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peopleofthedas2011-02-20 10:30 pm
bamftastik) wrote in peopleofthedas2011-02-20 10:30 pm
No More Heroes, Chapter 5
Title: No More Heroes, Chapter 5
Characters: Zevran, Nathaniel, Anora, Erlina
Rating: T
Words: 1,900
Summary: The Blight has not ended. Alistair departed during the Landsmeet and both Loghain and the Warden perished in the siege of Denerim. In its wake, the scattered companions undertake a search for a wandering drunk and the witch that could save them all. ~ After meeting on the road, Zevran and Nathaniel return to Denerim. ~
Previous Chapters
"You would make a terrible assassin, my friend."
"You think so, do you?" Nathaniel did not turn round, crouching beside a low hillock to run his blade through the dry and overgrown grass. He seemed to be searching for something, stopping frequently as they approached the shadow of Denerim's walls. A tangle of weeds pushed aside, a boot carefully prodding the earth, but Zevran did not question him. His own eyes roamed higher, unable to turn away from the dark spire of the city's central tower, the fort looming just beyond.
But he could feign indifference. Squatting beside the scowling lord, he chuckled. "A well-aimed bow may be deadly in its way, but one slip and you are revealed, your target given ample room to flee."
"Which is why I do not slip."
In truth, Zevran dreaded the day he would find himself in the man's sights. They had encountered at least four parties of roving darkspawn since moving into the fields around the city and this young Howe had not wasted a single shot. Some he had deigned to finish with a blade, a quick slit to the throat as he jerked his arrows free. Of the effort, the stench, he voiced no complaint. In their way, they had settled into a quiet sort of companionship, an unspoken understanding. Here was a man with purpose... and a debt to pay.
But it was this purpose that might soon find an arrow at Zevran's throat. Even now, in shouting distance of the city's walls, he had not mentioned the elder Howe. Word of his death had obviously not reached his son... though with all that had happened, he supposed that the messengers had more important stories to tell. If there were any messengers left. They had passed many humans - dwarves and elves lying stinking beside them - but still they had held their silence. Yet, Zevran had not missed the almost imperceptible twitch to the man's lips as he lingered to count the fallen. For all his practiced scowls, the eyes that turned away were those of a wounded boy.
Again, his own strayed above them. He was no stranger to the dead, had left larger piles of flesh in his own wake. Funny that it should be stone that so unsettled him, a mere echo of shouted words. Would she still be there? There at the end of that terrible fall?
Zevran pinched shut his eyes. The man beside him may seem little more than a child, but he wondered what it would be that Nathaniel saw if he glanced his way.
"But you clearly prefer blades. If you think to horrify me by expounding on the merits of the close kill, the feel of your enemy's blood upon your hands... know that I have seen war."
Had he truly?
Opening one eye, Zevran quirked a brow. "You, my dear Lord Howe, are quite disturbed."
With a snort Nathaniel pushed to his feet, making his way again across the blackened fields. Soon they would be skirting the wall itself, keeping low as they had all day. But the city was silent, even the great, winged shadow having passed overhead long ago. It had not stopped; they were beneath the archdemon's notice. All that it might have feared was gone now, lying broken somewhere below Fort Drakon.
His steps were unhurried as he followed. He did not cower, did not wonder at how he had allowed himself to be drawn along on this fool's errand, why he had not spoken the words that would see it end.
Nathaniel had reached the wall, glancing back with an urgent hiss. "And you said I would make a poor assassin."
"I did not account for your nobility. Perhaps you are better suited to skulking in the shadows than I suspected."
The young lord did not retort as Zevran fell into place behind him, his eyes continuing to search the ground as they picked their way forward.
"Your Amaranthine was abandoned. Why is it you think that your father came here?"
"They say that Loghain granted him the Arling of Denerim... and the Teyrnir of Highever." Even the hesitation did not slow his pace.
"And you have been to this Highever?"
"Must you always ask irritating questions?"
Zevran shrugged, but the gesture was lost on Nathaniel's back. "Perhaps he did come here. Perhaps he... settled in. But if you have not noticed, my friend, Denerim has suffered a rather unfortunate change of stewardship."
The man spared him a glance then, smirking beneath narrowed eyes. With a sniff and a shake of his head, he turned back to his work.
"So confident, you nobles. But Loghain is dead; surely this you have heard. If your father was truly his man, would he not have been at his side?"
Nathaniel paused at that, straightening with stiffened shoulders. He did not turn round.
"Ah. You do not believe he was at the battle." Zevran tsked. "You think your own father a coward."
It was slowly that the young lord turned, but his expression was hard and unreadable as ever. "My father was many things." He took a sudden step back, crouching to brush a hand across the dirt between them. With a jerk, he pulled it free - a trapdoor leading down beneath the wall.
Zevran blinked.
"Perhaps you were right the first time - we nobles do love to skulk." His lips twitched with suppressed triumph. "Arl Urien, the previous Arl of Denerim, was rather known for his paranoia. Some say he built saferooms and escape hatches beyond even the knowledge of the king. My father was a... clever man. He would have known his new home."
Zevran scooped up a stone and handed it over without thought, watching as Nathaniel tossed it into the hole to gauge the depth. Finding the echo satisfactory, he knelt and prepared to lower himself into the abyss.
"Nathaniel."
"Yes?" The man looked up with genuine curiosity.
"...Nothing. It is nothing."
He dropped from sight without another word, leaving Zevran to wonder at his own hesitation. Casting one more glance to the walls above them, he leapt.
The space below was dark and narrow, the ceiling low enough that both men found themselves bending nearly double. Nathaniel had struck his flint, wrapping a spare bit of cloth round a splintered plank from the door. The sudden glare illuminated his set jaw and narrowed eyes, those pointed features dangerously shadowed. He cast only a cursory glance behind him before pushing forward.
Zevran could not say how long they walked, though his mind strayed to the city above, trying to count their steps, the distance to the fort beyond. So lost in thought was he that when Nathaniel paused, he collided with his back.
"Mind yourself." With a grunt Nathaniel stepped aside, nodding to the door ahead. The wood was old but thick, the way clearly barred. The young lord looked perplexed.
"There is a trick for dealing with such obstacles, my friend." Slipping past, Zevran raised his hand and knocked.
"Andraste's blood!"
His curse was echoed behind the door, a sudden crash heralding an arrival at its other side. A second voice joined it, the argument muffled but unmistakable. After a long moment, a heavy bolt slid aside, the door cracking just enough to reveal a pair of suspicious eyes and one very sharp blade.
Zevran grinned, surprised. "Ah, hello my dear. Erlina, yes?"
He had met the elven woman only briefly, but her face flashed with familiar disappointment. "It is the Crow, My Lady." Her gaze flickered to Nathaniel. "And he is not alone."
The queen herself appeared behind her handmaiden. Head tilting curiously, her eyes widened in recognition. "...Nathaniel Howe?"
"Anora."
"I am Queen now, actually."
"So I have heard."
He did not so much as incline his head and for a long moment the two stared at each other, neither giving ground. Eventually Anora sniffed, turning away. "Allow them in, Erlina."
"Where are we?" Nathaniel wasted no time, pushing past the elf to cast his eyes about. The room was small, cluttered with an old but well-upholstered bed, barrels of water and salted meats, a few wheels of cheese. Something scuttled in the corner.
"Beneath the palace."
"The palace."
Putting herself in front of him, Anora folded her arms. "I take it you are not here to rescue me?"
"Rescue you?" Still his gaze wandered, the words distracted as he searched for another exit. "I did not know you were here. I am looking for my father."
Anora looked past him, fixing Zevran beneath a wondering smirk. "You did not tell him?"
"Tell me what?"
"Arl Howe is dead."
Zevran shrugged. "...a fact that I may have neglected to mention, yes."
"But was it not your companions that murdered him? Your Grey Warden?"
Nathaniel took a slow step forward.
"Ah, but I took the liberty of... dispatching the Warden soon after." He dropped into a deep bow. "The very task for which your father hired me."
Anora sniffed, but Nathaniel paid her no mind. "I assume he did not hire you from beyond the grave. Is there a reason why you did not act sooner?"
"You know how these things go. It is a complicated business, assassination."
He stared for a long moment, gritting his teeth as he strode toward the door. Zevran stiffened, but the man passed him without a glance.
"Where are you going?" Still Anora stood impassive, imperious.
"I have what I came for. There is nothing for me here."
"Then take with you a message. Tell the people that Ferelden yet has a queen, that she rules from the palace still."
"Hah!" Nathaniel spun with a bitter snort. "A dominion of rats and mice? A treasury filled with salted pork? You are a fool, Anora."
"Please, My Lord." Erlina grabbed hold of his arm.
He sneered instinctively, almost as though he would shake her away, but something in her expression gave him pause.
"My Lady is merely stubborn. She has been brave, but I am frightened. Take us from this place, I beg you."
Nathaniel chuckled. "It is noble of you to say what your master will not."
At his smirk, Anora turned her face away.
"Ever was she stubborn." Moving back into the room, he paused before the queen, offering his arm with a mocking bow. "If Your Majesty will accompany me..."
"Take them my message. That is all."
"As you wish."
But again Erlina blocked his path. "Please, My Lord! You must make her see reason!"
"Are you expecting a grand gesture? That I throw her over my shoulder and bear her out of here like a sack of potatoes?" Nodding back at her, he sniffed. "I am leaving. She can follow if she wishes. Unless the weight of the crown as turned her ankles as well as dimming her wits." Pushing the elf gently aside, he made his way out the door.
Zevran hurried to keep pace, chuckling to himself as the women followed behind. He let his voice carry for their benefit. "I am not entirely certain that this particular rescue is wise, my friend. The Queen may well sell us out to the first darkspawn we meet. She does have that habit."
Nathaniel did not slow, did not meet his eye. "Something else that you neglected to mention?" With that, he lengthened his stride, disappearing into the shadows ahead.
Characters: Zevran, Nathaniel, Anora, Erlina
Rating: T
Words: 1,900
Summary: The Blight has not ended. Alistair departed during the Landsmeet and both Loghain and the Warden perished in the siege of Denerim. In its wake, the scattered companions undertake a search for a wandering drunk and the witch that could save them all. ~ After meeting on the road, Zevran and Nathaniel return to Denerim. ~
Previous Chapters
"You would make a terrible assassin, my friend."
"You think so, do you?" Nathaniel did not turn round, crouching beside a low hillock to run his blade through the dry and overgrown grass. He seemed to be searching for something, stopping frequently as they approached the shadow of Denerim's walls. A tangle of weeds pushed aside, a boot carefully prodding the earth, but Zevran did not question him. His own eyes roamed higher, unable to turn away from the dark spire of the city's central tower, the fort looming just beyond.
But he could feign indifference. Squatting beside the scowling lord, he chuckled. "A well-aimed bow may be deadly in its way, but one slip and you are revealed, your target given ample room to flee."
"Which is why I do not slip."
In truth, Zevran dreaded the day he would find himself in the man's sights. They had encountered at least four parties of roving darkspawn since moving into the fields around the city and this young Howe had not wasted a single shot. Some he had deigned to finish with a blade, a quick slit to the throat as he jerked his arrows free. Of the effort, the stench, he voiced no complaint. In their way, they had settled into a quiet sort of companionship, an unspoken understanding. Here was a man with purpose... and a debt to pay.
But it was this purpose that might soon find an arrow at Zevran's throat. Even now, in shouting distance of the city's walls, he had not mentioned the elder Howe. Word of his death had obviously not reached his son... though with all that had happened, he supposed that the messengers had more important stories to tell. If there were any messengers left. They had passed many humans - dwarves and elves lying stinking beside them - but still they had held their silence. Yet, Zevran had not missed the almost imperceptible twitch to the man's lips as he lingered to count the fallen. For all his practiced scowls, the eyes that turned away were those of a wounded boy.
Again, his own strayed above them. He was no stranger to the dead, had left larger piles of flesh in his own wake. Funny that it should be stone that so unsettled him, a mere echo of shouted words. Would she still be there? There at the end of that terrible fall?
Zevran pinched shut his eyes. The man beside him may seem little more than a child, but he wondered what it would be that Nathaniel saw if he glanced his way.
"But you clearly prefer blades. If you think to horrify me by expounding on the merits of the close kill, the feel of your enemy's blood upon your hands... know that I have seen war."
Had he truly?
Opening one eye, Zevran quirked a brow. "You, my dear Lord Howe, are quite disturbed."
With a snort Nathaniel pushed to his feet, making his way again across the blackened fields. Soon they would be skirting the wall itself, keeping low as they had all day. But the city was silent, even the great, winged shadow having passed overhead long ago. It had not stopped; they were beneath the archdemon's notice. All that it might have feared was gone now, lying broken somewhere below Fort Drakon.
His steps were unhurried as he followed. He did not cower, did not wonder at how he had allowed himself to be drawn along on this fool's errand, why he had not spoken the words that would see it end.
Nathaniel had reached the wall, glancing back with an urgent hiss. "And you said I would make a poor assassin."
"I did not account for your nobility. Perhaps you are better suited to skulking in the shadows than I suspected."
The young lord did not retort as Zevran fell into place behind him, his eyes continuing to search the ground as they picked their way forward.
"Your Amaranthine was abandoned. Why is it you think that your father came here?"
"They say that Loghain granted him the Arling of Denerim... and the Teyrnir of Highever." Even the hesitation did not slow his pace.
"And you have been to this Highever?"
"Must you always ask irritating questions?"
Zevran shrugged, but the gesture was lost on Nathaniel's back. "Perhaps he did come here. Perhaps he... settled in. But if you have not noticed, my friend, Denerim has suffered a rather unfortunate change of stewardship."
The man spared him a glance then, smirking beneath narrowed eyes. With a sniff and a shake of his head, he turned back to his work.
"So confident, you nobles. But Loghain is dead; surely this you have heard. If your father was truly his man, would he not have been at his side?"
Nathaniel paused at that, straightening with stiffened shoulders. He did not turn round.
"Ah. You do not believe he was at the battle." Zevran tsked. "You think your own father a coward."
It was slowly that the young lord turned, but his expression was hard and unreadable as ever. "My father was many things." He took a sudden step back, crouching to brush a hand across the dirt between them. With a jerk, he pulled it free - a trapdoor leading down beneath the wall.
Zevran blinked.
"Perhaps you were right the first time - we nobles do love to skulk." His lips twitched with suppressed triumph. "Arl Urien, the previous Arl of Denerim, was rather known for his paranoia. Some say he built saferooms and escape hatches beyond even the knowledge of the king. My father was a... clever man. He would have known his new home."
Zevran scooped up a stone and handed it over without thought, watching as Nathaniel tossed it into the hole to gauge the depth. Finding the echo satisfactory, he knelt and prepared to lower himself into the abyss.
"Nathaniel."
"Yes?" The man looked up with genuine curiosity.
"...Nothing. It is nothing."
He dropped from sight without another word, leaving Zevran to wonder at his own hesitation. Casting one more glance to the walls above them, he leapt.
The space below was dark and narrow, the ceiling low enough that both men found themselves bending nearly double. Nathaniel had struck his flint, wrapping a spare bit of cloth round a splintered plank from the door. The sudden glare illuminated his set jaw and narrowed eyes, those pointed features dangerously shadowed. He cast only a cursory glance behind him before pushing forward.
Zevran could not say how long they walked, though his mind strayed to the city above, trying to count their steps, the distance to the fort beyond. So lost in thought was he that when Nathaniel paused, he collided with his back.
"Mind yourself." With a grunt Nathaniel stepped aside, nodding to the door ahead. The wood was old but thick, the way clearly barred. The young lord looked perplexed.
"There is a trick for dealing with such obstacles, my friend." Slipping past, Zevran raised his hand and knocked.
"Andraste's blood!"
His curse was echoed behind the door, a sudden crash heralding an arrival at its other side. A second voice joined it, the argument muffled but unmistakable. After a long moment, a heavy bolt slid aside, the door cracking just enough to reveal a pair of suspicious eyes and one very sharp blade.
Zevran grinned, surprised. "Ah, hello my dear. Erlina, yes?"
He had met the elven woman only briefly, but her face flashed with familiar disappointment. "It is the Crow, My Lady." Her gaze flickered to Nathaniel. "And he is not alone."
The queen herself appeared behind her handmaiden. Head tilting curiously, her eyes widened in recognition. "...Nathaniel Howe?"
"Anora."
"I am Queen now, actually."
"So I have heard."
He did not so much as incline his head and for a long moment the two stared at each other, neither giving ground. Eventually Anora sniffed, turning away. "Allow them in, Erlina."
"Where are we?" Nathaniel wasted no time, pushing past the elf to cast his eyes about. The room was small, cluttered with an old but well-upholstered bed, barrels of water and salted meats, a few wheels of cheese. Something scuttled in the corner.
"Beneath the palace."
"The palace."
Putting herself in front of him, Anora folded her arms. "I take it you are not here to rescue me?"
"Rescue you?" Still his gaze wandered, the words distracted as he searched for another exit. "I did not know you were here. I am looking for my father."
Anora looked past him, fixing Zevran beneath a wondering smirk. "You did not tell him?"
"Tell me what?"
"Arl Howe is dead."
Zevran shrugged. "...a fact that I may have neglected to mention, yes."
"But was it not your companions that murdered him? Your Grey Warden?"
Nathaniel took a slow step forward.
"Ah, but I took the liberty of... dispatching the Warden soon after." He dropped into a deep bow. "The very task for which your father hired me."
Anora sniffed, but Nathaniel paid her no mind. "I assume he did not hire you from beyond the grave. Is there a reason why you did not act sooner?"
"You know how these things go. It is a complicated business, assassination."
He stared for a long moment, gritting his teeth as he strode toward the door. Zevran stiffened, but the man passed him without a glance.
"Where are you going?" Still Anora stood impassive, imperious.
"I have what I came for. There is nothing for me here."
"Then take with you a message. Tell the people that Ferelden yet has a queen, that she rules from the palace still."
"Hah!" Nathaniel spun with a bitter snort. "A dominion of rats and mice? A treasury filled with salted pork? You are a fool, Anora."
"Please, My Lord." Erlina grabbed hold of his arm.
He sneered instinctively, almost as though he would shake her away, but something in her expression gave him pause.
"My Lady is merely stubborn. She has been brave, but I am frightened. Take us from this place, I beg you."
Nathaniel chuckled. "It is noble of you to say what your master will not."
At his smirk, Anora turned her face away.
"Ever was she stubborn." Moving back into the room, he paused before the queen, offering his arm with a mocking bow. "If Your Majesty will accompany me..."
"Take them my message. That is all."
"As you wish."
But again Erlina blocked his path. "Please, My Lord! You must make her see reason!"
"Are you expecting a grand gesture? That I throw her over my shoulder and bear her out of here like a sack of potatoes?" Nodding back at her, he sniffed. "I am leaving. She can follow if she wishes. Unless the weight of the crown as turned her ankles as well as dimming her wits." Pushing the elf gently aside, he made his way out the door.
Zevran hurried to keep pace, chuckling to himself as the women followed behind. He let his voice carry for their benefit. "I am not entirely certain that this particular rescue is wise, my friend. The Queen may well sell us out to the first darkspawn we meet. She does have that habit."
Nathaniel did not slow, did not meet his eye. "Something else that you neglected to mention?" With that, he lengthened his stride, disappearing into the shadows ahead.
no subject
And poor conflicted Zevran, I want to give him a hug!