Fic: Dream a Little Dream of Me 2/? AO (Subseries of Fiercely Cold)

[1smut_princess]

Title: Dream a Little Dream of Me
Author: Rhion & le_monde
Rating: AO
Summary: Do me a favour - the next time I dream this, could you just hit me over the head until it gets through to me?
AN: For briala for a nice little Festivus thing. Random character mumbling by Ferox lead to this hypothetical thing that could have happened during the Blight. That has apparently spawned a story. More than thirty thousand in. Blarg. Why no, I don’t have other things to do with my time... Moderately beta’d, but there’s certainly going to be things that slipped through the cracks. :evil grin: Hello punnage, how are you?
Contains: mutual masturbation, digital-anal, oral, oral-anal, fisting, slash
Pairing: M!Cousland/Zevran.

XXX



There had been a peculiar bounce in his step all day, not deterred by the limited sleep, or the peculiarity of awakening tangled and nude, his spine not completely straight. Horse had slept at the foot of the tent, his large back turned, having given privacy but was clearly not going to leave. It was his tent too. But during the day he had barely heard the usual banter, just some laughter, and the warm burn of Zevran’s whiskey and honey voice. Ferox hadn’t even been able to listen to the words, or else he would have called a halt. Which he had to do eventually anyway, everyone was tired, and they were all due for a rest besides. They had pushed so far, so much, that while they planned on heading to the Brecelian Forest, a pit-stop or two would be necessary.

Making the rounds after camp had been made, Leliana’s comment about ‘Your Zevran’ had taken him aback, surprising him. They had been careful, so he thought, or Zevran had at least, always setting up his own tent, no matter that his gear was always in Ferox’s, deposited and slipped in when no one would notice. And by the time everyone was waking up, Ferox and Zevran usually had already broken down their tents to stow in Bodhan’s cart. Not that he minded Leliana’s comment though, it was just odd. Ferox himself tended towards the discreet, a polite secret that everyone knew but didn’t speak about. The only thing his parents had ever said about he and Rory was that ‘discretion was the better part of valor’, then telling him that they just wanted him to be content with his life, whatever path it took.

No one else said anything, but that stood to reason - a bard would be as observant, or nearly so, possibly even more so, as an assassin. Wynne was the real shock. Immediately she launched into a lecture on duty, as though he hadn’t been raised up and suckled at the teat of Duty and Honour his whole life. Then the comment that Zevran had only one thing on his mind and saying he acted like he was working in a brothel. And that their racket had prevented anyone from sleeping. That was crossing the line. Actually, all of it was. He had had to clamp down on the snarl, had had to summon up the mask of genteel and say that it was just fun, and that he would not forget his duty as a Warden.

After that he was in a black mood, ate his dinner silently, even as Zevran finally sat down beside him with his own bowl, the solid mabari providing them both with a backrest.

A mug of some herbal blend the assassin was always finding one way or another was passed to him, which Ferox accepted, focusing on his food. The faint smell of blood from Zevran’s semi-nightly hunting forays to make sure the party had meat, was a soft cloying undercurrent to the leather, sweat, sunshine and spices as he tucked into his food, demolishing the first bowl by the time Ferox finished his. As usual, Ferox got up to grab them both seconds, letting the assassin rest for a few more minutes.

“I gather that your nightly rounds did not go well, my Warden?”

“Not right now,” mumbling around a chunk of scavenged tuber.

Zevran grunted, scanning the party inconspicuously, “So, a certain wise woman said something nasty that has stolen the light from your lovely eyes. My going rate is very low, but only for you.”

Pursing his lips, Ferox stirred the thick stew several times, “I thought of that, but we need a healer.”

“...Ferox, it was said in jest.”

It took him a moment to process, as he hadn’t been joking. “Oh.”

“What was said that was so offensive?” a light brush over the back of Ferox’s hand was compelling enough to make him seriously consider telling the Crow.

Well there was no way he would say it all. Divulging some would be fine. “I’m apparently neglecting my duty.”

“Hmn, the woman who waltzes away from the Tower when they need her most has the ability to talk ‘duty’ to the one who is tramping across hither and yon because someone has to do it? Typical,” a hand was waved dismissively while indicating everything at once.

“It was irritating, yes. But I can laugh that one off.”

Appraising gold eyes were on him, Ferox could feel their weight. He was sure little ever escaped their notice, and if anything ever did, reactions and wit were sufficiently fast to stoop and strike down that which was overlooked. Zevran wasn’t much of a Crow, more like some swift hawk, eagle, or other majestically sleek and strong bird. Belatedly he wondered just how well the elf could hear - Wynne hadn’t been particularly quiet.

“Ah. Then that leaves the other part of her statement.” A chunk of trail bread was torn off and chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds, “I was born in a brothel, I grew up in one. I have spent a great deal of time in brothels, frankly probably more time than anywhere else. Did you know that bordellos, whorehouses, cat-houses, whatever word you choose to use, have some of the most comfortable beds anywhere? Much better than an inn. Just bring your own linens if you are not a regular.”

“I’ll take it under advisement should we travel anywhere where there actually is one.”

Another long drink was taken and as the cup was set down in the hollow made by partially crossed legs, “It is good that her picking will cease. It was tiresome as she sought to disassemble me and reassemble me like a puzzle and make me fit within her notions and categories. This way she has dismissed me as not worth her time. But, brothels, as work? It is not so bad. I have been assigned to several.”

Coughing as he had forgotten to swallow his tea before breathing, “‘Assigned’?”

“Assigned, between contracts, my Warden. Crows still have to earn coin for the Guild even when not out killing people. In fact our jobs tend to be very diverse. Protection, bodyguard, espionage, chef, one Crow I was acquainted with was hired to become someone’s husband for ten years, have a family and such, the contract was purchased by the woman’s father. I suppose he wished to ensure that his daughter made some fat little babies and had a man that, until the contract was finished, would be completely faithful and devoted to her and any offspring that resulted,” another shrug. “The perfect spouse. Being something like that, it requires flexibility. Some of us are lucky enough to be naturally able to slip into our roles, be it sexual or otherwise, to aid our work, but most...? They have to be trained in it.”

“You said you never took your clothes off professionally if I recall,” keeping his voice calm and level.

“Because I was not a whore. I was a Crow, contracted to fill a position. A whore is a whore when they go into that job and if or when they change professions they are no longer a whore, while a Crow is always a Crow. No matter the role they are in.” Zevran’s touch was light, more open than usual, resting on Ferox’s knee, and there was uncertainty in the expression turned his way, “Does...my varied past...bother you?”

Quietly, “Should it?” It was such a fine line distinction, between whore or Crow in that description. Unable, unwilling to dissect the difference here, now surrounded by the entire company, it was put into the growling stack of things to think about later.

“For some, yes, it would. Used goods like myself tend to not be very popular unless they are antiques or to be discarded once whatever use they have is finished,” levity was reached for along with typical self-depreciation. “I am not quite so old that I qualify as the former.”

“Some people are stupid. I try not be amongst those who forget that we all have a past.”

The relief was palpable though, the hand slipping away as he turned attention back to his meal, “Thank you.”

Gaining the tent after his watch, Ferox found Zevran curled up as usual, but the braids that frequently held the hair from his face were undone. A lid popped open, a smile on the handsome face spread, and the hound was given a tap, the usual signal for him to scoot to the nighttime spot at the foot of the bedrolls. He was too bright, nearly blinding. Ferox couldn’t measure up to that. Surely there had been those much better than what paltry offerings Ferox had to give, other beautiful people that the handsome, personable Crow could easily find who would appreciate his gifts...

Half of him wanted to take the next watch, to turn around and remove himself from the dark shadow he caused in the sun’s presence. However that would be turning away and that turn would be rejecting Zevran, rejecting who he really was - not the suppositions that Wynne threw at him, or Leliana teased him about, or any one of them had said. Things even Ferox himself had thought in the beginning...surface, gloss, gilt...things that had nothing, or very little, to do with the man who shone underneath. Swallowing the reservations down, Ferox tied the flaps closed firmly and set aside boots and shirt the way Zevran had apparently as the day’s shirt was folded nearby. Gingerly he climbed under the blankets assailed by doubts as to why Zevran would wish to spend time with someone that couldn’t merely hand over what little was asked for.

As soon as he was under the blankets, “What can I do for you?”

A puzzled look swept the elf’s face, “‘Do for’ me? I am content, amora.”

Unwilling to reject and abandon Zevran, to take away what had already been given, what he would like to continue to give, Ferox risked being forsaken. “Good. Tell me of this contentment.”

Flat on his back, wishing vainly for a mattress, Ferox slid an arm under to pillow Zevran’s head. Holding his uncertainty and anxiety that he was not enough on a short leash, he wanted to lay in the warmth of the sun, to hear words washing over him as they had in the Deep Roads, to be reassured, safe, and wanted by the one beside him. In some ways, this too, was survival.

The elf stretched then made himself comfortable, arm over Ferox’s waist, head on a shoulder, “There were miles walked, but no skirmishes fought. I took a buck almost as soon as I set out to hunt this evening, which is busy being dried into jerky - Bodhan has a crate with the haunches layered in the fats I seem to always be collecting, as well. Our keen nosed and most loyal friend dug up a good portion of root vegetables, and many herbs and such have been found today. We will eat well and it will not be too bland. What I would give to find some bandits or raid a pantry with spices, I do not know, but it would be much. However that is just wishing for more when there is plenty, hmn?” Zevran’s hand was lazily stroking Ferox’s chest, occasionally wandering up to the shoulder and caressing the day’s growth of beard he hadn’t scraped off yet, a faint scratchy sound to it. “You appeared to be truly relaxed and in a good mood. It was the first time I had seen it, and allow me to inform you - it looked quite fine indeed. The statements of an old woman and my own past did not make you set me aside... With you, I belong. With you, I am safe. With you, I am accepted. How can I not be content, amora? These are...good things in my life.”

When put like that, it was hard to deny that yes, those were good things. Even the little ones like having extra mint or berries to dry for tea. It had been a very good day when looked at in that light, other than the conversation with Wynne. If ‘conversation’ could be considered an applicable description. Feeling some of the tension begin to flow away, Ferox pressed his palm along the firm contour of Zevran’s back, keeping him close. Still, Ferox found himself comparing what he was, wondering just how he measured up against all those others. With his limited experience in, well, basically everything, he must still be inadequate.

In the middle of the night Ferox woke, knowing this time what had brought him there. Lips were nipping lightly at his chest and shoulder, a familiar hand brushing over his face, thumb rubbing his temple. Rubbing the heel of his palm in an eye-socket until he was more aware, his arm tightened around the man beside him, the kisses not stopping but remaining a constant and slow flow, tugging him towards wakefulness.

Vague unease, a recollection of something nightmarish in his mind whilst sleeping, “Wha-?”

“A bad dream, amora.” The assassin propped up on an elbow, leaning over to press his face to Ferox’s forehead, inhaling and exhaling very slowly. “Are you alright?”

“Do darkspawn sleep? They are alive, that much is certain. They move during the day, they are sung to...called across Ferelden at night, so they must move then too.” Wrapping his arms tighter around him, Ferox held on as he spoke, “I’ve never observed supplies like bedrolls or food. Ogres, now I know the answer to that question - saw one eating the soldiers at Ostagar. That one cracked my skull open...he seemed a little angry to have his dinner interrupted. So, I suppose I may have deserved it.”

A hand went to his skull at that, easing through the hair that was held back, searching for the seam, “There is what the Chantry says about the darkspawn, but I have always been a greater fan of viewing such simple answers as allegory.” Fingertips slipped along the crack, the dent all that remained, “Perhaps when they move by night they are asleep though? There is a state between waking and dreaming, some scholars make studies of it in Rivain, very dry reading, or so I am told, as I find the mind and its states endlessly fascinating, but to return to the information - they have found that people are very open to suggestion at these times.”

Ferox withheld a snort, as it seemed that most things interested the Crow on one level or another, picking up facts and knowledge the way berry pickers would fill their baskets.

“It has been a long time since I last read on it, but there is a book of accounts of those who have been controlled by blood mages. They said it was like a dream, that reality was warped, dream-logic ruling them.” Musing, “In the Trenches you thrashed and spoke far more than usual, most nights there is a bit of murmuring, mostly about small things - someone’s bread rolls being burnt, another about having to check your gear, why the sun was so bright, most of it making little sense. But in the Trenches it was...different. As though if your body was not paralyzed with sleep, you would be up on your feet, ready to march, or at least stagger. Yet, time cycles, day or night, they do not matter below ground, it then poses the question - what if they are in some state between awake and sleep? Caught in some web that has twisted them to monstrosities? At least the original ones, the Magisters who supposedly blackened the Golden City, who then gave rise to more of their kind? Spreading like bad blood magic?”

“Combined with something Alistair said on the first night we actually slept, that explains the reason... Supposedly, and this is only verified with a tiny sample group of two, mind you, Wardens made during the Blight have stronger dreams. Is it because of the blood used, from ones who have actually heard the song? Because it had to be fresh. Wardens made before the Blight, wouldn’t have had that factor.”

Zevran made a sound of curiosity, “Darkspawn blood? Filthy stuff, which you were quite adamant about making sure all of us know not to it get near our mouths or eyes or wounds and to flush the above with very strong stuff on the offchance. Which, after seeing Ruck, well, I could see why first hand it would be unwise. But if we were to have only a small amount, would that make us Wardens?”

“No, the mages prepared the concoction, there must be something else to make it...safe enough to consume...well ‘safe’ is relative. Alistair also said that old Wardens heard the song loudly too and that to satisfy this Calling they went to the Deep Roads to die,” unable to suppress the shudder at being trapped underground. “But old Wardens wouldn’t have been created with blood from ones that heard the song, it was before. That part hurts my head.”

Zevran rolled onto his back, arms crossing by the way they shifted, his head remaining pillowed, and part of his shoulder as well, on Ferox. “Hmn... Antivan Wardens are almost always pulled from four types of people. The Dalish clans, the nomads who people the steppes with their horses and such, the mercenaries of the Free Blades, and Crows. And those four groups - they travel. The general populace are not fighters. Warriors or those with any real skills at defending and attacking come from those groups.”

“What? No mages?” surprised.

“Mages? Not as such, no. Shaman, Keepers, ah...the apostates I suppose the Chantry would call them, if they dared to say that beyond closed doors in Antiva. All of them are healers, in one form or another, often with connections to blood magic,” a hand was waved. “Or spirit magic. My knowledge beyond a few of them is limited. But they are a protected class, so long as they do not enter politics and only dispense healing, the apostates of Antiva City are usually a master and an apprentice. They can only charge what the patient can afford. They provide other services as well, mind healers to some degree, they also are artists of the flesh - like my tattoos. The fact that they tend to use blood magic, and subtly at that, likely makes them better candidates.” A thoughtful pause, “If blood magic is connected to that. The shaman I knew, who settled down and set up shop there, she frequently would say to those who have nightmares, particularly of demons, ‘I do not fight them, I sit down and them to have some tea, but ask for nothing and make no deals, just tell them to pass the cookies.’ Apparently she views, and was taught, that the Circle style of fighting demons actually wears one down, causing a mage to be easier to become an abomination. When one is not well rested, one makes sloppy mistakes. If Sa’id were alive and here, he would likely have a unique take on it as he made no bones about being a maleficar... And using it to control his patients.”

Like the large stone and metal gears that were strangely quiet even as they sang in the dwarven city, Ferox could almost hear the cogs turning in the Crow’s mind as he thought. What was said was enough to make his temples throb, a sick feeling in his stomach, but at least he would have several weeks worth of thought for the tramping on the road. For a man who was a strangely devout Andrastian, Zevran easily spoke on forbidden and banned education that any Ferelden Templar would be willing to brand the elf as a heretic just for knowing and would be willing to show him the Sword of Mercy.

Seeking some distraction from that, “Maleficarum operate openly in Antiva? But - the Chantry.”

“They do not operate as mages or maleficar or apostates,” it was absentminded, clearly still thinking things over and picking at the puzzles. “They are herbalists and they lay ink into flesh upon request or other adornments. That is where they make their livings. Some are poor, some are vastly rich. Some have waiting lists of years just to touch up faded ink. Others charge a handful of pennies or a day’s meal. They do not own businesses beyond the business of their shop, they own no more land than their residence and shop. They own no slaves, if they require servants, they hire them. Pintores de la llona do not control others, that is how they remain separate and safe from the Chantry in Antiva. Remember, amora, the Chantry’s hold on Antiva is...not what it is in other places. It is too far from Val Royeaux and too close to Minrathous. And it is a massive trade center. Goods from Par Vollen come through Rivain or Antiva before moving elsewhere. Truthfully I wonder sometimes if the only reason we pay lip service at all is because we do not feel like losing trade rather than a fear of another March. Or in the hopes for another March if the Qu’nari decide to get vocal.” A grunt, muttering, “Ah, yes, that would make sense... Bah, if only I had access to the Library.”

In the beginning, the constant talking was annoying because it sounded like just needing noise, from all of them, but Zevran was the worst. The one-sided conversations frequently ventured into subjects he too had been thinking of, and engaging anyone on the topic would have been undesired, because that would have meant that he would have had to acknowledge that he actually cared. And that was something which was very dangerous, risky. Already aware that what was...who was cared for, could be easily taken away in the dead of the night, it was an exchange that Ferox had been unwilling to to engage in. ‘Where are we going?’, ‘What is for dinner?’, ‘You on that emissary?’ - all safe topics. The whys and what-fors, his daily thoughts on the road, that was too close. He would have had to admit the existence of others beyond them being part of the changing scenery.

Somewhere that had changed, at least in regards to Zevran. Was it the vulnerability shown in the Deep Roads? If this life was ever repeated, Ferox made a note to avoid that place next time, even while admitting that much had been accomplished. This easy communication, the sharing of his actual thoughts, must have come from there. Didn’t remember doing that beforehand, even Before-before, his thoughts and theories equally taken in and mirrored. Some trust must have been built when he wasn’t looking. That was as frightening as the rest of what Zevran seemed to want from him. If they both survived, this connection might be a good thing, but if the light were put out...one of those towers on the road would look very tempting.

Ferox found his hand lifted, palm kissed and Zevran gave a shake of an unseen blond head, then kissed Ferox’s mouth before re-situating, “Tomorrow is a new day, so the saying goes, ponderings can wait for the road. Shall we rest then?”

Inhaling deeply, Ferox rubbed his face to Zevran’s, asking for another taste of that light. “Yes.”

There had been a laugh one night when it was put forth that Wynne needed to be awakened on a regular basis, just for a sense of justice being done. Otherwise they were still discrete even though every one knew and ribbed Zevran more than himself, but it was more open affection than he had received as far as he could ever recall. A hand brushing past his with fingers briefly tangling, fingers sliding when passing something to the other, a shoulder bumping into him, the grasp of a hand pushing his shoulder down, before booted toes tapped the back of his baldric, so that the assassin could use him as a launching pad. The last thing, of which the very recollection of sent Ferox’s heart pounding, when at the time it had just seemed natural, made him break out into a sweat. It was too easy to see how the slightest error could have caused harm, and that was not even mentioning, for all practical purposes, flying into the mouth of Flemeth. Even though the Crow had veritably rode her winding and snapping head to the ground, it still made Ferox faintly queasy.

But now they were heading into the Coastland Mountains for a place to winter and on the word of a fallen noble family turned merchant, looking for a forgotten Warden stronghold, and Zevran was huddling against Ferox, clinging to the mug of hot water, sipping it. There was no care for the fact that this wasn’t discrete at all, it was unsubtle, but he had to admit, other than the cold, and Zevran’s constant shaking, it was comfortable. One handed he made sure that his cloak enfolded Zevran better as they sat beside the fire, checking to make sure that ears were covered by the furry flaps with a glance. The gear they tackled the winter with was better this time by far, particularly Zevran’s, who finally had enough to keep him protected, at least comparing what had once been brought.

“Braska! I always wondered what mountains would be like, now I know - and I swear, I will never willingly go to these blasted peaks again, even if the Pillars are supposed to be milder!” it was said with a flick of a chattering smile at him, then a glance towards Wynne who was scowling.

Drawling, “And here I was considerin’ climbin’ all of the highest peaks all over Thedas. Puttin’ a Cousland banner at the top of each of them. Becomin’ a mountain man, telling tales of blizzards, of eatin’ raw frozen bear, of chewin’ my own leg off when it got caught in’a trap, and of tall trees that exploded when frozen. Go to town every spring and sell what had been trapped over the winter, then drink everythin’ up only to start all over again. Certain you wouldn’t join me?”

“Only if you keep me warm!”

Rumbling, “I’ll keep you more than just warm.” Ferox was tempted to add an endearment, but that was pushing his sensibilities, riling up Wynne or not.

Amber eyes lit up, and not solely for the game of making silliness and fun. “Oh, now that sounds like a promise.” Wynne made a noise, Leliana giggled, Alistair moaned, Oghren belched, Sten said nothing, and Morrigan snorted. The hound just wiggled closer to he and Zevran, butt wriggling. Zevran, for his part leaned closer once the others stopped paying attention, voice lowering, “A sample of that warmth would be welcome whenever you choose, corizon.”

Ferox’s own suggestion which had been half in jest, on reflection didn’t sound bad, so he again shared actual thoughts with the new addition, “I figure if I can have a dream of sleeping indoors with a real mattress and not bathing in a stream, my daydream might as well have a cherry on top.”

The mug was sipped from contentedly, the smile it didn’t really hide from the angle Ferox was looking, was warmer than any cup of tea could be. “How interesting that you have been sharing my own night-wishes.”

They always started with the familiar, if not a massage, then at least tasting. Ferox was aware it had to be very slow going for Zevran. The only time impatience ever was shown was if Ferox wouldn’t allow the elf to check over an injury if one had been sustained. Or if the assassin thought that Ferox was pushing himself too fast, constantly holding the steps to a speed that could be maintained. In the forest after the ruins, at the outskirts of the Dalish camp, plenty of privacy still afforded, lips had joined fingers in some of the explorations, and in Denerim there had nearly been more, but the Crow had been correct - pushing his steps too fast led to upset and tension, self-disappointment that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to go farther. But that was past, feeling like months rather than the weeks to march from Denerim to the Coastlands, winter coming to the rising ground faster until their only option was to go forward. It was good that they had laid in so many supplies, Shayle lending its strength after a bit of cajoling from the elf pressed up against him.

That entire scene had made Ferox want to grab the Crow and kiss him soundly as the great theatre of yanking on a cart with much noise and upset discomfort on his fine features, only to fall flat, had been priceless. Shayle had scoffed about the ‘squishy creatures’ and had rather willingly lent a shoulder to drawing another cart. Levi said his family was nearby and could be called upon to bring supplies and join them at the Soldier’s Peak so long as it was reached within the next few days, with any old spells and undesirable problems dealt with. Worst case if it wasn’t sound enough for winter, the mountains were riddled with caverns, that with Oghren and Bodhan’s ‘stone-sense’ could be found. That was what they had been doing for camps as often as possible, no matter that the pressing stone had been difficult to bear.

The stop for lunch was over and they carried on. Zevran peeled away from the group when he spotted tracks, grabbing his bow and quiver, as well as a long spear to go with the emergency pack all had been admonished to carry, and Ferox had motioned for the hound to go with him. The bow would be little good in the damp, but if it held for a single shot, then that was good. Hours later camp was settled and Zevran hadn’t returned. Worry began to gnaw as the darkness became deeper. It was too cold for the Antivan to be out, even dressed as he was with the mabari in tow. Wild barking grabbed attention, and Ferox was up, the others already reaching for weapons.

But familiar wild laughter was with that barking too. “Braska! This thing is heavy!”

Meeting Zevran and Horse, who both had lengths of rope tied about their chests, hauling two carcasses, the extra blankets had been used to fashion a travois. Stopping dead in his tracks at the size of the elk and to his utter shock - a snowcat. A big one. They did travel great distances, but they were better suited than wolves for the farthest south areas, while the wolves stayed north. There was much shock and surprise and they all set to butchering the prizes, fat carefully scraped from flesh to coat and set to protect the precious food. Later it could be used for fuel or more food in a pinch. He basically told the two madly successful hunters to go lay down after a healing while the others took care of everything else. At the rate they were going, an actual travois or three would need to be made to carry the fresh supplies.

Entering their tent to see Zevran wiping down from a steaming bucket, “How’d you manage that?”

“Hmn? Found some firerock, look - warm bath,” pointing with a smile, scrubbing at an underarm.

Making a face, “Alright, why didn’t I think of that? Or you think of that earlier? But that’s not what I meant - how did you manage the cat and the elk?”

“Hmn...the elk was what I was searching for, the cat took exception to my not relinquishing my kill, or being on the menu as well, and sought to rectify it. Instead, the tables were turned. Though, if your good hound was not with me, then it is likely it would have been different, yes?”

“Very different. I meant, hauled it all back? Although now that you mention it...the cats aren’t exactly friendly either.

A waved hand and using a dirty shirt to dry off with, “Rope, rope, canvas and blankets, hmn? Between Ser Hound, hah - you know, that would make a good mabari name - Ser Hound, Surround, eh? Get it? Hmn, I am ridiculously awesome,” too busy laughing at his own joke. Clearing his throat once, the assassin looked at Ferox, “A good harness, two strong backs, a spear to keep shoving in the snow to help drag us along - and a good chunk of time. Honestly, once I was halfway, I seriously considered just focusing on that overgrown housecat, and finding the way back to the elk after getting more backs and legs to help. But it was falling dark and, frankly that was not a situation I wished to be caught out in either way.”

“Ridiculously awesome or not, Wynne’s healing was short at best,” disgruntled at their healer.

A hand was presented, fingers waved side to side, then the other hand, then both feet and then ears swiveled. “No frostbite, amora. No concussion, just the adrenaline of a good thrill a few times in one day.”

“Nevertheless, stand up, spin around and show me your bite marks, and saying that they’re mine will win no points for the day.”

Zevran stood, stooped in the tent, black ink hiding some of the holes, and Ferox was never so grateful for the strength of drakeskin, as the teeth and claws hadn’t gotten in very far. Far enough to need care, but nothing life threatening.

“I wish you had allowed for heavier armor.” The signature growling had set in, despite good intentions, “Let me finish cleaning what you cannot see then get these dressed.”

“Amora, mi amora, if I had been in heavier armour I would not be here. My defense is speed, agility and stealth. Heavier armour ruins that. What I have is strong enough, I can patch it with that skin we peeled off from that little lizard two caves back, hmn?” The Crow stretched out to allow for the repairs to flesh, “Strength and intellect are the other defenses, but armour does not affect that, hmn.”

“At the moment, I believe you are trying to bribe me, to soothe my anger at the situation, at Wynne, at myself on not sending another...”

Interrupting, “And at myself, for not field butchering the carcasses and returning to gain others. Cold as it is, sometimes I forget that this is not Antiva, that hunting alone is often deadly - rather than owing to flora and fauna as I am accustomed to, but to weather.” Zevran glanced at him over a shoulder, “I am sorry, amora.”

Disarmed, which happened often enough when sparring with Zevran, Ferox learned to keep other weapons at hand. It was how he had gotten better with a shield, or sometimes resorted to other weapons which were not his speciality. It had become a bit of a game, this however, was no game, was not amusing, and frankly, it scared him.

Ferox continued to clean then salve the punctures, “I am sorry too,” uncertain if it was for growling, not sending another with him, or for leaving a weakness in his defenses. Depending on how it was looked at and by whom, this opening was either being exploited by or filled by an elf, who was a Crow, an assassin, a scoundrel and, Maker preserve us, a foreigner.

But there was confusion, “About what? You did nothing, certainly nothing stupid. I own my mistakes, amora. So I can see no reason to be sorry.”

“Oh, there are many reasons, I assure you. First of which that I know the weather and yet did little other than to put you at risk.” Packing one of the bites with a poultice that was sticky with harvested beeswax and honey, ”Leliana may not like getting her dainty boots wet, and an archer may not have been very productive given the humidity, but she moves quieter than most. Better yet, as she is more attuned to cities, send myself...yes without the heavy, sink-in-the-drifts armour. I hunted regularly with my father beginning at a very young age which is why Horse knows what he’s doing.”

“‘Horse’?” absolute confusion until the mabari in question woofed, nosing at a brown, bare foot. “Ah - you have a name at last, well it is good to meet you, my friend,” leg snaking out to rub a large head receiving a happy panting smile from the mabari. “I am grateful for your fortuitous rescue and the good advice you have given me thus far this year, but you really should learn to not leave so much slobber behind when raiding packs - it is a dead giveaway.”

“He has always had a name.” True, the hound’s name wasn’t Horse, per se, but that could remain a secret as it wasn’t important. To the mabari in question, “No, don’t lick me, just because I decide to foolishly introduce you. You’ll make me sorry and I’ll change your name to Puss, and since I can’t shout that into the forest or anywhere near a town, you can be called Cat.”

Zevran deadpanned, “Meow.”

“You, ser, aren’t funny either and I have half a mind to drag an insolent mage in here to finish her work.” Growled muttering, “Healing one fully and not the other then begging off that she did not have enough energy. We met nothing today on the trail worse than ourselves and a brace of rabbits.

“If you drag her in, you must give me a moment so that I am properly ‘attired’ first,” propping a chin on a fist. “So that she can be greeted with good, Antivan manners. Just imagine her expression, amora. That would make having an overgrown kitten take a swipe and nibble completely worth it.”

“If I did bring her here it would be for a healing, not a rant. But that is an amusing thought.” Finding another puncture, “What did you do, let the creature hug you?”

Zevran chuckled, “That is precisely what happened. It was that or let it land on my back, instead swinging to the side, I allowed it to greet my spear first before I let it get a hug and dos besos.”

“Two what?”

“Besos - kisses. How we greet in Antiva - new people that we are introduced to, we take the other’s shoulders in hand and press a quick kiss to each cheek. Those we know better it is a full upper body embrace with two kisses,” leg waving lazily now that it was bandaged and cleaned. “Children get picked up for their hug and besitos, which are usually many kisses.”

Remembering the Orlesian ‘baiser’ to kiss, it was similar enough word to be remembered and understood. “Alright, turn over and let’s see these hug marks.” Ferox pulled back, fingers still sticky with salve.

The elf did as requested, somehow still smiling, “Ah, why is it that I find your irritated expression so warming? Ah, I know - because I was hurt and you worried over me. I think you might be one of a very slim number of people to ever do that, amora.”

The little that made it through the chest armour, was already clean, “I can hardly believe that few worry about you. As for my concern, most of that was expended during your delayed return,” the frown deepened.

“Zamitie, Anicada, my cat Tigress, Rinna when she was alive, Taliesin at one point, Sa’id. That would be all, and I have known and do know, a great many people, mi amora,” fingers were held up, counting them down. “Two are dead, one is fourteen years old and that is very old for a cat, so she is likely dead as well. One is hunting us, the last two who are alive are unlikely to know one way or another for a long time, but have always known that I am in danger so have learned to keep on with their lives. Therefor, yourself being one of the only other people...it is a very short list. The ratios are completely skewed, hmn?” The hand that had been counting moments before reached out to cup Ferox’s cheek, “As much as I would not wish for any concern, least of all on my account, it makes me feel...comforted that I matter to another.”

Turning his head slightly, Ferox kissed the brown palm, “I think I know what you mean, I’m struggling with that myself. It is easier to be on one’s own, yet harder as well. Easier and at the same time, more difficult to be with others. Eh, I just keep thinking that the dream, or nightmare depending on the day, will end soon enough and I’ll wake up.”

Sitting up, the Crow tugged him into a tight embrace, “Whether the Blight ends tomorrow or a decade from now, I will remain beside you whenever you awaken.”

“I’m afraid I might have to hold you to that, should you think of scampering off into the woods again, or be looking for a handy city to lose yourself in. Speaking of which, you never did say what that Slim fellow in Denerim, who wasn’t very slim at all, wanted from you.”

“Just a few errands, some breaking and entering, bit of pilfering, tweaking of Howe’s nose and similar. Though Ignacio would like me to return to Orzammar for a quick job, possibly doing those errands for him will buy us more of the Guild’s goodwill, as apparently from the information I got from Slim and that old buzzard, Taliesin is set up by the docks, waiting.” Laying down once more, “The coin earned is good, but the information - that is more useful. My old comrade is stepping on toes and while Ignacio would clearly love nothing more than to remove that thorn, he cannot do so. The House of Crows would frown upon it. However, if a rogue Crow did so...what else was imparted to me is that other than the Guild instructing Ignacio to not hinder Taliesin, they also instructed him to assist us - apparently they are no longer certain that Loghain would be a good choice to end the Blight as he has done nothing except to gear up for civil war and ‘dealing’ with the ‘Orlesian Threat’, that is no threat at all.”

Taking a bronze hand in his, he began working on the muscles, partially to check for strain, but mostly just to touch the assassin, “Then what is it? Granted the darkspawn have pulled nearly everything away, except for local militia’s, from the small towns and villages. This has opened the borders, but Loghain is not one to jump at shadows. He normally has good reasoning. I understand leaving the Wardens and the King to their fate, they were overrun, that much was clear from the view from Ishal. It was a fast flowing river of darkspawn that not even the army could hold.

“He has become paranoid, so the palace word says.” The hand tensed just enough to hold his a moment, “It is fed and stoked. My brief encounter of him, even more than a year ago, showed a man who...well, I have seen great men fall, amora. Whatever he once was, he is that no longer and has not been for quite some time. It hung about him like a far too heavy and sodden cloak.”

“Cailen was the only son, as far as Loghain knows, of Maric. Guilt would be a very understandable reaction.”

“It was not recent, a slow decline, recently made strong.” Shrugging, “Or that is what I saw in the one formal minute I was face to face with him. However, I watched him for an hour or so, and another after Howe showed me the boot.”

“That particular man has a date with the family sword and shield. A date I am greatly looking forward to. As for Loghain, his fate has yet to be decided, I would prefer for him to join with us as he still has influence, the backing of the army, and that would go a long way towards healing some of Ferelden’s wounds or as least save its sorry ass from the Archdemon.”

“I believe after all the hiking you have done that the least you are owed is a vacation, amora. If Loghain is alive by the end of this, let him accept any titles they try to heap on you out of ‘gratitude’ and let us settle and be scandalous as you rule your teyrnir.” Scooting beneath the blankets, Zevran shivered once, “For now all I can offer to heap you with is myself and blankets, though perhaps that is more for my chilly self than you.”

Salve returned to the assassin’s pack, Ferox settled in the familiar dents that cradled his spine, “My small kingdom is currently reduced to the contents of this tent, a hound, two sets of armour and a few weapons, but you are welcome to it and what warmth I can provide.”

Arms slipped around him, burrowing close, “A pauper or a king, or anything in between, it only matters that you are yourself, amora, and allow me to be present in your kingdom.”

Real laughter shook him ruining his ‘complaint’, “Bloody elf, if I threw you out now I’d let the cold back in and besides every time I leave, you follow. Should change your name to Horse.” Squeezing Zevran tightly, the amusement reduced to a rumble, “I am glad you are so persistent. Couldn’t imagine doing any of this without you here like this.”

“Then do not,” echoed words, warm breath on his neck. Teasing gently, “If for no other reason that you are accustomed to my presence, hmn?”

What was still occasionally hard to be accustomed to was the presence of thick hardness trapped between them, hot skin radiating, flexing time to time, the weight resting against his thigh. Even clothed, oddly before, even when the elf would sate needs while Ferox kissed and held him, the awareness hadn’t been so strong. But now it was as though every time they relaxed, it was suddenly ‘present’, suddenly ‘there’, suddenly ‘real’ and completely fascinating, like the rest of Zevran. The first time together hadn’t been a fluke with the multiple releases, once in Denerim there had been no fewer than five that Ferox counted. It was a mystery as to how it was possible, or why it happened with him. Ferox had gathered the courage to ask if that was normal, to which was replied that it was for an elf, and that Zevran was content with one or two, that more than a couple was pleasant but not necessary.

“So what’s the maximum, just out of curiosity?” as he rubbed at Zevran’s hip, thumb running a circle near the deep line of tendon.

“The maximum? Of what amora?” the purring that Ferox liked starting as a shoulder was rubbed by a prickly cheek.

“Assuming one wasn’t rubbed raw, or fell over from exhaustion or any other natural cause or act of the Maker, what would be the maximum number of times you could physically ejaculate in one sitting, as it were.” If that wasn’t clearer, Ferox didn’t know what was.

The purring stopped, slightly startled before laughing, “I have no idea, amora. It is true I have...experimented to athletic proportions, but anything beyond a dozen within two hours is more than I would prefer at absolute max... However I believe during a contest of endurance when I was twenty I totaled somewhere along the lines of five days having sex in a row, and...I believe they stopped counting at some point during the second day. Or was it day three...? I do not recall, I was rather inebriated. And sore. But we did stop for food, drink, and the much needed physical matters of washing the areas in question - quickly though, and other such things. No sleep though.”

Zevran cleared his throat, “Keep in mind that I was quite young at the time, truly not long out of pubescence, so my body was...let us just say...difficult to manage at times. Hence some of the assignments I was given. But a shemlen Crow did not understand why he was passed over for the ‘desired’ assignment, and demanded...well. Not a ‘duel’, but far more than a ‘competition’. Some of those rumours about elven sex drive are not untrue. We just do not like to be describe as ‘animals in heat and/or rut’. No matter if there are a few years when that truly is an apt description... Apparently I was worse than most. My Master was greatly displeased with us. One of my fellows had his heart rupture trying to keep up and myself and my challengers were no good for any work for weeks afterwards - a Crow dead and four unable to do anything as we were too fatigued. And there was the minor fact that we were banned from the seven brothels we visited...for life.” Zevran coughed delicately, “I was raised and taught that sex is an art-form, that it is best when it is done well, that giving less than what I am willing and able to is disrespectful. Up to a certain age for me it was an act of meditation and relaxation in any form it took. It was not until some point with Rinna that it became an act of other things beyond the physical.” Another pause, “...There is a reason I have to take matters in hand several times a day.”

Although the question of age had been trying to distract him from the rest of the conversation, Ferox had been rather quiet until that point. “Wait. What?” Smacking the heel of a palm into his eye socket and rubbing vigorously in disbelief. “But we only...in the evenings...sometimes in the morning too...”

Zevran hid his face in Ferox’s shoulder, “I press often enough. And I hate waking you. And asking for a ‘hand’ around lunch time when I go off to take a piss... Honestly those are just to relieve the tension that builds, not for enjoyment. There was this one time Maestro Pedro locked me into a chastity belt for two weeks for some infraction or other. Two weeks. Let us just say that by that point I made your foulest mood look pleasant. He regretted it greatly for the eight hours it took him to die from lanthrax...”

Ferox was forced to narrow his vision, or rather his hearing. The entire disclosure was there and no doubt the words and explanations would be listened to over and over until he was tired of them. But the important bits had been sieved out...or more accurately, what he perceived was important. The other things, he had shoved in a corner and wasn’t looking at, or rather, listening to.

“I like to be woken up by you,” softly. “And it occurs to me that I have put some restrictions on our activities that I no longer desire.”

“Ferox,” Zevran’s tone wasn’t sharp, but it was something between chiding and warning. “That was not said to pressure or to compare. I was trying to answer truthfully, nothing more. We give our all with whatever acts we do. That is all I desire, require, or request.”

“Other than asking things I probably shouldn’t because the question flies out of my mouth before I can stop it, you should know by now that if I have said something it is because I have thought about it for some time.” Threading a hand through Zevran’s loose hair, “Such is the case here, not rash words to be regretted, but ones with many miles behind them. There is no pressure or comparison, the conversation was merely a reminder that I had already come to a decision several days previously on this subject.”

Noting that the usually talkative elf, wasn’t, “I’m just saying that I’m done thinking about it, have made up my mind, and am moving on to a new thing to puzzle over. Yes?”

The Crow hugged him tighter, “I would not harm you so that is why I am uncertain.”

Ferox was about to say something but the words stilled on his lips as the Antivan kissed him. That was always what happened first, many times that was all it was, and many times there would be more. Slowly Zevran disengaged and went to the bucket and his pack, pulling out a couple vials of firerock, uncorking them and depositing them in the bucket, so that warmth radiated from the bucket. He returned with one of the little pots of unguent to set beside their bedroll but left it corked, and Ferox raised the blankets for him to get back under them, tugging the elf back into his arms. In the Frostback Mountains, following slim leads to a way to save Arl Eamon, Ferox had wanted nothing more than to kick the assassin from his bed. Now, he didn’t know how to deal with the thought of Zevran not being beside him at the least. It was disconcerting what nearly a year could do.

In some ways it was more disconcerting in light of what he knew about the Crow that the man had been so patient with him. It didn’t happen all the time, but there were instances where Ferox couldn’t stop slamming into the wall of not understanding why the elf wanted to be near him, beyond the simple need for body heat when the temperatures plummeted in a free-fall.

As the tent warmed further from their bodies and the Crow’s quick thinking, Ferox glanced towards the bucket, “Have I mentioned that you’re my favourite elf in this whole wide tent - nay, the whole, wide camp, even.”

Zevran’s lips quirked, “Hmn, truly? My that is a very large quantity of elves to choose from, and I am your favourite?”

“An elf amongst...well an elf,” returning to laughter. “As I said, I have a very small kingdom.”

“It is all the kingdom needed, amora,” said with an answering grin followed by a kiss.

Rubbing his hand over Zevran’s side, his hand ached the way it did randomly during the day or night, wishing to hold the elf and feel thick veins pulsing against his palm. Even though he knew he could have that whenever he wanted it, Ferox always began with the first thing. The important thing. The taste of sunshine, that thing that could banish the winter outside, the darkness inside, and leave a merrily dancing light that nothing could touch, so long as it was there. He always took as long as possible there, basking in the beam of sunlight that sifted into the dusty dark below, bringing with it the hope of day and life along with its clean air. When he was tired and thought he couldn’t shoulder the next day, let alone the night, it was there, waiting for him to step into that and go closer to the exit. Leading him through the storm like a lighthouse, helping him navigate the shoals. How the sun could think itself somehow lesser or not enough was baffling and wrong, and in that moment Ferox thought himself very foolish for having ignored that exit to safety for as long as he had.

How many times he had touched and held Zevran close didn’t seem to matter much, there was always the thrill of discovery. The texture of neck or the sound it caused might be the same as the time before, but it still sounded new. His sun-drenched lover guided his hand to the hardness between them as it always did, giving permission and requesting for the familiar steps to commence. Finding his way there, sinking lower, the warmth of their bodies having filled the space beneath the blankets, Ferox re-explored sensitive skin, rubbed his cheek against the downy coppery-blond-brown curls and listened to the sounds of hunger from above. Dark skinned legs parted allowing him to settle, but Ferox wasn’t left untouched, hands worked at his braid, thighs embraced and stroked against him as his tongue slid and tasted his way up and down and around the powerful arousal. Taking in as much as he could, just wanting to feel it, swallowing several times no matter that he could go no farther, knowing and remembering himself, just how good that felt. And he was rewarded by a groan, the shallow roll of hips - all signs that the dance was being carried forward according to the plan in place and set there through careful searching.

Hand exiting the blankets to reach for the jar that sat in its customary place, uncorking it by feel and taking what was needed, he gently stroked along the crevice to make sure it was slick enough. A second dip of fingers into the jar and his mouth still tonguing at Zevran’s cock as he began the play of digits around the ring of muscles, each touch causing the elf’s hips to twitch towards him in search of more. It wasn’t until the pleading whimper the panting sound of his name that Ferox allowed himself to feel the interior heat. From there it never took long, especially when he ran his hand over his assassin’s chest, reaching towards the face and receiving nipped and sucked fingers for the trouble. There was a warning, given to let him know, not to stop him, but to give him the option, one he never took. Salt spurted over his tongue and he sucked harder, a stream of unintelligible sounds and grasping muscles that became a moan then turned to a snarl.

Returning to the air of the tent, hand pulling away gradually to not do harm, his mouth was taken and claimed instantly with Zevran’s wanting lips, hands tightening in his hair, leaving Ferox breathless. The only thing that could be considered unpredictable was whether the assassin would be direct or meander, depending very much on his mood, but that too was familiar. Rumbling as he caught his breath, it was a constantly starting and stopping thing, entirely due to whatever Zevran was doing. Sucking kisses were strewn across his chest, down his hips, to his thighs, thumbs rubbing behind his sack firmly as lips parted to suck one testicle then the other, firm enough to tug, but far from hard enough to hurt. Then the unscripted part began, slowly, gently, coaxingly. A leg was propped up, his sack pushed aside and lips began there. That was when Ferox had had to ask Zevran to stop last time, but this time he just wanted to feel. The brief touch from the last new experience had haunted him as it had felt good, it was just too much at the time for whatever reason that was unimportant and couldn’t be recalled at the moment. Slick teasing sent a shudder through him, bidding Ferox to open himself further, going tortuously slow at the same time.

Farther south that mouth travelled, barely moving it seemed like for long minutes until he would have to bite his tongue or risk whimpering, which probably happened anyway. So it went until there was kissing and lapping and swirling at him, and Ferox just wanted more, the rumbles stopping only for the groans that came as the strong muscle pushed firmly and slid in, then out, only to repeat. Muscles tight in his legs, feet managed to plant themselves, his hips tilting to ask for more, anything would do so long as there was no stopping. It was a struggle to not take his manhood in hand to add that to the flexing tide that was the plane he existed in, but he refrained, hanging on, not wishing to rush. Without thinking, Ferox took the jar, sliding it beneath the blankets to bump against Zevran’s hand where it wrapped around his leg. The Crow didn’t stop working with his mouth, hand touching the jar to see what it was before taking some and then there was a different press, a single finger finding its way into his body while that tongue slid around the opening repeatedly, easing the passage of the strong digit. A second came, but from the other hand, each rubbing the passage in different ways, and Ferox found his back curling forward, uncontrollably shaking as he was also being swallowed in one long push, and he grabbed for Zevran’s head. It wasn’t to push him away, but to hold him closer, unable to stop his hips from rising, and whatever sound he made it was helpless and Ferox thought his mind would flee from the onslaught.

Choking, “More,” head thumping as his toes curled, scrunching soft bedding.

Zevran was some how able to hold him at the precipice, backing off before orgasm was forcefully imminent, then moving in for more as soon as Ferox had almost caught his breath. The world was impossible to comprehend, action was just something that others did, because he was unable to act beyond plead for more, rumbles long gone had been replaced by whines and whimpers. There was more, slowly, gently, gradually - yes, but it was more, much more. He barely noticed when Zevran would take more salve to add, just that each time he felt more open. Then suddenly it was overwhelming, there was a presence rubbing and stroking internally, massaging, but it was -

“Maker!” straining, grabbing, Zevran’s shoulders from the vicinity of his waist, the hand inside him moving in a ripple, cupping and touching, and Ferox babbled, locking around the wrist to keep that hand inside his body.

“Shhh, amora, relax, let it happen, I am here,” cheek resting over Ferox’s breastbone, the other hand holding and working along shaft while the impossible stroking and twisting continued. Gold eyes shown like a cat’s, catching and reflecting light from the blankets that had been pushed back to make a hood, watching Ferox raptly, “Braska, you are beautiful, amora.”

Trembling, Ferox was overcome, unsure what he was feeling, but he was just unable to stop, held surrounded and containing the breadth of an entire sun. It was too much and his world exploded, heart thundering in his head and throat and stomach, blood pumping so strongly that he could feel it in his fingertips and in his tongue. It was no free-fall - it was a wild leap, headfirst, diving towards the ground, arms out to embrace it, and shattering as he was welcomed at once, reassembling but awareness of anything outside of the molten reality was unimportant and not noted.

Gradually reality came back, the one where outside the tent, snow laden wind blew, roared really, but was barely heard over the ringing in his ears. The tent was hot somehow, the heat generated having filled it to capacity, even more than what the impromptu water-fire-heater invention could account for. There was also internal pressure, still filled, the motion stilled, and a lazily cleaned set of fingers were stroking his brow. Catching them, Ferox licked them until they were fully clean, then the palm, going over the hand until he was satisfied with it.

“I will need that back if I am to get the other one out without harm, amora,” pleased amusement and light teasing. “You have a very strong hold on me.”

Blinking blearily, Ferox could only agree, “Yeah...”

More unguent was gathered, running along the orifice to coax it loose, almost too much, too good after the incredible fall he had taken. Zevran took his time, taking long pauses to help the muscles acclimate to their usual state. Finally the hand was free, a depressed moan at the absence issuing forth unbidden.

Zevran was sheepish as he lay beside him, “I had not intended on pushing the bounds quite so much...but you were enjoying it so much...and were so beautiful...I...could not stop.”

Words were formed by moving one’s mouth. Movement was attained by flexing one’s muscles in a certain sequence. Concentrating with the two tiny bits of brain that were still baking in the noon day heat, Ferox eventually, days later, rolled to his side and pressed in face into the sun. He was fairly certain that he said something, the word began with a ‘z’ after that it could have been anything.

An arm curled around him, holding him securely, “You are unhurt?”

Was it a week later when his head finally obeyed his thoughts and nodded and and even more delayed, “Uh huh,” was heard? Hopefully at least.

“Good,” relief painting sculpted features. Zevran rearranged the blankets and blew out the lantern. “You do not mind if I take a few moments to finish myself?” Ruefully, “As much as I found my own climax watching you, my physiology is making demands of me quite vociferously.”

A whimpered, “No, help self. I be riiiiiiight here.” Listening to himself, Ferox wondered if he had been drinking. He was tracking the sun, just not with his eyes...

Zevran’s hips worked, thrusting into the firm grip Ferox could feel at his stomach, until there was the moaning snarl. But he didn’t stop, an arm worming under and around Ferox’s shoulders, pressing close, face tucked into his neck, tongue licking at the sweat there, until several more of those releases came, the sound of it wet as Zevran worked himself into his hand, light tremors rocking the elven frame until he finally went lax.

Awaking wrung out and still buzzing from head to toe, Ferox groaned, pulling Zevran closer. For a brief second he wondered if he could just find a nice little plot of land with a small farmstead where he and Zevran could hide out and let the Blight pass them by, throwing all responsibility and accountability to the wind. But Blights took years to end, too much could happen, and they had already done so much it would be a waste to give it all up. Besides, even if what he wanted personally was to just walk away, it wasn’t what he could do. If Zevran asked, he might seriously consider it long and hard before saying no, yet it was unlikely such a thing would happen. Even if it would be a much better excuse than what he had come up with when trying to find a way to leave everyone on their own while Alistair and Flemeth badgered him.

The Crow yawned, nestling in closer and gave a quick lick to the angle of Ferox’s jaw, “Mmmn, good morning my gorgeous shem.” Brief brush of lips and a stretching arch, “How are you feeling, amora?”

“It’s all good, ‘cause I’m with you.”

Contented noises, “Mmn, perhaps if we are lucky we will find the Peak today and rest indoors, now that would be luxury, but that means leaving this pleasant cocoon, a thought I do not wish to entertain overmuch, yet we must...”

“Entertain? Who?” a smack to an eye followed by a swiveling rub of the heel of his hand.

“Leaving the tent to tramp some more when I have a gloriously attractive and precious Ferox here beside me,” leg tangling around Ferox’s.

Still stunned with sleep, “But, this is nice here.” For variety, he rubbed his other eye socket before blearily opening them. Pulling back enough to focus, “You are...very pleased with yourself.”

There was what could only be classified by the limited words he could summon as ‘dopey’ grin Zevran’s face, “And why should I not be very pleased with myself? I have never seen such pleasure on your face and to have been part of its cause - well, of course I am pleased with myself.”

It might be snowing outside, but the sun was shining in his tent. “No, not part - you are the only cause.” Listening to the satisfied voice that reached out to coat him, it occurred to Ferox that there might be a way to slow down the morning. With a bit of careful shifting to avoid cold morning air from sneaking in to steal their warmth, Ferox settled on Zevran. Resting his ear over the elf’s heart as eyes still filled with sand closed again, “Thank you for hittin’ me upside the head.”