Couper la Poire en Deux (5/6)
Jun. 10th, 2011 10:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
serindranaTitle: Couper la Poire en Deux (5/6)
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Pairing: Cauthrien/Zevran
Chapter Rating: T
Series Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 5481
Warnings: None
Summary: What happens when Cauthrien leaves her sword in an Orlesian brothel and Zevran doesn't trust her to continue the mission? (ff.net & Ao3)
Notes: Post-game. This chapter has a few sections of Orlesian towards the end, all with linked footnotes.
The title translates to, literally, cut the pear in two - an idiom for compromise, or meeting halfway. All the "Orlesian" in the fic is being translated by Adrienne and IrishLassie. All the "Antivan" is courtesy of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
smaragdina.
Thank you so much tosmaragdina for being my beta! ♥
Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6
"Explain to me, again, how you had the time to get food, clothing, and Maker knows what else, and yet you couldn't be bothered to retrieve anything useful, like my sword?" Cauthrien snaps, fingers working intently at unraveling the fabric that makes up the ruffled smalls she's finally been able to replace with plain, comfortable ones. She's sitting on the narrow bed, shoulders tensed, bare to the waist in only a pair of too-short linen pants. She would have been fully clothed and out the door by now, but Zevran is sitting at the table on top of the rest of the clothing he's brought back for her.
Zevran shrugs. He's busying himself not with helping (or answering) her but by attempting to transform some Jader street food into something closer to a meal. He has brought back the yogurt substance he'd mentioned at the River Dane and is combining it with cooked meat, some vegetables, and some orange powder that she isn't sure she trusts. The whole thing looks like a mess and she's a hair's breadth away from stalking over to him and simply upending the table.
"Thief," she says instead, pointedly.
"Ah, but if I were to retrieve your things, I would truly live up to the name!" He shakes his head, not looking over to her. "And I have brought useful things back. Food is useful. So are my daggers."
"And your armor," she comments, thinly. "Oh, yes. Very useful. And yet I am sitting here with barely anything beyond these Maker-damned smalls, and-"
He finally looks over to her. "And you look quite fetching like that." He smirks, letting her see him leer, likely in an attempt to diffuse the tension that has been ratcheting up ever since he returned. "The Alamarri once ran into battle with only paint on their breasts, you know. I wouldn't mind applying some for you."
She glares.
He sighs and turns back to the table. "I could not retrieve them, querida, because your sword is larger than I am and the madame would not appreciate me stopping in after the scene you caused the other day. Patience. I will find a way in, or, if necessary, ask one of our companions to take care of it."
Patience. They've been living in this single room together for over two days, and while at first they passed the time in bed (or on the floor, or on the table), Cauthrien soon could only think about her armor and, worse yet, the Summer Sword, still languishing in a Jader brothel bedroom. Zevran has attempted to distract her with kisses and with stories, luring her into talking more about her time working for Loghain, and filling her head with more adventures than she has ever cared to know about Georgiana Cousland.
And then he'd gone out for news and supplies and left her locked inside with only these damnable ruffled smalls and a corset that she could barely get into on her own.
Whatever closeness they may have found with their bodies Cauthrien's tension and frustration has torn asunder once more. She rises from the bed now, tossing the ragged mass of ruffles to the mattress as she begins to pace.
She is starting to think he wants to keep her trapped in here.
"Then tell me why we did not send my things out with one of our companions? And why you have not asked one of them to retrieve them since?" she asks.
"To the first, you were not supposed to start a brawl. To the second, the madame would not respond well to one of ours coming back, even if it were not me, and would not hand them over to a stranger. When we have time, we shall go, apologize, pay for damages, and then run out the back with your things before she can count the gold. But until then, we wait." Zevran lifts his head once more to watch her as she walks by. "We cannot move yet, at any rate; I am almost certain I was being followed for a short stretch."
"Perfect," she mutters. All the more reason, in her mind, to press the attack; to wait until the enemy let his guard down might take weeks or even months, and with each passing day, the threat of discovery grows for every member of their team still out in the city. "We can't stay in here until we kill each other."
"I do not intend to kill you," he says with a small laugh. "Merely keep you penned up. This is not the time for you to go rushing in blindly."
"I would not do it blindly. Gather our mercenaries and I will plan-"
"Querida," he interrupts, rising from his seat and turning to face her full on. She bites down the urge to dart forward and grab her things; he would stop her without a second thought, and she does not appreciate the idea of him tripping her up and following her down to the floor. She can be too easily distracted that way, in her opinion. So she stands, instead, and crosses her arms protectively over her chest.
"What?"
He advances on her, all lithe limbs and easy motions that belie the tension she can now see in the tightness of his smile, the hardening of his eyes. Her ability to read him has increased tenfold in the two days they've spent trapped together.
"I have questions for you. We are being pursued by an enemy who has proven to be more dangerous than I first expected. If you want us to move- if you would like to actually see him dead- I must know that I can trust you."
She frowns. "Of course you can."
"Ah, no, I'm afraid I cannot. Why, exactly, did our Comte's name get you to come with me in the first place? I've been wondering ever since the queen told me to place the name before you to draw you out. And you do not strike me as being exactly like your lord, wanting death for all Orlesians who dare even look at Ferelden. No, your distrust and hatred is of the generalized but lazy sort. A strike against somebody if they catch your ire for other reasons. And yet, the other night, you sang a Fereldan rebellion song, headbutted a Chevalier, and started an all-out brawl while unarmed and wearing nothing but your smalls and some paint. That is not like you."
She stiffens, fighting the urge to look away.
"So, who is he? I need to know, querida, before you bring all of Jader down around us."
"I thought we were done talking about the brothel," she grits out. It had been the first bone of contention between them, him teasing her about it whenever she threatened to march right back there in her smalls and retrieve her things.
"We are! I speak of the future. Who is he? He didn't recognize you, so I doubt you have a personal history with the man - one of Loghain's opponents? An old nemesis?" Zevran comes to stand only inches away from her, his hand reaching out to find her waist.
She steps back and it's a long, silent moment before she says, quietly, "No, he left before Loghain forced the rest of the Chevaliers out. He was given a portion of land that included my family's farm. My mother-"
Zevran's expression flashes irritation, then anger. "Cauthrien."
She continues without heeding him. "Her sister was taken by him and never came home again. The taxes were bad enough that all of the crops would go to paying Lorraine, fattening up his house, and we'd have nothing to eat. My father nearly died as a young man, trying to steal food back from Lorraine's estate. I never met him myself, though. He left just shy of two years after I was born. But the stories..." She glowers, the memories still just as strong as when she was a young woman, just as strong as when she'd made their plans in Gherlen's pass.
"And it wasn't just my family. The whole town still hadn't recovered when I was growing up. We'd destroyed the soil, trying to meet the quotas Lorraine set for us. We were forced to clear the forests, losing all of our hunting in exchange for the space to begin crop rotations again. It almost didn't work.
"The day I met Loghain was the day after we'd chopped down the last of the trees on our land. I was going out to burn the underbrush that was left, and he was riding in to town to assess the extent of the damage. And then people- people that I knew, had grown up with, attacked him because of his armor and the way he sat his horse, because he looked Orlesian, because he looked rich. Because we were desperate and scared even though it was thirteen years after Lorraine had left."
Zevran has not come any closer, seemingly pinned by her glare, but his expression has turned dark and thoughtful. He does not look away or flinch.
"And that is why I took the first opportunity to strike him. I can't do these subtle ploys of yours- I want to meet him in battle and break him, and instead, I'm sitting on his lap and he's joking about taming his 'little Fereldan bird'. I only wish I'd managed to do more damage before his guards got around him."
She smiles, grimly, then walks past him towards the chair. He doesn't stop her, turning to watch as she fishes out the breast band and tunic he's brought her. His eyes fix on her hands or her face, not on her muscles, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted body, as she dresses.
When she's done, he says, "You should have told me all of this before we even crossed the Hafter."
"And have you abandon me on the side of the road? No." She shakes her head. "I will finish this mission. I will not be- cast aside."
"Because you are a soldier of Ferelden?" he asks, testing with a wicked smile that means little.
She rounds on him and stalks close. "Because I admit that I failed the other day and I will right it."
"And if you are not fit to be on this job? If you are just a liability? I could lock you away in here until he is dead. What would you do if I told you that our lovely queen has her father's armor and you must talk to her to retrieve it, not me?"
She flushes with anger, pushing closer still. "Unfit to do this job," she mutters. "Me, unfit? And who are you to speak, coming in to Orlais not knowing your mark's history, and not speaking Orlesian?"
"Two languages is more than enough for any man," he says with a rough laugh. "And at any rate, the Game, it is not for me. Too... self-pleasuring? And for the wrong people."
She snarls at his deflection. When she steps forward again, he steps back for the first time. "You mean, not you."
"Haha, you understand me so well!" He sounds the slightest bit breathless now, and she hopes that it is a response to her anger and not to her filling his tall, muscled swordswoman fantasies he's told her so much about.
"I understand that you are as much a selfish idiot as I am proving to be," she says, voice dropping to nearly a whisper, as she catches him against the wall.
Carefully, very carefully, he reaches out to touch her waist again.
"Calm down, querida," he says, fingers inching up beneath the fabric of her tunic. "We are in too deep for me to lock you away now. But I need you to master yourself. Next time, we cannot fail- and so next time, I need to know what I am working with, and know that you will not break rank.
"A soldier of Ferelden can understand that, yes? It is not merely Antivan logic?" He tilts his face up to hers, quirks a brow, moves his hips against hers.
She opens her mouth to respond, then frowns. He is not looking up at her with playful, amused lust or even interest. If she were to lean in, she thinks she might even catch an edge of fear.
That- isn't what she wants.
Those times he came to her as she attempted to drink her shame away are long gone. She will not launch herself at him or drag him kicking and screaming from her space. Her wounded pride that made her press him to the wall the other night had been gentler than this and more eagerly received.
He has earned whatever place he occupies with her and so she backs off, sucks in a deep breath, and runs her hand through her hair, loose and lank with only the barest hint of the curls he'd put there.
"I understand," she says, looking away and bowing her head just slightly.
She tries not to see how Zevran relaxes and walks past her with just the slightest catch in his step. "Good, good. Then tomorrow, we will plan. And I will retrieve your things, yes? And then we can all go in to glorious battle by the end of the week."
He doesn't look at her when he speaks and her stomach twists in a mix of embarrassment and uncertainty. She follows him to the table, sits when he indicates.
He falls into the chair across from her and spears a piece of the cream and orange colored meat with one of his daggers. It's in his hand before she can see him draw it, and a moment later he offers it out to her.
"Let us eat, shall we?" he murmurs, and she thinks she sees the smallest of smiles when she grudgingly fits her lips around the tip of his blade.
--
The next afternoon finds them sitting in an alley three streets over from their safe house. They have a sheet of vellum unrolled between them on top of a box they've requisitioned from the pile that stops up one entrance to the alley. Zevran has fetched it from a drop box he arranged their first night in Jader, and as Cauthrien examines it, she mentally places the map in what she already knows of Jader's layout. It's a sketch of Lorraine's city estate, and an accompanying note says that there's been no evidence of him leaving the city. It's promising and the map's details are crisp and done with a confident hand.
"Do you have any new plans?" she asks, looking up the assassin sitting across from her, one leg bent at the knee and propping up his forearm.
"Mm, there's the rather straightforward one where you and the other people with lots of armor and pointy swords stand at the front door and make a lot of noise, and I sneak in the back. Or, you and the other people with lots of armor and pointy swords stand at the back door and make noise, while I sneak in the front. Slightly less expected, yes?" He grins, then shrugs. "Other than those, no. Not particularly. If it weren't for your tender temper, I'd suggest walking you in the front door to finish what you started in the brothel, but you'd need to behave to stay out of his dungeon. If he let you in alive at all."
Cauthrien does her best not to respond at the barb. Dinner the night before has left them in an uneasy sort of truce. She'd fallen into bed with him again but still couldn't shake the feeling that he had been trying to appease her.
"And you can't go in on your own while I and the other armored people get ready for a quick getaway?"
"Too many guards. This is a job for more than one person, querida. Another assassin, I would be fine. But instead, I require the whole lot of you soldiers."
Cauthrien nods and bends back to the map, going over again what she knows about Zevran's team. The translators have been useful only as ears within the city; Cauthrien served as translator at the brothel, and since then, Orlesian has been the last thing on her and Zevran's minds. She considers ordering them out of Jader, lest they become targets. More important, though, are the mercenaries. Three trained to be fast and quick; the others are all metal-clad and battle-hardened. Intimidating, yes, but not optimum if any sort of stealth is required. She needs to know what their exact skills are beyond swordplay and armor mending, and the light infantry she has may not be trained to sneak, only to dodge and wear lighter armor. She knows their strengths and weaknesses in storytelling, in drinking, in sparring, but not in group combat. She feels unprepared and frowns.
She is determined to figure this out- not only to convince Zevran to trust her, but also for her own pride.
There's a sound at the mouth of the alley, an awkward coughing, and both Cauthrien and Zevran look up, Zevran's hand going to a dagger at his belt and Cauthrien reaching for the light sword he's lent her for her comfort. It's only Janine, the almost-Sister, and she waves before moving any deeper into their hiding hole.
"I've got news," she says. Her blonde hair is cropped short and she looks almost like a round-faced young man as she leans against one of the walls in her massive armor.
"And I have a question," Cauthrien returns, rising to her feet. "You said you trained to be a Sister?"
Janine purses her lips for a moment, then shrugs. "Yes. What of it?"
"Did you ever sneak into templar training?" Cauthrien hears Zevran laugh, a delighted, honest sound.
Janine cracks a smile as well. "I did indeed. My brother's a templar proper. For a while, I even considered moving to the Marches so I could train, too, but I think a few skills here and there serve me better than living in a Circle. Think we'll run into mages, commander?" She's a steady woman, good-humored and just the slightest bit too crude and forceful to ever look right in peach and pink, and Cauthrien is glad to have her.
Cauthrien nods. "It's a distinct possibility. I'd prefer to have every advantage possible - it's looking like we're just going to be running distractions, and I don't want to lose anybody to that."
"Yes, ser. I'll practice a bit before the big day." She cuts a short salute, fist raised to her temple, before looking between Cauthrien and Zevran. "Though the news I have might change your mind somewhat."
Zevran stretches and rises from where he's sprawled. "Go on."
Janine looks down, wiping at a spot of imagined dirt on the sash she wears around her waist. "It looks like the Comte is looking for you, commander. And is trying to find out exactly who you are."
Cauthrien's jaw clenches. "I see."
Zevran frowns. "Expected, though. At least, not surprising. We'll just have to keep you tucked away." Cauthrien glares for just a moment before she can hide it. Zevran pretends to have not seen it, continuing, "How is he looking for her?"
"He asked the madame of the brothel, of course. And his men have been asking around- and have become increasing more... forceful in their inquiries."
"Does he have any reason to know you're associated with us?" Cauthrien asks once she is sure her voice will hold and not give away any of the surge of anger racing through her. The thought of him giving chase sends her skin crawling and her fingers itching, and the image of him taking her men is unacceptable.
The mercenary shakes her head, though, and Cauthrien's sudden fear subsides just a fraction. "Not that I'm aware of."
She hadn't been at the brothel that night. But the others- Zevran meets Cauthrien's eyes and nods. "Tell everybody who was there the other night to go to ground," he says. "It would be best if you were the only one to continue talking with us."
Cauthrien sighs and rubs at her temples, then crouches back down by the map. "We'll need to move quickly, before he gets any closer. Zevran-"
He holds up a hand. "Yes, yes. I will take care of it. Janine, fill Cauthrien in on any other news, if you will? I'll return shortly, though possibly with bruises and whip marks." His lips twitch into a small, tense smile and his eyes turn in the direction of Lorraine's estate for just a moment. She isn't sure what the look on his face means. But then he laughs, turns to her, and says "Put me back together before morning, yes?" with an arched brow and a familiar, lascivious smile. And then he slips into the growing shadows of the alleyway and out into the main street.
Cauthrien watches after him. "Void take him," she mutters, and Janine laughs. Cauthrien shoots her a glare. "He doesn't tell me exactly what his plans are- for all I know, he could be going to assassinate the Comte right now, and not to get my armor."
"But if he succeeds, we all go home sooner and happier." Janine comes to sit near her, eyes drifting over the vellum. "... That looks about right."
"You've been by?"
"A few times, when I could find somewhere else to be heading that passed conveniently close by. Still, our friend the cartographer's made a few mistakes." The woman indicates two spots near the back. "This hill is much steeper than he noted - and if we approach after a storm, it will be too slick to climb and too dangerous if we should fall near it."
Cauthrien leans forward to make a few notes, sinking with relief into planning the logistics of a strike. Just like arresting the Warden, she tells herself, but with an assassin holding the back and an enemy who is nowhere near Georgiana Cousland's level of dangerous.
--
Zevran doesn't come back that night.
When dusk falls and Cauthrien is still without armor or weapon, Janine leaves her secreted away in the house. She returns before midnight with a mail shirt, a set of second-hand leathers that barely fits Cauthrien's tall frame, and a sword that has been 'liberated' from somebody Janine will not mention in any detail. They sit in the gloom of the house with the map between them, peering at it, waiting for it to tell them something new. They don't speak about the missing assassin, despite the growing weight of nervousness that bows Cauthrien's shoulders and makes her begin to pace again, but when Cauthrien asks if Janine is going to leave, the mercenary shrugs and says that perhaps it is not as safe on the streets as they had expected.
Janine takes first watch.
The next morning is much the same. No assassin, small talk, plans that rest on empty assumptions. Cauthrien suggests for the first time procuring horses to make a quick escape, meeting all of the noncombatants a day's or more travel outside of Jader. They throw the idea back and forth, Cauthrien considering what funds Zevran brought and where they're currently distributed, Janine trying to decide how to go about notifying everybody and buying the animals without Lorraine noticing.
As the sun sets, they decide to send the noncombatants out and leave the how of the horses for later. Janine leaves with promises of returning quickly and, with any luck, with news, dinner, and Zevran.
Cauthrien paces again once she's alone. Her hair is pulled back as tightly as she can manage it, the tension giving her the slightest of headaches. It's a distraction, much like planning with Janine. Zevran's disappearance has left her more than unbalanced; it's left her scared. He could be dead, after all, or perhaps worse- or he could simply have given up and left. The last thought makes something inside of her twinge. She thinks it's her pride.
She keeps coming back to his expression when she told him about Lorraine, and later, his expression just before he'd disappeared. Something had been there, and she'd missed it.
She's popped every joint in her fingers, moved the chairs, gone through five sets of exercises, and sat staring at the door for over half an hour by the time Janine comes back, alone. She tosses Cauthrien a peach and says nothing until Cauthrien has taken a bite, chewed, and swallowed.
And then she slides a bag from her shoulder. She pulls from it a small box, which she sets on the lone table, still covered by the map, and a folded note sealed with burgundy wax.
"These are for you," Janine says, and her expression is blank. "The Comte's men found one of ours. Left him mostly alone, but said to get these to you."
Cauthrien comes close and picks up the letter. She stares at the seal- lapwing and wheat, now too-familiar- and hesitates before breaking it open.
Petite fereldaine avec les bras d’une soldat:
Je regrette sérieusement la nature violente de notre séparation l’autre jour. Je vous ai cherchée
depuis ce temps-là pour présenter mes excuses, pour réaffirmer mon offre de vous enseigner quelques nouvelles chansons, et pour retour plusieurs des vos affaires. Vous voyez, Vous avez oublié votre armure et votre épée à deux mains—pas de soucis, j’ai prodigué des soins à eux. Mais le style de l’épée semblait familier, et après un examen plus approfondi, je me suis rendu compte que c’est une Vercenne! Une Vercenne avec une histoire très intéressante, en effet.[1]
Cauthrien's blood runs cold and she stops reading. If Lorraine has her arms-
Then what did Zevran find when he returned to the brothel? She swallows hard and forces her eyes to focus on the scrawling script.
Qui peut posséder cet épée? J’ai demandé autour de moi—j’espérais de la retour et de voir votre visage ravissant encore une fois—mais imaginez ma surprise quand j’ai découvert que non seulement personne ne sait où vous êtes, mais en plus que vous avez déjà une petite peu de réputation.
Vous êtes vraiment le jouet, le chouchou du grand Loghain Mac Tir? Nous faisions le deuil avec une grande ferveur! Chacune de ses possessions mérite un peu de respect.[2]
Janine looks up at Cauthrien's barked, nearly hysterical laughter. It's been a surprisingly long time since she's been accused of being Loghain's toy this directly, and for a moment, the shock of it overwhelms the frantic questions of how much else he could know and what that might mean to him.
Great respect.
She doesn't want his 'great respect' or anything it might entail.
Mais je divague. J’essayais de vous trouver, mais votre ami aux oreilles pointues refuse de donner un nom. Heureusement que vos autres collègues ne sont pas aussi discrètes que vous, ou aussi peu communicatif que lui.
J’espère que cette invitation vous trouve bien. J’aimerais bien vous revoir—porteriez-vous de la soie et de la dentelle une fois de plus? Mais laissez le visage exposé, je voudrais voir votre expression.
J’espère que vous trouvez le paquet inclus avec ce message persuasif, Cauthrien. Je vous attends impatiemment. Vous allez me trouver chez moi—pas de cacher, pas de tricher.
Avec nostalgie,
Albret Lorraine [3]
Cauthrien pales once more as she continues reading, her eyes fixing on her own name, then on pointy-eared friend. Her fingers tighten on the paper, nearly tearing it before she drops it onto the table. She picks up the small box that accompanied it, her fingers sliding over the fine wood. The same lapwing surrounded by stalks of wheat is engraved on the top. She feels her throat go dry.
"What did it say?" Janine asks, looking between the letter and her. "The man it was given to said the Comte's messenger had told him nothing except to get it to you. What-"
"He has Zevran," Cauthrien says, flatly. "Along with my armor and my sword. And my name."
Janine blinks once, twice, then hisses, "Shit."
Cauthrien nods tightly in agreement, one finger dancing along the clasp.
"And the box?" Her voice has become the slightest bit harder and she steps up close beside Cauthrien.
"A persuasive gift, apparently. He wants me to come visit him." She shakes her head, lips set in a firm line, and sets the box down. She won't open it. She doesn't want to know what's inside, what Lorraine might imagine is a lure to her. So instead, she looks up and meets Janine's gaze and says, "Though he didn't specify alone, even if he did request I do it in my smalls," with her lips quirking into an angry, wicked smile.
Janine snorts. "Arrogant bastard." But her words are hollow and her eyes fix on the box even as Cauthrien's smile falls and she walks away from the table, arms crossed over her chest and finger tapping irritably against her borrowed armor.
Cauthrien doesn't look at her when she says, flatly, "We make plans tomorrow. This ends by nightfall." She will not let this be a mad rush to save Zevran, even as her hatred for Lorraine claws its way up into her throat and tries to wrap itself around her brain and take over entirely. No, she can't rush in blindly. This mission has taken her dignity, one of her most cherished possessions, and now a man who brought her out of the depths of her own despair and forced her back onto her feet.
"And if this is a trap?" Janine asks, her jaw tight and tense.
"If?" Cauthrien shakes her head. "No, it is. We can only hope that his arrogance makes him sloppy. And that we can get Zevran out. If he's functional, that's all the better. We'll probably need him." Her voice twists over the words, wavering in pitch, and she quashes it into submission with a tightening of her jaw.
Janine lifts the box, looking over to Cauthrien with what she finally registers as fear. Well-hidden, but there. "And this?"
Cauthrien is about to say to leave it, burn it, but she watches how Janine's fingers at first tremble and then clutch angrily at the wood. The box might only hold flowers or frilly smalls, anyway, and she hisses to herself that knowing everything before going in is what is most important. So she holds out her hands and Janine passes it back to her. Her thumb dances over the clasp again, hesitates, then flicks it up. She eases the lid open.
And grimaces, every muscle in her body going rigid with anger. "Oh, Maker's mercy."
There are two fingers inside, tanned with nails trimmed just like Zevran's, with small scars and callouses. Cauthrien knows his hands too well to doubt their owner, but included beside them, cushioned on plush velvet, is the delicate pointed tip of an elf's ear.
"What is it?" Janine asks, reaching out a hand, her own expression turning to more obvious panic when Cauthrien's face pales.
Cauthrien turns the box to her.
"What are the chances that those aren't- his," Janine finally gets out, looking away from the box in Cauthrien's hands. Her fear has been replaced by fury.
"They're his. Lorraine wouldn't lie about having Zevran. It would be too dangerous. He has him." Cauthrien closes the box and sets it down, carefully. She tries not to think about what it might mean, about Nicholas the soldier-turned-translator who can't hold a sword anymore, about people she has seen broken and has broken herself. Zevran is strong, she reminds herself. Strong in a way she doesn't entirely understand, perhaps, but he will be alive, and he will recover.
"Tomorrow night," she repeats, voice hard and eyes fixed on the tip of Zevran's ear, her blood pounding war drums in her head.
--
[1] To the little Fereldan with the arms of a soldier:
I truly regret the rather violent nature of our parting the other day. I have been searching to find you ever since to present my excuses, to reaffirm my offer that I teach you a few new songs, and to return a few of your things. You see, you forgot your armor and sword- no worries, I took care of them. But the sword's style seemed so familiar, and after looking it over, I realized that it is a Vercenne! A Vercenne with quite a history, too.
[2] Who could own this sword? I began asking around, hoping to return it and to see your lovely face once more- but imagine my surprise when I find that, not only does nobody seem to know where you are, but that you have the slightest bit of a reputation already.
Are you truly the plaything, the pet of the great Loghain Mac Tir? We mourned his loss so fervently! Anything of his deserves great respect.
[3] But I ramble. I have been trying to track you down, but your pointy-eared friend will not even give me a name. Luckily, your other associates are nowhere near as discreet as you have been, nor as uncommunicative as he is.
I hope that this invitation finds you well. I would very much like to see you again- would you wear the silk and lace once more? But please leave your face uncovered so I can see.
I hope you find the package included with this note persuasive, Cauthrien. I will await you eagerly. You will find me at my home - no hiding, no tricks.
Longingly (lit: with nostalgia),
Albret Lorraine
6
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Pairing: Cauthrien/Zevran
Chapter Rating: T
Series Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 5481
Warnings: None
Summary: What happens when Cauthrien leaves her sword in an Orlesian brothel and Zevran doesn't trust her to continue the mission? (ff.net & Ao3)
Notes: Post-game. This chapter has a few sections of Orlesian towards the end, all with linked footnotes.
The title translates to, literally, cut the pear in two - an idiom for compromise, or meeting halfway. All the "Orlesian" in the fic is being translated by Adrienne and IrishLassie. All the "Antivan" is courtesy of
smaragdina.Thank you so much to
smaragdina for being my beta! ♥Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6
"Explain to me, again, how you had the time to get food, clothing, and Maker knows what else, and yet you couldn't be bothered to retrieve anything useful, like my sword?" Cauthrien snaps, fingers working intently at unraveling the fabric that makes up the ruffled smalls she's finally been able to replace with plain, comfortable ones. She's sitting on the narrow bed, shoulders tensed, bare to the waist in only a pair of too-short linen pants. She would have been fully clothed and out the door by now, but Zevran is sitting at the table on top of the rest of the clothing he's brought back for her.
Zevran shrugs. He's busying himself not with helping (or answering) her but by attempting to transform some Jader street food into something closer to a meal. He has brought back the yogurt substance he'd mentioned at the River Dane and is combining it with cooked meat, some vegetables, and some orange powder that she isn't sure she trusts. The whole thing looks like a mess and she's a hair's breadth away from stalking over to him and simply upending the table.
"Thief," she says instead, pointedly.
"Ah, but if I were to retrieve your things, I would truly live up to the name!" He shakes his head, not looking over to her. "And I have brought useful things back. Food is useful. So are my daggers."
"And your armor," she comments, thinly. "Oh, yes. Very useful. And yet I am sitting here with barely anything beyond these Maker-damned smalls, and-"
He finally looks over to her. "And you look quite fetching like that." He smirks, letting her see him leer, likely in an attempt to diffuse the tension that has been ratcheting up ever since he returned. "The Alamarri once ran into battle with only paint on their breasts, you know. I wouldn't mind applying some for you."
She glares.
He sighs and turns back to the table. "I could not retrieve them, querida, because your sword is larger than I am and the madame would not appreciate me stopping in after the scene you caused the other day. Patience. I will find a way in, or, if necessary, ask one of our companions to take care of it."
Patience. They've been living in this single room together for over two days, and while at first they passed the time in bed (or on the floor, or on the table), Cauthrien soon could only think about her armor and, worse yet, the Summer Sword, still languishing in a Jader brothel bedroom. Zevran has attempted to distract her with kisses and with stories, luring her into talking more about her time working for Loghain, and filling her head with more adventures than she has ever cared to know about Georgiana Cousland.
And then he'd gone out for news and supplies and left her locked inside with only these damnable ruffled smalls and a corset that she could barely get into on her own.
Whatever closeness they may have found with their bodies Cauthrien's tension and frustration has torn asunder once more. She rises from the bed now, tossing the ragged mass of ruffles to the mattress as she begins to pace.
She is starting to think he wants to keep her trapped in here.
"Then tell me why we did not send my things out with one of our companions? And why you have not asked one of them to retrieve them since?" she asks.
"To the first, you were not supposed to start a brawl. To the second, the madame would not respond well to one of ours coming back, even if it were not me, and would not hand them over to a stranger. When we have time, we shall go, apologize, pay for damages, and then run out the back with your things before she can count the gold. But until then, we wait." Zevran lifts his head once more to watch her as she walks by. "We cannot move yet, at any rate; I am almost certain I was being followed for a short stretch."
"Perfect," she mutters. All the more reason, in her mind, to press the attack; to wait until the enemy let his guard down might take weeks or even months, and with each passing day, the threat of discovery grows for every member of their team still out in the city. "We can't stay in here until we kill each other."
"I do not intend to kill you," he says with a small laugh. "Merely keep you penned up. This is not the time for you to go rushing in blindly."
"I would not do it blindly. Gather our mercenaries and I will plan-"
"Querida," he interrupts, rising from his seat and turning to face her full on. She bites down the urge to dart forward and grab her things; he would stop her without a second thought, and she does not appreciate the idea of him tripping her up and following her down to the floor. She can be too easily distracted that way, in her opinion. So she stands, instead, and crosses her arms protectively over her chest.
"What?"
He advances on her, all lithe limbs and easy motions that belie the tension she can now see in the tightness of his smile, the hardening of his eyes. Her ability to read him has increased tenfold in the two days they've spent trapped together.
"I have questions for you. We are being pursued by an enemy who has proven to be more dangerous than I first expected. If you want us to move- if you would like to actually see him dead- I must know that I can trust you."
She frowns. "Of course you can."
"Ah, no, I'm afraid I cannot. Why, exactly, did our Comte's name get you to come with me in the first place? I've been wondering ever since the queen told me to place the name before you to draw you out. And you do not strike me as being exactly like your lord, wanting death for all Orlesians who dare even look at Ferelden. No, your distrust and hatred is of the generalized but lazy sort. A strike against somebody if they catch your ire for other reasons. And yet, the other night, you sang a Fereldan rebellion song, headbutted a Chevalier, and started an all-out brawl while unarmed and wearing nothing but your smalls and some paint. That is not like you."
She stiffens, fighting the urge to look away.
"So, who is he? I need to know, querida, before you bring all of Jader down around us."
"I thought we were done talking about the brothel," she grits out. It had been the first bone of contention between them, him teasing her about it whenever she threatened to march right back there in her smalls and retrieve her things.
"We are! I speak of the future. Who is he? He didn't recognize you, so I doubt you have a personal history with the man - one of Loghain's opponents? An old nemesis?" Zevran comes to stand only inches away from her, his hand reaching out to find her waist.
She steps back and it's a long, silent moment before she says, quietly, "No, he left before Loghain forced the rest of the Chevaliers out. He was given a portion of land that included my family's farm. My mother-"
Zevran's expression flashes irritation, then anger. "Cauthrien."
She continues without heeding him. "Her sister was taken by him and never came home again. The taxes were bad enough that all of the crops would go to paying Lorraine, fattening up his house, and we'd have nothing to eat. My father nearly died as a young man, trying to steal food back from Lorraine's estate. I never met him myself, though. He left just shy of two years after I was born. But the stories..." She glowers, the memories still just as strong as when she was a young woman, just as strong as when she'd made their plans in Gherlen's pass.
"And it wasn't just my family. The whole town still hadn't recovered when I was growing up. We'd destroyed the soil, trying to meet the quotas Lorraine set for us. We were forced to clear the forests, losing all of our hunting in exchange for the space to begin crop rotations again. It almost didn't work.
"The day I met Loghain was the day after we'd chopped down the last of the trees on our land. I was going out to burn the underbrush that was left, and he was riding in to town to assess the extent of the damage. And then people- people that I knew, had grown up with, attacked him because of his armor and the way he sat his horse, because he looked Orlesian, because he looked rich. Because we were desperate and scared even though it was thirteen years after Lorraine had left."
Zevran has not come any closer, seemingly pinned by her glare, but his expression has turned dark and thoughtful. He does not look away or flinch.
"And that is why I took the first opportunity to strike him. I can't do these subtle ploys of yours- I want to meet him in battle and break him, and instead, I'm sitting on his lap and he's joking about taming his 'little Fereldan bird'. I only wish I'd managed to do more damage before his guards got around him."
She smiles, grimly, then walks past him towards the chair. He doesn't stop her, turning to watch as she fishes out the breast band and tunic he's brought her. His eyes fix on her hands or her face, not on her muscles, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted body, as she dresses.
When she's done, he says, "You should have told me all of this before we even crossed the Hafter."
"And have you abandon me on the side of the road? No." She shakes her head. "I will finish this mission. I will not be- cast aside."
"Because you are a soldier of Ferelden?" he asks, testing with a wicked smile that means little.
She rounds on him and stalks close. "Because I admit that I failed the other day and I will right it."
"And if you are not fit to be on this job? If you are just a liability? I could lock you away in here until he is dead. What would you do if I told you that our lovely queen has her father's armor and you must talk to her to retrieve it, not me?"
She flushes with anger, pushing closer still. "Unfit to do this job," she mutters. "Me, unfit? And who are you to speak, coming in to Orlais not knowing your mark's history, and not speaking Orlesian?"
"Two languages is more than enough for any man," he says with a rough laugh. "And at any rate, the Game, it is not for me. Too... self-pleasuring? And for the wrong people."
She snarls at his deflection. When she steps forward again, he steps back for the first time. "You mean, not you."
"Haha, you understand me so well!" He sounds the slightest bit breathless now, and she hopes that it is a response to her anger and not to her filling his tall, muscled swordswoman fantasies he's told her so much about.
"I understand that you are as much a selfish idiot as I am proving to be," she says, voice dropping to nearly a whisper, as she catches him against the wall.
Carefully, very carefully, he reaches out to touch her waist again.
"Calm down, querida," he says, fingers inching up beneath the fabric of her tunic. "We are in too deep for me to lock you away now. But I need you to master yourself. Next time, we cannot fail- and so next time, I need to know what I am working with, and know that you will not break rank.
"A soldier of Ferelden can understand that, yes? It is not merely Antivan logic?" He tilts his face up to hers, quirks a brow, moves his hips against hers.
She opens her mouth to respond, then frowns. He is not looking up at her with playful, amused lust or even interest. If she were to lean in, she thinks she might even catch an edge of fear.
That- isn't what she wants.
Those times he came to her as she attempted to drink her shame away are long gone. She will not launch herself at him or drag him kicking and screaming from her space. Her wounded pride that made her press him to the wall the other night had been gentler than this and more eagerly received.
He has earned whatever place he occupies with her and so she backs off, sucks in a deep breath, and runs her hand through her hair, loose and lank with only the barest hint of the curls he'd put there.
"I understand," she says, looking away and bowing her head just slightly.
She tries not to see how Zevran relaxes and walks past her with just the slightest catch in his step. "Good, good. Then tomorrow, we will plan. And I will retrieve your things, yes? And then we can all go in to glorious battle by the end of the week."
He doesn't look at her when he speaks and her stomach twists in a mix of embarrassment and uncertainty. She follows him to the table, sits when he indicates.
He falls into the chair across from her and spears a piece of the cream and orange colored meat with one of his daggers. It's in his hand before she can see him draw it, and a moment later he offers it out to her.
"Let us eat, shall we?" he murmurs, and she thinks she sees the smallest of smiles when she grudgingly fits her lips around the tip of his blade.
The next afternoon finds them sitting in an alley three streets over from their safe house. They have a sheet of vellum unrolled between them on top of a box they've requisitioned from the pile that stops up one entrance to the alley. Zevran has fetched it from a drop box he arranged their first night in Jader, and as Cauthrien examines it, she mentally places the map in what she already knows of Jader's layout. It's a sketch of Lorraine's city estate, and an accompanying note says that there's been no evidence of him leaving the city. It's promising and the map's details are crisp and done with a confident hand.
"Do you have any new plans?" she asks, looking up the assassin sitting across from her, one leg bent at the knee and propping up his forearm.
"Mm, there's the rather straightforward one where you and the other people with lots of armor and pointy swords stand at the front door and make a lot of noise, and I sneak in the back. Or, you and the other people with lots of armor and pointy swords stand at the back door and make noise, while I sneak in the front. Slightly less expected, yes?" He grins, then shrugs. "Other than those, no. Not particularly. If it weren't for your tender temper, I'd suggest walking you in the front door to finish what you started in the brothel, but you'd need to behave to stay out of his dungeon. If he let you in alive at all."
Cauthrien does her best not to respond at the barb. Dinner the night before has left them in an uneasy sort of truce. She'd fallen into bed with him again but still couldn't shake the feeling that he had been trying to appease her.
"And you can't go in on your own while I and the other armored people get ready for a quick getaway?"
"Too many guards. This is a job for more than one person, querida. Another assassin, I would be fine. But instead, I require the whole lot of you soldiers."
Cauthrien nods and bends back to the map, going over again what she knows about Zevran's team. The translators have been useful only as ears within the city; Cauthrien served as translator at the brothel, and since then, Orlesian has been the last thing on her and Zevran's minds. She considers ordering them out of Jader, lest they become targets. More important, though, are the mercenaries. Three trained to be fast and quick; the others are all metal-clad and battle-hardened. Intimidating, yes, but not optimum if any sort of stealth is required. She needs to know what their exact skills are beyond swordplay and armor mending, and the light infantry she has may not be trained to sneak, only to dodge and wear lighter armor. She knows their strengths and weaknesses in storytelling, in drinking, in sparring, but not in group combat. She feels unprepared and frowns.
She is determined to figure this out- not only to convince Zevran to trust her, but also for her own pride.
There's a sound at the mouth of the alley, an awkward coughing, and both Cauthrien and Zevran look up, Zevran's hand going to a dagger at his belt and Cauthrien reaching for the light sword he's lent her for her comfort. It's only Janine, the almost-Sister, and she waves before moving any deeper into their hiding hole.
"I've got news," she says. Her blonde hair is cropped short and she looks almost like a round-faced young man as she leans against one of the walls in her massive armor.
"And I have a question," Cauthrien returns, rising to her feet. "You said you trained to be a Sister?"
Janine purses her lips for a moment, then shrugs. "Yes. What of it?"
"Did you ever sneak into templar training?" Cauthrien hears Zevran laugh, a delighted, honest sound.
Janine cracks a smile as well. "I did indeed. My brother's a templar proper. For a while, I even considered moving to the Marches so I could train, too, but I think a few skills here and there serve me better than living in a Circle. Think we'll run into mages, commander?" She's a steady woman, good-humored and just the slightest bit too crude and forceful to ever look right in peach and pink, and Cauthrien is glad to have her.
Cauthrien nods. "It's a distinct possibility. I'd prefer to have every advantage possible - it's looking like we're just going to be running distractions, and I don't want to lose anybody to that."
"Yes, ser. I'll practice a bit before the big day." She cuts a short salute, fist raised to her temple, before looking between Cauthrien and Zevran. "Though the news I have might change your mind somewhat."
Zevran stretches and rises from where he's sprawled. "Go on."
Janine looks down, wiping at a spot of imagined dirt on the sash she wears around her waist. "It looks like the Comte is looking for you, commander. And is trying to find out exactly who you are."
Cauthrien's jaw clenches. "I see."
Zevran frowns. "Expected, though. At least, not surprising. We'll just have to keep you tucked away." Cauthrien glares for just a moment before she can hide it. Zevran pretends to have not seen it, continuing, "How is he looking for her?"
"He asked the madame of the brothel, of course. And his men have been asking around- and have become increasing more... forceful in their inquiries."
"Does he have any reason to know you're associated with us?" Cauthrien asks once she is sure her voice will hold and not give away any of the surge of anger racing through her. The thought of him giving chase sends her skin crawling and her fingers itching, and the image of him taking her men is unacceptable.
The mercenary shakes her head, though, and Cauthrien's sudden fear subsides just a fraction. "Not that I'm aware of."
She hadn't been at the brothel that night. But the others- Zevran meets Cauthrien's eyes and nods. "Tell everybody who was there the other night to go to ground," he says. "It would be best if you were the only one to continue talking with us."
Cauthrien sighs and rubs at her temples, then crouches back down by the map. "We'll need to move quickly, before he gets any closer. Zevran-"
He holds up a hand. "Yes, yes. I will take care of it. Janine, fill Cauthrien in on any other news, if you will? I'll return shortly, though possibly with bruises and whip marks." His lips twitch into a small, tense smile and his eyes turn in the direction of Lorraine's estate for just a moment. She isn't sure what the look on his face means. But then he laughs, turns to her, and says "Put me back together before morning, yes?" with an arched brow and a familiar, lascivious smile. And then he slips into the growing shadows of the alleyway and out into the main street.
Cauthrien watches after him. "Void take him," she mutters, and Janine laughs. Cauthrien shoots her a glare. "He doesn't tell me exactly what his plans are- for all I know, he could be going to assassinate the Comte right now, and not to get my armor."
"But if he succeeds, we all go home sooner and happier." Janine comes to sit near her, eyes drifting over the vellum. "... That looks about right."
"You've been by?"
"A few times, when I could find somewhere else to be heading that passed conveniently close by. Still, our friend the cartographer's made a few mistakes." The woman indicates two spots near the back. "This hill is much steeper than he noted - and if we approach after a storm, it will be too slick to climb and too dangerous if we should fall near it."
Cauthrien leans forward to make a few notes, sinking with relief into planning the logistics of a strike. Just like arresting the Warden, she tells herself, but with an assassin holding the back and an enemy who is nowhere near Georgiana Cousland's level of dangerous.
Zevran doesn't come back that night.
When dusk falls and Cauthrien is still without armor or weapon, Janine leaves her secreted away in the house. She returns before midnight with a mail shirt, a set of second-hand leathers that barely fits Cauthrien's tall frame, and a sword that has been 'liberated' from somebody Janine will not mention in any detail. They sit in the gloom of the house with the map between them, peering at it, waiting for it to tell them something new. They don't speak about the missing assassin, despite the growing weight of nervousness that bows Cauthrien's shoulders and makes her begin to pace again, but when Cauthrien asks if Janine is going to leave, the mercenary shrugs and says that perhaps it is not as safe on the streets as they had expected.
Janine takes first watch.
The next morning is much the same. No assassin, small talk, plans that rest on empty assumptions. Cauthrien suggests for the first time procuring horses to make a quick escape, meeting all of the noncombatants a day's or more travel outside of Jader. They throw the idea back and forth, Cauthrien considering what funds Zevran brought and where they're currently distributed, Janine trying to decide how to go about notifying everybody and buying the animals without Lorraine noticing.
As the sun sets, they decide to send the noncombatants out and leave the how of the horses for later. Janine leaves with promises of returning quickly and, with any luck, with news, dinner, and Zevran.
Cauthrien paces again once she's alone. Her hair is pulled back as tightly as she can manage it, the tension giving her the slightest of headaches. It's a distraction, much like planning with Janine. Zevran's disappearance has left her more than unbalanced; it's left her scared. He could be dead, after all, or perhaps worse- or he could simply have given up and left. The last thought makes something inside of her twinge. She thinks it's her pride.
She keeps coming back to his expression when she told him about Lorraine, and later, his expression just before he'd disappeared. Something had been there, and she'd missed it.
She's popped every joint in her fingers, moved the chairs, gone through five sets of exercises, and sat staring at the door for over half an hour by the time Janine comes back, alone. She tosses Cauthrien a peach and says nothing until Cauthrien has taken a bite, chewed, and swallowed.
And then she slides a bag from her shoulder. She pulls from it a small box, which she sets on the lone table, still covered by the map, and a folded note sealed with burgundy wax.
"These are for you," Janine says, and her expression is blank. "The Comte's men found one of ours. Left him mostly alone, but said to get these to you."
Cauthrien comes close and picks up the letter. She stares at the seal- lapwing and wheat, now too-familiar- and hesitates before breaking it open.
Petite fereldaine avec les bras d’une soldat:
Je regrette sérieusement la nature violente de notre séparation l’autre jour. Je vous ai cherchée
depuis ce temps-là pour présenter mes excuses, pour réaffirmer mon offre de vous enseigner quelques nouvelles chansons, et pour retour plusieurs des vos affaires. Vous voyez, Vous avez oublié votre armure et votre épée à deux mains—pas de soucis, j’ai prodigué des soins à eux. Mais le style de l’épée semblait familier, et après un examen plus approfondi, je me suis rendu compte que c’est une Vercenne! Une Vercenne avec une histoire très intéressante, en effet.[1]
Cauthrien's blood runs cold and she stops reading. If Lorraine has her arms-
Then what did Zevran find when he returned to the brothel? She swallows hard and forces her eyes to focus on the scrawling script.
Qui peut posséder cet épée? J’ai demandé autour de moi—j’espérais de la retour et de voir votre visage ravissant encore une fois—mais imaginez ma surprise quand j’ai découvert que non seulement personne ne sait où vous êtes, mais en plus que vous avez déjà une petite peu de réputation.
Vous êtes vraiment le jouet, le chouchou du grand Loghain Mac Tir? Nous faisions le deuil avec une grande ferveur! Chacune de ses possessions mérite un peu de respect.[2]
Janine looks up at Cauthrien's barked, nearly hysterical laughter. It's been a surprisingly long time since she's been accused of being Loghain's toy this directly, and for a moment, the shock of it overwhelms the frantic questions of how much else he could know and what that might mean to him.
Great respect.
She doesn't want his 'great respect' or anything it might entail.
Mais je divague. J’essayais de vous trouver, mais votre ami aux oreilles pointues refuse de donner un nom. Heureusement que vos autres collègues ne sont pas aussi discrètes que vous, ou aussi peu communicatif que lui.
J’espère que cette invitation vous trouve bien. J’aimerais bien vous revoir—porteriez-vous de la soie et de la dentelle une fois de plus? Mais laissez le visage exposé, je voudrais voir votre expression.
J’espère que vous trouvez le paquet inclus avec ce message persuasif, Cauthrien. Je vous attends impatiemment. Vous allez me trouver chez moi—pas de cacher, pas de tricher.
Albret Lorraine
Cauthrien pales once more as she continues reading, her eyes fixing on her own name, then on pointy-eared friend. Her fingers tighten on the paper, nearly tearing it before she drops it onto the table. She picks up the small box that accompanied it, her fingers sliding over the fine wood. The same lapwing surrounded by stalks of wheat is engraved on the top. She feels her throat go dry.
"What did it say?" Janine asks, looking between the letter and her. "The man it was given to said the Comte's messenger had told him nothing except to get it to you. What-"
"He has Zevran," Cauthrien says, flatly. "Along with my armor and my sword. And my name."
Janine blinks once, twice, then hisses, "Shit."
Cauthrien nods tightly in agreement, one finger dancing along the clasp.
"And the box?" Her voice has become the slightest bit harder and she steps up close beside Cauthrien.
"A persuasive gift, apparently. He wants me to come visit him." She shakes her head, lips set in a firm line, and sets the box down. She won't open it. She doesn't want to know what's inside, what Lorraine might imagine is a lure to her. So instead, she looks up and meets Janine's gaze and says, "Though he didn't specify alone, even if he did request I do it in my smalls," with her lips quirking into an angry, wicked smile.
Janine snorts. "Arrogant bastard." But her words are hollow and her eyes fix on the box even as Cauthrien's smile falls and she walks away from the table, arms crossed over her chest and finger tapping irritably against her borrowed armor.
Cauthrien doesn't look at her when she says, flatly, "We make plans tomorrow. This ends by nightfall." She will not let this be a mad rush to save Zevran, even as her hatred for Lorraine claws its way up into her throat and tries to wrap itself around her brain and take over entirely. No, she can't rush in blindly. This mission has taken her dignity, one of her most cherished possessions, and now a man who brought her out of the depths of her own despair and forced her back onto her feet.
"And if this is a trap?" Janine asks, her jaw tight and tense.
"If?" Cauthrien shakes her head. "No, it is. We can only hope that his arrogance makes him sloppy. And that we can get Zevran out. If he's functional, that's all the better. We'll probably need him." Her voice twists over the words, wavering in pitch, and she quashes it into submission with a tightening of her jaw.
Janine lifts the box, looking over to Cauthrien with what she finally registers as fear. Well-hidden, but there. "And this?"
Cauthrien is about to say to leave it, burn it, but she watches how Janine's fingers at first tremble and then clutch angrily at the wood. The box might only hold flowers or frilly smalls, anyway, and she hisses to herself that knowing everything before going in is what is most important. So she holds out her hands and Janine passes it back to her. Her thumb dances over the clasp again, hesitates, then flicks it up. She eases the lid open.
And grimaces, every muscle in her body going rigid with anger. "Oh, Maker's mercy."
There are two fingers inside, tanned with nails trimmed just like Zevran's, with small scars and callouses. Cauthrien knows his hands too well to doubt their owner, but included beside them, cushioned on plush velvet, is the delicate pointed tip of an elf's ear.
"What is it?" Janine asks, reaching out a hand, her own expression turning to more obvious panic when Cauthrien's face pales.
Cauthrien turns the box to her.
"What are the chances that those aren't- his," Janine finally gets out, looking away from the box in Cauthrien's hands. Her fear has been replaced by fury.
"They're his. Lorraine wouldn't lie about having Zevran. It would be too dangerous. He has him." Cauthrien closes the box and sets it down, carefully. She tries not to think about what it might mean, about Nicholas the soldier-turned-translator who can't hold a sword anymore, about people she has seen broken and has broken herself. Zevran is strong, she reminds herself. Strong in a way she doesn't entirely understand, perhaps, but he will be alive, and he will recover.
"Tomorrow night," she repeats, voice hard and eyes fixed on the tip of Zevran's ear, her blood pounding war drums in her head.
--
[1] To the little Fereldan with the arms of a soldier:
I truly regret the rather violent nature of our parting the other day. I have been searching to find you ever since to present my excuses, to reaffirm my offer that I teach you a few new songs, and to return a few of your things. You see, you forgot your armor and sword- no worries, I took care of them. But the sword's style seemed so familiar, and after looking it over, I realized that it is a Vercenne! A Vercenne with quite a history, too.
[2] Who could own this sword? I began asking around, hoping to return it and to see your lovely face once more- but imagine my surprise when I find that, not only does nobody seem to know where you are, but that you have the slightest bit of a reputation already.
Are you truly the plaything, the pet of the great Loghain Mac Tir? We mourned his loss so fervently! Anything of his deserves great respect.
[3] But I ramble. I have been trying to track you down, but your pointy-eared friend will not even give me a name. Luckily, your other associates are nowhere near as discreet as you have been, nor as uncommunicative as he is.
I hope that this invitation finds you well. I would very much like to see you again- would you wear the silk and lace once more? But please leave your face uncovered so I can see.
I hope you find the package included with this note persuasive, Cauthrien. I will await you eagerly. You will find me at my home - no hiding, no tricks.
Longingly (lit: with nostalgia),
Albret Lorraine
