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peopleofthedas2012-01-12 04:39 am
1smut_princess) wrote in peopleofthedas2012-01-12 04:39 am
Fic: Fiercely Cold - Thorn in my Side 2/?
Series: Fiercely Cold
Title: Thorn in my Side 2/?
Author: Rhion &le_monde
Rating: T (lingo)
Summary:Ferox was a cold man, from a cold country, with a cold heart. Once he was only one of those things. Then everything was taken away in a fiery blaze and he raged across Ferelden, venting that frozen, wintry fury upon the Blight. With cold calculation he fought to bring Ferelden back from the brink, no matter the toes he stepped upon. All the while the only person he could rely upon remained by his side, plotting his own plots and sowing his own seeds.
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.
AN: Briala and I are on chapter nine of Dream a Little Dream of Me, and chapter thirty-five of this. Dream is spawned from something said at a much later chapter...this is the 'real' Ferox and Zevran, however, both are real..ehh...it's just weird. Nevermind, just read please and reviews make our collective day. (For those who wish to know, yes, there will be sexytimes, but not until chapter six. Somebody's got to be 'drunk enough')
XXX
Apparently he needn’t have worried over his meetings, as just after dawn Zevran tapped his foot, “It is time to take him to the nursery before that poor woman awakens and raises some sort of shrieking alarm.”
Ferox narrowly avoided jerking and snarling awake. “And you wonder why the poor boy wakes crying,” complaining.
“Well it was that or risk being tackled by a fairly large shem when I snatched the baby from his arms as he slept,” it was mild as he quickly did exactly as he said, sticking a knuckle deftly into Len’s mouth before he became too startled himself and settled in to suckle back to sleep. “Him I do not wake up, and usually after he is settled once more, he passes right back out. Unless of course he hears the nursery door close. Then he screams like a banshee. Ah but there was a reward, this evening he slept straight through, and all three of us gained some rest.”
“If the guards...” of course they knew. “Did your charms not work on Len’s Nan?” Sitting up. Definitely more padding is needed for this floor. “Do you want permission?” as he rubbed sleep from his eyes.
Watching as Ferox stretched the kinks out, Zevran shrugged, “The guards posted in the halls were all handpicked by yours truly, for their loyalty to you, their ability to defend both yourself, Len, and Anora. And also for the fact that they owe me favours personally, so will not mention my comings and goings unless you press them. They understand how to be discrete and cover any tracks of yours as well. As for Sarah, I have let her be as she was picked by Erlina. Best for me to not be seen meddling in that arena.”
Ahh, Erlina, no wonder. There would be no better person to ship home. Ferox had often wondered about her loyalties. Some days she did a little too much for a lady’s maid and he had been guarded in her presence as well. The permission he offered wouldn’t get very far in that case. The nurse seemed like a nice enough girl, but he had not spent much time with her other than a greeting.
“Found anything on her yet?” meaning Erlina or the nan probably both. Slowly, creakingly getting to his feet. Another pillow too, perhaps several.
“She owes Erlina everything,” Zevran sighed, pouring a cup of tea one handed then holding out to Ferox. “Saved her from a life of begging just to feed her own baby and care for her old mother. It is a regular sob story, yet the girl is impressionable, and already believes the worst of myself, as well as some grimmer take on you. Buying her would be easy, and then she would immediately go to Erlina and tattle it all into a little tale, yes? However, if stupidity and loyalty are her only faults, then they are not so vast as to be worth dealing with her. As for Erlina,” he shrugged. “It is not true that all Orlesians are bards, but one should always be wary of pretty, elven Orlesians. They might not be bards, but they are certainly spies for someone.”
A nod of thanks, Ferox took the mug, “Smells bad to me, has since ‘rescuing’ Anora. What a load of...” he bit his tongue on what he really thought. “Erlina needs to find other employ.”
A truly dark laugh came out, the sort that was warning that Zevran had come up with something particularly thorny and masterful. “The documents of Cailan’s, you recall the ones, where he was planning on setting Anora aside for the Empress of Orlais. Pray tell do you remember who was listed as a contact? And how easy it would be to...change it to something else...?”
“If everything was drug down from Soldier’s Peak, it may have been stored in the Warden’s stash...which really needs to be secured by more than a couple of bookcases. Why haven’t we hidden them...oh I remember, Arl of Denerim. Has Anora replaced him?”
“No, though there are times when I almost think Bann Shianni would be perfect, she runs the Alienage as a very tight ship,” a second cup of tea was poured and he blew on it several times. “I say that not because of being a fellow elf, but because she does run it the way a captain would. However, one to further the goals of Wardens would be wise also... Arl of Denerim is a high profile position, yes? So much so that there is the possibility that when combined with the status of Amaranthine... My friend, I do not counsel that. There are enough precarious positions for all that putting someone...unique...at a much coveted place could bring down the ire of others.”
Yawning, “I didn’t mean for me or any other Warden to be Arl, I was coveting their basement...dungeon, only. The warehouse district is...” Searching for an apt description, “So flammable. But putting Shianni there we could do both - have an ally and someone who knows what they are doing. Somehow I don’t think Anora is sufficiently distracted for that, however. But if we are slow to act, she will find someone and-” Grimly, “I don’t think she’d choose an elf.”
Zevran looked down at Len seriously. “You have an Heir. Do you need a Queen?”
“I want at least one backup plan and made arrangements for that while in Kirkwall. It is not something I look forward to, but, as you say, it is insurance. Hopefully the healer has not moved on and the work will not take as long on the second time.”
“Then we reveal Erlina’s deception, and then Anora owes you a far greater favour. Not only have you given her a child, the great pleasures of the marriage-bed, a city that has slowly regained its footing, a country that is going to become a great power, but also you have revealed the viper that lay so near her breast,” he pointed out. “Tell her that for the duration, that until you find the right person to fill that role, that since the palace is right here in Denerim, that such duties can be shared out between yourself, with Eamon or I to take care of the smaller details. Tell her that your ability to choose the correct person for such jobs is the only boon you request in this case, so that the country and herself are best served, for you only live to serve, yes?”
“Last I checked -” refraining from rolling his eyes was a narrow thing, “- It is what we have been doing up to this point...to persuade it to continue a bit longer should not require too much sacrifice.” Will not shudder, but Ferox did not look forward to pleasing the harpy. “It is too early for this thought. Come put the boy to bed and show me your famous light steps.” Setting the mug down and moving to open the door he almost teased, “Trap anything?”
A snort, “No. I find that most are aware of my former profession and they all find my unlocked door...disturbing. As though I am inviting them to find some horrid twisting and agonizing death. Possibly because I have been known to discuss the seven stages of lanthrax poisoning...and how it only takes the mere prick of a needle to deliver it.”
Ferox remembered Alistair’s face and reaction. Liliana laughed behind the gullible Warden’s back and Morrigan ‘helped’ with the descriptions of the death throes as he recalled. Opening the door, with a gesture of ‘after you,’ Ferox closed it quietly behind them and strolled down the hall at his side until they neared the nursery.
It was and would always be difficult to be close enough to observe those who were sneaky when he was supposed to be the loudest one. Unless Ferox was in the lighter armors like at the beginning of their little adventure, he was unable to be nearby, even after having Master Wade muffle the dragon plate. Quieter, certainly, but never satisfactory, even in the leathers made from the Archdemon’s hide, he was never exactly silent. So it was rare to see Zevran move so silently. Everything around the assassin suddenly seemed muted, even the door opening and Ferox’s own footsteps - so long as he stuck close. Into the nursery they walked and then Len was placed in his crib, tucked in, and Zevran kissed a thumb before touching each of Len’s lids, as though in silent wish for good dreams. The action had the peculiar rhythm of practice and long familiarity, like an Andrastian kneeling to receive a blessing. Or a fighter reaching for the hilt of their blade - as though to be sure it was there. Just as quietly as they had arrived, they left, and once they were halfway down the hall, their steps once more resumed a more normal level.
Or at least normal for Ferox, as he found himself wondering at how much noise Zevran did make. Watching from the corner of his eye, he realized something with a start. Each step had a faint resistance, as though he had to tell himself to move like a normal person. Each breath, each small movement was the same. It was nearly fascinating.
As they neared Ferox’s room, he felt compelled to make a gesture, a connection, but he hadn’t done anything natural in a long time, without thought and planning or for the immediate goal of obtaining something. The mask of composure was still there but the crack extended into his vision and consciousness. Had Ferox been anyone else, even an earlier self, who had been shown lapse and how to begin the path of fixing it, he would have hugged the elf or at least said a thank you. Instead, he squeezed Zevran’s shoulder before entering his rooms to prepare himself for the day.
For the first time that he could clearly remember, they did not part with wintry chill spanning between them.
Between meetings with Eamon, the Commander of Fort Drakon, and other minor affairs, Ferox made arrangements for several large thick rugs to be delivered outside the assassin’s room and penned a quick note asking if assistance was required, or even wanted, to move furniture.
A prompt response was received, The presence of a friend is always welcome, with the usual little swooping ‘Z’ at the end. He slipped it inside a hidden pocket to pick over later.
Steps almost dragging, he approached where Anora was ‘holding court’ with tea and delicate treats, wishing to be almost anywhere else. Waiting patiently in a side room he reviewed the documents waiting for her signature, many having gone through his hands, others not. Eamon had several proposals for various Arlings, Banns and Teryns, which were left vacant. He pocketed those to discuss with Eamon before it caught Anora’s eye, as most of those proposed were Eamon’s debt rather than the crown’s. The Arl was making another grab for power...well continuing his grab. A few other items of interest, new trade negotiations to open - she would put his skills to those, and others that were completed. Something was off about her desk though, missing.
As he eyed it, unable to identify what was not there, Anora deigned to finally end his wait. Probably concerned with what may be visible or available to his gaze. A cat with the cream smile and a Cousland on a leash in her hand, she enjoyed this game when he would like nothing less than to strangle her. Pleasant, keeping his cold anger covered, he gave a summary of his morning activities and accomplishments and felt as if he was reporting in for his morning pat on the head. Politely, he inquired of her schedule and arranged to meet for dinner together, which she neatly penned in the little book she always carried. Ferox would like a look at that, usually he just slid it under the door to his associate and placed it back when he was done. Arrangements made, appropriate ‘fond’ gestures exchanged he made his escape as soon as reasonably able.
Making his usual lunchtime rounds he stepped by the nursery which always seemed to be bustling with chattering women at this time of day. Len must be awake, or a very heavy sleeper. Shaking his head, turning on a heel, he continued his walk. Greeting and giving greetings from the battlements to the kitchen, his destination, he stewed and adjusted plans. Settling in his corner near the fire he listened in on the kitchen gossip as the servants gradually forgot he was there. Ferox enjoyed this part of his day the most, simple, no expectations, no masks to wear or change for the company he was faced with. He sat back with a start at that thought, that realization that slipped in. He had enjoyed something simple, something that was nothing more complex than merely existing quietly.
Getting to his feet abruptly, shaking these thoughts and undeserved peace from him, he grabbed the heel of bread from the dish and continued his rounds by way of where his assassin tended to be this time of day to pass him Eamon’s note. In addition, he wanted to ask about the desk. Zevran was looking over the lists of servants and duties double checking to see that the castle was in working order. Ferox’s customary stride was familiar, the tread of a confident step on flagstones covered in runner rugs was as natural and normal a fixture in his life as the sun rising and setting.
Pulling out a small sheaf of papers, he gestured with them, “The usual dalliances, leave-taking, change in order, and supplies purchased. Sadly, not a thing out of the ordinary. One of these days a true seneschal will be needed, these unending lists make a man’s eyes feel old.”
“I wish Varrel had a twin,” trading him for him Eamon’s letter.
“Howe,” one word, one name. “I hear he is rather detail oriented. And having another Warden around might open new ground...hmn? Ah, interesting reading.”
“He is not personable and they,” vague gesture at the unwashed horde outside the window, “would not deal with him. Otherwise, he fits the description.”
Zevran shrugged, “He would know enough of how to act as though he were remotely personable. Besides, I only want him around so the morning wash will be done without me having to ensure the weekly roster is filled.”
A nod indicating he had heard. While considering it, “Have you been in to see to Anora’s doings?”
“The usual mob of those petitioning favours or this or that gripe, let us also not forget the grand stories and advice for new mothers,” casually said and offhanded, Ferox still detected the hint of sarcasm. “All of which is graciously received and well employed.”
“Something is missing and I cannot place my finger on it. I will look again this evening before dinner with her Highness. In the meantime, prepare the Summons and you can try out your Howe, as you wish.”
The thought of Zevran doing the laundry as a last resort combined with the requested frilly apron nearly quirked a lip, because the elf would, if pressed, and be fully capable and unflustered in the activity. Howe, imagined in that same circumstance, looked completely ridiculous, out of place, and unwilling to participate; and thus he was an even better candidate for the thought.
A thoughtful expression, “I will look into it if you like. Your instincts have always been of great service to those who pay attention.”
Such a clever delivery the assassin gave that by its very perfection, Ferox had to hide a pleased smile. Whatever he had been planning was already in motion. Good, that is as it should be. Instead he only nodded.
“If you find yourself without entertainment this evening, there is a new book I would like to lend you tonight,” face carefully blank.
“If you have time, certainly I enjoy expanding upon what I know of local flavours,” Zevran waved a hand, nose in his ‘lists’ as he walked, checking over the small details of a maid bustling past with a lazy glance, an armload of linens weighing her down.
“Provided my time is my own, tonight. It would be good to review that guest list at the same time. I would hate for the surprise to be ruined prematurely by an overeager party. His schedule is fairly busy this week and unless he unexpectedly drops in, which is unlikely given his adherence to protocol, there is time.”
He has forgotten something. At the splitting of the corridor where they usually parted, instead of taking his usual route to his office, Ferox retraced steps to the kitchen and the laundry to look for and take a large steel flat bottomed, oval wash basin that Len could lie in until he could safely sit. It would be safer than dipping him in a bucket, especially when Len was so squirmy and uncoordinated. Later he could sit in it for bathing and it would still be plenty deep enough.
Carrying the tub back to Zevran’s room, he set it on top of the rugs that arrived earlier, rolled and stacked in the hallway. In the tub he placed a mini keg of one of the dark beers that the duplicate preferred, perhaps his assassin might also enjoy it. After scrawling his FAC on the top end of the keg, he headed back for the afternoon meetings followed by endless paperwork before dinner.
Late that afternoon, when a carefully worded summons came across his desk for Nathaniel Howe’s transfer to the Palace effective immediately, Ferox did not delay the signing. Immediately, it was sent downstairs to a horse and rider in a sealed satchel with the other Amaranthine and Vigil correspondence he had just completed. The sooner that Summons was served and fulfilled, the happier his associate would be to return to what he actually liked to do.
As any day was supposed to be, it was productive.
Shaven, bathed, perfumed in the wretched scent Anora preferred, his hair was neatly pulled back and braided. Dressing carefully for dinner Ferox emptied his pockets,, unwilling to hand Anora something else inadvertently. Looking at the signed note he had received earlier from his associate, he smoothed it out before tucking it away, hidden - unsure why even as he did it. Then, checking each letter Zevran had prepared, Ferox updated his script before tucking them away safely. The last letter, one to be given reluctantly later was put in a separate location.
Delaying, he removed and cleaned the ring, a physical representation of his bondage to Anora, before replacing the shackle on his finger. Stilling the urge to just pick up a blade and cut every string that held him, he attempted to breathe and ended up choking on the stink he carried. This game is vital; calmly, coolly it will be done, it will be won. One way or another this ‘groveling’ will end. Taking one of Anora’s Own, this one who is not a mindless pawn, will do much to ease this act and to lead her to begin to depend on me for once.
Strolling to Anora’s private rooms, shuttering himself off, Ferox found his role and knocked lightly before entering. Calm. Cool. Collected...humble and pleasant, one with offerings for his goddess. If this doesn’t work, I’m going for a walk off Fort Drakon...No, no I’m not, taking a ship, perhaps, after a bath, but I am not taking that way out today.
“My dear, how lovely you look this evening, such a beautiful color.” Warm kiss to her proffered cheek. He did not pull away from the wretched scent she wore, one that apparently complemented what she liked him to wear. He was not adverse to scent per se, but these were truly terrible and longed to scratched it from his skin, removing that if necessary, wishing he could claim an allergic reaction.
Keeping the conversation light as dinner was set at the table, he gave every social nicety, offering an arm, pulling out her chair, attention to every tiny detail as if he thought of nothing more than her person. Alone again he gave another report as to his afternoon activities after inquiring politely to her own and receiving less than satisfactory answers...vague and hidden. Her little book sat on the table near at hand as she noted interesting details he related.
Drawing her attention back to the meal, and away from his activities, by refilling her wine glass and praising the delicate greens grown in the palace greenhouses, he began to lay the groundwork for what rested against his chest. It was taxing, it always was, even with the years of practice. She would ask question after question, picking at this or that, devouring ceaseless details, never understanding that not every detail was needed. End this. Cousin Molly’s third son Ned’s best friend with the red dog was the one who had last seen the wooden spoon from the left drawer, was not an important thing for anyone to know or remember. At least, not the person in power. Too many of those things left a body blind to the forest, too stuck on the leaves, unable to even see the trees.
Eyes shifting, as if there was something else, he made polite, but distracted noises as if encouraging her to continue. Appearing as if his mind was elsewhere, he heard every word...unfortunately, as some was interesting, useful. To make matters worse, reading non-verbal communication was not Anora’s forte, so, he carefully and gradually amplified his distraction until finally he did not respond to a question she asked twice as he stared into the flickering flames.
The way her silverware clinked with over-polite precision screamed ‘concerned’ aggravation, “What is on your mind, dear? You’re very distracted.”
As if he were called away from deep thought and lost himself for a moment, “I...” clearing his throat uncertainly, “Pardon me, I was quite rude. I was wondering, working rather, on a disturbing issue. I’m afraid it has weighed heavily in my thoughts today.” Straightening, as if he was trying to put this thing behind him, unsuccessfully, “What did you ask, darling?” preparing to ‘drift off’ again, if needed. Not your cousin’s sister’s son’s paternal uncle’s aunt on his mother side fiance’s daughter’s baby.
She lay a hand over his, “If it is something that worries you, then I no doubt must know of it.”
Allowing the physical irritation and mental anguish of her prior ramblings show through, he used them as a catalyst for this supposed discomfort. “It is not something you would wish to hear, I’m afraid. Please, go on with what you were saying. I think.” Hesitantly, “I mean, I hope...” Ferox looked down at his plate, hardly touched as if he were unable to eat with this hanging over him. Oh harpy, guide this young and inexperienced one on the path he must take.
“Oh don’t be foolish, if there is something that abysmal that it bothers you that much, it must be weighty,” Anora was prim in her delivery. “And if it is so weighty that you are uncomfortable in even discussing it, then no doubt it is something that has great bearing upon the nation. I’ll not have any risks within and without.”
Again making a show of deciding to move on, to handle it himself, anything to drag her in deeper, yes, he risked her anger for the greater good...his greater good. A doubtful expression, “You are still healing my dear and I would not wish to press this matter upon you at this time. It would be irresponsible and selfish of me...” he trailed off, a pained expression.
“Whether I’m dying or healthy, I am still Queen, Ferox,” the hand withdrew, and she became chilly. “I have duties and if your hemming and hawing over my ‘delicate’ state doesn’t stop this instant, I’ll be most put out. If you are unable to handle whatever the situation is, as is so clear by your distraction, then it becomes my responsibility.”
Touching a hand to his inner pocket, he caused the paper to crinkle slightly as if it hurt him to do this and with a defeated sigh as if she had backed him into a corner, he pulled the multiple pages and handed them to her, shame in the gesture. “It must be as you say, but I am reluctant to harm you so, especially concerning something that is most certainly in the past...” Enunciating carefully, “Cailan’s past.”
“I located these when sorting through some Warden documents and forwarding documents to Vigil’s Keep this afternoon. These are from Ostagar, from Cailan’s chest which I discovered there. I am grateful that I had not just forwarded the entire satchel to the Vigil.” Fill it in, harpy. Look at them. Think about it. “At the time, given the nature of what I was doing, I believed them to be unimportant. However that may not be the case.”
She was quiet, her already pale skin taking on an unhealthy cast as two bright spots of color shone under her swipes of face powder. Behind his mask a thrill of satisfaction as her knuckles went white, making the paper crinkle, even as she smoothed and straightened out the page she was on. Her composure was in place, but it was seriously flawed, and by the time she got to the end of the first two pages, she was reaching for her goblet and draining it. Being the dutiful husband, he scooted his chair closer, lending his concerned ‘presence’, even when she leaned away faintly.
Sorrowfully, “I’m afraid there is one more and it is particularly...it looks very bad.” Using an imploring tone one she herself used against him, one which caused distaste and creeping shudders up his spine instead of what she was attempting, “Please, let me keep this one, just this small one, it should not be used to upset you, my dear. I do not desire to have this thing cause you greater harm.” Touching, where the letter was hidden, the paper crinkled invitingly.
“It should be destroyed, burnt, yes, then it will not be able to do you any damage.” Pushing back his chair as if the ‘right’ decision had been made, pulling it from him as if he were going to remove this tainted thing from the presence of his lovely goddess, something that sullied her by its very existence.
Anora rose quickly, the break in her self-control shattering and cascading down as she took his hand quickly, halting him. “No. Let me see it. I must know what it holds, how far the ruin has spread.”
To hide the momentary glint in his eyes, he turned away as if unable to bear the sight of the damage he was going to cause by fulfilling her desire to know this thing. Throwing himself back into the chair, overacting so she had the chance of actually reading his reactions, he put his head in his hands.
“Ferox,” her other hand was held out, open in demand that he place the last, damning document there. Favorite dog that he was, reluctantly, he gave his mistress the letter. She shivered as she read it, still standing then suddenly sat and whispered, “Betrayer,” as she stared down at the page.
Calmly. Coolly. “Let me take care of this for you, my sweet, so that you are spared this much at least.”
Anora shook her head, fighting to regain calm, her resolve firming, “No. I must deal with the viper myself.” She pushed her plate away, and folded her hands in her lap. “Please, Ferox dear, I need some time to myself. I’ll retire for the night to my rooms.”
“Allow me to escort you, please darling, let me do that at least,” he leaned forward. “Just to your door.”
“Yes,” Anora nodded her features stilling slightly, the faint hint of relief far sweeter than any perfume, “Yes, I would like that.”
Pulling her away from the table, regretfully he handed her the documents. Covering her book with a napkin, he hid his movements by interposing himself between her and it. Then offering his arm, “Come my dear, let us quit this place.” At the door, he paused, “If it will help take your mind from this distasteful discovery, there is a small matter, a boon, if you will...”
As they walked, he explained. “Eamon and I have been discussing some of the vacant positions. I ask that you allow me to interview and choose the right person to fill the Denerim seat, taking into account Eamon’s insightful advice, of course. As it will set the tone for the entire realm, it will take much time and careful thought, and if I lift this burden from you my darling,” kissing her fingers, “it will allow you the time to do what is needed in this,” gesturing to the letters in her other hand, “sad affair.” His word was chosen intentionally, but his eyes were innocent and so very concerned for her welfare.
Back to the dining room, he recovered the little book tucking it safely away and exited with a ‘lost item’ he had earlier dropped intentionally to cover his tracks, should someone’s eyes be upon him. Intent on his rooms, plans clicking over in his mind, he found himself at Zevran’s door instead, staring dumbly at it, and forced himself to knock and wait.
When the door was answered and opened for him to enter, Ferox did not move. Quietly, not quite angry, “Here is that book on ancient history you wished to borrow. I will not come in and subject you to the stink of an Orlesian gare de triage de grange [barnyard] sprayed upon me. I seek a spar or a soak in the large tubs we had installed. If you care join me, you may choose the activity. If not...” a small almost frustrated noise escaped him, as if to say ‘whatever’. “It is not important.”
Zevran said not a word, his door still open as he went in to take his well used leathers from the rack, along with his blades. He pulled the door closed behind him, “Both would be best. A good warm up to get the blood pumping, then washing the filth away.” His lips pursed slightly, “And then you, my friend, need someone to work the tension out of those shoulders ‘ere your back snap of it.”
With a grunt of acknowledgement, Ferox stalked to his room, listening to his assassin’s signature steps beside him. He was not quite able to trust, to believe that his offer had actually been accepted. But other than requesting that something be done, he did not remember the last time he offered a choice like this to Zevran.
If it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have worn any of it, but Anora needed to be wooed and that particular stench pleased her - as always, he did as the situation required to get what he needed. Ferox removed the finery, refraining from ripping it from himself, tossed them into an adjoining room which was rarely used, and quickly shut the door just to get the smell far away from him. Unwilling to be trapped in a metal barrel with a combination of scents that still continued to cause him misery, he pulled on serviceable sturdy clothing that smelled of yesterday and then buckled on his dragon leathers. Zevran was changing behind him quickly, his own armour donned faster than dragon hide, and then there was a set of fingers finding a last buckle and finishing it for him. Ferox furrowed his brow as he tugged his gauntlets on more securely. Usually the only time he had help was when trying to get out of the heavy set of plate, or wearing the abysmally unwieldy and gaudy Consort’s armour Anora had had designed.
It was all over and done with quickly and other than the jingling of his belt, Zevran paced quietly beside him. No invitation to talk, no prompting or asking a thousand questions, he was just there. As usual.
The star sword was an extension of himself, the familiar pommel filled his hand and helped to alleviate the anxiety and vague feeling of longing. He was able to pretend being calm and collected. The urge to claw off his skin and the need to turn and beat this invisible thing that held him, easing. The sword was the promise of action to be taken, of movement that required little in the way of extended forethought.
When Zevran squared off with him, Ferox had expected the usual dancing fast-pace movements. Instead what he gained was a modeling of style that allowed Ferox to land hits, and after the second one, he began to hold back. Until Zevran kicked him in the knee, smirking at him. A quarter hour in, he realized that while he was hitting the assassin, he was still rolling or moving just enough to the side so the powerful blows didn’t send him flying, or tear through the thinner armour. A knot relaxed and he stopped thinking about it, just continuing with the session until his arms and back began to ache from wielding the heavy weapon.
“Enough, I yield.”
A grunt and blades whirled away into their sheathes, “Good, I think I might need a good long soak as badly as you do.” Low groaning as the assassin doubled over, arms sliding behind legs as he folded impossibly in half, “Faugh, I need to start sparring with Cesar or Ignacio or someone who might be a challenge, because the guards are nothing special. Mph, and that is what I call a work out.”
Ferox winced as the elf flipped into a back-bend while he watched, still putting his own weapon away. “Nathaniel is quick with a blade, but he prefers his bow.”
“Oh I enjoy sniping as much as the next fellow, but I have not been against an opponent who could actually fight in some time it seems like,” laces to vambraces were undone briskly so the sweaty cloth protectors underneath could be yanked off. “So I am out of practice in doing the rolling dodge where the blade slides off, rather than my usual tactics.”
Mildly, “I wanted you to come to the Vigil and regretted that I needed you to be here.”
A shrug was given as they walked into the baths, “It happens. I would have been there if circumstance allowed it. Times seem simpler when there is a foe that you can defend against with blade and boot rather than blackmail and bribery. Or piles and piles of paper. Ugh, the paper.”
“Careful, your arch-nemesis might give you a papercut,” Ferox teased. “And think of all the fun you’ll have bringing Nathaniel up to speed... Nate’s temper is very cold. That reminds me, I should like to see Fergus and if you discover that my paperwork is off, I’m certain you can smooth that over for me.”
“I can deal with cold tempers, I have survived Ferelden thus far,” glossing and waving it off. A satisfied moan as he slid into the water, “Ah, sweet relief. As always, you can rely upon me to smooth over anything you desire. A bit of paperwork is no trouble.”
Hot, hot, hot...oh that’s nice. “Although, if I waited until after Nate got up to speed, you could come with me to Highever, if you like. Or go elsewhere if you’d rather...”
A lolling head rolled his way, “I would rather good company wherever I go, so that does mean I am most likely to follow you rather than fumble around and try to find such on my lonesome. Besides you at least are civilized, as to what can be said for others nearby? Oh, wait. Len. Except he does still have the tendency of releasing excrement into his drawers and the conversations are more one-sided.”
Ferox pulled the braid out of his hair and dunked his head as if purging himself of the last of the perfume. “This reminds me,” coming back up for air, “I should show you a rock, or rather a rune-stone. A list of ingredients was provided. Add to that the hardest thing to obtain, one talented Tranquil, and apparently it will fund an enterprise, or so I have been told.”
Leaning back, brown eyes closed with a sigh, “Zevran, you didn’t say outright, but I have not been good company, not when we met, not during the Blight, and not in the years afterward. One night sharing childcare duties doesn’t change that I was wrong.”
A washcloth was tossed so it landed on his chest with a wet plop. “You had lost everything and been thrown into an untenable position. You did what you could, and that mattered. Just because you did not respond in words, did not mean you refrained from responding with action. How many chances did you have to tell me to cease and desist and did not? Or to shut me out and leave me hanging for the Crows. How a person deals with a wound and the healing process is different from person to person.” The water sloshed as the elf shifted with a sigh of his own. “You were as present as you could be. It was enough.”
Ferox’s eyes opened checking Zevran for sarcasm, “To this day, I want to throttle Alistair.” Snorting, “Well, not right now this moment, he’s not here. Talking. Endlessly. But it took time to realize that even though Alistair was older in years and experience as a Warden, that he too, had lost nearly everything that dark night at Ostagar.You yourself, Sten, Wynne, Morrigan, Liliana, Oghren, even Shale - we all were in that position of great loss and each of us dealt with it differently.”
“It is a wonder sometimes that I have, how a band of misfits and morose laggards managed to survive,” soap was vigorously scrubbed into dark skin, sandalwood and strange spices wafting over with the motion. “I was always taught that laughter was the best medicine, but it was a commodity lacking unless I wheedled and wheedled. Ooufh, you all were a hard bunch. Except Oghren, he, and if you repeat this ever I will be most put out, was actually consistently entertaining. A disgraced drunk and a killer whore were the only ones with senses of humour it seemed like sometimes.” A chuckle before Zevran lowered his voice, “‘By the soddin’ Ancestors where’s yer dress, girl? Yer knickers are in a twist! Don’t worry, I’ll get them out - in my tent! Hurr hurr hurr’. And no matter how many times the Chantry boy told Oghren I was male, it never did seem to sink in. Ahh, good times.”
“So you are saying that the amount the two of you tortured each other...?”
A hand locked with the opposite wrist and the assassin reclined, resting his wrist on his forehead. “Mmnhmm. On purpose. Wynne was a good laugh herself, except I do not think she grasped what I was truly seeking to do. Being serious and focused is all well and good, but to be so day in, day out, for years without relief is...unhealthy. Even you - of course your humour has been fairly caustic and pointed the time I have known you - were able to crack a joke time to time. Morrigan and Sten, oh that was some of the best. And here I thought the Qu’nari were incapable of humour. A hot poker to grab his attention in case he attempted to nuzzle. Oh, that was priceless, almost as much as the Witch’s expression.”
Ferox’s lips twitched. What had promised to be a completely uncomfortable conversation flowed naturally instead. Seriousness was present, a deep undercurrent beneath the usual rambling musings. He did not feel taken to task for his shortcomings, no matter that he did it on his own.
Beside him his associate let his body rise up, floating in the deep bath, held in place by the weight of his head on the edge. What had at first seemed like useless chatter took on a new light and weight. Zevran’s eyes were closed, what Ferox could see of his face serene. He wondered briefly how he always managed that, that constant rolling with the strikes, feeling them, but not internalizing them. It was obvious that Zevran felt things just as deeply as others, but relinquished the control of situations while still mastering them.
“Shall I gather Len up tonight?” broke the silence casually.
Pausing as he washed, Ferox nodded once and rumbled, “As you wish.” It was still a trap, but it would be one he intentionally stepped into. He had ‘acquired’ this valuable thing and he did not want it to fall by the wayside forgotten. His father would not have approved losing this thing and would have hit him upside the head sooner than Zevran had, before Ferox was ready, before the groundwork was laid. He vowed quietly that he would not relinquish it now that it was at hand.
Title: Thorn in my Side 2/?
Author: Rhion &
le_mondeRating: T (lingo)
Summary:Ferox was a cold man, from a cold country, with a cold heart. Once he was only one of those things. Then everything was taken away in a fiery blaze and he raged across Ferelden, venting that frozen, wintry fury upon the Blight. With cold calculation he fought to bring Ferelden back from the brink, no matter the toes he stepped upon. All the while the only person he could rely upon remained by his side, plotting his own plots and sowing his own seeds.
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.
AN: Briala and I are on chapter nine of Dream a Little Dream of Me, and chapter thirty-five of this. Dream is spawned from something said at a much later chapter...this is the 'real' Ferox and Zevran, however, both are real..ehh...it's just weird. Nevermind, just read please and reviews make our collective day. (For those who wish to know, yes, there will be sexytimes, but not until chapter six. Somebody's got to be 'drunk enough')
XXX
Apparently he needn’t have worried over his meetings, as just after dawn Zevran tapped his foot, “It is time to take him to the nursery before that poor woman awakens and raises some sort of shrieking alarm.”
Ferox narrowly avoided jerking and snarling awake. “And you wonder why the poor boy wakes crying,” complaining.
“Well it was that or risk being tackled by a fairly large shem when I snatched the baby from his arms as he slept,” it was mild as he quickly did exactly as he said, sticking a knuckle deftly into Len’s mouth before he became too startled himself and settled in to suckle back to sleep. “Him I do not wake up, and usually after he is settled once more, he passes right back out. Unless of course he hears the nursery door close. Then he screams like a banshee. Ah but there was a reward, this evening he slept straight through, and all three of us gained some rest.”
“If the guards...” of course they knew. “Did your charms not work on Len’s Nan?” Sitting up. Definitely more padding is needed for this floor. “Do you want permission?” as he rubbed sleep from his eyes.
Watching as Ferox stretched the kinks out, Zevran shrugged, “The guards posted in the halls were all handpicked by yours truly, for their loyalty to you, their ability to defend both yourself, Len, and Anora. And also for the fact that they owe me favours personally, so will not mention my comings and goings unless you press them. They understand how to be discrete and cover any tracks of yours as well. As for Sarah, I have let her be as she was picked by Erlina. Best for me to not be seen meddling in that arena.”
Ahh, Erlina, no wonder. There would be no better person to ship home. Ferox had often wondered about her loyalties. Some days she did a little too much for a lady’s maid and he had been guarded in her presence as well. The permission he offered wouldn’t get very far in that case. The nurse seemed like a nice enough girl, but he had not spent much time with her other than a greeting.
“Found anything on her yet?” meaning Erlina or the nan probably both. Slowly, creakingly getting to his feet. Another pillow too, perhaps several.
“She owes Erlina everything,” Zevran sighed, pouring a cup of tea one handed then holding out to Ferox. “Saved her from a life of begging just to feed her own baby and care for her old mother. It is a regular sob story, yet the girl is impressionable, and already believes the worst of myself, as well as some grimmer take on you. Buying her would be easy, and then she would immediately go to Erlina and tattle it all into a little tale, yes? However, if stupidity and loyalty are her only faults, then they are not so vast as to be worth dealing with her. As for Erlina,” he shrugged. “It is not true that all Orlesians are bards, but one should always be wary of pretty, elven Orlesians. They might not be bards, but they are certainly spies for someone.”
A nod of thanks, Ferox took the mug, “Smells bad to me, has since ‘rescuing’ Anora. What a load of...” he bit his tongue on what he really thought. “Erlina needs to find other employ.”
A truly dark laugh came out, the sort that was warning that Zevran had come up with something particularly thorny and masterful. “The documents of Cailan’s, you recall the ones, where he was planning on setting Anora aside for the Empress of Orlais. Pray tell do you remember who was listed as a contact? And how easy it would be to...change it to something else...?”
“If everything was drug down from Soldier’s Peak, it may have been stored in the Warden’s stash...which really needs to be secured by more than a couple of bookcases. Why haven’t we hidden them...oh I remember, Arl of Denerim. Has Anora replaced him?”
“No, though there are times when I almost think Bann Shianni would be perfect, she runs the Alienage as a very tight ship,” a second cup of tea was poured and he blew on it several times. “I say that not because of being a fellow elf, but because she does run it the way a captain would. However, one to further the goals of Wardens would be wise also... Arl of Denerim is a high profile position, yes? So much so that there is the possibility that when combined with the status of Amaranthine... My friend, I do not counsel that. There are enough precarious positions for all that putting someone...unique...at a much coveted place could bring down the ire of others.”
Yawning, “I didn’t mean for me or any other Warden to be Arl, I was coveting their basement...dungeon, only. The warehouse district is...” Searching for an apt description, “So flammable. But putting Shianni there we could do both - have an ally and someone who knows what they are doing. Somehow I don’t think Anora is sufficiently distracted for that, however. But if we are slow to act, she will find someone and-” Grimly, “I don’t think she’d choose an elf.”
Zevran looked down at Len seriously. “You have an Heir. Do you need a Queen?”
“I want at least one backup plan and made arrangements for that while in Kirkwall. It is not something I look forward to, but, as you say, it is insurance. Hopefully the healer has not moved on and the work will not take as long on the second time.”
“Then we reveal Erlina’s deception, and then Anora owes you a far greater favour. Not only have you given her a child, the great pleasures of the marriage-bed, a city that has slowly regained its footing, a country that is going to become a great power, but also you have revealed the viper that lay so near her breast,” he pointed out. “Tell her that for the duration, that until you find the right person to fill that role, that since the palace is right here in Denerim, that such duties can be shared out between yourself, with Eamon or I to take care of the smaller details. Tell her that your ability to choose the correct person for such jobs is the only boon you request in this case, so that the country and herself are best served, for you only live to serve, yes?”
“Last I checked -” refraining from rolling his eyes was a narrow thing, “- It is what we have been doing up to this point...to persuade it to continue a bit longer should not require too much sacrifice.” Will not shudder, but Ferox did not look forward to pleasing the harpy. “It is too early for this thought. Come put the boy to bed and show me your famous light steps.” Setting the mug down and moving to open the door he almost teased, “Trap anything?”
A snort, “No. I find that most are aware of my former profession and they all find my unlocked door...disturbing. As though I am inviting them to find some horrid twisting and agonizing death. Possibly because I have been known to discuss the seven stages of lanthrax poisoning...and how it only takes the mere prick of a needle to deliver it.”
Ferox remembered Alistair’s face and reaction. Liliana laughed behind the gullible Warden’s back and Morrigan ‘helped’ with the descriptions of the death throes as he recalled. Opening the door, with a gesture of ‘after you,’ Ferox closed it quietly behind them and strolled down the hall at his side until they neared the nursery.
It was and would always be difficult to be close enough to observe those who were sneaky when he was supposed to be the loudest one. Unless Ferox was in the lighter armors like at the beginning of their little adventure, he was unable to be nearby, even after having Master Wade muffle the dragon plate. Quieter, certainly, but never satisfactory, even in the leathers made from the Archdemon’s hide, he was never exactly silent. So it was rare to see Zevran move so silently. Everything around the assassin suddenly seemed muted, even the door opening and Ferox’s own footsteps - so long as he stuck close. Into the nursery they walked and then Len was placed in his crib, tucked in, and Zevran kissed a thumb before touching each of Len’s lids, as though in silent wish for good dreams. The action had the peculiar rhythm of practice and long familiarity, like an Andrastian kneeling to receive a blessing. Or a fighter reaching for the hilt of their blade - as though to be sure it was there. Just as quietly as they had arrived, they left, and once they were halfway down the hall, their steps once more resumed a more normal level.
Or at least normal for Ferox, as he found himself wondering at how much noise Zevran did make. Watching from the corner of his eye, he realized something with a start. Each step had a faint resistance, as though he had to tell himself to move like a normal person. Each breath, each small movement was the same. It was nearly fascinating.
As they neared Ferox’s room, he felt compelled to make a gesture, a connection, but he hadn’t done anything natural in a long time, without thought and planning or for the immediate goal of obtaining something. The mask of composure was still there but the crack extended into his vision and consciousness. Had Ferox been anyone else, even an earlier self, who had been shown lapse and how to begin the path of fixing it, he would have hugged the elf or at least said a thank you. Instead, he squeezed Zevran’s shoulder before entering his rooms to prepare himself for the day.
For the first time that he could clearly remember, they did not part with wintry chill spanning between them.
Between meetings with Eamon, the Commander of Fort Drakon, and other minor affairs, Ferox made arrangements for several large thick rugs to be delivered outside the assassin’s room and penned a quick note asking if assistance was required, or even wanted, to move furniture.
A prompt response was received, The presence of a friend is always welcome, with the usual little swooping ‘Z’ at the end. He slipped it inside a hidden pocket to pick over later.
Steps almost dragging, he approached where Anora was ‘holding court’ with tea and delicate treats, wishing to be almost anywhere else. Waiting patiently in a side room he reviewed the documents waiting for her signature, many having gone through his hands, others not. Eamon had several proposals for various Arlings, Banns and Teryns, which were left vacant. He pocketed those to discuss with Eamon before it caught Anora’s eye, as most of those proposed were Eamon’s debt rather than the crown’s. The Arl was making another grab for power...well continuing his grab. A few other items of interest, new trade negotiations to open - she would put his skills to those, and others that were completed. Something was off about her desk though, missing.
As he eyed it, unable to identify what was not there, Anora deigned to finally end his wait. Probably concerned with what may be visible or available to his gaze. A cat with the cream smile and a Cousland on a leash in her hand, she enjoyed this game when he would like nothing less than to strangle her. Pleasant, keeping his cold anger covered, he gave a summary of his morning activities and accomplishments and felt as if he was reporting in for his morning pat on the head. Politely, he inquired of her schedule and arranged to meet for dinner together, which she neatly penned in the little book she always carried. Ferox would like a look at that, usually he just slid it under the door to his associate and placed it back when he was done. Arrangements made, appropriate ‘fond’ gestures exchanged he made his escape as soon as reasonably able.
Making his usual lunchtime rounds he stepped by the nursery which always seemed to be bustling with chattering women at this time of day. Len must be awake, or a very heavy sleeper. Shaking his head, turning on a heel, he continued his walk. Greeting and giving greetings from the battlements to the kitchen, his destination, he stewed and adjusted plans. Settling in his corner near the fire he listened in on the kitchen gossip as the servants gradually forgot he was there. Ferox enjoyed this part of his day the most, simple, no expectations, no masks to wear or change for the company he was faced with. He sat back with a start at that thought, that realization that slipped in. He had enjoyed something simple, something that was nothing more complex than merely existing quietly.
Getting to his feet abruptly, shaking these thoughts and undeserved peace from him, he grabbed the heel of bread from the dish and continued his rounds by way of where his assassin tended to be this time of day to pass him Eamon’s note. In addition, he wanted to ask about the desk. Zevran was looking over the lists of servants and duties double checking to see that the castle was in working order. Ferox’s customary stride was familiar, the tread of a confident step on flagstones covered in runner rugs was as natural and normal a fixture in his life as the sun rising and setting.
Pulling out a small sheaf of papers, he gestured with them, “The usual dalliances, leave-taking, change in order, and supplies purchased. Sadly, not a thing out of the ordinary. One of these days a true seneschal will be needed, these unending lists make a man’s eyes feel old.”
“I wish Varrel had a twin,” trading him for him Eamon’s letter.
“Howe,” one word, one name. “I hear he is rather detail oriented. And having another Warden around might open new ground...hmn? Ah, interesting reading.”
“He is not personable and they,” vague gesture at the unwashed horde outside the window, “would not deal with him. Otherwise, he fits the description.”
Zevran shrugged, “He would know enough of how to act as though he were remotely personable. Besides, I only want him around so the morning wash will be done without me having to ensure the weekly roster is filled.”
A nod indicating he had heard. While considering it, “Have you been in to see to Anora’s doings?”
“The usual mob of those petitioning favours or this or that gripe, let us also not forget the grand stories and advice for new mothers,” casually said and offhanded, Ferox still detected the hint of sarcasm. “All of which is graciously received and well employed.”
“Something is missing and I cannot place my finger on it. I will look again this evening before dinner with her Highness. In the meantime, prepare the Summons and you can try out your Howe, as you wish.”
The thought of Zevran doing the laundry as a last resort combined with the requested frilly apron nearly quirked a lip, because the elf would, if pressed, and be fully capable and unflustered in the activity. Howe, imagined in that same circumstance, looked completely ridiculous, out of place, and unwilling to participate; and thus he was an even better candidate for the thought.
A thoughtful expression, “I will look into it if you like. Your instincts have always been of great service to those who pay attention.”
Such a clever delivery the assassin gave that by its very perfection, Ferox had to hide a pleased smile. Whatever he had been planning was already in motion. Good, that is as it should be. Instead he only nodded.
“If you find yourself without entertainment this evening, there is a new book I would like to lend you tonight,” face carefully blank.
“If you have time, certainly I enjoy expanding upon what I know of local flavours,” Zevran waved a hand, nose in his ‘lists’ as he walked, checking over the small details of a maid bustling past with a lazy glance, an armload of linens weighing her down.
“Provided my time is my own, tonight. It would be good to review that guest list at the same time. I would hate for the surprise to be ruined prematurely by an overeager party. His schedule is fairly busy this week and unless he unexpectedly drops in, which is unlikely given his adherence to protocol, there is time.”
He has forgotten something. At the splitting of the corridor where they usually parted, instead of taking his usual route to his office, Ferox retraced steps to the kitchen and the laundry to look for and take a large steel flat bottomed, oval wash basin that Len could lie in until he could safely sit. It would be safer than dipping him in a bucket, especially when Len was so squirmy and uncoordinated. Later he could sit in it for bathing and it would still be plenty deep enough.
Carrying the tub back to Zevran’s room, he set it on top of the rugs that arrived earlier, rolled and stacked in the hallway. In the tub he placed a mini keg of one of the dark beers that the duplicate preferred, perhaps his assassin might also enjoy it. After scrawling his FAC on the top end of the keg, he headed back for the afternoon meetings followed by endless paperwork before dinner.
Late that afternoon, when a carefully worded summons came across his desk for Nathaniel Howe’s transfer to the Palace effective immediately, Ferox did not delay the signing. Immediately, it was sent downstairs to a horse and rider in a sealed satchel with the other Amaranthine and Vigil correspondence he had just completed. The sooner that Summons was served and fulfilled, the happier his associate would be to return to what he actually liked to do.
As any day was supposed to be, it was productive.
Shaven, bathed, perfumed in the wretched scent Anora preferred, his hair was neatly pulled back and braided. Dressing carefully for dinner Ferox emptied his pockets,, unwilling to hand Anora something else inadvertently. Looking at the signed note he had received earlier from his associate, he smoothed it out before tucking it away, hidden - unsure why even as he did it. Then, checking each letter Zevran had prepared, Ferox updated his script before tucking them away safely. The last letter, one to be given reluctantly later was put in a separate location.
Delaying, he removed and cleaned the ring, a physical representation of his bondage to Anora, before replacing the shackle on his finger. Stilling the urge to just pick up a blade and cut every string that held him, he attempted to breathe and ended up choking on the stink he carried. This game is vital; calmly, coolly it will be done, it will be won. One way or another this ‘groveling’ will end. Taking one of Anora’s Own, this one who is not a mindless pawn, will do much to ease this act and to lead her to begin to depend on me for once.
Strolling to Anora’s private rooms, shuttering himself off, Ferox found his role and knocked lightly before entering. Calm. Cool. Collected...humble and pleasant, one with offerings for his goddess. If this doesn’t work, I’m going for a walk off Fort Drakon...No, no I’m not, taking a ship, perhaps, after a bath, but I am not taking that way out today.
“My dear, how lovely you look this evening, such a beautiful color.” Warm kiss to her proffered cheek. He did not pull away from the wretched scent she wore, one that apparently complemented what she liked him to wear. He was not adverse to scent per se, but these were truly terrible and longed to scratched it from his skin, removing that if necessary, wishing he could claim an allergic reaction.
Keeping the conversation light as dinner was set at the table, he gave every social nicety, offering an arm, pulling out her chair, attention to every tiny detail as if he thought of nothing more than her person. Alone again he gave another report as to his afternoon activities after inquiring politely to her own and receiving less than satisfactory answers...vague and hidden. Her little book sat on the table near at hand as she noted interesting details he related.
Drawing her attention back to the meal, and away from his activities, by refilling her wine glass and praising the delicate greens grown in the palace greenhouses, he began to lay the groundwork for what rested against his chest. It was taxing, it always was, even with the years of practice. She would ask question after question, picking at this or that, devouring ceaseless details, never understanding that not every detail was needed. End this. Cousin Molly’s third son Ned’s best friend with the red dog was the one who had last seen the wooden spoon from the left drawer, was not an important thing for anyone to know or remember. At least, not the person in power. Too many of those things left a body blind to the forest, too stuck on the leaves, unable to even see the trees.
Eyes shifting, as if there was something else, he made polite, but distracted noises as if encouraging her to continue. Appearing as if his mind was elsewhere, he heard every word...unfortunately, as some was interesting, useful. To make matters worse, reading non-verbal communication was not Anora’s forte, so, he carefully and gradually amplified his distraction until finally he did not respond to a question she asked twice as he stared into the flickering flames.
The way her silverware clinked with over-polite precision screamed ‘concerned’ aggravation, “What is on your mind, dear? You’re very distracted.”
As if he were called away from deep thought and lost himself for a moment, “I...” clearing his throat uncertainly, “Pardon me, I was quite rude. I was wondering, working rather, on a disturbing issue. I’m afraid it has weighed heavily in my thoughts today.” Straightening, as if he was trying to put this thing behind him, unsuccessfully, “What did you ask, darling?” preparing to ‘drift off’ again, if needed. Not your cousin’s sister’s son’s paternal uncle’s aunt on his mother side fiance’s daughter’s baby.
She lay a hand over his, “If it is something that worries you, then I no doubt must know of it.”
Allowing the physical irritation and mental anguish of her prior ramblings show through, he used them as a catalyst for this supposed discomfort. “It is not something you would wish to hear, I’m afraid. Please, go on with what you were saying. I think.” Hesitantly, “I mean, I hope...” Ferox looked down at his plate, hardly touched as if he were unable to eat with this hanging over him. Oh harpy, guide this young and inexperienced one on the path he must take.
“Oh don’t be foolish, if there is something that abysmal that it bothers you that much, it must be weighty,” Anora was prim in her delivery. “And if it is so weighty that you are uncomfortable in even discussing it, then no doubt it is something that has great bearing upon the nation. I’ll not have any risks within and without.”
Again making a show of deciding to move on, to handle it himself, anything to drag her in deeper, yes, he risked her anger for the greater good...his greater good. A doubtful expression, “You are still healing my dear and I would not wish to press this matter upon you at this time. It would be irresponsible and selfish of me...” he trailed off, a pained expression.
“Whether I’m dying or healthy, I am still Queen, Ferox,” the hand withdrew, and she became chilly. “I have duties and if your hemming and hawing over my ‘delicate’ state doesn’t stop this instant, I’ll be most put out. If you are unable to handle whatever the situation is, as is so clear by your distraction, then it becomes my responsibility.”
Touching a hand to his inner pocket, he caused the paper to crinkle slightly as if it hurt him to do this and with a defeated sigh as if she had backed him into a corner, he pulled the multiple pages and handed them to her, shame in the gesture. “It must be as you say, but I am reluctant to harm you so, especially concerning something that is most certainly in the past...” Enunciating carefully, “Cailan’s past.”
“I located these when sorting through some Warden documents and forwarding documents to Vigil’s Keep this afternoon. These are from Ostagar, from Cailan’s chest which I discovered there. I am grateful that I had not just forwarded the entire satchel to the Vigil.” Fill it in, harpy. Look at them. Think about it. “At the time, given the nature of what I was doing, I believed them to be unimportant. However that may not be the case.”
She was quiet, her already pale skin taking on an unhealthy cast as two bright spots of color shone under her swipes of face powder. Behind his mask a thrill of satisfaction as her knuckles went white, making the paper crinkle, even as she smoothed and straightened out the page she was on. Her composure was in place, but it was seriously flawed, and by the time she got to the end of the first two pages, she was reaching for her goblet and draining it. Being the dutiful husband, he scooted his chair closer, lending his concerned ‘presence’, even when she leaned away faintly.
Sorrowfully, “I’m afraid there is one more and it is particularly...it looks very bad.” Using an imploring tone one she herself used against him, one which caused distaste and creeping shudders up his spine instead of what she was attempting, “Please, let me keep this one, just this small one, it should not be used to upset you, my dear. I do not desire to have this thing cause you greater harm.” Touching, where the letter was hidden, the paper crinkled invitingly.
“It should be destroyed, burnt, yes, then it will not be able to do you any damage.” Pushing back his chair as if the ‘right’ decision had been made, pulling it from him as if he were going to remove this tainted thing from the presence of his lovely goddess, something that sullied her by its very existence.
Anora rose quickly, the break in her self-control shattering and cascading down as she took his hand quickly, halting him. “No. Let me see it. I must know what it holds, how far the ruin has spread.”
To hide the momentary glint in his eyes, he turned away as if unable to bear the sight of the damage he was going to cause by fulfilling her desire to know this thing. Throwing himself back into the chair, overacting so she had the chance of actually reading his reactions, he put his head in his hands.
“Ferox,” her other hand was held out, open in demand that he place the last, damning document there. Favorite dog that he was, reluctantly, he gave his mistress the letter. She shivered as she read it, still standing then suddenly sat and whispered, “Betrayer,” as she stared down at the page.
Calmly. Coolly. “Let me take care of this for you, my sweet, so that you are spared this much at least.”
Anora shook her head, fighting to regain calm, her resolve firming, “No. I must deal with the viper myself.” She pushed her plate away, and folded her hands in her lap. “Please, Ferox dear, I need some time to myself. I’ll retire for the night to my rooms.”
“Allow me to escort you, please darling, let me do that at least,” he leaned forward. “Just to your door.”
“Yes,” Anora nodded her features stilling slightly, the faint hint of relief far sweeter than any perfume, “Yes, I would like that.”
Pulling her away from the table, regretfully he handed her the documents. Covering her book with a napkin, he hid his movements by interposing himself between her and it. Then offering his arm, “Come my dear, let us quit this place.” At the door, he paused, “If it will help take your mind from this distasteful discovery, there is a small matter, a boon, if you will...”
As they walked, he explained. “Eamon and I have been discussing some of the vacant positions. I ask that you allow me to interview and choose the right person to fill the Denerim seat, taking into account Eamon’s insightful advice, of course. As it will set the tone for the entire realm, it will take much time and careful thought, and if I lift this burden from you my darling,” kissing her fingers, “it will allow you the time to do what is needed in this,” gesturing to the letters in her other hand, “sad affair.” His word was chosen intentionally, but his eyes were innocent and so very concerned for her welfare.
Back to the dining room, he recovered the little book tucking it safely away and exited with a ‘lost item’ he had earlier dropped intentionally to cover his tracks, should someone’s eyes be upon him. Intent on his rooms, plans clicking over in his mind, he found himself at Zevran’s door instead, staring dumbly at it, and forced himself to knock and wait.
When the door was answered and opened for him to enter, Ferox did not move. Quietly, not quite angry, “Here is that book on ancient history you wished to borrow. I will not come in and subject you to the stink of an Orlesian gare de triage de grange [barnyard] sprayed upon me. I seek a spar or a soak in the large tubs we had installed. If you care join me, you may choose the activity. If not...” a small almost frustrated noise escaped him, as if to say ‘whatever’. “It is not important.”
Zevran said not a word, his door still open as he went in to take his well used leathers from the rack, along with his blades. He pulled the door closed behind him, “Both would be best. A good warm up to get the blood pumping, then washing the filth away.” His lips pursed slightly, “And then you, my friend, need someone to work the tension out of those shoulders ‘ere your back snap of it.”
With a grunt of acknowledgement, Ferox stalked to his room, listening to his assassin’s signature steps beside him. He was not quite able to trust, to believe that his offer had actually been accepted. But other than requesting that something be done, he did not remember the last time he offered a choice like this to Zevran.
If it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have worn any of it, but Anora needed to be wooed and that particular stench pleased her - as always, he did as the situation required to get what he needed. Ferox removed the finery, refraining from ripping it from himself, tossed them into an adjoining room which was rarely used, and quickly shut the door just to get the smell far away from him. Unwilling to be trapped in a metal barrel with a combination of scents that still continued to cause him misery, he pulled on serviceable sturdy clothing that smelled of yesterday and then buckled on his dragon leathers. Zevran was changing behind him quickly, his own armour donned faster than dragon hide, and then there was a set of fingers finding a last buckle and finishing it for him. Ferox furrowed his brow as he tugged his gauntlets on more securely. Usually the only time he had help was when trying to get out of the heavy set of plate, or wearing the abysmally unwieldy and gaudy Consort’s armour Anora had had designed.
It was all over and done with quickly and other than the jingling of his belt, Zevran paced quietly beside him. No invitation to talk, no prompting or asking a thousand questions, he was just there. As usual.
The star sword was an extension of himself, the familiar pommel filled his hand and helped to alleviate the anxiety and vague feeling of longing. He was able to pretend being calm and collected. The urge to claw off his skin and the need to turn and beat this invisible thing that held him, easing. The sword was the promise of action to be taken, of movement that required little in the way of extended forethought.
When Zevran squared off with him, Ferox had expected the usual dancing fast-pace movements. Instead what he gained was a modeling of style that allowed Ferox to land hits, and after the second one, he began to hold back. Until Zevran kicked him in the knee, smirking at him. A quarter hour in, he realized that while he was hitting the assassin, he was still rolling or moving just enough to the side so the powerful blows didn’t send him flying, or tear through the thinner armour. A knot relaxed and he stopped thinking about it, just continuing with the session until his arms and back began to ache from wielding the heavy weapon.
“Enough, I yield.”
A grunt and blades whirled away into their sheathes, “Good, I think I might need a good long soak as badly as you do.” Low groaning as the assassin doubled over, arms sliding behind legs as he folded impossibly in half, “Faugh, I need to start sparring with Cesar or Ignacio or someone who might be a challenge, because the guards are nothing special. Mph, and that is what I call a work out.”
Ferox winced as the elf flipped into a back-bend while he watched, still putting his own weapon away. “Nathaniel is quick with a blade, but he prefers his bow.”
“Oh I enjoy sniping as much as the next fellow, but I have not been against an opponent who could actually fight in some time it seems like,” laces to vambraces were undone briskly so the sweaty cloth protectors underneath could be yanked off. “So I am out of practice in doing the rolling dodge where the blade slides off, rather than my usual tactics.”
Mildly, “I wanted you to come to the Vigil and regretted that I needed you to be here.”
A shrug was given as they walked into the baths, “It happens. I would have been there if circumstance allowed it. Times seem simpler when there is a foe that you can defend against with blade and boot rather than blackmail and bribery. Or piles and piles of paper. Ugh, the paper.”
“Careful, your arch-nemesis might give you a papercut,” Ferox teased. “And think of all the fun you’ll have bringing Nathaniel up to speed... Nate’s temper is very cold. That reminds me, I should like to see Fergus and if you discover that my paperwork is off, I’m certain you can smooth that over for me.”
“I can deal with cold tempers, I have survived Ferelden thus far,” glossing and waving it off. A satisfied moan as he slid into the water, “Ah, sweet relief. As always, you can rely upon me to smooth over anything you desire. A bit of paperwork is no trouble.”
Hot, hot, hot...oh that’s nice. “Although, if I waited until after Nate got up to speed, you could come with me to Highever, if you like. Or go elsewhere if you’d rather...”
A lolling head rolled his way, “I would rather good company wherever I go, so that does mean I am most likely to follow you rather than fumble around and try to find such on my lonesome. Besides you at least are civilized, as to what can be said for others nearby? Oh, wait. Len. Except he does still have the tendency of releasing excrement into his drawers and the conversations are more one-sided.”
Ferox pulled the braid out of his hair and dunked his head as if purging himself of the last of the perfume. “This reminds me,” coming back up for air, “I should show you a rock, or rather a rune-stone. A list of ingredients was provided. Add to that the hardest thing to obtain, one talented Tranquil, and apparently it will fund an enterprise, or so I have been told.”
Leaning back, brown eyes closed with a sigh, “Zevran, you didn’t say outright, but I have not been good company, not when we met, not during the Blight, and not in the years afterward. One night sharing childcare duties doesn’t change that I was wrong.”
A washcloth was tossed so it landed on his chest with a wet plop. “You had lost everything and been thrown into an untenable position. You did what you could, and that mattered. Just because you did not respond in words, did not mean you refrained from responding with action. How many chances did you have to tell me to cease and desist and did not? Or to shut me out and leave me hanging for the Crows. How a person deals with a wound and the healing process is different from person to person.” The water sloshed as the elf shifted with a sigh of his own. “You were as present as you could be. It was enough.”
Ferox’s eyes opened checking Zevran for sarcasm, “To this day, I want to throttle Alistair.” Snorting, “Well, not right now this moment, he’s not here. Talking. Endlessly. But it took time to realize that even though Alistair was older in years and experience as a Warden, that he too, had lost nearly everything that dark night at Ostagar.You yourself, Sten, Wynne, Morrigan, Liliana, Oghren, even Shale - we all were in that position of great loss and each of us dealt with it differently.”
“It is a wonder sometimes that I have, how a band of misfits and morose laggards managed to survive,” soap was vigorously scrubbed into dark skin, sandalwood and strange spices wafting over with the motion. “I was always taught that laughter was the best medicine, but it was a commodity lacking unless I wheedled and wheedled. Ooufh, you all were a hard bunch. Except Oghren, he, and if you repeat this ever I will be most put out, was actually consistently entertaining. A disgraced drunk and a killer whore were the only ones with senses of humour it seemed like sometimes.” A chuckle before Zevran lowered his voice, “‘By the soddin’ Ancestors where’s yer dress, girl? Yer knickers are in a twist! Don’t worry, I’ll get them out - in my tent! Hurr hurr hurr’. And no matter how many times the Chantry boy told Oghren I was male, it never did seem to sink in. Ahh, good times.”
“So you are saying that the amount the two of you tortured each other...?”
A hand locked with the opposite wrist and the assassin reclined, resting his wrist on his forehead. “Mmnhmm. On purpose. Wynne was a good laugh herself, except I do not think she grasped what I was truly seeking to do. Being serious and focused is all well and good, but to be so day in, day out, for years without relief is...unhealthy. Even you - of course your humour has been fairly caustic and pointed the time I have known you - were able to crack a joke time to time. Morrigan and Sten, oh that was some of the best. And here I thought the Qu’nari were incapable of humour. A hot poker to grab his attention in case he attempted to nuzzle. Oh, that was priceless, almost as much as the Witch’s expression.”
Ferox’s lips twitched. What had promised to be a completely uncomfortable conversation flowed naturally instead. Seriousness was present, a deep undercurrent beneath the usual rambling musings. He did not feel taken to task for his shortcomings, no matter that he did it on his own.
Beside him his associate let his body rise up, floating in the deep bath, held in place by the weight of his head on the edge. What had at first seemed like useless chatter took on a new light and weight. Zevran’s eyes were closed, what Ferox could see of his face serene. He wondered briefly how he always managed that, that constant rolling with the strikes, feeling them, but not internalizing them. It was obvious that Zevran felt things just as deeply as others, but relinquished the control of situations while still mastering them.
“Shall I gather Len up tonight?” broke the silence casually.
Pausing as he washed, Ferox nodded once and rumbled, “As you wish.” It was still a trap, but it would be one he intentionally stepped into. He had ‘acquired’ this valuable thing and he did not want it to fall by the wayside forgotten. His father would not have approved losing this thing and would have hit him upside the head sooner than Zevran had, before Ferox was ready, before the groundwork was laid. He vowed quietly that he would not relinquish it now that it was at hand.