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peopleofthedas2011-05-13 09:14 pm
Trouble & Strife: Chapter Fifty Seven
Much love as always to
bellaknoti the Comma Fairy, who kindly tidies up my chapters. Link to the beginning, for anyone joining us for the first time: www.fanfiction.net/s/6144534/1/Trouble_S
Title: Trouble & Strife: Chapter Fifty Seven
Characters: today we have Alistair, Zevran, Philippe, Cedric and Shayle.
Rating: M
This chapter: Yesterday, Zevran turned up in Philippe's room insisting that he sleep there. When morning comes, there are issues to be resolved...
-oOo-
Zev slept well, one hand tucked under the pillow where he could feel the hilt of his daggers, comforted by the knowledge that any foreign sound in the room would wake him. He was vaguely aware of the scratching of Philippe’s pen over by the fire, before sleep pulled him further down. Later, much later, only the popping or shifting of a log broke the quiet, and he woke briefly to find the warmth of another clothed body spooned in front of his and a coverlet pulled over both of them. The hand he slipped around to press to a hard chest was gripped by another, fingers clasping his. Sleep claimed him again.
He woke to grey morning light, to find himself once again alone on the bed in his rumpled clothes and Philippe in the doorway, murmuring to a servant. Even half-asleep he could see how Philippe semi-hid behind the door, keeping the servant in the hall while she received his instructions. When the maid had bobbed a curtsey and left, and the door was closed, Philippe turned. Seeing Zev awake, he gave him a timid smile that pulled at both the scarred corner of his mouth and Zevran’s heart.
“Good morning, mon ami. I have ordered breakfast for both of us.”
“Excellent, I could eat a horse, I think.” The words were light, neutral, but Zev kept his eyes on his prince’s face, noting how he tried to keep his right side turned away and how his usually tidy hair hung around his face like a disguising curtain. “Are they bringing hot water, also?” Zev stretched languidly, seeing how Philippe’s gaze travelled over him before flicking away. “I was too tired yesterday to remove the road dust.”
“T-they are bringing water for my bath, I think.” Zev didn’t miss the slight stutter. “Y-you wish to bathe here?”
“I’m not leaving you alone, mio principe, you may as well get used to it.” The words were flat and allowed no protest. The terror he’d felt when tearing across the camp to his Prince’s tent tugged at him again. Twice they died. A third time and I die too. He kept his eyes on Philippe, permitting him to see as much, or as little, of this as could not be kept from his face. Zev swallowed hard and spoke as he must. “Be warned. If you send me away now, I leave entirely and you shall not see me again. I can only stand so much, amore mio.”
The words hung in the air and Philippe nodded jerkily. “I know. I- There is more to be said, but perhaps we should eat first.”
“As you wish.”
They maintained a strained silence until breakfast arrived, and a slightly more comfortable silence as they ate. The arrival of hot water put paid to any plan to immediately resume their conversation and Philippe courteously offered the usage of it to Zevran. “I bathed yesterday, when we arrived. Reserve a little hot water for the ewer so that I may wash my hands and face, and that will suffice.”
A more thorough investigation of the suite assigned to the Queen’s brother brought the discovery of a comfortable sitting-room – which Zevran was thankful Philippe had not retired to last night to read and write, as he needed him close by right now – and a separate bathing room and water closet. Zevran scowled at the bath in this discreet little room and made his way deliberately back into the bedroom, pouring the hot water from the buckets into the bath in the corner of the room, and stripping off his clothes without ceremony. He kept his eyes on his task, cautiously dipping a toe into the bath and adding more cold water, allowing Philippe to look his fill in peace should he wish to do so.
Only when he was immersed in gloriously warm water did Zevran lift his eyes to find Philippe staring shamelessly. Despite the frisson of exhibitionist pleasure this provoked, Zev found his own gaze drawn to the somewhat travel-stained bandage which still covered one eye.
“You are healed, are you not? Surely you no longer require that… thing.”
Philippe immediately turned his head away. “My skin is healed, yes, but the eye is blind. Anders couldn’t fix it entirely.”
“Come here, tesoro.”
For a moment he thought Philippe would refuse, would revert to the skittish manner which had kept him at a distance for so long. There was reluctance in his body language as he took the first tentative steps towards where Zevran lay at ease in the bath, but it seemed to be more about a new shyness than the old prudery. Zev sat up, displacing water with a splash, and reached out a hand, pulling Philippe down to kneel beside the bath. When he lifted his other hand to the bandage Philippe flinched away, ducking his head.
“Please, Zevran, it’s not… pretty.”
“Amore, I was with you before Anders arrived and healed you, remember? Trust me, I am unshockable.”
Zevran kept his movements slow and his hands gentle as he unwound the bandage from Philippe’s head, until the thick pad that covered his eye was no longer held by the long cloth. He took greater care removing the pad, unsure of exactly how healed the skin below would be.
As it turned out, his care was unnecessary; as with the rest of the scarring, the marks around the eye were shiny-smooth, magic having aged them to several years beyond what they could heal naturally. The lid remained intact and seemed to function properly. The eye itself was a milky-pale orb, and Zev breathed a sigh of relief that it had been saved, even if vision had not. Older colleagues in the Crows had occasionally lost eyes, and stated that the socket itched like a demon forever, producing the sensations of an eyeball that could not be rubbed for surcease of the torment. Philippe had been spared that, at least.
“Is it entirely blind, or does the light hurt you?”
“It’s… quite blind, although I get flashes of… something… light, I think. It doesn’t hurt, not since the healing.”
Zev passed one slim tanned hand over the scarred brow-bone, smoothing down to the acid-pocked cheek. The vulnerability in Philippe’s remaining blue eye tore him up inside. My fault, my fault. “Come closer.” The hand on Philippe’s cheek reinforced the request, drawing him down to where Zevran could flutter butterfly kisses over the damaged skin.
A choked sob erupted from the tormented prince. “Zev, how can you-? I mean-”
“Shh.” More soft kisses soothed his upset. “You think I should be repulsed, hmm? Never.” A firmer kiss was pressed at the corner of Philippe’s mouth, where a little knot of scar tissue pulled it into a grimace. “If you do not wish others to see this, then so be it. I shall acquire you a leather eye-patch; you will look like a dashing and handsome pirate. Or an ornate half mask for the right hand side, a specially made bauta from Antiva, if that is your preference. It will make you appear very sexy and mysterious, a man with a past.”
A shaky laugh rewarded his nonsense and he pressed a final kiss to the smooth undamaged skin of Philippe’s forehead. “Now that we have discarded that revolting rag, you shall be more comfortable, no? May I impose upon you to wash my back before the water makes me wrinkle up like a raisin in the sun?”
The brisk question seemed to help settle Philippe’s nerves and he reached for a cloth without trying to hide his face. In fact, intent upon scrubbing while Zevran purred happily at the friction, he absently tucked the curtain of auburn hair behind his ear, out of the way. Zev smiled in quiet triumph and said nothing.
-oOo-
“You may go through, ser.” Even though the King was expecting him, Cedric raised his eyebrows enquiringly at the polite manservant. Even from the hall he could hear a clear murmur of voices that showed Alistair was not alone.
“Who is with him, if I may ask?”
“His Majesty is just finishing up his previous meeting, ser. Go on in, he’s expecting you.”
The door was opened by the servant and smoothly closed behind the Captain. A curious sight met his eyes; the King’s visitor was a dwarf, a badly-scarred female who wore plain clothing but positively dripped jewellery. A beam of winter sunlight through the window flashed on the gems set in her necklaces, red, blue and amber stones making a riot of colour around her scarred and withered throat. At his approach this oddity turned disturbingly empty eye sockets his way, her head cocked to one side, listening.
“Cedric, come in. I don’t think you’ve met Shayle,” Alistair hesitated slightly before adding, “of House Cadash.”
Cedric began a courteous greeting only to be cut off by the dwarf utterly ignoring him and speaking directly to Alistair. “If the Dwarven King does not give me my House back, you will have to squish him for me. Sadly, I can no longer do so myself.”
“Don’t worry, Shayle, it’ll be fine.” Alistair demonstrated no shock at the woman’s alarming statement that he should kill King Bhelen for her, just warm amusement. “I’ve arranged for you to travel to Orzammar with the next merchant caravan. They’ll take good care of you, and I’ve written a letter to Bhelen explaining who you are. He’ll be ecstatic, I suspect. To have someone at his court who personally knew Caradin! He’ll fall on your neck, I bet.”
“He’d better not; he might damage my new crystals.” The chances of her saying something sensible, or even comprehensible, at some point seemed remote to Cedric, and he was relieved when Alistair took affectionate leave of her, affection that did not in any way appear to be returned, and she stomped out of the door.
Once alone, the King grinned at him. “I bet you’ve never seen anything like her before.” He poured some light ale and shoved a tankard at Cedric. “She used to be a massive stone golem that could crush you to a messy paste in seconds. I still can’t believe she’s gone back to being a dwarf.”
The name clicked in Cedric’s mind, as he accepted both the tankard and the seat that Alistair waved him to. Shale. “The golem you had during the Blight?”
“The same. Maker, how many golems do you think I know? No, don’t answer that. With a life as strange as mine has been…” Alistair shook his head, bemused. “Anyway, that’s not why I asked you here.”
Cedric waited patiently, while his King thought for a moment, leaning forward in his seat, hands loosely clasped before him.
“You’ve done good work for me, Ced. Best Guard Captain anyone could ask for. You’ve trained the King’s Own into a unit to be proud of; you’ve taken good care of my wife when I had to leave her after Orzammar.” Alistair smiled ruefully. “More importantly, you stood up to me when you thought I was in the wrong, and stood by your principles. I can respect that.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Cedric knew that his King preferred to be treated informally when they were alone, but the praise seemed to demand more. “It’s an honour to serve you.” He meant it, too. Serving the King of Ferelden in such a role would always be an honour for any soldier, but this King… this affable, decent young man who tried so hard to help his people… Cedric would cheerfully die to protect him.
Alistair sighed, mournfully. “Losing you is going to be a wrench, Ced. I hope you have someone good in the King’s Own to recommend as a replacement.” The King’s face was full of mischief as Cedric stared at him, taken aback.
“I- er- Are you re-assigning me?” His brain seemed to have stuttered to a stop. There wasn’t a single posting in Thedas he’d voluntarily take in place of this one. How could the King praise him so, and then… this?
“In a manner of speaking.” Alistair levered himself from his chair and crossed the room, returning with a sealed scroll. “Here’s your new assignment, if you’ll accept it.”
Ced took the parchment in numb fingers. It was heavy vellum, sealed with the royal seal and bound in ribbons in the Ferelden colours.
“Go on, open it.”
The thick wax split apart under his thumbnail. When he opened the scroll it was to find that this was merely a protective covering for another scroll held within. This was heavily illuminated, bearing both the crown and rampant mabari of Ferelden, together with another cumbersome beribboned seal, attached to the inside of the document itself.
It held a great deal of closely written script, the language archaic. He hardly needed to read it to know what it was. His father held just such a document, carefully stored in a display case.
“With Teagan now Arl of Redcliffe, I need someone to hold Rainesfere for me, Ced. I can’t think of anyone more deserving.”
If Cedric had believed his brain to have shut down before, it was as nothing compared to the utter shock that had overtaken him at the sight of the official title he held in his hands. Bann, I’m to be Bann. It was a good holding, as least as good as his father’s. He stared at the scroll, overcome.
“Well?” He looked up to where his King still stood, waiting on his response. Warm hazel eyes twinkled down at him. “Do you accept?”
“I-” Cedric moistened suddenly dry lips, and tried to clear the obstruction in his throat enough to answer. “Yes, Your Majesty, I’d be honoured to do so.”
-oOo-
Bathed and wrapped in a robe, Zevran sat at the table as Philippe bid him. Philippe had thought long and hard about this during the previous afternoon and evening, while the only man he’d every truly loved slept the sleep of total exhaustion with one hand on his daggers.
After Philippe had been healed and had returned to the saddle, Maddy had ridden beside him and told him, in tones of incredulous fury, that the attempt on his life had been arranged by the bride Celene had proposed for him. She had expressed herself long and fluently about the rampant idiocy of their Imperial sister. She had also not minced her words about her opinion of what she called his ‘attempted martyrdom’ in accepting Celene’s will at the expense of his own happiness.
That she was right, he could not deny. His stupid inability to take up the reins of his own life had endangered the lives of those he loved, and in particular that of Zevran, who had fought all those assassins single-handed in order to save his miserable life. If he had been resolute, if he had refused the match, if he had told Celene to take her ambition and stick it, together with his lands and duty, then none of this would have happened.
It was his fault, all of it.
Riding into Denerim, seeing the expressions on the faces of those he met, he’d abandoned any shred of hope, resigned to the fact that he had lost everything through his own inaction. He was a horror, a bogey-man to frighten children. Why would any man, particularly one like Zevran, taught to admire and pursue beauty, wish to consort with one so ruined?
It was inconceivable.
And yet there the man lay, professing himself unable or unwilling to sleep elsewhere. While Zevran slept, Philippe had stared into the fire, hopes and fears ticking through his mind and in the end had written two letters. These he now placed on the table before his love.
“It is my wish that you read these, mon cher, and tell me which to send.” His life hung on this thread, and Philippe could not keep his hands from shaking, so he dropped them into his lap below the line of the table. “This is what I should have done at West Hill, if I’d had the courage, or even back in Redcliffe, when Celene’s first letter arrived.” A note of heartfelt apology bled into his soft words. “I am so sorry that I did not.”
Zevran looked at him searchingly, but Philippe shook his head and nodded to the letters. He didn’t need to read them himself to know the words as Zev’s eyes travelled across the page. They were engraved in his mind.
To Celene, Imperial Empress of Orlais,
Although I am warmed by your interest in my welfare, I find your choice of bride for me unacceptable. You will understand why when I say that Principessa Luciana sent her personal cell of Antivan Crows to kill me. That she failed was due only to the diligence of another Crow, one Zevran Arainai of whom you will have heard, no doubt.
Do not, I beg you, endeavour to find me another bride. I fear I may not survive your attention to my welfare a second time.
I shall be returning to Ghislain very soon, and you may rest assured that I will no longer neglect my duties in regard to the province, but believe me when I say that I have no desire to be wed.
With dutiful affection
Prince Philippe de Ghislain.
Written at the Royal Palace in Denerim this 18th day of Haring, 9:33 Dragon
Zev set the letter down and opened his mouth to speak. Philippe shushed him. “Please, read them both before you say anything.”
To Celene, Imperial Empress of Orlais,
My dear sister,
Although I am warmed by your interest in my welfare, I find your choice of bride for me unacceptable. You will understand why when I say that Principessa Luciana sent her personal cell of Antivan Crows to kill me. That she failed was due only to the diligence of another Crow, one Zevran Arainai of whom you will have heard, no doubt.
Do not, I beg you, endeavour to find me another bride. I fear I may not survive your attention to my welfare a second time. In fact, I find that I prefer life, and remaining limb, to any and all aspects of Imperial life.
I recognise that you need a Prince willing to devote himself to the needs of Ghislain. I fear I am no longer he. It is my wish that you take back my lands, and all chattels pertaining to it, and find just such a noble to bestow them upon. I would hand you my title also, should that be possible, but I fear it is not. Rest assured that I have no desire at all to use it, or to allow my life from this point to reflect upon the Imperial blood I bear in my veins.
It is my hope that you will find my loss acceptable, and accept my assurances that I bear you no ill will. I merely wish to live my life as a free man, not an Imperial Prince.
With affection
Philippe
Written at the Royal Palace in Denerim this 18th day of Haring, 9:33 Dragon
Zevran set the letter down with undue care, squaring the corners of the sheet before him before raising his eyes. “What is it that you are asking me, mio principe?”
Philippe drew a shaky, nervous breath before responding. “My views have not altered, Zevran. It is my hope, however, that I have finally found the courage to truly live by them. I will not, I cannot, offer you a place at my side in Ghislain. I know that, in your eyes, to be paramour to royalty holds no shame, but I wholeheartedly believe you deserve better. If you choose that letter, then I leave for Orlais alone.”
“I see.” An unnatural calm hung around Zevran. Philippe watched him nervously. “And the other?”
“If you choose the other, then we may go wherever you please, assuming that Celene does not have me killed for my presumption. I have money, inherited money, quite separate from the estate. We will not be poor. Or we may stay here; I know Maddy would be happy to have us do so. But I have to ask… I have to say…” Philippe licked dry lips, trying to quell the nerves in his stomach. He forced himself to look Zev directly in the eye. “I have to say to you: if you choose for me to send Celene the second letter, then you must understand how seriously I will take your choice. You will be mine, Zevran, and I shall be yours. We will stand before a Chantry altar and declare our bond in the Maker’s gaze. I cannot give up my heritage for less.”
The finality of the words both horrified and relieved Philippe. They were said, and could not be retracted. Before Zev could respond, he hurried into further speech, torn out of him by his fears, just as the rest had been fuelled by his hopes. “If you simply cannot bear to tie yourself to a man as… ugly and damaged as I am now, then I will understand. You may tell me so, or you may choose the first letter. The result will be the same, after all.”
A savage scowl replaced the unnatural calm. “That is a thing I never wish to hear from you again. Do not dare to diminish yourself so.” One swift move carried an obviously annoyed Zevran from his seat to stand before Philippe. The first letter, the shorter of the two, was gripped in his fingers. Philippe’s heart sank, disappointment settling around him. He had known that this was the most likely outcome; it was too much to ask-
Zev crumpled the letter in his hand and threw it into the fire in a single angry gesture. He snagged Philippe’s chin in his fingers and scowled down at him. “Never again say such a thing, amore mio. Or you will face my severest displeasure.”
Sacré Coeur d’Andraste, he-
Philippe blinked at the fire, seeing the parchment crisp and curl, and then back up at Zevran. “Really? You want to…”
He was pulled up from his seat by those insistent fingers gripping his chin. “Severest displeasure, my prince. Do not forget it.” Zev’s mouth was raised to his and the fingers on his chin pulled his lips down to meet it before sweeping around to tangle in his hair. Oh, sandalwood and spice, pure Zevran. Every time he’d tasted this, he’d wanted more. And now…
Now it’s all mine.
It was a heady thought which mixed deliciously with the kiss. To be free to thread a hand in cornsilk hair, to plunder the warm mouth on his without guilt or worry, to press against the lithe, muscular body which offered itself with such abandon… these were pleasures that Philippe had been denying himself for a long, long time and he took full advantage of them.
Busy fingers worked at the closures of his shirt; to permit the action denoted blissful freedom. The feel of Zev’s hands on his skin, pushing the shirt from his shoulders, brought such a keen surge of need that he staggered, dizzy. He clutched at the bathing robe Zevran wore, in order to keep his balance, fortuitously finding that the strip of fabric he clung to was the tie belt. A simple tug allowed the heavy garment to fall away, and Philippe grounded his senses in flesh, smoothing his hands over tanned skin, dipping his head to the strong column of Zev’s throat. His tongue, pressing hard on a pulse-point, drew a groan from the elf, whose warm mouth and clever hands remained busy, touching, teasing, and somehow removing clothes with the minimum of effort.
“Mercy!” The gasping plea was drawn from Philippe by the first skilful touches on his sensitive length. “It has been… a very long time.”
“Do not concern yourself, cuore mio. We have all day, do we not?” Zevran pushed him back into the seat behind him, leaning down to kiss from throat to groin. Soft, long hair tickled his thighs while the very tip of a tongue touched his-
Oh! Such sensation, after so many years. But, glorious though the feeling was, this was not what Philippe craved, what he needed. For months he had dreamed of embracing Zevran, of feeling silky skin over hard muscle sliding against his. He wanted to drink him in, lose himself in his lover.
“Zevran-” Speech was difficult and becoming more so by the moment. “The bed.”
Molten amber eyes lifted to his face and Philippe thanked the Maker with all his heart that they held no revulsion, only desire.
“Please, mon coeur, I wish to hold you.”
A tug on his wrist signified all the agreement he needed. It was only a few strides to the bed, and they tumbled onto it together, bronze skin tangled with pale. Philippe enfolded Zev in a loving embrace and drowned him in kisses, long drugging kisses that left them gasping. On their sides, face to face, they writhed in unison, in partnership, to bring pleasure each to the other. Skin against skin they moved until Philippe could feel nothing, think of nothing, know nothing that was not Zevran. They were immersed in each other, mouth to mouth, body to body until the tension that built between them began to demand attention of its own.
Their movements became more imperative, their kisses breaking down into groans and panting breaths. A slight shift of position from Zev and the friction almost doubled, taking them to new heights, where sensation was focussed in a single spot and all they could do with hands and mouth was cling to each other, press fervent kisses to throat and shoulder, and allow their passion to take its course. Philippe’s climax hit him with all the power of a vast ocean wave, dammed up for too long. He could vaguely hear Zevran murmuring encouragement, and distantly feel his lover’s hand on his hair. When his senses returned, Zev’s hips still moved urgently, and Philippe held him close, raining kisses on his face and hair while his beautiful elven love, his joy, his life, took the final steps over his personal precipice.
The stillness that followed, the surcease of action, was a place of bliss for Philippe. The fluids that coated them were nothing, they would bathe again and all would be well. The mere presence of the man quivering against him, returning to him from the peak, was everything in the world he needed.
With Zev’s face buried in his shoulder, only his tender temple was in reach, so that was what Philippe kissed, slow and gentle, savouring the soft flesh. “We shall collect my sister and go down to the Palace Chantry this very day, mon amour. I am yours now, and I wish to declare it in the Maker’s sight.”
There was something strangely humble in Zev’s golden eyes when he raised his head, an expression that Philippe had not seen before and didn’t quite understand. The slim tanned hand he reached up to brush back Philippe’s hair from his face was oddly hesitant.
“If that is truly what you desire… then so be it.” The humility dissolved into a fierce determination which was far more familiar. “I shall keep you safe, amorino, this I swear.”
Tears pricked Philippe’s good eye and he rested his forehead against his lover’s, overwhelmed. “I know.”
-oOo-
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FINALLY
Also, I'm having a lot of fun imagining Celene SEETHING because she's been blocked at every turn.
And they're getting married, and Ced's going to be a bann, and just YAY!
Re: FINALLY
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Absolutely lovely.
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There's been a lot of torches and stabbity things around these last few weeks...
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...but, a noble human and an elf married in a palace Chantry? (and both men, too!) I wonder if ANY chantry sister would do the rite.
... and OMG what a scandal!
Delightful :)
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And the King knows the Chant almost as well as she does, so she'll struggle to argue.
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I hope you will show us the wedding :)))))
...and the reactions to it, hehe.
(albeit the good folk of Ferelden mist be quite accustomed to scandals and surprises by now :) )
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...but a whole week to wait... it's too long, you're cruel!
:)
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And I hope I didn't offend you by using the word porn instead of slash. If I did, I apologize.
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I seriously feared that I'd disappoint my SS readers, but explicit just wouldn't fit with T&S and I was mindful of the large non-slash reader-base who wouldn't like it.
So, in sum, your praise was music to my ears :)
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The - what did you call it - airbrushed version fit perfectly. More explicitness (is that a word?) would have taken focus from the fulfilment of their love, I think. If that makes any sense. :)
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(Yes, I know, there's that tiny detail of the Chantry, but for now, joy!)
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Simply beautiful, ma'am. The prose, the plot, the pacing, the EVERYTHING.
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I, too, am doing a happy dance. (Although I am a goth, so this may perhaps be a "less sad dance." ;) Lots of ass-shaking going on here, I assure you.)
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