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peopleofthedas2011-02-05 05:38 am
1smut_princess) wrote in peopleofthedas2011-02-05 05:38 am
Fic: A Guild-ed Cage 4/? T For Now
Title: A Guild-ed Cage 4/?
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: Not much to say other than icy roads that are untreated are no fun.bellaknoti beta'd for which I'm grateful. Bossy GZ is bossy. Stubborn Mio is very stubborn. I is tired. Oh, and I was workin' on havin' a good chapter buffer, but apparently weather that is bad added to me means that I don't get much writing done. Yay :deadpans:
XXX
Guild-ed 4
XXX
"On the bed, there is a pair of pants, and a shirt. Put them on if you please, as I am in no mood to put my own armor back on.” He nodded towards his sleeping area. “So, you shall learn how to pull your strikes - the way a proper fighter would."
"No - I want to spar." Her jaw was set, and stubborn. Zevran had rarely seen someone make that face and have it seem so natural. Probably because it was the expression she was born with.... Or at least it seemed so.
Sighing patiently, he reclined fully, gesturing at his foot. "See this? What is it?"
"Your foot." Her full mouth was pressed to a fine line, eyes narrowed. Oh, he knew he was pushing her, but he was fairly sure she wouldn't start hacking and such just because he tore at her nerves. It would probably take at least him being flat-out rude before she decided it was a worthwhile idea.
"Yes, my foot. It is down. As is the other one," he said, tapping his toes lightly on the floor without raising either foot from the carpet. Waving another hand at himself, as he leaned back, arms half draped over the back of his couch. "And this? What is this?"
"A stubborn Crow, who is being difficult. I want to spar old man, not trade rejoinders!" she snapped at him.
Must she truly continue with calling him old? It was irritating! By no means was Zevran vain, but he did fancy himself well-preserved as it were, and still handsome enough to give most anyone a run for their money. He was not fanatical about his upkeep, but he did take care of himself. Most of the time. Well, when he could be bothered.
Smiling slightly at the Warden, aware it would aggravate her, he said, “Then why not do an 'old' man a favor, and spare him the burden of being so soundly beaten by such a young whippersnapper?” Crossing his legs, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “Why not put me through my paces, but kindly, so as to not wound my delicate self, hmmn? Humor this positively ancient creature that I am, before it is time for my nap and mashed greens.”
He could hear Miolanai muttering to herself. “Yeast-eyed, ass-bandit...”
“I'm sorry, did you say something?” he asked, cracking a lid as he heard her rise to finally go to do as he had said.
“Nothing, you recalcitrant, mash eating, haughty nughumper,” she spit, veritably stomping up the five steps to the raised platform, heading towards his bed.
Zevran had to muffle his laugh. “Oh, I must apologize, I hadn't heard you. Not because I was ignoring you, mind, but because currently you are being rather insignificant.”
The only reply was a growl and the sound of armor being dropped on his hardwood floors. Good thing he had a housekeeper with a young son, who was well acquainted with 'elbow grease'.
XXX
She was rather fetching, he supposed, in his clothes - though they didn't fit in the chest so well, as he didn't have breasts, but hers were bound tightly, making the displacement of fabric minimal - and he could be magnanimous as he had beaten her a full half the time during their sparring. However, he would have bruises from this. Miolanai had no concept of how to pull her strikes at all; she was brutishly strong, fast and accurate – an exceptionally deadly combination. So, sweaty now as she was, the blue silk of a thigh-length vest, clinging to her body, flushed and eyes bright... the Warden was zealously vibrant and full of life in a way he had yet to have seen her before.
They had spent the last two hours trading blows and verbal jabs, which appeared to be something she had very much needed. And if the fact of how sore his own muscles were was any indication, this was something he had needed as well. It had been at least a year or so since someone had truly put him through his paces, forcing him to work until exhausted, and then continue with the sparring session. Yes, his stamina was honed, a result of decades of dedication, but fights rarely ever went beyond a handful of minutes without some break.
At last, he called a halt to the session. "Enough. It is enough. You fight like a beast - ravaging and indiscriminate. Deadly, to be sure, but that is not always the goal. Consider Emi, eh?" He mopped at his face with a rag, dropping the practice sword onto the rack. "I play with him all the time, but if he did not know how to pull his claws, I could not play with him at all, yes?"
He watched as Miolanai continued a few practice feints, the points of the rattan blades dipping and swaying. “I suppose. But he's a cat, I'm a Warden. I fight to kill.”
“And Emi does not? He is fully capable of feeding himself,” he retorted, scoffing at her. “He is a wild creature who is also playful. You, too, are a wild creature, yet you cannot seem to differentiate between 'sparring' and 'attacking', let alone ‘play’. They are worlds apart in intent and meaning. Sparring is a learning tool, or a tool to work off energy or stay in trim. It can also be for play.” Demonstrating, he lunged forward, barehanded, and grabbed her wrists, yanking her into him, so they were chest to chest, before leaning in and nipping at the side of her neck. Only once, just to prove the point. “Playful. See?”
She jerked forward, her head snapping towards his as though she truly intended on headbutting him. Zevran only narrowly ducked to the side when he realized that the Warden had every intention of ramming her forehead into his face. He hissed grappling with her, until he was standing behind her, his arms hooked beneath her armpits, making 'L's out of his own arms, and leaning backwards until her feet were no longer on the floor. Aiesh! Wild child!
“Put me down!” It was a grunt, and he felt Miolanai go limp, except the muscles of her back were tight, were they pressed to his stomach and chest. “You caught me off-guard. Put me down.”
He shook his head. “Tchk, I think not. I value you my body-parts remaining as the Maker made them. So - not until I believe you have calmed.” There was a growl, and she began thrashing in his arms, so Zevran had to compensate by bracing his feet further. “Ah, see? I knew it. Woman, I know every trick in the book that is worth knowing. Do not think that you, even with all your battle experience, can stand in a solo fight against someone raised with the most vicious and dirtiest of fighters that Thedas had the misfortune of spawning.”
There was a hiss. “Fine. Just... Put me down.”
“Hmm.” Narrowing his eyes in thought, Zevran waited until she ceased her thrashing. “Can you tell me what the difference is between the intention of what I did is, versus what you have reacted to?”
“Will you put me down? I'm not some child to hoist in the air!” It came from between clenched teeth.
It was progress at least.
“If you tell me, then yes, I will,” he assented, merely glad that, as tired as he was, he could even maintain a hold on the young elf.
Miolanai was quiet for several long minutes, then she huffed, “You were goofing off in demonstration. I took it like an attack.”
Gently the Crow set the Warden back down, slowly stepping back, cautious; he half-expected her to still turn on him. “Basically, yes. That would be correct. You must learn to separate intention from consequence.” Cocking his head, he watched her as he searched for the right words. “In Ferelden, if you were sparring with... Alistair, your fellow Warden – if he had made such a move... would you have attacked him?”
“Of course not!” she protested, snorting. “Except he wouldn't have done that in the first place.”
He continued, pressing his point. “But if he had? You would not have attacked him, yes?”
She crossed her arms, looking away from him. “No. I wouldn't have. But – I don't know you. I knew him.”
Stretching back, he moaned quietly as one of his vertebrae popped. “Then this is the first thing to learn: I am unable to hurt or harm you in any way so long as I am sworn to your service.” Relaxing into a comfortable stance, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants. “Would you like a breakdown of what that means, or can you understand it without me having to give you all the gory details?”
That stubborn set to her jaw had returned. “I'm not stupid.”
“No, you're not stupid.” He nodded, agreeing readily. “You are tough, blunt, and canny. Not stupid. Merely so straightforward that seeing the forest is difficult, what with all the trees in the way.” Ember had come up to him, and was chirping up at him, rearing back and patting at his thigh, begging for attention. The large cat's paws spread all the way with each knead on the silk of Zevran's pants, but only the tips of his claws were showing. Leaning down, the bronze elf stroked one paw gently, teasing at a claw. “He is so careful, mi gato bonito. His intention is to grab my attention, not to hurt me. Miolanai, my dear, you will have to learn to be like Ember, if you wish to not merely survive, but to live.”
“So, you want me to be like you, and your pet.” Arms uncrossing, she began to pace. “I am neither a cat, nor an assassin like you. Everything I know was taught by the school of survival. Unlike you, I never had any teachers other than my mother. No one taught me art, or how to cook, or how to make poison like you do. Each thing I know, I had to fight and bleed for.”
Squatting so he could better pet Ember, Zevran watched her, a shade of pity in his mind. “Do you think that I did not have to fight and bleed for every single thing I know? Perhaps, you are right. Not all things I had to fight and bleed for at all. In fact, some of them, I had to sell bits of my soul to obtain them. You are not the only person in this world who suffers, or has suffered.”
The young woman halted, her shoulders slumping. “I'm not so selfish that I think or believe that. I just... I would rather that other people not have to suffer.”
“Hmm.... martyr then? Is that a title you would rather have?” he asked, seeking to pick apart what made this girl-woman tick.
“No!” The first was almost shouted, but the second, was much softer. “No. No I don't. Not at all.”
“Then what do you want?” He softened his tone, letting the steely edge slip away. “How is anyone to ever know what another wants, if they are not told? If things are not explained? Think Miolanai. Use the brain that the Maker gave you.”
She was staring at his wall again, one of her hands moving to trace the ridge of a crest in the mural. “I don't want to be a hero. I don't want to always need to watch my back. I want... I want to be able to believe that not everyone is out for themselves.” There was a barely audible swallow. “I don't want to have to always defend everyone. Sometimes... I'd like to be protected. Yet... when people try to do that, they die. All of them. My mother, my betrothed, my brother...” Miolanai trailed away from the open practicing area, going to flop on one of his cushion-couches. “But every time someone tries to protect me, they die. So, I'm stuck with having to be ever-vigilant. So, every attack, every potential attack – I have to end, to strike first. To finish everything. There's no respite.”
“Then we shall have to see about making such a chance, yes?” he offered, gaining some instant understanding with what she had said.
Everyone, even amongst the poorest of the poor, vilest of the vile – have moments of true peace, he thought, the thread of pity welling upwards. A moment in a safe place, to simply be. No wonder she is as she is. Now he knew why, suddenly, she had sought out such a different place from Ferelden, but the problem now was making her see the differences, understand them, and then accept them. It also let him know why Ignacio had chosen him for this assignment. Zevran was notorious for rehabilitating those sent to him, reclaiming them for the Guild, so the Guild didn't lose out on all that time and money invested in their weapons.
There was a barked laugh. “And then you will die too? Just like everyone else. For someone that you were practically given to. Like some prize goat.”
In hopes of earning a real laugh out of her, he retorted, “Ah, then I suppose I should say 'Baah-baah'.”
The Warden choked, spinning to stare at him. “Wha-what?”
“Baah,” he bleated again, grinning at her.
“Dear Maker, have you taken leave of your senses?” she sputtered, except he could tell she was trying so hard not to laugh.
“Baah.” He winked saucily. “Ah, so now I have played the part of a goat, do you not think we should have a bit to drink? I believe I've had enough of making an ass of myself.”
“You were bleating, not braying.” She rolled her large, green eyes at him, leaning up off the couch enough to make a face at him over the back of the sofa. “Wrong animal.”
“Pah, details my dear...” Giving Ember a last pat to the rump, he stood. “...are not always so important, so long as they make you laugh.” His look turned sly – purposefully – as he cupped his chin. “So, I suppose this makes you my shepherd?”
“Isn't a shepherd's job to keep the wolves at bay?” He saw the Warden shift around so her legs dangled over the couch-back, waving in the air.
He moved into her line of sight. “True enough. Perhaps then you are the one who should be bleating for my amusement?”
“Only if you promise to whack me with your big stick to keep me in line.” Her head was almost touching the floor, upside down as she was.
Truly, he shouldn't be surprised, but he had only known her for a day, really. They were both flirts in their own ways; it was merely that, while he vacillated between flirting and introspection, she flipped between violence and flirting. Then again, if the usual consequence of her relaxing was people dying, he could understand the violent streak even more. Especially when it was compared to the open-handed way she had dealt with Dieda and the flash of compassion she had shown him earlier that morning.
“Tchk, you've been looking? And here I thought you were too occupied with staring at my murals to spare me a glance as I changed.” Sitting near her, but not too close, he propped his feet up on the small table, scooting the tea tray with a toe.
“Hardly.” Her legs tensed; cupping her hands behind her head, she did a few of those weird 'sit-ups'.
Laying a hand on her knee – he worked best with touch he had found over the years – he tried to reassure her. “Surely you should try and relax, at least somewhat, here. This is my home, and it is not a place frequented by the unsavory, other than myself.”
“Mph, they relax me, gotta, umf,” she grunted, folding so her chin almost touched her knees, “keep the muscles of my back and stomach strong. They are what holds this house of cards together.”
He let her continue this for awhile, but did not remove his hand. Zevran had long since noticed that touch, even something so simple as this innocent thing, was what seemed to get through to people like Miolanai, after awhile, far more than steady words, reaffirmation, and positive reinforcement ever could. Touch like this was rare for most soldiers - for heroes or Crows or villains - to receive, and could give more headway in putting doors in the walls of the damage they had gained over time. Walls had a purpose, but if they could accept nothing past them, then outside forces would eventually break them down, leaving nothing to defend the inner places in a person's soul and mind.
After a time, he stood once more, and went to his bathing area, searching for a vial of something potent. There had been bags under the young elf's eyes when he met her yesterday afternoon, and they had not lessened by this morning. A journey would wear anyone out, even someone so stoic, however the Warden would refuse a suggestion of a nap, just as she had scoffed at the suggestion of a day or two of rest. Frowning at the vial, with its thick, clear contents, he pried the stopper out. Covering the glass lip with a fingertip, he shook it once, to gather just enough to dampen the pad of his finger. Then swiped it over his bottom lip. Recorking the vial of duerma miel, he put it away, and returned to the sitting area, where the Warden was still doing sit-ups. She must have done five hundred by now, and adding that to the two hundred of the morning, the long walk, the scuffle, and the two hours of sparring – she had to be exhausted. No one was that impervious to fatigue.
Pretending would only make her situation worse. So, in spite of the faint misgiving that coiled in his stomach, Zevran waited until she was on a downwards move before he knelt beside her. Under most circumstances he would have bedded the woman already, but she required a particular deft care, and since this assignment was indefinite, he would have to be delicate in his approach. However, her blood should no longer be hot from practice, and the Crow figured he could get away with pushing her a little in this. The risk was outweighed by the potential benefit.
Miolanai paused, eyes popping open to look at him inquisitively. “Huh?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you possess a most delectable mouth?” he murmured, touching her chin.
She blinked rapidly, confused. “Only people who were drunk or trying to get something from me. You're not drunk, so what are you trying to get?”
“A kiss.” Leaning forward, he paused a hairsbreadth from her mouth. “Is that such a strange thing to desire?”
“Why?” She remained still, only looking vaguely befuddled.
Tangling a hand in the hair at the back of her skull, he purred, “I am a sensualist if you must know.”
“And so that makes you want to kiss me? For no other reason?” An eyebrow rose high on her forehead.
“I need more reason than that?” Only narrowly, he remembered not to lick his lip. The drug's effects were rather fast, and even he would succumb to it quickly. No more than five or ten minutes before it would have him crawling to a place to sleep. Miolanai would cave to it at least that fast, if not far more quickly. “My dear, you do not look in the mirror often, obviously. You have a very soft mouth when you are not glowering fit to strike people dead. So, I find myself curious indeed to find out what it would be like. Since we shall be in close company for quite some time I expect, does it not make sense to at least be... comfortable with each other?”
“Just one kiss.” A sort of resigned shrug of 'eh, why not?' was coupled with her lids drooping, giving her permission.
Closing the remaining distance, Zevran sucked on her upper lip, which caused her to suck on his bottom lip. Which was very important. Through his lashes he watched her face relax into the kiss, her tongue slipping over his lip. He was surprised, he had mostly thought she would be all grabbing mouth and lips, and teeth, none of this soft touch. Sighing through his nose, changing the angle, he allowed his own tongue to slip between her parted lips, licking at her teeth and the roof of her mouth. There was a soft, pleased moan that came from her, the vibration tickling the back of his throat. Smiling into the kiss, his lids fell the rest of the way shut, giving in to the sensation.
When it ended, Miolanai blinked up at him. “Hmm... I haven't been kissed like that by a man... ever.”
“Ah, and by women?” Sitting on the floor, he leaned against the couch.
“Men always make me feel like they're trying to chomp my head off.” There was a faint yawn as she rolled off the couch to sit beside him. “Women are nice and soft, but not too soft. Well, the ones I liked that is. I didn't like the ones who were too pliant, made me feel like I was with a squishy corpse.”
He made a face. “Mmmm...enchanting. Never shall I view a woman who gives herself up so entirely to my attentions that she does not bother to react much, the same way ever again.” He hid how the fuzziness was slipping into his brain, making his vision vaguely foggy. “And here I had always believed that they were merely boring. Now I will always feel like a necrophiliac whenever I am subjected to such encounters.”
A jaw-cracking yawn came from the Warden. “Ugh. Hey, we should go back to the um... other place. I'm.. actually kinda beat.”
“Tired my dear?” He maintained a clear-headed countenance only through long practice.
“Kinda actually, yeah.” Standing with a grunt, she was slurring, or falling back into the gutter-rolled accent of her native Alienage. “I guess I didn't realize how little I had left to give. Maybe you were right and I shoulda taken today off.”
Standing Zevran went to take a firm, concerned hold on her arm. “Please, if you are tired, feel free to rest. My home is yours, yes?”
She shook her head, once. “Nah. You're too awake, and you'll be movin' 'round and... stuff. Twitchy sleeper. Remember?”
“I can read a book,” he countered, tugging her towards his sleeping platform. As if to demonstrate, he made a show of picking a book of legends from his shelf, and held it up to her. “You can sleep, and I won't be moving around at all. Nothing to disturb your sleeping mind.”
Miolanai gave a little sigh. “Maybe you're right.”
“Come,” he murmured, urging her to the bed, and pushing her to sit on the edge of it as he pulled the covers back. “Rest, Warden. You look as though you are about to fall over.”
The elf yawned, scratching her stomach. “I really shouldn't be so tired, so suddenly. Should I?”
“Perhaps your earlier weariness combined with the tea?” he offered.
“The tea?” She startled, stiffening slightly. “What was in the tea?”
“Some of the herbs make one relaxed, it is only a mild effect,” he reassured her, which was absolutely the truth. “Hops and passion flower, roses, lavender... these are known for relaxing and soothing. However, when combined with the traveling you have done, and then this sparring, it is no wonder you are so tired.”
The Warden scooted around, yawning, as she slipped beneath the blankets. “I wish I had some of my frost runes with me.”
“Oh?” he asked, tucking the blankets around her, like she were a child, almost.
“S'hot here,” she mumbled, eyes drifting open and closed. “I hate bein' over.. heated. Like to... sleep with a dar'misu with a frost rune.... wrapped in a.. blanket... keeps me... cool...” Her voice was dreamy, and she was drifting off slowly.
Struggling through the effects he himself was suffering from, the Crow only nodded. “I am going to go put out the oil lamps.”
“Mph, make... noise. I will... know it's you,” she mumbled through another yawn, clearly forcing herself to sit up and remain awake.
“Ah, only friends make a sound, yes?” He agreeed with the theory, as it was the same conclusion his own personal experience had given him. Anyone sneaking had an ulterior motive, and even his sleeping mind knew it, always causing him to slam into wakefulness, ready to kill. “Then I shall be careful to make enough noise for you, Warden.”
She was rather admirable. Most would have crashed completely by now. However, her ability to resist the tonic's effects meant that he himself would have to last long enough, while appearing unimpaired, so as not to arouse suspicion later on. As he went about putting out the hidden lamps that he used to shed light on his flat - a series of mirrors made it possible for him to use only a few lamps - he wrapped his right hand around his left forearm and dug his thumb into the meat and muscle, rooting for that hard place and pressed. Agony shot up from the crystalline hard bit, sending a jolt of adrenaline through him, giving Zevran enough will to continue against the effects. Grateful that his task was completed so quickly, he mounted the steps, and saw that Miolanai was still sitting up. Blood was trickling down her lip as she fought sleep.
“Ah, you waited up?” Knowing he had continued to keep each of his footsteps heavy enough to make noise, he chuckled as he joined the young woman on the bed; grimacing internally, he wondered how much longer he could ward off sleep himself, and opened his book. “Go on; rest, my dear. I shan't move from this spot.”
Miolanai nodded, once more laying down. “Emi?”
Zevran whistled sharply once, and the cat came bounding towards them, hopping on the bed. “Is nocturnal. He was only waiting to be invited to bed.”
Ember squeed at him, rubbing his cheek on Zevran's knee, before climbing higher on him to pin him to the bed with his upper chest. Stroking the soft fur of the hunting cat, the Crow continued to act as though he were reading, even when his vision blurred. It was a point of pride, and honor. It was not until the Warden beside him fell fully into drug-induced slumber, that Zevran set aside his book, removed his clothes, slipped under the topmost cover and allowed himself to close his own eyes.
XXX
Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Zevran took stock. There was a face pressed in that spot between his shoulder blades, warm, moist breath falling against the line of his spine. He was laying partially on his stomach, an arm hanging off the side of his bed, and his legs were tangled and pinned with the weight of the Warden and three stone of serval. His internal time-sense told him it was early evening, just around sunset. That meant that in an hour or two, Sula would be stopping by to look over his home and do the necessary things like water his plants, feed Ember, and other chores. There were locks on his door, but the Crow never bothered with them, so there would be little 'warning' of Sula's approach which could startled Miolanai.
'Locks only stop honest people' was something that Rinna had always loved to say, and since all the honest people – as well as semi-honest ones – on this street knew him, they didn't bother with doing someone who contributed to their community so much, a dirty turn. So, locks were not something Zevran bothered with here, besides, how would Ember get out if something happened to the building while no one was there to let him out? The feline knew how to leave the flat and navigate door handles, and even simple locks, on his own. Mostly no one in the building barred their doors, which was good, as Ember had already been known to slip in and out of people's apartments, generally to say 'hello' but sometimes for 'better' reasons than that. Like to take down a husband who was beating his wife in the flat below Zevran's, as had happened once before.
Ember and Zevran were as much fixtures of this street as the tannery stench, old women sweeping their stoops, and the children running around screaming as they played. In fact, Ember was so well-known that he was more like a talisman for luck than anything else. Women would be overjoyed at Ember rearing back and rubbing his head on their stomachs – which was taken as a sign that they were fertile, or already carrying a child. Men were sure that the serval could spot 'liars', for if there was anyone that Ember didn't like, it meant that there was nothing to like about that person. As for children, he was a pet and a toy and a protector... so everyone loved Ember, probably more than Zevran himself - or that's what the Crow thought, at least.
Rubbing his face, he stretched his shoulders carefully, not wishing to dislodge the Warden. This was a deep sleep she was in, and if the rustling he had heard last night from her room was any indication, then it was a rare occurrence. Part of why the duerma miel was so addictive, and so dangerous, was not only due to how fast it acted, but for the dreamless sleep it imparted, and, he reflected, as he slowly tensed and relaxed his muscles, because it didn't make one any more groggy than usual upon wakening. For him, the drug was only used for two reasons: if he had no other recourse to gain needed rest, or for targets. His philosophy was to use the gentlest of methods for divesting targets of their lives, whenever possible. Women he usually tried to put to sleep, if at all possible, after a sound round of lovemaking. Men were a fifty-fifty chance on if he had to fight them or had the ability to drug them. Either way, the Crow usually went about things in the manner that seemed the most natural.
Death may be sudden, it may be unreasoning, but it didn't always have to be horrible and cruel.
“Uhhhn...” A low moan was mumbled into his back, accompanied by some thrashing that tossed almost all of the covers over him. “I'm too hot.”
Surprised that the duerma miel had worn off so quickly – he had expected her to be asleep for a little while longer - Zevran shifted most of the silk spreads to the floor. “And yet you are plastered to me.”
“Mmmyes, but you make an awesome pillow.” Languid scooting resulted in a leg being thrown over one of his thighs as she pressed close. “I swear, I need to get me one of you, just to keep like this. You are, seriously, one of the most comfortable things to sleep on I've ever come across.”
“I take it that means you slept well?” he asked, shifting back into her a little.
He was an unabashed sensualist, after all, and it felt pleasant to have someone pressed so close to him. It was a thing he rarely got the chance to indulge in, as most of his partners the last few years had been marks, and sleeping was usually not something he was busy doing with them. Except in one instance, but it had been a child he had been hired to kill by the parents - a sickly one, who had been dying a painful death. Zevran had spent the night telling the little boy stories, with the child cradled in his arms, holding off until the boy saw one last sunrise, before giving him enough poison for him to slip into the Fade forever. That time, the Crow had fallen into a doze, unwilling to leave the child alone even in death, until the body had cooled, at least.
It was a horrible thing in Zevran's mind, that the parents of a dying child would have been labeled murderers, and possibly prosecuted, if they had ended their son's misery. That had left them no recourse but to hire the Guild for the job. Only a Crow could get away with murder in Antiva with any sort of ease. Sometimes that seemed just the tiniest bit unjust. So, often, Zevran found himself the instrument of fate – be it the blade of the Maker's wrath, the comfort of an easier passing, or the lashing out of physical removal of 'irritants'.
“Mmmn, yes actually,” she said, and then her weight was gone, rolling away from him as she moaned again, the bed shifting as she stretched. “Maker, it's been a long time since I could say that.”
Slipping from the bed, Zevran raised his arms over his head, bending back until his spine cracked, then raked a hand through his hair, turning towards Miolanai. “Well, feel free to avail yourself of my pillow-like services whenever you need. An unrested woman is impossible to deal with, I have found.”
Her head lolled as she cracked an eye open, looking at him. There was a pause, and squint. “You're naked. When'd you get naked?”
“Before I fell asleep.” Shrugging, he grabbed his pants with deft toes, kicking them into the air so he could catch them. “It is a habit that I find I'm loathe to break. I too, do not rest well when overheated.”
“Seems impractical to me, what if there's an attack?” Sitting up, the Warden was greeted by Ember scooting and draping his long body across her lap, with his silken coat of spots and stripes, like someone had dipped their fingers in black paint before touching the cat all over.
Casually the Crow went to the low railing on the side of his platform that overlooked his kitchen area, and vaulted it. “Unlikely to happen here, and I have fought naked before. It is rather freeing. I only have to watch for blades coming too close to ah... certain areas.” Propping his chin on the railing, he gave her an amused look. “And most are usually so surprised by a nude, usually partially aroused, male fighting like a demon that they falter. I find it always amusing to see their expressions.”
She snickered. “I think it'd be sort of funny too – their last sight is of an erect cock - and just slightly ironic, as I'm sure most of your targets are shems. So, to be taken down by an elf of all things, one who seems rather.... pleased... by it, would be the lowest blow of all.” The Warden clambered from the bed, shooing Ember from it, as she bent to make the bed. “So, is that a tactic taught by the Guild?”
“Mmm, no.” He watched as the young woman put everything back in order. “It is a personal affectation, something I picked up in the whorehouse. Nudity is simply nudity. The true art is in playing games of hide-and-seek, partially veiling the body, and unveiling it. That is far more arousing, as it leaves one guessing what lies beneath.”
There was a laugh. “Oh then you'd love Ferelden. You never know what you're going to get until you unwrap it!”
“Hmn – quite. Then it is good that I have varied and nimble tastes, for no matter what lay underneath those furs, I would be content.” Pushing away from the railing, he went to his kitchen.
“Ah, don't you think you could do better, then?” Her voice traveled the distance easily.
Smirking as he pulled out a small pot, he filled it with water and then added in ground spices. “See, 'better' is always trying to do 'best. Maybe I could do 'better', but I prefer to do 'just fine'.”
There was some quiet as she clearly had to mull that wordplay over for a moment, and then, one of her trademark laughs, half-snort, half-guffaw, issued. “Maker's breath, you're terrible!”
Shrugging, not sure if she could see it nor not, Zevran lit the coal burner after checking the flue that carried smoke outside. “I know, I know. Tchk, you are so cruel pointing a man's flaws out so endlessly.” Satisfied that the water would simmer the way he wanted it to, he turned back to look at her. “My housekeeper, Sula, will be stopping by soon. I shall tell her to send Aedur to fetch some clothes for you.”
“I told you, my armor and such are my normal clothes.” There was an edge to the words.
“Your normal, here, Warden, will get you killed.” Moving to his workdesk, Zevran dug out a piece of paper, and a pen. Neatly, he made a list of items that Aedur would have to procure. “Say what you will, this is the truth, Miolanai of Antiva. If you choose to leave Antiva and return to Ferelden, your usual mode shall do fine, but this is Antiva, and not your native stomping grounds, so between the two of us, I am the expert.”
“What if I refuse?” she asked belligerently, and he could hear her already buckling her armor on in the background.
Opening a drawer, he counted out coins, depositing them into a stitched green pouch, as he maintained a calm tone. “Then we shall be attacked until such a time that the authorities must take action. The Guild can only provide so much legal protection, and once certain boundaries are crossed, Hero of the Blight or no, you will be at the very least exiled. Most likely, you would be given to a prison, and war would be caused as Ferelden or the Anderfels would be provoked. People would die in excess, and all because you wished to traipse around in places where you should not, dressed in a provocative manner.” Holding out his hand, he added, “Now, give me two of the four sovereigns you pilfered like a common bandit from those misbegotten thugs. I have the coin to pay for the things that must be ordered, entirely on my own, but I feel that it should also be partially your responsibility.”
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: Not much to say other than icy roads that are untreated are no fun.
bellaknoti beta'd for which I'm grateful. Bossy GZ is bossy. Stubborn Mio is very stubborn. I is tired. Oh, and I was workin' on havin' a good chapter buffer, but apparently weather that is bad added to me means that I don't get much writing done. Yay :deadpans:XXX
Guild-ed 4
XXX
"On the bed, there is a pair of pants, and a shirt. Put them on if you please, as I am in no mood to put my own armor back on.” He nodded towards his sleeping area. “So, you shall learn how to pull your strikes - the way a proper fighter would."
"No - I want to spar." Her jaw was set, and stubborn. Zevran had rarely seen someone make that face and have it seem so natural. Probably because it was the expression she was born with.... Or at least it seemed so.
Sighing patiently, he reclined fully, gesturing at his foot. "See this? What is it?"
"Your foot." Her full mouth was pressed to a fine line, eyes narrowed. Oh, he knew he was pushing her, but he was fairly sure she wouldn't start hacking and such just because he tore at her nerves. It would probably take at least him being flat-out rude before she decided it was a worthwhile idea.
"Yes, my foot. It is down. As is the other one," he said, tapping his toes lightly on the floor without raising either foot from the carpet. Waving another hand at himself, as he leaned back, arms half draped over the back of his couch. "And this? What is this?"
"A stubborn Crow, who is being difficult. I want to spar old man, not trade rejoinders!" she snapped at him.
Must she truly continue with calling him old? It was irritating! By no means was Zevran vain, but he did fancy himself well-preserved as it were, and still handsome enough to give most anyone a run for their money. He was not fanatical about his upkeep, but he did take care of himself. Most of the time. Well, when he could be bothered.
Smiling slightly at the Warden, aware it would aggravate her, he said, “Then why not do an 'old' man a favor, and spare him the burden of being so soundly beaten by such a young whippersnapper?” Crossing his legs, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “Why not put me through my paces, but kindly, so as to not wound my delicate self, hmmn? Humor this positively ancient creature that I am, before it is time for my nap and mashed greens.”
He could hear Miolanai muttering to herself. “Yeast-eyed, ass-bandit...”
“I'm sorry, did you say something?” he asked, cracking a lid as he heard her rise to finally go to do as he had said.
“Nothing, you recalcitrant, mash eating, haughty nughumper,” she spit, veritably stomping up the five steps to the raised platform, heading towards his bed.
Zevran had to muffle his laugh. “Oh, I must apologize, I hadn't heard you. Not because I was ignoring you, mind, but because currently you are being rather insignificant.”
The only reply was a growl and the sound of armor being dropped on his hardwood floors. Good thing he had a housekeeper with a young son, who was well acquainted with 'elbow grease'.
XXX
She was rather fetching, he supposed, in his clothes - though they didn't fit in the chest so well, as he didn't have breasts, but hers were bound tightly, making the displacement of fabric minimal - and he could be magnanimous as he had beaten her a full half the time during their sparring. However, he would have bruises from this. Miolanai had no concept of how to pull her strikes at all; she was brutishly strong, fast and accurate – an exceptionally deadly combination. So, sweaty now as she was, the blue silk of a thigh-length vest, clinging to her body, flushed and eyes bright... the Warden was zealously vibrant and full of life in a way he had yet to have seen her before.
They had spent the last two hours trading blows and verbal jabs, which appeared to be something she had very much needed. And if the fact of how sore his own muscles were was any indication, this was something he had needed as well. It had been at least a year or so since someone had truly put him through his paces, forcing him to work until exhausted, and then continue with the sparring session. Yes, his stamina was honed, a result of decades of dedication, but fights rarely ever went beyond a handful of minutes without some break.
At last, he called a halt to the session. "Enough. It is enough. You fight like a beast - ravaging and indiscriminate. Deadly, to be sure, but that is not always the goal. Consider Emi, eh?" He mopped at his face with a rag, dropping the practice sword onto the rack. "I play with him all the time, but if he did not know how to pull his claws, I could not play with him at all, yes?"
He watched as Miolanai continued a few practice feints, the points of the rattan blades dipping and swaying. “I suppose. But he's a cat, I'm a Warden. I fight to kill.”
“And Emi does not? He is fully capable of feeding himself,” he retorted, scoffing at her. “He is a wild creature who is also playful. You, too, are a wild creature, yet you cannot seem to differentiate between 'sparring' and 'attacking', let alone ‘play’. They are worlds apart in intent and meaning. Sparring is a learning tool, or a tool to work off energy or stay in trim. It can also be for play.” Demonstrating, he lunged forward, barehanded, and grabbed her wrists, yanking her into him, so they were chest to chest, before leaning in and nipping at the side of her neck. Only once, just to prove the point. “Playful. See?”
She jerked forward, her head snapping towards his as though she truly intended on headbutting him. Zevran only narrowly ducked to the side when he realized that the Warden had every intention of ramming her forehead into his face. He hissed grappling with her, until he was standing behind her, his arms hooked beneath her armpits, making 'L's out of his own arms, and leaning backwards until her feet were no longer on the floor. Aiesh! Wild child!
“Put me down!” It was a grunt, and he felt Miolanai go limp, except the muscles of her back were tight, were they pressed to his stomach and chest. “You caught me off-guard. Put me down.”
He shook his head. “Tchk, I think not. I value you my body-parts remaining as the Maker made them. So - not until I believe you have calmed.” There was a growl, and she began thrashing in his arms, so Zevran had to compensate by bracing his feet further. “Ah, see? I knew it. Woman, I know every trick in the book that is worth knowing. Do not think that you, even with all your battle experience, can stand in a solo fight against someone raised with the most vicious and dirtiest of fighters that Thedas had the misfortune of spawning.”
There was a hiss. “Fine. Just... Put me down.”
“Hmm.” Narrowing his eyes in thought, Zevran waited until she ceased her thrashing. “Can you tell me what the difference is between the intention of what I did is, versus what you have reacted to?”
“Will you put me down? I'm not some child to hoist in the air!” It came from between clenched teeth.
It was progress at least.
“If you tell me, then yes, I will,” he assented, merely glad that, as tired as he was, he could even maintain a hold on the young elf.
Miolanai was quiet for several long minutes, then she huffed, “You were goofing off in demonstration. I took it like an attack.”
Gently the Crow set the Warden back down, slowly stepping back, cautious; he half-expected her to still turn on him. “Basically, yes. That would be correct. You must learn to separate intention from consequence.” Cocking his head, he watched her as he searched for the right words. “In Ferelden, if you were sparring with... Alistair, your fellow Warden – if he had made such a move... would you have attacked him?”
“Of course not!” she protested, snorting. “Except he wouldn't have done that in the first place.”
He continued, pressing his point. “But if he had? You would not have attacked him, yes?”
She crossed her arms, looking away from him. “No. I wouldn't have. But – I don't know you. I knew him.”
Stretching back, he moaned quietly as one of his vertebrae popped. “Then this is the first thing to learn: I am unable to hurt or harm you in any way so long as I am sworn to your service.” Relaxing into a comfortable stance, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants. “Would you like a breakdown of what that means, or can you understand it without me having to give you all the gory details?”
That stubborn set to her jaw had returned. “I'm not stupid.”
“No, you're not stupid.” He nodded, agreeing readily. “You are tough, blunt, and canny. Not stupid. Merely so straightforward that seeing the forest is difficult, what with all the trees in the way.” Ember had come up to him, and was chirping up at him, rearing back and patting at his thigh, begging for attention. The large cat's paws spread all the way with each knead on the silk of Zevran's pants, but only the tips of his claws were showing. Leaning down, the bronze elf stroked one paw gently, teasing at a claw. “He is so careful, mi gato bonito. His intention is to grab my attention, not to hurt me. Miolanai, my dear, you will have to learn to be like Ember, if you wish to not merely survive, but to live.”
“So, you want me to be like you, and your pet.” Arms uncrossing, she began to pace. “I am neither a cat, nor an assassin like you. Everything I know was taught by the school of survival. Unlike you, I never had any teachers other than my mother. No one taught me art, or how to cook, or how to make poison like you do. Each thing I know, I had to fight and bleed for.”
Squatting so he could better pet Ember, Zevran watched her, a shade of pity in his mind. “Do you think that I did not have to fight and bleed for every single thing I know? Perhaps, you are right. Not all things I had to fight and bleed for at all. In fact, some of them, I had to sell bits of my soul to obtain them. You are not the only person in this world who suffers, or has suffered.”
The young woman halted, her shoulders slumping. “I'm not so selfish that I think or believe that. I just... I would rather that other people not have to suffer.”
“Hmm.... martyr then? Is that a title you would rather have?” he asked, seeking to pick apart what made this girl-woman tick.
“No!” The first was almost shouted, but the second, was much softer. “No. No I don't. Not at all.”
“Then what do you want?” He softened his tone, letting the steely edge slip away. “How is anyone to ever know what another wants, if they are not told? If things are not explained? Think Miolanai. Use the brain that the Maker gave you.”
She was staring at his wall again, one of her hands moving to trace the ridge of a crest in the mural. “I don't want to be a hero. I don't want to always need to watch my back. I want... I want to be able to believe that not everyone is out for themselves.” There was a barely audible swallow. “I don't want to have to always defend everyone. Sometimes... I'd like to be protected. Yet... when people try to do that, they die. All of them. My mother, my betrothed, my brother...” Miolanai trailed away from the open practicing area, going to flop on one of his cushion-couches. “But every time someone tries to protect me, they die. So, I'm stuck with having to be ever-vigilant. So, every attack, every potential attack – I have to end, to strike first. To finish everything. There's no respite.”
“Then we shall have to see about making such a chance, yes?” he offered, gaining some instant understanding with what she had said.
Everyone, even amongst the poorest of the poor, vilest of the vile – have moments of true peace, he thought, the thread of pity welling upwards. A moment in a safe place, to simply be. No wonder she is as she is. Now he knew why, suddenly, she had sought out such a different place from Ferelden, but the problem now was making her see the differences, understand them, and then accept them. It also let him know why Ignacio had chosen him for this assignment. Zevran was notorious for rehabilitating those sent to him, reclaiming them for the Guild, so the Guild didn't lose out on all that time and money invested in their weapons.
There was a barked laugh. “And then you will die too? Just like everyone else. For someone that you were practically given to. Like some prize goat.”
In hopes of earning a real laugh out of her, he retorted, “Ah, then I suppose I should say 'Baah-baah'.”
The Warden choked, spinning to stare at him. “Wha-what?”
“Baah,” he bleated again, grinning at her.
“Dear Maker, have you taken leave of your senses?” she sputtered, except he could tell she was trying so hard not to laugh.
“Baah.” He winked saucily. “Ah, so now I have played the part of a goat, do you not think we should have a bit to drink? I believe I've had enough of making an ass of myself.”
“You were bleating, not braying.” She rolled her large, green eyes at him, leaning up off the couch enough to make a face at him over the back of the sofa. “Wrong animal.”
“Pah, details my dear...” Giving Ember a last pat to the rump, he stood. “...are not always so important, so long as they make you laugh.” His look turned sly – purposefully – as he cupped his chin. “So, I suppose this makes you my shepherd?”
“Isn't a shepherd's job to keep the wolves at bay?” He saw the Warden shift around so her legs dangled over the couch-back, waving in the air.
He moved into her line of sight. “True enough. Perhaps then you are the one who should be bleating for my amusement?”
“Only if you promise to whack me with your big stick to keep me in line.” Her head was almost touching the floor, upside down as she was.
Truly, he shouldn't be surprised, but he had only known her for a day, really. They were both flirts in their own ways; it was merely that, while he vacillated between flirting and introspection, she flipped between violence and flirting. Then again, if the usual consequence of her relaxing was people dying, he could understand the violent streak even more. Especially when it was compared to the open-handed way she had dealt with Dieda and the flash of compassion she had shown him earlier that morning.
“Tchk, you've been looking? And here I thought you were too occupied with staring at my murals to spare me a glance as I changed.” Sitting near her, but not too close, he propped his feet up on the small table, scooting the tea tray with a toe.
“Hardly.” Her legs tensed; cupping her hands behind her head, she did a few of those weird 'sit-ups'.
Laying a hand on her knee – he worked best with touch he had found over the years – he tried to reassure her. “Surely you should try and relax, at least somewhat, here. This is my home, and it is not a place frequented by the unsavory, other than myself.”
“Mph, they relax me, gotta, umf,” she grunted, folding so her chin almost touched her knees, “keep the muscles of my back and stomach strong. They are what holds this house of cards together.”
He let her continue this for awhile, but did not remove his hand. Zevran had long since noticed that touch, even something so simple as this innocent thing, was what seemed to get through to people like Miolanai, after awhile, far more than steady words, reaffirmation, and positive reinforcement ever could. Touch like this was rare for most soldiers - for heroes or Crows or villains - to receive, and could give more headway in putting doors in the walls of the damage they had gained over time. Walls had a purpose, but if they could accept nothing past them, then outside forces would eventually break them down, leaving nothing to defend the inner places in a person's soul and mind.
After a time, he stood once more, and went to his bathing area, searching for a vial of something potent. There had been bags under the young elf's eyes when he met her yesterday afternoon, and they had not lessened by this morning. A journey would wear anyone out, even someone so stoic, however the Warden would refuse a suggestion of a nap, just as she had scoffed at the suggestion of a day or two of rest. Frowning at the vial, with its thick, clear contents, he pried the stopper out. Covering the glass lip with a fingertip, he shook it once, to gather just enough to dampen the pad of his finger. Then swiped it over his bottom lip. Recorking the vial of duerma miel, he put it away, and returned to the sitting area, where the Warden was still doing sit-ups. She must have done five hundred by now, and adding that to the two hundred of the morning, the long walk, the scuffle, and the two hours of sparring – she had to be exhausted. No one was that impervious to fatigue.
Pretending would only make her situation worse. So, in spite of the faint misgiving that coiled in his stomach, Zevran waited until she was on a downwards move before he knelt beside her. Under most circumstances he would have bedded the woman already, but she required a particular deft care, and since this assignment was indefinite, he would have to be delicate in his approach. However, her blood should no longer be hot from practice, and the Crow figured he could get away with pushing her a little in this. The risk was outweighed by the potential benefit.
Miolanai paused, eyes popping open to look at him inquisitively. “Huh?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you possess a most delectable mouth?” he murmured, touching her chin.
She blinked rapidly, confused. “Only people who were drunk or trying to get something from me. You're not drunk, so what are you trying to get?”
“A kiss.” Leaning forward, he paused a hairsbreadth from her mouth. “Is that such a strange thing to desire?”
“Why?” She remained still, only looking vaguely befuddled.
Tangling a hand in the hair at the back of her skull, he purred, “I am a sensualist if you must know.”
“And so that makes you want to kiss me? For no other reason?” An eyebrow rose high on her forehead.
“I need more reason than that?” Only narrowly, he remembered not to lick his lip. The drug's effects were rather fast, and even he would succumb to it quickly. No more than five or ten minutes before it would have him crawling to a place to sleep. Miolanai would cave to it at least that fast, if not far more quickly. “My dear, you do not look in the mirror often, obviously. You have a very soft mouth when you are not glowering fit to strike people dead. So, I find myself curious indeed to find out what it would be like. Since we shall be in close company for quite some time I expect, does it not make sense to at least be... comfortable with each other?”
“Just one kiss.” A sort of resigned shrug of 'eh, why not?' was coupled with her lids drooping, giving her permission.
Closing the remaining distance, Zevran sucked on her upper lip, which caused her to suck on his bottom lip. Which was very important. Through his lashes he watched her face relax into the kiss, her tongue slipping over his lip. He was surprised, he had mostly thought she would be all grabbing mouth and lips, and teeth, none of this soft touch. Sighing through his nose, changing the angle, he allowed his own tongue to slip between her parted lips, licking at her teeth and the roof of her mouth. There was a soft, pleased moan that came from her, the vibration tickling the back of his throat. Smiling into the kiss, his lids fell the rest of the way shut, giving in to the sensation.
When it ended, Miolanai blinked up at him. “Hmm... I haven't been kissed like that by a man... ever.”
“Ah, and by women?” Sitting on the floor, he leaned against the couch.
“Men always make me feel like they're trying to chomp my head off.” There was a faint yawn as she rolled off the couch to sit beside him. “Women are nice and soft, but not too soft. Well, the ones I liked that is. I didn't like the ones who were too pliant, made me feel like I was with a squishy corpse.”
He made a face. “Mmmm...enchanting. Never shall I view a woman who gives herself up so entirely to my attentions that she does not bother to react much, the same way ever again.” He hid how the fuzziness was slipping into his brain, making his vision vaguely foggy. “And here I had always believed that they were merely boring. Now I will always feel like a necrophiliac whenever I am subjected to such encounters.”
A jaw-cracking yawn came from the Warden. “Ugh. Hey, we should go back to the um... other place. I'm.. actually kinda beat.”
“Tired my dear?” He maintained a clear-headed countenance only through long practice.
“Kinda actually, yeah.” Standing with a grunt, she was slurring, or falling back into the gutter-rolled accent of her native Alienage. “I guess I didn't realize how little I had left to give. Maybe you were right and I shoulda taken today off.”
Standing Zevran went to take a firm, concerned hold on her arm. “Please, if you are tired, feel free to rest. My home is yours, yes?”
She shook her head, once. “Nah. You're too awake, and you'll be movin' 'round and... stuff. Twitchy sleeper. Remember?”
“I can read a book,” he countered, tugging her towards his sleeping platform. As if to demonstrate, he made a show of picking a book of legends from his shelf, and held it up to her. “You can sleep, and I won't be moving around at all. Nothing to disturb your sleeping mind.”
Miolanai gave a little sigh. “Maybe you're right.”
“Come,” he murmured, urging her to the bed, and pushing her to sit on the edge of it as he pulled the covers back. “Rest, Warden. You look as though you are about to fall over.”
The elf yawned, scratching her stomach. “I really shouldn't be so tired, so suddenly. Should I?”
“Perhaps your earlier weariness combined with the tea?” he offered.
“The tea?” She startled, stiffening slightly. “What was in the tea?”
“Some of the herbs make one relaxed, it is only a mild effect,” he reassured her, which was absolutely the truth. “Hops and passion flower, roses, lavender... these are known for relaxing and soothing. However, when combined with the traveling you have done, and then this sparring, it is no wonder you are so tired.”
The Warden scooted around, yawning, as she slipped beneath the blankets. “I wish I had some of my frost runes with me.”
“Oh?” he asked, tucking the blankets around her, like she were a child, almost.
“S'hot here,” she mumbled, eyes drifting open and closed. “I hate bein' over.. heated. Like to... sleep with a dar'misu with a frost rune.... wrapped in a.. blanket... keeps me... cool...” Her voice was dreamy, and she was drifting off slowly.
Struggling through the effects he himself was suffering from, the Crow only nodded. “I am going to go put out the oil lamps.”
“Mph, make... noise. I will... know it's you,” she mumbled through another yawn, clearly forcing herself to sit up and remain awake.
“Ah, only friends make a sound, yes?” He agreeed with the theory, as it was the same conclusion his own personal experience had given him. Anyone sneaking had an ulterior motive, and even his sleeping mind knew it, always causing him to slam into wakefulness, ready to kill. “Then I shall be careful to make enough noise for you, Warden.”
She was rather admirable. Most would have crashed completely by now. However, her ability to resist the tonic's effects meant that he himself would have to last long enough, while appearing unimpaired, so as not to arouse suspicion later on. As he went about putting out the hidden lamps that he used to shed light on his flat - a series of mirrors made it possible for him to use only a few lamps - he wrapped his right hand around his left forearm and dug his thumb into the meat and muscle, rooting for that hard place and pressed. Agony shot up from the crystalline hard bit, sending a jolt of adrenaline through him, giving Zevran enough will to continue against the effects. Grateful that his task was completed so quickly, he mounted the steps, and saw that Miolanai was still sitting up. Blood was trickling down her lip as she fought sleep.
“Ah, you waited up?” Knowing he had continued to keep each of his footsteps heavy enough to make noise, he chuckled as he joined the young woman on the bed; grimacing internally, he wondered how much longer he could ward off sleep himself, and opened his book. “Go on; rest, my dear. I shan't move from this spot.”
Miolanai nodded, once more laying down. “Emi?”
Zevran whistled sharply once, and the cat came bounding towards them, hopping on the bed. “Is nocturnal. He was only waiting to be invited to bed.”
Ember squeed at him, rubbing his cheek on Zevran's knee, before climbing higher on him to pin him to the bed with his upper chest. Stroking the soft fur of the hunting cat, the Crow continued to act as though he were reading, even when his vision blurred. It was a point of pride, and honor. It was not until the Warden beside him fell fully into drug-induced slumber, that Zevran set aside his book, removed his clothes, slipped under the topmost cover and allowed himself to close his own eyes.
XXX
Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Zevran took stock. There was a face pressed in that spot between his shoulder blades, warm, moist breath falling against the line of his spine. He was laying partially on his stomach, an arm hanging off the side of his bed, and his legs were tangled and pinned with the weight of the Warden and three stone of serval. His internal time-sense told him it was early evening, just around sunset. That meant that in an hour or two, Sula would be stopping by to look over his home and do the necessary things like water his plants, feed Ember, and other chores. There were locks on his door, but the Crow never bothered with them, so there would be little 'warning' of Sula's approach which could startled Miolanai.
'Locks only stop honest people' was something that Rinna had always loved to say, and since all the honest people – as well as semi-honest ones – on this street knew him, they didn't bother with doing someone who contributed to their community so much, a dirty turn. So, locks were not something Zevran bothered with here, besides, how would Ember get out if something happened to the building while no one was there to let him out? The feline knew how to leave the flat and navigate door handles, and even simple locks, on his own. Mostly no one in the building barred their doors, which was good, as Ember had already been known to slip in and out of people's apartments, generally to say 'hello' but sometimes for 'better' reasons than that. Like to take down a husband who was beating his wife in the flat below Zevran's, as had happened once before.
Ember and Zevran were as much fixtures of this street as the tannery stench, old women sweeping their stoops, and the children running around screaming as they played. In fact, Ember was so well-known that he was more like a talisman for luck than anything else. Women would be overjoyed at Ember rearing back and rubbing his head on their stomachs – which was taken as a sign that they were fertile, or already carrying a child. Men were sure that the serval could spot 'liars', for if there was anyone that Ember didn't like, it meant that there was nothing to like about that person. As for children, he was a pet and a toy and a protector... so everyone loved Ember, probably more than Zevran himself - or that's what the Crow thought, at least.
Rubbing his face, he stretched his shoulders carefully, not wishing to dislodge the Warden. This was a deep sleep she was in, and if the rustling he had heard last night from her room was any indication, then it was a rare occurrence. Part of why the duerma miel was so addictive, and so dangerous, was not only due to how fast it acted, but for the dreamless sleep it imparted, and, he reflected, as he slowly tensed and relaxed his muscles, because it didn't make one any more groggy than usual upon wakening. For him, the drug was only used for two reasons: if he had no other recourse to gain needed rest, or for targets. His philosophy was to use the gentlest of methods for divesting targets of their lives, whenever possible. Women he usually tried to put to sleep, if at all possible, after a sound round of lovemaking. Men were a fifty-fifty chance on if he had to fight them or had the ability to drug them. Either way, the Crow usually went about things in the manner that seemed the most natural.
Death may be sudden, it may be unreasoning, but it didn't always have to be horrible and cruel.
“Uhhhn...” A low moan was mumbled into his back, accompanied by some thrashing that tossed almost all of the covers over him. “I'm too hot.”
Surprised that the duerma miel had worn off so quickly – he had expected her to be asleep for a little while longer - Zevran shifted most of the silk spreads to the floor. “And yet you are plastered to me.”
“Mmmyes, but you make an awesome pillow.” Languid scooting resulted in a leg being thrown over one of his thighs as she pressed close. “I swear, I need to get me one of you, just to keep like this. You are, seriously, one of the most comfortable things to sleep on I've ever come across.”
“I take it that means you slept well?” he asked, shifting back into her a little.
He was an unabashed sensualist, after all, and it felt pleasant to have someone pressed so close to him. It was a thing he rarely got the chance to indulge in, as most of his partners the last few years had been marks, and sleeping was usually not something he was busy doing with them. Except in one instance, but it had been a child he had been hired to kill by the parents - a sickly one, who had been dying a painful death. Zevran had spent the night telling the little boy stories, with the child cradled in his arms, holding off until the boy saw one last sunrise, before giving him enough poison for him to slip into the Fade forever. That time, the Crow had fallen into a doze, unwilling to leave the child alone even in death, until the body had cooled, at least.
It was a horrible thing in Zevran's mind, that the parents of a dying child would have been labeled murderers, and possibly prosecuted, if they had ended their son's misery. That had left them no recourse but to hire the Guild for the job. Only a Crow could get away with murder in Antiva with any sort of ease. Sometimes that seemed just the tiniest bit unjust. So, often, Zevran found himself the instrument of fate – be it the blade of the Maker's wrath, the comfort of an easier passing, or the lashing out of physical removal of 'irritants'.
“Mmmn, yes actually,” she said, and then her weight was gone, rolling away from him as she moaned again, the bed shifting as she stretched. “Maker, it's been a long time since I could say that.”
Slipping from the bed, Zevran raised his arms over his head, bending back until his spine cracked, then raked a hand through his hair, turning towards Miolanai. “Well, feel free to avail yourself of my pillow-like services whenever you need. An unrested woman is impossible to deal with, I have found.”
Her head lolled as she cracked an eye open, looking at him. There was a pause, and squint. “You're naked. When'd you get naked?”
“Before I fell asleep.” Shrugging, he grabbed his pants with deft toes, kicking them into the air so he could catch them. “It is a habit that I find I'm loathe to break. I too, do not rest well when overheated.”
“Seems impractical to me, what if there's an attack?” Sitting up, the Warden was greeted by Ember scooting and draping his long body across her lap, with his silken coat of spots and stripes, like someone had dipped their fingers in black paint before touching the cat all over.
Casually the Crow went to the low railing on the side of his platform that overlooked his kitchen area, and vaulted it. “Unlikely to happen here, and I have fought naked before. It is rather freeing. I only have to watch for blades coming too close to ah... certain areas.” Propping his chin on the railing, he gave her an amused look. “And most are usually so surprised by a nude, usually partially aroused, male fighting like a demon that they falter. I find it always amusing to see their expressions.”
She snickered. “I think it'd be sort of funny too – their last sight is of an erect cock - and just slightly ironic, as I'm sure most of your targets are shems. So, to be taken down by an elf of all things, one who seems rather.... pleased... by it, would be the lowest blow of all.” The Warden clambered from the bed, shooing Ember from it, as she bent to make the bed. “So, is that a tactic taught by the Guild?”
“Mmm, no.” He watched as the young woman put everything back in order. “It is a personal affectation, something I picked up in the whorehouse. Nudity is simply nudity. The true art is in playing games of hide-and-seek, partially veiling the body, and unveiling it. That is far more arousing, as it leaves one guessing what lies beneath.”
There was a laugh. “Oh then you'd love Ferelden. You never know what you're going to get until you unwrap it!”
“Hmn – quite. Then it is good that I have varied and nimble tastes, for no matter what lay underneath those furs, I would be content.” Pushing away from the railing, he went to his kitchen.
“Ah, don't you think you could do better, then?” Her voice traveled the distance easily.
Smirking as he pulled out a small pot, he filled it with water and then added in ground spices. “See, 'better' is always trying to do 'best. Maybe I could do 'better', but I prefer to do 'just fine'.”
There was some quiet as she clearly had to mull that wordplay over for a moment, and then, one of her trademark laughs, half-snort, half-guffaw, issued. “Maker's breath, you're terrible!”
Shrugging, not sure if she could see it nor not, Zevran lit the coal burner after checking the flue that carried smoke outside. “I know, I know. Tchk, you are so cruel pointing a man's flaws out so endlessly.” Satisfied that the water would simmer the way he wanted it to, he turned back to look at her. “My housekeeper, Sula, will be stopping by soon. I shall tell her to send Aedur to fetch some clothes for you.”
“I told you, my armor and such are my normal clothes.” There was an edge to the words.
“Your normal, here, Warden, will get you killed.” Moving to his workdesk, Zevran dug out a piece of paper, and a pen. Neatly, he made a list of items that Aedur would have to procure. “Say what you will, this is the truth, Miolanai of Antiva. If you choose to leave Antiva and return to Ferelden, your usual mode shall do fine, but this is Antiva, and not your native stomping grounds, so between the two of us, I am the expert.”
“What if I refuse?” she asked belligerently, and he could hear her already buckling her armor on in the background.
Opening a drawer, he counted out coins, depositing them into a stitched green pouch, as he maintained a calm tone. “Then we shall be attacked until such a time that the authorities must take action. The Guild can only provide so much legal protection, and once certain boundaries are crossed, Hero of the Blight or no, you will be at the very least exiled. Most likely, you would be given to a prison, and war would be caused as Ferelden or the Anderfels would be provoked. People would die in excess, and all because you wished to traipse around in places where you should not, dressed in a provocative manner.” Holding out his hand, he added, “Now, give me two of the four sovereigns you pilfered like a common bandit from those misbegotten thugs. I have the coin to pay for the things that must be ordered, entirely on my own, but I feel that it should also be partially your responsibility.”