Temper, Temper (6/9)
Feb. 4th, 2011 01:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
serindranaTitle: Temper, Temper (6/9)
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Pairing: F!Tabris/Zevran
Chapter Rating: M
Series Rating: M/NC-17
Wordcount: 6358
Warnings: Angst. Torture, including reference to beatings, rape with a foreign object, and poisoning.
Summary: Taliesen appears, and things are going well until Fynnea loses her temper (again). Fort Drakon is not a pleasant place to be. (ff.net & Ao3)
Notes: The world and all characters except for the specifics of Fynnea's characterization are the property of Bioware. ♥ Oh, and Penny Arcade came up with the name Barkspawn.
Chapters: 1 Interlude 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Epilogue
The Alienage gates are still closed.
The first time they came to Denerim, she'd been turned away with warnings that she wouldn't want to get involved in the riots inside, in the lockdown, in the press of the city guards. Alistair and Zevran had, in a rare show of solidarity, all that time ago, dragged her away even as she hissed and sputtered and nearly screamed at the guard. It was her home. Shianni and Soris and her father were in there, and she had taken the blame so that they wouldn't suffer.
But then she'd run away to join the Grey Wardens, to save her hide.
She'd sulked for the rest of the day with that thought.
Seeing the still-closed gates bring back that feeling of shame and guilt, and she's in a haze all through the meeting with Arl Eamon at his estate. She's walking dead when they strike out into the market to resupply, to listen to rumors, to poke around the backstreets for potential threats and potential help. She knows Zevran is there with her, and so is Alistair. Leliana's insisted that she come along this time, in place of Wynne, who's decided that, after the long trip to Ostagar, back to Redcliffe, and then on to Denerim, she needs a rest.
Fynnea wishes she could rest.
She also wishes she could scale the Alienage walls.
Leliana and Zevran are chattering, bantering back and forth, and Zevran is teasing her with all his usual wicked glee. Ostagar has fixed whatever was broken at Orzammar, and Zevran is Zevran again. She manages a smile through the haze at the thought. She's gotten him to leave bruises and bites along her skin. The little aches make the long days of walking harder, but she has mementos and he seems to finally be moving towards trusting himself. They push it a little every time. He comes up with half the suggestions. It's fun and intense and silly, and during the days of travel, they often laugh and race ahead of the others.
But today the Alienage gates are still closed, and her mood now is sour. No racing. No laughing.
Zevran notices after a long stretch of uninterrupted banter, and perhaps after Alistair motions with his head to her. She's walking with her eyes down, her brow furrowed. She's isolating herself. She feels him slip up beside her. A hand finds her waist in that awkward way people touch when moving, unable to keep proper distance and proper pace no matter how long they've walked together in the past, his fingers skittering over her armor, only about to skirt lightly on her side. She almost stops to let him draw closer, because she craves the quiet support he sometimes offers (needs it far more than laughter and running), but he stops before she can finish the thought. In fact, the whole party has come to a stop and it startles her into looking up.
There, on a set of the high, steep steps so common in the back alleys of Denerim, is a man with short cropped hair and leathers the same style as the ones Zevran wore when she first met him. He's looking down at Zevran with a quirked brow and a nasty smile.
Zevran straightens up and swallows. "Taliesen."
"Zevran! Finally, I've tracked you down." The man descends a step, and Fynnea can't take her eyes off of him. She's rooted to the spot. This is the man who killed Rinna, her thoughts hiss. This is the man who made Zevran cast Rinna aside.
"Come to kill me?"
Alistair and Leliana are looking between the two men, confused, unsure of what to do, but their hands are at their weapons, ready to defend. Fynnea knows she should do the same. She wants to put herself in between them, guard Zevran, keep this Crow away from him. He's hers- except that he's not. He never has been, in her mind, no matter what he says about blood oaths and promises and leashes. So she stays still, frozen in place, torn.
Taliesen ignores them all completely, focused only on the tanned elf below him. "No, not at all. I'm here to ask you to come back. You can return with me, Zevran. I know why you did this, and I don't blame you. It's not too late- come back and we'll make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake." That smile is still wicked and cruel, and he's still advancing on Zevran, slowly. It's Alistair who steps between them. Taliesen's attention finally shifts, languidly, to Alistair, then to Fynnea.
"And the catch?" Zevran asks.
"Well, it's not a catch, just a minor inconvenience. We just need to make sure your contract is fulfilled. And look! Your marks are right here, and I am with you to assist!"
Fynnea's paralysis is finally broken at the threat, and she draws her weapons, stepping not in front of Zevran but to his side. "He doesn't need the Crows anymore," she says, trying not to laugh at how little Taliesen understands. "He belongs here." And before she can stop the words, she adds, "With me."
"You obviously don't know who you're talking about," Taliesen responds after a moment's hesitation.
"And neither do you," Zevran says, shaking his head and laughing faintly. His hand brushes Fynnea's elbow as he, too, reaches to unsheathe his weapons. "I am sad that it has come to this, my old friend-" and Fynnea does hear some sadness, but to her now-practiced ear, it's tempered with satisfaction and a bit of eagerness, "but I cannot let you do this."
Taliesen's smirk turns quick into a scowl before settling into placid, and with the rise of his hand, arrows begin to fly.
Zevran tackles her to the ground to get her out of the path of the initial volley, while Alistair charges up the stairs to knock down Taliesen with his shield and Leliana finds a protected spot to begin returning fire. Zevran smirks down at her before he's off, heading straight for the other Crows now visible in the alley. She follows suit once her breath comes back to her.
The fight is surprisingly short, but any longer and the Crows would not have missed again. The archers are all down before more than two volleys have been loosed, and Alistair keeps Taliesen from giving new orders until Zevran and Fynnea have joined him. Leliana continues to provide covering fire for them, taking out the last few assassins who still lurk, hidden to all but trained eyes. Fynnea wonders again at Leliana's background for a fleeting moment, thinking that maybe if she knew more about Orlais, the lay sister might make a bit of sense. But then, as always, Zevran takes her attention back. She and Alistair have Taliesen on the defensive, and he's not guarding his back. Zevran nods to her over Talisen's shoulder, grins, shuts his eyes for the briefest of moments, and then runs his old friend and sometimes-lover through on both blade and dagger.
The alley is finally still, except for the wet thud of Taliesen hitting the ground. Leliana is moving between the bodies, gathering coin, poison, and unused arrows. Alistair is looking more than a little confused, and Zevran- Zevran is smiling at her, faintly, from across the gulf of Taliesen's body between them.
"An old friend?" Alistair asks after a moment, and at Zevran's nod, he adds, "Okay. Don't really want to know any more than that. Er. Well, except- are they going to keep sending your old friends after us?"
"They will likely assume that I died alongside Taliesen." Zevran shrugs. "If I were to leave now, I could easily disappear from them." Fynnea makes a small noise, and he smiles. "No worries, my Warden. I do not intend to go anywhere, unless you forcibly send me from your side. And even then, I have been known to track you down with little to go on but the bloody swath you cut!"
Alistair's purposefully putting distance between the two of them, going over to join Leliana, and Zevran beckons her close with a tilt of his head as he cleans and sheathes his weapons.
"You have freed me," he says as she comes to his side and he loops an arm around her shoulders, now covered in new armor, fashioned by Wade out of Andraste's skin and christened with the blood of Antivan Crows.
"... but you said you wouldn't leave-"
"I mean, you have freed me from some of my demons." He nudges at Taliesen's body with the toe of his boot. "Perhaps now Rinna will rest, yes? No more specters of her. Or of what he and our Masters made me do."
Fynnea's worried expression breaks into sunlight and smiles, and she turns to throw her arms around him. He laughs, picking her up and spinning her once in a circle. They're both thrumming from the battle, still. "I'm so glad," she murmurs, and her heart is pounding, because he's happy and close to her and full of light that she hasn't ever really seen in him. The lines on his face have eased already.
"As am I," he agrees, that smile still fixed on his face. He lets go of her and reaches up to one of his ears, undoing the catch on a small golden loop and pulling it from its piercing. He holds it out to her in the palm of his hand.
Fynnea looks down at it, then back up at him. "... huh?"
"It's a souvenir from my first kill. He was wearing little else at the time. But I think- I would like to see you wear it, instead. As a token of my- thanks?" His smile is a little strange now, almost wistful and little nervous.
She reaches up to touch the earring, picking it up as gingerly as she can with metal in the way. "... I don't have my ears pierced," is all she can think to say, and he laughs, an easy sound but perhaps a little strained.
"We can fix that, yes?"
She looks from the gleaming gold to him. "Does this-" and her heart is in her throat again. She feels ridiculous when she's like this, all butterflies and nerves and fairy tale dreams, but it's also so pleasant to hope, and before she can stop herself- "mean we're married? In Antiva?"
Zevran looks horrified, but his, "Oh no, I hope not!" is more joke than real, and her blush isn't too bright. He closes her fingers around the earring, now, grinning. "Just- keep it, yes? And before you go to fight the Archdemon, I promise, I will help you wear it."
Fynnea nods and, after a deep breath to steady and find herself again, pulls away from his warmth and calls out to the others.
She's forgotten entirely about the gates, the almost nonexistent weight of metal in her hand the center of her world.
--
The whole walk back, once the excitement has settled some, he keeps giving her these strange little thoughtful looks, and she responds with questioning blinks and tilts of her head, and he just- ignores them. He doesn't explain. A few times he comes close to saying something, but then Leliana is squealing over a pair of imported Orlesian shoes and in that moment's break, he seems to think the better of it.
He disappears the moment they return to Arl Eamon's estate.
Fynnea wants to run off after him, but she can't. Eamon needs to talk, to discuss more plans for the Landsmeet. He wants to know what happened with Taliesen (because their armor is bloody and Fynnea has the look of excitement and eagerness and need that happens when she fights - or, in this case, when she's clutching a small earring protectively in one gauntlet). She and Alistair spend over an hour in his office, going over the events, explaining Zevran's original mission and subsequent defection, reassuring him that yes, the Antivan is loyal, why did it take you so long to ask, hasn't he proven himself yet?
She finally escapes by begging off to clean her armor, and Eamon relents- towards her. Alistair watches her go with envy and exhaustion.
Fynnea sheds her armor and places it on a stand to clean later, then, still holding tight to her prize, begins her search.
She starts in the library, where she'd found him earlier before they'd gone out for the day. He's not there, of course, but she knows of few other places where he might be. She prowls the halls and finds nothing, questions servants and gains little. She tries to think like him, but those thoughts lead either to somebody's bedroom (and she's checked all the ones with open doors, too scared to knock on the ones that are closed) or to the Pearl (and she doesn't feel like traveling across the city again just now, and hopes that he doesn't, either- for a whole host of reasons that makes her stomach twist).
Somewhere during the long search, Fynnea is finally honest with herself. She's head over heels in love. It's ridiculous and amazing and perfect, and she feels like even if he never notices, it'll be fine. It's the first time she hasn't just wanted to take, to fight until she gets her way. She's loved him since- maybe since Orzammar, certainly since that long, strange isolation in Ostagar. And she knows she can't tell him, but that's okay, too. She doesn't want to make him run. She's willing to keep a little secret.
This afternoon has her in an emotional tailspin, though. She's helped to rescue him, even if she thinks that he did most of the work. He chose her over Taliesen. He didn't tease her afterwards about saying he belonged with her. He gave her a gift, her, who always gives gifts to everybody else. (But they're not married in Antiva, she reminds herself - though maybe that's a good thing.) She feels like they're closer than they ever have been, his life now actually a part of hers, instead of running parallel, and now he's hiding. She can't find him. It's been over an hour of searching, and she's on the verge of giving up, the melancholy from earlier creeping back in, when she sees the almost hidden ladder that leads up to the old wall surrounding the estate.
She scrambles up it, the cool evening breeze turning to a brisker wind. There, perched on top of one of the crenelations, is Zevran. He glances up when she clambers over onto the wall proper and smiles, faintly.
Fynnea's a little unsteady on her feet, but she crosses the space between them without any major mishaps. She leans against the next crenelation over and nibbles at her lower lip, then offers a small, shy smile.
He smiles back, then turns to look out at the city.
"I've been looking for you," Fynnea blurts out after a moment's silence. "For an hour."
"Did you consider that I might not have wanted to be found?" His voice is soft, thoughtful. Strange, for him.
"Oh. I-" She frowns, shifting uneasily. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. After Taliesen."
"Mm." He's resting on the balls of his feet, curled up, coiled tight. It's as if he wants to take a flying leap from the building out into the streets. Disappear. The thought turns the butterflies in her stomach to lead.
"... Are you?"
"I am... in an interesting mood, shall we say?"
"Oh." She runs a hand through her hair in order to keep herself from reaching out for him. She doesn't want to push him now. He might fall. She wants him away from the wall, back in the Arl's estate. She wants him in her arms, over her, teeth grazing her skin. It'd be easier to understand.
"It seems a whole book of my life has closed," he murmurs, softly. "I thought it had ended with being spared by you, but I was foolish. Now that part of my life is closed. It's an odd feeling, all of that... behind me. Being truly able to choose."
"It's a good thing, right?"
"A very good thing," he agrees, with a faint smile towards her. "But strange. It is taking some... adjusting. Now that my blood's cooled a little..." Zevran shrugs.
"Do you have any... plans? For- after."
He hums thoughtfully, uncurling and stepping down to the stone floor. She breathes a sigh of relief. "Freelance work, I suppose. Perhaps our Princeling will be in need of an assassin. What do you think?"
At least this hasn't unsettled him to the point of wanting to turn to a life of charity. It soothes her, and she grins. "And maybe he will need a very angry elf, too?"
"Maybe." Zevran's expression falters a little, and the lead is back in her stomach, filling now her lungs and heart as well.
Do you want me? is turned into, "Come to bed?" because the former seems too needy, too weak, too scared.
Zevran shakes his head. "No-"
Fynnea swallows.
"No. I-" He's searching for words, and finally sighs, giving up. "Just- No." He has an odd, remorseful look on his face.
He's running. She doesn't understand, but she knows he's running, and suddenly all her old temper flares again, and she's shaking, glad she's left her weapons in her room, glad she's in slippers that Leliana lent her that have little traction.
"Oh," she says, and her voice is flat. He flinches, but doesn't offer more of an explanation. It's enraging, and while she doesn't leap at him or throw a punch of do anything physical, her words turn sharp and angry, and she's isn't thinking anymore, not when the words tumble out. "I thought- You were happy with what happened. You said you were glad. But you're really not over what happened, are you? You're- just- you don't care, Zevran! You don't realize what you're doing to me, do you? You gave me that earring and I-"
He cuts her off, growling out, "You have far more important things to get upset about than me."
"And I'm sure you have far more important things to worry about, too," she grits out from behind clenched teeth. Don't deny me! is screaming in her ears. He'd told her that he never would-
"Fynnea-"
"No. No. I don't- just- run, if that's what you really want. I can't-" And she's running, slipping over the wall, nearly falling down the ladder.
He isn't following.
--
She didn't take Zevran to the Arl of Denerim's estate.
It was the first time since they met that she hadn't had him at her side, and it wasn't because she couldn't find him or had to leave before she could look. He was in the room when they heard the news about Anora. He was in the room when she told Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana to follow her. He'd looked like he was about to say something, but she'd hissed, "I can't handle this right now," and he'd fallen back, a distant, nevous frown on his face.
She'd ignored it.
Perhaps she shouldn't have left him. Perhaps he would have noticed Ser Cauthrien's forces in time to find them another exit. Perhaps she wouldn't be screaming right now if she'd just trusted him, like she had promised she always would.
Fort Drakon is a palace of horrors. The stale air reeks of blood, sweat, shit. The fear and finality is crushing, and it all presses in around her with every hit of the lash, with every fist to her face and stomach, every kick to her knees. She bleeds and burns and screams, and it doesn't stop. It never stops. They keep pushing. At first, they ask her about Orlesian plots and the invasion and King Cailan's death at your hands, but soon the questions are gone and there's only laughing and jeering and pain. They don't need her to speak anymore. They make her drink scalding liquids that make her body writhe, that feel like fire in her veins, that make even the dim light of her cell too much.
There are periods of respite, periods where they take Alistair or they let them both lie together, breathing shallow, barely able to speak. But those periods are short.
She had thought she liked pain. Battle was exhilarating, Zevran was transcendent, but this- they keep her anchored to her body with unexpected rhythms. They don't let her fly, they don't let her retreat. She experiences every cut, every lash, every burn, every blow. They pull her apart and put her back together. They use poultices and potions that keep her conscious but are mixed with something else that makes her nerves scream.
It seems like years, down in that dungeon, and in the dark, when Alistair is somewhere close by and their screams have turned to sobs or numb silence, Alistair whispers that they're not going to get out. That this is the end. And somehow, Fynnea shakes her head and whispers,
"No, he'll come."
Alistair reminds her, weakly, that even he'd noticed that something was wrong between them. And that maybe he won't come. And even if he did, he wouldn't make it in time.
There is a small mercy. They don't rape her. She's heard them talking about it, but it always comes down to the same thing- tainted by darkspawn, bet she has teeth in there, rotting meat, don't touch her. She'd laugh if she could. They're wrong about so many things, but this one- this one is the one that saves her from that little indignity. It doesn't stop them, though, from forcing metal objects into her and watching her cry and fight. But it could be worse. It could always be worse.
She's curled up in the corner farthest from the cell door, shaking, running from cold to hot and knowing, dimly, that she's feverish, when something begins to change. There's shouting in the distance. It sounds familiar. But whatever is raging through her blood now, illness or another poison, has left her muffled, wrapped up in a blanket of numb. She can't sort out the images or the sounds or the sensations. Alistair is pulling himself up, somehow, probably gripping at the rough, barbed bars. He's saying something. One of those familiar voices is loud and rough. The other is silent now.
Did somebody die?
She groans, twitching, when she hears metal scrape against stone. The cell is open. They're going to take her down again, or maybe leave her alone. Being alone is the worst. Even though when they're together they can barely move or speak, knowing Alistair is there makes everything a little more bearable. She doesn't want the door to open. She doesn't want-
Somebody touches her, and she screams, searing pain lancing through her body, cutting through the numbness and flashes of hot-cold. She thrashes weakly, naked limbs striking out in uncoordinated arcs. There's a whispered, unfamiliar curse in a familiar accent. She opens her eyes, her lashes clinging together a moment with salt tears and grime. She's stopped looking at things, however long she's been here. Seeing it coming somehow only makes it worse, now.
She's hallucinating.
Zevran is crouching above her, Zevran with his tanned, lined skin and beautiful tattoos and flaxen hair, Zevran looking almost panicked, hands hovering, afraid to touch her again. He's wearing some ridiculous outfit. It's bright. She has to squint. He's not even in armor, though there's blood streaked across his face and clothing. Of course there's blood. He's an assassin. She can't forget the blood, if she's going to conjure up his image.
Fynnea had thought that all her tears had been used up, that all that could come out now was blood or salt or pain, but she's crying again. She's hallucinating, she knows it, because behind him is Oghren, of all people, and neither are in armor. Oghren is digging in his pack and Alistair beside him is fumbling at the belts and clasps of his familiar plate. Her armor is there, too, lying on the ground next to Zevran. She could bump it with a toe if she moved.
They must have given her something. The thing burning in her veins- it's bringing to her what she wants most, and soon it will break all of it, break her. She curls up tighter, scabbed wounds creaking and cracking, hot blood trickling out. Zevran curses again.
"-ould have brought Wynne-"
"Why are you doing this," she whispers through cracked lips, addressing the guards she's sure are standing just out of sight, laughing at her. Her eyes unfocus.
"I can't leave my Warden to rot, can I?" Zevran murmurs, voice so soft, and he's taken a jar of green slime from Oghren. Real poultice, and it smells like the kind Wynne makes, potent and strong. It can't be real, because they use old poultices here, with dirt and bugs and poisons mixed in. She hates this, these lies, but she can't fight when Zevran touches her as gently as he can, smoothing the slime into the worst of the wounds he can reach. "Please forgive me," he's whispering to her. "This might hurt."
And it does, every touch of his fingers hurts, but she can't fight him anymore. She can't fight the vision. She needs to take what comfort she can, and so she falls limp and pliant under his hands, lets him turn her, sit her up against his chest. She only whimpers when he dresses her. He's switching out his clothing for armor, and dressing her in the bright, blood-stiff fabric. Oghren is in armor now, too, and he's packing hers away for later. She can barely stand, let alone fight or hold up the weight of dragon skin. Alistair is unsteady on his feet but his grip on his sword is firm, and his jaw is clenched.
Maybe she isn't hallucinating. It's all making some kind of strange sense, except that Zevran is here and is so gentle, except that they're actually being rescued.
Alistair may have nominally given up hope, but she'd been worn down to nothing. Her reassurances stopped long ago.
Zevran lifts her into his arms and she buries her face against the familiar smell of his leathers. "I want to go home," she whispers, weakly, and he smiles down at her.
"Leave it to me, my Warden."
--
Three days. She'd spent only three days in Drakon, but it still feels like a lifetime. She drifts in and out of sleep for another day and a half afterwards, waking up to the cooling rush of Wynne's magic and the welcome sting of Zevran smoothing new poultice into her wounds, then holding her gently as he rewinds her bandages. She lets Zevran move her until she's dressed in her smalls again, barely awake enough to notice. The rest of her skin is just covered with a blanket, leaving her wounds easy to get to. Barkspawn is a heavy, warm weight against her legs through most of it. He anchors her. She strokes his head when she's awake enough to. He licks her fingers. She hears soft voices, whispers between her companions as they check in on her. She can't make out words, but they all seem worried, and then, as time passes, relieved.
When she wakes up in the middle of the night on the second day, she feels lighter, clearer. She's actually awake instead of drifting through the light. She manages to sit up, Barkspawn lifting his head and panting, happy. He squirms up the bed alongside her, nuzzling his head into her hand. She laughs, then looks around for water when her breath catches roughly in her throat.
"Here." Zevran is sitting beside her bed. He looks like he's just woken up as he smiles and pushes a wood cup along the bedside table to her hand. She takes it, drinking greedily. He watches with half-lidded eyes, then pulls himself out of his chair. "Should I get Wynne? Are you in pain? She's checking on Alistair now, but-"
Fynnea shakes her head. That hurts, just a little, and disorients her for a moment, but it's nothing she can't handle. She's been asleep through the worst of the healing. Now she's just stiff and sore and feeling the need to get out of bed and run laps to loosen herself up. It's amazing, how much magic can fix.
She's pretty sure that if she stood now, though, she'd fall.
"Have you been here the whole time?" Fynnea asks, softly, voice a little smoother from the water. He nods. "So I wasn't hallucinating?"
"Hallucinating, my Warden?" He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, and her hand finds his wrist, wrapping around it, anchoring her.
"At Drakon. When you showed up in that ugly outfit. The bright orange one."
He laughs, shakes his head. "Unfortunately, that was very much real. Oghren and I bluffed our way past the guards as the Famous Broma Brothers of Antiva. I am still amazed it worked as well as it did."
"That must've been something." She manages a small laugh, and Zevran's face lights up.
"Ah, to know you are feeling good enough to laugh-"
"I'm just glad I'm out of there." Fynnea rolls her shoulders and shifts her legs, trying to work out the tightness. "It was- bad." The memories are there, a great mass of pain and fear, but it's over. She repeats that firmly, and she can fit it away in a little space to maybe, one day, untangle. For now, though, she wants to talk and laugh. She wants to distance it.
"I saw as much. I am sorry we did not get to you sooner. Anora told us what had happened, but it took three days to wear down Eamon enough that he didn't reject our plan outright. He wanted to storm Drakon, or call the Landsmeet without you to accuse Loghain. Both of which are intensely foolish plans."
Fynnea laughs and nods. "Good thing you managed to convince him."
Zevran hums thoughtfully, then leans in to brush some of her matted, blood-crusted hair out of her face. "... About the night before you left," he murmurs after a moment of Fynnea's stunned silence at the feel of his skin against hers. "I need to apologize."
"Oh," she says, frowning and biting at her lip. "... I-"
"Lost your temper, yes," he agrees. "But I encouraged it."
She shifts uncomfortably. "I just- what changed? What's different now? I don't-" The old anger and confusion are coming back now, trickling in around the edges of her exhaustion.
"I..." His face contorts into a grimace for just a moment before he breathes deeply and shifts so that he's sitting fully on the bed, back against the headboard and legs stretched out in front of him. He's out of armor, dressed in coarse linens that are easily cleaned, nurse's clothes. Her blood is on them. He gestures for her to come to him, and she scoots back to sit next to him, her shoulder brushing his.
"Be patient with me, my Warden?"
Fynnea nods, still worrying at her lower lip.
"I was raised by women whose livelihood was built upon pretending to love. There was very little... genuine affection in that place. And at a young age, I was sold to the Crows, among whom love or other sentimental emotions are a weakness. It is unallowable. It is dangerous. It nearly killed me, after Rinna- if I had simply kept my heart as hard as I had been taught, I would not have thrown myself at death."
Fynnea's head begins to swim, uncertain and nervous about where he's leading. She rests her head against his shoulder, and he brings an arm up to encircle her.
"What I mean is," he murmurs after a pause, then hesitates again. "My Warden, since the night you invited me back to your tent- perhaps before that, perhaps as early as when we shared that pomegranate? - I have felt... confused."
"Confused?" she repeats, staring up at him.
"It was a pleasant confusion, an enticing one, but it was still baffling. I- my Warden, Fynnea, I- feel things towards you that I am not meant to feel. And they built in intensity until you freed me from Taliesen, and then they crested. In those moments right after Taliesen fell, I was swept up in them, and I- that's why I gave you the earring."
Her heart's pounding in her chest, but she's still nervous, still scared that this will end with and now I must leave, and she tries to appease him. "Do you want it back? The earring?"
He blinks, then shakes his head, laughing quietly. "No, no. I want you to keep it." He presses a kiss to the top of her head before resting his cheek there, not caring about the blood or dirt. "During the walk back here, I was able to put words to what I was feeling, and it scared me. You were right; I ran. I am a coward, my Warden."
"Yeah, a little," she agrees, voice soft, but her heart is still hammering in her chest and she closes her eyes, fingers twisting in her lap.
"But... I hope I have redeemed myself, a little."
"By rescuing me?"
He nods.
"I knew you'd come," she whispers, and his arm around her tightens. "I- I'd given up, but I still knew that if anybody came, it'd be you. You- mm-" She squirms in his grip, and he loosens it and pulls away just enough that she can lift her head and look at him. "You love me?"
He hesitates a moment, then nods again. There's a faint blush across his cheeks. There's a brighter one across hers.
She grins, shifting impulsively into his lap, straddling him and settling her arms around his neck. Barkspawn whines, losing his warm support and rolling onto his side. She ignores him, instead stealing a kiss from Zevran, who stares up at her, relieved and scared and tentatively happy.
"Good. Because I thought I was the only one."
He laughs, arms encircling her gingerly, mindful of her wounds.
7
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Pairing: F!Tabris/Zevran
Chapter Rating: M
Series Rating: M/NC-17
Wordcount: 6358
Warnings: Angst. Torture, including reference to beatings, rape with a foreign object, and poisoning.
Summary: Taliesen appears, and things are going well until Fynnea loses her temper (again). Fort Drakon is not a pleasant place to be. (ff.net & Ao3)
Notes: The world and all characters except for the specifics of Fynnea's characterization are the property of Bioware. ♥ Oh, and Penny Arcade came up with the name Barkspawn.
Chapters: 1 Interlude 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Epilogue
The Alienage gates are still closed.
The first time they came to Denerim, she'd been turned away with warnings that she wouldn't want to get involved in the riots inside, in the lockdown, in the press of the city guards. Alistair and Zevran had, in a rare show of solidarity, all that time ago, dragged her away even as she hissed and sputtered and nearly screamed at the guard. It was her home. Shianni and Soris and her father were in there, and she had taken the blame so that they wouldn't suffer.
But then she'd run away to join the Grey Wardens, to save her hide.
She'd sulked for the rest of the day with that thought.
Seeing the still-closed gates bring back that feeling of shame and guilt, and she's in a haze all through the meeting with Arl Eamon at his estate. She's walking dead when they strike out into the market to resupply, to listen to rumors, to poke around the backstreets for potential threats and potential help. She knows Zevran is there with her, and so is Alistair. Leliana's insisted that she come along this time, in place of Wynne, who's decided that, after the long trip to Ostagar, back to Redcliffe, and then on to Denerim, she needs a rest.
Fynnea wishes she could rest.
She also wishes she could scale the Alienage walls.
Leliana and Zevran are chattering, bantering back and forth, and Zevran is teasing her with all his usual wicked glee. Ostagar has fixed whatever was broken at Orzammar, and Zevran is Zevran again. She manages a smile through the haze at the thought. She's gotten him to leave bruises and bites along her skin. The little aches make the long days of walking harder, but she has mementos and he seems to finally be moving towards trusting himself. They push it a little every time. He comes up with half the suggestions. It's fun and intense and silly, and during the days of travel, they often laugh and race ahead of the others.
But today the Alienage gates are still closed, and her mood now is sour. No racing. No laughing.
Zevran notices after a long stretch of uninterrupted banter, and perhaps after Alistair motions with his head to her. She's walking with her eyes down, her brow furrowed. She's isolating herself. She feels him slip up beside her. A hand finds her waist in that awkward way people touch when moving, unable to keep proper distance and proper pace no matter how long they've walked together in the past, his fingers skittering over her armor, only about to skirt lightly on her side. She almost stops to let him draw closer, because she craves the quiet support he sometimes offers (needs it far more than laughter and running), but he stops before she can finish the thought. In fact, the whole party has come to a stop and it startles her into looking up.
There, on a set of the high, steep steps so common in the back alleys of Denerim, is a man with short cropped hair and leathers the same style as the ones Zevran wore when she first met him. He's looking down at Zevran with a quirked brow and a nasty smile.
Zevran straightens up and swallows. "Taliesen."
"Zevran! Finally, I've tracked you down." The man descends a step, and Fynnea can't take her eyes off of him. She's rooted to the spot. This is the man who killed Rinna, her thoughts hiss. This is the man who made Zevran cast Rinna aside.
"Come to kill me?"
Alistair and Leliana are looking between the two men, confused, unsure of what to do, but their hands are at their weapons, ready to defend. Fynnea knows she should do the same. She wants to put herself in between them, guard Zevran, keep this Crow away from him. He's hers- except that he's not. He never has been, in her mind, no matter what he says about blood oaths and promises and leashes. So she stays still, frozen in place, torn.
Taliesen ignores them all completely, focused only on the tanned elf below him. "No, not at all. I'm here to ask you to come back. You can return with me, Zevran. I know why you did this, and I don't blame you. It's not too late- come back and we'll make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake." That smile is still wicked and cruel, and he's still advancing on Zevran, slowly. It's Alistair who steps between them. Taliesen's attention finally shifts, languidly, to Alistair, then to Fynnea.
"And the catch?" Zevran asks.
"Well, it's not a catch, just a minor inconvenience. We just need to make sure your contract is fulfilled. And look! Your marks are right here, and I am with you to assist!"
Fynnea's paralysis is finally broken at the threat, and she draws her weapons, stepping not in front of Zevran but to his side. "He doesn't need the Crows anymore," she says, trying not to laugh at how little Taliesen understands. "He belongs here." And before she can stop the words, she adds, "With me."
"You obviously don't know who you're talking about," Taliesen responds after a moment's hesitation.
"And neither do you," Zevran says, shaking his head and laughing faintly. His hand brushes Fynnea's elbow as he, too, reaches to unsheathe his weapons. "I am sad that it has come to this, my old friend-" and Fynnea does hear some sadness, but to her now-practiced ear, it's tempered with satisfaction and a bit of eagerness, "but I cannot let you do this."
Taliesen's smirk turns quick into a scowl before settling into placid, and with the rise of his hand, arrows begin to fly.
Zevran tackles her to the ground to get her out of the path of the initial volley, while Alistair charges up the stairs to knock down Taliesen with his shield and Leliana finds a protected spot to begin returning fire. Zevran smirks down at her before he's off, heading straight for the other Crows now visible in the alley. She follows suit once her breath comes back to her.
The fight is surprisingly short, but any longer and the Crows would not have missed again. The archers are all down before more than two volleys have been loosed, and Alistair keeps Taliesen from giving new orders until Zevran and Fynnea have joined him. Leliana continues to provide covering fire for them, taking out the last few assassins who still lurk, hidden to all but trained eyes. Fynnea wonders again at Leliana's background for a fleeting moment, thinking that maybe if she knew more about Orlais, the lay sister might make a bit of sense. But then, as always, Zevran takes her attention back. She and Alistair have Taliesen on the defensive, and he's not guarding his back. Zevran nods to her over Talisen's shoulder, grins, shuts his eyes for the briefest of moments, and then runs his old friend and sometimes-lover through on both blade and dagger.
The alley is finally still, except for the wet thud of Taliesen hitting the ground. Leliana is moving between the bodies, gathering coin, poison, and unused arrows. Alistair is looking more than a little confused, and Zevran- Zevran is smiling at her, faintly, from across the gulf of Taliesen's body between them.
"An old friend?" Alistair asks after a moment, and at Zevran's nod, he adds, "Okay. Don't really want to know any more than that. Er. Well, except- are they going to keep sending your old friends after us?"
"They will likely assume that I died alongside Taliesen." Zevran shrugs. "If I were to leave now, I could easily disappear from them." Fynnea makes a small noise, and he smiles. "No worries, my Warden. I do not intend to go anywhere, unless you forcibly send me from your side. And even then, I have been known to track you down with little to go on but the bloody swath you cut!"
Alistair's purposefully putting distance between the two of them, going over to join Leliana, and Zevran beckons her close with a tilt of his head as he cleans and sheathes his weapons.
"You have freed me," he says as she comes to his side and he loops an arm around her shoulders, now covered in new armor, fashioned by Wade out of Andraste's skin and christened with the blood of Antivan Crows.
"... but you said you wouldn't leave-"
"I mean, you have freed me from some of my demons." He nudges at Taliesen's body with the toe of his boot. "Perhaps now Rinna will rest, yes? No more specters of her. Or of what he and our Masters made me do."
Fynnea's worried expression breaks into sunlight and smiles, and she turns to throw her arms around him. He laughs, picking her up and spinning her once in a circle. They're both thrumming from the battle, still. "I'm so glad," she murmurs, and her heart is pounding, because he's happy and close to her and full of light that she hasn't ever really seen in him. The lines on his face have eased already.
"As am I," he agrees, that smile still fixed on his face. He lets go of her and reaches up to one of his ears, undoing the catch on a small golden loop and pulling it from its piercing. He holds it out to her in the palm of his hand.
Fynnea looks down at it, then back up at him. "... huh?"
"It's a souvenir from my first kill. He was wearing little else at the time. But I think- I would like to see you wear it, instead. As a token of my- thanks?" His smile is a little strange now, almost wistful and little nervous.
She reaches up to touch the earring, picking it up as gingerly as she can with metal in the way. "... I don't have my ears pierced," is all she can think to say, and he laughs, an easy sound but perhaps a little strained.
"We can fix that, yes?"
She looks from the gleaming gold to him. "Does this-" and her heart is in her throat again. She feels ridiculous when she's like this, all butterflies and nerves and fairy tale dreams, but it's also so pleasant to hope, and before she can stop herself- "mean we're married? In Antiva?"
Zevran looks horrified, but his, "Oh no, I hope not!" is more joke than real, and her blush isn't too bright. He closes her fingers around the earring, now, grinning. "Just- keep it, yes? And before you go to fight the Archdemon, I promise, I will help you wear it."
Fynnea nods and, after a deep breath to steady and find herself again, pulls away from his warmth and calls out to the others.
She's forgotten entirely about the gates, the almost nonexistent weight of metal in her hand the center of her world.
The whole walk back, once the excitement has settled some, he keeps giving her these strange little thoughtful looks, and she responds with questioning blinks and tilts of her head, and he just- ignores them. He doesn't explain. A few times he comes close to saying something, but then Leliana is squealing over a pair of imported Orlesian shoes and in that moment's break, he seems to think the better of it.
He disappears the moment they return to Arl Eamon's estate.
Fynnea wants to run off after him, but she can't. Eamon needs to talk, to discuss more plans for the Landsmeet. He wants to know what happened with Taliesen (because their armor is bloody and Fynnea has the look of excitement and eagerness and need that happens when she fights - or, in this case, when she's clutching a small earring protectively in one gauntlet). She and Alistair spend over an hour in his office, going over the events, explaining Zevran's original mission and subsequent defection, reassuring him that yes, the Antivan is loyal, why did it take you so long to ask, hasn't he proven himself yet?
She finally escapes by begging off to clean her armor, and Eamon relents- towards her. Alistair watches her go with envy and exhaustion.
Fynnea sheds her armor and places it on a stand to clean later, then, still holding tight to her prize, begins her search.
She starts in the library, where she'd found him earlier before they'd gone out for the day. He's not there, of course, but she knows of few other places where he might be. She prowls the halls and finds nothing, questions servants and gains little. She tries to think like him, but those thoughts lead either to somebody's bedroom (and she's checked all the ones with open doors, too scared to knock on the ones that are closed) or to the Pearl (and she doesn't feel like traveling across the city again just now, and hopes that he doesn't, either- for a whole host of reasons that makes her stomach twist).
Somewhere during the long search, Fynnea is finally honest with herself. She's head over heels in love. It's ridiculous and amazing and perfect, and she feels like even if he never notices, it'll be fine. It's the first time she hasn't just wanted to take, to fight until she gets her way. She's loved him since- maybe since Orzammar, certainly since that long, strange isolation in Ostagar. And she knows she can't tell him, but that's okay, too. She doesn't want to make him run. She's willing to keep a little secret.
This afternoon has her in an emotional tailspin, though. She's helped to rescue him, even if she thinks that he did most of the work. He chose her over Taliesen. He didn't tease her afterwards about saying he belonged with her. He gave her a gift, her, who always gives gifts to everybody else. (But they're not married in Antiva, she reminds herself - though maybe that's a good thing.) She feels like they're closer than they ever have been, his life now actually a part of hers, instead of running parallel, and now he's hiding. She can't find him. It's been over an hour of searching, and she's on the verge of giving up, the melancholy from earlier creeping back in, when she sees the almost hidden ladder that leads up to the old wall surrounding the estate.
She scrambles up it, the cool evening breeze turning to a brisker wind. There, perched on top of one of the crenelations, is Zevran. He glances up when she clambers over onto the wall proper and smiles, faintly.
Fynnea's a little unsteady on her feet, but she crosses the space between them without any major mishaps. She leans against the next crenelation over and nibbles at her lower lip, then offers a small, shy smile.
He smiles back, then turns to look out at the city.
"I've been looking for you," Fynnea blurts out after a moment's silence. "For an hour."
"Did you consider that I might not have wanted to be found?" His voice is soft, thoughtful. Strange, for him.
"Oh. I-" She frowns, shifting uneasily. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. After Taliesen."
"Mm." He's resting on the balls of his feet, curled up, coiled tight. It's as if he wants to take a flying leap from the building out into the streets. Disappear. The thought turns the butterflies in her stomach to lead.
"... Are you?"
"I am... in an interesting mood, shall we say?"
"Oh." She runs a hand through her hair in order to keep herself from reaching out for him. She doesn't want to push him now. He might fall. She wants him away from the wall, back in the Arl's estate. She wants him in her arms, over her, teeth grazing her skin. It'd be easier to understand.
"It seems a whole book of my life has closed," he murmurs, softly. "I thought it had ended with being spared by you, but I was foolish. Now that part of my life is closed. It's an odd feeling, all of that... behind me. Being truly able to choose."
"It's a good thing, right?"
"A very good thing," he agrees, with a faint smile towards her. "But strange. It is taking some... adjusting. Now that my blood's cooled a little..." Zevran shrugs.
"Do you have any... plans? For- after."
He hums thoughtfully, uncurling and stepping down to the stone floor. She breathes a sigh of relief. "Freelance work, I suppose. Perhaps our Princeling will be in need of an assassin. What do you think?"
At least this hasn't unsettled him to the point of wanting to turn to a life of charity. It soothes her, and she grins. "And maybe he will need a very angry elf, too?"
"Maybe." Zevran's expression falters a little, and the lead is back in her stomach, filling now her lungs and heart as well.
Do you want me? is turned into, "Come to bed?" because the former seems too needy, too weak, too scared.
Zevran shakes his head. "No-"
Fynnea swallows.
"No. I-" He's searching for words, and finally sighs, giving up. "Just- No." He has an odd, remorseful look on his face.
He's running. She doesn't understand, but she knows he's running, and suddenly all her old temper flares again, and she's shaking, glad she's left her weapons in her room, glad she's in slippers that Leliana lent her that have little traction.
"Oh," she says, and her voice is flat. He flinches, but doesn't offer more of an explanation. It's enraging, and while she doesn't leap at him or throw a punch of do anything physical, her words turn sharp and angry, and she's isn't thinking anymore, not when the words tumble out. "I thought- You were happy with what happened. You said you were glad. But you're really not over what happened, are you? You're- just- you don't care, Zevran! You don't realize what you're doing to me, do you? You gave me that earring and I-"
He cuts her off, growling out, "You have far more important things to get upset about than me."
"And I'm sure you have far more important things to worry about, too," she grits out from behind clenched teeth. Don't deny me! is screaming in her ears. He'd told her that he never would-
"Fynnea-"
"No. No. I don't- just- run, if that's what you really want. I can't-" And she's running, slipping over the wall, nearly falling down the ladder.
He isn't following.
She didn't take Zevran to the Arl of Denerim's estate.
It was the first time since they met that she hadn't had him at her side, and it wasn't because she couldn't find him or had to leave before she could look. He was in the room when they heard the news about Anora. He was in the room when she told Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana to follow her. He'd looked like he was about to say something, but she'd hissed, "I can't handle this right now," and he'd fallen back, a distant, nevous frown on his face.
She'd ignored it.
Perhaps she shouldn't have left him. Perhaps he would have noticed Ser Cauthrien's forces in time to find them another exit. Perhaps she wouldn't be screaming right now if she'd just trusted him, like she had promised she always would.
Fort Drakon is a palace of horrors. The stale air reeks of blood, sweat, shit. The fear and finality is crushing, and it all presses in around her with every hit of the lash, with every fist to her face and stomach, every kick to her knees. She bleeds and burns and screams, and it doesn't stop. It never stops. They keep pushing. At first, they ask her about Orlesian plots and the invasion and King Cailan's death at your hands, but soon the questions are gone and there's only laughing and jeering and pain. They don't need her to speak anymore. They make her drink scalding liquids that make her body writhe, that feel like fire in her veins, that make even the dim light of her cell too much.
There are periods of respite, periods where they take Alistair or they let them both lie together, breathing shallow, barely able to speak. But those periods are short.
She had thought she liked pain. Battle was exhilarating, Zevran was transcendent, but this- they keep her anchored to her body with unexpected rhythms. They don't let her fly, they don't let her retreat. She experiences every cut, every lash, every burn, every blow. They pull her apart and put her back together. They use poultices and potions that keep her conscious but are mixed with something else that makes her nerves scream.
It seems like years, down in that dungeon, and in the dark, when Alistair is somewhere close by and their screams have turned to sobs or numb silence, Alistair whispers that they're not going to get out. That this is the end. And somehow, Fynnea shakes her head and whispers,
"No, he'll come."
Alistair reminds her, weakly, that even he'd noticed that something was wrong between them. And that maybe he won't come. And even if he did, he wouldn't make it in time.
There is a small mercy. They don't rape her. She's heard them talking about it, but it always comes down to the same thing- tainted by darkspawn, bet she has teeth in there, rotting meat, don't touch her. She'd laugh if she could. They're wrong about so many things, but this one- this one is the one that saves her from that little indignity. It doesn't stop them, though, from forcing metal objects into her and watching her cry and fight. But it could be worse. It could always be worse.
She's curled up in the corner farthest from the cell door, shaking, running from cold to hot and knowing, dimly, that she's feverish, when something begins to change. There's shouting in the distance. It sounds familiar. But whatever is raging through her blood now, illness or another poison, has left her muffled, wrapped up in a blanket of numb. She can't sort out the images or the sounds or the sensations. Alistair is pulling himself up, somehow, probably gripping at the rough, barbed bars. He's saying something. One of those familiar voices is loud and rough. The other is silent now.
Did somebody die?
She groans, twitching, when she hears metal scrape against stone. The cell is open. They're going to take her down again, or maybe leave her alone. Being alone is the worst. Even though when they're together they can barely move or speak, knowing Alistair is there makes everything a little more bearable. She doesn't want the door to open. She doesn't want-
Somebody touches her, and she screams, searing pain lancing through her body, cutting through the numbness and flashes of hot-cold. She thrashes weakly, naked limbs striking out in uncoordinated arcs. There's a whispered, unfamiliar curse in a familiar accent. She opens her eyes, her lashes clinging together a moment with salt tears and grime. She's stopped looking at things, however long she's been here. Seeing it coming somehow only makes it worse, now.
She's hallucinating.
Zevran is crouching above her, Zevran with his tanned, lined skin and beautiful tattoos and flaxen hair, Zevran looking almost panicked, hands hovering, afraid to touch her again. He's wearing some ridiculous outfit. It's bright. She has to squint. He's not even in armor, though there's blood streaked across his face and clothing. Of course there's blood. He's an assassin. She can't forget the blood, if she's going to conjure up his image.
Fynnea had thought that all her tears had been used up, that all that could come out now was blood or salt or pain, but she's crying again. She's hallucinating, she knows it, because behind him is Oghren, of all people, and neither are in armor. Oghren is digging in his pack and Alistair beside him is fumbling at the belts and clasps of his familiar plate. Her armor is there, too, lying on the ground next to Zevran. She could bump it with a toe if she moved.
They must have given her something. The thing burning in her veins- it's bringing to her what she wants most, and soon it will break all of it, break her. She curls up tighter, scabbed wounds creaking and cracking, hot blood trickling out. Zevran curses again.
"-ould have brought Wynne-"
"Why are you doing this," she whispers through cracked lips, addressing the guards she's sure are standing just out of sight, laughing at her. Her eyes unfocus.
"I can't leave my Warden to rot, can I?" Zevran murmurs, voice so soft, and he's taken a jar of green slime from Oghren. Real poultice, and it smells like the kind Wynne makes, potent and strong. It can't be real, because they use old poultices here, with dirt and bugs and poisons mixed in. She hates this, these lies, but she can't fight when Zevran touches her as gently as he can, smoothing the slime into the worst of the wounds he can reach. "Please forgive me," he's whispering to her. "This might hurt."
And it does, every touch of his fingers hurts, but she can't fight him anymore. She can't fight the vision. She needs to take what comfort she can, and so she falls limp and pliant under his hands, lets him turn her, sit her up against his chest. She only whimpers when he dresses her. He's switching out his clothing for armor, and dressing her in the bright, blood-stiff fabric. Oghren is in armor now, too, and he's packing hers away for later. She can barely stand, let alone fight or hold up the weight of dragon skin. Alistair is unsteady on his feet but his grip on his sword is firm, and his jaw is clenched.
Maybe she isn't hallucinating. It's all making some kind of strange sense, except that Zevran is here and is so gentle, except that they're actually being rescued.
Alistair may have nominally given up hope, but she'd been worn down to nothing. Her reassurances stopped long ago.
Zevran lifts her into his arms and she buries her face against the familiar smell of his leathers. "I want to go home," she whispers, weakly, and he smiles down at her.
"Leave it to me, my Warden."
Three days. She'd spent only three days in Drakon, but it still feels like a lifetime. She drifts in and out of sleep for another day and a half afterwards, waking up to the cooling rush of Wynne's magic and the welcome sting of Zevran smoothing new poultice into her wounds, then holding her gently as he rewinds her bandages. She lets Zevran move her until she's dressed in her smalls again, barely awake enough to notice. The rest of her skin is just covered with a blanket, leaving her wounds easy to get to. Barkspawn is a heavy, warm weight against her legs through most of it. He anchors her. She strokes his head when she's awake enough to. He licks her fingers. She hears soft voices, whispers between her companions as they check in on her. She can't make out words, but they all seem worried, and then, as time passes, relieved.
When she wakes up in the middle of the night on the second day, she feels lighter, clearer. She's actually awake instead of drifting through the light. She manages to sit up, Barkspawn lifting his head and panting, happy. He squirms up the bed alongside her, nuzzling his head into her hand. She laughs, then looks around for water when her breath catches roughly in her throat.
"Here." Zevran is sitting beside her bed. He looks like he's just woken up as he smiles and pushes a wood cup along the bedside table to her hand. She takes it, drinking greedily. He watches with half-lidded eyes, then pulls himself out of his chair. "Should I get Wynne? Are you in pain? She's checking on Alistair now, but-"
Fynnea shakes her head. That hurts, just a little, and disorients her for a moment, but it's nothing she can't handle. She's been asleep through the worst of the healing. Now she's just stiff and sore and feeling the need to get out of bed and run laps to loosen herself up. It's amazing, how much magic can fix.
She's pretty sure that if she stood now, though, she'd fall.
"Have you been here the whole time?" Fynnea asks, softly, voice a little smoother from the water. He nods. "So I wasn't hallucinating?"
"Hallucinating, my Warden?" He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, and her hand finds his wrist, wrapping around it, anchoring her.
"At Drakon. When you showed up in that ugly outfit. The bright orange one."
He laughs, shakes his head. "Unfortunately, that was very much real. Oghren and I bluffed our way past the guards as the Famous Broma Brothers of Antiva. I am still amazed it worked as well as it did."
"That must've been something." She manages a small laugh, and Zevran's face lights up.
"Ah, to know you are feeling good enough to laugh-"
"I'm just glad I'm out of there." Fynnea rolls her shoulders and shifts her legs, trying to work out the tightness. "It was- bad." The memories are there, a great mass of pain and fear, but it's over. She repeats that firmly, and she can fit it away in a little space to maybe, one day, untangle. For now, though, she wants to talk and laugh. She wants to distance it.
"I saw as much. I am sorry we did not get to you sooner. Anora told us what had happened, but it took three days to wear down Eamon enough that he didn't reject our plan outright. He wanted to storm Drakon, or call the Landsmeet without you to accuse Loghain. Both of which are intensely foolish plans."
Fynnea laughs and nods. "Good thing you managed to convince him."
Zevran hums thoughtfully, then leans in to brush some of her matted, blood-crusted hair out of her face. "... About the night before you left," he murmurs after a moment of Fynnea's stunned silence at the feel of his skin against hers. "I need to apologize."
"Oh," she says, frowning and biting at her lip. "... I-"
"Lost your temper, yes," he agrees. "But I encouraged it."
She shifts uncomfortably. "I just- what changed? What's different now? I don't-" The old anger and confusion are coming back now, trickling in around the edges of her exhaustion.
"I..." His face contorts into a grimace for just a moment before he breathes deeply and shifts so that he's sitting fully on the bed, back against the headboard and legs stretched out in front of him. He's out of armor, dressed in coarse linens that are easily cleaned, nurse's clothes. Her blood is on them. He gestures for her to come to him, and she scoots back to sit next to him, her shoulder brushing his.
"Be patient with me, my Warden?"
Fynnea nods, still worrying at her lower lip.
"I was raised by women whose livelihood was built upon pretending to love. There was very little... genuine affection in that place. And at a young age, I was sold to the Crows, among whom love or other sentimental emotions are a weakness. It is unallowable. It is dangerous. It nearly killed me, after Rinna- if I had simply kept my heart as hard as I had been taught, I would not have thrown myself at death."
Fynnea's head begins to swim, uncertain and nervous about where he's leading. She rests her head against his shoulder, and he brings an arm up to encircle her.
"What I mean is," he murmurs after a pause, then hesitates again. "My Warden, since the night you invited me back to your tent- perhaps before that, perhaps as early as when we shared that pomegranate? - I have felt... confused."
"Confused?" she repeats, staring up at him.
"It was a pleasant confusion, an enticing one, but it was still baffling. I- my Warden, Fynnea, I- feel things towards you that I am not meant to feel. And they built in intensity until you freed me from Taliesen, and then they crested. In those moments right after Taliesen fell, I was swept up in them, and I- that's why I gave you the earring."
Her heart's pounding in her chest, but she's still nervous, still scared that this will end with and now I must leave, and she tries to appease him. "Do you want it back? The earring?"
He blinks, then shakes his head, laughing quietly. "No, no. I want you to keep it." He presses a kiss to the top of her head before resting his cheek there, not caring about the blood or dirt. "During the walk back here, I was able to put words to what I was feeling, and it scared me. You were right; I ran. I am a coward, my Warden."
"Yeah, a little," she agrees, voice soft, but her heart is still hammering in her chest and she closes her eyes, fingers twisting in her lap.
"But... I hope I have redeemed myself, a little."
"By rescuing me?"
He nods.
"I knew you'd come," she whispers, and his arm around her tightens. "I- I'd given up, but I still knew that if anybody came, it'd be you. You- mm-" She squirms in his grip, and he loosens it and pulls away just enough that she can lift her head and look at him. "You love me?"
He hesitates a moment, then nods again. There's a faint blush across his cheeks. There's a brighter one across hers.
She grins, shifting impulsively into his lap, straddling him and settling her arms around his neck. Barkspawn whines, losing his warm support and rolling onto his side. She ignores him, instead stealing a kiss from Zevran, who stares up at her, relieved and scared and tentatively happy.
"Good. Because I thought I was the only one."
He laughs, arms encircling her gingerly, mindful of her wounds.
