peopleofthedas | Bonds of Brotherhood

Title: Bonds of Brotherhood - Chapter 10 (A Rapid Recovery)
Characters: Zevran/Assorted Dalish
Rating: M (T this chapter)
Word Count: 3,070
Summary: Flashback continues - Zevran recovers among a Dalish clan.

"How are you feeling today?" the healer, Kariel, asked as she knelt beside his cot.

He frowned, licked his lips, considering the question. "Better?" he hazarded.

That drew a low laugh from the woman. He liked Kariel; she had sure but gentle hands. In his earliest days here tending his badly infected wounds had been a painful and rather disgusting process, but her hands had never faltered, never flinched from causing necessary pain. He knew he'd known hands like that once before, though he couldn't remember when or where. He remembered very little, from the time before waking up to find himself on a cot in a tent, in an encampment of the Dalish.

He'd been badly fevered when a couple of Dalish scouts had all but tripped over his comatose body in the woods. Normally the Dalish cared only a little more for their city elf cousins then they did for the shem, but it was obvious to them that this young elf had somehow escaped from horrendous torture, and was close to death from starvation and infection. They'd brought him back to camp, so that their healer could at least ease his passage. Kariel, their chief healer, had insisted on trying to treat him, not just drugging him insensible, and to everyone's surprise – including hers, she later assured him – he'd held on to life, then slowly began to recover.

Physically, anyway – his memory seemed gone, driven out by either the fever or what had gone before it. The Dalish were his mother's people – he remembered that much, though little more. When he tried to remember anything about his mother – her face, her voice, her name, anything at all – the only thing he could bring to mind was a pair of gloves, of very thin sueded leather, cut and embroidered in the Dalish style. But he couldn't even picture the embroidery properly, just knew it had been there. A pity, Kariel had told him – unless they were being made as trade goods, the patterns used tended to be specific to different clans and families, and might have helped to identify who she was.

But of who he was, of why or where he'd been tortured, who by, how he'd come to be in the forest, so far from anywhere – that, he knew nothing of. Not even his name remained to him anymore, nor any idea of his age, though by his physical development Kariel placed him at mid to late teens.

"Let's get you sitting up," Kariel said, slipping one slender but surprisingly strong arm behind his shoulders and helping to lift him up. He managed to turn, sliding his legs off the edge so that he was sitting up, Kariel moving along with him so they ended sitting side by side, her arm still supporting him. He frowned down at his legs, distressed by how gaunt and weak they are. The fevers and sickness, his inability to eat for much of his first few days here, the already half-starved state he'd been in even before that and days of lying motionless in bed, had melted any spare flesh from his body. He could smell the rank stink of his own body, overlaid with the herbal scent of the poultices and salves he'd been so liberally coated with that little naked flesh was visible, despite his unclothed state.

"Do you think you can sit on your own?" Kariel asked, eyeing him thoughtfully. "I would like to change the bedding and wash you, if you can stay upright for long enough.

"For clean bedding and a bath, I can stay upright as long as you desire," he said fervently, turning his head carefully to look at her.
Kariel, he noticed from this close, had deep smile lines at the corners of her dark green eyes. They were crinkling now, as she smiled in amusement at his words.

"See that you do, then," she said, voice severe, and carefully removed her arm.

He sat there, concentrating on not falling over, which was surprisingly hard work at the moment, while she bustled around, stripping the stained sheets off the cot. She dropped them outside the door of the tent, and he could hear her talking to someone quietly, before she ducked back in, a basin of warm water in hand. She put it down, fetched clean rags and some soap – herbal scented, like everything around her – and efficiently lathered up a rag and began gently wiping him clean, working from his feet up. She had to change rags several times, as they grew filthy with the salves and poultices, and the grime of his body. She frowned as she delicately swabbed his face clean.

"I wish I could give your hair a proper wash," she said. "It will have to wait a few days, until you're strong enough for a proper bath."

She settled for giving it a good combing with some soapy water, and then loosely braiding the lank strands back from his face. By the time she'd also re-applied salve to those of his still-healing wounds that she judged needed a fresh coating, he was starting to shake with exhaustion from the effort of sitting up. She spread a fresh sheet on the cot, then helped him to lie down, before spreading a second sheet over top of him. He dropped off to sleep almost as soon as he lay down.

"What's your name?" Kariel asked abruptly as she walked at his side around the edge of the clearing.

"Zev..." he said, then blinked, and stopped walking. He'd almost remembered something, for a moment, but the thoughts had already fled. He swore in frustration.

"It'll come back to you, in time," Kariel assured him, smiling as she patted his arm. "So your name was Seff or something similar?"

"I... yes. I think so," he said. "It sounds... almost right?"

"Then we'll call you Seff for now," she said warmly, and resumed walking, touching his back lightly to coax him into motion again as well. "You're recovering well physically. I think when we move again tomorrow, you should walk as much as you can, instead of riding it out in my aravel."

He nodded. They finished their circuit and returned to the cluster of aravels and tents at one end of the large clearing. He could feel the appraising eyes of the other elves on him; most of them had yet to decide whether they were going to accept his presence among them, now that he was so clearly going to live after all. Taking in a "flat-ear" elf to allow him a more comfortable death was one thing, accepting him as a member of their clan was another. Especially when they – and he – knew nothing of his past.

Kariel saw him seated on a log near the clan's storyteller, then went off to get food for the both of them. He settled back, listening to the words of the storyteller, letting the old, familiar words wash over him. While the Dalish did have some tales, or versions of tales, that were particular to them, most of the stories they told were known to elves everywhere, even to many humans. As he closed his eyes and listened, he caught the briefest fragment of memory – sitting down somewhere, hearing this same story, surrounded by other children, all of them listening quietly to someone telling the story... he couldn't picture the teller, couldn't even have said whether they were male or female, young or old. Just – that he'd heard this before, and felt safe and comforted while listening.

"Seff?"

He opened his eyes, and found Kariel standing nearby, a full plate of food in each hand, a concerned look on her face. "Are you all right?" she asked him.

"Yes, I just... almost remembered something, while listening to the tale."

She nodded, and handed him a plate, then sat down on the log beside him. They ate in companionable silence, after which she saw him back to the tent.

"I've told our Keeper that I believe you're well enough healed to begin weapons training," she told him.

"Weapons training? Do I... need that?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yes, it's very important that everyone in the clan knows how to hunt and defend themselves; much of the territory we pass through is dangerous, and sometimes we encounter hostile shem. You'll have to learn how to use at least one weapon reasonably well, and then keep it handy at all times."

"All right," he agreed.

He managed to walk for half the day before tiring and retreating to Kariel's aravel. When they stopped for the night, she roused him, ate a meal with him, then took him over to where an elderly male elf was laying out a row of weapons on a cloth on the ground.

"Seff, this is our weapon's master, Wehrian. He'll help you select a weapon, and begin training you in its use."

Wehrian rose to his feet, and looked Seff over. "You look like you were fairly fit before your recent illness," he judged. "Let me see your hands."

He looked them over, front and back, frowning thoughtfully. "No callouses. Well, that may change, depending on what work you get put to, and how often you have a weapon or tool in hand," he said, smiling and releasing Seff's hands.

He crouched down by the spread cloth, gesturing for Seff to do the same across from him. "We mainly use edged weapons," he explained, gesturing at the ones spread out on the cloth. "Some, like Kariel, prefer just a single small weapon – a dagger – and some prefer a sword. Or paired weapons, most commonly paired daggers, or sword and dagger, though I know of a few who prefer paired swords. Our magic users use staffs, though more for concentrating their power then as a weapon – it can be used as such, but we have very few who want to train for both uses. And then almost everyone can use a bow, as its more suitable for hunting then edged weapons are. Bows are also a large part of our defence against encroaching shem. Which of these do you think you'd like to try, or might already know how to use?"

Seff frowned at the array of weapons. The edges of the daggers and swords glinted dangerously in the sequins of light filtering through the trees overhead. He had a brief flash of sensory memory – the weight and feel of hilts in his hands, the stretch of muscles as he ducked and whirled, the impact of blade against blade – and then it faded again. He flinched away from the bladed weapons, not liking the thought of having one in hand. "Bow," he said hurriedly.

Wehrian nodded. "A good choice," he said calmly, and picked up the bladed weapons one by one, sheathing them and returning them to a nearby chest, before picking up the first of several bows and cross-bows that he thought might be of a size and weight suitable for Seff to use. In the end they settled on a short bow, rather then the long bow that Wehrian more commonly taught; it would be easier for the slender youth to manage.

He spent some time teaching Seff how to string and unstring it, the proper grip to use when holding it, how to draw it with two fingertips just barely hooked over the string. He had Seff practise all of that several times, then when it was obvious the young man was starting to tire from even that much exertion, smiled and sent him off to rest again.

Seff recovered quickly from his ordeal, and gradually began to find an acceptance within the clan. His lack of a past still bothered him, but the few times he did get some flash of memory, it always left him feeling more uneasy and unsettled then anything else.

He found things to enjoy in this new life; the beauty of the forest, the friendship of Kariel and a few other of the more accepting Dalish, the ease with which he learned bow skills and how to move quietly through the forest when hunting. He began doing a share of the camp chores, as well, though since he still flinched away from anything bladed there were only a few things he could do – helping to set up the halla pen, laying and tending the cook fire, things like that. One of the more grandmotherly elves started to teach him how to sew, and he found he enjoyed the simplicity of the task. And scissors didn't rouse the sameuneasiness in him that knives did. He mainly did simple sewing – seams, hems, mending tears or basting on patches – but was fascinated by the fancier embroidery that some of the women did, and much to the amusement of the sewing group regulars begged to be taught the stitches for it.

He was starting to settle in, to be accepted, to make a place for himself. But naturally it didn't last.

The clan had been nervous ever since leaving their previous camp site. They'd had problems with the shem in the area they were now moving through several times over the last few years, and the previous year it had escalated to the point that the Dalish had left several shem hunters dead in their wake. If there was another route they could have taken that wouldn't have required them going weeks out of their way, they would have.

They had scouts out while they moved, and pickets set up when they stopped for the night. but still the first sign of trouble they had was when the attack began, dark-clad shem boiling out of the woods, faces grim. The camp seemed bedlam as elves woke and came out of their aravels and tents, weapons in hand. Seff ran to join those gathering to protect the children, his bow in hand. The shem had an early advantage, attacking a sleeping camp as they'd managed, and several Dalish were already down, dead or wounded. He rapidly strung his bow, nocked an arrow, then looked for a target. But between the darkness and the milling around of the shem as they fought with the elves, he didn't dare shoot; there was too much chance he'd hit one of the defenders instead of one of the attackers.

He saw an elf fall, then a second, and then a group of shem were rushing toward where he and several others stood guard between the fight and the clan's youngsters. Now he had a target he could shoot at safely, and did so, hearing the twangs of bowstrings to either side of him. One of the shem fell, pieced with two arrows. He calmly nocked a second arrow, drew, shot. His target dodged aside even as he released, the arrow disappearing into the darkness. He cursed, and then the group of shem were on them.

Time seemed to slow, as he ducked a thrust, deflected another with his forearm as he dropped. He took his weight on his arms for a moment, his leg lashing out and up to take a shem in the throat, then bounced back to his feet The man staggered back, choking to death, his throat crushed by the force of the blow. A second fell, to his right, as the elf on that side successfully killed one with the daggers she'd switched to when they drew too close for her bow to be useful.

There were too many shems closing in on them, and he didn't have a weapon in his hands, having dropping his bow at some point in that first fight. Another was even now stepping over the thrashing body of the first he'd killed, sword and dagger in hands. He deflected their sword, then as they tried to stab him with the offhand dagger, dodged the blow and caught them by the wrist. A painful pinch hold and the man's grip loosened, and a moment later he'd disarmed him and had the dagger in his own hand. He used it to deflect a second blow of the sword, then gutted him, and took his sword as well.

The blades felt right in his hands, and as he exploded into motion, some buried part of him roused. He knew this, knew how to move, when to thrust or slash or stab, to duck, to dodge. The shem attacking him and his companions seemed to melt away, one after another either falling to the ground or fleeing back into the dark. And then it was over, and he was standing by himself, streaked with blood and worse, the weapons held laxly at his sides.

Kariel was picking her way over to him. "Seff?" she said worriedly, staring at the carnage around his feet, eyes growing large with fear - fear of him, not for him.

Not Seff. Zev. Zevran. A Crow. Such as he was... would never be welcome among the Dalish. "No," he told her quietly, bitterly. "Not Seff."

She came to a stop, scrutinized him carefully. "You've remembered who you are," she said abruptly.

"Yes, to my sorrow. Thank you for your care of me, my lady," he said, giving her an elegant bow. "It is best I go, now."

He darted off, vanishing into the darkness before anyone could stop him. He had only a vague idea of where they were - somewhere southwest of Seleny, in the Green Dales, he thought – but it shouldn't be too hard to find his way back to civilization again, and then... back to Antiva City. Back to his master. Back to where he belonged.

Bonds of Brotherhood - Chapter 10

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