Exchange Angst!

[bamftastik]

For the lovely payroo who requested Post-Ultimate-Sacrifice sadface Zev, the cold leader of the Antivan Crows with her m!Surana.

Title: Aftertaste
Pairing: Zevran/m!Surana, with an appearance by Alistair
Rating: NSFW
Words: 3,600
Summary: Master Arainai reflects on his departure from Ferelden and the final night before the battle for Denerim.
Note: I don't know how your mage is specced, but I went with elementalist because ohh the possibilities... ;)



“Zevran.”

He paused, bracing a hand against the doorframe. Fine inlay, this, the metal worked in a delicate pattern of vine and leaf. Funny that he had never noticed it before. Fingers curling amongst the thorns, he turned. Slowly, he raised his eyes.

“You’re really going then?” Still he stood unsure, shifting awkwardly. The king cowed. Once he would have enjoyed this, made a jest at Alistair’s expense, but there was something more behind the man’s eyes now… something dangerously close to pity.

“That I am.”

“To Weisshaupt?” He moved closer, whisper seeming to echo in the quiet hall. “I wish I could go with you. I’ve always wanted to see it and, of course, to-”

The wince was well hidden, practiced now. Zevran held up a forestalling hand. “-I am afraid that your Ferelden winters have been more than enough for my tastes. Let us just say that if I never see snow again it shall be too soon.”

“I could order you to stay, you know.”

“Could you?” He quirked a brow. “You are king of Ferelden. I am from Antiva.”

“Right. How could I forget?”

Pushing away from the door, he chuckled. “But if you have finally decided to make use of my… services… Perhaps I should head north to Amaranthine? I hear that they are quite displeased with their new Orleasian masters.”

“That’s not what I…” Alistair sighed. “It’s been… good having you here these past months. I’m glad you decided to stay.”

“Oh ho? From you, my friend, that is practically a proposal of marriage.”

Alistair scowled. “Yeah well, I might be better off. I can’t believe he thought my marrying Anora would be a good ide-” He trailed off, turning his eyes away. “Sorry.”

Zevran only shook his head. “This is why I cannot stay.”

“You don’t have to go.”

“But I do. I do not belong here. Or anywhere, in point of fact.” He chuckled beneath his breath. “Such is the fate of elves… mages… bastards.”

“I’m still here.”

“Yours are… extraordinary circumstances, my friend.”

“And yours aren’t?”

Zevran turned again for the door, shifting the weight of his packs. Glancing over his shoulder, he smiled. “Perhaps they were once, but no more.”

* * *

He stood now before another pair of doors, the pale grain barely perceptible beneath his trailing hands. Still the wood was warm, drinking deep of the fading light of day. It glared through the high-set windows, the delicate panes stained red in the last angry gasp before twilight. Pushing them wide, he stepped onto the balcony.

Already the bay was bathed in shadow, the boundary between sky and sea blurring. But away to the west the light lingered, hanging hazy round the dwindling peaks of the Hundred Pillars. Far distant they were, but still the mountains loomed. Beyond lay the Tevinter Imperium, farther still the Anderfels and there… There they spoke of cold winters and colder men, frozen fortresses and forgotten tombs. No, not forgotten. Never that.

Leaning hands against the railing, Zevran worked the knots from between his shoulders. He had not belonged, not in Denerim. The Circle Tower had been a prison, even if it had been all that he had known. And so they had taken him, the strange Wardens baring him away beneath their banners to a land that he had never known. Perhaps there, in the company of heroes, he would at last find his place.

Alim.

Turning round, he let his eyes roam along the balcony, up the fluted pillars and fine, white walls, across the polished tiles overhanging the roof. And this, it seemed, was his place, as it had been once before. But what becomes of the prison once you have known something more?

Clucking his tongue, Zevran smirked. Perhaps he had spent too much time with Leliana after all. He was developing a peculiar taste for the dramatic.

With a final stretch, he moved back into his rooms, pulling shut the doors behind him. The guildhouse had been much as he remembered it, the jewel of Antiva City. But still it was given a wide berth by all who knew its name… which - of course - was everyone. He smiled to himself, stepping to the wardrobe to run fingers along the edges of his coats. New they were and numerous, a gift of Seleny’s Master Andrasso.

Yes, he had found them to his liking. No, he had no plans to travel west so soon. And yet the man had made no mention, had spared no words of sympathy for his predecessors. Four cells left Masterless in a single fortnight, an upheaval that had set even the Crows to whispering. Andrasso knew better than to waste his words.

It had been a simple thing, an obvious thing. Sappro had had a villa on the edge of town, isolated and under heavy guard. It was those odds that had drawn him, the promise sweet and whispering. And yet he had found himself in empty rooms, the wet pooling thick at his feet, a dozen dead and he apparently unharmed.

Pavonne he had taken in the square. A younger man than the first and a duelist famed as far as Nevarra. But the night had been thick with dance and drink and women, his skill dimmed, sluggish. There had been little satisfaction in it.

Toccaro had been trickier still. Perhaps it had been the smell of it, the leather, heat and filth, the closeness of the quarters, but memory had returned, dull and distant. The Master had long ago made a name for himself amongst the training houses. And truly he was a man who… enjoyed his work.

There had been others there, full Crows amongst the boys. Delicate work, but he had weeded them out, striking merely to stun, to incapacitate when their charges chose to raise their blades. A lesson, then, in its way. Toccaro had retreated to one of the small and stinking rooms, slithering away, counting on the odds to save him. A sound assumption, but he had fallen just the same.

It was then that he realized, then that he knew. He had faced darkspawn, had he not? Abominations and dragons and the archdemon itself. He had thought it merely the company he kept, the good fortune to find himself amongst heroes, to find still more as left unnamed. But those heroes were gone now, he was gone… and still Zevran remained. The fortune teller had said that he would not die young. His fate, his curse. It was there, beneath that once-familiar roof, that he first truly wept.

But there was only one that yet remained. And he would make an end to it, one way or another. Visarius he had saved for last. Visarius he would enjoy.

And it had been here, within these very walls, their wondering whispers trailing him from the gate. The Master was old now, looking up from his desk unsurprised. He had thought there would be wounds, old scars reopened, the memory of old friends lost. How the man had laughed when he had revealed the truth of Rinna’s death. But he had been right. Zevran was nothing. He felt… nothing.

It had not been a clean death. Still he could imagine that he saw the stains, but the tiles had been scrubbed, the rooms converted to his liking. He had emerged that night, stepping into the courtyard with daggers still to hand, feeling the eyes watching from the balconies above. The moment, the silence had stretched long, familiar faces appearing unseen amongst the columns. As one the Crows had watched, as one they had bowed.

He had not even truly felt the sting of surprise. It was over, had been over long ago. And still he carried one.

He was a Master now.

Slamming shut the wardrobe, Zevran turned for the bed. There he curled, settling onto his back, idle fingers straying to the daggers propped at the bedside. If it came, sleep would be uneasy, bringing new pains of its own. He expected no less.

* * *

They had made camp a day’s march outside of Denerim. Already they could see the smoke, taste the first hints of ash on the air, but the army could go no further. None of them could.

And yet there would be no rest that night.

He had watched Alim slip from camp. Ever since their last journey to Redcliff, he had rarely seen him sleep, had found himself waking to restless tossing or empty blankets. Alim had a habit of worrying his lips between his teeth when the nightmares took him. Endearing, he had thought it, smiling as he smoothed the hair from the mage’s forehead, watching him grow still and silent beneath his touch. But even this did not seem to soothe him anymore. When he paused that night on the edge of the clearing, the parting kiss was rough, cracked.

Zevran waited only a moment before following him into the trees.

“What is it about elves and the woods? I had thought you better than that, my friend.”

There was something of the old grin there as he turned, the chuckle stubborn and unwilling. “Dammit, Zev.”

“What?” He stepped closer, running a finger along his broken lips, bending to trace it with his own. “You worry unduly, amore. What is a little archdemon to the likes of us?”

The smile almost reached his eyes. But there was fear there still… and something more.

He swept an errant strand of red from Alim’s forehead, idly twining one of the delicate braids round his fingers.

Slowly Alim raised his eyes to his, wide and pale and luminous. “You know that I’m not… good with words. Not like you or Leliana.”

Zevran’s back had stiffened at that, knowing too well that expression and yet unable to look away. Still, he had grinned. “Only those in musty old books, in those deadfully extravagant Magi tongues.”

“Vedere chi parla, voi briccone Antivano.”

“Aha! See? You claim to stumble when already you learn to sing.” Slipping arms round his waist, he pulled him close. Often they had spoken of it, Alim listening to his tales with a quiet smile, promising to one day accompany him north, to let him show him his Antiva City. “Imagine the time we will have, you and I. There will be the Crows, of course, but what is life without a little adventure, yes? Perhaps once this business with the archdemon is ended…”

Alim’s hands were moving now across his back, fleeting touches drawing him nearer still. His eyes softened at last, the whisper coming warm against Zevran’s cheek. “I’d like that.”

Light they moved, those trailing fingers, slipping now beneath his leathers, sending shivers up his spine. With a wicked grin, he made as if to pull away, but Alim held him fast, the coolness of the caress turning trembling and electric. Zevran had taught him something of the masseur’s arts, an early ploy and - of course - an effective one. But he had been pleasantly surprised when the mage had added his own unique twists.

With some assistance Alim slipped the tunic over his head, nails leaving trails of flame down his back. Zevran’s own arms slipped higher, pressing them together, kisses following the delicate line of the other man’s chin. They lingered as they came to his ear, taking the dangling gem between his lips, sucking, pulling, breathing deep.

Alim was working at his breeches now, burying kisses against his collarbone. Zevran moved low, hands tangling in the mage’s robes, the chuckle thick in his throat. Mages and their skirts, a delicious convenience. Surprise again when he found only skin beneath, smooth and warm and waiting. Often Alim had called him a bad influence; perhaps it was true.

But he was laughing now, twisting as Zevran lifted the robes over his head. He had almost paused at that, not realizing how he had missed the sound, not noting its absence until it returned. There was a change indeed as he stepped back, letting his eyes roam. No trick, no magic and yet still the man was… radiant. Whatever had plagued him these past few days was - for the moment - gone.

He opened his mouth to speak - a compliment, a jest; he could no longer recall. But Alim was there then, fingers tangling in his hair, drawing his lips down, nipping, pressing, needing. Back they moved, stumbling heedless through the underbrush, mouths slipping desperate.

The tree reared up suddenly behind Alim, his back scraping against the bark as they were pressed closer still. Many times had he heard that gasp, pleasure and pain and the end of all hope, but through it all… release. He remembered it now as he remembered it then, the sting in his palms as he pressed, pushing them away from the tree, saving him at least from that. But it had been too late, his searching fingers finding only rough skin, the cuts across his back fresh and welling.

And yet there had been a smile there, Alim’s eyes holding long to his before bending to lay fleeting kisses cross his cheeks and brow.

A final lingering kiss and Zevran was sinking, mapping those familiar lines with teeth and tongue, pausing here to bring a chuckle and here to bring a gasp. The grass had been soft beneath his knees and he had laughed at that, laughed for the indulgence, for that half-mad disbelief that he should be here, now, in this place and for the wonder of things still left unnamed. Alim’s hands stroked his hair, gentle beneath their encouragement, holding, smoothing, understanding.

When his lips found him at last, he felt Alim shudder, head lolling back against the tree as he arched. His fingers stretched still, touching, grasping, tangling before the rhythm jerked his hands away, reaching again but never finding. Zevran’s arms wrapped round, drawing him closer, deeper, every breath thick and hot and hiss. Soaps and musk and something that he could never name, a scent that even now seemed to reappear unbidden on the edge of memory.

Hands moving behind his thighs, Zevran had marveled at the smoothness of him, at the surprising hardness of sinew and muscle beneath that soft and tendered skin. A ritual it had become, lingering over every piece of him, but those hours had already seemed distant, fading, a prickling sense that he had failed to recognize. And those hands had returned then, feeling his hesitation, urging him on with renewed fervor.

Higher he moved, up and over the curves of him, cupping, pressing, choking deep. Alim stilled, legs seeming to tremble as he tensed. Zevran buried a laugh against him.

“Zev.”

“Mmm?” He quirked a brow distractedly, tongue sliding along the length of him.

“Maker’s breath…” Alim pulled away, knees buckling as he sank, hands bracing against Zevran’s shoulders. Again his lips were there, the laughter whispering, shared.

But Zevran leaned away, again sweeping back a fallen braid, palm cupping against his cheek. “I have heard a most… disturbing rumor. It is said that you and Alistair will go into the city alone, leave the rest of us behind.”

He stiffened, turning his face away. “To hold the gate.”

“You would truly be so cruel?”

His eyes snapped up, flashing even in the deepening dark, but Zevran held up a forestalling hand.

“A practical approach, this is true. And you will say that the archdemon is the responsibility of the Grey Wardens, yes? Yours and yours alone. But cruel it would be, arguments or no.”

“Zev… You can’t…”

“You think that we will die tomorrow. And perhaps we shall. But, as you may have noticed, I have something of a talent for surviving impossible situations. You would be a fool not to want my company.”

Alim chuckled at that, shaking his head, but still that gaze held. “And if I said that there was another reason? That I would leave you here if I could?”

Trailing a finger along his chin, Zevran grinned. “But that you cannot do.”

“Didn’t think so.” He sighed.

Zevran had leaned close then, burying kisses against his hair, trailing down across his neck and shoulders, arms wrapping round to pull him close. But the mage had stiffened, the air hissing with the shift, the soft skin beneath Zevran’s lips turning hard, coarse, stone.

Alim leaned away, eyes wide and distant. Slowly he pinched them shut, breaths deepening as he tried desperately to regain control. “I’m sorry. Maker, I’m sorry.” There was rising panic there now, overtaking the looming fear.

“Hush, amore.” Rocking back on his heels drew him stiffly down into his lap.

There he had held him, stroking that stony flesh, whispering words of comfort, half-remembered songs. It was long before Alim fell still, curling there against Zevran’s knees, the armor at last fading. Warm, soft, his. Leaning low, Zevran lay a kiss against his hair.

“Non permetterò che moriate.”

Not a day later and that promise had been broken. Again Alim lay, sinking heavy cross Zevran’s lap as he bent to cradle him. The archdemon had fallen, slain in a magnificent wash of light. And still that fire burned behind his skin, scalding to the touch, consuming from deep within. He could remember the sting as he pressed shaking lips to his forehead, the pain chased by a sudden, blistering numbness. And such pain there had been, Alim’s features contorting even as his eyes grew cold.

He had not been angry when Alistair explained. Oh, how he had wanted to be, but he had found that he lacked the strength. It could have been either of them, any Grey Warden, a single life the price of ending the Blight. But Alim would not have allowed it, not his friend, not his king. Loyal unto the end.

Funny that that brought a smile to his face even now.

The knock was unexpected. Zevran rose swift, drawing his daggers from their place beside the bed. Even here one could not be too careful. Especially here. After a moment’s thought, he let them lie.

“Come.”

Her skirts rustled as she slipped round the door, deep and crimson as always, the smirking bow giving compliment to her bodice. “Master Arainai.”

His sneer deepened. “Selena.”

Straightening, her grin turned wicked, seeming to care nothing for the distance, the coolness of the greeting. He had known her once… and known her well. Too well not to move again for his blades.

“Is there something you want?”

“Merely to inquire after your well-being.” Her slippers whispered, swaying steps moving her wide around the room before snaking close. “We have seen so little of our new Master. Is everything to your liking?”

Ahh, Selena would indeed relish being his jailor.

“It is.”

“Truly? She pressed closer now, head tilting as she held his eye. “There is nothing else that you… need?”

His fingers curled round her arms, the soft flesh dimpling as he moved her firmly away. “The concern is appreciated-”

“-Perhaps I should send another? Someone more… suitable? Unfortunately, I have not seen Taliesin for some time…”

A test, then. He held her gaze. “Taliesin is dead.”

“Is he then?” Selena nodded. “I had heard that he had gone after you. Perhaps I should count myself fortunate, then. It seems I am the only lover that you have not killed.”

“I assure you this is not true. But it could be remedied, if you like.”

“So dramatic!” Throwing back her head, she laughed. “That place was no good for you, dear Zev. Too long amongst such rough and filthy creatures…” She tsked, trailing fingers along his arm. “But it is said that you traveled with the Hero of Ferelden himself, the very man that you were sent to kill.”

Grabbing her wrist he stepped close, the sudden shift seeming to stagger her. “He was… generous enough to spare my life.”

“After you failed.”

“If you wish.” Moving still, he caught her legs against the bed, pinning her there.

Selena, though, rose to meet him, pressing her hips to his, leaning to whisper hot against his ear. “And what of the rumor that he bore your token? That you were all but wed?”

Still he could feel it beneath his fingers, the tiny gem nestled amongst those soft and coppery waves. They flexed involuntarily, finding only the stiff supports of her bodice. She stirred at that, encouraging, drawing him down.

His chuckle came thick and coarse. “You know me better than that.”

“Do I? And yet here you hide.”

Pulling away he stiffened, raising his eyes to hers, letting her see only the cold, the danger there.

“Oh come, it is not so bad.” She moved with him, laying a hand on his chest. “You will survive. You always do.” Her lips hovered just above his, sighing deep. But tell me, Zevran… how do heroes taste?”

The slap rang out, the force of it sending her to crumple against the bedpost. Selena recovered quick, claws raking cross his face, one large and sharp-edged ring opening his lip. He spat, tasting blood.

“Out.”

Still she glared, gathering her skirts, slamming the door with enough force to shake the walls. But soon enough they were again silent, a prison for a tomb.

He lifted the dagger from its place beside the bed, running a finger along the blade. Hard. Cold. Snaking a tongue cross his broken lip, Zevran smiled. Bitter.