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peopleofthedas2011-04-22 02:13 am
1smut_princess) wrote in peopleofthedas2011-04-22 02:13 am
Fic: A Guild-ed Cage 10/? T
Title: A Guild-ed Cage 10/?
Author: Rhion
Rating: T - some lingo and violence
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: Uh, yeah. There's... a subseries in the works. So, I'm posting this chapter early. Saturday will be the first installment of the Guild-ed prequel. Or at least I'm hoping that ya'll would be happy with that? I know I took a hiatus from posting (but I assure you not from writing), but an idea sorta... attacked me the other week. And well, :sigh: there's a prequel series to A Guild-ed Cage now, and no, it's not about Mio. It does contain Zevran, eventually, but it's cutiepie Zevran with fluffy little hair and big gap toothed grins, climbing into bed and cockblocking his Zamitie, and somehow managing to hog all the covers. Hopefully the idea is well received, so lemme know.
Janni got the beta on this one before b could get to it, so let's all clap and go yay!
XXX
Guild-ed 10
XXX
Some time spent walking around, breathing Antiva’s air, trekking to one of the small fortresses that dotted Antiva City’s boundaries and center so that he could look out at Rialto Bay had done him much good. Zevran felt refreshed, revitalized and restored in a way he had not in weeks. When he had returned from his mother’s tribe, Ignacio had been waiting, a sheaf of papers and an apostate at his shoulder with new orders for him. A crash course in the Hero’s history, family, circumstances and present conditions had followed. That had not been much of a problem, it was the fact that the apostate had been a blood mage whose job it was to put him under a geas to ensure his loyalty to the Warden.
As if Zevran did not know his business.
On his own time the Crow had researched Ferelden and its treatment of elves, so that he might understand any possible underlying attitudes that he would have to watch for. Between his research and seeing to his own business investment, all the while looking into places that the Warden could perhaps move to once she had settled into Antivan lifestyle, Zevran had had very little time to himself. And once he had Miolanai to deal with....
She was always in such a rush to do things. Never letting a man have a second to dress or to simply lie back and feel the sun’s rays seeping through flesh or to take a deep breath and feel the shifting of the ground beneath feet, air ruffling hair.... Not that he couldn’t understand it. There was something vital and throbbing in the Warden beyond her manic energy. Something much more than the dictates of her battle shock demanded that she not be idle for a single second, there was a thirst in her for more. To condense everything and take it in. If only she would just breathe for a moment and learn to live within that moment’s echoes....
A few hours to himself had been a welcome respite, and he felt no concern for leaving her in Zamitie’s skillful, strong and capable hands. But now it was time to return and retrieve the Warden, and so he had pushed away from the battlement, not giving the Bay a single last glance. It would be there another time. No matter what those who walked on two legs did, Thedas would always survive them and their follies and conceits.
The long familiar tingle of Zamitie’s wards were akin to a mother’s embrace, and he passed through them easily. Being one of four people keyed to the witch’s magic was a privilege shared among he, the only other Crow she welcomed, and her long dead master and lover Sa’id and afforded him free entry no matter time of day to her inner sanctum. As far as he knew, the one-time whore, one-time shaman had never entertained other than himself, Salvail and Sa’id in the back rooms of her townhouse. Sometimes he suspected that she must have, for her clan was known to travel close to town for trading and news. No matter that she had left her clan nearly sixty years ago, selling herself into slavery during a bad year to earn enough coin to help her tribe eke out a living, she was still a thing to be revered amongst them.
So it was with mild surprise when he entered that he found no one in the parlor or her Work room. Frowning, Zevran listened carefully and heard only the low murmur of voices. Shrugging, he toed his boots off and locked the door to the outside. There was laughter that followed a smoothly ribald joke, and as he swept aside one of the curtains that separated the front rooms from the large, open back room, he snorted as he realized that Salvail was here. Of course the tone of voice should have tipped him off, but it was of little import. His own artwork was that of a desert oasis, interrupted by some of Salvail’s metal sconces and the knotted tapestries that Zamitie wove to relieve stress. Breathing deep of the myrrh and cactus blossom perfumes, he could almost for a moment fool himself into thinking he was in the Drylands. The back room was a monstrous loft with a ‘U’ shaped upper balcony that opened into bedrooms. The last door in the back led to the kitchen and, from there, to the inner courtyard.
Salvail and Zamitie were already aware of his presence; the shaman because of her magic and the other Crow because he would have noticed the change in his lady’s bearing. But Zevran was curious as to what the Warden would pick up on.
Sauntering in slowly, he noted that Zamitie leaned over to Miolanai, saying just loud enough to carry, “It is alright, hija, just close your eyes and pretend he is younger than he is so you no longer have to keep lying to yourself....”
Miolanai covered her eyes with one hand, a long-suffering expression quickly hidden, and simply nodded. “Thank you for your hospitality, Zamitie.”
The shemlen held out a long strip of thin leather, charms attached to it, “You are welcome, hija. If you have need of me, please, come. I will be there for you as I can.”
Miolanai nodded, accepting the charm with obvious surprise. “I...thank you.”
Of course Salvail was not one to let anything slide, his handsome features in a smirk, “If you please, so long as you ensure that you knock before you enter. I work best with an audience, but I prefer some warning.”
Miolanai stared at him a moment, blankly, then sudden understanding lit her features and she scrunched her eyes shut. “Maker’s breath,” she whispered, as though she couldn’t quite help herself, but nodded. “Uh, yeah. Got it,” she said, hastily rising. “Uh, thanks again.” Quickly, she stepped to Zevran’s side, ready to leave, ready to be rushing this way and that again.
Meanwhile Zevran hid his own smirking, going over to the duo and bending down to give Zamitie a hug, “Hasta el mismo oasis.”
“Si, mi gato dorado, el mismo oasis. Be safe until then,” the soothing scent of rose, amber and black pepper filled his nostrils, and his eyes dropped closed, relishing the moment as Zamitie leaned her head into his shoulder. She gave him a last pat, “Go on then, gato. The city rests now, and you should both be wary.”
The last was more for Miolanai than him, as he well knew that those who would be out and about during the resting periods of the day would be those afflicted by el chiflado del sol, and their general stupidity was fairly boundless. Everyone knew that only mad dogs and foreigners would go out in the noonday sun. However, it would take a large gang to pose any problem for him or the Warden. Releasing Zamitie, Zevran turned to his old apprentice, Salvail, who looked no less amused than he usually did. Brunette waves hung particularly curly at the ends around the angled jaw and pointed chin, almond shaped blue eyes startling in the near-black skin above an aquiline nose that looked as if it had never been broken. The piercings in his eyebrows and nostrils, made from melted down viridium, glittered dully with their emerald gleam offsetting the way the shemlen’s mixed heritage suited him.
“El jefe, you are looking as wild as usual,” Salvail’s mouth turned upwards.
Clapping his fellow Crow on the shoulder before kissing his cheeks, “Mph, it is part of my elven nature, yes? Now, I shall leave you to your usual misdeeds and miscreant acts. See that you remember your manners, or I shall have to come looking for you.”
“Oh, trust me, I most certainly will,” Salvail laughed good-naturedly.
Putting his hand on the small of Miolanai’s back he guided her back to the front rooms, “And how are you feeling, my dear, after your time with nuetro pintor de lona viva?”
The Warden bent down, pulling her little boots back on, “My ass itches.”
“...Ah,” amused and slightly non-plussed. “She did not heal you?”
“Yeah, she did,” shrugging. He felt her watching him tug his own boots on. “Still itches a little bit though.”
“Do not scratch it. When we return to my flat, I shall put some more unguent on it to speed the process.” Zevran straightened and wiped his hands against his thighs out of habit. “Come now.”
Together they went out into the bright, beating sun, and it wasn’t until they were several blocks away that the Warden spoke again. “Salvail’s a Crow, ain’t he?”
“Yes,” and elaborating before she could ask, “and yes, he is one of my apprentices. Former apprentice truly. It is interesting to note that he was never ‘broken’, but he played the part to ensure I would be his teacher.”
Miolanai’s confusion was evident, “What? Why?
“Because he has been enamored of Zamitie since he was a boy and followed me to the shop,” shrugging. “My days off were primarily spent with Zamitie and Sa’id, learning and watching and playing in the backyard. By the time I was fourteen, Salvail had been purchased and took to trailing me. Her heart is large, as was Sa’id’s, and he was treated as family. Any excuse he could find, he would be there. And he took any excuse to crawl into her lap and listen to her speak .”
Her steps slowed, and he matched her, “He’s...a little young for her then, don’t you think? I mean, she’s kinda...like his mom or somethin’, yeah?”
Zevran tilted his head, “Young? No. Age is not something that means much beyond years. It does not imply inexperience necessarily, just as being aged does not mean being jaded or wise.”
Miolanai’s voice was soft, “‘In my youth, I thought that knowledge meant experience. And in my twilight, that experience meant wisdom.’”
Startled, he cast her a glance, “Anieas? You’ve read him?”
“Winters tend to be kinda borin’ in Amaranthine. Storms keep us locked in for the most part, and only for patrols did we go out and about, y’know?” shrugging at him. “Not much to do other than drink, spar, read, do paperwork. Mostly I just read when I had any time to myself.”
He could see that being the case and nodded, “To return to your earlier question, no. Zamitie is not like his mother. She is more mine in that way than she ever was for him. She doted on him, yes, but just as she doted on others. As he came from a family who loved him before he was sold, he sought no replacement for a mother. He merely prefers women who know what life is. I suppose if he were to come across a woman his age or much younger, and she knew who she was, what she wanted, and what her convictions were....” Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “No, he was besotted with her for her assurance in her own mind. For years, from boldly professing his admiration at the tender age of thirteen -- which of course she smiled and thanked him for, then fed him some couscous. I actually felt bad for him I may add, he was so dejected -- until a few years ago. Finally she believed he was serious.” Shaking his head, “He did everything from cleaning out her stables to scrubbing floors to learning the art himself and making gifts. Aiee...a regular playwright’s deepest fantasy of romance and comedy and tragedy his suit was!”
“You’d think the Guild wouldn’t have allowed that,” Miolanai’s look was quizzical, playing with the warding-strand that Zamitie had given her.
“You would think,” agreeing readily. “But he has never wavered, and the House respects Zamitie too much to risk crossing her, for she would make trouble. And the House values the pintores de la lona viva far, far too much to cross them simply over the fact that a member of their own Guild dallies with one of the pintor vida.” Reaching out, he pulled her to a stop, “Here, let me put that in your hair.”
The Warden looked around the empty streets and shrugged, handing over leather strip, “I don’t have enough to wear it.”
Picking up a strand of hair about as big around as his ring finger that hung down to mid-neck, behind her ear, “Any hair longer than half my pinky would be enough.”
Up near the root he folded and tied the thong, then began winding it down the length of hair, then back up, crisscrossing it. The pattern itself was important, and he concentrated, letting the image of a circle sigil form in his mind and holding it close. Under his breath he whispered the binding song that Zamitie always did for him when he was little -- to chase bad dreams away, to make that with ill will not notice, for shadows to grant security. His foot tapped the rhythm softly in time to the winding, until there was only a mere stub of her white hair showing at the end of the wrap, which he tied off in a complex knot. Leaning down, he blew across the knot once, making the bone and silver caracal, horse and fig tree charms chime softly.
“What...what was that?” she was reaching up, touching the lock of hair.
“A...spell, I suppose. Or a prayer,” shrugging, returning his hand to its place in the small of her back. “Similar to the sort a parent does for their child. It is an incantation to keep the little evils from the vulnerable.”
Zevran knew that the Chantry would frown on such a thing. Not that he particularly cared. Antivans were all religious in their own, individual manners, some more than others. Yet he had seen what a bit of salt and sand could do. He also had been raised amongst whores who had come from diverse backgrounds and learned more than just languages from birth until he left for the Guild. Zamitie had always sung him her chants when he was restless at bedtime, sometimes tapping a small drum made from the skin of a cat pulled over a frame of horse bone. When he scraped his knees, Uylis would howl to the west to chase away the mischief spirits, just as any sane Rivani would. And on the rare occasion he was punished for being a nosy rascal of a little boy, he would have to go pick his switch from a willow tree and dip it in brine before getting his bottom and legs whacked so that he would remember what he had done and would be less likely to repeat the same actions.
There was more than the Maker out in the Drylands, mountains, forests and jungles. And the people from those places had not forgotten their ways, passing them down to little boys and girls born in the whorehouse that catered to the various mercenaries and Crows, and their many cultural preferences. As far as he figured it, whoever sired him had to have been a rather strapping specimen of an elf, possibly even uhalamlin, for he had seen what the remnants of his mother’s family looked like, and his features were somewhat similar, but not even the most muscular of his mother’s clan was as heavy chested, thick thighed and long armed. Partly this was due to his lifestyle and such, but not entirely. His mother had been a slight little thing, even by elven standards, yet had been strong enough to pull a bow that even he had a hard time using. Or so he was told.
His gaze swept the streets where the middle-class resided; they had both greenery and paint on their stucco, capturing the vibrant heartbeat and dichotomy that was Antiva. Wealth was everywhere, and a poor man here would be considered rich elsewhere. But no one ever truly wished to leave Antiva. She was a jealous thing, the way any spurned love would be, for she opened her arms to all, giving of herself and granting succor. To leave was to know what it was to be without. Miolanai was a reminder of what other places were like with people too busy and separate to greet each other, too selfish to work towards the whole and understand that they were all part of the same colony of beings. Unlike the Qunari who believed all have their place and cannot change at all what that place is, Antiva was an entity made up of individual parts that worked for the good of the whole, just as the whole worked for the good of the individual.
Perhaps this truly is paradise.
XXX
The Crow noticed them first, long before they spied he and Miolanai. Early afternoon sunlight beat down, merciless the way the fat golden disc could be, its cruelty only lessened for the breeze off the bay and the shade thrown by buildings. While there was some argument that those who spent the days out in the sun were afflicted with el chiflado del sol, Zevran was sure it was mainly stupidity or desperation. Most anyone sane would not bother with the day’s heat and would be in the shade somewhere. As for the gang of small time bandits, the Antivan figured it was a combination of boredom and general stupidity that drove them to this. Not having a trade or life tended to push someone to the fringe and into these groups that worked mischief during the resting hours in large towns and Antiva City itself.
Miolanai stepped away from him, putting some distance between them, her hands running down to her thighs, and she cursed. “Vasheden! My daggers are at your place.”
“I know,” keeping his voice level. “I will take the one on the left, you take his weapons when he falls.”
The Warden grunted in what he took for assent as the group began to converge on them.
“What have we got here?” a rat faced, a truly ugly example of their species jeered. “Pretty little things, with pretty little baubles.”
Knuckles cracked like walnut shells, and Miolanai was a waiting storm -- waiting to be released, waiting to wreak havoc with coiled tension radiating from her slim form.
Zevran gave the six men a flat look, “And what of it elvehn’din? More than that, it is not worth your time to trouble a Crow and Warden about their business.”
A pockmarked shemlen hawked up a thick wad of mucous, “You ain’t no Crow. You just one of them horse-fuckers. Bleed like anybody else.”
Miolanai burst into a flurry of motion before Zevran could draw his own weapons and slugged the human once. If the Crow had any sympathy for the idiots, he would have winced at the sound of bone crunching as the human’s jaw broke. With the first blows thrown, Zevran had no time to whip his blades out, but that did not mean he was unarmed. Flipping backwards onto his hands, muscles coiled in his arms and abdomen, granting crushing force to the kicks he delivered to the elf and another of the gang. With a choking cry the human fell, but the elf only hissed in pain, reaching out to grab one of his ankles. Raising a brow, the Crow pushed from the ground with his hands, forcing the elf to suddenly deal with all his weight as his ankle lurched in his grip.
Breaking free of the hold easily then cartwheeling to the side, he lashed out with his leg, swinging up from his place low on the ground. Ribs cracked and collapsed in the elf’s chest, and he only had time to clutch at his stomach before crumpling. From the corner of one eye, Zevran noted that Miolanai had torn a belt from one of the gang and was swinging it like a flexible blade, the buckle whistling through the air before it impacted, looping around a neck. The Warden yanked her opponent to her, foot coming out to slam into that man’s kneecap. His neck snapped, and she turned to meet another of the gang’s number, delivering an elbow into sternum, a manic grin twisting her face into a mask.
Satisfied that the Warden would be fine, Zevran focused on his own ‘problems’. Making claws of his hands, the Crow lashed out, tearing through a throat while slashing at the eyes of another and dodging the spray of blood neatly. The music of impacts and grunts and heavy breathing was singing in his ears, and he no longer noticed faces or shapes, just obstacles. Soon enough, they were done.
This time when he saw Miolanai squat and begin rifling through their assailants’ possessions, he merely repressed a sigh. Dusting his hands off, he stretched, waiting for Miolanai to finish her grim, self-appointed task. He supposed that looting the dead might be a thing that could never truly be unlearned by someone raised in poverty who had to somehow gather funds to pay for a war and maintain an arldom on her own, with no income other than a few small contracts and whatever could be scavenged.
Still he did try, “I doubt they have much on them.”
“Not much is still somethin’,” he watched her as she bore no expression as she broke the neck of the elf, who was somehow still breathing, finishing him off. “Waste not and want not go hand in hand. Besides, some of these fools are still alive.”
Rubbing his temples, “I will have to send some of the youths from the tanneries to pick up the bodies. We cannot simply leave them lying about to rot and risk the breeding of disease and fevers.”
“Got a firebomb on you?” rolling over a body and stripping armor away. “Since we don’t have Morrigan with us, a good old fashioned firebomb would work.”
“In a city?” Disbelieving, the Crow crossed his arms and shook his head. “Fire is not a toy, and it has not rained recently so even if I did, I would not allow us to risk it. No, these useless idiotas will serve some purpose in their deaths as they had none in their lives.”
Her expression was a mix of distaste and confusion, “They’ll be made into leather? For what? Like...boots?”
Laughing he held his hand out to her, helping Miolanai rise, “Ah, no my dear. The brains and organs, they are used in the tanning process. It is part of why Antivan leather has that tang of rotting flesh.” Closing his eyes, smiling as he thought of the scent of fresh leather, “Mmm...it is marvellous. And it is always so supple. Far more than the processes that other tanners use. Tchk, such thick hides, pfah! No good for anything but boot soles.”
XXX
Zevran had been aware that the Warden wasn't sleeping for some time, but it took a while for her to finally determine she was going to get out of bed. He expected to hear her pacing or perhaps doing more of those curious exercises. Instead, her quick, nearly-silent footsteps drew closer to his room and soon she was hovering at the edge of the bed, uncertainly shifting from foot to foot.
"Zevran?" she whispered, her voice just as nervous as her feet.
Rolling onto his side, pushing his hair from his face, “Yes, Mio?”
“I can’t sleep,” the admission clearly costing her dearly.
This was the first night back at ‘her’ flat and the first night they had slept separately since he bathed her five days ago. And here he had been looking forward to not having to talk the Warden to sleep, even if that meant he didn’t have Ember to put him to sleep with his purrs. Not only that, but Miolanai was a horrible person to deal with when she was sick -- grousing, growling, and elbowing at the least jostling, and upon waking would snarl at him for having pulled her too close in the night. Which action was not exactly his fault, for the young woman was a cuddler, and who was Zevran to resist such a comfort? Yet the price of a pissed off Warden in the morning, who spent the day trying to fold herself into a ball of misery, fighting every time he made her eat...it was too high to pay with any good grace.
Zevran only had so much patience, and she had tested it sorely.
Keeping all of that from his tone and body language, “What would you like me to do, my dear?”
There was a growl, and Miolanai began to leave, muttering almost softly enough he didn’t hear, but his ears picked up more than most elves could even, “Bronto shit, stupid idea, what the hell was I thinkin’?”
Pulling his sheets back, “Miolanai, come back, tell me what it is you wish of me. I can do nothing without some information.”
“Nothin’, never mind, I’m good,” waving her hand at him.
Flopping back, Zevran wiped his face with both hands, “Miolanai, come to bed.”
“I am goin’ to bed,” snapping from halfway to her own room.
“Mio--” groaning, “Mio, please, come to bed,” while rubbing his temples vigorously in frustration as they began to throb dully. There was a short silence, while Miolanai came back to hover in his doorway, indecisive, but blessedly not arguing. After a moment, she simply crawled into bed with him. Relieved, he flipped the sheets over her and tried to settle back into some semblance of comfort. He sighed, several possible statements running through his mind, but he discarded all of them as being easy ways to incite her to annoyance or even anger. He wasn’t distant enough from his own aggravation to risk saying any of them, so had to search for another form of communication. Repressing another sigh, Zevran rolled onto his side, and tugged her close. “Are you alright?”
She wiggled around some, getting comfortable, one of her hands curling around the top of his shoulder from behind, “Just...couldn’t sleep. Sorry. Didn’t wanna wake you....”
“I awoke as soon as you began moving around,” shrugging in the darkness, propping up on one elbow, cheek in his palm. “You are a twitchy sleeper, and I am a light one. Being easily awoken, it is part of our natures, yes? Matters of survival are harsh, but thorough, teachers.”
“Always have been,” the bare skin of her calf stroked his thighs as she pushed her leg between his, using his leg as a prop to his amusement. “You learn to ignore the rats in the walls, or the scurryin’ of squirrels and stuff in the trees at night. It’s when you can’t hear them or the pattern changes that you wake up. Learn to notice that shit, or you wind up with drunk shems beatin’ on your door lookin’ for ‘a good time’, or darkspawn searchin’ for a bite to eat.”
Zevran’s ears pricked, listening, “Ah, I see. You use the night sounds as your alarm. And with the way this building is built, you gain few of them.” Shifting onto his back, careful to let the Warden continue using his right leg as a pillow for hers while wrapping his arm about her shoulders, “The change in air itself is what I notice. An...itchy sensation at the tip of my ears, or a vague pressure on my back if I rest on my stomach. Perhaps a disturbed breeze over my cheek? These are the alerts my body has learned to develop. I have not been fortunate enough to be able to rely on my ears, for Crows make little or no sound when they wish it.”
Miolanai nodded, curling closer. “Oh, that’s reassuring.” She snorted. “I dunno why I can’t sleep. Maybe there’s too many strange noises. Maybe there’s not enough of them. Whatever. It’s easier when you’re there. Steady sounds.”
Zevran didn’t say anything, thinking it made sense yet figuring she should have been a bit more appreciative of such reassurances, rather than elbowing him and being nasty in the mornings. Instead he took to playing with Miolanai’s hair, twirling the unseen, silvery white locks in his fingers and massaging her scalp. The way she had melted the first time had reminded him of Ember, stretching out and turning into a pile of purring fur.
She seemed on the verge of sleep, before she mumbled, “What did that idiot shem mean when he called you carajo caballo? I don’t know those words.”
“Horsefucker,” sneering the insult. “The horseclans are at times looked down on by the city dwellers. It is because many do not care for the city itself. The Ga’hals Iunimasilsh eschew Antiva City, sending only a few of their number to buy supplies. Or to sell horses.” Playing with the still-bound lock of Miolanai’s hair, tugging on it sharply to indicate the charms themselves, “Superstitious and witchy. That is how the horseclans are seen. It is the same for Dalish. But their ways are not so outlandish to those of the city for varying reasons.”
Miolanai propped her chin up on his chest, the tiny glimmer from the silver ring in her eyes winking as she blinked, “That doesn’t explain why they called you that.”
Scratching his chin, Zevran frowned, though the Warden would probably be unable to see it, “It is certain things about the way that I dress. The charms in my hair, the type of boots. If you look at many of the men of the city, their clothes are not exactly durable. I do not like to traipse around in my full leathers, mainly for comfort. Yet if I were to wear nothing but my breastplate and the half-pants that many do, not only would it look strange, but it would provide no protection either. In the thighs of my riding pantaloons are lizard skin sandwiched between the silk interior and exterior. And my boots are of...similar materials.” Drawing circles in the air with his index finger, so that the three circles made a triangle, overlapping in the center, “Functionality, comfort, appearance. They have places where they are all one and the same, others where they bear no relation, and others where they need not be mutually exclusive.”
A hand reached out, sliding over his chest to his other arm and up it, so that she could feel the motions he was making, most likely, unintentionally sensual. “I don’t understand your ideals of beauty and function. It all seems so directionless. And yet I can’t deny that I’ve seen some of it in action. Don’t seem like it would actually work, it all just kinda looks like...thin, pretty things. Without the value of practicality and function. Only of beauty.”
“I have never been to Ferelden, so I do not know how it is there.” Conceding, “At least not first-hand. But climate, resources and necessity govern how things are made and used. As I understand it Ferelden is....” The Crow didn’t want to point out that anything with imagination had long since been scoured away. Searching quickly for a politic way of saying what he needed to, “It is...focused on function and stability. To the exclusion of accepting anything lovely, deeming it frivolous and automatically holding it in suspicion. I think this has much to do with the fact that Orlais is only able to think on so-called ‘pretty’ things.” Grunting as he thought about the various monstrosities that were called fashion over there, “Though anything that they view as elegant only means that it must be made of costly materials and be utterly without any function whatsoever. Yet, what this means is that Ferelden, during the occupation and afterward, believes anything at all -- and I do mean anything -- that is strongly built in stolid, unimaginative lines and methods...is all that is good and great. To go to the opposite extreme that anything Orlesian is.”
“You ever heard of Master Wade?” The ring of light was gone, the young woman’s eyes closed. “I used to think he was crazy. Well, he is kinda. But I mean like, everything had to be perfect. Symmetry, endurance, practicality...he was never satisfied unless whatever he was workin’ on was a piece of art. He would yell and scream and cry, begging Herren to let him do ‘something fun’. All he lived for was his craft, pushing it to the highest pinnacle of beauty and function.”
Turning his hand so that he could take her index finger and use it to draw the circles in the air again as he spoke, “There are five elements to everything. Earth, wind, fire, water, self. Between them, when they are in balance, the two hidden elements that are not named are born -- creation and entropy. When masters take on apprentices, they teach these ideas first. Functionality, comfort, appearance make their triad. Outside of that triad is the object itself, or the purpose and the person who uses it.”
Miolanai’s yawn was a muffled thing, pressed into his chest. “But what ‘bout those other two...the...hidden ones?”
He could feel her slowly going lax as slumber sought to drag her down. “Purpose and completion. Hush now, and we shall both sleep.”
“Mmph, m’okay,” and he was glad there was no argument.
For once.
XXX
Hija, S - Daughter
Shemlen, E - quick children/human
Hasta el mismo oasis, S - To the same oasis, or until we meet again
Gato, S - cat (masculine)
El chiflado del sol, S - The craziness of the sun (sun madness)
El jefe, S - boss, man in charge
Nuetro pintor de lona viva, S - our paintors of the living canvas
Uhalamlin, E - lit. one without peaceful blood. In usage it means forsworn, exiled, one without clan
Vasheden, Q - Crap/fuck
Elvehn'din, E - Not elf
Idiotas, S - idiots
Author: Rhion
Rating: T - some lingo and violence
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: Uh, yeah. There's... a subseries in the works. So, I'm posting this chapter early. Saturday will be the first installment of the Guild-ed prequel. Or at least I'm hoping that ya'll would be happy with that? I know I took a hiatus from posting (but I assure you not from writing), but an idea sorta... attacked me the other week. And well, :sigh: there's a prequel series to A Guild-ed Cage now, and no, it's not about Mio. It does contain Zevran, eventually, but it's cutiepie Zevran with fluffy little hair and big gap toothed grins, climbing into bed and cockblocking his Zamitie, and somehow managing to hog all the covers. Hopefully the idea is well received, so lemme know.
Janni got the beta on this one before b could get to it, so let's all clap and go yay!
XXX
Guild-ed 10
XXX
Some time spent walking around, breathing Antiva’s air, trekking to one of the small fortresses that dotted Antiva City’s boundaries and center so that he could look out at Rialto Bay had done him much good. Zevran felt refreshed, revitalized and restored in a way he had not in weeks. When he had returned from his mother’s tribe, Ignacio had been waiting, a sheaf of papers and an apostate at his shoulder with new orders for him. A crash course in the Hero’s history, family, circumstances and present conditions had followed. That had not been much of a problem, it was the fact that the apostate had been a blood mage whose job it was to put him under a geas to ensure his loyalty to the Warden.
As if Zevran did not know his business.
On his own time the Crow had researched Ferelden and its treatment of elves, so that he might understand any possible underlying attitudes that he would have to watch for. Between his research and seeing to his own business investment, all the while looking into places that the Warden could perhaps move to once she had settled into Antivan lifestyle, Zevran had had very little time to himself. And once he had Miolanai to deal with....
She was always in such a rush to do things. Never letting a man have a second to dress or to simply lie back and feel the sun’s rays seeping through flesh or to take a deep breath and feel the shifting of the ground beneath feet, air ruffling hair.... Not that he couldn’t understand it. There was something vital and throbbing in the Warden beyond her manic energy. Something much more than the dictates of her battle shock demanded that she not be idle for a single second, there was a thirst in her for more. To condense everything and take it in. If only she would just breathe for a moment and learn to live within that moment’s echoes....
A few hours to himself had been a welcome respite, and he felt no concern for leaving her in Zamitie’s skillful, strong and capable hands. But now it was time to return and retrieve the Warden, and so he had pushed away from the battlement, not giving the Bay a single last glance. It would be there another time. No matter what those who walked on two legs did, Thedas would always survive them and their follies and conceits.
The long familiar tingle of Zamitie’s wards were akin to a mother’s embrace, and he passed through them easily. Being one of four people keyed to the witch’s magic was a privilege shared among he, the only other Crow she welcomed, and her long dead master and lover Sa’id and afforded him free entry no matter time of day to her inner sanctum. As far as he knew, the one-time whore, one-time shaman had never entertained other than himself, Salvail and Sa’id in the back rooms of her townhouse. Sometimes he suspected that she must have, for her clan was known to travel close to town for trading and news. No matter that she had left her clan nearly sixty years ago, selling herself into slavery during a bad year to earn enough coin to help her tribe eke out a living, she was still a thing to be revered amongst them.
So it was with mild surprise when he entered that he found no one in the parlor or her Work room. Frowning, Zevran listened carefully and heard only the low murmur of voices. Shrugging, he toed his boots off and locked the door to the outside. There was laughter that followed a smoothly ribald joke, and as he swept aside one of the curtains that separated the front rooms from the large, open back room, he snorted as he realized that Salvail was here. Of course the tone of voice should have tipped him off, but it was of little import. His own artwork was that of a desert oasis, interrupted by some of Salvail’s metal sconces and the knotted tapestries that Zamitie wove to relieve stress. Breathing deep of the myrrh and cactus blossom perfumes, he could almost for a moment fool himself into thinking he was in the Drylands. The back room was a monstrous loft with a ‘U’ shaped upper balcony that opened into bedrooms. The last door in the back led to the kitchen and, from there, to the inner courtyard.
Salvail and Zamitie were already aware of his presence; the shaman because of her magic and the other Crow because he would have noticed the change in his lady’s bearing. But Zevran was curious as to what the Warden would pick up on.
Sauntering in slowly, he noted that Zamitie leaned over to Miolanai, saying just loud enough to carry, “It is alright, hija, just close your eyes and pretend he is younger than he is so you no longer have to keep lying to yourself....”
Miolanai covered her eyes with one hand, a long-suffering expression quickly hidden, and simply nodded. “Thank you for your hospitality, Zamitie.”
The shemlen held out a long strip of thin leather, charms attached to it, “You are welcome, hija. If you have need of me, please, come. I will be there for you as I can.”
Miolanai nodded, accepting the charm with obvious surprise. “I...thank you.”
Of course Salvail was not one to let anything slide, his handsome features in a smirk, “If you please, so long as you ensure that you knock before you enter. I work best with an audience, but I prefer some warning.”
Miolanai stared at him a moment, blankly, then sudden understanding lit her features and she scrunched her eyes shut. “Maker’s breath,” she whispered, as though she couldn’t quite help herself, but nodded. “Uh, yeah. Got it,” she said, hastily rising. “Uh, thanks again.” Quickly, she stepped to Zevran’s side, ready to leave, ready to be rushing this way and that again.
Meanwhile Zevran hid his own smirking, going over to the duo and bending down to give Zamitie a hug, “Hasta el mismo oasis.”
“Si, mi gato dorado, el mismo oasis. Be safe until then,” the soothing scent of rose, amber and black pepper filled his nostrils, and his eyes dropped closed, relishing the moment as Zamitie leaned her head into his shoulder. She gave him a last pat, “Go on then, gato. The city rests now, and you should both be wary.”
The last was more for Miolanai than him, as he well knew that those who would be out and about during the resting periods of the day would be those afflicted by el chiflado del sol, and their general stupidity was fairly boundless. Everyone knew that only mad dogs and foreigners would go out in the noonday sun. However, it would take a large gang to pose any problem for him or the Warden. Releasing Zamitie, Zevran turned to his old apprentice, Salvail, who looked no less amused than he usually did. Brunette waves hung particularly curly at the ends around the angled jaw and pointed chin, almond shaped blue eyes startling in the near-black skin above an aquiline nose that looked as if it had never been broken. The piercings in his eyebrows and nostrils, made from melted down viridium, glittered dully with their emerald gleam offsetting the way the shemlen’s mixed heritage suited him.
“El jefe, you are looking as wild as usual,” Salvail’s mouth turned upwards.
Clapping his fellow Crow on the shoulder before kissing his cheeks, “Mph, it is part of my elven nature, yes? Now, I shall leave you to your usual misdeeds and miscreant acts. See that you remember your manners, or I shall have to come looking for you.”
“Oh, trust me, I most certainly will,” Salvail laughed good-naturedly.
Putting his hand on the small of Miolanai’s back he guided her back to the front rooms, “And how are you feeling, my dear, after your time with nuetro pintor de lona viva?”
The Warden bent down, pulling her little boots back on, “My ass itches.”
“...Ah,” amused and slightly non-plussed. “She did not heal you?”
“Yeah, she did,” shrugging. He felt her watching him tug his own boots on. “Still itches a little bit though.”
“Do not scratch it. When we return to my flat, I shall put some more unguent on it to speed the process.” Zevran straightened and wiped his hands against his thighs out of habit. “Come now.”
Together they went out into the bright, beating sun, and it wasn’t until they were several blocks away that the Warden spoke again. “Salvail’s a Crow, ain’t he?”
“Yes,” and elaborating before she could ask, “and yes, he is one of my apprentices. Former apprentice truly. It is interesting to note that he was never ‘broken’, but he played the part to ensure I would be his teacher.”
Miolanai’s confusion was evident, “What? Why?
“Because he has been enamored of Zamitie since he was a boy and followed me to the shop,” shrugging. “My days off were primarily spent with Zamitie and Sa’id, learning and watching and playing in the backyard. By the time I was fourteen, Salvail had been purchased and took to trailing me. Her heart is large, as was Sa’id’s, and he was treated as family. Any excuse he could find, he would be there. And he took any excuse to crawl into her lap and listen to her speak .”
Her steps slowed, and he matched her, “He’s...a little young for her then, don’t you think? I mean, she’s kinda...like his mom or somethin’, yeah?”
Zevran tilted his head, “Young? No. Age is not something that means much beyond years. It does not imply inexperience necessarily, just as being aged does not mean being jaded or wise.”
Miolanai’s voice was soft, “‘In my youth, I thought that knowledge meant experience. And in my twilight, that experience meant wisdom.’”
Startled, he cast her a glance, “Anieas? You’ve read him?”
“Winters tend to be kinda borin’ in Amaranthine. Storms keep us locked in for the most part, and only for patrols did we go out and about, y’know?” shrugging at him. “Not much to do other than drink, spar, read, do paperwork. Mostly I just read when I had any time to myself.”
He could see that being the case and nodded, “To return to your earlier question, no. Zamitie is not like his mother. She is more mine in that way than she ever was for him. She doted on him, yes, but just as she doted on others. As he came from a family who loved him before he was sold, he sought no replacement for a mother. He merely prefers women who know what life is. I suppose if he were to come across a woman his age or much younger, and she knew who she was, what she wanted, and what her convictions were....” Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “No, he was besotted with her for her assurance in her own mind. For years, from boldly professing his admiration at the tender age of thirteen -- which of course she smiled and thanked him for, then fed him some couscous. I actually felt bad for him I may add, he was so dejected -- until a few years ago. Finally she believed he was serious.” Shaking his head, “He did everything from cleaning out her stables to scrubbing floors to learning the art himself and making gifts. Aiee...a regular playwright’s deepest fantasy of romance and comedy and tragedy his suit was!”
“You’d think the Guild wouldn’t have allowed that,” Miolanai’s look was quizzical, playing with the warding-strand that Zamitie had given her.
“You would think,” agreeing readily. “But he has never wavered, and the House respects Zamitie too much to risk crossing her, for she would make trouble. And the House values the pintores de la lona viva far, far too much to cross them simply over the fact that a member of their own Guild dallies with one of the pintor vida.” Reaching out, he pulled her to a stop, “Here, let me put that in your hair.”
The Warden looked around the empty streets and shrugged, handing over leather strip, “I don’t have enough to wear it.”
Picking up a strand of hair about as big around as his ring finger that hung down to mid-neck, behind her ear, “Any hair longer than half my pinky would be enough.”
Up near the root he folded and tied the thong, then began winding it down the length of hair, then back up, crisscrossing it. The pattern itself was important, and he concentrated, letting the image of a circle sigil form in his mind and holding it close. Under his breath he whispered the binding song that Zamitie always did for him when he was little -- to chase bad dreams away, to make that with ill will not notice, for shadows to grant security. His foot tapped the rhythm softly in time to the winding, until there was only a mere stub of her white hair showing at the end of the wrap, which he tied off in a complex knot. Leaning down, he blew across the knot once, making the bone and silver caracal, horse and fig tree charms chime softly.
“What...what was that?” she was reaching up, touching the lock of hair.
“A...spell, I suppose. Or a prayer,” shrugging, returning his hand to its place in the small of her back. “Similar to the sort a parent does for their child. It is an incantation to keep the little evils from the vulnerable.”
Zevran knew that the Chantry would frown on such a thing. Not that he particularly cared. Antivans were all religious in their own, individual manners, some more than others. Yet he had seen what a bit of salt and sand could do. He also had been raised amongst whores who had come from diverse backgrounds and learned more than just languages from birth until he left for the Guild. Zamitie had always sung him her chants when he was restless at bedtime, sometimes tapping a small drum made from the skin of a cat pulled over a frame of horse bone. When he scraped his knees, Uylis would howl to the west to chase away the mischief spirits, just as any sane Rivani would. And on the rare occasion he was punished for being a nosy rascal of a little boy, he would have to go pick his switch from a willow tree and dip it in brine before getting his bottom and legs whacked so that he would remember what he had done and would be less likely to repeat the same actions.
There was more than the Maker out in the Drylands, mountains, forests and jungles. And the people from those places had not forgotten their ways, passing them down to little boys and girls born in the whorehouse that catered to the various mercenaries and Crows, and their many cultural preferences. As far as he figured it, whoever sired him had to have been a rather strapping specimen of an elf, possibly even uhalamlin, for he had seen what the remnants of his mother’s family looked like, and his features were somewhat similar, but not even the most muscular of his mother’s clan was as heavy chested, thick thighed and long armed. Partly this was due to his lifestyle and such, but not entirely. His mother had been a slight little thing, even by elven standards, yet had been strong enough to pull a bow that even he had a hard time using. Or so he was told.
His gaze swept the streets where the middle-class resided; they had both greenery and paint on their stucco, capturing the vibrant heartbeat and dichotomy that was Antiva. Wealth was everywhere, and a poor man here would be considered rich elsewhere. But no one ever truly wished to leave Antiva. She was a jealous thing, the way any spurned love would be, for she opened her arms to all, giving of herself and granting succor. To leave was to know what it was to be without. Miolanai was a reminder of what other places were like with people too busy and separate to greet each other, too selfish to work towards the whole and understand that they were all part of the same colony of beings. Unlike the Qunari who believed all have their place and cannot change at all what that place is, Antiva was an entity made up of individual parts that worked for the good of the whole, just as the whole worked for the good of the individual.
Perhaps this truly is paradise.
XXX
The Crow noticed them first, long before they spied he and Miolanai. Early afternoon sunlight beat down, merciless the way the fat golden disc could be, its cruelty only lessened for the breeze off the bay and the shade thrown by buildings. While there was some argument that those who spent the days out in the sun were afflicted with el chiflado del sol, Zevran was sure it was mainly stupidity or desperation. Most anyone sane would not bother with the day’s heat and would be in the shade somewhere. As for the gang of small time bandits, the Antivan figured it was a combination of boredom and general stupidity that drove them to this. Not having a trade or life tended to push someone to the fringe and into these groups that worked mischief during the resting hours in large towns and Antiva City itself.
Miolanai stepped away from him, putting some distance between them, her hands running down to her thighs, and she cursed. “Vasheden! My daggers are at your place.”
“I know,” keeping his voice level. “I will take the one on the left, you take his weapons when he falls.”
The Warden grunted in what he took for assent as the group began to converge on them.
“What have we got here?” a rat faced, a truly ugly example of their species jeered. “Pretty little things, with pretty little baubles.”
Knuckles cracked like walnut shells, and Miolanai was a waiting storm -- waiting to be released, waiting to wreak havoc with coiled tension radiating from her slim form.
Zevran gave the six men a flat look, “And what of it elvehn’din? More than that, it is not worth your time to trouble a Crow and Warden about their business.”
A pockmarked shemlen hawked up a thick wad of mucous, “You ain’t no Crow. You just one of them horse-fuckers. Bleed like anybody else.”
Miolanai burst into a flurry of motion before Zevran could draw his own weapons and slugged the human once. If the Crow had any sympathy for the idiots, he would have winced at the sound of bone crunching as the human’s jaw broke. With the first blows thrown, Zevran had no time to whip his blades out, but that did not mean he was unarmed. Flipping backwards onto his hands, muscles coiled in his arms and abdomen, granting crushing force to the kicks he delivered to the elf and another of the gang. With a choking cry the human fell, but the elf only hissed in pain, reaching out to grab one of his ankles. Raising a brow, the Crow pushed from the ground with his hands, forcing the elf to suddenly deal with all his weight as his ankle lurched in his grip.
Breaking free of the hold easily then cartwheeling to the side, he lashed out with his leg, swinging up from his place low on the ground. Ribs cracked and collapsed in the elf’s chest, and he only had time to clutch at his stomach before crumpling. From the corner of one eye, Zevran noted that Miolanai had torn a belt from one of the gang and was swinging it like a flexible blade, the buckle whistling through the air before it impacted, looping around a neck. The Warden yanked her opponent to her, foot coming out to slam into that man’s kneecap. His neck snapped, and she turned to meet another of the gang’s number, delivering an elbow into sternum, a manic grin twisting her face into a mask.
Satisfied that the Warden would be fine, Zevran focused on his own ‘problems’. Making claws of his hands, the Crow lashed out, tearing through a throat while slashing at the eyes of another and dodging the spray of blood neatly. The music of impacts and grunts and heavy breathing was singing in his ears, and he no longer noticed faces or shapes, just obstacles. Soon enough, they were done.
This time when he saw Miolanai squat and begin rifling through their assailants’ possessions, he merely repressed a sigh. Dusting his hands off, he stretched, waiting for Miolanai to finish her grim, self-appointed task. He supposed that looting the dead might be a thing that could never truly be unlearned by someone raised in poverty who had to somehow gather funds to pay for a war and maintain an arldom on her own, with no income other than a few small contracts and whatever could be scavenged.
Still he did try, “I doubt they have much on them.”
“Not much is still somethin’,” he watched her as she bore no expression as she broke the neck of the elf, who was somehow still breathing, finishing him off. “Waste not and want not go hand in hand. Besides, some of these fools are still alive.”
Rubbing his temples, “I will have to send some of the youths from the tanneries to pick up the bodies. We cannot simply leave them lying about to rot and risk the breeding of disease and fevers.”
“Got a firebomb on you?” rolling over a body and stripping armor away. “Since we don’t have Morrigan with us, a good old fashioned firebomb would work.”
“In a city?” Disbelieving, the Crow crossed his arms and shook his head. “Fire is not a toy, and it has not rained recently so even if I did, I would not allow us to risk it. No, these useless idiotas will serve some purpose in their deaths as they had none in their lives.”
Her expression was a mix of distaste and confusion, “They’ll be made into leather? For what? Like...boots?”
Laughing he held his hand out to her, helping Miolanai rise, “Ah, no my dear. The brains and organs, they are used in the tanning process. It is part of why Antivan leather has that tang of rotting flesh.” Closing his eyes, smiling as he thought of the scent of fresh leather, “Mmm...it is marvellous. And it is always so supple. Far more than the processes that other tanners use. Tchk, such thick hides, pfah! No good for anything but boot soles.”
XXX
Zevran had been aware that the Warden wasn't sleeping for some time, but it took a while for her to finally determine she was going to get out of bed. He expected to hear her pacing or perhaps doing more of those curious exercises. Instead, her quick, nearly-silent footsteps drew closer to his room and soon she was hovering at the edge of the bed, uncertainly shifting from foot to foot.
"Zevran?" she whispered, her voice just as nervous as her feet.
Rolling onto his side, pushing his hair from his face, “Yes, Mio?”
“I can’t sleep,” the admission clearly costing her dearly.
This was the first night back at ‘her’ flat and the first night they had slept separately since he bathed her five days ago. And here he had been looking forward to not having to talk the Warden to sleep, even if that meant he didn’t have Ember to put him to sleep with his purrs. Not only that, but Miolanai was a horrible person to deal with when she was sick -- grousing, growling, and elbowing at the least jostling, and upon waking would snarl at him for having pulled her too close in the night. Which action was not exactly his fault, for the young woman was a cuddler, and who was Zevran to resist such a comfort? Yet the price of a pissed off Warden in the morning, who spent the day trying to fold herself into a ball of misery, fighting every time he made her eat...it was too high to pay with any good grace.
Zevran only had so much patience, and she had tested it sorely.
Keeping all of that from his tone and body language, “What would you like me to do, my dear?”
There was a growl, and Miolanai began to leave, muttering almost softly enough he didn’t hear, but his ears picked up more than most elves could even, “Bronto shit, stupid idea, what the hell was I thinkin’?”
Pulling his sheets back, “Miolanai, come back, tell me what it is you wish of me. I can do nothing without some information.”
“Nothin’, never mind, I’m good,” waving her hand at him.
Flopping back, Zevran wiped his face with both hands, “Miolanai, come to bed.”
“I am goin’ to bed,” snapping from halfway to her own room.
“Mio--” groaning, “Mio, please, come to bed,” while rubbing his temples vigorously in frustration as they began to throb dully. There was a short silence, while Miolanai came back to hover in his doorway, indecisive, but blessedly not arguing. After a moment, she simply crawled into bed with him. Relieved, he flipped the sheets over her and tried to settle back into some semblance of comfort. He sighed, several possible statements running through his mind, but he discarded all of them as being easy ways to incite her to annoyance or even anger. He wasn’t distant enough from his own aggravation to risk saying any of them, so had to search for another form of communication. Repressing another sigh, Zevran rolled onto his side, and tugged her close. “Are you alright?”
She wiggled around some, getting comfortable, one of her hands curling around the top of his shoulder from behind, “Just...couldn’t sleep. Sorry. Didn’t wanna wake you....”
“I awoke as soon as you began moving around,” shrugging in the darkness, propping up on one elbow, cheek in his palm. “You are a twitchy sleeper, and I am a light one. Being easily awoken, it is part of our natures, yes? Matters of survival are harsh, but thorough, teachers.”
“Always have been,” the bare skin of her calf stroked his thighs as she pushed her leg between his, using his leg as a prop to his amusement. “You learn to ignore the rats in the walls, or the scurryin’ of squirrels and stuff in the trees at night. It’s when you can’t hear them or the pattern changes that you wake up. Learn to notice that shit, or you wind up with drunk shems beatin’ on your door lookin’ for ‘a good time’, or darkspawn searchin’ for a bite to eat.”
Zevran’s ears pricked, listening, “Ah, I see. You use the night sounds as your alarm. And with the way this building is built, you gain few of them.” Shifting onto his back, careful to let the Warden continue using his right leg as a pillow for hers while wrapping his arm about her shoulders, “The change in air itself is what I notice. An...itchy sensation at the tip of my ears, or a vague pressure on my back if I rest on my stomach. Perhaps a disturbed breeze over my cheek? These are the alerts my body has learned to develop. I have not been fortunate enough to be able to rely on my ears, for Crows make little or no sound when they wish it.”
Miolanai nodded, curling closer. “Oh, that’s reassuring.” She snorted. “I dunno why I can’t sleep. Maybe there’s too many strange noises. Maybe there’s not enough of them. Whatever. It’s easier when you’re there. Steady sounds.”
Zevran didn’t say anything, thinking it made sense yet figuring she should have been a bit more appreciative of such reassurances, rather than elbowing him and being nasty in the mornings. Instead he took to playing with Miolanai’s hair, twirling the unseen, silvery white locks in his fingers and massaging her scalp. The way she had melted the first time had reminded him of Ember, stretching out and turning into a pile of purring fur.
She seemed on the verge of sleep, before she mumbled, “What did that idiot shem mean when he called you carajo caballo? I don’t know those words.”
“Horsefucker,” sneering the insult. “The horseclans are at times looked down on by the city dwellers. It is because many do not care for the city itself. The Ga’hals Iunimasilsh eschew Antiva City, sending only a few of their number to buy supplies. Or to sell horses.” Playing with the still-bound lock of Miolanai’s hair, tugging on it sharply to indicate the charms themselves, “Superstitious and witchy. That is how the horseclans are seen. It is the same for Dalish. But their ways are not so outlandish to those of the city for varying reasons.”
Miolanai propped her chin up on his chest, the tiny glimmer from the silver ring in her eyes winking as she blinked, “That doesn’t explain why they called you that.”
Scratching his chin, Zevran frowned, though the Warden would probably be unable to see it, “It is certain things about the way that I dress. The charms in my hair, the type of boots. If you look at many of the men of the city, their clothes are not exactly durable. I do not like to traipse around in my full leathers, mainly for comfort. Yet if I were to wear nothing but my breastplate and the half-pants that many do, not only would it look strange, but it would provide no protection either. In the thighs of my riding pantaloons are lizard skin sandwiched between the silk interior and exterior. And my boots are of...similar materials.” Drawing circles in the air with his index finger, so that the three circles made a triangle, overlapping in the center, “Functionality, comfort, appearance. They have places where they are all one and the same, others where they bear no relation, and others where they need not be mutually exclusive.”
A hand reached out, sliding over his chest to his other arm and up it, so that she could feel the motions he was making, most likely, unintentionally sensual. “I don’t understand your ideals of beauty and function. It all seems so directionless. And yet I can’t deny that I’ve seen some of it in action. Don’t seem like it would actually work, it all just kinda looks like...thin, pretty things. Without the value of practicality and function. Only of beauty.”
“I have never been to Ferelden, so I do not know how it is there.” Conceding, “At least not first-hand. But climate, resources and necessity govern how things are made and used. As I understand it Ferelden is....” The Crow didn’t want to point out that anything with imagination had long since been scoured away. Searching quickly for a politic way of saying what he needed to, “It is...focused on function and stability. To the exclusion of accepting anything lovely, deeming it frivolous and automatically holding it in suspicion. I think this has much to do with the fact that Orlais is only able to think on so-called ‘pretty’ things.” Grunting as he thought about the various monstrosities that were called fashion over there, “Though anything that they view as elegant only means that it must be made of costly materials and be utterly without any function whatsoever. Yet, what this means is that Ferelden, during the occupation and afterward, believes anything at all -- and I do mean anything -- that is strongly built in stolid, unimaginative lines and methods...is all that is good and great. To go to the opposite extreme that anything Orlesian is.”
“You ever heard of Master Wade?” The ring of light was gone, the young woman’s eyes closed. “I used to think he was crazy. Well, he is kinda. But I mean like, everything had to be perfect. Symmetry, endurance, practicality...he was never satisfied unless whatever he was workin’ on was a piece of art. He would yell and scream and cry, begging Herren to let him do ‘something fun’. All he lived for was his craft, pushing it to the highest pinnacle of beauty and function.”
Turning his hand so that he could take her index finger and use it to draw the circles in the air again as he spoke, “There are five elements to everything. Earth, wind, fire, water, self. Between them, when they are in balance, the two hidden elements that are not named are born -- creation and entropy. When masters take on apprentices, they teach these ideas first. Functionality, comfort, appearance make their triad. Outside of that triad is the object itself, or the purpose and the person who uses it.”
Miolanai’s yawn was a muffled thing, pressed into his chest. “But what ‘bout those other two...the...hidden ones?”
He could feel her slowly going lax as slumber sought to drag her down. “Purpose and completion. Hush now, and we shall both sleep.”
“Mmph, m’okay,” and he was glad there was no argument.
For once.
XXX
Hija, S - Daughter
Shemlen, E - quick children/human
Hasta el mismo oasis, S - To the same oasis, or until we meet again
Gato, S - cat (masculine)
El chiflado del sol, S - The craziness of the sun (sun madness)
El jefe, S - boss, man in charge
Nuetro pintor de lona viva, S - our paintors of the living canvas
Uhalamlin, E - lit. one without peaceful blood. In usage it means forsworn, exiled, one without clan
Vasheden, Q - Crap/fuck
Elvehn'din, E - Not elf
Idiotas, S - idiots
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I was a little confused with this:
So... Zevran is under a geas to Mio?
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^ This is why I love you and your writing so hard. Reading one sentence like this where I can feel and almost smell the location. Also, you've really "humanized" Zevran in this too. What Jannifer said. He's so much more here. You've captured the thinker and feeler side to the man. Such subtlety in their intimacy, even though it frustrates me, is just wonderful.
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And I'm still stumped on 12, so it looks like I'll just go ahead and get them to have some nookie. As that then enters the next cycle of the story. Up until nookie time is her adjusting to Antiva. After the nookie time is when ZOMFG PLOT happens. Whooo. Plot.
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