serindrana | Temper, Temper (7/9)

Title: Temper, Temper (7/9)
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Pairing: F!Tabris/Zevran
Chapter Rating: T
Series Rating: M/NC-17
Wordcount: 5231
Warnings: Body modification (Piercing). Mentions of rape and past trauma.
Summary: Fynnea comes home. Her mother would be proud. (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

"How are you sleeping?"

Alistair is looking at her intently. He has dark circles under his eyes, and she can guess the answer for him. But right now, she's working. She's been talking with Eamon and making plans with Anora all day, even though Zevran had invited her to stay in bed with him forever. She'd almost accepted, flustered and pleased and alive with the memory of the night before, but she'd pulled away.

She'd thought she was okay. When they'd kissed and talked and murmured words of love, she had thought it was all behind her. That it was a bad moment and it was over, and that now everything was fixed. She and Zevran had fought right before, and reconciled right after. Compress the two, and Drakon was gone.

And then she'd dreamed.

She had been surprised, when she woke up, that she wasn't screaming and that Zevran was sound asleep beside her. Even Barkspawn hadn't woken, settled now at their feet. She had dreamed, and they had not been pleasant dreams of sunlight on the water and Zevran's laughter and the whirl of dancing to Antivan songs. They'd been of pain and silence and flickering torchlight. Echoes of those three days, returned to haunt her just when life had begun to smile again.

So she is working, now, keeping her mind off her memories.

"Fine," she says, with a shrug and a smile, and while he doesn't seem to believe her, he doesn't push. "We need to talk," she adds, when he turns to leave, perhaps to go in search of cheese.

"Um, okay."

She wants to sing Zevran and I are in love! But it's not nearly as bright and happy as it should be. Drakon's slime covers it up and dims it. So instead:

"I've been talking with Anora all morning."

"Oh. Has that been fun?"

Fynnea shakes her head. "She's... not horrible, but does she never sit? Or- blink?" He's laughing now, and she smiles. Easier for the both of them to engage in the moment, forget the past. "Anyway. She wants my support for the throne."

"Of course she does. You're the pint-sized firebrand that's taking Denerim by storm!" He's still chuckling, and she's imagining herself two feet tall, stabbing at merchants' ankles. It's amusing, but the diversion fades quickly. Imagining brings those memories again, an open door.

"Anyway, I said I would give it to her, but only under one condition."

His humor fades into a slight frown. "You told Eamon that you were going to put me on the throne. I mean, I'm not complaining about getting off free, but-"

"Will you marry her?"

Fynnea turns on her best, brightest smile in the face of his dawning horror. Stay in the moment. Smile like you mean it.

"What?"

"Marry her!" Her voice is chipper and light and even though it's all an act, it's a funny enough moment that it soon cheers her to her core. She hopes the feeling lasts.

"Anora. My half-sister-in-law or whatever she is. More importantly, Anora. Mac Tir."

Fynnea nods. "Mmhmm. She thinks you're cute, you know." She's twisting Anora's words here, but the Queen had said that Alistair reminded her of Cailan's boyish charms, and teasing him keeps her engaged.

Alistair groans at first, then pauses. "... Cute."

"Mmhmm. And that she agrees that marrying you will solve most of our problems, as long as you let her do most of the day to day ruling things."

"No problem there," he agrees, and to her pleasure, he looks like he's actually considering it.

Fynnea has never particularly cared about politics, but she has to admit that Alistair, as charming and engaging as he is, might not make a very good ruler. Anora, however, will. But if Alistair is at the queen's side, she's realized, there's a chance that she can press him to unlock the Alienage, to help her people, to do all sorts of things. And now, suddenly, she's interested in politics - at least, what she can get out of it.

"Think about it?" she asks, all hopeful innocence, and while he gives her a strange look, he nods.

She's just about to head back over to Anora's rooms when he asks, "Something happened last night, didn't it?"

She halts, turning to look at him with a light blush creeping in.

"I mean, you seem- happy. Which is just- you do remember what just happened to us, right? And it was worse for you. They didn't- they didn't make you go loony, did they? One of those potions they forced down your throat didn't make you snap?" He's lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and she would have laughed if the weight of Drakon hadn't come charging in with his words.

"No," she assures him, smile falling into a frown. She wraps her arms around her waist, and while Alistair doesn't look happy at the change in her mood, he looks more at ease. "I'm- keeping busy. It's helping. And I've found that if I smile enough, it makes me feel happy enough that those memories don't come back in."

He nods, understanding. "Might be something worth trying," he agrees. "Secret to success, yeah?"

"Yeah, maybe. And last night, Zevran-"

They're interrupted by Arl Eamon and Anora entering the room. Alistair gives her a strange look and she shrugs. I'll tell you later.

Because Arl Eamon has his I've got a plan look, and Anora has her eyes fixed on Fynnea.

"There is unrest in the Alienage," the Queen says. "And they've opened the gates."

--

She whispers something like, "So this is where I grew up," when they pass through the open gates.

It's worse than when she left. There's blood on the streets and some of the crowded, tiny houses look burned out. There are dead dogs and elves in the street, and by the gates they look like they've been treated just the same. As she leads them in deeper, though, things grow a little more clean, a little less horrible, except that there's a shouting crowd and humans in Tevinter robes standing in front of one of the buildings on the square.

The crowd isn't shouting at the humans, though. They're shouting at Shianni.

Fynnea's pace quickens, and it's only out of a sense of confusion that she doesn't run. Shianni is near the back of the crowd, shouting and gesturing at the Tevinter men. She's saying things like hospice and plague and never come out and weren't even sick, but Fynnea only half cares. All she cares is that Shianni is alive, and that something is happening. She doesn't care what that something is. She'll fix it. It doesn't matter. What matters is-

Shianni turns, startled, at the sound of Fynnea's heavy, fast footfalls, and for a moment, she only stares. The crowd shifts, uneasy at Shianni's silence. Some of the elves recognize her, and she smiles in their vague direction, but then Shianni's hands are on her shoulders.

"Maker's breath, Fynnea. You're alive," she breathes.

"Yeah."

"They- they told us that you died at Ostagar. Oh, Fynnea-" and she's in Shianni's arms, eyes closed, inhaling that old, familiar smell, ignoring the acrid stench that clings to everything now. "Cyrion even held a funeral for you. We-"

"Where's dad?"

Shianni takes a deep breath, than says, softly, "These Tevinter shems have him."

Fynnea pulls away to look up (Shianni has always been the slightest bit taller) at her cousin. "... What's going on? What's happened? I've been to Denerim a few times before this, but the gate's been locked-"

"After what you did to that bastard- once you left, they locked down the gates. They restricted our food, and they were punishing us for it all, even though you'd taken the blame. They didn't torch the place, thank the Maker, but-" She sighs, shakes her head. "There were riots. And then this plague, and now these Tevinter shems are taking people into this 'hospice' of theirs. The people they take, they never come out, and some of them aren't even sick. Most of them aren't. I keep trying to tell people- that this doesn't feel right, but they won't listen. They're scared. The Tevinters have taken Valendrian, too."

Fynnea growls out a curse, and Shianni nods, laughing bitterly.

"I'll fix it," Fynnea promises, drawing herself up.

"I know you will." Shianni's laugh turns genuine for a moment, and then Fynnea is in her arms again, held tight. "How long has it been? Your wedding day was- it's been almost a year-"

"... Wedding?" Zevran asks, sounding confused and maybe a bit hurt. Fynnea looks over at him with a sheepish smile.

"It, ah, didn't exactly work out. Cake was horrible-"

"And there were too many rapists," Shianni finishes, and her laugh is soothing and sweet because the last time Fynnea had seen her, she was half-broken.

Zevran nods, turning this over. "Sounds like an exciting story."

A little light seems to go on for Alistair, and he cuts in with, "So that's why you slaughtered the whole estate of the last Arl of Denerim!"

Zevran looks surprised and more than a little amused at that. That's right- he wasn't there when she'd made that quip, storming through Howe's estate halls.

"Er, yeah," Fynnea responds. She steps away from Shianni and rolls her shoulders. "Anyway. Is Soris okay?"

Shianni nods. "He's at your house right now."

"Go join him. Things might get- messy."

Shianni rolls her eyes, and is about to protest when Fynnea frowns. "... You've changed. You're even stronger than before. Your mother-"

And Fynnea nods, cutting her off. Shianni, with one long look at Fynnea and her companions, retreats back towards home.

Fynnea quirks a brow at her team, then gestures with her head. "Let's figure out what they're doing to my home."

--

She sits on her childhood bed once it's all over, holding the slaver documents in her hands, reading them over and over again. She still can't quite believe what she's seen, what she's stopped. Her friends, almost her family, led off in chains across the sea. Valendrian, sold. And it's because of Loghain.

Fynnea doesn't share Alistair's hatred for the man, can't, no matter how hard she tries. She always remembers that short conversation with him at Ostagar, when he told her that the first Warden that King Maric had brought to Ferelden was a woman. That she shouldn't doubt herself. He'd respected her, even though she was a tiny little elf with wavy tattoos and a chip on her shoulder the size of the Anderfels. He'd talked to her for less than five minutes, but he'd respected her.

And yes, since then he has tried to kill them, and when they met again when Arl Eamon arrived with them to call the Landsmeet, he had not seemed quite as respectful, but that moment is clinging to her, haunting her.

It's hard not to hate the man who sold her people into slavery. Almost impossible. But the hatred doesn't come, and her entire body is tense from the contradiction.

It should be so easy to hate him. And yet, she's spoken with his daughter, thought about his actions, and they all make sense, in a perverse sort of way. Close ranks, hold the family- the country- together, cast out those that might be a threat. It makes sense.

But he sold her people into slavery.

She looks up only when she hears her father's voice, and Cyrion is standing there, smiling wistfully. He's thinner than she remembers, and she's not sure whether it's because of his imprisonment or the long months of grief at her 'death'. When she'd unlocked his cage (and fought past the nausea seeing metal bars brought on), he'd caught her up in his arms and cried, ignoring the rest of the world around him.

"You are so like your mother," he murmurs, moving to sit beside her now. "And so much more. She would be so proud of you."

Fynnea manages a soft smile, setting aside the parchment and leaning against him. His arm goes around her. She's shed her armor in favor of her old clothes, kept neat and folded in her trunk. "Thanks."

He nods, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I- have something for you. Of your mother's."

"You already gave me her boots," Fynnea points out with a small laugh. She hasn't been able to wear them much, since her armor is so heavy, but she's kept them close. Zevran had asked about them, once, early on, and she'd only said they were important. Back then, her family seemed like something.... not okay to be talked about. Now, she wants to tell him everything, wants to weave a story and get caught up in it. Maybe then she can forget Drakon for a bit, forget the slavers, forget Loghain, and just see him and home.

Right now, he's somewhere in the alienage with Alistair and Wynne, cleaning up the last of the problem spots. She'd become a demon fighting against the slavers, lost herself in the blood and the anger, in a way she hadn't in a long, long time, and when her father's touch had stopped her and she'd whispered I need to go home, face growing pale and shoulders slouching, no longer defiant, they'd all parted ways. Zevran had guaranteed her he'd take care of everything. And then she'd walked home in a daze, the anger gone and replaced only with confusion and exhaustion. She doesn't remember exactly what happened between when they tore open the door to the 'hospice' and when she sat down on her bed, except that all her momentary grim cheer had slipped away, and everything had become very red and very painful.

Cyrion is pressing something into her hands, a short scabbard, and after a moment, she draws the long dagger out.

"Fang?" she breathes, and her father nods. "But-"

"My dear, you will put it to far better use than I will. It's meant to be used, not hung on the wall like a relic. I should have given it to you when I left, but... I wasn't ready to lose the both of you."

She flushes. "I-" I don't use daggers anymore, but that doesn't matter. It's her mother's, and she sheathes it and hugs it to her chest. This homecoming has been hard, sweet and painful. The day of her wedding, all she'd wanted was to run away, to escape, to go on grand adventures. And now she has, and all she wants is to curl up in her bed and sleep for years, to wake up and have it all be a dream, except for the assassin who'd wake up next to her.

Her father's smiling still, and he hugs her again. They stay leaning against each other, hearts beating slow, breaths even. Home.

Finally, she pulls back and smiles. "So, how are Soris and Valora?"

Cyrion's expression freezes, then falls. "She- was taken. Early. By the Tevinters."

Fynnea flinches. "O-oh. Maker, I'm sorry-"

He shakes his head. "You weren't here."

It's not meant to be an accusation, but it feels like one, and she draws her legs up onto the bed, curling around them.

Cyrion frowns, then shakes his head. "No, let's not focus on the bad that has happened. Fynnea- tell me about this elf you're traveling with." He sounds determined, and a little nervous.

"... ah?"

"He was very protective of you during that fight."

"Was he?" Fynnea slowly looks up, trying to bite back a smile.

"Yes," Cyrion says, and laughs, shaking his head. His laugh soothes her a little, and she uncurls again. "Are you really so surprised?"

"No," she admits, returning his smile, then looking up towards the ceiling. A mobile she and Soris once made out of bits of wood and twine is still hanging above her bed. "He's- I love him."

"... I must admit, I'm glad you've fallen for your elf companion, and not the amusing knight."

"Oh, really? Even though Zevran's Antivan?"

"Ah, I thought I recognized the accent." Cyrion laughs, but nods. "I approve."

"He's an assassin," she points out, watching him, testing him. "... And we met because he tried to kill me."

"Did you now," and his expression does fall a little.

"And since then, he has been the most loyal man I've ever met. And," she finishes, with a bit of a grin, "he loves me, too."

Cyrion stares a moment, then shakes his head, chuckling. "Your mother would be so proud."

"Proud of what?" Zevran asks, the front door of the small house shutting almost silently behind him. Cyrion jumps and Fynnea just laughs.

"We were just talking about you," she says with a grin and a wink, and Zevran puffs himself up.

"But of course- how could you talk of anyone else?"

Cyrion's not entirely sure what to make of him, and he excuses himself, flushing. As he passes Zevran, though, Zevran reaches out and touches his arm. "Have no fears, Ser Tabris. I am the only one allowed to defile your daughter's honor."

"Zevran-" Fynnea warns.

Cyrion nods and- laughs, looking stunned, amazed, and completely ready to just give up. "Very well. As long as there are grandchildren, yes? For the good of the Alienage."

It's Zevran's turn to look a little stunned, but Cyrion is gone before he can fire off another quip, and Fynnea's laughing at him.

"I haven't told him," Fynnea says once she's calmed down, "that being a Warden sort of- removes children from the equation." Zevran quirks a brow. "I haven't told him a lot of things."

"You've been in here for half the day," he points out, coming to join her on her bed, sitting in the spot Cyrion had so recently vacated. "We've cleared demons out of the Orphanage while you've reconnected."

"Demons? The- well, they're cleared out, right?"

"Indeed. A very nice templar assisted us. But- half a day, and you were only just telling him about me? For shame, my Warden. I should come first."

"We- actually didn't talk much," she confesses, gesturing to the documents on her other side. "I've been reading those, and staring blankly at walls. He made lunch at some point, and then we finally started talking a few minutes before you came in."

"Perhaps I should- leave, and bring him back to you?"

Fynnea shakes her head. "No. We- we've never had much to talk about. I think we've covered everything we were going to cover."

He quirks a brow, leaning back against the wall behind them. "Not much in common?"

"No. I'm more like my mother, as everybody likes to point out." They've barely spoken of her past - once, she'd mentioned her mother as a jewel. He'd laughed, and mentioned that he could make no such claim. She'd avoided the topic after learning of his childhood. "She's the one who taught me to fight. Dad thinks that- she'd like you a lot. She always liked adventure stories."

He chuckles. "We are that," he agrees. "How- are you holding up?" he adds after a moment's thought. "Coming home to find this- you are, of course, not happy. Are you alright?"

She nods after a moment. "It's- I wish I had come sooner, but I've done what needed to be done. And my family is safe. That's- good." She looks over at the documents again. "I just can't believe that Loghain would do this."

Zevran hums, nodding. "And- how are you dealing with what happened earlier?"

Drakon. She shrugs. "I'm fine."

"You've barely given yourself a moment to sit still since you woke up," he points out. "I've been watching. And Alistair, he is not doing so well, either."

"Oh, I'm stronger than Alistair."

"Of course," he agrees, smirking. "But-"

She nods, cutting him off. "I- it's not the best thing I've ever been through."

"No," he agrees, again, beginning to rub at her lower back.

"I almost panicked when I tried drinking some ale Oghren offered me this morning," she murmurs, frowning. "I was afraid it was one of the poisons they gave me. How pathetic is that?"

"Not pathetic at all, my Warden." He takes hold of her wrist and tugs her back towards him. She freezes, and he quickly lets go with a curse.

She stares down at her wrist.

"I-"

"They restrained you?"

She nods, mutely.

"Then I will not."

"But I like-"

"Liked," he corrects, gently. "Torture- changes us. Yes?"

"But-"

He shakes his head, firmly. "We can, if you like, push it later. There's a chance it will fade. But it's not something you should be frightened of, on the eve of your great battle."

She sighs and rubs at her wrist, frowning. "Will you-"

"Leave?" She nods. "Because of this? No. No, I- No." Zevran smiles, beckoning her close, and she finds she can lean back against him without a problem, even have an arm draped around her waist. As long as it's not tight, she feels, she'll be okay. "My Warden," he murmurs in her ear, "I will never leave, if you'll allow it."

Fynnea makes a small, pleased sound, unable to help her grin. She nestles back against him, and he cradles her gently, lips playing along the curve and swoop of her ear. There's that same feeling of home and it's the best thing she's felt since Drakon. Since before, even. "You-" she breathes, "You should help me pierce my ear. So I can wear your earring."

He chuckles, and she can feel it throughout her body. "Oh?"

"So I always have a piece of you with me."

"I like that thought," Zevran purrs. "Let me up, then, and give me the hoop."

"... Now?"

"Why not?" His smile is infectious and she grudgingly leaves his warmth. She has to get up from the bed to retrieve the jewelry from her pack, and he follows. "You look so different in normal clothing," he says.

She flushes. "Good different?"

"I'm a little afraid of somebody putting an arrow through your heart, but that's just habit."

Fynnea nods. "Like in Orzammar."

"Like in Orzammar. Where did you get the dress you were wearing then, for that matter? I've never seen it, before or since."

"It was my wedding dress," Fynnea confesses with a laugh, and grins at his surprised stare. "I was wearing it when Duncan conscripted me, bunched up under the armor I took from the Arl's guards. I kept it- I also kept what was to be my wedding ring." She has the earring and the band stored together, and she pulls both out to show him.

"What did happen to your betrothed?" he asks, plucking up the gold and avoiding the iron carefully.

"He-" It's too hard to explain without context, and as Zevran goes over to the cooking fire and holds the earring out in the flame with tongs, she relates the events of her wedding. Shianni hitting Vaughan in the head with an urn, her own less than enthusiastic reaction to her arranged marriage, the return of Vaughan and waking up in that cold, stone room. Soris's timely appearance, and the slaughter of the guards.

Reaching Nelaros just as his head fell to the ground.

"Was it a relief?" he asks, and she flushes with the littlest surge of shame.

"Yes. I wish he could have lived, knowing now that I would have been a Grey Warden anyway, but- at the time, yes."

She describes the run through the rest of the estate, finally finding Shianni sobbing and Vaughan rather pleased with himself. Zevran guides her back to the bed as she speaks, the now-cooled metal back in his hand, and he kneels on the mattress beside him. She pauses, and he tells her to continue.

"He offered me money. To let him keep my cousin, my friends. Money. I couldn't- sell them."

"Many would have taken the offer, in your circumstances," Zevran murmurs, taking the lobe of her left ear in his hand.

"Even after proving that you could take down his entire estate's guards?" She rolled her eyes. "I tore him apart. I was too late, though. Shianni- Ah!"

There's a surge of fear as pain radiates from her ear, but Zevran's fingers are gentle against her skin, and he's murmuring soft sounds to her. She's able to keep- barely- from lashing out at him. She stops her fist inches from his head, and he's able to touch it with a finger, guide it to her lap. He kisses the piercing. "This is what the Guardian was pressing you about, yes?" he murmurs, turning her back to her story. She nods.

"But Shianni doesn't- blame me. She's just glad we got there at all. And we saved the other women, he hadn't gotten to them yet. And when the guards came, I took all the blame- and Duncan conscripted me before they could drag me off."

Zevran nods. "And the rest is the great tale of Fynnea the Hot-Headed, yes?"

"Yes."

He sits back, chuckling, looking at her, her ear.

"Do we need to apply poultice?" Fynnea asks, lifting her fingers to her ear, feeling the tender, blood-streaked skin and the smooth metal.

"No, it might encourage the skin to knit to the metal. It will take time to heal naturally- you must turn the metal a little every day, to keep your skin from attaching- and you must leave the metal in. But- it looks wonderful." He grins, and she finds herself grinning back, panic gone.

She's still holding the wedding ring in her hand, the metal making circular indentations in her skin. She clutches it tight.

8