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[Sialater]

Lord Deshwitat wrote...

Sialater wrote...

Lord Deshwitat wrote...

Can't wait for the next chapter... You need to write faster^^

I've got three massive fics on going, plus two novels of my own intellectual property.  My husband will divorce me if I pay any less attention to him. 

But I'll try.  Thanks for sticking with it this long!  I'm very glad you're enjoying it!

Didn't mean to rush you. It is just nervwrecking to wait for a new chapter^^. I'm glad you still update=).

No problem, just explaining.  And no worries on this thing letting me go.  The muse is a slave-driver on this one.

[Hirdas]

I am glad i found this one again, i like it already and i find it a very good story.

[Sialater]

Part 54

Moira sat, shirtless with just her bra on her upper half, in Wynne’s and Shale’s room at the inn to which they’d returned. She perched on the edge of the bed, with Wynne seated behind her, unwiding the bandages around her torso for the last time. She was greatly relieved to finally be without them and grateful to the swifter healing from the poultices and bandages the older mage had been slathering her with since Val Dorma. The giant bruise was nearly faded, too. Shale sat on the sole chair in the corner, swinging her legs in boredom.

The petite woman looked up and grinned at Moira as if a thought had just occurred to her. “So, which one’s better?”

Moira looked at her, frowning, “What are you talking about?” She heard Wynne start laughing behind her, and finally understood Shale’s meaning. A slow flush started at her chest and rapidly spread to her hairline. She frowned at the dwarf woman. “I am not answering that question!”

Not to be dissuaded, Shale’s grin widened, “It, I mean, you, have to have compared them. You must have an opinion!”

Wynne leaned around to see her face her own smile wide, “You can tell us, Moira. Your secret’s safe.”

The younger mage had to laugh, “You two are terrible! I am not going to gossip about their ‘talents’!”

The dwarf nodded sagely, “I’ll bet the painted elf’s more skilled.”

Wynne made a scoffing noise from where she had returned to unwinding Moira, “Bah, there’s something to be said for athleticism and enthusiasm.”

Moira didn’t think it possible for her face to turn more red. She had to hold still for the unwrapping, but was at least able to hide her face in her hands. “Ugh, I am not contributing to this conversation!”

“Oh, Moira, don’t be such a spoil sport,” Wynne chided. Her deft fingers began to prod Moira’s ribcage, looking for any signs that the bones had not reknitted.

“Yes, Moira… spill!” Shale demanded.

Wynne hit a sensitive spot and Moira hissed in pain. Shaking her head, she told them, “Well… as for who’s better,” she trailed off, slyly. “I’d have to say they each have their strong suits. But it’s not really proper to talk about them like this!”

The older mage made an exasperated sound, “What you’ve been doing with both of them is hardly ‘proper’ in most societies, dear. Spill!”

Moira turned her head to glare at her mentor, “And what you’ve got going on with Irving and Greagoir is?”

Shale laughed so hard at that rejoinder, she almost fell out of her chair. “Oh, ho! The truth comes out!”

“I – I have never engaged in such things!” Wynne sputtered. “You’re just trying to change the subject!” As if in revenge her fingers found another sore spot and Moira yelped.

“You did that on purpose!”

“And? Answer the question!”

Sighing, Moira gave in, “Neither is better than the other. . . they just do things differently.” Moira’s imagination very helpfully provided her with the vivid memory of the one night on the road the two of them had competed over technique. Her blush, which had abated, flared back up.

Shale caught her change in color and laughed again, “I see we touched a nerve!”

Moira was saved from answering by a very disheveled Jowan bursting into the room, Perrin leaped to his feet, growling. “Moira, Wynne, come quickly! It’s Zevran!”

Moira scrambled off the bed and raced after Jowan, her heart in her throat. The men had gone to find a stable for the eight horses they now had. What could have happened in the little bit of time that they’d been gone? The bloodmage led them to the room Moira shared with Alistair and Zevran and opened the door. The elf mage rushed in, fear causing her stomach to drop into her feet. Alistair was just laying the unconscious elf on the bed, Cullen stood off to the side. Both warriors were battered and their armor dented. Cullen was bleeding from a cut above his right eye and Alistair had a swiftly blackening left eye and a split lip. But even as concerned as she was about Alistair’s well-being, Zevran’s appearance nearly stopped her heart.

His head lay limply against the hard pillow, and his left arm was nearly split open from elbow to wrist, bleeding freely onto their bed. His nose was broken, again, and blood trickled from his mouth, denoting internal injuries, his right leg lay at a terrible angle on the bed. “Oh, Maker!” she sobbed. Alistair took her hand, and her other went to her mouth as she sat gingerly on the bed next to the assassin. “What happened?”

“Crows,” was her other lover’s one word answer.

She pulled her hand away, shoving the implications of his information and her fear down where it wouldn’t impede her ability. She drew on her mana and gathered her energy. Her awareness spread to encompass Zevran where he lay limply on the bed, his lifeforce barely registering, then to engulf the sheer vitality of Alistair and Cullen and even her Mabari who’d come in and pressed himself against her leg in comfort. She felt, rather than saw, Wynne pull Cullen out of the room, leaving the four of them undisturbed. Moira inhaled and time seemed to slow down as she reached for the Fade and its power to bring Zevran back from his almost-death.

In a rush, the living energy of the Fade filled her and electrified her. Every nerve ending tingled, and her skin crawled with containing the force of the spell of Revival. It was more difficult this way, without the rush during a battle to aid in her drawing of her power. She had to ride the energy of the Fade and release it quickly before demons became attracted to her rift. However, she needed a spirit for this to work. This was so much easier during or after a battle, fueled by adrenaline and the spirits congregating around the violence and the excitement. She had to coax one near her, now, to heal her Zevran.

Moira stood half in and half out of the Fade, shining like a beacon for demons and spirits alike. This was the most dangerous part. If she attracted a demon that could convince her it was a spirit, it would have a hold on her and on the living world. A diaphanous cloud that moved without wind drifted toward her, communicating without words. Flashes of images skittered across Moira’s mind as the spirit attempted to speak. They could not, of course, talk. The images were familiar to the mage and Moira breathed a sigh of relief, she’d negotiated with this spirit before and douted a demon could imitate that kind of familiarity. The spirit also always wanted the same thing. It missed what Moira had plenty of right now, no matter how terrified she was.

It wanted to share her memories. Of Alistair and now Zevran. Alistair smiling, broadly, at a bawdy joke Oghren was telling, waiting for the punchline. Zevran’s wicked grin the last time he outsmarted her. Sitting between them, the warmth of their bodies and the heat of the campfire making her drowsy until she leaned on one of their shoulders and dozed, curled up in their safety. Then it rifled through the memories of them being with her, the first time, and individually, and waking up in the middle of them, their arms around her, her arms around them.

She had a theory why this particular spirit always wanted to visit her memories of being with Alistair or Zevran. It seemed to energize the poor thing, knowing, feeling love again. Warmth suffused her, flooding her. It flowed out through her fingers and she put both hands on the assassin’s chest, transferring it to him. Time sped back up and Zevran gasped and grasped her hands that were pressed to her chest. The spirit left her, then, as the tear into the Fade gently closed.

He stared around wildly and saw Alistair as the bigger man knelt next to the bed, relief written all over his face. His eyes locked on Moira and he reached up and put his hand on her cheek and wiped a tear away with his thumb. “Don’t cry over me, mi amora,” he told her.

She pulled him up to her and buried her face against his neck, “Don’t you ever do that to me again, Zev! Ever! Either of you!” she glanced up and glared at Alistair for good measure.

He grinned and sat behind Moira, enfolding them both in his arms. “He was saving my life, my love.”

She buried her face in the amused elf’s neck again and whispered, “Next time, don’t do it with your own life.”

“I’ll keep that advice in mind, mi amora,” she could hear the smile in his voice as his arms finally went around her pulling her close, his fingers lightly trailing over her bare back.

Moira kissed his ear, her voice still in a whisper, “I love you.”

The assassin stiffened against her, startled. “What did you say?”

She kissed the side of his jaw and replied, “You heard me.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” there was an odd note in his voice as he buried his face against her neck.

Modifié par Sialater, 22 juillet 2010 - 03:31 .

[Lord Deshwitat]

Poor Zev...

Nice chapter^^

[Sialater]

Part 55

Zevran woke slowly. He’d collapsed after Moira had healed him, and truthfully, so had she. The assassin had been only vaguely aware of them both removing his armor and Moira curling up next to him to sleep off her own exhaustion. Alistair had left them alone. A passing regret that he was too tired to take advantage of the situation roused him only enough to turn over and put his arm over her before he fell into a deep sleep. Now, he woke in pieces instead of his usual immediate alertness. Drowsily, he opened his eyes to find himself alone in bed buried in the thin blankets. The room was dimmed in the blue light of dusk and a single candle illuminated his elf mage sitting on the only chair in the room, sewing a hole in a sock, which from the size, could only be Alistair’s. Perrin was laying on his side at her feet snoring loudly, his large paws twitching in a dream.

He propped himself on his elbow, “Please don’t tell me that’s Alistair’s?”

He loved her laugh, it was raspy, but still light, “All right, I won’t.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow at her, “Why are you darning his sock?”

She put her project down and crossed the room to him. Zevran slid over to accommodate her, holding his arms out for her to lean against him. She sat, one of his arms resting in her lap the other around her waist, and looked down at him, “While watching you sleep is a great pleasure in and of itself, Zev, it is a tad boring.”

Mockingly, he put a hand to his chest, “You wound me, mi amora.” She laughed at him again. “Darning a sock is the only thing you could think to do?”

“I made healing potions until my fingers turned numb; I made healing poultices until we have enough to wrap both Alistair and Cullen from head to foot. The socks were the last thing I could think of.”

Zevran blinked at her, astonished, “For how long was I sleeping?”

“All day. Alistair told me what happened when I woke up four hours ago. The Crows found us, have they?”

He nodded and flopped back onto the bed and covered his eyes with his arm, “I’m afraid Antiva is closed to us.”

Moira stood abruptly and began to pace, her movement startling the mabari who lunged to his feet, “Perrin, go get everyone,” she told the large dog after a minute and then let him out of the room. Zevran watched her think, her slender fingers pushing a curl behind her pointed ear as usual. She chewed thoughtfully on her thumbnail, but not hard enough to tear it. “You should probably get dressed, Zev,” she told him absently.

He stared at her for a moment before realizing she was too distracted and wouldn’t welcome any interruptions of her thoughts. He climbed out of bed and found his clothes folded neatly on the floor next to it. You can take the boy out of the Chantry, he thought to himself, warmth suffusing him for a moment as he quickly got dressed. He watched her pace and think, her bright blue eyes focused on their many possible paths from this point forward. Why had she told him she loved him? How could she love him? The urge to flee welled up and then his stomach dropped down into his boots as the thought surfaced that he should run away. Run away before he got her killed, run away before he hurt her, or worse, she hurt him. Rinna. He stamped his feet into his boots at that thought. Self-pity would get him nowhere. He also wasn’t about to abandon her when she was in trouble. Even if his instincts were crying out to run.

As he was shrugging into his tunic, Alistair entered, closing the door behind him. The tall, fair haired man paused and looked at Moira who was still pacing and who’d only spared a short half-wave for him. The king looked at the assassin with tilt of his head and a quirk of his eyebrow in their lover’s direction. Zevran shrugged as he tucked in his shirt tail and reached for his belt. Alistair sat down at the foot of the bed and watched the mage. “The others will be up here, shortly. I asked them to give me a minute.”

Moira stopped to look at him, “Why?”

“Because I’ve had most of the day to think about this, and I’ve probably come to the same conclusion you have.” Zevran winced as they both locked eyes and told each other, “We can’t go through Antiva.”

Even if he’d said the same thing earlier, it still rankled that they were so much in tune to each other they could do that. “Then we go to a different port city, my Wardens,” he offered.

“Do you have a suggestion?” Moira asked as Wynne and Jowan entered.

“Cumberland would be easiest. Though Vyrantium and Neromenian might be busier ports, Cumberland has the benefit of not being in Tevinter,” Zevran told them.

Alistair grunted and stood up. He turned to look from Zevran to Moira, “Much as I enjoy you two pretending to serve me,” he grinned and ducked as Moira threw his half-darned sock at him. “I don’t think we can keep up the illusion on a Tevinter ship. Moira will get angry eventually and turn me into a toad.”

They all laughed, even Zevran, despite not feeling like laughing much at all. Cullen and Shale followed by Perrin finally joined them. “What’s going on?” the dwarf asked.

Moira met Zevran’s eyes, “I believe we’re going to Cumberland and hope we can get a ship to Denerim from there. I have no desire to walk, or ride, through Orlais.”

“Good,” Cullen said, closing the door. “When do we leave?”

“Tonight. We don’t give the Crows a chance to hit us here,” Alistair replied. “Get packed, we leave in an hour.”



It took less than an hour. Zevran sat on his horse as Moira mounted hers, her mage robes adjusted to cover her legs as much as possible. He knew she was internally cursing her lack of armor and having to wear the only mage robes she had which had been the ones she’d given to Morrigan a long time ago. They’d also been the ones her duplicates had been running around the pseudo-Fade in. Zevran had to admit he liked them better on Moira than on Morrigan. He allowed himself the brief pleasure of fantasizing about unfastening all the straps holding the robes together then reached into his pack and handed her his cloak, “You look cold.” It was anything but cold, it was the beginning of summer.

She laughed and wrapped the cloak around herself. “Thank you. I was beginning to feel like one of the cheaper ladies in The Pearl.”

“Never cheap, mi amora,” Zevran told her, smiling. “We should have kept your dresses.”

She stopped laughing and glared at him, “No, you should have kept my pants.”

It was his turn to laugh as she continued to glare at him. She kicked her horse to the front of the group, tossing an irritated glare back at him. He grinned at her departing back. Alistair walked his horse up beside him as the small group began to follow Moira through the darkness of the night out of Perivantium. “What’s so funny?”

“Did she tell you about her dresses?”

“Just that you bought her some.”

Zevran’s grin widened. “In order to get her to wear them, I stole all her other clothes.”

Alistair twisted to stare at the elf, “And you’re still alive?”

“By the skin of my teeth. But in my defense, they were very pretty dresses.”

Alistair laughed, “How long did they last?”

“We made it to Antiva City before she left them with Isabella and bought new clothes.”

Alistair smiled at that and then a thought seemed to occur to him and he frowned, “She must be expecting trouble or she’d be wearing them, instead of that robe she hates.” Alistair cleared his throat and looked at Zevran, pointedly. “You never told her how you feel in return. Is she wasting her time?”

Zevran felt an unaccustomed heat fill his face at the unusually blunt question from Alistair. Hazel eyes locked on the elf mage’s back that was barely visible in the faint starlight, Zevran sighed. “I have no explanation that will not sound like a weak excuse, my friend.” Pleading grey eyes staring up, cold steel against her graceful throat, “I love you!”

Alistair scowled, “I don’t particularly relish the idea of her being in love with you, too. But I am still not jealous of her with you, knowing that I’ll have to leave her.” The bigger man cleared his throat. “That doesn’t mean that I will stand by and let you hurt her.”

“There was a woman once. Before I introduced myself to you two.”

“I don’t need to hear about your sordid past, Zevran. The only conquest of yours I’m worried about is Moira.” Alistair is really very good at glowering, Zevran thought.

“I don’t share this story lightly, Alistair. I’ve only ever told Moira about it. But if you do not wish to hear my tragic tale, then I will not bore you.” Zevran waved his hand flippantly, mostly to remind himself it shouldn’t matter what the human man thought of him, and to ignore the fact that his own feelings where Alistair were concerned were a murky ocean he did not wish to swim in.

The Grey Warden flushed and gestured for him to continue, “I’m sorry, Zev. Please tell me your tragic tale.”

“How gracious,” the elf told him mockingly. “I killed her.” It was short and blunt and meant to be as shocking as it sounded. Zevran was slowly coming to the conclusion that the two of them should have kept him at arm’s length. How long before I betray them, too?

Alistair stared at him, “And?”

The elf huffed out a breath, “Fine. I was led to believe she’d betrayed us. I chose her for our team for an assassination, and Taliesin claimed to have found out she was a traitor. I stood watching, laughing, as he slit her throat and she begged for her life, claiming she loved me.” Zevran was amazed the pain at reciting this sequence of events hadn’t resurfaced as strongly as it usually did. The first time he’d told Moira about it, he’d had to leave the camp to calm down until his turn at watch came up.

Both men were silent for a moment, their horses slowing so that they fell further behind the group. “Did you love her?” Alistair asked.

Zevran’s laugh sounded more like a choked off sob to his ears, “I do not know. I was falling for her, of that much I’m certain. I was too quick to judge her traitor. I took Taliesin’s word for it, not because I trusted him over her, but because how she made me feel terrified me.”

“You’re not reassuring me, Zevran.”

“I’m not reassuring myself. I am a coward, Alistair. But what’s worse is that what I feel for our Moira is. .., “ he trailed off, at a loss for words.

The king cleared his throat, “You’re in love with her and its scaring the hell out of you.”

In answer, Zevran merely said, “Rinna never betrayed our mission. It was all a trick by a Crow master to humiliate me and cause my own death. I suspected Taliesin was in on the plot to get me away from Rinna, but now that you and Moira took care of him so effectively, I will never know.”

Alistair stared ahead, “So, one lover betrayed you because you left him for another?”

Zevran blinked, feeling a stabbing pain in his chest at Alistair’s perception, “That’s one way to look at it.”

“Do you honestly think either of us would do that?”

“No, Alistair. I am afraid I would to both or either of you.”

Modifié par Sialater, 03 août 2010 - 03:49 .

[Lord Deshwitat]

Ouch, I hope Zev can forget the past and embrase the present. And I really don't want Alistair to talk about leaving any of them. Makes me sad=(.

Once again, very good chapter.

[Taisin2]

Ouch.

But really, Zevran's opinion on himself is way too low. I really don't see him betraying any of them, he loves them both too much (even if he's avoiding thinking about Alistair).

I hope they will still have happiness - at least sometimes...



Great story.

[Sialater]

Part 56



“Why is he acting like this?” Moira demanded two nights from Perivantium as they were on the road to Cumberland in the Free Marches. She and Alistair were lying in the tent they had shared with Zevran, but the elf had retreated to his own tent every night since they’d left.



Alistair wrapped his arms around her tighter, “It’s up to him to tell you.”



She turned her head that was pillowed on his biceps and stared at him in the gloomy dimness of the tent. “What are you talking about?”



“You can’t fix this, Moira. He has to do it himself.” Alistair did his best to keep his face impassive as he looked at her, but his fingers knotted into fists as she tried to wriggle out of their bedding. He tightened his arms and she growled in frustration. He grinned, thinking about how adorable she sounded, but glad she couldn’t quite make out his expression.



“Let me go, Alistair.”



“No. You can’t fix this,” he repeated. “In this instance, there’s nothing you can do except give him time.”



She settled back against his chest and he was relieved she wasn’t going to augment her strength with her mana yet and give him a chance to talk to her. “Is this jealousy on your part, Alistair?” Her voice was quiet, without the accusatory tone to go with the words.



Pain flared through his chest at her words, “Actually, no. I’m well aware this is essentially the end for us, Moira, as much as it kills me. We won’t be together again like this when we reach Denerim.” He buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply, tightening his arms around her again. “He said he told you about Rinna?”



“Oh, Maker.”



“Yeah. You’re going to have to give him time, Moira.”



She wriggled until every part of her back and rear were pressed against him, “All right.”



She shifted her hips and he felt his own response instantly and groaned softly into her hair. “Don’t do that.” A quiet laugh was his reply as well as another shift of her hips. “Seriously, Moira, we need to talk.”



She twisted to look at him as he propped himself on an elbow, “All right. What?”



Alistair felt his stomach twist into knots at her tone, “I don’t really want to do this, you know.”



Her tiny hand reached up to cup his jawline, “I know. It’s killing me, too. Regardless of what I feel for Zev. I will always love you, Alistair.”



His felt his heart pound and allowed himself to drop his head onto her shoulder, her arm coming up around his neck to let her fingers trail in his hair. He held on to her as tightly as he could without crushing her. “I never should have let you do it, you know.”



Her voice was puzzled, “Do what? I’m sure there’s a great many things you probably shouldn’t have let me do, but you rarely tried to stop me.”



He held himself up just enough to look her in the eyes in the near-darkness of the tent. “I shouldn’t have forced you to lead. I shouldn’t have let you make me king. I should have knocked the cup out of Duncan’s hand the second he held it out to you.”



He waited while she stared at him, her beautiful face unreadable. Finally, she said, “You didn’t force me to do anything, Alistair. And you helped me make every single decision I ever made, including making you king. And Duncan would have killed you for that. Or worse, sent us back out for more darkspawn blood.” He saw the flash of her even, white teeth in the darkness with her last statement.



He mock growled and dug his fingers into her sides until she squealed in laughter, “Getting more blood would be worse than me dying? You little minx! Take that!” She pushed futilely at his hands, gasping for air between fits of laughter. He stilled his fingers and captured her mouth with his. She shifted under him until she could wrap her legs around his hips. Her arms went around his neck and his heart pounded harder as she returned his kiss with the same hunger.



They made love slowly and gently that night. Every other time since his release from Weisshaupt, there’d been a frantic component to Alistair’s and Moira’s unions that gave way this night to tenderness as each simply tried to memorize everything about the other. Cumberland was fast approaching and after that, Denerim was only two weeks away by boat, a week, if they found a fast ship like The Siren’s Call. After, Moira lay curled up against Alistair, her head on his chest, her raven curls draped over the makeshift pillow. He stared up at the ceiling of the tent, drawing his fingers gently through her hair. Sleep wasn’t coming easily, despite his fatigue and the gently snoring elf mage in his arms.



Denerim was approaching too quickly.





The travel to Cumberland was slow, since it was overland and the roads were poor. Other than a few attacks by wildlife and highwaymen, they traveled unmolested. And Alistair watched the growing rift between the two elves worriedly. He wasn’t entirely sure why Zevran was acting as if everything before Perivantium had never happened.



Correction, he was acting as if it didn’t matter. And Alistair was left with the rather difficult task of comforting his lover over the loss of her other lover. Leliana couldn’t tell a tale this twisted. He sat staring into the fire as Moira gathered every dish in camp to wash in an effort to simply stay busy. She’d lifted her load of pots and plates and with a glare, ordered only Perrin to accompany her. The king glanced up from the flames to find Zevran staring off in the direction Moira had disappeared to while he repeatedly sharpened the same spot over and over on his dagger. Shale had gone off to find more wood and Cullen was studiously ignoring both Zevran and Alistair, while Wynne and Jowan were talking shop as they all ate.



As Alistair watched, Zevran seemed to come to some sort of decision and sheathed his dagger in his boot. He stood up, and pocketing the whetstone, he walked in Moira’s direction. Alistair rolled his eyes. The bloody elf was just going to make things worse. Not even Alistair would try and approach her in this mood, especially not with Perrin picking up her emotions and acting on them. The mabari had been irritable all day along with his mistress. He got up to follow him, not quite as silently and gracefully as the assassin, but he did he best. It wasn’t easy to sneak around in full plate armor, even if it was dragonbone.



He finally found them, standing in a small clearing near a stream, lit by a small ball of light Moira had conjured to let her see what she was doing. Perrin was nowhere to be seen. She was glaring up at Zevran, her small hands on her hips, her long black hair tied at her nape to keep it out of her way. The blue silk of the mage robes she was wearing shone with each of her movements in the flicking light. Alistair leaned against a tree to watch. He knew he should be ashamed of eavesdropping, but whatever these two did would impact him as well. At least until Denerim.



Zevran stood in front of her, his posture uncertain, which was alien for the elf. “You have treated me like a consolation prize from the very beginning, Moira. How can you blame me for being wary?”



Her voice broke, “A consolation prize? A consolation prize!” Alistair winced in sympathy as she slapped the taller elf across his tanned cheek. “You – and no one else—were the first person I took to my bed! How is that a consolation prize?”



Zevran clenched his fists, but held his hands at his sides, not even lifting one hand to touch his stinging jaw. “You were in love with Alistair even then!”



“And you couldn’t make up your mind which of us to bed first!” she snarled back. “Sometimes I wonder if the only reason I got that honor is because he doesn’t like men!”



Alistair felt his stomach clench, is that what she actually thought, that she was Zevran’s consolation prize as well? He remembered the elf questioning every single one of their companions except him and Wynne regarding their loyalty to her. He was pretty sure the elf shook down Bodhan at one point. “Do you truly believe that, mi amora?” Alistair was astonished to hear pain in the elf’s voice.



“Don’t call me that unless you mean it.” Her voice was low, warning him.



The assassin spun away, his gloved hands over his eyes, “You are the most irritating woman! I am trying to apologize for being an ass!” Moira’s jaw dropped at the same time Zevran spun back to her and grapped her upper arms, yanking him to her. “I pushed you away. Again! I’m still pushing you away!”



Tilting her head up to look at him, she responded, “Yes, you did and you are. Why?”



“Because you shouldn’t trust me.”



“You’re an idiot, Zevran Arainai.”



He hung his head, “I know.” He turned to look right where Alistair was standing in the shadows of the trees, “You can come out now, my Warden.”



Annoyed he was found out, Alistair nonetheless complied with the request. “Are you done?”



Zevran released Moira and Alistair watched his approach warily. He decided he didn’t like the sly grin on the other man’s face and stepped backward. The last thing the king wanted was another kiss from the assassin. Seeing him step back, Zevran’s face fell into a pout, “I am merely trying to apologize to you, as well.”



Alistair held up his hands, “Don’t worry about it. Apology accepted. Just stay right there.”



Moira made an exasperated noise, “Don’t change the subject, Zevran!” He turned to look at her and Alistair could see the small muscle in his jaw working as he clenched his teeth, despite his irreverent expression. The mage put her hands back on her hips and demanded, “I want to know why I should not trust you?”



“I am an assassin,” he told her, stepping back.



She advanced, “And? I’m a mage. I’m far less trustworthy than you. After all, I could traffic in demons at the drop of a hat! Try again.”



Zevran stepped back again, “I tried to kill you.”



“It was only the once and it didn’t take. Try again.” She advanced after him.



He took two steps back, “I have a price.”



“Everyone has a price, Zevran. What is yours?” She took three steps forward until they were almost touching. Alistair felt like he was intruding, but he couldn’t stop watching. He wrenched his eyes away and turned to leave, but Moira’s voice stopped him cold, “Don’t move. I’m not through with you yet, either.”



The ex-Templar turned to look at the tiny woman he loved and found her glaring at him, with Zevran staring at her, a terrified expression on his face. Satisfied he wasn’t going anywhere, Moira turned back to Zevran, but not before he’d managed to wipe the fear from his face, “Well?” she demanded.



“I – ,”



“You can’t name one, can you? There’s no price in Thedas that would get you to betray us. To betray me.” He back up again. Where he thought he was going, Alistair had no idea. “Why shouldn’t I trust you? Tell me!” She shouted.



Something in Zevran seemed to snap, his full lips twisted with rage and his hazle eyes narrowed to slits. He grabbed her arms again and bent to hiss at her, “Because I kill everyone I love!”

[sapphyreelf]

Can't wait to see who's pov is next!

[Shenzi]

Wonderful chapter, but now I seriously need a drink after reading that. Angst for all!

[Lord Deshwitat]

God, what ever happen to "And they lived happy everafter". I do like this chapter and are waiting for next one=).

[Sialater]

Moira, Zevran and Alistair aren't familiar with that ending.

[Lord Deshwitat]

Sialater wrote...

Moira, Zevran and Alistair aren't familiar with that ending.

That is just... sad... Everyone deserves a happy ending in something.

[Kulkodar]

Well, it's been a while, but I have been following this lovely tail Sia. As usual, you capture all these people very well and leave us hanging, waiting for more. I can hear their voices and see them, so keep it going

[Sialater]

Thank you, Kul.  I'm glad you're still enjoying it, 90K words later.  I hope to have an update tonight or tomorrow.  If anyone's interested, I've put the "M" rated version on FF.net.

[Sialater]

Part 57

Cumberland made Denerim look provincial. Even Antiva City was dwarfed by the sheer size of the Nevarran port. Humans of all shapes and sizes and a nearly equal number of elves hurried through the sandstone paved streets on urgent errands. The small group trailed behind Alistair and Moira, letting him use their cover story of somewhat prosperous merchants.

Moira stared around her in awe. She might be the Blight Queller, the Archdemon Slayer, the Commander of the Ferelden Grey, but she’d never seen this many people in one place in her life. She tugged at the gold collar around her neck, realizing that all the elves she saw wore some variation around their necks, some silver, some bronze, with a very few gold like hers and Zevran’s. The Assassin had insisted they purchase the collars in a small town they’d come across in Nevarra. Alistair had had to do some fast talking to convince the shop owner that they were indeed his property, they just needed new collars. They had cost a great deal of their remaining money, but Moira supposed they’d get it all back when they were out of Nevarra and sold the horrid things.

When the heavy shackle was put around her neck, Moira had done her best to remain docile, but from the flinch Alistair gave when he met her eyes, she didn’t think she’d succeeded. Or, he felt truly terrible about having to even pretend he owned her. She’d met Zevran’s eyes and he just seemed sad for a moment before his usual cheer resurfaced. When they were away from the shop, he’d explained that the different precious metals in the collars meant level of skill. He’d made sure that she and he were collared as very skilled, indeed, indicating a high price for their servitude to explain Alistair’s reluctance to part with them. It also allowed him to carry his weapons as skilled bodyguard.

Therefore, despite her awe at the city, the fact that there were virtually no uncollared elves made her blood boil. It didn’t help her temper that there were still quite a few collared humans. Most of them wore the gold collars of skilled laborers like she and Zevran, but there were still fewer of them than the elves. Alistair’s scowl seemed to deepen at every collared elf and human he saw. Zevran’s face was, of course, impassively blank, but from his grip on the reigns of his horse he wasn’t any happier than Alistair. While she was watching, he absently raised his free hand to tug on his own collar. Wynne rode on her other side in her place as beloved aunt to Alistair and Cullen. “Just remember, it’s only a ruse. And a temporary one at that.”

Moira glanced at her friend out of the corner of her eye as they walked their horses. “Doesn’t make it easier to bear for the other elves for whom it’s a reality.”

“I realize that, Moira. But you cannot defeat the entire city. And if you managed, somehow, to do as Andraste did and free all of these elves, where would they go? The Dalish haven’t the resources to take so many in. Their former captors would not welcome them back to pay them for the same jobs they aren’t being paid for now,” Wynne pointed out reasonably.

“Doesn’t make it right,” Moira failed to keep the petulance out of her voice.

“Of course it doesn’t,” Wynne said placidly. “But you have the ability to fix things in Ferelden, first.” Moira understood her logic, but right then, she hated the older mage for the first time in her life.

“Wynne, by our power, we are considered lesser by birth. By my gender, I’m lesser. By my race, I’m considered barely more than an animal. And you’re telling me to let it lie?” Moira’s said around teeth clenched against the need to shout.

“All right, look at it from a tactical perspective, my dear. Not even you and Alistair can take on that many soldiers,” she gestured with her chin to a three-man deep column marching by, their steel breastplates shining brightly in the morning sunlight. “Also, Alistair can hardly go around fighting foreign armies with impunity. It could drag Ferelden into something it cannot finish, right now.”

“On that, you have a point,” Moira acknowledged, her teeth still clenched.

“Then you must play your part and stop glaring at every human we meet or one of them is going to say something and force Alistair to react.” Wynne’s logic was inescapable, but irritating.

“Fine. I’ll glare at the ground,” the Chancellor of Ferelden grated out.

Wynne laughed, “If you must glare, that’s a good place to start.”

Moira grunted and sped up to walk next to Alistair, not much worried about protocol. “I think the docks are that way, Master.”

He glanced at her, pain fleeting across his face. He looked like he was going to tell her not to call him that, but thought better of it and only said, “From the stench of salt and dead fish, you’re probably right. Er, um, good girl?” Alistair attempted to grin encouragingly at her but only succeeded in looking nauseated. Perrin moved to try to walk with her, but she gestured sharply and the dog whined, ducked his head and continued to walk next to Alistair.

He steered them in the direction of the docks. Moira walked with him, trying to remind herself to be docile and that this wasn’t anyone’s fault. They were just trying to not call attention to themselves. “Well, well, well, what’s this?” A heavily Nevarran accented voice stopped Alistair and their group in their tracks.

“Can I help you?” Alistair asked. His tone seemed polite, a merchant’s tone, asking after a customer’s needs.

Moira turned her head slightly to see who’d stopped them. She was careful to not be seen looking, but wanted to be prepared. The person who stopped them was a heavily made up, older woman with dyed raven hair and more jewels than Moira had ever seen on one person in her life. She was seated in a sedan chair and carried by four very large, very heavily muscled human men with silver collars. She reached down to tap one on the shoulder and they lowered her in one smooth motion. Moira felt her skin crawl as the woman’s nearly colorless eyes fixed on her. The slaves held their hands out and the woman used them to climb down. The old woman approached them, her gaze still riveted to Moira. She felt Zevran grasp her hand tightly. “How much for the elf?”

Alistair crossed his arms, “They’re not for sale.”

Moira felt her stomach turn as the woman smiled, her yellowed teeth parting as she licked her dry lips, “For any price?”

“They’re far too valuable to sell.” Moira recognized the note of warning in Alistair’s voice.

Her pale eyes flicked to Zevran and she smirked, “You don’t even know which one I want.” The woman’s voice turned into a purr as she grasped Moira’s chin and turned her face from side to side, examining her. Moira tried not to inhale the smell of age on the woman’s breath that was stronger than even the stench of salt and dead fish from the docks. “I have rarely seen an elf of such beauty. I will give you enough gold to purchase ten women of her skill level.”

She saw Alistair’s fists drop to his side, clenched. Moira was doing her best to keep her rage under control before she inadvertently ripped the Fade open and threw a fireball at the disgusting woman. She could feel Wynne and Jowan gathering their will, however. “She. Is. Not. For. Sale. Get your hands off my slave.”

“Surely no concubine is worth turning down that great a fortune!” she snarled.

“I’ll thank you to keep your hands off what’s mine!” Alistair shouted.

She jerked her hand free of Moira’s chin, leaving stinging prints on her fair skin. She heard Zevran’s intake of breath at the finger marks. The wretched woman rounded on Alistair. “I get what I want, young man. One way or another,” she informed him coldly. She climbed back into the sedan chair, glaring at Alistair who met her eyes defiantly. The unnamed woman snapped her fingers imperiously and her slaves stood up with the chair. Still glaring at Alistair, she motioned for them to bear her away.

“Well, that could have gone better,” Wynne said, allowing her mana to dissipate.

Zevran snorted, “We’d better get the hell out of Cumberland tonight. We just made a very powerful woman, very angry.”

Modifié par Sialater, 22 août 2010 - 04:55 .

[Lord Deshwitat]

Ohhh, love it. What will happen next^^...

[Sialater]

Part 58



Moira stared at the ceiling in the small room they’d gotten in an inn near the harbor. It had taken them all day to find that only ship bound for Ferelden was not ready to leave for another three days to a week. And it was headed to Highever and not Denerim. Moira folded her arms across her stomach and sighed. It was better than nothing.



The wide bed was wrapped round with mosquito netting and the row of tall and wide windows along the walls ensured a cooling night breeze from off the sea and the sheer linen curtains blew inward on the gusts of wind. Crickets and crying gulls mingled with the sound of Alistair sharpening his sword on a whetstone and Perrin’s snoring, the rhythm of the chorus contributing to Moira’s sleepiness. Of course, the huge amount of fish and rice she’d just inhaled at dinner contributed to her lassitude, as did the half-naked elf spooned against her side, breathing deeply in his sleep, his breath tickling her neck. The heat of the night contributed, but the sweat pooling between her breasts and beading up on the rest of her skin was the reason she was still awake at all. Zevran’s body heat didn’t help, either.



“We can’t keep getting delayed like this, Alistair,” she told the king.



The rhythm paused and resumed, “I know. Are you certain it must be Anora behind all this? The assassins, too?”



Zevran flung his arm over her stomach and she glared at the sleeping assassin before answering Alistair in hushed tones, “Unless you want to suspect Eamon of thinking he could run the country better than you?”



Alistair snorted and the sounds of him putting away the whetstone and blowing out the candles he’d been using for light answered her. Darkness filled the room, the white curtains glowing from the moonlight outside. She turned on her side to watch the tall human approach through the gauzy netting. He bent to place the sword on the floor next to the bed and stood up; he was wearing only the thin breeches he usually slept in. She pulled the linen shirt of his she’d been wearing as nightshirt down over her hips, the act of turning over and the weight of Zevran’s arm had caused it to ride up. Absently, her fingers went to her neck and felt for the collar around it before remembering that she and Zevran had taken them off to sleep.



As he crept in under the netting, Alistair whispered, “I know you don’t trust Eamon, love. But he wouldn’t betray me like that. Not after going through so much trouble to get me on the throne.” He slid his arm under her head and lay down next to her.



Moira put her own hand on his bare stomach and rested her head on his shoulder. “I hate Nevarra. It’s too bloody hot to do anything.”



Alistair chuckled softly, “Are you sure it has nothing to do with those ridiculous collars?”



“Those, too. Next time, you get to pretend to be the slave.” She tilted her head up to him.



His eyes glinted in the dim moonlight filtering in through the room. “I thought I told you that everyone already believes I’m your slave anyway. Or at least your sex slave.” He angled his head to kiss her gently.



She returned it, but settled back down to try to sleep. Ordinarily, it was wonderful sleeping between them, but it felt as if everywhere she turned, she stuck to someone else’s skin. The bed was too small to separate them, not that any of them actually wanted to be even a few inches away from the other even for a night. Sleep finally arrived when Alistair’s soft snoring joined Perrin’s noisier snorts.







Moira woke to birds singing outside, almost drowned out by the cacophony of various merchants hawking their wares in the market square behind the inn. The sun had barely risen and already it was stifling. She was startled to find she was on the outside of the bed and not wedged between the two men. She felt the bed shift behind her and turned her head to see Alistair at her back, flat on his, still snoring softly, still sleeping. She’d only been touching his outflung arm, using it as a pillow for her head. It had been too hot to sleep with even a sheet over them so she saw Zevran’s tanned arm draped across Alistair’s pale stomach and the elf’s half-lidded hazel eyes watched her from where he lay with his head on the other man’s shoulder, mimicking her posture from last night. She must’ve looked confused because he whispered, “You were complaining in your sleep that it was too hot and we needed to stop touching you. But you wouldn’t wake up. So our Alistair switched places with you.”



Moira turned over and settled herself in against Alistair’s side, her face close to Zevran’s. She entangled her fingers with his and asked, “And are you all right with your sleeping arrangements last night?”



He gave her a grumpy look, “He did not think I was too hot to sleep against.”



“I’m sorry, Zevran.” She leaned over Alistair to kiss the other man in apology. The elf’s fingers tightened over hers as he met her halfway. Zevran was an entirely different kisser than Alistair. He teased and prodded gently, Alistair was all hunger and force. And they both made her wanting more with each kiss. As she kissed Zevran, she felt a large hand on her back, gently running up and down her spine under the thin shirt. She shivered against Alistair and tightened her fingers on Zevran’s and kissed him harder. Breathless, she finally separated enough from Zevran to find that Alistair had woken and was watching them.



“Fine way to wake a man up.” His blond brows drew together, “What? None for me?”



Zevran laughed, “Well, if you insist…” He leaned down to kiss Alistair before the bigger man could squirm away.









Fully dressed in the scant mage robes with her collar in place again, Moira and Perrin followed Alistair and Zevran out of their room to meet the others. They were getting low on coin and needed to earn more until they could sell the ridiculous collars, or have them melted back down into the coins they’d once been. They all congregated in Wynne’s and Shale’s room, since it was the most centrally located. The elder mage was sitting calmly with a cup of tea at her elbow and the dwarf was sharpening her assortment of blades. It was an impressive collection and Moira wondered where she stored them all. Jowan and Cullen entered shortly after Moira and her men. The small group arrayed themselves around the room, making it seem even tinier than it was. Each of the rooms had only one bed. She figured Shale made Wynne sleep on the bed, taking the floor for herself, since the dwarf’s cloak and bedroll were folded up in a corner. She wondered what Jowan and Cullen had worked out, but decided not to ask.



“Thanks to these Blighted collars, we’re running low on coin. We need to start earning some.”



Shale set her dagger and whetstone down to look at Moira, “Is it,” she grunted, closed her eyes and sighed, then tried again, “Are you suggesting we wander around the town looking for work?”



Zevran chuckled, “It worked for us during the Blight, did it not?”



Moira shrugged, “We’re stuck here for at least three days. Hopefully, no more than that. And we’re going to need more than that if you want to stay in this inn and not one as secure or as nice. Or worse, camp outside the town and sleep on the ground.”



Shale made a face at that, “Wynne would get no sleep that way.”



“I know,” Moira replied, “It’s why we’re in this inn in the first place.”



“You can stop making special accommodations for me, Moira. I’m perfectly capable….” Wynne began, setting her teacup down in annoyance.



Alistair crossed to her quickly and went down on one knee in front of her, “Let us do this for you, Wynne. It’s the least we can do. You’ve taken care of us; let us take care of you.”



The old mage looked at the young king, her eyes searching his face. “All right. If you promise not to take foolish risks.”



“Damn, there goes all my fun,” the king teased.



Moira looked down at her Mabari, “Perrin, stay here and take care of Wynne. Jowan, have you learned enough to be able to heal on your own?”



“I—I believe so.”



Moira nodded sharply, “Zevran and I are with Alistair, since he owns us.” She rolled her eyes and Alistair scowled at the reminder. “Shale, try to keep Jowan and Cullen alive, please?”



The dwarf woman rose to her feet and sheathed her freshly sharpened sword, “I will. Where do you suggest we look first?”



“Check the Chantry. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go within ten feet of there, we don’t know how they feel about mage slaves, after all.”



Cullen nodded, “Good point. We should probably find that out while we’re there, too. I assume we’re not Grey Wardens today?”



“Unless you find other members of the Grey who will know what we are, no,” Alistair told him.



“Meet back here, or send word, by noon,” Moira told them by way of dismissal.

[FutileSine]

Oooh...your posting in "FF sucks" made me remember something I particularly liked about your story (at some point I have to go back through and start at the beginning...but right now its so much easier just to read the new postings!!!) I really really liked your idea of slave collars and your whole idea of the Nevarra culture. Well done.

[Sialater]

Thank you! I'm glad you liked it! You can start at the beginning on my FF.net page where I've corrected a few things that were mistakes in this posting, like Al's eye color.



What did I post that jogged your memory?

[FutileSine]

You wrote about how some FF actually explore different cultures of Thedas. I clicked on your "The Rescue" link (momentary brain fart as I couldn't remember exactly where your story left off) and then I realized that it was *your* story that had written about the slave collar idea. It really was bad of me to not write a comment about it when I originally read the chapter....but that has now been remedied!



I will definitely be going back through your story (on ff.net of course ) to see how you've portrayed Zev. I am indeed curious, as I like what I've seen so far.

[Sialater]

LOL, thanks. The wiki went on and on about how Nevarra was vaguely ancient Egyptian and I knew that culture was huge on slave owning (depending on the Dynasty). And I needed a non-permanent way to mark Zev & Moira. Since Egypt was big on jeweled collars... it seemed logical.



And, in case it's too AU, it's also something that could just be a temporary fashion that can be gotten rid of by the time DA2 comes out especially if it touches on Nevarra.

[TanithAeyrs]

Just caught up on your last few chapters Sia - life's been crazy and for some reason I haven't been getting all my FF story alerts - go figure. Wonderful progression in the story and I love the Alistair/Zev/Moira dynamic. Can't wait for more.

[Sialater]

Part 59

It had been a long day. Zevran lay in their bed in the inn, his head pillowed on Alistair’s arm and Moira sprawled between them. Both of them were sound asleep. It was more comfortable tonight, a brief coastal thunderstorm had blown in and washed some of the heat out of the air. He stared sightlessly at the netting draped over the bed frame, thinking.

They’d been jumped not long after leaving the inn that morning. He hadn’t been able to identify their attackers, but could only rule out that they weren’t Crows. He suspected they were slave takers hired by that horrid old woman that had shown such a liking of Moira. They’d been too organized and too focused on her to be anything else. And Moira had been limited in her fighting ability by trying to hide her magical skills. Fortunately, he, Alistair and Perrin had been able to fight them off and keep her safe.

He knew the three of them and the mabari were ridiculously awesome fighters, but, with Moira hamstrung without her magic, it severely hampered their defenses and that old woman was going to get lucky. He had no desire to try to rescue Moira from yet another captor. And in a city with which he was unfamiliar, no less. Moira shifted in her sleep and wriggled closer to him, nestling her head on his shoulder, her leg sliding in between his and her body against him until his arm was wedged between her back and Alistair’s side. He leaned his head against hers for a moment, content to just lie there, inhaling her scent. He couldn’t stay this way, though, and not take care of what he needed to.

Gently, he guided her back to snuggling against Alistair. When he was certain she was settled and sleeping soundly, he climbed out of the bed as stealthily as he could, barely moving the mattress. He crept over to his gear, only Perrin waking up to look at him. When Zevran put his finger to his lips, the dog put his head back on his paws and went back to sleep. Doing his best to keep his metal buckles and straps from clinking together, the assassin armored himself. Sheathing Starfang on his back he turned to find Alistair standing in the middle of the room wearing only the thin breeches he slept in, moonlight illuminating a scowl on his handsome face. “Where do you think you’re going?” the king hissed angrily.

The elf’s eyes darted to the bed where Moira stirred. He was glad she was a sound sleeper, but she wasn’t that sound. “As long as we’re here, that woman is a danger to Moira.”

Alistair stepped closer, his muscular arms crossed over his bare chest, a light sheen of sweat beading in the blonde chest hair. Zevran spared a thought of appreciation for the magnificent sight before wrenching his gaze back up to the taller man’s hazel eyes. “So you’re going to put yourself in danger to stop her?” Alistair demanded.

Wrenching a buckle tighter, Zevran whispered back, “No one in her estates will know I’m there until the deed is done. I am a very good assassin, my friend.”

If it were possible, Alistair’s scowl deepened, “You’re not that good.”

Zevran stifled a laugh, “Are you concerned for me, mi amor? Do not worry, I will be back in your arms before morning.”

Alistair’s eyes widened, then narrowed, “No, you’re not getting out of this just by making me uncomfortable. Do you know what it’ll do to her if you don’t come back?”

Zevran closed his eyes and nodded, “I know. But I know what it’ll do to me, and to you, if this woman succeeds her gambit.” Zevran opened his eyes and smiled slowly, “And I also know she will not be the only one distressed by my death.”

The king stared at him, open-mouthed, “You…I…, no.”

Zevran closed the distance between them, his face turned up to the bigger man, “Soon, you will kiss me of your own accord.” Before Alistair could step back, Zevran put a hand on either side of his face and pulled the other man’s mouth to his. The elf could feel his heart pound in his chest. He could admit to himself, in times like this, that he did want more than friendship from the other man. He had no hope of ever getting more, however. The Grey Warden was flamingly heterosexual, after all, and though Zevran preferred women, Alistair was a great temptation, even without Moira between them. Alistair’s hands grasped Zevran’s upper arms tight enough to bruise. The bigger man shoved the elf away and stepped back, wiping his mouth. Zevran grinned, “Until then, that will have to do.”

“Why do you do that?” Alistair demanded, his arms crossed over his chest defensively instead of his earlier posture of aggression.

Zevran sighed, “Since I am going to my possible death to protect the woman we both love, I shall be honest with you.” The elf felt like his chest was going to explode with how hard his heart was pounding. He was surprised with himself. He was really going to tell this to the other man out loud instead of an imagined conversation that always ended badly. “I … love Moira. And you love Moira. And I should be thinking of you as a rival. But I cannot. Whether it’s because your friendship means a great deal to me, or because,” at this thought, the elf couldn’t help himself: his eyes started at the handsome man’s face and traveled down over the broad shoulders, taut stomach, narrow hips, muscular thighs and bare feet and back up, “you are just that attractive.” His grin widened as Alistair rolled his eyes, “Or I am indeed the masochist Moira accuses me of being. I cannot hate you. I do not know what it is I feel for you, but I do like kissing you.”

Alistair shook his head, ruefully, “What am I supposed to do now? Let you walk out of here and risk your life?”

“No,” Zevran told him, “You are going to stay and guard the one person that is the most precious to both of us. This woman may send her thugs after our Moira again, thinking darkness will catch us off-guard.”

“You may be right. I should probably ask Shale to sit in here with me.”

Zevran shook his head, “No. Instead, set a trap. The thug we questioned today was very informative about the location of Lady Nazzim’s compound. I hope to be back in time to help you spring it if I cannot find the old woman herself and put a stop to this.”

“You mean kill her.”

“I certainly was not going there to inundate her with harsh language, my dear Alistair.” The assassin crossed to the window and sat on the sill, the curtains gently blowing around him in the night breeze. Alistair turned to watch him, his face unreadable. “If I do not come back, do not come for me. It means I failed. Get her out of Nevarra at any cost. Lady Nazzim’s vengeance will be swift.”

Alistair looked around the room, briefly, and told the elf, “Wait, you forgot this. It should protect you somewhat.” He picked up the heavy gold collar and brought it to the assassin. Zevran made no move to take it, his skin crawled at the very idea. But the king was correct. The collar would protect him somewhat. He still didn’t want to take it, though. If the other man wanted him to wear it, he’d have to put it on him himself.

The thought must’ve occurred to Alistair, too. He unfolded the ornately linked collar and leaned over to fasten it around the elf’s neck. He paused for a moment, his cheek nearly touching Zevran’s, and whispered in the elf’s ear, causing a trembling shiver down his spine, “Come back to us.” Zevran didn’t respond. As Alistair stepped back, he wordlessly turned and jumped, landing on the roof of the awning over the inn’s doorway. He spared a moment to look up and saw nothing in the darkened window to indicate Alistair was still standing there, but the assassin felt the other man’s eyes on him anyway. He pulled the shadows around him and melted into the night, running silently for the location of Lady Nazzim’s estates.

It took a while to get there on foot, even moving as quickly and silently as he could through the night-darkened streets. When he arrived at the location the thug they’d questioned told him about, Zevran swung himself up into a tree whose low-hanging branches stretched out over the narrow street. He climbed until he could perch on a branch overhanging the grounds, simply watching from his vantage point.

Ordinarily, a job such as this would be done after days of reconnaissance, of tracking the guards’ night-time patrol patterns, of finding the best, most silent means of entry. Or even better, ingratiating himself into the household as a suitor or lover or servant. This would be a fast and dirty piece of work with brute force being the necessary tool. The grounds below him stretched silently ahead of him up to the front door. The manicured flower beds and ruthlessly trimmed bushes creating many exquisite hiding places for him to run between before entering the main building. The central structure was a huge whitewashed stucco mansion with a red clay tiled roof and matching painted shutters closed over darkened windows. Statuary was placed at regular intervals around the building adding to the shadows in which Zevran could hide.

The guards moved over the grounds, some wearing silver collars, others wearing the cheaper bronze, in regular intervals. None of them looked right or left, or even up. Each of the elves and humans were lightly armed and stared only straight ahead along their path. Their collars and the bright steel of their unused weapons glinted brightly in the moonlight. Counting the flashes from the metals, the assassin could see at least ten guards patrolling the perimeter of the grounds. The pair below him met and told each other, “The night is clear,” before spinning on their heels and turning to resume their same circuit. Zevran shook his head. They are slaves and forced into this, yes. But if you were going to protect somewhere, you should do it thoroughly, he thought to himself. Zevran flung himself down to the ground silently when the guards were out of earshot but still facing away from his position. He sprinted across the open ground, crouched low, and threw himself into the shadows provided by the topiary bushes in the middle of the garden. He was worried about noise, not crushing flowers that wouldn’t be seen until morning. He paused, waiting for an alarm to sound, in case one of the guards was actually paying attention.

When none came, he ran quickly to the large structure ahead of him and to a small window at the base of the house that was propped open to catch any breeze on this still and humid night. The elf wiped sweat from his forehead and carefully pried the window open further to slip inside. He hoped he was entering an empty room, but there was no time to verify it. He slid through the opening and dropped feet first into what appeared to be a cellar. He crouched again, his eyes scanning the darkened area for movement and his ears straining for sound. The cellar was filled with dusty racks of wine bottles and around the floor were assorted stacked barrels of the same. He spared a brief thought to wondering if the estate was actually a vineyard. From the smell of vinegar and grapes and dust, he thought it likely. Not a good idea to wonder about the mark’s life, Zev, he thought. You think of them as people and you won’t get the job done. He paused in his thoughts for a moment, Nonsense, he chided himself. For Moira, you would.

He crept out of the cellar and up a set of sturdy stairs that ran alongside a ramp for rolling the casks. He crept through the door, careful to not open it too far since he didn’t know what shape the hinges were in and a squeak could wake up someone enough to sound the alarm. He paused, looking around the cavernous kitchen. Two massive hearths stood next to each other along the far wall. The fires were banked for the night, the coals giving off a sullen glow in the dimness, enough to slightly illuminate the room. A giant heavy wooden table for food preparation ran the length or the kitchen. The walls were mostly windows, the shutters closed for the night, making the room stuffier than it needed to be. He could see the shadows of various cuts of meat hanging from the rafters on one side of the room and smell the fragrance of drying herbs above him. A pile of kitchen rags was gathered in corner, away from the fires. He turned to leave the kitchen in search of the old woman’s rooms when he heard a rustling sound and before he could move, he felt the pressure of a blade against his back and heard a hoarse feminine voice demand, “What do you think you’re doing here?”

Modifié par Sialater, 12 septembre 2010 - 03:40 .

[jillyfae]

I love Zevran. And Alistair. And anytime they're circling around each other makes me giggle. Plus, actual assassin skills! Yay!