Bonds of Brotherhood - Chapter 17

[msbarrows]

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Title: Bonds of Brotherhood - Chapter 17 (Control)
Characters: Zevran, Taliesin
Rating: M
Word Count: 1,183
Summary: Zevran considers choices and control

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Something was different, Zevran found himself thinking, as he twisted and moaned under Taliesin. Perhaps just that he was thinking, was capable of it even in the aftermath of a kill. Capable of considering more than just want and desire and lust. That was certainly something different. He still felt those things, but it was not an overwhelming need to fulfil them; he chose to do so, chose to be here, with Taliesin, crying out under him.

He could equally well have chosen not to be. And that was different, too. He wondered what the change was caused by. Merely because he'd already been so thoroughly sated before the kill? Or had there been some other change, some change in himself that he wasn't aware of, that had crept in over time?

He didn't know. And didn't, ultimately, care, as long as Taliesin kept doing what he was doing, driving hard into Zevran again and again, teeth closing with near-bruising pressure on the curve of the elf's shoulder, strong hands holding him down. He cried out and struggled – but not too hard – wanting that heady mix of pain and pleasure, knowing he'd be sore and bruised tomorrow and wanting that, too, enjoying the urgency of their rutting, the raw passion of it, not muted by any gentleness.

Afterwards he lay awake a long time, listening to Taliesin's steady breathing as the man napped briefly, as he sometimes did. He pretended to be asleep when Taliesin woke, and rose, then dressed and left, as he always did. Not one for spending the night, or for cuddling. Just sex, raw and hard, and then he was gone.

After he'd left, Zevran sighed, and rolled over in bed, watching the window nearby. Wondering, as he sometimes – rarely – let himself do, over the nature of the relationship he had with his partner. It was not love; he was not fool enough to think it was anything related to that tender emotion. Nor was it just lust; that they could easily slake with others, if that had been all that there was between them.

Control, maybe. Taliesin's need to control him; his desire to be controlled? As his master had controlled his life, for so many years, for almost all the years of his life that he could remember. Thinking about it, he'd never truly been in control of his own life. Of his own decisions. He'd done what he was told to, what he was expected to, what he was required to, always. Except once, he corrected the thought. The one time he'd made a choice of his own, while not in his right mind, and left.

He remembered, melancholy with brief longing, his time among the Dalish. The kindness of Kariel. And his choice, once he was returned to himself again, to return to Master Edelbach. He couldn't decide if that had truly been a choice, or had been as much a necessity for him, as much a response to the requirements of others, as everything else in his life had been.

Perhaps the staying was itself a choice. Here he was, after all, alone, unwatched, in an inn not far from the docks. Ships would be setting sail in a few hours, on the morning tide. If he wished to, how hard would it be to stand, to dress, to walk out of this room and onto a ship – either openly paying for passage, or stowing away – and just... leave. Go elsewhere. Abandon everything and start somewhere else.

Except, he knew, it would not be that easy. The Crows were everywhere, at least small covens of them in each country, and a Crow who fled was open game for all of them. A Crow who fled would be hunted down, and killed, because a Crow could not be allowed to exist who was not, in some degree, under the control of the masters. No. If he fled, he would be dead in a very short time, and likely in a very ugly way, as a lesson to others.

The closest a Crow might come to freedom was to become a master themselves, one of the ones who made decisions and ruled over others, rather than being ruled over themselves, or one of the rare greats who stood alone, a master Crow working in solitude. But even they answered to others – other masters, the grandmaster Crow of whatever country they were in, and the ruling council that oversaw the Crows as a whole wherever they might be.

And, he knew, he had little interest in such a position. Oh, if his skill made him a master Crow some day, he would not refuse the honour. But he would not work for it nor manoeuvre for it, not politic for it as some did. Taliesin dreamed of such a thing, he knew – to be a master among masters, one of the ones giving orders to many. Zevran cared only that he have his few comforts, his little freedoms, and good jobs to do, with interesting targets to hunt and kill. That was all he really cared for – the kill. The moment when someone's life danced on the end of his blade, the fluttering beats of their heart transmitted through the dagger to his hand, or the horror in their eyes as their life's blood sheeted down their front from a slashed throat. The visceral feel of it, the power, in ending another's life. Oh, he knew all the poisons and traps and tricks, so many other methods as well, with arrows or bolts or darts, or bludgeons, or garrottes; but him, and a sharp blade, and someone's life ending – that was always the best.

He rose, eventually, and cleaned himself up as best he could with the half-pitcher of water on the washstand, hissing softly at the pain of abraded flesh. He took the precaution of dabbing some elfroot poultice on the worst spots; it would not do to take an infection because he had neglected to care properly for himself. That done, he dressed, in the change of clothes Taliesin had brought for him. A fairly plain set of clothing, but then Taliesin had very plain tastes, at least in things outside of bed. They were at least clean, dry, and comfortable. And he could always go home and change into something flashier, if he wished. Or go shopping, an activity he usually enjoyed.

He stretched out on the bed, and waited for dawn. And wondered what Isabela had thought, when she eventually woke – as she must have, by now – and found her husband dead, and her cuff removed. He grinned, and mentally wished her luck in her new life, however it proved to turn out.