust. Rubbing his forehead, staring at the ceiling, the Crow repressed a groan. Miolanai would be useful to the Guild, he supposed, but first she had to be rested, and then somehow educated.
He would have to teach her Antivan, give her a general rundown on history, the factions, and things like that. Then he would have to show her the cultural high and low points, and how to navigate the Guild itself. But how educated was she in general? Zevran wasn't even sure she could read. It was like being thrown a new apprentice, but one who hadn't even gone through the basics of training. How to eat, how to sleep in the heat, when times were safe, and unsafe. What sorts of clothes to wear, what sorts of things were polite conversation, and others that were impolite.
In the other room he heard a grunt and tossed covers followed by bare feet on rug covered wood. Another thump, then quick breathing that was only just this side of audible through the thick walls. Slipping from his bed, the creamy blue and yellow linen contrasting one color to the other. Snagging his loose silk sleep half-trews and tugging them on, Zevran listened intently. Sharp inhales and exhales came in a measured rhythm, that continued even as he made his way around the screen that only partially blocked his room from the sitting area. Cocking his head when he got to the Warden's room, he pressed his ear to the door before squatting to peer through the keyhole. What a strange sight met his spying eye, his fellow elf was pressing herself up and down over the ground, resting her weight on toes and palms, with her back rigid. Then Miolanai was rolling over onto her back, hands tucked behind her head, feet planted firmly on the ground and sitting up and laying back down repeatedly. Frowning at the odd exercises, Zevran straightened, knocking on her door.
From behind the wood came another grunt. “S'open!”
Taking that for an invitation, the Crow pushed the door wide. “Do you require anything?”
“Uhn?” She paused, half way between the ground and her knees. “Nope. No – wait, could you hold my feet steady, there's nothing for me to hook them around.”
Doing as she asked, Zevran cautiously probed, “And what is this that you are doing?”
“Situps.” She expelled the word in a gust. “Gotta do two hundred.”
He moved from her feet, gaining a better grip on her ankles. “Two hundred of these... exercises? Why?”
He watched as her lips moved soundlessly, those odd green eyes clenched shut, clearly keeping count. Quickly she finished, levering herself back into a backbend, and Zevran was forced to tighten his hands around her ankles to keep her steady. Beneath his fingers, he felt tight muscles and tendons looping around the slim bones. There was a resounding series of pops and cracks from her spine, knees and shoulders, that made her moan in a rather... enticing way, he had to admit.
And then she was flopping back down on the floor, tugging at his hold on her as she said, “Fighting trim. Helps get the blood started. Is there anywhere I can run? I need to do about five miles.”
“Not anywhere inside the city, unless it is on someone's property.” He sat back on his heels, measuring her.
She had clearly spent the night wearing leggings and tunic, for they were rumpled, much like her hair. Atop the bed he spied her sword, blade bared. Not even he slept with a naked blade in bed. Too easy to roll over or shift in one's sleep, making for unfortunate accidents.
Miolanai ran hands through her hair, sitting cross-legged in front of him. “Blast. How do you Crows stay in shape if you don't have anywhere to run? Is there some sort of saille or other we could go to? Preferably nearby.”
“Most of us reside in safehouses that have a training room,” he replied, shrugging. “We would need to gain permission from one of the owners, to make use of one.”
She frowned, sucking on her bottom lip. “What about the ones who don't live in the safehouses?”
Zevran shifted, uncomfortably. His loft in the tannery quarter of town had plenty of room for practice, as well as various equipment that he used to stay in top physical form... but that was a private place, that, while the Guild knew about it, he had never brought anyone there that had any Guild association.
“I could easily ask Master Ignacio for access to one of the safehouses,” he offered instead.
With a sigh, Miolanai nodded. “Fine. What's one day?”
“I would think,” he started, hazarding to voice his thoughts, “that you might wish to rest for a few days, now that you are back on land. After that, take in some of the city sights. Master Ignacio doesn't expect to introduce you to the Guild until you have had some time to yourself.”
...And time to be prepared for the dances that would ensue.
She was blinking at him in that odd fashion that made him feel like she was about to call him 'crazy'. “Time enough to rest when I'm dead, and if I don't keep sharp, that'll happen sooner, rather than later.”
He tried to hide his grimace. “Everyone needs a holiday, Warden. You should take the time to become acquainted with Antiva and its culture before seeking to dash headlong into things that will get you dead far more quickly than taking some time off.”
“Is that a recommendation, or part of your thing as guide?” she asked, leaning her chin on a fist as she propped an elbow on one knee.
Pursing his lips, Zevran kept a curse back. “I have been tasked with guiding you in all things here, as well as watching your back. This includes ensuring that you take care of yourself.”
Miolanai stood and went to her armoire, pulling out a fresh change of clothes. “I've been taking care of myself a long time. I'm alive, so I must be doing just fine.”
Averting his gaze politely as she stripped and changed, Zevran clutched at his thighs. Headstrong and ignorant. Hasty, and refusing to respond to gentle guiding. At this rate, he would have to hit her on the head, tie her up, and explain to her in small words exactly how things were to be. Ignacio had made it abundantly clear that having the Hero of Ferelden in his employ, even as a free agent, was a coup that was not to be missed. Such opportunities were rare, and keeping her loyalty to Ignacio was paramount, which meant keeping her safe from idiotic decisions, not just the general riffraff and Crows.
Miolanai was stepping around him, removing her armor from its stand and buckling it on quickly. Zevran took a moment to appreciate that – it was one of those rare things to behold, someone who knew their gear and could don the complicated armor with such speed and dexterity. Then again, from the way she sighed in relief once it was on her, he supposed she had been wearing armor day in, day out for quite some time.
Because of this he found himself asking, “How does one become a Warden?”
“Drink some blood, choke on it, pass out, have some fucked up nightmares, and wake up if you're lucky, with a pounding headache that never truly goes away,” she replied shortly, pulling on her baldrics and getting them settled, then changed the subject. “So, since there's nowhere for me to exercise, why not show me some of these sights you're on about?”
XXX
Two armed and armored elves was not exactly a normal occurrence, not when one of the elves was obviously playing 'tour guide', but Zevran knew that stubborn look in the Warden's eyes, he had seen it on long-time soldiers, had seen it in his own eyes on occasion. It was a look that said 'try to part me from my weapons and armor, and I'll part you from your life'. Of course, such a thing had its uses, but this was Antiva City. Its dangers were not the sort that were best met with steel, but with wit.
Even so, he walked beside her, pointing out various landmarks, humoring her for now. “That is the Plaza de la Mercede.” He gestured towards the large square, tree lined as it was, splashing fountains dotting it at all four corners and two in the center, each bearing sculptures of famous monarchs killed by the Guild. “There are small cafes lining the streets that wrap around the square, mostly catering to foreigners. Each major faction of the Guild has at least one cafe, listening for news and gossip.”
“Are any of them any good?” She pushed away some of the hair that perpetually fell into her eyes. He supposed that the small concession she'd granted by not wearing a helmet meant that the hair that normally was kept back, now no longer was, was something she was currently cursing. “I could eat half a bronto.”
His lips twitched. “A bronto? And only half of one? Hmm, here I thought you might swallow it whole.”
“It's a dwarven thing, sort of a pack animal,” she said, nose wrinkling. “Ugly as sin; looked like a fat, bloated darkspawn, or a corrupted ox.”
“There hasn't been a sighting of darkspawn in Antiva in near a hundred years,” he pointed out, “so I have no idea what they actually look like.”
Guiding her to the northwest corner of the Mercede, Zevran watched for thieves. Most were only giving them sidelong glances; he was well known here, enough so that most of them tended to leave him alone, except the occasional band of playing street urchins, but today there were none nearby.
Miolanai took a deep breath and he could tell she was about to start going over some lengthy list of details. “Genlocks. Let's see... They come from dwarven females that have been made into brood mothers. Short, similar build to a dwarf, faces like dying rats, all teeth, narrow, pinched, melted skin. Green to grey. They smell. Stink actually.”
Zevran interrupted her as they neared one of the smallest cafes. “Pardon? They... are... part dwarf?”
“Uhn? Oh, yeah.” Nodding vigorously, she continued, “Females are taken captive every time. They're... twisted by the darkspawn, by the taint. They can spawn dozens of darkspawn in a day.”
A sense of disquiet fell over him. “I was given to understand that Wardens are tainted.”
“How would you know that?” Miolanai reached out, grabbing his arm, pulling him to a stop. She was staring up at him intently. “That's a Warden secret.”
Grunting, Zevran met her gaze steadily. “There is no such thing as a secret that the Guild can't find out.” He glanced back the way they came, toward the streets that would hold Ignacio's villa. “I was given materials to read, when I was informed of what my next assignment was to be. Wardens sense darkspawn, because they are part darkspawn. Only Wardens can kill Archdemons. Wardens go through a ritual that has been named The Joining. Wardens have the Right of Conscription and in most places will exercise it regularly, to keep their numbers bolstered, except in Ferelden. The fact that Wardens 'meddled' in political affairs got them exiled two hundred years ago, which means that any Warden in Ferelden is to be watched closely.”
“Anything else you know that isn't common knowledge?” Her eyes were skipping over his face intently.
“When you were ten you were almost arrested by the Denerim guard for pickpocketing.” Twisting his arm in her grasp gently, Zevran pulled her along to the cafe. “Your mother died during a riot when you were fourteen. She came to Ferelden from somewhere north. Your cousin Soris was with you the day you killed Bann Vaughan Kendell. The Grey Warden Duncan lent a sword to him, as well as to the man you were to marry. Somehow the two foolish boys stormed into the Arl's Denerim estate and in the fracas your betrothed – one Nelaros – was killed. You once shoved a human out of a window for calling you 'knife ears'. Would you like me to continue? I have been briefed on everything I need to know.” Holding up two fingers to one of the waiters, he called out “Dos cafes con leche, doubles, tres sucres. Tambien melone con jamon y veinte churros.”
He swiveled in his chair to face her fully. “I know everything necessary to protect you that was easily found. Ignacio is nothing if not thorough, and I am nothing if not professional.” Before she could ask what he ordered them, he continued. “You will like the coffee, but first watch how I make mine. The rest, eat as much as you like, however I recommend going a little slow. Enough people are staring at us, we don't need more.”
When the food arrived, the Warden simply watched him for a moment, before copying him as she had the night before. He thought she was probably getting her thoughts in order, while he was preparing to answer whatever questions she had, or deflect them, as the case may be.
Picking up and nibbling cautiously at a piece of honeydew wrapped in thin slices of cured ham, she asked, “Why would Ignacio do that?”
“Ah, an easy enough answer there,” he replied, crossing his legs at the ankles under the table, stretching out. “You are a respected personage here. Many Guildsmen would work very hard to woo you to their side, and barring that, kill you, if it became necessary. To find what makes you tick like the hands of a dwarven clock, to find what moves you, what dirt can be used to keep you in check... these are the weapons they would bring to bear.” Setting his glass of creamy coffee down, he continued, “Ignacio desires to keep you a nominally free agent, one that might bring him gossip and intrigues from the other Masters. They will say much in front of you as they try to win your... ah... affections, as it were. Like a great funnel of information, you are to be. This is the way you would earn your wealth, here. Jobs for one such as you, like the ones I would generally carry out, would be difficult. Yet, at the same time, you could still do them, using me as the blade who does the deed, as you distract the targets.”
She blinked slowly in surprise, worrying at her lip, frowning down at the plate between them. “Oh. So, I'm to be a pawn?”
“My dear, we are all pawns.” He chuckled and shook his head.
“Then why join the Crows? You don't strike me as the sort to sign yourself up to be someone's gamepiece.” The statement, when matched with her earlier one of not wanting servant.... was telling.
She had no idea that he was a slave.
Sighing, Zevran shifted forward, sprinkling a spoonful of sugar over his churros. “Truth be told, it is that I was never given much choice.”
Miolanai ate another slice of melon. “What? They forcefully recruit all the highly skilled rogues in the city?”
Zevran didn't much mind the fact that he was a slave, he just knew others could be funny about such matters. His life was good; he had possessions, prestige, and skills that non-slaves rarely ever achieved without family connections in this country, or in any other country, for that matter. Antiva was good to its slaves, by and large; few had to worry for food or shelter. The laws in place forced owners to be judicious with the resource of slaves. Of course, that didn't stop owners from beating unruly slaves and the like, but, at least there were standards.
“My dear, I was born in a whorehouse, and when I was about seven years of age, I was sold for hmm... I would say it converts to three sovereigns,” he said, taking a bite of a churro. “That is how the Crows buy all their trainees: young. Raise them up to know nothing but murder and killing. But,” he hastened to add, seeing her horror, “it isn't without its rewards. Being a Crow gets you respect, wealth, wine, women, men – anything you desire. The Guards look away from your transgressions, and people don't bother you. You are educated in matters beyond blade and poison; there is no such thing as an uneducated Crow. We all read, write, are taught art forms. Be they in dance, metalworking, painting – we are cultured weapons.” Snorting a little, Zevran took another sip of coffee, rolling the thick taste around his mouth. “There are many rewards to being a Crow, but there are many rules, and you must always do what you are told. It is a cage we live in: pretty, but confining.”
“That's... terrible, Zevran.” Her eyes were wide, the almond shape almost round, and he could clearly see that there was a strange ring of silver around her iris. She reached out, laying a callused hand atop his. “I'm so sorry.”
He raised a brow at her. “Ah, Warden – compassionate as well as lovely and dangerous.” He shook his head. “But you, too, live in a cage; we all do, my dear. No one is spared; we each have roles we play, tunes we dance to. Resisting those calls only results in pain for one and all, no?”
He watched as Miolanai mulled that over, her gaze turning inward. “Some of us are thrust into situations – cages – that are too big for us, bound in chains that won't break no matter that they're invisible.”
Zevran flipped his hand over, wrapping his fingers around hers, understanding intimately of what she spoke. “'Hero' is a hefty title to wear, yes?”
“Making decisions in a crisis... is different than making the day to day ones.” He let her pull her hand back to her side of the table, watching it curl into a fist. “Who gets what grain, what bann to support in their claims. Proofs that say one thing, witnesses that claim another. Being responsible for everything – from what armor and weapons your followers wear, to what spells they learn.... It's hard enough being responsible for just myself and my actions.” She sighed, turning away to gaze out over the Mercede. “Sometimes, I just wish someone would tell me what to do, and take care of the details.”
“And so you seek the Guild,” he said, gaining a bit of insight he hadn't had before. “They point you in a direction, you attack, taking out something using the skills you have. You don't have to think or worry for anything. That is what you thought this would be like for you, yes?”
Her look was pointed. “You're saying it won't be.”
Picking up his glass, he held it by the bottom, the dyed glass glittering. “Is this a cup?”
Miolanai crossed her arms, leaning away from him. “Yes.”
“And shall it always be a cup? Is it simply a container for drink?” Pursing his lips, he measured her expression. “Can it not become a weapon, or a gift? A cup can just as surely kill or save as a 'hero'. But who decides what this cup shall do?”
“You do,” she grunted, her mannerisms rough and male; other than her features Miolanai was utterly male at times.
He finished his coffee, and waggled a finger at her. “A cup has no sentience; it does not choose what it does. You and I do, or someone else does. You come here seeking to be like this cup, but you are not a cup, you are a person, a 'hero'. There is no one but you who can fill you and choose what to be filled with.”
“You're saying that not even amongst slaves and their owners will I find someone who will simply tell me where to go, what to do,” she said, muttering darkly.
Spreading his hands, Zevran smiled ruefully. “No one is large enough to pour contents into your cup. No one is strong enough to tell you what to do. No one is able to shoulder your burdens, and take responsibility for your actions. It is part of finding a place in life, of being an adult. Not even I, a slave born and raised, am absolved of each thing I do.” Leaning on his elbows, he forced her to let him catch her eyes. “There are many things I have no choice in, or only a little, but how I handle those things is fully my choice, and for choosing to accept what I do, who I was made to be, I am well rewarded.”
“You sound sort of like Sten and Wynne, talking like that,” she replied wearily, looking as if the weight of the world was on her slim shoulders.
And it was, to a degree. Heroes were good for when a group needed a leader, and a focus for rallying against insurmountable odds. But what happened to 'heroes' when the battle was over? Zevran had seen Crows like Miolanai that returned from long contracts, or too many battles. Beaten down by the constant pressures, they knew no other way to be than what situations had molded them into.
They either cracked or recovered. Sometimes it was one and the same. Which the Warden would be, Zevran was unsure of at the moment. However, he did know one thing: it was his responsibility to ensure she recovered enough to function for Ignacio's purposes.
“Qun'ari tend to have a peculiar wisdom, I have found, even the Tal Vashoth,” he agreeed easily. “I have known three Stens of the Beresad; they make for good mercenaries and interesting drinking partners. As for this Wynne, who is that?”
“I guess you weren't fully informed of everything? She was an Enchanter of the Circle,” she replied, smirking at him.
Zevran shrugged once more. “Your party members are not who I am assigned to. Their identities are unimportant, beyond Alistair Theirin and Leliana.”
XXX
They were walking along, and he could feel the tension building in the Warden. Every now and again he caught her scanning their surroundings, the streets, peering at the faces of people that moved past them, as if she were looking for and assessing threats. He would think it foolish, but he only had to remember that she was keyed up still, never having truly removed and set aside that armor for more than a night. Even though she had jokingly said she had been relieved to take the weight off last night, her current actions and the ones of the morning belied that. Miolanai wouldn't know what to do without her armor acting as a constant buffer between her and others.
Laying a hand on her shoulder, he stepped close, leaning down, and pointed to the west. “Look there.”
Quickly she turned in the direction he was pointing, squinting around, hand moving up to the hilts of her weapons. “What? Where?”
“No, look up there; sight along my arm,” he murmured in her gently pointed ear.
For another moment, Zevran half expected her to arm herself and ready for an attack. He could feel when she saw what he was pointing to. Her breath caught, and she turned to glance at him, her face close to his. This close, he could see that there was a thin-as-gossamer set of scars, running from below her ear down into the top of her armor.
“What is that?” she whispered, her mouth opening in awe.
“The minarets of Al Bastión de Flores Abrasadoras.” Translating for her quickly, he added, “The Bastion of Burning Flowers.”
“What?” A puzzled laugh came from her. “They massacre a lot of flowerbeds there? Oh no – we attack with the awesomeness of floral arrangements! And set them afire! Oh yes, smell that fragrant smoky scent!”
Laughing, Zevran shook his head. “No, look at the spires. They are like roses atop long stems, yes?”
Miolanai squinted those queer emerald eyes, chin jutting a touch as she focused. “I suppose. Oh!” A startled gasp broke free. “They're tiled!”
“Yes.” He nodded, still leaning with his face near enough to hers for her to feel it, though she couldn't see it. “Like petals, with glass. As the sun sets, they flame bright, reflecting all the colors of sunset and sky. Like flowers made of flame.”
“How is that even remotely practical?” She asked, shaking her head, jaw still dropped in awe.
He urged her to resume walking. “It serves as guide for ships in the harbor, and near the tops of the minarets there are scouting platforms with special lenses. They can see far and wide, and ships can be rescued if need be, or defenses can be mounted in an attack.” He snorted. “Though, the last who were able to do so and succeed were the Qun'ari. No other would be so foolish.”
“Is everything here like that? All beauty and death?” She sounded so confused.
He licked his lips. “There is beauty in everything, no matter how ugly it is. Just as there is ugliness in everything beautiful. It is... a paradox.”
“Well, I suppose we're all born dying,” Miolanai muttered, still casting glances towards the fine spires. “And to truly feel alive is to skate the narrow edge of a knife, knowing that one misstep, and you fall to your doom, and that with every correct step you're slicing off a little bit more time...”
“Such dark thoughts.” Pausing at a flower selling girl with a basket looped over her arm, he paid for a little bouquet, turning to present it to Miolanai. “For someone so lovely. Smile more, it brightens your face, just as these,” he touched one of the dark violet black petals as he tucked the flowers behind one of her pointed ears, “bring out the light in your eyes.”
She jerked back in surprise but he had been too fast. “Wha-what?”
Tapping her chin, Zevran gave her a playful grin. “Smile, for you are lovely, Warden, and have a face that is not suited for these dark glowers you cast every which way.”
He watched as Miolanai shifted uncomfortably, not looking at him. “Lovely, is it? Hmph, flattery is unnecessary. I'm just... antsy. All these people, milling about, and I have all this... energy, and nothing to do with it.”
“I can think of several things to do with boundless energy, Warden,” he responded, adding a sultriness to the words in the hopes of teasing out a smile.
What was more attention-grabbing than two, heavily armored people – who were also elves – was one of the pair looking ready to kill anything at any moment. Which wouldn't do at all. For the price of a few coppers and some breath, he would count this act as worth it. And besides, what woman didn't like being complimented?
Miolanai didn't answer, except to go back to walking. “The effort is appreciated, but unnecessary Zevran. I'm too... keyed up to play.” It was a low mumble but he caught it: “Vashedan, I could do with a fight.”
Containing his irritation, and feigning unawareness of the strange looks being cast their way, Zevran caught up. “If you are feeling that energetic, I know of a place we could spar.”
“You do?” Her tone perked up, and everything in her followed suit. “Really?”
Sucking in a deep breath, Zevran braced himself. “My loft has plenty of space to practice in.”
A huge, bright smile – a grateful one too – broke over Miolanai's face, chasing all the darkness away. “That would just make my day!”
XXX
El Agua Dorada - The Golden Water (which now when I look at that, I'm thinking 'oh crap, that is not the implication I had intended....)
Plaza de la Mercede - Plaza of the Mercede
Dos cafes con leche, doubles, tres sucres. Tambien melone con jamon y veinte churros. - Two coffees with milk - double size, three sugars. Also, melon with aged ham and twenty churros. (Mmmlight breakfast..... what I used to share with my friend Luis when I was in Spain, most mornings.... well, fine. Late mornings. And we usually added a shot or two of ron miel - honey rum from the Canary Islands - to our meal. Hey, drinkin' in the mornin' ain't abnormal there! So long as it's within reason)
Vashedan - Crap (implications and uses for 'fuck' or 'shit', but can be used mildly).
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Basically in this one, Zev got ahold of himself before doing something foolish - and leaving the one who actually killed Rinna (and probably framed her too) alive, he was like "No, no. That won't do. I may not have much will to live, but I refuse to let the actual wrongdoer go about his merry way as though nothing had happened! I want vengeance! I want justice!"
Plus, Miolanai's way cracked - and if he offered to hop into bed with her, or even do more than allude to it in somewhat teasing manners - she would probably try and take his head off. Both of them. PTSD girl to the max. I dunno if you've ever come across any soldiers who have served multiple tours of duty in Afghanistan or Iraq, but alot of the front liners have a hard time reintegrating into society without lots of support from friends, family and a good therapist. (Sadly there are too few in the US military, and with as many soldiers serving multiple tours as there are, alot of them wind up slipping through the cracks - this was actually what I was originally trained for and did alot of intern work on). Well Milolanai's like that. She can't differentiate between 'normal' and 'combat' lifestyles anymore. Couple that with her coming from a backwater nation like Ferelden, and throwing her into the bed of intrigue and civilization that Antiva is - Zev's got his hands full with basically an overpowered toddler, who has learned to say 'no' and 'mine' alot.
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I'm looking forward to reading more of this, I'm just insatiable like that.
One minor point was a continuity problem I spotted: In chapter one, Zevran asks the warden if Alistair was a former lover, in this chapter he was telling the warden that he knew a lot about her life, but not much about her companions during the Blight except Alistair and Leliana.
Not sure if you meant to suggest that he was playing with her in chapter one or if he suddenly remembered later one who she was referring to.
In any case, I love your work. Publish and sell that talent :)
V.
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And I'm workin' on the whole publishin' stuff, but I don't fancy only gettin' paid less than 1% of every book I sell. Which is crap. Stupid publishers, I know they gotta make money too, but if they don't pay their cash cows enough, then their cash cows can't make more milk as it were. It's a simple law of common sense, which I find that few publishers have more than a pinch of.
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I knew it wasn't much, but that is ... way too low. I better don't start calculating how many books one needs to sell a month for a reasonable lifestyle.
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I love the attention to detail and lines like the above, and your dialogue is really fun. Oh and, Djarums, good grief, you had me flash back 20 years after seeing that!
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Djarums - my major evil to myself. I eat good, I walk around etc, but... I smoke. And it can't have been 20yrs, I don't think they've been in the states quite that long. 15yrs ago is when I started hearin' 'bout them.... :squints: but then again that's about when I started hangin' with the art crowds....
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Good times...
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Back in um... 2005? Yeah, 2005, there was a lotta bad press on bidis, which are not cigars nor are the cigarettes, they're really just a little tobacco leaf that's been dried and rolled, with a plug of cotton for a filter. They were easy to purchase for teens, and also flavored 'wildly' in candy flavors. Not only that, but many of the countries producing bidis were quote un-quote 'known' to work with anti-Western groups, funding them and such. Some of it was true, some of it wasn't.... I did a big massive report in uni on various stuff about this sorta thing.
One of my observations, was that smokers (not that I'm advocatin' smokin', cuz boy howdy its the worst thing you can do to your body there is, that's legal) tend to be more social. As in they tend to congregate together, and have an easier time striking up conversations, by the nature of how they are isolated from the rest of the groups. Like walking around campuses and towns, there were innumerable people just looking down at the ground and walking briskly to wherever they were goin' and if they were talkin' at all, it was lots of grunted sounds like 'yeah, uhhuh' on their cell phones. While the smokers were discussing politics, religion, history, classes, friendships, families etc etc.
But man? Really? 4-5$ in the 80's? You were gettin' ripped off! Back in um... 99 when I started smokin' they were 1.90 a pack...
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At one time, I think smokers definitely were more social. Now, not so much, considering they have to stand outside in snow and rain to have one. It's no fun anymore. And therefore, I must quit.
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My husband finds it utterly fascinating observing my horrid way with people.
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I'm just a loudmouthed, over the top, fluffy ball of color out in public, and usually strike up conversations with anyone. People here in the States seem to think that's weird.... I really need to get back to Spain. Aieee patatas con fritas and where's my churros? :pouts:
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Heh, he's so cautious and she's such a blunt instrument. Once or twice I caught myself thinking how much worse it would be if she was a mage. Post-awakenings mages are stupidly powerful, too much so to be as twitchy as this girl is.
Love all the local colour, love your vision of the Crows and Antiva (soo much more of that to come I expect) and love to see a Zev who isn't desperate for protectors and therefore can be himself.
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This Zev is very much a product of calm decisions, which most of his decisions would have to be calm if he were to survive a hotbed of intrigue.
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Mostly I was trying to throw a plot bunny at
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