nervous ninny
Hi! First post, first fan-fiction, really. Zevran is ... well, the greatest of course. I wrote a little thing, between my squishy mage & Zevran. This is how his betrayal played out in my head. All events take place during the last night in Redcliffe.
*runs away*
He heard her well enough, crossing the market so now free of people. Inside the tavern squealed and screeched, all manner of foul stench as the door swings wide. She is there, mug held high, skirt hiked and flouncing in such a way -- a delicious way as she can muster, dancing and reveling in the minstrel's song. He sings of mariners lost to the sea and aching hearts, lineman and warriors of noble stock. She is singing along, on key & in tune, another talent he adds to the myriad of others he has observed.
He should be surprised when she does not notice him edging closer, encroaching on the swarm of swarthy fellows with beady eyes all focused on every part but her face. She is close, such a naive thing, he thinks, to being trounced. They who would wrong her surely would be dead before they hit the floor, but the mere action of affronting such a person as she ... Well, he could not have that, now could he?
Her hand is clammy and slick, and she turns to him with such an eye it is near incredulous. She is impaired. Her reaction, all wrong. She should have twisted back, turned the tide and grabbed his wrist in turn. By now she would have normally had him by the collar, her small rough blade she always keeps strapped to her thigh should have been out at this point, edge drawn to his throat. Instead, her cheeks so full & flushed, breath of honey mead and eyes tinged faintly red.
Upon meeting her eyes he wonders, just what the pull in his chest might be? To a side table he leads her, shaking his head in dismay as she sways and he nearly fails to catch her. She sits with a loud thump, dress of fine fabrics flowing beautifully all around, hem still gathered above her knee. She is distracted, a wrenching ballad of wars so long, shipped from foreign shores ... He must hold her hand, thread his fingers into hers so she'll stay.
"My dear Warden, why do you look such a'fright?"
"It is nothing, just ... Ah, it has been just one of those days. All Thedas seems upside down." She gulps, the ale must be too sweet as she cringes, sucking air through her teeth. "Did you follow me?"
"I did not intend to follow you, but rather heard you as I was passing by."
"Oh-ho, is that so? And just what are you doing around here so late and so alone?" Another drink, another wince, another hitch of breath as her cheeks redden just a scant bit more.
"I might ask you the same question." He pries the mug from her hand, following her suit and downing a large gulp of the definitely-too-sweet brew. "Should Alistair not be with you, hmm? Our Templar may just be wondering where his fellow has wandered to, yes?" Curious the bastard prince is nowhere to be found. The plot thickens, he muses.
She does not answer and he grows concerned. Its the night before they march to war, for over a year they have prepared, persisted as the only two remaining Grey Wardens in all Ferelden. He has seen it first hand, every moment -- every misstep, every creature fell by their unnatural prowess. The hands of legend he once sought for his own end, the hands he came to know as mercy's own.
"My dear Warden? Is something amiss?" She hangs her head, shuddering slightly as if in a winter's wind. He cannot see her eyes and he does not need to see them to know. The fool did something, surely.
"Why do you call me that?"
"Call you what?"
"Warden. Always calling me Warden. For once, I'd like to hear you say my name." She is staring at him now, eyes locked and a ferocity behind them that pulls in his chest. Again with this feeling -- this pounding, this rattle that threatens the bones. She is waiting and he cannot seem to speak. "Well?" His heart beats a little faster and he feels faint. Is it poison? "Scratch that, I need to hear you say it Zev. Say my name. I never even wanted to be a sodding Warden anyway."
His lips meet hers with bruising force and a little moan from hers to his. His fingers trace over her neck as she falls into his kiss. It is strange, really that he did not notice before. Unfair, honestly, that the bastard prince is allowed such a luxury. Cruel, what next he must do. His cue has been made, this kiss -- a fatal kiss and a familiar scene. Her skin is of feathers and her blood warm on his hands, coating over the small knife at her thigh.
"Forgive me in another life, sweet Neria."
*runs away*
He heard her well enough, crossing the market so now free of people. Inside the tavern squealed and screeched, all manner of foul stench as the door swings wide. She is there, mug held high, skirt hiked and flouncing in such a way -- a delicious way as she can muster, dancing and reveling in the minstrel's song. He sings of mariners lost to the sea and aching hearts, lineman and warriors of noble stock. She is singing along, on key & in tune, another talent he adds to the myriad of others he has observed.
He should be surprised when she does not notice him edging closer, encroaching on the swarm of swarthy fellows with beady eyes all focused on every part but her face. She is close, such a naive thing, he thinks, to being trounced. They who would wrong her surely would be dead before they hit the floor, but the mere action of affronting such a person as she ... Well, he could not have that, now could he?
Her hand is clammy and slick, and she turns to him with such an eye it is near incredulous. She is impaired. Her reaction, all wrong. She should have twisted back, turned the tide and grabbed his wrist in turn. By now she would have normally had him by the collar, her small rough blade she always keeps strapped to her thigh should have been out at this point, edge drawn to his throat. Instead, her cheeks so full & flushed, breath of honey mead and eyes tinged faintly red.
Upon meeting her eyes he wonders, just what the pull in his chest might be? To a side table he leads her, shaking his head in dismay as she sways and he nearly fails to catch her. She sits with a loud thump, dress of fine fabrics flowing beautifully all around, hem still gathered above her knee. She is distracted, a wrenching ballad of wars so long, shipped from foreign shores ... He must hold her hand, thread his fingers into hers so she'll stay.
"My dear Warden, why do you look such a'fright?"
"It is nothing, just ... Ah, it has been just one of those days. All Thedas seems upside down." She gulps, the ale must be too sweet as she cringes, sucking air through her teeth. "Did you follow me?"
"I did not intend to follow you, but rather heard you as I was passing by."
"Oh-ho, is that so? And just what are you doing around here so late and so alone?" Another drink, another wince, another hitch of breath as her cheeks redden just a scant bit more.
"I might ask you the same question." He pries the mug from her hand, following her suit and downing a large gulp of the definitely-too-sweet brew. "Should Alistair not be with you, hmm? Our Templar may just be wondering where his fellow has wandered to, yes?" Curious the bastard prince is nowhere to be found. The plot thickens, he muses.
She does not answer and he grows concerned. Its the night before they march to war, for over a year they have prepared, persisted as the only two remaining Grey Wardens in all Ferelden. He has seen it first hand, every moment -- every misstep, every creature fell by their unnatural prowess. The hands of legend he once sought for his own end, the hands he came to know as mercy's own.
"My dear Warden? Is something amiss?" She hangs her head, shuddering slightly as if in a winter's wind. He cannot see her eyes and he does not need to see them to know. The fool did something, surely.
"Why do you call me that?"
"Call you what?"
"Warden. Always calling me Warden. For once, I'd like to hear you say my name." She is staring at him now, eyes locked and a ferocity behind them that pulls in his chest. Again with this feeling -- this pounding, this rattle that threatens the bones. She is waiting and he cannot seem to speak. "Well?" His heart beats a little faster and he feels faint. Is it poison? "Scratch that, I need to hear you say it Zev. Say my name. I never even wanted to be a sodding Warden anyway."
His lips meet hers with bruising force and a little moan from hers to his. His fingers trace over her neck as she falls into his kiss. It is strange, really that he did not notice before. Unfair, honestly, that the bastard prince is allowed such a luxury. Cruel, what next he must do. His cue has been made, this kiss -- a fatal kiss and a familiar scene. Her skin is of feathers and her blood warm on his hands, coating over the small knife at her thigh.
"Forgive me in another life, sweet Neria."