peopleofthedas | Three Nights in Kirkwall: First Night

Title: Three Nights in Kirkwall
Rating: M
Characters: Fenris, Zevran
Summary: After defeating Nuncio with Hawke's assistance, Zevran spends three nights in Kirkwall with an unexpected companion.

There is a sad lack of Zevran/Fenris fics out there, so I'm making a poor attempt at my own. Just a little three-part drabble that I may expand on later.

The starlit night was as muggy as any evening would be in Antiva. If Zevran closed his eyes and imagined the acrid scent of leather tanneries, he could almost pretend that he was walking along his beloved Antivan City harbor instead of prowling the rooftops of Kirkwall’s Hightown. There was something to be said, however, for looking down upon Kirkwall’s elite as they scurried around the dimly lit streets, furtively scouting the area for prying eyes and completely missing the amused gaze of one ex-Crow assassin lurking above. Kirkwall was a city of secrets, bartered like stolen goods among the nobility, and Zevran enjoyed spending his evenings watching the show.

There was a particular spot on the crumbling shingles of a dilapidated mansion that afforded a beautiful view of the entrance to the Blooming Rose. It had become Zevran’s favorite hangout after dark, relaxing in quiet solitude while whores plied their trade below. He rarely visited Kirkwall, but a recent contract had brought him to the Free Marches, pursued by the Crow Master, Nuncio. The city’s Champion, Marian Hawke, had come to his aid with her companions, and he was now free to roam the city for a few days before continuing his travels.

He leapt gracefully onto the roof he sought and moved stealthily to the corner he usually occupied on his visits. A bottle of his favorite Antivan brandy was tucked securely under his arm, leaving his hands free to reach for his weapons if necessary. He was relaxed, far too relaxed, and almost missed the sudden movement in the shadows that had him crouching in a defensive stance, one hand already clasped around the hilt of his dagger. Moonlight reflected on snow-white hair and faint blue lines glowed as the figure approached, wielding a greatsword larger than the slight form that bore it. Zevran stood slowly, breath calming as he brought his empty hands forward in a gesture of surrender.

“Ah, my lovely lyrium elf, you gave me quite the surprise! I had not expected to find company up here among the pigeon roosts of Kirkwall.” Fenris lowered his sword but did not retreat, narrowing his eyes at Zevran with suspicion. Zevran attempted his best charming smile, holding up his brandy in what he hoped was an acceptable peace offering. “I promise I come bearing only the finest liquor in Thedas, which you are welcome to taste after your most helpful assistance with Nuncio.”

Fenris sheathed his sword but kept Zevran at bay with an icy glare. “You are the Crow assassin. I did not think you would linger in Kirkwall after that incident.”

The incident had turned into a rather nasty battle that ended in ten dead Crows. “Well, I can assure you that I’m no longer a Crow, as Nuncio would be quick to affirm if he were still alive. And really, how could I possibly turn down the chance to spend a few days in a city as charming as Kirkwall?”

Fenris snorted and returned to a ragged blanket spread across the wooden shingles. He sat with his back to a sagging brick chimney and bent his knees while reaching for what appeared to be a bottle of red wine. “Kirkwall is many things, but I would hardly call it charming.”

Zevran decided to take that as an invitation of sorts and dropped into a cross-legged position on the edge of the blanket. Fenris eyed him warily but allowed it, placing his decanter against full lips and tilting his head back as he gulped greedily at the liquor. Zevran made a show of removing the cork from his own bottle while stealing a glance at the other elf, admiring the delicious curve of Fenris’s throat, accentuated by fine white lines that absorbed the silver of moonlight.

“I see that I’m not alone in appreciating the finer beverages Thedas has to offer. That is a Tevinter vintage if I’m not mistaken?”

“Yes.” Fenris’s voice was deep and smooth. Smoke and chocolate, mused Zevran. The things he could do with speech alone…. A delightful shiver fluttered down Zevran’s spine.

“And why are you up here tonight, my friend, instead of with the lovely Marian Hawke?”

“This is my home below us. Why would I be with Hawke?” Glittering green eyes pierced the darkness, startling in their intensity.

“Ah, well… I thought maybe the two of you were a couple. You were so very protective of her when we met.”

“She is a mage. It is my responsibility as a warrior to protect her in battle.” Fenris took another swig of wine, his Adam’s apple bobbing enticingly as he swallowed. “She is not with me. The abomination has won her favor, for a reason I cannot begin to fathom.”

“Ah, that is a shame, my friend. So much beauty should not be wasted on a withering rooftop.” Fenris gave him a sharp look, but Zevran was leaning forward and craning his head for a view of the Blooming Rose. “At the very least, you should visit that delightful establishment down there. I assure you the whores are of the best quality, and they would be falling over each other for a chance to bed you.”

Fenris made a sound halfway between a hiss and a growl. “Whores do not interest me. I know what it is to be used, to be forced to please another. A whore is just another slave.”

Zevran cocked his head, observing the sudden tension that coiled within the other elf. An ex-slave, then. One in which bitterness has nearly consumed his soul.

“There are so many levels of slavery in Thedas, are there not?” Zevran ran one finger absently around the rim of his bottle. “In Tevinter, they actually call them slaves. In Ferelden and the Free Marches, they are mages. In Antiva, we name them Crows, and people ignore the gilded cages and clipped wings. Power is such a powerful cloak to hide behind.”

“You were a slave?” Fenris darted him a look of sheer disbelief that made Zevran chuckle, but not with mirth.

“I was sold to the Crows at the age of seven. It was hardly an easy life, but who can argue with the opportunity to kill people after bedding them?” Zevran reached up and loosened the ties to his braids, tossing his head to free his shoulder-length, golden hair. “Unfortunately, it grows rather tiresome when it is done at another’s command. I do so enjoy the right to choose who I bed and who I kill.” Zevran noted with interest that Fenris’s gaze lingered just a moment too long on the way Zevran’s hair brushed against his shoulders.

“There are other rights more important than killing and bedding.”

“Ah, but what else can give you such an intense feeling of completion? Tell me you have never felt a certain satisfaction from seeing an enemy dead at your hands or felt the glowing rapture of spilling your seed.”

It was too dark to see if Fenris’s face lit with a rosy flush, but the slight edge in his voice spoke volumes. “Killing an enemy is a necessity, not a pleasure. And I do not… spill.”

“Truly?” Zevran rocked back on his haunches and pulled his knees to his chest. “You are a virgin?”

“I do not… know. I have no memory from before the lyrium was burned into my flesh, and there has not been time since to seek… pleasure.” Fenris cleared his throat with a rumble and took another drink. “I fail to see the relevance of this conversation.”

“My friend, pleasure is always relevant. Life is hard, is it not? If there is an opportunity for a moment of gratification, why should you not take it?” Zevran allowed his gaze to travel over Fenris’s lithe, powerful form. “You are quite the attractive man, if I may say so. You should take advantage of this.”

Fenris shifted with a snort and turned away to look down at the street below. Zevran smiled to himself and quaffed the remainder of his brandy. Time to let ideas simmer and change the conversation.

“So… now that you are a free man, what is your desire?” he asked Fenris.

“I am not free yet.” Zevran saw Fenris’s fingers twitch convulsively around the wine bottle. “My master still hunts me. Until he is dead, I am still a slave.”

“In his view or yours? My friend, slavery is an institution of the mind. If you believe you are still a slave, you will be.” Zevran tapped his head with a slim finger. “To be truly free, you must first accept that you are. No human, dwarf, or elf can tell you otherwise.”

Starlight glittered within eyes the color of spring grass, and Zevran knew he had won Fenris’s attention. Moving slowly, he approached Fenris with all the care of a child approaching a wild beast. Crouching in front of the warrior, Zevran reached out tentatively to touch Fenris’s knee.

“Old wounds fester and infect if left untouched, mi amigo. You are a unique and exquisite creature, but you surround yourself with stone molded by hate. Let the wall crumble and enjoy life while you can. Only then will you be free.” Zevran allowed his fingers to stroke just once over skin covered by taut, gray leggings. The night hid all but Fenris’s eyes and hair, but Zevran felt the twitch beneath his hand and smiled.

Straightening, he stretched languidly and raised his face to the moon. “The night grows late, and I must go get some rest. Even assassins require sleep, I’m afraid.” He offered Fenris a slight bow. “I thank you for the enlightening conversation, my friend. I will be in Kirkwall for a few days more, so perhaps we may meet again.” Turning, Zevran melted back into the darkness, a ghost as much as an assassin.

Fenris stared into the night long after Zevran had disappeared. The former Crow had woken something inside, a flicker that had no name but burned with a persistent heat. It tickled at his mind until he shook his head roughly, struggling to clear what he did not understand. Lethargy weighed heavy on his limbs, and he struggled to his feet, swaying from alcohol-induced dizziness. As he began to descend from the roof to his bedroom window, his eyes shifted up to the moon, and he wondered why the pale glow reminded him so much of a similar gleam from within amber eyes.

Three Nights in Kirkwall: First Night

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