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peopleofthedas2012-03-12 05:27 pm
A Red Promise: Chapters 2&3
Character Pairing: Fenris, Zevran
Rating: M for now
Summary: Sequel to Three Nights in Kirkwall. Fenris has remained with Hawke and the mage revolutionaries, but he can't forget a certain assassin he met in Kirkwall.
Many thanks to Zevgirl for taking the time to edit this!
At the age of fourteen, Zevran underwent what the Crows call Los Ensayos de Resistencia. Every apprentice endured this stage of their training; some survived intact, and some were carried away as broken shells. For the Guild, it was the final culling, the test that separated the wheat from the chaff. If he persevered, the apprentice would receive a Master and begin his journey into whatever specialization had been deemed suited to him. Very few apprentices reached this point before the age of seventeen, but the Masters had decided Zevran was a promising asset. Perhaps they had also hoped to break the defiant, brazen spirit that had inspired layer upon layer of stripes on Zevran’s tanned back.
During Los Ensayos, Zevran came to know pain as an entity with many faces and many touches. It could slice like a dagger, burn with a fierce flame, crush with relentless pressure, or puncture the skin like a myriad of needles. He refused to embrace it as some advised, secretly terrified that it would consume his soul if allowed. Instead, Zevran taught himself to separate it from his consciousness and face it as an enemy. When it attempted to strike him down, he would bare his teeth and laugh it into submission. When his tormentors pushed, he merely asked for more and screamed his defiance. By the end, he bore the scars but not the humility. Now, many years later, the most vile of those Masters who had unleashed agony upon him were dead, their last memory a savage grin of triumph and a flash of honey eyes.
The pain he felt now on waking was more of an echo: an ache in tendon, a sting in tissue, and a burn in his abdomen. He recognized the faint, warm tingle of the magic used to knit his wounds far sooner than nature would have dictated. With his eyes closed, he could still see the gaping jaws of the lead wolf and hear the howl of victory as he fell beneath the onslaught of the enraged pack. Not entirely a victory though, hmm? I took quite a few of your fellows down with me. Still, he had grown lax to have stumbled across so many predators without noticing the signs. My Masters would have taken such enjoyment to hear of Zevran Arainai succumbing to mere wolves.
He cracked his eyelids to see a rough canvas stretched above, firelight tossing shadows back and forth among the creases. A tent then. He shifted just a smidgeon, enough to assess his strength and determine if any bones were fractured. No breaks, but I am too weak to defend myself if need be. Remembering the feel of tearing teeth on his neck, he determined he had probably lost a significant amount of blood. A sliver of disquiet disturbed his thoughts; weakness meant vulnerability, a state he could not afford. His uneasiness increased when he heard a rustle of movement nearby.
“Drink.”
That voice. In spite of his frailty, perhaps even more so because of it, a shiver ran down his spine. There was another wolf here, one he had hunted for some time, but it seemed the prey had found the hunter first. And he could not deny that the thought of this wolf’s teeth on his exposed throat… well, it sent a thrill through him that had little to do with fear. In the next moment, a shadowy figure bent over him, head haloed in silver as firelight glinted off white strands of hair. Slim arms slid around his shoulders and hefted him into a more upright position as easily as if he were a sack of salt. Cold iron touched his dry lips, and he obeyed, wincing at the bitter taste of elfroot. He coughed, and the tankard was removed and his body gently lowered as if he were a child.
A chair scraped nearby and was drawn close to his cot. His neck ached to move, but Zevran turned it anyway to better see Fenris as the warrior sat with a grunt. Those eyes. Once, when he was still a fledgling assassin and awed by riches, he had been assigned to an Antivan prince, acting as his servant. The prince had a forgettable face, bland and set in a practiced grimace of boredom, but the jewel he wore about his neck caught even the most casual glance. The emerald had been cut in the shape of a teardrop and hung from a chain of gold. The color was the brilliance of green grass in spring, and it sparkled like the North Star on a clear winter night. He had never seen the like of that jewel until now, but the two orbs staring back him were filled with a life the emerald of his past had never known.
"You are as elusive as a halla in flight, mi querido." It hurt to talk. The tendons in his throat burned as they worked around the words, and it took a great deal of effort to remain focused. He could already feel his body slipping back into a healing sleep.
"Hawke is in flight. I merely follow." Fenris stretched out a finger to lightly touch the red string around Zevran's wrist. "You found the bottle I left."
"I keep my promises, whether they be for good or ill." He raised a shaky hand toward the string, but Fenris had already withdrawn his finger. Still skittish but here. Zevran allowed his eyes to drift closed with a slight curve of his lips. Perhaps he is as intrigued with me as I am with him? He could only hope.
"Rest now. I will remain here."
The words meant more than they would to most people. For an assassin, to be indisposed in a camp of strangers meant unacceptable vulnerability. Fenris's presence would provide the peace Zevran needed to sleep. He wished to express his gratitude, but exhaustion claimed him, pulling him deep into soothing darkness.
###
He dreamed. Cool air carried the taste of salt to his lips even as it dried the sweat on his naked skin. He stood upon a marble balcony that gleamed brightly in the midday sun, and twining vines of trumpet lilies permeated the humidity with their cloying scent. Uncaring of his nudity, he turned back the bedroom behind him, recognizing the lush opulence of a high-born lady's boudoir. He remembered this estate. Only two years ago, he had completed an expensive contract, which ended in the death of the unfortunate lady's husband. Undaunted, she had simply replaced her late sire’s place in bed with Zevran.
He left the heat of Antiva's summer and entered the shaded interior of the bedroom. His lady lay propped on one elbow watching him, her dusky skin contrasting sharply with the white sheets.
"Mi amor, why do you linger under the hot sun when you could be relaxing in here with me?" Her lips curled into a sultry smile, and she patted the bed beside her with a hand adorned with gold bracelets.
Just as he had those years ago, his dream-self paused to take in her beauty, but even as his eyes appreciated, his heart rebelled. Was this all there was for Zevran Arainai? A beautiful body to occupy his time and fulfill his needs until they grew tired of one another? And then to move on to the next seduction, another set of lips to taste? He turned back to the balcony and closed his eyes in sorrow.
When he reopened them and turned around, he was no longer in a lavish manor but in the tiny loft above the harbor that he called home. Before him lay his own bedroom, spartan and rarely used, but his bed was far from empty. Reclining against the iron headboard was a tall elf clad in black leather that only accentuated the white of his shaggy hair. His legs were crossed at the ankle, and his eyes burned with a heat that traveled straight to Zevran's groin.
"You are late."
"Then I owe you restitution, yes?" This was a dream, and perhaps that explained the lack of surprise at finding Fenris in his bed. Even so, a vision from beyond the Veil failed to justify the gladness and the sheer sense of rightness at seeing the elf in his home.
When Fenris rose from the bed in a single fluid movement, Zevran went limp and allowed himself to be pressed roughly against the wall, delighting in the mouth that claimed his with a passion far surpassing anything experienced within the frigid beds of Antiva's villas. He moaned, but the soft heat beneath his lips faded to the nothingness of air. Zevran reached out a desperate hand in an effort to hold on to Fenris, but the warrior's lithe body dissipated into the mist, leaving Zevran cold and empty.
###
When he awoke, it wasn't Fenris sitting at his side. Straw-colored, braided hair framed high cheekbones and a strong, blunt jaw. The blue eyes were underscored with muted bruises displaying the lack of sleep, but they were as mesmerizing in their shrewdness as they had been when he had first seen them in Sundermount’s cave.
“Serah Hawke.” He winced at the unfamiliar rasp that accompanied his words instead of his usual fluid tenor.
“Zevran.” She sighed and drew a damp cloth across his sweaty brow. “Do you always make such dramatic entrances?”
“I do like to make an impression, but usually it involves less blood and pain.”
“You’re lucky you’re even alive. If the wolves hadn’t already incapacitated you, my men might have killed you instead to protect our location.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you here, Zevran?”
“Just happened to be in the area, my dear lady.” He offered his most charming smile, even though he knew she wouldn’t be swayed by anything he had to give.
“A rather isolated area to wander through, don’t you think?” She crossed her arms across her chest, an unnecessary gesture from an already formidable woman. “The truth, Zevran. I value your friendship, but my people come first.”
The truth is not mine to give. “My lady, I have nothing to offer except my word, but I am not here to harm your cause or to bring information to your pursuers. I cannot give you the truth just yet, but I swear to you on the love I once bore for my Warden, I will not betray your people. Perhaps I may even be of help?”
She cocked her head and regarded him thoughtfully. “You wish to join us?”
“For a time. If you wish me to leave, however, I will do so.”
A burst of sunshine interrupted their conversation, and a tall, lanky mage entered the tent, carrying a covered iron pot. Muttering under his breath, he tied the entrance flap of the tent back with a leather thong, letting in a fresh breeze that smelled of green. Zevran breathed deeply, grateful for the relief from smoke and stale body odor.
“Good. Is he finally awake?” The other mage stooped over Zevran and placed a broad hand over his chest. A brief, blue glow emanated from between slender fingers as he made his own assessment.
“He wants to join us, Anders,” said Hawke. “You know more about him than I do. Can he be trusted?”
“I only know what the Warden Commander told me, and she trusted him with her life, so I suppose he has some sense of honor. For an assassin.” He pulled his hand away from Zevran and laid his palm over the elf’s forehead. “How do you feel?”
“Weak as a babe and hungry as a Warden. Thank you for your… kind words.” Zevran grinned, not in the least offended.
Anders chuckled. “No problem. You’re going to need to rest here for a few days. You lost a lot of blood, and I can’t heal that.”
“I owe you both a debt of gratitude for rescuing me, and I promise to cause you no trouble.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Hawke. “Just know that I’ll be keeping an eye on you until I discover the real reason you’re here.” She left without a backward glance.
“A charming woman.” Zevran raised his eyebrows at the billow of her retreating robes.
“She’s got a lot on her shoulders right now,” said Anders, uncovering the pot he had brought with him. “Are you able to sit up and eat?”
Zevran pushed himself upright, grimacing at the lingering pain in his abdominal muscles and neck. “I am truly grateful for your assistance, mi amigo,” he said softly.
“I know, Zevran.” Anders poured the thick, meaty broth into a bowl and handed it to the elf. “You won’t tell us why you’re here?”
“I cannot. It would betray another’s trust.”
“Very well, but while you’re here, you cooperate with our orders. Which means you stay in bed until I tell you it is okay to get up.”
“May I at least get a bath?” Zevran made a disgusted face while waving a hand over his body. “I have always had a preference for cleanliness, and not even fresh air can wash away the odor of the sick.”
“I’ll ask Fenris to help you. Marian had to force him to leave you and get some sleep, you know. Broody bastard wouldn’t leave your side.”
“Indeed?” Zevran hid his delight behind a spoonful of soup.
“He probably doesn’t trust you.” Anders stood and pressed his hands to his lower back, stretching to relieve the stiffness. “Don’t worry about it. He’s always like that. He’ll relax more after you’ve been here awhile.” He bent and picked up the pot from the ground. “I’ll be back later with some elfroot potion for you to drink. Eat that soup and get some rest.” He left, his shadow briefly obliterating the warm sunlight as he stooped beneath the flap.
Zevran finished the soup and set the empty bowl beside his bed. Exhaustion was already pulling him back toward slumber, and he welcomed it with the knowledge that he was safe enough to rest easily without fear of attack. His last thought was of Fenris, refusing to leave the tent, and he smiled as the Fade drew him into its hazy world.
“So, Blondie… does the Guide to Revolutions say rebel leaders must go without sleep and food?” Anders looked up from the rock on which he was sitting, rubbing the sore tendons in the back of his neck. Varric plopped on a stump nearby and withdrew a pouch from his belt. Quirking an eyebrow at Anders, he tossed him an apple and then produced another for himself. Anders gave him a rueful grin and took a bite from the fruit, closing his eyes in delight at the tart, refreshing taste. “No, but if they warned people about the dubious perks that come with being a revolutionary, there would never be any change in the world. You won’t exactly find a line of do-gooders waiting to live in dirty camps while fleeing a sizable bounty on their heads.” Varric polished his apple on a tattered corner of his jacket. “I haven’t heard what the bounty is on you and Hawke lately. Wasn't it fifty sovereigns?” “Seventy-five,” replied Anders, licking juice from his fingertips. “Jealous that yours isn’t as much?” “Nah. I’m just a bystander recording history as it unfolds right before my eyes. Someday, I’m going to earn a fortune writing about your revolution.” Varric saluted Anders with his apple and took a voracious bite. “I’ll call it The Champion and Her Mage: A Love Story of Two Apostates.” “Better call it The Abomination and His Flock.” Anders tensed at the new voice coming from behind him. He was used to the wry disdain that corrupted Fenris’s pleasing bass, but the sound of it still made his fingers itch to place a silence spell on the antagonistic elf. “I guess that makes you one of my sheep,” he replied, refusing to give Fenris the satisfaction of turning around. “Hmmph.” Anders scrutinized the apple in his hand as tightly-clad legs and tanned bare feet came to stand between Varric and himself. Why does he always have to wear those damn clingy leggings? It’s not like they offer much protection. Just a very… delectable… view. Anders quickly sank his teeth into the fruit before his mind could wander into dangerous territory. “The assassin… is he healing well?” Huh? He covered his surprise with a cough and peered up at Fenris. The elf was brushing at his armor as if it had suddenly acquired a blanket of dust. Now why is he so interested? “He is doing much better, but he’s still too weak to be up and about. In fact, since you’re so bent on watching over him, I was hoping you would help him get a bath. He’s quite particular about cleanliness, apparently.” Anders squinted, trying to assess Fenris’s expression, but he might as well have been examining a statue. Fenris was irritatingly difficult to read. “I assume you still want to keep an eye on Zevran?” “Yes.” Fenris finished slapping at imaginary dirt and rolled his shoulders until they popped. “I will go assist him then.” He stalked off toward the supply tent with the same deliberate, measured steps he used in approaching everything. Always careful and calculating every move. But he probably had to when he was a slave. “Well now, that was rather astonishing,” said Varric, staring at Fenris’s rigid back. “Since when is Broody so eager to be a watchdog?” “No idea, but Zevran will have him fleeing soon enough. I can’t see Fenris tolerating Zevran’s notorious flirtations. We may go in there later to find the poor assassin dead and missing a heart.” “And the story grows more interesting by the minute,” said Varric. He winked at Anders and bit into his apple with a happy sigh. Zevran was still asleep when Fenris entered the tent, carrying a large metal tub that dwarfed his thin stature. He tried to be silent, but the assassin heard the minute thump of the tub settling into the dirt and turned his head toward Fenris far too quickly for his recently torn throat. Zevran closed his eyes as he swallowed a hiss of pain, and when he reopened them, Fenris was standing over him with a furrowed brow. "I did not mean to startle you. I was told you required assistance to bathe?" "No need for apology, mi querido." Zevran touched his neck with a hesitant forefinger, searching for a scar that wasn’t present. "It has been long since I have been able to sleep without heed to my safety, and I tend to jump at the least bit of noise." His eyes brightened at the sight of the tub. "I do so despise the feeling of grit, dried blood, and old sweat. Thank you for bringing this to me." "There is water boiling over the fire. I thought you might prefer yours to be warm." "You are most kind, and yes, a hot bath would be most welcome. As is your presence.” Fenris turned back to the tub, but not before Zevran caught the subtle flush across high cheekbones. It was a mark of Fenris’s past, his capability of hiding his emotions so thoroughly, but Zevran was adept at reading body language. Fenris was probably unaware of just how much he communicated through even the smallest movement: the clench of a fist, the hunch of his shoulders, the set in his jaw, the miniscule quirk at the corner of his mouth. It was a challenge to decipher, but Zevran had never walked away from a challenge. Fenris retrieved an iron pail from inside the tub and began the arduous task of bringing in hot water from the fire outside. It took some time, and Zevran fell back into a half-doze, watching the other elf through shuttered eyes that took in every play of muscle as Fenris tirelessly poured the water into the tub. So strong for someone so slim in stature. Does the lyrium enhance his strength? There was so much he wished to discover about this exotic elf, but patience would be his guide. Fenris had been broken once, and deep wounds did not heal cleanly. When Zevran tried to rise on his own, he realized the full extent of his weakness. By the time he had pulled himself upright on the edge of the bed, his arms were quivering from the effort, and the room was spinning slowly from the sudden movement. He wasn’t even aware that he was swaying until he felt a sturdy hand on his shoulder. “Do not move until you get your bearings.” Zevran nodded and leaned into the strength behind Fenris’s grip. An irrational laugh bubbled within his chest, but he pushed it back down firmly. Here he was, musing over Fenris’s secrets while his own were blatantly on display. There was little that caused Zevran shame and even less that he feared, but frailty was foremost of these. To be weak was to be vulnerable, and vulnerability meant failure and certain death in his world. He never allowed others to see him as anything but strong, yet here he had no choice. “I am afraid, mi querido, that I cannot hope to reach the bath on my own. I do not wish to impose on you, but would you be able to assist me?” Immediately, a strong arm circled his waist and pulled him gently to his feet. Zevran wobbled and leaned into Fenris, distracting himself from lost pride by focusing on the feel of Fenris's hand gripping his hip. Strong... so strong. They moved in tandem toward the tub where Zevran paused, suddenly uncertain how to proceed. "I must remove my pants and smallclothes, my friend. It matters little to me, but I do not wish to offend you." He risked a glance up, meeting Fenris's gaze to convey his honesty. Fenris hesitated only briefly and then nodded. "You will not offend me. Lean against me and take them off." It took mere seconds to loosen the laces and drop the trousers. He had lost weight over the past few days, and he could feel it in easy slip of fabric over his slim hips. After stepping out of his smallclothes, he moved carefully into the tub and lowered himself into the steaming water with Fenris's support. The other elf was averting his gaze as much as possible, but the amount of effort it took amused Zevran. He is taking great pains to hide his attraction. Now why is that? Hot baths were rare outside of cities, and Zevran slouched into the water with a pleased smile. "Mi querido, you have given me the best gift possible. I am eternally grateful for your thoughtfulness." Fenris was still standing by the tub, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "What does mi querido mean?" Zevran smiled then and closed his eyes in careful thought. No lies. "In my country, it is a term of endearment. Much the same as 'my darling'." Zevran opened his eyes to meet Fenris's surprised stare. "You are already a friend, but when you are ready, I would like to take our friendship further. I was hoping, from our time in Fenris crouched and sat cross-legged next to the tub on an eye-level with Zevran. Tentatively, he reached out and stroked the red string around Zevran’s wrist in a lingering caress. “I was not… certain you would come.” “I could not forget your kiss, mi querido. Or your company.” Fenris bowed his head and ran his fingers harshly through his hair. “I do not know how to do this. My only thoughts have been to seek my freedom. My only skill is to fight. I would not have any idea how to proceed in… this… with you.” He let out a huff of frustration. “I do not even have the words.” “Words are welcome but unnecessary. I ask for nothing except what you wish to give, and I will give nothing you do not wish to receive. I will not ask for trust for I have not earned it. If you do not return my interest, then I will go and leave you in peace.” Green eyes flew swiftly to Zevran’s face. “I do not want you to go.” “Then I shall stay awhile, and we shall get to know each other better, yes?” “Yes.” Fenris relaxed in relief, his shoulders pulling back slightly, and the frustrated tenseness in his face softened into what almost could have been called a smile. He stood and began tidying up the tent, changing out the bedrolls and bringing in food to place on the small table in the far corner. Zevran closed his eyes and drifted into a light doze, letting the warmth of the water draw the ache from his muscles. As much as he despised his frailty, it did give him the opportunity to spend time with Fenris. His attraction to the other elf had grown beyond mere physical yearning, although he assuredly longed to undress the delicious warrior and smooth his hands over fevered, responsive skin. It was Fenris’s strength of mind that drew him, however, the defiance against what his master had attempted to mold. “Do you require my help to bathe?” Fenris had returned to the tub and was holding out a bar of lye and a clean rag. “I believe I can manage,” Zevran replied. He lathered the cloth generously and began to wash the dried blood and sweat from his skin. Fenris disappeared behind him and at first, Zevran thought he had left, but then strong, blunt fingers were moving into his hair. Zevran could smell a pleasant herbal scent from the shampoo Fenris was using. “You are full of surprises, my friend. Scented shampoo in a camp?” “I found it among Hawke’s supplies in the corner. This was her tent, but she’s given it to you for now.” “I shall have to thank her for giving up her home for me.” Zevran hummed appreciatively as Fenris massaged his scalp with deep, circular strokes. When finished, he leaned his head back dutifully as Fenris poured warm water through Zevran’s long, blond locks, leaving them shining like amber. Fenris removed the soap and rag, leaving Zevran to lean his head on the rim of the tub while sinking blissfully back into the warmth. A few moments later, he was back with a comb and began patiently working the teeth through the tangles of Zevran’s hair. “I was not aware you had a domestic side,” Zevran murmured softly. “I was sometimes ordered to attend to my master’s apprentice. She often bade me to bathe and comb her hair when she was in the mood for… company.” Zevran heard an angry grinding of teeth. “She had maidservants, but she liked to remind me that I could be used for personal service as well as acting as bodyguard.” “I apologize for stirring up bad memories, mi querido.” “Many of my memories, what are left of them, are bad. I will make new ones.” Fenris set aside the comb and ran his fingers lightly through the wet strands of Zevran’s hair. “I do not mind doing your hair.” Zevran twisted his neck, hoping to catch Fenris’s gaze, but the other elf was already standing and walking over to the bedrolls to retrieve a towel. He returned to the bath and offered Zevran his hand. “Are you finished?” “Sì.” Zevran pulled himself upright with Fenris’s aid and took the towel, watching Fenris out of the corner of his eyes as he dried off. Fenris stood close for Zevran to hold on to for support but kept his eyes politely averted. His body spoke a different story, and Zevran noted the subtle signs he had hoped to see: the faint blush warming Fenris’s face, the restless twitch in fingers, the slight widening of Fenris’s stance that provided more room between his long legs. Even despite his condition, it took a great deal of effort for Zevran to keep his distance. Every nerve in his skin was screaming for contact, for the delicious warmth of another body pressed against his own. Fenris had laid out clean clothes on the fresh bedroll, and Zevran pulled them on slowly, relishing the softness of the linen against his skin. One did occasionally grow weary of leather; even the most supple armor eventually chafed the skin. “I hope they are not too long,” said Fenris. “They are some extra clothes I brought with me.” “They will serve quite well,” replied Zevran with a smile. He didn’t mind being shorter than Fenris, and he actually tended to gravitate toward taller men. Fenris sat on the other bedroll next to Zevran and handed him a bowl of stew. The assassin hadn’t even realized how hungry he was until the aroma of meat and vegetables hit his nose. They ate together in companionable silence, and by the time he had finished, sleep was once again calling. Fenris set aside their bowls and reached for a flask containing familiar red-tinged liquid. “The mage wished you to drink more potion to restore your strength.” Zevran grimaced but obediently downed the container in one gulp. “Ah, the pungent taste of elfroot. Not the taste I prefer to have linger on my tongue when I slip into the Fade, but it will do for now.” He lifted a suggestive eyebrow at his companion and was pleased when Fenris's lips quirked with amusement. Progress! Exhaustion settled over him like a cloak, but he felt much better with clean skin and a full stomach. He laid back in the bedroll and drifted for a short time, watching Fenris clean up from the bath and dinner. Before Fenris had begun to strip for bed, the Fade had claimed Zevran, stealing away his intent to see the warrior unclothed. Sleep eluded Fenris, kept at bay by a storm of thoughts. He lay on his side watching Zevran sleep, the easy rise and fall of the assassin’s chest. The tunic he wore was too large and the neckline fell off one shoulder, baring smooth, sun-kissed skin with just the tip of a curled tattoo visible above the cloth. He had seen much more of that tattoo earlier when Zevran was bathing, along with a great deal else. He wasn’t sure how to feel about being attracted to a man. Danarius and Hadriana had used him when they wished, and he had despised both. Even when they had forced him to orgasm, he had taken no joy in those encounters, only shame and disgust. He had no memories of sex before them, so was unaware of what his previous preference might have been. Zevran was the first person other than Hawke to capture his interest, and he couldn’t deny that his attraction for Zevran was strong. His eyes dropped to the string Zevran still wore upon his wrist. He came back for me. Was he ready for what that meant? Carefully, he scooted over until he was curled around Zevran and reached out one arm tentatively to rest it over the assassin’s waist. Zevran stirred, shifting sleepily toward Fenris’s warmth before sinking back into sleep. As the moon began it downward path to the horizon, Fenris finally slid into dreams, burying his head and his confusion into the muscled, bare shoulder beside him.
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I can see the similarities you are drawing out in them. The defiance, the unbreakable core, the secret self. It's fascinating.
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Don't put yourself down, hun. You write far better than you think you do.
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