Fic: A Guild-ed Cage 14/?

[1smut_princess]

Title: A Guild-ed Cage 14/?
Author: Rhion
Rating: AO!
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: I had meant to take all of last month to create chapter buffers for this month, as it is that time of year that is also known as "NaNoWriMo" (e.g - "Rhion Runs Around Like A Crazed Freak With Flaming Pants"), except then, well, le_monde kinda...threw a bunny, and well...well we've written well over a hundred thousand words. I think as of chapter sixteen it's more like a hundred fifty. In like two weeks. Oops? Plus there's my Hellboy fics... Chapter 15 of Guilded is about half done, but NaNoWriMo, weather kickin' my ass, husband quirkiness, and my other stories, it's a bit stalled. I know what needs to happen, what I want to write, etc, but the flow's been broken.

Beta'd as usual by jannifer and le_monde


XXX
Guild-ed 14
XXX

Tracing one of the winding glyphs that covered her shoulder blade with his thumb, Zevran kissed the Warden’s crown. “Today is a new day. What do you think we should do with it?”

Miolanai pursed her lips in thought, “Well...maybe we could go to Spearshakers.”

Tangled as they were in the bedding, early morning filled with lovemaking, his ears still ringing with her satisfied cries, Zevran stiffened. Her suggestion was like a slap in the face, a punch straight to his breastbone or a hammer slammed into his groin, and it was beyond offensive. Sitting up, dislodging her with a measured push, the Crow clenched his fists. Never in his whole life had someone used every ounce of his skill and then requested to pay someone else to do more.

“And why would you wish to go there?” struggling for calm.

“To see Fhizra,” she looked at him with a confused frown.

Zevran’s face ticked as he attempted to keep an even tone, “And what, pray tell, does she have that I do not?”

Her laughter was like another, fresh blow. “What? You’re serious? She’s got tons of shit you ain’t got.”

Struggling to find words, Zevran snapped, hard and cold as his stung pride got the better of him, “You scrawny, little, knife-eared bitch.” Climbing from the bed he turned to stare at her as he jerkily dressed. “You wish to go to Spearshakers after everything I have done? To pay a whore for what is here, for free? You think that they are better at this than me? I can tell you, you narrow minded, ignorant brat that they are nowhere near as accomplished as I am!”

Miolanai recoiled from him, a flush blazing over her suddenly, “You ass!”

Cutting her off before she could say anything else, slashing the air sharply with his hand, “If you wish to go to Spearshakers, feel free. But it will not be with me beside you. Emi!” snapping his fingers harshly as he called the serval. “Sit on her, and guard her until I return with someone willing to put up with such stupidity!”

Storming from his flat, Zevran stalked the streets, unable smile or nod his usual greetings at people. One of the spring rains came in off the bay, and he cursed his foul luck. Part of him told him to head to Zamitie to have her soothe his temper, but it was unwise to leave Miolanai alone for long. Who knew what sort of trouble she would get herself into? No, he turned his feet knowing he had to summon one of his fellows to take the headstrong Warden to see to her needs. The very thought of that made him snarl vacantly, barely noting how the couple nearest him moved away abruptly.

He had thought they made progress. Zevran had hoped that perhaps Miolanai was at least beginning to see him as more than a piece of baggage. Her views were clear and obvious, she didn’t like people trying to guide her in any direction other than whatever she surged towards. Anyone who did so was nothing but a nuisance and threat to her. It was true he hadn’t handled her the best, but they were learning together. He had tried.

Failure of any sort was unfamiliar.

Failure in his line of work was deadly, usually for himself. And since he was still alive and fully intact but for the clipped part of a toe, Zevran had not once ever failed. Excluding Taliesin and Rinna, but that was a different type of failure entirely.

With a sigh, he realized he stood before Ignacio’s small city residence. One of the guards opened the door, eyes sliding over him impassively. It was the last place he should be, but now that he had been admitted, Zevran knew there was no recourse but to go and speak to his nominal owner. The beautiful atrium garden had a couple of young children scampering around, odd little creatures that seemed to be the offspring of one slave or servant or another. Ignacio was eccentric that way, preferring his home filled with laughter and play. Before the Hero had shown up that fateful morning, during the times he was summoned to the Crow Master’s side, Zevran had observed Ignacio smiling and chasing the little ones about or watching them as he tossed bread crumbs to the fish in the looking pond.

There was nothing lascivious to it, so Zevran had not been aggravated by the children’s presence. Some men had perverted notions, and he had been happy over the last few years to note that Ignacio was not of that type, in spite of enjoying the company of children. He, himself, was enamored of the sprightly actions of children, often caught up in their oddly peaceful rambunctiousness. Perhaps the Crow Master knew that of him; actually there was no “perhaps” about it, Ignacio was cunning in his presentations, knowing how to appeal to his subordinates and peers.

One of the little ones stopped, an elven girl, and skipped up to him. “Amigo, are you here to see Uncle again? Did you bring sweets?”

Squatting down to her eye level, the child’s mere presence soothing some of his ire away, Zevran smiled easily at her. “I am here to see Uncle Ignacio again. But I’m sorry, I didn’t bring any treats.” Making a playful pass at her pale blond hair, he flipped out a small earring with an emerald in it and held it before her. “But I think this would look good in your ear, sweetling.”

It was a long standing habit to carry such items upon his person. One never knew when bribes of such natures would be needed. And for the hug and double kiss he got for the cost of replacing the bauble, Zevran felt it worth it.

Picking her up one armed, he waited as she swept aside her hair and switched out the little gold hoop she was wearing, replacing it with the gift. “Ah, perfecto!”

“Me too, me too!” the begging was accompanied by a little boy tugging at his pants.

Mussing the cloud of auburn curls, Zevran chuckled and from “thin air” produced a similar earring for the boy. “A matched set!”

“Ah, now that is good luck, is it not?” Ignacio entered, a glass of wine held in his hand delicately as he sipped from it. “Come, Cedri and Ania, leave our guest alone. You’ve lessons to attend to with Ceasar.”

The little girl clung to Zevran’s neck, hiding her face. “Nooo, he makes us do writing!”

“Oh? You do not like writing, princesa? But it is such fun,” jiggling her in his arms, Zevran prodded her gently. “Lessons are good. You will learn to like them as you get bigger and bigger. Go on, then.”

He received a pout, “It’s boring.”

“Mm, then perhaps I can persuade you with a kiss?” making an exaggerated pucker towards her cheek. “But only if you go to your lesson!”

She squealed, nodding, squirming in his arms, and he let her down quickly, giving her a peck on each cheek and a pinch to her nose. Both she and the boy scuttled off after he gave them light pats on their bottoms, sending them running and giggling, hand in hand. Once they left he stood, the smile falling from his face.

“So easy, aren’t they?” Ignacio took a long sip from his glass.

Zevran cast a gaze upon the Crow Master, the bare bald pate shining. Even several years returned to Antiva, he remained pasty. There was a time long ago that Zevran remembered the shemlen as swarthy and hearty. The years had been hard and unkind. But there was steel in his clear gray eyes and no hint of palsy to the hands.

“It makes me wonder who they are that they receive such education,” meeting that wearied gaze.

“Come Zevran, I know you didn’t arrive to question me on the small charities I engage in,” Ignacio demurred, gesturing for Zevran to follow him through the interiors, from room to room until reaching the simple office. “The last word I had on you and our Warden was your visit to the pintor you associate so heavily with several days ago. What news do you bring?”

Unable to bring himself to accept the seat Ignacio gestured him towards, Zevran paced before the large mahogany desk. “Every step I lead her towards she seeks constantly to thwart. She is naught but a spoiled brat, absent any tact, any common sense and rude in the extreme.” The flash of anger he was so unaccustomed to returned. The benefit of the exposure to the tiny, bright flames that children were, vanished. “Do you know what I have had to overcome? I have had to hide her armor, her men’s clothes and virtually tie her down to make her presentable. She has slammed that hammer she calls a fist into my face and laid me out. Miolanai is an animal. A boorish, uncouth and uneducated man wearing the skin of a beautiful woman!”

Ignacio’s look was mild. “You knew these things when you were given the assignment.”

“Nothing could have prepared me for her!” Turning to stand before the Crow who was leaning against his desk, Zevran grit his teeth. “She is little more than a barbarian who seeks to solve all problems by smashing them into submission or riding them into the ground mercilessly!”

“Mm, that reminds me, I do have something to give you, but--” waving a hand elegantly, Ignacio urged him to continue, “I imagine you have more to say.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Zevran closed his eyes, desperately seeking to fend off the hovering headache. “As much as it galls me to say this, I have not the tools to deal with her Master Ignacio. What little progress I have made with her has been hard won, wrested with tooth, nail and every dirty trick of dealing with the damaged that I know. And then she proceeds to throw it all back in my face, and we are back where we started.”

Ignacio set his glass down carefully, staring down over the ruby red depths. “Ferelden is a harsh place, a country where beauty is reviled as being Orlesian in its nature. Where that which is naturally beautiful is ground beneath boots. Where intellectualism is useless. Where the weak carry yokes of slavery without care being given.”

Zevran moved to pour himself a glass of brandy from a decanter not bothering to ask. “I know this already. You have already said it in some way or another.”

“A moment, bear with me, and please, feel free to help yourself,” snorting as Zevran drained off the strong liquor and poured another glass for himself. “It is a hard, rolling, viciously lovely country in its own way. But it is no place for the weak. There is no room for softness, in any form. Any beauty that is not the raw, pristine and brutal edge of fine armor or jagged slashes of trees and mountains is to be ground down to nothing but dust.”

Zevran sat down slowly, watching Ignacio describe the place he had lived for so many years. “And what use would the Guild have for such a place? We are not the sorts to enjoy such brutality, such lack of culture.”

“It has its own quaint beauty, Zevran,” dipping a finger into the wine, allowing the droplets to fall back in like thin, crystal clear beads of blood. “In some ways, I miss it. In many, many others, I am glad to be here, returned to my homeland and Rialto Bay’s smells and sounds.” A thoughtful expression moved over the senior Crow’s face. “Such a place views those without the same level of strength or status as...useless. Elves qualify as beautiful and therefor lacking in physical prowess.” Zevran grunted in disgust at that oft cited fallacy, and Ignacio’s mouth quirked in agreement. “Frilly, useless things. They have less rights than a freshly purchased slave does. To be used and spit upon as nothing and yet, oh so coveted. Did you know that in Ferelden, the sex of an elf is meaningless?”

Pausing mid sip from his tumbler, he shook his head. “Meaning?”

“Male, female, child, old -- it matters not. They’re less than cattle, and anyone with strength, be it physical or born of status, can do to an elf what they will.” Ignacio was quiet, his gaze turning inwards. “Murder, rape, butchery. What does it matter...? Just another weak boned, pretty, and ultimately useless thing to be used and disposed of. They have no recourse, no justice. I took pittances and offered jobs to those of my cell that were...worthless, because ours was the only justice that could be found. We sold poisons and antidotes to the nobles and merchants, as that was where our profits came from. But our contracts? They came from the Alienage. Or from the freeholders, who would come praying that someone would do something when the guards and nobles wouldn’t. In that way, you would have cared for the country, and it is why you are the only one remaining from Yago’s cell.”

Shifting, Zevran leaned forward, staring the shemlen down. “What has this to do with anything?”

Ignacio chuckled at him. “You have a sense of justice. A sense of right and wrong. You are an executioner, the tool of last recourse. We are not so different, you and I. For a long time that was a good part of why I stayed in Ferelden. Someone had to do something when no one else would. Most of my cell is freeborn. Free agents I ‘purchased’ as though they were slaves. They bear the same brands as you and I do. Selling themselves in for the chance to get training, a chance at some sort of life and to cut away some of the bad flesh.”

Snorting, he crossed his legs. “You make yourself sound like a regular folk hero, Master Ignacio. No doubt you aim to appeal to that part of me. But this explains nothing and is only a slightly more in depth description of that cesspit.”

“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Ignacio stood, dumping the dregs of his wine glass into the pot that held a miniature apricot tree. “Her features, her body, her movements. Every inch the pure, delicate, elven beauty.”

He had to agree, but that was only on the surface. That was only her body. Her face, those strange eyes. Beneath that honeyed peach, gold tinted skin, Miolanai was all things hard. Diamond and bright, scintillating and cruel, throwing back sparks that would blind. Draining off his brandy, Zevran squeezed the glass, wanting nothing more than to shatter the crystal that reminded him of exactly how unforgivably harsh Miolanai was.

“How do you think someone like her survived to adulthood, Zevran?” The question startled him, and he frowned at Ignacio who was standing at the window, gazing out at the bay. “In an Alienage, with scarce food, surrounded by shemlen that salivate at any chance to squash the beauty in the Maker’s world, as though they could rid themselves of any and all reminders of Orlesian occupation.”

Wincing, Zevran tipped his head back. “By smashing everything that moved.”

“No, that is not what she could do,” Ignacio’s voice turned sharp. “She killed Bann Vaughn Urien Kendall. She would have hung if not for the Warden Duncan’s intervention. What Miolanai did was to exact justice, and she would have been killed for defending herself. Elves are not allowed to fight back, they are not allowed a single right other than to be as disgusting and poor as they can be. Whenever they seek to gain a bit of the respect that even the poorest human is allowed, they are crushed down even further.”

“Unattractiveness is all that would protect her then, and she is...far from that,” musing aloud.

Suddenly, it made sense. Stripping away every single scrap of protection Miolanai had accumulated over each year of her life was impossible. It was cruel. She would never be Antivan. Antivan sensibilities were impossible for her to understand, not because she was weak, but because she was strong.

“To be unnoticeable, unremarkable, just enough trouble to be considered not worth it, but not too much to be an annoyance that must be put down.” Ignacio went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “And suddenly she had power. What was she, a small, beautiful elf to do? And even worse, a female. No matter that in a country where human women are allowed to be the last ‘man’ standing in a fight, a female elf? A lesser creature? A beautiful one? Oh, the affront she was. And still she had to drag that whole country through a Blight, carrying them all on her small shoulders. So young, with barely even a fragment of the training a fifth year apprentice would have. Unable to read or write or to do more than basic sums, she had to brow beat everyone around her, breaking them to her will. She is seeking, no doubt, to do the same to you. It is all she knows now.”

All the anger and irritation bled away completely. Any insight and wisdom he thought he had gained from Miolanai’s revelations were as nothing when paired with Ignacio’s observations. It was hard for him to imagine a place so disgusting. A place where, if he had been in her own shoes without any support, he was sure to have crumbled. It was a wonder she was as sane as she was, if “sanity” was a term that could be applied to her in any fashion.

Ignacio held a box out to him. “Take this. You will need these.”

Opening the long wooden box, Zevran began to laugh.

XXX

Returning to his apartment, Zevran walked through rain that made the streets muggy. Few were out and about. But he did stop and pick up a packet of sweets and coffee. The stop at the flower shop was a spur of the moment thing, and the last stop at a small smithy resulted in a gift of apology that would be likely to be better received than flowers and sweets. However, Miolanai was still a woman, no matter that life had been as a pile of diamonds grinding her into the blade she was, and small gifts would hopefully go a long way to smoothing him back into some semblance of her good graces.

Mounting the stairs to his apartment with some trepidation, Zevran went over the new information. Or, not necessarily new but rather a better insight. If only he knew some of what Ferelden was like for elves firsthand, he felt that he would be better able to heal Miolanai’s many wounds. He had run a suggestion by Ignacio and then Zamitie, and both agreed it might be a good route to give Miolanai some more familiar surroundings.

But first, he would have to deal with the wounded young woman and the damage he, himself, had caused.

His flat was dark. None of the lamps were lit, not even the small one that floated in the bowl of water and that he always left lit when he knew he would return. Frowning, he set his items down on the tea table, knowing where everything was from memory, the darkness hindering him not at all.

Calling out, “Mio? Where are you?”

No response came.

Pricking his ears, Zevran’s heart began to race. “Emi? Ember? Warden?”

Quickly, he lit the nearest lamp and saw his flat was spotless. The bed was made neatly, and there was not even a single cup in the wash bucket. Canvassing the flat, he saw neither hide nor hair of Miolanai; however, her weapons and armor were still there, as well as the boots she favored. Ascending the staircase to his roof, Zevran prayed she was there. Dark, steel grey skies hung fat and gloomy overhead, peeking from the canvas tarp triangle that guarded half his rooftop. On the divan there was a fuchsia and black clothed body, a feline head propped on the upturned hip. Relief flooded him, and Zevran approached, making sure to use a heavier tread.

Ember chirped a greeting, his ears flicking this way and that.

Cautiously Zevran sat on the divan, reaching out to touch Miolanai’s shoulder. “Mio?”

“Don’t wanna go ta Spearshakers. Send whoever ya brought back, home,” her voice was muffled.

Sighing, he stretched out behind her, pushing his arm under her head. “I did not bring anyone.”

She grunted, scooting away from him. “Ain’t gonna foist me off on someone else, huh?”

Closing his eyes, Zevran rested his forehead on her shoulder, curling up behind her. “No. I am not going to ‘foist’ you off on someone. You are my responsibility.”

“Mph, burden ya mean.” Her muscles were tight, and he could feel each one straining against his chest were he pressed against her.

“Sometimes a most definite headache, yes,” agreeing. “Mio, I wish to apologize for my behaviour this morning. It is something I realize I am not very good at.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she curled tighter, her arms wrapping around Ember’s long body, seeking to obviously put distance between them.

Sliding his hand under the back of her shirt, he cupped her side, working his hand over her belly, and splayed his fingers wide, forcing her to remain in place. “I was...angry. It felt as though you were...rejecting me and everything I offered, saying I was unworthy. It...hurt my...feelings. Wounded my pride.”

“I gathered that much,” she mumbled, flinching away from him. “I ain’t stupid. Just a scrawny, knife-eared bitch.”

“You are not scrawny, nor are you stupid. I think you are very beautiful, Mio. I also think you are very intelligent.” Propping up on his elbow he tried to see her face, but her hair was covering it. Stroking it aside only resulted in her tucking her face into the divan’s pillow. “I know you do not believe me or even want to. Beauty is a weakness in Ferelden, as I understand it. But it does not make you weak. You are enjoyable to look upon and your presence, when you forget about worrying over things, is a joy.”

“Guess I’m still a bitch though, huh?” Miolanai said with great resignation.

Leaning over her and pressing his face to her cheek, “Sometimes. But sometimes I am an ass. It works out in the end.”

“Yeah, well, see if next time I’ll suggest somethin’ fun.” Still she didn’t turn her face towards him.

But at least she wasn’t shrugging him off.

Sighing again, “What does Spearshakers have that I cannot provide for you?”

“Boobs,” she grunted. “Fhizra said we, meanin’ you and me and her, should do some of the shit in those books. I thought you’d like that crap.”

“Mierda, that is why you wished to go?” rolling away from her, Zevran smacked his hands over his face in aggravation. “Meldicion! Estúpido! Miolanai, forgive me. I grossly misunderstood your reasons.”

“Yeah, well, shit happens.” Miolanai finally turned to face him, and he saw her eyes were bloodshot and puffy.

Feeling like a monster, Zevran reached out to cup her cheeks, stroking her puffy lids. “Aiesh, Mio, I am ashamed of myself now. And well I should be.”

“I guess,” she glanced away from him. “Thought you’d gimme the boot, y’know?”

Leaning in Zevran placed a kiss on her forehead. “Oh, I do not think I would trade you in so easily.”

XXX

Dinner was a quiet affair, both of them still wary of each other. Zevran wanted to kick himself in the head a thousand times over. He had hurled insults at her like a common miscreant. In fact, Ember was so irritated with him that he stuck to Miolanai’s side, refusing to come even when he offered choice bits from his meal.

“Mio,” clearing his throat with a cough.

Her green eyes flicked up towards him from the spot she had focused on vacantly. “Mph? What?”

Shifting on the pillow he sat upon, Zevran refilled their cups with steaming tea. “I went to speak with Ignacio, and he said he received news. The ship bearing your faithful hound is a few days out. Barring bad weather, you will be reunited in short order.”

She straightened up, brightening faintly. “Really?”

“Yes,” glad to see some of the silence slip from her. “I also have...a question that I would like to ask you, if I may.”

“Yeah? What ‘bout?” that wary note edging in once more.

Staring down at his cup of tea, Zevran stirred it slowly with a spoonful of sugar. “You have met the woman who is my mother in many ways. And, you have seen parts of my homeland. But there is much more to this country than a mere city.” Drawing a deep breath, he rolled his eyes up faintly, feeling far more uncertain than he had in years. “I was wondering if perhaps you would like to meet the rest of my family and see more of what this land has to offer? After your mabari arrives, of course,” rushing to add, wincing at the hasty and anxious tone of his words.

Miolanai gave him a confused look. “You got more family?”

“The Dalish. My mother’s clan,” reminding her. “I have a great many cousins. And there is my adoptive sister, Fewrlin, who is the chieftain to Zamitie’s tribe. As well as my niece, Anicada.”

“Oh,” she cocked her head, rubbing her chin. “Well, how we gonna get out there?”

“Zamitie would lend you her horse, and mine is stabled with her as well.” He paused, a thought occurring. “You can ride, yes?”

Waving her hand side to side, Miolanai made a bit of a face. “Sorta. I can stay on, and I did ‘nough of it around Amaranthine that I ain’t totally incompetent on it. But, I ain’t no great rider.”

Relieved, Zevran nodded, “Ah good, that is a splendid starting point. You have not been ruined by the Orlesian styles of horsemanship, but know enough of how to get on and off, and keep your seat.”

They ate in silence a while longer, and Zevran, who generally was perfectly comfortable in that state, was agitated. Rinna was the only person he had ever considered taking with him to meet his clans. They had only gotten as far as mounting up to leave before Taliesin had come with news of a contract that was too juicy to pass up. And Zevran had been a fool; proud and wanting to impress Rinna, he made a bid on the contract. There his world had ended in a brief flurry of days, days that should have been spent with the Ga’hals Iunimasilsh, where he should have been introducing Rinna to his family. Showing her the things and people that made him who and what he was. Instead, it had gone quite differently.

He wasn’t sure what to say, at a loss for how to strike up further conversation, and as they finished the Warden got up to set their dishes aside. Ember followed her, twining around her legs and hissing happily. Zevran did smile minutely at that, wondering how the feline and a large mabari would get along. Wiping the tea table and rearranging the cushions, the Antivan mentally tracked the route Fewrlin’s clan would be on and knew with a day or two of riding they should be near one of the oasis that they guarded. The trade routes were protected by the horseclans and Free Blades during the three month rotations that all mercenaries signed up for in order to pay their dues to Antiva.

Usually two, sometimes three times a year, Zevran made a point to travel and see his clans, to renew ties of blood and to do some minor trading. In fact the sole reason he had been spared by the Guildmaster’s writ when he defected to the Dalish in his twenties was because he had brought fine halla cheese and similar goods with him. It turned out all for the best, as the things Arainai’s clan had given him as gifts were used to purchase his life, tempting the Guildmaster and Yago both . His connections were good for finer items that weren’t easily gained; subsequently, they had allowed Zevran the freedom to travel to his family several times a year. The practice is what he attributed to maintaining his sanity in his line of work.

There were other things about the clans he had to tell Miolanai, but was quite loathe to do so. Sharing the fact that he had many children of his loins, given to Arainai’s clan as thanks and, in some ways, payment for what they gave him didn’t sit well. He had no idea how she would handle such information. And if he timed it properly they would arrive with his Dalish relatives during one of the festivals they took part in to celebrate life, the Creators and fertility. He would be expected to take part, as would Miolanai, as was the custom. However, she may not be receptive to such acts. Accepting Zamitie’s Workings into her flesh was different -- similar to a suit of armor made of ink, blood and flesh. The festivals were beasts of a different ilk entirely.

“What’re ya frownin’ so much at?” she flopped beside him on the couch, poking his shoulder.

Shaking his head ruefully, Zevran answered, “There are some oddities to my mother’s clan. Tell me, what do you know of the Dalish?”

Her feet plunked on the table and she leaned back. “Buncha folks who think all shemlen are evil. And that any elf who ain’t part of the Dalish is lower than the shems. Proud ta a point it’s folly and unbendin’. Rather cut their own arms off and offer their kids up to death than dare ask anybody fer help. They’re all touched in the head, yeah.”

Zevran shifted to face her, a leg tucked under himself. “In some ways that is very true. The clans of Antiva are somewhat different though. They patrol the borders and other areas, keeping it free of brigands somewhat, and rarely raid caravans of trade goods. Arlathan forest encompasses ruins, what little there is that remains from the fall of that fabled city which some Dalish tribes remain near so as to guard its secrets.” Watching her carefully, he continued, “The Dalish who traverse those areas have access to knowledge that is not much known to many of the other clans. In Ferelden, those clans are very far from Arlathan and tend to be very insular, even with the once every decade meeting. There are some customs amongst my mother’s clan that may make you...uncomfortable.”

Green eyes swung towards him, pinning him firmly. “Well that ain’t much of a surprise. Everythin’ here makes me uncomfortable.”

Clearing his throat, Zevran made himself forge onwards. “Every four months there are times when they give praise to the Creators. There is much revelry and things of that nature. People give themselves up and over to the Creators’ care in hopes of gaining blessings to the clan. Often, children are conceived during these times. I have...participated on each occasion that I am there if such celebrations are going on.”

“Oh,” blinking slowly she mulled it over, then grunted softly. “So how many kids you got?”

“A few,” averring. “They call me ‘uncle’. You will meet all but one of them, as he Bonded young and moved to another clan.”

He watched as she thought long and hard. It was a subject he wasn’t entirely comfortable with and was very sensitive about. Zevran knew he wasn’t good material for a father -- being an assassin meant he was far from the best role model, and there was also the danger to the fruits of his loins. Being a Crow meant that anything and anyone he held dear could be a hostage at any given point. While it was true many Master level Crows risked having families, Zevran had never been able to bring himself to that. Rinna would have changed his mind, he was sure of it, but that was in the past. His life now may be much more settled and comfortable than it had ever been, but the fact was that his age and ranking amongst the Guild meant that the situation could still be considered...precarious.

If he had a family and children that he could call his own, they would be used to force his hand. At least they were safe with the Dalish. It was something to be thankful for. And if, sometimes, he wished that they called him “papi” or “daddy” instead of “uncle,” then it was his problem alone. Zevran knew that he watched parents and their children wistfully, remembering his own childhood spent at Sa’id and Zamitie’s knees feeling utterly loved, wishing he could give others the same thing. However, the only way to keep anyone safe, himself included, was to be aloof and provide no targets for Fate to hold hostage.

Salvail, at times deep in his cups, would pressure Zevran, demanding that he step forward and aim towards the heart of the Guild and take on that oft sought mantle of Guildmaster. Such talk was dangerous. And if Salvail, who had as good a head on his shoulder as any could hope for, muttered such nonsense, then it was certain others did as well. It was no act that he had no ambition, because Zevran was content with his life. His main ambitions were to see his family when he could, to eat good food, to play in the streets with littles and to speak with Zamitie. Simple things. It was for those simple joys of family and life that he was willing to work hard to maintain.

Miolanai’s hand was firm as she reached out, wrapping it around his wrist. “Well, you’ll get ta see them. So, that’s good.”

XXX

Ser Iptitious was a massive specimen, and his dark brown brindled coat shone, reflecting sunlight as he surged beside them. This near the city, the land was still highly cultivated, terraced plantations spilling away in multi-hued splendor. Miolanai’s seat on Bijalataf was unsteady, however the horse was well trained and adjusted naturally, correcting his gait constantly to make things easier on the Warden. Behind them a trail of several horses laden with packs of trade goods and supplies paced gracefully. They were alone but for the company of horses, the giant mabari and Ember who loped along from time to time or would leap atop one of the horses for a rest, allowing someone else’s four legs do his work.

They had three days of riding before they gained the nearest oasis that Zamitie’s clan would be close to. That is if their chieftain, Fewrlin, hadn’t moved them. However, Zamitie’s daughter, his adoptive sister, was wily and usually knew his schedule, often even before he did. He ascribed it to their blood connections, and Zamitie’s dream sendings, no matter that his queries were usually ignored or waved aside.

“Shit, this thing keeps swervin’,” Miolanai cursed, hanging onto the saddlehorn.

Casting her a mild look, Zevran shrugged, adjusting how he sat in Medorid’s saddle. “Let him, he is trying to help you.”

“Eh? Whatcha mean, this thing ain’t a person or some shit, not like it knows how ta do stuff like that.” She paused, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Right?”

Medorid followed the urging of his knees, familiar with such direction, and sidled close to the gelding. “The Ga’hals Iunimasilsh believe that the souls of loved ones are reborn as horses and serve as brothers and sisters to the clan. So in some ways, he is a person. He is at least as smart as Ser Iptitious. Listen to how he guides you, stop trying to counter his movements, join and flow with him.”

“Sounds like a buncha bogey man hooey,” grousing, but he noted how Miolanai tried to do as he suggested, her natural nimbleness assisting in keeping her seat. “I still can’t believe you and Zama - I mean Zamitie - did all that stuff to me.” She thrust out a tattooed arm, the sleeve slithering back to show off the woven glyphs. “I mean, it’s pretty, but I wasn’t expectin’ ya to cover me in stuff. And I’m pretty sure I remember you two openin’ up veins n’shit. That’s disgustin’, just so you know.”

Laughing, Zevran leaned out of his saddle to pat Ser Iptitious’ head who woofed agreeably to his mistress’ statement. “Now you complain about it! How typical!”

“Hey, she had me under her hocus stuff.” Her nose crinkled, reminding him of a small child at that, and Zevran felt a tingle of warmth. He wondered what sort of children she would birth and if they would have the same sort of expressions. “Can’t do alotta arguin’ then, y’know?”

Turning serious, Zevran straightened. “If you would have been truly put off by it, neither she nor I would have done any Work of such a heavy nature upon you.” Pointing at her, indicating the colorful inks that were hidden from the sun’s beating eye, he continued, “What you have is much like armor, only it does not act as a physical barrier to swords or arrows, but to those things that track the Fade and the world at large. As well as those enemies within the self. You can counter its effects if you wish for it strongly enough, but why would you? To do so would be like cutting off your sword hand, removing a powerful tool.”

The Warden plucked at her blouse, looking down into the shirt, probably to look at some of the designs. “So, what’s it do? Make me glow in the dark? My night vision’s shit.”

Reaching back, Zevran lazily pulled out a pouch of nuts and dried berries, munching on a handful before passing it to her, the two horses perfectly comfortable with such close quarters. “Not precisely, no.”

“Uh, so ‘not precisely’ kinda indicates that it does that a lil’bit.” The glance she shot him told him rather eloquently how strange she found that concept and also proved just how perceptive Miolanai could truly be.

Smirking as he scanned their surroundings, Zevran nodded. “Your vision will not age and degenerate as quickly as most do with the weight of years. Reflexes will remain honed for longer, and yet you will not have to put so much effort forth to maintain them. Gradually, as the power bonds and entwines with you more, you will become stronger, more sturdy. Nothing overt, but if you pay attention you will notice it. Thoughts will connect faster, senses will become slightly sharper. It will help you realize your full potential. Such Workings are rare, due to the cost to the caster, especially so much, so fast. However, since we did not start on you at a younger age, more effort was required.”

“More blood you mean,” grunting around her full mouth.

“More blood, more will. Blood is one of the most primal forces. Each thing the body produces has certain aspects, certain things it can imbue. Blood, semen and menses are the strongest.” Explaining shamanic “secrets” to an outsider was taboo, but Miolanai’s genuine curiosity drove him to do so. “Sweat, tears, spit, urine and offal also have their aspects and uses. Usually when a person reaches the point when their bodies are fertile, that opens the path, and the clan’s shaman marks them with their first sigils. Then each year, progressively more are added. What is rare is a shaman shedding their own blood in quantity to blend the powders to make the inks. Tears, spit, sweat -- certainly. Blood, semen and menses are usually reserved for those who truly need it. However, nothing has any power unless will is applied. It is the strength of will along with the imbuing aspects that do such work.”

Miolanai was silent for miles, not speaking again until he called for a break, sure she would need to relieve herself. Swinging down clumsily, she swayed, and he was there bolstering her, silently cursing himself. She had learned to keep her seat so well since morning that Zevran had half forgotten that Miolanai wasn’t used to riding.

Wincing, “Ouch. Where’s that cream?”

Helping her hobble to sit down, he watched Ser Iptitious provide a fortuitous backrest. “A moment and I will get it. First, let me help you get these boots off. You best change your pants, the sweat will make it worse for you.”

She was drenched with sweat he realized, while he was barely holding the fine sheen born of Antiva’s climate. In his saddlebags he searched for more than just elfroot and was pleased as his fingers alighted on the prizes. Pouring water from the skin into one of the glass vials, Zevran put the smallest chunk of frostrock he could find into the vial and sealed it all up, before winding a leather thong around the narrow neck. When he returned to her side, Zevran waited as she undressed slowly and then he quickly began to work the poultice into the skin of her chapped and raw thighs.

Eventually Zevran sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We should make camp.”

Miolanai grunted and hauled herself to her feet. “We still got daylight. I’m good, can keep on, keepin’ on.”

“No, sit,” waving a hand at her, only pausing to drape the water and frostrock necklace around her neck so he could turn his attention to taking saddles and bags from the horses’ backs. “I was not thinking of what the heat could do to you. Rest, otherwise you will be far worse off later. It is best to spend a little time now, than much more, later.”

The Warden’s features took on a stubborn cast, “I can handle it.”

Hefting the saddle from Bijalataf’s back, Zevran pursed his lips. “Did I say that you could not? Please, Mio, think of it this way. You are wounded, though you were in no fight, and since we are not on a constrained schedule, it is best to allow a small amount of time for healing as we have that luxury. These horses require little care, and I can get this done far more quickly if I do not have to worry over you.” Tossing the saddle and its packs down beside his own, he forestalled further protests with a raised hand. “You are not a burden, nor am I implying such. I am merely stating that since you are wounded - albeit, mildly - I will worry if you press yourself. Tomorrow we can ride farther and harder, your body just needs a small amount of time to adjust. Allow yourself this, if not for your health, then for me, and my peace of mind.”

“...Fine. Don’t wantcha gettin’ more lines on my account,” gruff acquiescence in every line of her bearing as she said it. With crossed arms, Miolanai shook her head once. “But I’m gonna make some food then, cuz I ain’t gonna let you do all the work.”