![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nightsfury) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
peopleofthedas2011-02-12 02:04 pm
Ch. 5 - As the Crow Flies
Rating: M
Summary: "Through the years of my Crow training, the one thing I had of my mother was a pair of gloves. But, we were not allowed such things." Zevran Arainai. But there's more than one way to be a Crow, as Zevran discovers under a new elven master.
Apologies for the delay in updating, all those pesky RL obligations. There will probably be a bit of a delay in posting the next chapters, too. I'll try not to keep you all waiting too long. :) Hopefully, though, once I start posting after this, I'll be able to keep to a more regular schedule.
To briefly recap, in the last chapter, Zevran met Taliesin (who will be appearing in future installments) for the first time, then returned to Master Nylos to discover that his old master, Jepheth had returned to administer a lesson in 'endurance. This chapter picks up the morning after that.
“Zevie? Where are you, chiquito?” Amia’s voice drifted down the hallway.
Zevran scrubbed a tear out of his eye with his fist, then peeked out of the linen closet to make sure she was alone. Good, Lupe wasn’t there. He pushed the door open further, edging into the hallway.
“Ah, there you are.” Amia’s nose wrinkled. “Why are you hiding in the sheets?”
“Lupe-” He whimpered when he took a step forward, the welts on his backside flaring. He was trying not to cry, he really was. At five years old, he was too big to cry. But it hurt so much. And it hurt across his back and his legs. And...
He started when a warm hand touched his face, brushing sweat-tangled strands of hair out of his eyes.
“It’s all right, chiquito. It’s over,” a woman’s voice said, her hand stroking his head.
“Amia?” But it didn’t sound like her. Amia’s voice was light, like butterflies. This voice was deeper, like the dark buckwheat honey Malusa served with her griddlecakes. His eyes drifted open, but the edges of vision were still blurry from the dream.
Master Nylos’ housekeeper sat on a low stool next to his bed, a soft cloth in her right hand.
“It’s over,” she said again.
He lifted his head, then cried out as pain sliced through him along the lash marks laid across his flesh from his shoulders down to the back of his thighs just above his knees. Other places hurt. His hands tightened in the soft sheet covering his bed when that memory surged up.
“Cabron,” he muttered.
“He’s still a master,” Master Nylos said from the doorway. Zevran could read nothing in his face. But it said something that he was laying on the bed in his room, and not at the bottom of some dank oubliette, after one of Master Jepheth’s training sessions in endurance.
“Malusa, bring some tea, will you? And whatever you think he’ll be able to keep down.”
“I need to begin soon, or there’ll be scarring.”
“Please, I won’t take long.”
She nodded, then rose and glided from the room, handing him the cloth as she passed through the door. Master Nylos settled on the stool, then dipped the cloth into a copper basin set on a small table. His face still showed nothing as he gently squeezed out the excess water. Pale green and smelling like herbs, the water dripped off a frayed edge. Then Master Nylos laid the soft linen across his apprentice’s left shoulder.
Zevran hissed at the light touch, his hands tightening again. His back burned, then cooled as the pain started to lessen. Shadows flitted through the master’s dark eyes and hovered around them, as if he’d hadn’t slept. The sleeves of his rumpled dark gray shirt were rolled up to his elbows, a sharp contrast to his usual neat appearance.
“We do what we must to survive, Arainai. For a Crow, especially an elf, that means doing what is expected of us and being a tool in someone else’s hand.”
“Being used by someone else’s hand, you mean,” Zevran muttered, too worn out and hurting too much to care about being respectful. Oh, Maker, it hurt…and not just his body.
Something shifted in the master’s face, peered out through those dark eyes from some deep place in his soul, then slipped back inside.
“Yes, there is no escaping that…ever. Not in this life,” Master Nylos said quietly.
Malusa returned then, carrying a tray with a teapot, cup, and a covered bowl that smelled like her chicken broth. She set it on the desk in the corner.
“What happens in this room stays here, Arainai. Breathe one word of Malusa’s healing, and it will be the last breath you ever draw.” Then his hand closed gently over Zevran’s wrist. “She’s skilled. There’ll be no scarring. I can spare you that, at least.”
Then he twisted up and away, leaving Zevran staring at the empty space where he’d sat. Such odd words. Why would a master wish to spare him anything? Wasn’t such training about becoming hard, about leaving the ‘soft’ feelings behind? What use were they to one whose life would be spent killing others?
“He means it, chiquito,” Malusa said, settling back on the stool.
“Killing me? I don’t doubt that.” From a master, what else should one expect?
She lifted the cloth off his back. “And about your skin. He risked much to keep me out of the tower. The only magic I have is healing, but the chantry thinks even that makes me too dangerous to live outside the circle.” She dipped the cloth back in the basin, then wrung it out before laying it further down, over his left shoulder blade. He winced, but the pain subsided quickly. “He’ll keep watch. Sometimes, the templars roam through this area. If one does while I’m healing what that cabron did…” She smiled, a small dark one Zevran had never expected to see on her face. “Now, close your eyes, chiquito, and try to sleep.”
He obeyed. Soothing warmth flowed over his shoulder as Malusa hummed softly. Under her hands, his skin itched and pulled. It hurt a little, but the healing kind of pain that’s almost a relief as flesh moves back to wholeness.
“I wouldn’t say anything, Malusa,” he murmured.
“I know, and so does he. But we do what is expected, remember?”
And say what is expected, he thought. Never trust the surface of things had been one of the earliest lessons he’d learned. It had saved his life on more than one occasion. He’d always thought of it in terms of looking for the hidden trap, the betrayal buried in any promise, or the catch in every favor. For the first time since the Crows had bought him, he considered that with this master, what lay beneath the surface was something…unexpected. Not affection. No Crow cared for another. Why me, he’d asked Master Nylos, not really expecting an answer but unable to suppress his curiosity. He’d been told that he’d have to discover that for himself. Maybe…just maybe, it might be a question worth pursuing.
He drifted into a light doze, rousing when she slipped her hand under his cheek and lifted his head.
“Drink,” she said and pressed a cup against his mouth. He tasted cool, strong tea, heavily laced with mint and honey. When he finished that, there was broth, salty and warm, flavored with garlic and saffron. His hand closed over hers as he swallowed it. It took him a moment to realize that his shoulders didn’t hurt anymore. After a few minutes, his eyes closed. Maker, he was tired…so tired. The last thing he heard, before drifting into real sleep, was Master Nylos asking Malusa something. Zevran tried to focus, then gave up and slid down into the soft darkness.
#
“Is he asleep?” Nylos asked.
Malusa checked Zevran’s pulse, laying her hand against his neck. “He is now. Between the drugs and the healing he should sleep through the rest of the day and most of the night.”
Nylos folded his arms. “Good.” He gazed at Zevran’s half-healed back. “It’s going faster than I expected.”
“They look bad, but they’re not as deep as I first thought. I should be done in a few hours. And there’ll be no scarring…this time.” Keeping a hand on Zevran’s shoulder, she gazed up at Nylos. “As for the other…you need to speak with him.”
His hands tightened on his arms. “What would you have me say, mi amiga?” What could he say?
“If you don’t say something, Nylos, it will eat away at him. Like a slow poison. How does that help him become a Crow?”
“Some say it would make him stronger.”
She made a sound of disgust. “Breaking someone doesn’t make them stronger. No matter how well you put the pieces back together, there’s always something missing.” Her eyes softened when she looked back at Zevran. “Did it make you stronger, Nylos?”
“You tread dangerous ground, mi amiga.”
“When have I not?” she muttered, then waved her hand at him. “Go. I can’t concentrate with you hovering over me like some anxious fishwife. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
Nylos just nodded and slipped out of the room. After taking again to the rooftops, he resumed his patrol. Fortunately – for the templars - none came near.
#
He gazed down at Zevran’s empty bed. Nylos wasn’t surprised, but he had hoped the boy wouldn’t take off after the Dalish camped outside the city. He snorted. Ah, foolish notion, hadn’t he learned long ago not to indulge such fancies as hope?
He laid a hand on the bed, and found the sheets cool. It had been at least twenty minutes or so since Zevran had slipped away, probably longer. The chest at the foot of the bed stood open. Most of his clothes and the fine throwing knives were gone. According to Guild rules, that was theft. An apprentice of Zevran’s rank owned nothing, not even the clothes on his back.
“So, the bird had flown the nest,” Malusa said behind him.
Nylos glanced back. His housekeeper matched his gaze, steam from the teapot on her tray curling up with the scents of lemon and mint. He took it from her and set it on the small side table. Then he settled on the bed and poured himself a cup.
“He can’t fly far without coin.” He blew across the top of the cup, his dark eyes still on hers.
“Oh, and I suppose all those lessons in cutting purses and lifting coin from pockets will go unused?”
He sipped his tea before answering. “It doesn’t matter how much he steals. The Crows fly far. He knows that.”
“Then go after him. Catch him before one of the enforcers does.”
“I can cover his absence for at least a week, if I need to.”
She tilted her head. “You know where he’s gone.”
“Not for certain, but I have my suspicions.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Better if you don’t know,” he said, then drained his cup and set it back on the tray. “If I’m right, he’ll be back in a few days.”
“And if he’s not?”
“Then I hope the Maker watches over him, because he’s going to need it.”
“They’ll kill you if they find out, Nylos. You’ve already broken at least half-a-dozen of those rules you’re so fond of citing to me.”
The corner of Nylos’ mouth tilted up in a smile. “Death comes for everyone, sooner or later. I never expected to die of old age. If it comes to that, I’ve already chosen my way.”
She folded her arms tightly and stared down at her brown, sensible shoes.
“Our arrangements will still stand, Malusa.”
She just nodded, then turned on her heel and left. As he leaned back against the wall, Nylos considered that it could have gone much worse with her. Some things she had never accepted about Crow life. But since she wasn’t raised to it, he had never expected that. She was still a treasure.
The boy returned just at sunrise of the third day after he’d left. Already in his training yard, Nylos came out of a whirling form with sword and dagger to find Zevran on his knees, his eyes rooted on the packed earth. Habit and training made the Crow master check the shape of shadows in his yard. Nothing looked out of place, but he’d learned long, long ago to never trust the surface of things.
“Come with me,” he said, striding past Zevran. Nylos didn’t turn around till Zevran had followed him back to his master’s bedroom. After laying his weapons on a side table, Nylos deliberately brushed against his kneeling apprentice when he turned to lock his door. The boy flinched, his hands tightening into fists.
Assuming an easy pose, leaning back against his desk, his arms loosely folded, Nylos still felt tight as a drawn bow. He pulled in a deep breath and released it. What were a few more broken rules on top of the ones he’d already ignored?
“Look at me, Arainai,” he said softly. Nylos didn’t know whether to be pleased or saddened that he could read nothing in those amber eyes. Maker help me, boy. How did you make me care what happens to you?
“The Dalish didn’t want you, did they?”
The corners of Zevran’s mouth tightened, just a little. “No, master.”
“Why did you come back?”
Zevran’s eyes fell from his. “Does it truly matter?” he said almost in a whisper.
“Yes, Zevran, it does.” The boy’s head snapped up. Nylos unfolded his arms, then his hands closed over the edge of his desk on either side of his legs. “You know, as well as I do, what Guild law requires for runaways, yet you returned. I would know why.”
“I…you…” He pulled in a deep breath and focused his gaze on the floor just in front of Nylos’ feet. “I left the Dalish the same day I found them. They called me a flat-ear.” A complex mix of pain and anger permeated his tones. “And you…in the time I’ve been here, you’ve never laid a hand on me.”
More than one meaning in those words, Nylos knew. What he wanted to say next ventured into dangerous waters. Ah, and when had he ever shied away from something simply because it was dangerous? There was more than one way to be a Crow. Something men like Jepheth refused to acknowledge.
“You understand why he raped you? Why he will continue to do it during his ‘endurance’ training?”
Zevran flushed, his hands tightening again, but his voice was steady, even if he spoke in scarcely more than a whisper. “Yes, master. To remind me I am nothing. That he can do whatever he wishes with me.”
“Yes, and there is nothing you or I can do to change that. What you can do…is survive.” Then Nylos stepped forward, crouching down in front of his apprentice. He slipped a hand under Zevran’s chin, gently pushing his head up. Uncertainty flickered through those amber eyes, and something fierce and beautiful, as well. How it had survived the last eight years, the Maker alone knew. “You want to punch the lion’s nose, Arainai? Then survive…and do more than just that. Take pleasure from every moment you breathe. What he did was ugly. Look for beauty, anywhere you can find it.” His fingers tightened on Zevran’s chin. “Death comes for everyone, sooner or later. Even for him. Not from your hand, or even mine at this time. Perhaps not even in the next few years…but someday, it will find him.”
His eyes held Zevran’s for a long moment. Nylos felt his heart beating in his chest, felt Zevran’s beneath his fingertips pressed against the pulse in his neck.
“I understand, master,” his apprentice finally said.
Nylos released him, then flowed to his feet. He motioned to the door. “Get dressed for training and meet me in the yard.”
Zevran rose, then bowed, more deeply than protocol required. Nylos caught the ghost of a smile, the kind a hunter wears, tugging at the corners of Zevran’s mouth as he glided from the room. Every Crow’s days were numbered. How long they stretched was a matter of skill, how well one took to training, and sometimes, just plain luck. However many or few remained to Jepheth, Nylos knew that Zevran would have the counting of them. He prayed that the Maker would ensure that Zevran’s days outnumbered Jepheth’s.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject