peopleofthedas | A Red Promise: Chapter 8

Title: A Red Promise
Characters: Zevran, Fenris
Rating: Explicit
Summary: Sequel to Three Nights in Kirkwall. Fenris has remained with Hawke and the mage revolutionaries, but he hasn't forgotten a certain ex-Crow he met in Kirkwall.

It's been a long time, but I'm writing again! If you wish to read the rest of this story, go here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7799478/1/A-Red-Promise. Also be sure to check out Dragonreine's lovely portrait of Zevran and Fenris here: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/A-Red-Promise-315543720.

Many fervent thanks to Zevgirl, who continues to give me awesome advice and correct my mistakes!

The murmur of voices woke Zevran from a dreamless sleep, the flicker of shadows on the canvas wall of the tent indicating dawn had not yet arrived. Hot skin pressed against his back, and soft breaths tickled the nape of his neck. He smiled, placing his hand over the calloused one resting on his hip. A low grunt accompanied the sensual brush of hair on his neck as Fenris moved closer, nuzzling Zevran's shoulder, and slinging a leg over his thigh. Unsure if Fenris was awake, Zevran traced his fingertips lightly over Fenris's knuckles, teasing the sensitive space between the fingers.

The blankets shifted behind him as Fenris nudged closer, bringing a persistent hardness in contact with Zevran's thigh. They had both slept nude for the first time, Fenris now more comfortable with his sexuality. Zevran was going to make a point of never going to bed clothed again with Fenris because, really, waking up like this was superb. Not to mention the fact his ass felt deliciously sore and used in a way he had not experienced in far too long.

Fenris's cock pressed harder, and Zevran reached for the vial still lying near the bedroll. Pouring some into his palm, he reached between his legs, leisurely oiling the inside of both thighs. Fenris's breathing quickened, his tongue caressing Zevran's neck. Stretching his slick hand back, Zevran grasped the lovely cock inching into his crease and guided it between his thighs, squeezing his legs together to enclose it.

Fenris began to roll his hips slowly, and Zevran released a sigh of pleasure. Such a glorious sensation: Fenris's erection sliding wetly back and forth, grazing Zevran's sac with each thrust. He allowed a moan to escape as teeth bit into his shoulder, followed by the rough slide of tongue.

"Yes . . . gods, yes."

Fenris's fingers tightened, gripping Zevran's hip with a bruising force, increasing the pace, tongue swirling relentlessly around the delicate ridges of Zevran's spine. Needing to ground himself, Zevran reached back, twisting slightly to bury his fingers in Fenris's hair. A gentle tug elicited a gasp, and Fenris buried his face against Zevran's back.

"Venhedis."

Fenris rose to his elbows and rolled over Zevran, bracing one hand on either side of his lover and pushing Zevran halfway to his stomach. Having gained more leverage, he began to thrust in earnest, driving between Zevran's oiled thighs while lowering his head and nipping at the smooth skin where Zevran's shoulder joined his neck. The assassin moaned and squeezed his legs to increase the pressure, reaching desperately for his own engorged cock trapped beneath him.

The small tent filled with sounds of panting, quickly escalating into harsh cries as first one and then the other found his release. Slick come bathed Zevran's balls and thighs, with more wetting his stomach, but he reveled in the sensation, even going as far to dip his fingers between his legs to bring the taste of his lover to his lips. Fenris rolled Zevran to his back and lowered his tongue to Zevran's abdomen, likewise exploring Zevran's juices. Zevran laughed as the flicking tongue tickled his skin.

"Breakfast, amor?"

"Mmm." Fenris raised sleepy, sated eyes to Zevran's gaze, and the assassin grinned at the mischief there.

"I suspect if we don't soon rise, there will be no breakfast left, unfortunately," said Zevran. Fenris dipped his head to take a last lick before standing and stretching lazily. Gods, but he was a sight: skin flushed, hair mussed, glistening cock only beginning to soften. Zevran wished fervently they were miles away from here, ensconced in a cozy inn with an entire day to explore each other's bodies.

They cleaned themselves off hastily and donned their armor. Fenris insisted on helping Zevran braid his hair, and Zevran relaxed into the skilled fingers, enjoying the easy familiarity of Fenris's touch. Before leaving the tent, he drew Fenris into a prolonged kiss, certain Fenris would shy away from him as soon as they joined the others.

So it was with barely hidden shock that he regarded Fenris when the warrior joined him by the fire with two bowls of grits, one of which he handed to Zevran. He had expected Fenris to continue hiding their relationship, but Fenris sat nonchalantly beside him, shoulder to shoulder, digging hungrily into his bowl. In his delight, Zevran didn't even notice the distasteful cold clumps of his cereal.

After a moment, he realized the campfire had grown oddly silent. Glancing up, he discovered he and Fenris had somehow managed to attract the attention of every person sitting around the circle. Varric was regarding them with lifted eyebrows while Isabela made no attempt to hide her smirk. Hawke shifted her eyes back and forth between Zevran and Fenris, looking both curious and pleased. Anders tightened his lips as if he might burst out laughing at any second.

Fenris finally raised his head and returned their stares with equanimity.

"What?" He raised an eyebrow, assuming an expression of complete innocence.

"Honey," replied Isabela, "if you and Zevran had generated any more heat this morning, we wouldn't have needed a fire to cook this slop." She grinned widely, giving Fenris a saucy wink.

Zevran stiffened, afraid that Fenris would once again flee. He need not have worried.

"Indeed?" Fenris returned her smile with a level gaze. "I would advise you keep your distance from our tent then, unless you wish what little clothing you wear to be singed in the flames."

Varric hooted, slapping his knees. "He's got you there, Rivaini."

Isabela's lips curled into a provocative leer. "If you and Zevran allow me to watch, I will shred my clothes myself."

Fenris did not even blink. "If you even try, your heart will pulse its last beat in my fist."

The entire group erupted in laughter, which Fenris completely ignored, returning his concentration to the grits. Grinning like a maniac, Zevran rested his chin on his lover's shoulder.

"You, mi querido, are simply amazing in more ways than I can count," he whispered.

Fenris turned to look at him, green eyes glittering with seriousness. "You are mine. I will no longer hide this."

Zevran gave him a long, measured look before deliberately leaning forward, engaging Fenris in a heated kiss. When they broke apart breathlessly, ignoring the catcalls and whistles, Zevran whispered, "I love when you are so possessive."

He was rewarded with a wolfish smile. "Then you won't mind wearing my mark for all to see." At Zevran's confused expression, Fenris touched a vivid bruise on Zevran's neck. Zevran ran his fingertips over the mark lovingly.

"Not at all, mi amor. Not at all." He went back to eating with renewed fervor, reflecting that life had been entirely too good to him lately.

###

The city of Ansburg nestled within the confluence of two Minanter River tributaries. Surrounded on three sides by water, the city could only be approached by two routes: from the north road winding through the highland plains of the city-state, or across the massive stone bridge traversing the western river. The vast grasslands stretching north of Ansburg sloped gradually down to the Green Dales and were dotted with villages functioning more like plantations. Grain was Ansburg's primary export, and the wide expanse of fields provided the perfect soil for crops.

If giant statues of suffering slaves gave Kirkwall its notoriety, then huge, ponderous water wheels were the signature of Ansburg. Large mills lined the east and west boundaries of the city. Grain from the plantations were brought to the city, processed at the mills, and then shipped down the Minanter to other city-states and Orlais. All day and night, the tall water wheels turned in endless loops of productivity, the heavy creaking of damp wood groaning a timeless melody, largely ignored by residents and bitterly cursed by visitors trying to sleep.

Ansburg had barely survived the Second Blight and was totally destroyed during the Third. When the Grey Wardens of Orlais and Tevinter succeeded in pushing back the darkspawn, the horde swept through the Minanter Valley, ravaging most of the Free Marches and forcing survivors to flee to Antiva or Ferelden. The Wardens ignored the plight of the Marchers, focusing on their own countries, and to this day, the eastern city-states of the Marches, having received the least amount of aid, hold a great antipathy toward Orlais and Tevinter.

Before the Third Blight, the Margreave lived in a small keep located near the southern river gate of Ansburg. The Lord Margreave Dennison Garhalt ruled the city at the time of the Third Blight. When the darkspawn descended upon Ansburg, he led the city guard in a short-lived battle against the horde while his people fled to safety. He died a hero, and a statue of the esteemed gentleman now dominates the front courtyard of Ansburg's new fortress.

Dennison Garhalt's son, Pherron, escaped with his fellow Marchers and stayed in Antiva until the defeat of the Archdemon. The son lacked the wisdom and charisma of his father, and upon his return to the remains of Ansburg, proceeded to alienate his people by focusing on his own needs rather than theirs. The old keep had suffered only minor damage compared to the rest of the city, but Pherron declared it unfit for a Margreave and immediately funneled Ansburg's meager resources into building a new castle at the north gate. Pherron gained no popularity during his selfish rule and was assassinated ten years after returning to his city. The new Margreave decided to stay in the new keep and gifted the old one to the Chantry. By the time of the Fourth Blight, the building had been designated the home of the Circle.

###

It was Zevran who suggested that the old keep, as did many residences of rulers, likely contained secret passages used for escape or private rendezvous. The parchment Marian had obtained demonstrated none, but the sketch was only a hundred years old. Upon reaching Ansburg, Hawke sent Isabela and Varric in search of blueprints made during the time of the Third Blight or earlier. The mages and Dalish remained camped in the Evenlist while Isabela and Varric crossed the river and entered the city. They returned after four days, Varric triumphant and Isabela sour-faced.

"I still don't see how you obtained the parchment before me," she complained as they entered Hawke's tent. "I nearly had those librarians licking the palms of my hands!" She narrowed her eyes at the dwarf, who laid the roll of paper on Hawke's rickety, wooden table with a flourish. Marian, Anders, Fenris, Merrill, Berendil, and Zevran crowded around eagerly.

Varric crossed his arms and shot a smirk at Isabela. "A real entrepreneur knows how to get what he wants, Rivaini. I didn't even have to flirt to snag it." He reached behind his shoulder to caress his crossbow. "No worries, Bianca, my dear. I've always been faithful."

Isabela rolled her eyes and bit back a retort as Marian raised her hand.

"Enough, you two. Varric, what did you learn?"

Varric unrolled the parchment carefully. Cracks bisected ink lines faded with time.

"The old keep is much smaller than Kirkwall's and made of the same white stone. It lacks strong defenses. Battlements over the main gate are flanked by two lookout towers, and that's about it. Since there's no other entrances, I guess they figured only the front of the keep needed protection. Other than the Blights, they haven't faced many attacks in Ansburg."

He gestured to various parts of the blueprint while continuing. "The building is two stories, shaped like a cross with a tower at each corner. The front towers are tall with arrow loops. The back drum towers contain spiral stairs. The entire structure is composed of one wall, except the drum towers which are concentric double barriers. Weird, huh?"

"Most keeps are entirely double walled to prevent tunneling," said Fenris.

"Exactly," said Varric. "I'm guessing they found it difficult to obtain stone in this area, so cut their costs by using only one wall. Except those back towers. . . ."

". . . .which provide a perfect location to place secret passages," finished Zevran.

Varric snapped his fingers in agreement. "You said it." He pointed to a large rectangle behind the drawing of the keep. "This building was used as the servants' and soldiers' quarters, but now it's the barracks for the Templars and mages. There's one passage that runs underground from the barracks to the pantry in the back of the first floor of the keep, but it's pretty useless to us. We'd have to move through the kitchen to the stairs, then up to the second floor, which is heavily guarded, of course. That's where they're imprisoning the mages now."

"I thought they were being held in dungeon cells," said Anders.

"Nah," replied Varric. "I think part of the story we've heard is exaggerated. They may as well be in a dungeon though. They're currently chained to each other and forced to sit against the walls of the central second floor room. The templars won't even allow them to stand except during privy breaks. Once a week, they get stripped down, taken outside, regardless of the weather, and the Templars douse them with water to wash away the grime."

Anders clenched his fists and bent over the table, eyes tightly shut and jaw held rigid. Except for Zevran, everyone in the tent tensed, Marian laying a hand on Anders' arm anxiously. She shot Fenris a glare as he reached for his sword, shaking her head in warning. Abruptly, Anders straightened and reopened his eyes, relaxing. Glancing around at their stares, he crossed his arms defensively.

"I'm fine!"

Zevran saw Fenris loosen his stance, but the tall elf kept a wary eye on Anders. Now what was that about, I wonder?

Marian shifted her gaze back to Varric. "So if we can't use the secret passage you mentioned, what do you suggest?"

"Ah, but I haven't finished explaining yet," said Varric, holding up a finger. "You see, there's another passage. The Templars know about the first, but they don't know about the second."

"If these tunnels are so secret, exactly how did you find out about them?" Isabela asked, hands on hips.

"Well, Rivaini, while you were propositioning librarians, I was bribing servants. It just so happens one of the steward's family has served the Margreave for hundreds of years. He knows of a second passage running from the old second floor bedroom of the Margreave to an entrance within a thicket near the very river we crossed to Ansburg."

"An escape route," volunteered Fenris.

"And the parchment? How did you get that?" asked Isabela.

"Did I forget to mention this servant has access to the keep's library?" Varric leered at Isabela. "Really now, my dear, no one unearths secrets like I do."

"But how did you get the servant to give you all this information?" said Hawke. "Surely, they are loyal to the Templars."

"It was quite easy. The servant's son is one of the mages being held captive."

"Ah." Marian looked back to the drawing. "So basically, we attack, and while we attack, Fenris, Zevran, and Isabela sneak in and free the mages. Quite simple." She grinned at them.

"Maybe to you," grumbled Fenris.

"You think we have a large enough army to overtake the keep?" Merrill asked, skeptically.

"Our intent isn't to conquer but to free the mages," replied Hawke. "We should be able to keep the Templars and city guards busy long enough for our rescue team to get them out."

"And then?" Fenris raised an eyebrow.

"And then we melt back into the Evenlist," said Marian. "The Dalish know the forest well and will have the advantage if any of the Templars decide to follow."

Fenris sighed and crossed his arms, glaring at the parchment. When he offered no further rebuttal, Hawke nodded and rolled up the paper.

"I'll gather our army tonight and explain the plan. We'll check out the location of the thicket entrance tomorrow and attack on the following day. I don't want to linger here for long. The longer we stay, the more likely we are to get caught."

###

It took four days to attack. The passage had been reinforced with stone, but time had eroded the walls, and several cave-ins needed to be cleared. The section of tunnel under the river was damp and fragile, but Varric guessed it would hold. Lugging buckets of rocks out of the tunnel, Fenris overheard this and growled, "Easy for him to say. He doesn't have to travel through it."

Anxious, Hawke helped with the debris removal, ordering everyone to take a shift. The camp's proximity to Ansburg weighed heavily on her mind. It took only one Marcher wandering into the forest to ruin their plan. The Dalish kept sharp eyes on the perimeter from their positions high among the trees, bows always at the ready.

Perhaps Fen'Harel liked their plan. No intruders entered the Evenlist. With the passage finally cleared, the army made ready for the following day. Excitement sparked through the mages, and Fenris felt their presence even more as they strengthened their bond to the Fade in preparation. Barely able to tolerate the constant prickling of his lyrium tattoos, Fenris retired to the edge of camp, where the distance brought much-needed relief.

He was sitting against a gnarled, ancient tree sharpening his sword when Zevran emerged from the darkness, barely lit by magelight. Hawke had forbidden fires; smoke made a poor friend when secrecy was desired. Zevran sank into the moss next to Fenris and drew out his whetstone and daggers.

"Seeking solitude, mi amigo?"

Fenris glanced up before resuming the rhythmic swipe of his whetstone against steel.

"Only from mages. Their sorcery is at a high tonight."

"They are excited at the chance to finally fight for their beliefs," mused Zevran. "I have come to understand those beliefs are not yours."

"They are not," affirmed Fenris. He sighed and set the whetstone down. "These mages have never seen the consequence of using magic to do harm. They do not yet know the temptation because the templars have prevented them from knowing. They have not lived in Tevinter."

Zevran was silent for a moment, staring thoughtfully into the camp. "And what of Anders? Forgive me if I'm wrong, but everyone walks around him much as a hunter eases his way around the lair of a mother bear."

A low growl rumbled from the depths of Fenris's chest. "Anders is an abomination. He should not have been allowed to live. The demon within him could erupt at any time, and he cannot control it." He picked up a tattered rag and began to polish his blade. "Hawke loves him, and thus, she is blind."

"Love is often blind," said Zevran. "But it also allows one to see the good alongside the bad. Love is quite the enigma. It is why I have struggled to elude it for so long, only to find it is what I have truly needed all these years."

Fenris raised his head, emerald eyes picking out the silhouette of other elf. But Zevran fell silent, bowing his head and picking up the whetstone. The harsh, metallic scrape of stone against metal once again interrupted the night. After a few moments, he continued the conversation.

"Anders saved my life and appears to care for his friends. Perhaps the man in him can overcome the spirit. Perhaps he can continue to offer his people hope."

Fenris merely grunted in response. He had lived too long with Danarius to retain any hope in mages. Justice had remained absent since the explosion of the Chantry in Kirkwall, but Fenris would be ready if the demon reappeared.

"Hope is a fleeting thing, not to be counted on." He retrieved his whetstone, but before he could strike his sword, a strong hand closed over his.

"Hope is all these people have . . . all many people have. Did not hope lead you to freedom? Did not hope lead me to you?"

Fenris could barely discern the glint of amber only inches from his face, but the intensity did not elude him. Careful with the claws on his gauntlet, he grasped Zevran's shirt and pulled the assassin down into a straddling position on Fenris's lap. A smile lifted the corner of his mouth as heard a faint hitch in breath.

"I have often allowed my past to cloud my reason." He reached up and trailed three spiked fingers across the tattoo adorning Zevran's cheek. "And you are here. It is possible for me to be wrong."

Heated breath and the barest touch of full lips grazed his mouth. "I don't think either of us is wrong about this."

Fenris surged forward, capturing the words with his tongue as he claimed Zevran's mouth for his own. A cool breeze whispered past, but neither noticed amidst the fire engulfing them, cleansing any bitterness remaining from the cruel years of long ago. As Zevran deepened the kiss, Fenris tasted just a tang of the hope that died the same day as Danarius and his sister. Perhaps hope lived still, in the person of a devious Crow and the red string circling his slim wrist.

A Red Promise: Chapter 8

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