Fic: A Murder of Crows 2/? M for abuse mentions
Title: A Murder of Crows 2/?
Author: Rhion
Rating: M for abuse mentions
Summary: F!Surana and Zevran each have their secrets. Some are stranger than others. The trouble with secrets is that they are best kept by only one person. But there's always someone else who knows the hidden things.
AN: There's some references to non-consensual 'adult' activities, but they stop before delving into actual depravity or action. Also there's direct mentions of child abuse. So just warning ya'll.
I've seen Italian and Catalan mentioned as the Antivan language, and that's all well and good, but I always thought that Zevran sounded like a cross between Antonio Banderas and Ricardo Montelban both of which are speakers of Spanish. And Antonio Banderas is from Andalusia, specifically Malaga, while Ricardo Mantelban was born in Mexico, his parents and older siblings were all from Spain. So I'm going to lean more towards Southern style Spanish. Not only that but on Dragon Wiki I found mention of the fact that Zev's facial features are actually supposed to look like that suave and so awesome personage. So darken the hair and make him taller, and suddenly Zev resembles Ricardo Mantelban from the original Star Trek years as Khan. Oh. So. AWESOME.
And now all I can think is "KHAAAAAAAN!" and "KIIIIIRK!"
Translations at the bottom, but in general they should be rather self-evident by and large I hope.This has been beta'd by Amku, as she's awesome and I wubbles her in a purely writer-loves-beta fashion. Spanish corrections assisted by the lovely Ilargi Iluna. Which I'm grateful for as I seem to constantly go into the formal when writing... mainly because I use a translator as again - my written Spanish blows.
XXX
2
XXX
Zevran jerked awake. Any stealth that would normally be employed in the act fizzled away as the distinct prickle of panic arose in the back of his mind. The tent was dark, and he could tell that he was not alone. Sensing, smelling and hearing the nearness of another, Zevran reached for the dagger that should be beside him. His hand groped at the tent’s floor, finding only cloth. Giving that up, Zevran's hand lashed out as he grabbed for the face of the other person, fingers digging in powerfully in spite of the mass of suffering that was his body. There was a brief struggle as the other smaller form fought back then went lax even as he began to go for the throat. With a flash of light, a small lavender globe popped into life, bathing the tent and blinding Zevran temporarily. He shielded his squinting eyes with his free hand, and as they adjusted to the otherworldly twilight he was able to distinguish who he was defending himself from. If 'defending' could be considered an applicable term.
He rolled free of Lahar, ignoring how his wounds protested. His voice was raw with sleep when he spoke, coming out as little more than a snarl, "What are you doing in here?"
"It's my tent?" she said, rubbing at her neck as she sat up. "Please, relax. You're reopening all those stitches I had to put into you. Wynne and Morrigan took turns draining every bit of mana they had to mend you, but we decided that I would save most of my reserves on the off chance you might need healing in the night. So please don't ruin all of that hard work." She didn't sound cross or angry at all, "My only complaint about this arrangement is that you hog the covers. I mean, I'm willing to share, but taking all the covers? That's just bad form. Not even Morrigan steals all of them. Actually, she's fairly snuggly really."
Disarmed and confused as his sleep-addled mind tried to process her statement, he asked, "Morrigan? You are speaking of the witch, yes? She has not been replaced by a magic wielding Leliana by chance?"
"No," Lahar said as she scooted closer, tugging on the blanket, "Though she wears very little when she sleeps. On the occasions I've spent over there fleeing all of you, we have little choice but to share bodyheat and blankets. She may be well versed in the elements of fire, but mine lean towards ice; we find that we're best off complimenting each other's temperatures rather than filling the air with both."
"So she sleeps in less than you?" he asked, giving Lahar an appraising glance. "May I watch next time? Better still, may I join?"
Lahar made a face, nose crinkled, lips cocked into a half smile, and one eyebrow arched high with the other dipping low. "Nothing happens. That would be far too incestuous for my tastes." He didn't resist as she took his shoulders in hand and pressed him back down to the pallet. "Besides, you watch all the time, so you better than anyone else would know that she and I don't do that."
A denial fell from his lips unbidden, "I would know nothing of that, preciosa."
"Fine, but I'm onto you." Lahar pinched the tip of his nose before flopping down and cuddling under the blankets. "Now go back to sleep, but could you promise me something?"
"I will attempt whatever you desire." He was far from relaxed even as he let his muscles loosen.
"Try not to kill me. Or hog the blankets. I get cold easily," she said, and as if to prove it a foot that felt more like a block of ice rubbed against his calf. "Oh blood, you're toasty!"
Zevran did not sleep with others, the few times he had tried it in his foolish youth resulted in someone trying to kill him. In this case there was no helping it. Mulling over a way to solve the issue presented by his reflexive instinct to kill whatever was unfamiliar nearby upon waking, he decided that there was a possibility for avoiding conflict. If he was already holding Lahar, then his sleeping mind would hopefully label her as ‘safe’. Or at least ‘not currently threatening’.
He spoke as he rolled onto his side, body protesting, "There is plenty of Zevran to go around, princesa." He slid an arm under Lahar's head at an angle so that he could also use it as a pillow, "I am a red blooded man, and more than willing to share my warmth with one so beauteous as yourself."
"What did I say about those stitches?" she asked, but there was no recrimination of Zevran's actions. Lahar turned over to face him and Zevran felt himself being pulled into eyes the color of hoarfrost. "I have some mana left. I could... heal you a little more to make up for whatever aggravation you've done to your injuries,” she paused, “But it will probably hurt."
"Would it speed up the process?" he asked. After a nod of confirmation, he continued, "Then do as you wish, hermosa pequeña mia."
Lahar's eyes closed as she began, brow furrowing in concentration and lips pursing.
Focusing all his attention on examining the young mage to brace against what was to come, Zevran picked apart the mask she wore. She was everything and nothing like what she appeared. When he first saw Lahar as he waited to spring his ambush, he judged her to be some child that the group had rescued at some point. Zevran had thought that Morrigan would be the Grey Warden mage. Fifteen or twenty, an exceptionally short human, or an elf? he thought, flexing the bicep that pillowed her head. She never shows her ears, even with her hair back they are covered. She was pale as ice and each feature of her fair face was well sculpted. High cheeks. A softly rounded chin unlike the more pointed sort that was the norm for most of the elvhen that Zevran had come across. Her lush, expressive lips were only a few shades darker than her skin, and that too indicated human, not elf. The deep mahogany fall of hair was thick, but each individual hair as fine as a breath, and where Zevran's flesh had contact with the mage's, he felt the smoothness.
Alabaster, marble, or ice, laying there she could have been carved from any of those substances. This should have made Lahar delicate, rather it made her hard and unyielding. That was the expression he had gazed up into when she stood over him in the clearing. There was a particular blankness of features that hid all evidence of humanity as she listened to his tale of being an assassin and his offer of allegiance. It was what initially lead Zevran to believe that Lahar was not a child at all, but right now, watching her lay beside him while a deep freezing cold that was so harsh it burned knitted more of his wounds together, something plucked.
Asexual. No indication of her gender identity was held her mannerisms, her style. Can it be she is unaware of what she looks like? Or is she savvy enough to use her attributes to portray herself this way, like an untouchable vista.
Some event at some point in her life had scoured Lahar clean of what was supposed to be a typical, soft femininity. Rather than replace it with what others did - becoming a hardened harridan or an unabashed hussy- Lahar hadn't done anything. She neither denied her form nor accepted it. With a personality that could only be categorized as neither female nor male, she wasn't even androgynous. That would imply being somewhat male, somewhat female. Rather Lahar simply was, like a force of nature, a tree, a flower, or a mountain.
Zevran knew she had a personality and preferences. He had seen her eyes widen as she dove into a jar of honey upon its discovery, showing that she certainly wasn't some construct; she had likes and dislikes. There was also a type of softness to her mouth when she would pet and stroke Ser Prize. That poor beast, he thought, mentally rolling his eyes towards the heavens, of all the names she could have picked, she had to be clever. It either betrayed youth or femininity, Zevran supposed, naming the Mabari like that. However, when she walked there was no sway to her hips other than what her body forced her to have. And when she touched people it may be light but it was also firm; there was no stroking. It simply existed. Just like Lahar.
A voice in the back of his mind prodded him, Just like me.
It was all too easy to see a similarity of action, a pragmatism that put people off, to ensure that the upper hand was always theirs. No one would get the better of Zevran ever again, or so he had thought. His mask was all smoke and mirrors of sexuality, an easy thing that was also useful in his profession. He always ensured that no one looked deeper into places that they didn't belong. Lahar's presentation was the exact opposite, meant to excite no reaction at all, to be looked over as nothing but an extension of her surroundings. That is, until she would fry, freeze, or crush whoever was in her way. Malice wasn't an emotion Lahar appeared to feel, only a detached assessment that calculated the worth of mercy or vengeance at any given point. A series of pros and cons, and entirely objective.
"All done." There was muted brightness in her tone as her lashes fluttered open. "Now I am well and truly am done in, so would you object overly much if we actually slept now?"
He intended to get at least one question answered fully as he nuzzled her face, his fingers stroking her cheek and aiming to tuck her hair behind her ear, "Ciertamente, if I could but steal a kiss, you shall have no arguments from me, bonita."
Before she could protest, Zevran pressed his body and his mouth to her. His lips moved over hers, which gave no indication of reaction until he caressed the shell of her ear. Her very pointed ear. The touch garnered a surprised gasp, which Zevran took advantage of, plunging his tongue into the moist cavern while continuing to tease at the delicate shell. It was clear no one had touched her in quite the manner he was using, to entice, to give pleasure. He smiled in triumph. Control the body, control the mind. Leaving her lips, Zevran licked and nipped a path to her revealed ear, dragging his tongue from the lobe up to the point before thrusting it into the canal. Lahar's fingers dug into his hip, flexing rhythmically in time to his ministrations. Pulling her closer with one arm and pushing a thigh between hers to rub at the soft warmth that resided there, Zevran paid attention and explored the side of her neck and face, always going back to that oft overlooked area of an elf's body. It wasn't until Lahar was on her back, tunic rucked over her hips as he draped himself atop her, that she came back to herself.
"Zev, Zev-ran, stop," she stuttered through the fog of pleasure, sounding very much like she didn't want him to stop at all.
Humming low in his throat, he ignored the request in favor of listening to her body which was begging for more. Soon Zevran knew her words would echo what her body required, he just had to keep going and any remaining resistance would crumble. Balancing his weight on an elbow, Zevran skimmed the outside of her thigh with his calloused palm, tugging her leg up, urging her hips to tilt. Rocking against the now scorching heat beneath him, Zevran didn't particularly care that they both were still wearing undergarments. Those weren't a hindrance worth focusing on at the moment.
Instincts older than time were taking hold of Lahar, her body bucking up towards Zevran. Not much resistance, but more than one so fresh would put forth, I would think. Now it was time to delve further, to begin with the real touching. As soon as his hand slid into her smallclothes, Lahar froze underneath Zevran. At first Zevran took no note of it, but the complete limpness, the utter lack of response gave him eventual pause.
Breaking free of kissing her chest and neck, Zevran's brow furrowed. Lahar's face was turned to the side, eyes closed, hands loose near her head. Expressionless. Completely, utterly, entirely blank. It was as if she had blocked out everything going on. Inside Zevran recoiled. He was very familiar with the expression she wore. Intimately familiar with it. Often enough it had graced his own features as a boy in Crow training, along with the faces of many other children going through the same.
Gagging on the curse, his words twisted and quiet, "Braska! Que me jodan, soy un cabrón de mierda!"
He shuddered as he rolled over, putting his back to the scene. Zevran had said that as a Crow he had learned to take his pleasures where he could. Others would think that was merely metaphorical, not truly literal. It was very literal; it was the only way a Crow could survive. In the brothel he had been born in, there was enough call for little elven boys that Zevran had learned to go blank like Lahar, and in the first years of his training as a Crow it had certainly helped. That is until Zevran realized that to actually make it each day he would have to act like he enjoyed what was happening. So he had become a consummate actor until even that wouldn't spare him, and he was forced to learn to enjoy, even desire the agony, twisting the lines between horrified suffering and ecstasy. All Crows went through this training, if it could be called such; Zevran to a point where he could switch to a state of mind that allowed him to take blow after blow and have it feel wonderful rather than horrible.
Regaining control of his racing heart, Zevran knew one of the few things that disgusted him most about what being a Crow. Death was well and good; seduction was just fine. But remembering the face of one of the boys he had grown up with, name long forgotten, so ripped up that he had vomited blood and other things for days before dying... Such an image was something that even Zevran's monumental willpower was helpless against, and his powerful ability to shove things to the side simply couldn't discard the memory. One of his few personal rules was to never touch a child in that way. Killing children wasn't always something that could be avoided, but that. Well, that could be avoided. Not for any punishment or reward would Zevran inflict that on someone so defenseless. Pleasure was all Zevran wanted to see on a person's face when he was having sex, no matter the purpose of the act, not mute horror and agony or that blankness. It was all that separated him from whatever monster had left the wreckage of one of the whorehouse boys to die a messy, gruesome and unnecessary death.
Gathering his courage, he spoke, "Pequeña mia, I have stopped, and shall do no more to make you feel threatened." He swallowed thickly before he continued, "Please, speak."
"You're done?" she asked with detached curiosity. "But," she paused and there was shifting under the blanket as though she were checking between her legs for evidence, "but..."
Disgust. A vile poison that was worse than anything Zevran could cook up left him coughing as the acrid taste of bile hit the back of his throat. It was fortunate that there was nothing in his stomach to make an appearance or he would have wretched right there in the mage's tent.
Scrunching his eyes shut Zevran couldn't really compose himself. He hadn't been able to since he had awoken this night. "Many things I am, pequeña mia, but that particular brand of monster is not my style. I would have you willing or not at all."
"Oh."
And that was all that was said.
XXX
The meal was sumptuous by a nine year old's estimation. A whole plate with chunks of chicken, potatoes, onions, peppers and vegetables that he couldn't identify clearly, swimming in a deliciously spicy yogurt sauce heaped over rice was more than Zevran wished to resist. But resist it he did, even as the handful of other children cried out and dug in, all of them so hungry that they couldn't think past the fact that here was food just waiting to be eaten. Painfully his stomach growled reminding the nine year old that he had not eaten more than a bowl of rice a day for so long that he thought he would die. Yet he was cautious, knowing that pain didn't always mean death. Far too often it meant surviving, with gifts of more pain to come later.
"You gonna eat dat, runt?" a coarse gutter accent cut the words as one of the older children there grabbed the plate of food, pulling it towards herself. "Didn' think so."
Zevran wanted to scream at her, to hit her and take the food back. The small sleep area that held the ten young apprentices was filled with the scent of mouth watering meals, more than enough for each to eat their fill and then some. But he was wary; something wasn't right. It was too much, like a wondrous dream come true. This could be a test, the way that the fresh water had been the other day - consume at your own risk. Or there was the time that he had fallen asleep at lights out, figuring that it was safe enough as the Master had said it was, only to awaken to the whipcrack of a switch on the soles of his feet.
Fists clenched in his lap, Zevran held himself tight. If the food was safe and bore no punishment for eating it, he could eat the scraps everyone left, as demeaning as that would be. The only betrayal of his ardent desire for sustenance was the hard stare at the other apprentices plates and the growling of his stomach. A few others had eaten a little and left off, not quite as leery as Zevran.
In the end, the only ones who survived that dinner were Zevran and those who had only eaten a small portion. Almost two thirds of the group died, bodies twisting and vomiting up the meals they had wolfed down, dead for giving into need...
…
"Interesting." The pool in the courtyard swirled. Zevran sat beside it, being once more in the Chantry. "You didn't succumb at all to that temptation. Not one bite crossed your lips in spite of your hunger. Why is that Zevran?"
He shrugged. "I had been trained for almost three years by that point, Crow, and I knew to not trust the appearance of anything. Everything is a trap, even if it's something you need." The Master Crow was watching him, the Chantry robes gone, replaced with leather trews and vest, sword pommels jutting over his broad shoulders, "But you know that. You were trained just as I was, and you also trained others in turn, no?"
"You did not then?" there was a faint humor to his voice, and Zevran detected a smile but still couldn't see the entity's face. "What of Rinna? Didn't you train her in the ways of the Crow? Didn't you put her through her final breaking yourself?"
Angry, Zevran rose. He appeared incapable of controlling himself here in the Fade. "It was me or the others."
"Don't you mean it was you or Taliesin?" sounding like he was smiling, “And well you knew his tender mercy.”
Making a fist, Zevran lashed out, roaring out his pent up emotions. Taliesin was the one who had put Zevran through the last, most brutal part of becoming a full Guildmember. The process was to take whatever humanity was left, fan its flames.
And then snuff them out.
It was a process that was more than pain. More than sexual. More than brutal. It was a murdering of spirit. Hope of anything other than being a Crow would be completely and utterly destroyed. All sense of self was to be removed and replaced with the outline of a person. An empty one. To become nothing more than a vessel that was named 'Crow'. Everything that came afterward was a character design assigned by the Guildmaster to each resulting Crow according to the areas they were strongest. Zevran's preference for seduction, fine things, using poisons and dual wielding - all of it was implanted.
Every single thing about him was fake.
Even his emotions, if he took away the given identity he had been assigned, were a byproduct of programmed response.
The ensuing fight between Zevran and the Crow had an inevitable outcome: Zevran was beaten down, and even still his training bid him to rise. And again, he was forced down. Any Crow would fight to keep their assigned personality, unless, in theory, the order for a change came down from the Guildmaster. Reminders that they were little more than moving statues, nothing more than disposable tools used until they were no longer fit, were to be avoided.
Zevran had once seen a Crow who had never been assigned an identity. It was a failed experiment. That Crow had simply sat there, unaware of the weather, unaware of the food that would be placed before it. At one point that Crow had been male. It's body had remained so, at least outwardly. In the end it was only a thing with no will of it's own. No drive to eat, to get out of the harsh sun or the startling chill of the Antivian evening. With the immunity to the elements - or at least the ability to tolerate extremes - that Crow took weeks to die. Withering slowly, sitting in it's own waste, kept alive by training and by the occasional scrap of food or sip of water forced on it, curious Masters examining it's responses or lack thereof.
Screaming in defiance, Zevran struggled, using every trick, every skill imparted by thirty plus years of Crow training, unwilling to give in.
Finally the Master Crow stopped his resistance, allowing himself to be pummeled by Zevran until the elf ceased, "Very interesting, some of your inner self survived the process."
He glowered, the haze of rage coating his vision. "Nothing survives the Culminación."
"No," he replied, shaking his head, "for some it does. Sometimes. Either that or the personality assignment was close to what the Crow would have become if left without going through the Culminación."
Zevran rocked back on his heels, hands fisted against his knees. "Not possible."
"You would not have taken to the personality that Taliesin was given, nor the one I was," he explained, sitting up. "Not the way you took to the seducer. You were given one that truly fit you, or as truly as any of the other ones handed down could fit." He grunted, "You have strength even here in the Fade." As he rubbed at his jaw the Crow eyed him speculatively. "You should consider it an honor, Zevran - few men are given that role, we tend to not be as good at it as women. But that's just prejudice anyway. I have known women who were given it who would have been better suited to the other styles."
If Zevran had thought there was a chance of success he would have killed the Crow before him. It was some sort of spirit of the Fade now, wherever it had originated from, and as Zevran understood it according to the Chantry's teachings, the thing couldn't be truly killed, only dispersed. And only temporarily.
Backing away, he asked, "So, are you sent by the Guild?"
"No. I am a product of it, but they couldn't control me now even if they knew I existed," he replied, sitting cross legged, elbow on knee, chin in hand, "And if they knew I existed, all the Guild's mages would piss themselves."
"What are you then?" Zevran demanded.
"As I said before, all you need know is that I am, and that is enough." He snapped his fingers. "Brace yourself..."
…
Hard, calloused hands crushed Zevran's slim hips, gouging what little skin was there. It was a sensation he fixated on, a mild discomfort that he used to eliminate the other much less pleasant ones going on. He was thirteen and he knew he had no choice but to submit, to act like he cared for what was happening. In the past, that worked, made things go faster and then he could go clean up and force the experience from his mind. Lately that had stopped working entirely, and the last few days when he had submitted it would go on for hours and hours, being traded and passed around to women or men alternately. And so he quieted, didn't fight, didn't fake, just waited. But it never stopped until many hours later and he would be allowed some sleep, some food and then it would begin anew.
Suddenly the words of an older apprentice came to Zevran, 'Take your pleasures where you can.'
It took some time for a kernel of understanding to grow. Days, maybe weeks of being passed around and Zevran sublimated the pain he received, found it twisting into something that... felt good. At some point the thought of feigning enjoyment or ignoring the act passed from memory, and Zevran wound up relishing the acts enough that pleasure would wind up coalescing. Then he didn't care if it stopped or started again, not anymore because the result would be the same.
Completion...
…
"Enough! That's... enough," Zevran wrenched his mind from the memories, clutching the sides of his head, panting, hunched over.
Crow stared at him, and Zevran felt a flash of triumph. "Wonders never cease."
He straightened, hugging himself. "I've had enough of your game, Crow. What is it you want?"
"Tell me, Zevran, how many full Crows do you think Antiva has?"
Grimacing, "Four, five thousand of the intermediates."
"Not them," he said, producing an apricot and taking a bite of it. He waved a hand as he rose, pacing. "I mean the true Crows. How many do you think the Guild has that have completed Culminación?"
Not wishing to play the game, but knowing that there was no escape, he answered, "I don't know, but I suppose you do."
Chuckling, "Approximately, yes. Not quite twenty score. Just think, less than half a thousand fully fledged Crows. And so few survive the five year wait before Culminación."
"I fail to see how this matters," Zevran replied, turning his back to Crow and walking away.
XXX
The third day after he had attacked Lahar and fourth night that would end up with them sharing the same tent, Zevran was well enough to follow her to her walk. They hadn't spoken of what he had done. Lahar's demeanor remained unchanged towards him, as though the almost rape hadn't even happened. Like she had forgotten it, or dismissed it as normal. Foreboding itched up and down Zevran's spine; he had some inkling of what that had to mean for the mage. Surely such occurrences didn't happen in the halls of the Circle? But her behavior spoke volumes. One didn't act like that if it had happened a time or two. Frequent, long term abuse was required to garner that kind of defensive mechanism.
Raking shaking hands through his hair, Zevran couldn't stand the uncertainty he had been going through. Emotions were foreign, distant things that he could feel or had learned to mimic like he felt them for so long that he almost could, but every day after waking from the Fade his condition worsened. A malaise was creeping from somewhere in his psyche, like Crow was picking apart everything that Zevran had learnt to be. The only thing that was constant in Zevran's life at the moment was Lahar and her body near his when they went to bed or when he awoke. Seeking a modicum of normalcy, Zevran plunged forward, vowing to join Lahar this evening in her exercise.
If I am to be damned for failure then I may as well have earned it, he thought, moving through the underbrush on light feet.
Lahar betrayed her surprise as he came near. "Zevran?"
"Show me what you know of Baile de Muerte," he said, his tone brooking no argument.
It was the first time he had invaded her personal ritual with action. Dropping into a ready stance, Zevran waited. Lahar took a few moments to measure him, taking in how comfortable he was while presenting his side to her, offering a minimal target while his hands were palms to the sky, arms straight. She mirrored him finally, her unease shown in the stiffness of her back.
"Attack, princesa," he beckoned.
It couldn't have been considered sparring, for less than a minute in Zevran had a forearm hooked around her neck with her back pressed to his chest. Grunting, Zevran released her only to reposition her stance to his satisfaction. No words were exchanged, but they were not needed. An hour later, Zevran, body still weak, held up a hand halting the lesson.
"Where did you learn to do that?" It was a question that should have come from him. Lahar was stretched out on her stomach beside him, head tilted to the side with a deep look of complete curiosity asking more than just 'where' he had learned, but 'why' he was teaching her. It was the first time Zevran saw fullblown emotion on her face.
Zevran fanned himself with the hem of his shirt, letting the night air dry the sweat on his stomach. "Antiva."
There was a hint of irritation in her voice, "I figured that Zev." A blast of frigid air emanated from her position. "I mean, where in Antiva did you learn it?"
He shuddered from the cold but enjoyed the gooseflesh that sprung up on his overheated skin. "If I tell you, I would have to kill you."
"I seem to remember that not going so well for you last time," she said. Zevran was grateful when she didn't push further, because he really was capable of killing her before she could think to put up a defense. "You called it 'Baile de Muerte'. Why?"
"Rough translation, pequeña, is death dance or dance of death or some such," he replied, shrugging, "And that is what we call it, for that is its name. It's a specialty of sorts for when there are no weapons other than ones' own body at hand. And there are far more katas than what you know."
Lahar issued an indelicate snort, "I thought obvious statements were Alistair's forte."
He wondered how to broach the topic that was truly bothering him, his eyes cast upwards. "And you, my dear Warden, where did you come by the skill?"
"The man who raised me, he moved like you do, and I used to watch him in the evenings." There was a sadness that crept slowly into her voice. "I would sneak from my bed and stare and stare. Eventually at some point he noticed and began teaching me. He showed me more than I can do now, it was hard to find space, time and privacy to practice in the Tower."
He was shocked. A Crow raised her? It may explain her... issue. He stuffed the thought in the back of his mind for later examination, along with the shadow of anger. "How old were you when you went to the Tower?"
"I don't want to talk about it," she replied, beginning to withdraw.
Snaking an arm out, Zevran grabbed her hand, "Then you do not have to, preciosa. I shall respect your wish. Now come, sit back down and we shall talk of more pleasant things." Offering what he hoped was an enticement, he continued, "I could perhaps teach you some Antivan, if that would please you."
XXXXXXXXXXX
princesa = princess
hermosa pequeña mia = my beautiful little sweet
Ciertamente = Certainly
que me jodan, soy un cabrón de mierda = Fuck me, I'm a shithead (sorta, approximately as cabron is rascal/asshole)
Pequeña mia = my small one
Culminación = Culmination
Author: Rhion
Rating: M for abuse mentions
Summary: F!Surana and Zevran each have their secrets. Some are stranger than others. The trouble with secrets is that they are best kept by only one person. But there's always someone else who knows the hidden things.
AN: There's some references to non-consensual 'adult' activities, but they stop before delving into actual depravity or action. Also there's direct mentions of child abuse. So just warning ya'll.
I've seen Italian and Catalan mentioned as the Antivan language, and that's all well and good, but I always thought that Zevran sounded like a cross between Antonio Banderas and Ricardo Montelban both of which are speakers of Spanish. And Antonio Banderas is from Andalusia, specifically Malaga, while Ricardo Mantelban was born in Mexico, his parents and older siblings were all from Spain. So I'm going to lean more towards Southern style Spanish. Not only that but on Dragon Wiki I found mention of the fact that Zev's facial features are actually supposed to look like that suave and so awesome personage. So darken the hair and make him taller, and suddenly Zev resembles Ricardo Mantelban from the original Star Trek years as Khan. Oh. So. AWESOME.
And now all I can think is "KHAAAAAAAN!" and "KIIIIIRK!"
Translations at the bottom, but in general they should be rather self-evident by and large I hope.This has been beta'd by Amku, as she's awesome and I wubbles her in a purely writer-loves-beta fashion. Spanish corrections assisted by the lovely Ilargi Iluna. Which I'm grateful for as I seem to constantly go into the formal when writing... mainly because I use a translator as again - my written Spanish blows.
XXX
2
XXX
Zevran jerked awake. Any stealth that would normally be employed in the act fizzled away as the distinct prickle of panic arose in the back of his mind. The tent was dark, and he could tell that he was not alone. Sensing, smelling and hearing the nearness of another, Zevran reached for the dagger that should be beside him. His hand groped at the tent’s floor, finding only cloth. Giving that up, Zevran's hand lashed out as he grabbed for the face of the other person, fingers digging in powerfully in spite of the mass of suffering that was his body. There was a brief struggle as the other smaller form fought back then went lax even as he began to go for the throat. With a flash of light, a small lavender globe popped into life, bathing the tent and blinding Zevran temporarily. He shielded his squinting eyes with his free hand, and as they adjusted to the otherworldly twilight he was able to distinguish who he was defending himself from. If 'defending' could be considered an applicable term.
He rolled free of Lahar, ignoring how his wounds protested. His voice was raw with sleep when he spoke, coming out as little more than a snarl, "What are you doing in here?"
"It's my tent?" she said, rubbing at her neck as she sat up. "Please, relax. You're reopening all those stitches I had to put into you. Wynne and Morrigan took turns draining every bit of mana they had to mend you, but we decided that I would save most of my reserves on the off chance you might need healing in the night. So please don't ruin all of that hard work." She didn't sound cross or angry at all, "My only complaint about this arrangement is that you hog the covers. I mean, I'm willing to share, but taking all the covers? That's just bad form. Not even Morrigan steals all of them. Actually, she's fairly snuggly really."
Disarmed and confused as his sleep-addled mind tried to process her statement, he asked, "Morrigan? You are speaking of the witch, yes? She has not been replaced by a magic wielding Leliana by chance?"
"No," Lahar said as she scooted closer, tugging on the blanket, "Though she wears very little when she sleeps. On the occasions I've spent over there fleeing all of you, we have little choice but to share bodyheat and blankets. She may be well versed in the elements of fire, but mine lean towards ice; we find that we're best off complimenting each other's temperatures rather than filling the air with both."
"So she sleeps in less than you?" he asked, giving Lahar an appraising glance. "May I watch next time? Better still, may I join?"
Lahar made a face, nose crinkled, lips cocked into a half smile, and one eyebrow arched high with the other dipping low. "Nothing happens. That would be far too incestuous for my tastes." He didn't resist as she took his shoulders in hand and pressed him back down to the pallet. "Besides, you watch all the time, so you better than anyone else would know that she and I don't do that."
A denial fell from his lips unbidden, "I would know nothing of that, preciosa."
"Fine, but I'm onto you." Lahar pinched the tip of his nose before flopping down and cuddling under the blankets. "Now go back to sleep, but could you promise me something?"
"I will attempt whatever you desire." He was far from relaxed even as he let his muscles loosen.
"Try not to kill me. Or hog the blankets. I get cold easily," she said, and as if to prove it a foot that felt more like a block of ice rubbed against his calf. "Oh blood, you're toasty!"
Zevran did not sleep with others, the few times he had tried it in his foolish youth resulted in someone trying to kill him. In this case there was no helping it. Mulling over a way to solve the issue presented by his reflexive instinct to kill whatever was unfamiliar nearby upon waking, he decided that there was a possibility for avoiding conflict. If he was already holding Lahar, then his sleeping mind would hopefully label her as ‘safe’. Or at least ‘not currently threatening’.
He spoke as he rolled onto his side, body protesting, "There is plenty of Zevran to go around, princesa." He slid an arm under Lahar's head at an angle so that he could also use it as a pillow, "I am a red blooded man, and more than willing to share my warmth with one so beauteous as yourself."
"What did I say about those stitches?" she asked, but there was no recrimination of Zevran's actions. Lahar turned over to face him and Zevran felt himself being pulled into eyes the color of hoarfrost. "I have some mana left. I could... heal you a little more to make up for whatever aggravation you've done to your injuries,” she paused, “But it will probably hurt."
"Would it speed up the process?" he asked. After a nod of confirmation, he continued, "Then do as you wish, hermosa pequeña mia."
Lahar's eyes closed as she began, brow furrowing in concentration and lips pursing.
Focusing all his attention on examining the young mage to brace against what was to come, Zevran picked apart the mask she wore. She was everything and nothing like what she appeared. When he first saw Lahar as he waited to spring his ambush, he judged her to be some child that the group had rescued at some point. Zevran had thought that Morrigan would be the Grey Warden mage. Fifteen or twenty, an exceptionally short human, or an elf? he thought, flexing the bicep that pillowed her head. She never shows her ears, even with her hair back they are covered. She was pale as ice and each feature of her fair face was well sculpted. High cheeks. A softly rounded chin unlike the more pointed sort that was the norm for most of the elvhen that Zevran had come across. Her lush, expressive lips were only a few shades darker than her skin, and that too indicated human, not elf. The deep mahogany fall of hair was thick, but each individual hair as fine as a breath, and where Zevran's flesh had contact with the mage's, he felt the smoothness.
Alabaster, marble, or ice, laying there she could have been carved from any of those substances. This should have made Lahar delicate, rather it made her hard and unyielding. That was the expression he had gazed up into when she stood over him in the clearing. There was a particular blankness of features that hid all evidence of humanity as she listened to his tale of being an assassin and his offer of allegiance. It was what initially lead Zevran to believe that Lahar was not a child at all, but right now, watching her lay beside him while a deep freezing cold that was so harsh it burned knitted more of his wounds together, something plucked.
Asexual. No indication of her gender identity was held her mannerisms, her style. Can it be she is unaware of what she looks like? Or is she savvy enough to use her attributes to portray herself this way, like an untouchable vista.
Some event at some point in her life had scoured Lahar clean of what was supposed to be a typical, soft femininity. Rather than replace it with what others did - becoming a hardened harridan or an unabashed hussy- Lahar hadn't done anything. She neither denied her form nor accepted it. With a personality that could only be categorized as neither female nor male, she wasn't even androgynous. That would imply being somewhat male, somewhat female. Rather Lahar simply was, like a force of nature, a tree, a flower, or a mountain.
Zevran knew she had a personality and preferences. He had seen her eyes widen as she dove into a jar of honey upon its discovery, showing that she certainly wasn't some construct; she had likes and dislikes. There was also a type of softness to her mouth when she would pet and stroke Ser Prize. That poor beast, he thought, mentally rolling his eyes towards the heavens, of all the names she could have picked, she had to be clever. It either betrayed youth or femininity, Zevran supposed, naming the Mabari like that. However, when she walked there was no sway to her hips other than what her body forced her to have. And when she touched people it may be light but it was also firm; there was no stroking. It simply existed. Just like Lahar.
A voice in the back of his mind prodded him, Just like me.
It was all too easy to see a similarity of action, a pragmatism that put people off, to ensure that the upper hand was always theirs. No one would get the better of Zevran ever again, or so he had thought. His mask was all smoke and mirrors of sexuality, an easy thing that was also useful in his profession. He always ensured that no one looked deeper into places that they didn't belong. Lahar's presentation was the exact opposite, meant to excite no reaction at all, to be looked over as nothing but an extension of her surroundings. That is, until she would fry, freeze, or crush whoever was in her way. Malice wasn't an emotion Lahar appeared to feel, only a detached assessment that calculated the worth of mercy or vengeance at any given point. A series of pros and cons, and entirely objective.
"All done." There was muted brightness in her tone as her lashes fluttered open. "Now I am well and truly am done in, so would you object overly much if we actually slept now?"
He intended to get at least one question answered fully as he nuzzled her face, his fingers stroking her cheek and aiming to tuck her hair behind her ear, "Ciertamente, if I could but steal a kiss, you shall have no arguments from me, bonita."
Before she could protest, Zevran pressed his body and his mouth to her. His lips moved over hers, which gave no indication of reaction until he caressed the shell of her ear. Her very pointed ear. The touch garnered a surprised gasp, which Zevran took advantage of, plunging his tongue into the moist cavern while continuing to tease at the delicate shell. It was clear no one had touched her in quite the manner he was using, to entice, to give pleasure. He smiled in triumph. Control the body, control the mind. Leaving her lips, Zevran licked and nipped a path to her revealed ear, dragging his tongue from the lobe up to the point before thrusting it into the canal. Lahar's fingers dug into his hip, flexing rhythmically in time to his ministrations. Pulling her closer with one arm and pushing a thigh between hers to rub at the soft warmth that resided there, Zevran paid attention and explored the side of her neck and face, always going back to that oft overlooked area of an elf's body. It wasn't until Lahar was on her back, tunic rucked over her hips as he draped himself atop her, that she came back to herself.
"Zev, Zev-ran, stop," she stuttered through the fog of pleasure, sounding very much like she didn't want him to stop at all.
Humming low in his throat, he ignored the request in favor of listening to her body which was begging for more. Soon Zevran knew her words would echo what her body required, he just had to keep going and any remaining resistance would crumble. Balancing his weight on an elbow, Zevran skimmed the outside of her thigh with his calloused palm, tugging her leg up, urging her hips to tilt. Rocking against the now scorching heat beneath him, Zevran didn't particularly care that they both were still wearing undergarments. Those weren't a hindrance worth focusing on at the moment.
Instincts older than time were taking hold of Lahar, her body bucking up towards Zevran. Not much resistance, but more than one so fresh would put forth, I would think. Now it was time to delve further, to begin with the real touching. As soon as his hand slid into her smallclothes, Lahar froze underneath Zevran. At first Zevran took no note of it, but the complete limpness, the utter lack of response gave him eventual pause.
Breaking free of kissing her chest and neck, Zevran's brow furrowed. Lahar's face was turned to the side, eyes closed, hands loose near her head. Expressionless. Completely, utterly, entirely blank. It was as if she had blocked out everything going on. Inside Zevran recoiled. He was very familiar with the expression she wore. Intimately familiar with it. Often enough it had graced his own features as a boy in Crow training, along with the faces of many other children going through the same.
Gagging on the curse, his words twisted and quiet, "Braska! Que me jodan, soy un cabrón de mierda!"
He shuddered as he rolled over, putting his back to the scene. Zevran had said that as a Crow he had learned to take his pleasures where he could. Others would think that was merely metaphorical, not truly literal. It was very literal; it was the only way a Crow could survive. In the brothel he had been born in, there was enough call for little elven boys that Zevran had learned to go blank like Lahar, and in the first years of his training as a Crow it had certainly helped. That is until Zevran realized that to actually make it each day he would have to act like he enjoyed what was happening. So he had become a consummate actor until even that wouldn't spare him, and he was forced to learn to enjoy, even desire the agony, twisting the lines between horrified suffering and ecstasy. All Crows went through this training, if it could be called such; Zevran to a point where he could switch to a state of mind that allowed him to take blow after blow and have it feel wonderful rather than horrible.
Regaining control of his racing heart, Zevran knew one of the few things that disgusted him most about what being a Crow. Death was well and good; seduction was just fine. But remembering the face of one of the boys he had grown up with, name long forgotten, so ripped up that he had vomited blood and other things for days before dying... Such an image was something that even Zevran's monumental willpower was helpless against, and his powerful ability to shove things to the side simply couldn't discard the memory. One of his few personal rules was to never touch a child in that way. Killing children wasn't always something that could be avoided, but that. Well, that could be avoided. Not for any punishment or reward would Zevran inflict that on someone so defenseless. Pleasure was all Zevran wanted to see on a person's face when he was having sex, no matter the purpose of the act, not mute horror and agony or that blankness. It was all that separated him from whatever monster had left the wreckage of one of the whorehouse boys to die a messy, gruesome and unnecessary death.
Gathering his courage, he spoke, "Pequeña mia, I have stopped, and shall do no more to make you feel threatened." He swallowed thickly before he continued, "Please, speak."
"You're done?" she asked with detached curiosity. "But," she paused and there was shifting under the blanket as though she were checking between her legs for evidence, "but..."
Disgust. A vile poison that was worse than anything Zevran could cook up left him coughing as the acrid taste of bile hit the back of his throat. It was fortunate that there was nothing in his stomach to make an appearance or he would have wretched right there in the mage's tent.
Scrunching his eyes shut Zevran couldn't really compose himself. He hadn't been able to since he had awoken this night. "Many things I am, pequeña mia, but that particular brand of monster is not my style. I would have you willing or not at all."
"Oh."
And that was all that was said.
XXX
The meal was sumptuous by a nine year old's estimation. A whole plate with chunks of chicken, potatoes, onions, peppers and vegetables that he couldn't identify clearly, swimming in a deliciously spicy yogurt sauce heaped over rice was more than Zevran wished to resist. But resist it he did, even as the handful of other children cried out and dug in, all of them so hungry that they couldn't think past the fact that here was food just waiting to be eaten. Painfully his stomach growled reminding the nine year old that he had not eaten more than a bowl of rice a day for so long that he thought he would die. Yet he was cautious, knowing that pain didn't always mean death. Far too often it meant surviving, with gifts of more pain to come later.
"You gonna eat dat, runt?" a coarse gutter accent cut the words as one of the older children there grabbed the plate of food, pulling it towards herself. "Didn' think so."
Zevran wanted to scream at her, to hit her and take the food back. The small sleep area that held the ten young apprentices was filled with the scent of mouth watering meals, more than enough for each to eat their fill and then some. But he was wary; something wasn't right. It was too much, like a wondrous dream come true. This could be a test, the way that the fresh water had been the other day - consume at your own risk. Or there was the time that he had fallen asleep at lights out, figuring that it was safe enough as the Master had said it was, only to awaken to the whipcrack of a switch on the soles of his feet.
Fists clenched in his lap, Zevran held himself tight. If the food was safe and bore no punishment for eating it, he could eat the scraps everyone left, as demeaning as that would be. The only betrayal of his ardent desire for sustenance was the hard stare at the other apprentices plates and the growling of his stomach. A few others had eaten a little and left off, not quite as leery as Zevran.
In the end, the only ones who survived that dinner were Zevran and those who had only eaten a small portion. Almost two thirds of the group died, bodies twisting and vomiting up the meals they had wolfed down, dead for giving into need...
…
"Interesting." The pool in the courtyard swirled. Zevran sat beside it, being once more in the Chantry. "You didn't succumb at all to that temptation. Not one bite crossed your lips in spite of your hunger. Why is that Zevran?"
He shrugged. "I had been trained for almost three years by that point, Crow, and I knew to not trust the appearance of anything. Everything is a trap, even if it's something you need." The Master Crow was watching him, the Chantry robes gone, replaced with leather trews and vest, sword pommels jutting over his broad shoulders, "But you know that. You were trained just as I was, and you also trained others in turn, no?"
"You did not then?" there was a faint humor to his voice, and Zevran detected a smile but still couldn't see the entity's face. "What of Rinna? Didn't you train her in the ways of the Crow? Didn't you put her through her final breaking yourself?"
Angry, Zevran rose. He appeared incapable of controlling himself here in the Fade. "It was me or the others."
"Don't you mean it was you or Taliesin?" sounding like he was smiling, “And well you knew his tender mercy.”
Making a fist, Zevran lashed out, roaring out his pent up emotions. Taliesin was the one who had put Zevran through the last, most brutal part of becoming a full Guildmember. The process was to take whatever humanity was left, fan its flames.
And then snuff them out.
It was a process that was more than pain. More than sexual. More than brutal. It was a murdering of spirit. Hope of anything other than being a Crow would be completely and utterly destroyed. All sense of self was to be removed and replaced with the outline of a person. An empty one. To become nothing more than a vessel that was named 'Crow'. Everything that came afterward was a character design assigned by the Guildmaster to each resulting Crow according to the areas they were strongest. Zevran's preference for seduction, fine things, using poisons and dual wielding - all of it was implanted.
Every single thing about him was fake.
Even his emotions, if he took away the given identity he had been assigned, were a byproduct of programmed response.
The ensuing fight between Zevran and the Crow had an inevitable outcome: Zevran was beaten down, and even still his training bid him to rise. And again, he was forced down. Any Crow would fight to keep their assigned personality, unless, in theory, the order for a change came down from the Guildmaster. Reminders that they were little more than moving statues, nothing more than disposable tools used until they were no longer fit, were to be avoided.
Zevran had once seen a Crow who had never been assigned an identity. It was a failed experiment. That Crow had simply sat there, unaware of the weather, unaware of the food that would be placed before it. At one point that Crow had been male. It's body had remained so, at least outwardly. In the end it was only a thing with no will of it's own. No drive to eat, to get out of the harsh sun or the startling chill of the Antivian evening. With the immunity to the elements - or at least the ability to tolerate extremes - that Crow took weeks to die. Withering slowly, sitting in it's own waste, kept alive by training and by the occasional scrap of food or sip of water forced on it, curious Masters examining it's responses or lack thereof.
Screaming in defiance, Zevran struggled, using every trick, every skill imparted by thirty plus years of Crow training, unwilling to give in.
Finally the Master Crow stopped his resistance, allowing himself to be pummeled by Zevran until the elf ceased, "Very interesting, some of your inner self survived the process."
He glowered, the haze of rage coating his vision. "Nothing survives the Culminación."
"No," he replied, shaking his head, "for some it does. Sometimes. Either that or the personality assignment was close to what the Crow would have become if left without going through the Culminación."
Zevran rocked back on his heels, hands fisted against his knees. "Not possible."
"You would not have taken to the personality that Taliesin was given, nor the one I was," he explained, sitting up. "Not the way you took to the seducer. You were given one that truly fit you, or as truly as any of the other ones handed down could fit." He grunted, "You have strength even here in the Fade." As he rubbed at his jaw the Crow eyed him speculatively. "You should consider it an honor, Zevran - few men are given that role, we tend to not be as good at it as women. But that's just prejudice anyway. I have known women who were given it who would have been better suited to the other styles."
If Zevran had thought there was a chance of success he would have killed the Crow before him. It was some sort of spirit of the Fade now, wherever it had originated from, and as Zevran understood it according to the Chantry's teachings, the thing couldn't be truly killed, only dispersed. And only temporarily.
Backing away, he asked, "So, are you sent by the Guild?"
"No. I am a product of it, but they couldn't control me now even if they knew I existed," he replied, sitting cross legged, elbow on knee, chin in hand, "And if they knew I existed, all the Guild's mages would piss themselves."
"What are you then?" Zevran demanded.
"As I said before, all you need know is that I am, and that is enough." He snapped his fingers. "Brace yourself..."
…
Hard, calloused hands crushed Zevran's slim hips, gouging what little skin was there. It was a sensation he fixated on, a mild discomfort that he used to eliminate the other much less pleasant ones going on. He was thirteen and he knew he had no choice but to submit, to act like he cared for what was happening. In the past, that worked, made things go faster and then he could go clean up and force the experience from his mind. Lately that had stopped working entirely, and the last few days when he had submitted it would go on for hours and hours, being traded and passed around to women or men alternately. And so he quieted, didn't fight, didn't fake, just waited. But it never stopped until many hours later and he would be allowed some sleep, some food and then it would begin anew.
Suddenly the words of an older apprentice came to Zevran, 'Take your pleasures where you can.'
It took some time for a kernel of understanding to grow. Days, maybe weeks of being passed around and Zevran sublimated the pain he received, found it twisting into something that... felt good. At some point the thought of feigning enjoyment or ignoring the act passed from memory, and Zevran wound up relishing the acts enough that pleasure would wind up coalescing. Then he didn't care if it stopped or started again, not anymore because the result would be the same.
Completion...
…
"Enough! That's... enough," Zevran wrenched his mind from the memories, clutching the sides of his head, panting, hunched over.
Crow stared at him, and Zevran felt a flash of triumph. "Wonders never cease."
He straightened, hugging himself. "I've had enough of your game, Crow. What is it you want?"
"Tell me, Zevran, how many full Crows do you think Antiva has?"
Grimacing, "Four, five thousand of the intermediates."
"Not them," he said, producing an apricot and taking a bite of it. He waved a hand as he rose, pacing. "I mean the true Crows. How many do you think the Guild has that have completed Culminación?"
Not wishing to play the game, but knowing that there was no escape, he answered, "I don't know, but I suppose you do."
Chuckling, "Approximately, yes. Not quite twenty score. Just think, less than half a thousand fully fledged Crows. And so few survive the five year wait before Culminación."
"I fail to see how this matters," Zevran replied, turning his back to Crow and walking away.
XXX
The third day after he had attacked Lahar and fourth night that would end up with them sharing the same tent, Zevran was well enough to follow her to her walk. They hadn't spoken of what he had done. Lahar's demeanor remained unchanged towards him, as though the almost rape hadn't even happened. Like she had forgotten it, or dismissed it as normal. Foreboding itched up and down Zevran's spine; he had some inkling of what that had to mean for the mage. Surely such occurrences didn't happen in the halls of the Circle? But her behavior spoke volumes. One didn't act like that if it had happened a time or two. Frequent, long term abuse was required to garner that kind of defensive mechanism.
Raking shaking hands through his hair, Zevran couldn't stand the uncertainty he had been going through. Emotions were foreign, distant things that he could feel or had learned to mimic like he felt them for so long that he almost could, but every day after waking from the Fade his condition worsened. A malaise was creeping from somewhere in his psyche, like Crow was picking apart everything that Zevran had learnt to be. The only thing that was constant in Zevran's life at the moment was Lahar and her body near his when they went to bed or when he awoke. Seeking a modicum of normalcy, Zevran plunged forward, vowing to join Lahar this evening in her exercise.
If I am to be damned for failure then I may as well have earned it, he thought, moving through the underbrush on light feet.
Lahar betrayed her surprise as he came near. "Zevran?"
"Show me what you know of Baile de Muerte," he said, his tone brooking no argument.
It was the first time he had invaded her personal ritual with action. Dropping into a ready stance, Zevran waited. Lahar took a few moments to measure him, taking in how comfortable he was while presenting his side to her, offering a minimal target while his hands were palms to the sky, arms straight. She mirrored him finally, her unease shown in the stiffness of her back.
"Attack, princesa," he beckoned.
It couldn't have been considered sparring, for less than a minute in Zevran had a forearm hooked around her neck with her back pressed to his chest. Grunting, Zevran released her only to reposition her stance to his satisfaction. No words were exchanged, but they were not needed. An hour later, Zevran, body still weak, held up a hand halting the lesson.
"Where did you learn to do that?" It was a question that should have come from him. Lahar was stretched out on her stomach beside him, head tilted to the side with a deep look of complete curiosity asking more than just 'where' he had learned, but 'why' he was teaching her. It was the first time Zevran saw fullblown emotion on her face.
Zevran fanned himself with the hem of his shirt, letting the night air dry the sweat on his stomach. "Antiva."
There was a hint of irritation in her voice, "I figured that Zev." A blast of frigid air emanated from her position. "I mean, where in Antiva did you learn it?"
He shuddered from the cold but enjoyed the gooseflesh that sprung up on his overheated skin. "If I tell you, I would have to kill you."
"I seem to remember that not going so well for you last time," she said. Zevran was grateful when she didn't push further, because he really was capable of killing her before she could think to put up a defense. "You called it 'Baile de Muerte'. Why?"
"Rough translation, pequeña, is death dance or dance of death or some such," he replied, shrugging, "And that is what we call it, for that is its name. It's a specialty of sorts for when there are no weapons other than ones' own body at hand. And there are far more katas than what you know."
Lahar issued an indelicate snort, "I thought obvious statements were Alistair's forte."
He wondered how to broach the topic that was truly bothering him, his eyes cast upwards. "And you, my dear Warden, where did you come by the skill?"
"The man who raised me, he moved like you do, and I used to watch him in the evenings." There was a sadness that crept slowly into her voice. "I would sneak from my bed and stare and stare. Eventually at some point he noticed and began teaching me. He showed me more than I can do now, it was hard to find space, time and privacy to practice in the Tower."
He was shocked. A Crow raised her? It may explain her... issue. He stuffed the thought in the back of his mind for later examination, along with the shadow of anger. "How old were you when you went to the Tower?"
"I don't want to talk about it," she replied, beginning to withdraw.
Snaking an arm out, Zevran grabbed her hand, "Then you do not have to, preciosa. I shall respect your wish. Now come, sit back down and we shall talk of more pleasant things." Offering what he hoped was an enticement, he continued, "I could perhaps teach you some Antivan, if that would please you."
XXXXXXXXXXX
princesa = princess
hermosa pequeña mia = my beautiful little sweet
Ciertamente = Certainly
que me jodan, soy un cabrón de mierda = Fuck me, I'm a shithead (sorta, approximately as cabron is rascal/asshole)
Pequeña mia = my small one
Culminación = Culmination