(Arianwen Tabris/Zevran | 2,298 Words | Hurt/Comfort | CW: Blood, brief references to torture and broken bones)
The torture, Zevran thought cynically, truly left something to be desired.
Rather, he seemed to recall—when he’d been a young Crow, there’d been racks, burning oil, things hammered between one’s toes…But this? Breaking his fingers? Slapping him around?
It lacked forethought.
It lacked…panache.
“I do not mean to complain,” Zevran told his torturer, spitting out a mouthful of blood, “But have you done this before?”
“What?” the hooded figure snarled, only their mouth and jaw visible beyond the hood and fabric they were swathed in.
“Mmm,” Zevran said, peering up at them through one swollen eye, “It is only that you are…how shall I say it? Trying too hard, you understand? Most torturers—they adopt a certain style, a way of getting things done, and you seem—”
The figure reared back and kicked him in the chest. His lungs struggled to inflate for a moment, and when they did Zevran coughed convulsively.
“Like that,” he wheezed, while the torturer stomped over to a small table of metal implements, “There is no sense of precision. You might have just stopped my heart, friend, and then where would you be? Luckily for you, I am made of sterner stuff than that.”
“Do you ever stop talking?”
The voice came not from the figure to his left, but from above. It echoed against the far ceiling and the stone walls, spreading until it was almost impossible to tell where it had come from.
Zevran, beaten and breathless, stretched his bloodied mouth into a crooked smile.
“Ah,” he told the hooded figure, “I am terribly sorry for what is about to happen to you.”
The torturer, alarmed, snatched a blade from the table and hurled it into the darkness above the rafters. There was no sound; not the thud of the blade in flesh or wood, nor the sound of metal clattering to the ground. Half a second later, the blade whistled back down, thudding into the flesh of the cloaked figure’s arm.
“Your aim is lacking,” the voice from above said.
“I said precisely the same thing, mi vida,” Zevran said, at long last allowing his head to fall back against the wooden back of the chair he was tied to, “I am sorry to say it, but there is a certain lack of professionalism at play here.”
“You shut up,” she said, and Zevran smiled, “I mean it. The smile, too. Flames, I could kill you.”
“It would not take much doing at the moment,” he told her.
As they spoke, the torturer ripped the blade from their shoulder with a grunt of pain (a bad idea, that; anyone could have told them that it was wiser to leave the thing in place until a healer could take a look at it).
“Show yourself, coward,” the torturer snarled, taking several more blades from the table and staring up at the ceiling. They turned slowly, as if trying to spot the shape of their assailant against the darkness of the ceiling.
If he’d been in a more charitable mood, Zevran might have told them it was pointless.
Indeed, as he thought so, a low laugh came from above, and there was a clatter in the far corner, almost directly behind the torturer. The torturer spun, already throwing a blade toward the source of the noise. As soon as they turned, a cloaked figure dropped from the rafters soundlessly, thrust a dagger into the place where the torturer’s kidney ought to be, and vaulted back up into the ceiling again.
“You know,” she said above him, “I think it’s more cowardly to beat a bound man. But that’s just me.”
A ring of keys fell from the ceiling and into Zevran’s lap. Of course; that was why she hadn’t killed his tormentor outright. She meant for him to do it instead. Balance, retribution; in her way, his Arianwen was all about balance. If he’d had the energy, Zevran would have thanked her for the effort and explained why he wouldn’t be doing that. It was hard to turn a key, after all, when most of one’s fingers were broken.
He didn’t hear her move; he supposed the torturer didn’t, either, because Wen swung down, kicked the large human into the table, and vanished again before the fallen figure could get their bearings again.
Something soft touched his wrist, bound behind him, and Zevran felt a quiet, shuddering breath at his back. She was going to be very cross with him as soon as she took care of their present company; Zevran winced at the thought, then hissed between his teeth when the motion reopened the slice over his eyebrow.
This time, when Arianwen moved away from him, Zevran could hear her; that could only be on purpose. The torturer heard it too, and turned to face her as she cast off the deep blue cloak, variegated with grey and black around the hem. Arianwen stood before him revealed at last, her long braid hanging down her back, her armor blue and silver and gleaming in the light of the brazier. Zevran smiled; it was a fool’s smile, punch-drunk and high from his own relief, but…well. It was just so good to see her. It’d been too long. Too many days without feeling her at in his arms, too many days fighting himself to keep from returning to her side.
“I was going to let him have you,” she said, “Or, if he allowed it, I was going to take my time. Fortunately for you, you’ve made me very, very angry. This’ll be quick.”
The torturer didn’t answer; they bent their head and ran, aiming right for her. Wen didn’t move for a long time—almost too long—and stepped aside at the last moment, exerting precisely as much effort as she needed to get out of the way. It looked, Zevran thought, turning his head as best he could to watch, like she simply floated away from him, like a feather in the breeze. The torturer rammed their injured shoulder into a column and let out a strangled shout.
“Don’t worry,” Wen said to Zevran as she passed, “The building’s empty.”
“There were at least thirty—” he began, and interrupted himself with a cough.
“As I said,” the Warden answered, casually lifting an iron from the fire and striding past, “The building is empty. Don’t worry. I’ll be quick.”
There were sounds that followed her statement, but he could not see their source. He didn’t need to know what she was doing, and he had the sense that not every time he closed his eyes lasted as long as a blink. Likely, that was not a good sign
“Zevran. Look at me, you fool.”
His eye fluttered open—the other seemed stuck shut—and Wen bent before him, her face beatific in its joy. Blood dripped from her ears and clumped in her hair, but she’d wiped her face clean, if the smears along her jaw were any clue. Zevran tried to smile up at her and was mostly successful.
“I knew you would come.”
“You’re an idiot. I don’t know why I put up with you. That letter was—” she wound up the sentence with a sharp click of the teeth instead of any descriptors, but after a moment the blissful look crept back into her eyes.
“Take your health potion like a good boy, hm? And I’ll haul you back to the safe house.”
Zevran might have made a crack about her wording, but as soon as he opened his mouth she pressed the cold glass rim of a vial in between his teeth and tipped it upside-down. The liquid was bitter and cold. Though there was a faint aftertaste of elfroot it was most certainly not a health potion.
“Wen—?” he gasped, and the room faded to black.
|
Arianwen had been angry very often in her life. She enjoyed it, actually. There was a clarity of purpose to rage that most of the rest of life really seemed to lack. It was like…like crossing rooftops on a wire. Rage gave one a single clear path, and if one had the means to follow it things usually turned out alright in the end.
But now—now her old friend turned on her, hounded her steps.
Killing so many had been good enough in the moment, of course, but Zevran had needed to be unconscious for what came next, and she hadn’t wanted to give him the chance to talk her out of it. Now, all she could do was wait; there was nobody left to kill, and Zevran was not awake to argue with. As she paced the room, rage paced with her, shadowing her steps and clouding her concentration.
She crossed the room to open the window now, for the room was more or less empty of personality and furniture save an end table, a bed, and a chair. Zevran slept in the bed, his chest rising and falling easily. Few of his wounds would scar, not that he’d care about such things. He’d gained tattoos since she’d last seen him some…oh, had it been five months already? It felt like years.
This waiting.
Wen braced her hands on the windowsill, her fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm, and then she turned back to the bed.
Maker damn him, she loved the man. She’d kill a dozen times as many for him with pleasure, but seeing him hurt like this was—it was—
“Mi vida,” he murmured to her left, and Wen spun on her heel to look at him, “And here I had thought you were some sort of dream.”
She crossed to the side of the bed, her heart in her throat. She ought to say…she ought to tell him what an idiot he was. She ought to tell him off; she’d certainly thought of doing so enough times. But words escaped her now, and when he lifted his hand from the bed it was to wipe the moisture from her cheek.
“Ah,” he said, wincing when he lifted himself onto one elbow, “No, my Arianwen, no; do not cry for me. I cannot—”
“Why are you trying to get yourself killed?” she asked, and rage took her hand again, gave her the focus to keep talking.
“I am not—” he began, frowning, but she interrupted him.
“When will it be enough, Zev? Do you want to lead the Crows? Kill everyone who hurt you, who bought other kids like you? Do you want to be the King of Antiva? What? Because I can’t keep—can’t keep seeing you like this. If you need help, I will help; if you want me out of your life, then tell me to leave. But I can’t—”
She was crying again—so stupid. She hadn’t cried in years, and certainly never over him. He was staring at her with a sort of stunned horror that she might, if she’d had any sort of composure, have recognized better. It was the same face she was making, after all.
Don’t leave me, she wanted to tell him; as she wanted to tell him every time he disappeared onto a boat. But she’d been too proud to force him into a cage when he wanted the sky, so she’d always turned away instead.
“What do you think I should do?” he asked.
The hand wet with her tears fell away to the sheets of the bed.
For one dizzy, breathless moment, she wished he’d stayed asleep a little longer, given her more time to find the right words. But she…she….
“I want you to marry me,” she said, and it was already too late to take back. His mouth fell open, lips moving as if to speak, but nothing came out.
“Marry me,” she said again, grasping his hand in both of hers, “Tell me you want to live, and you want to live with me. Travel if you have to, but come home again. Live with me; be mine and let me be yours. I want a life, Zevran. I want a life for both of us.”
She searched his face, her heart racing harder than it had killing an entire house full of Crows on her way to her captured lover. Zevran stared at her, and slowly, slowly, a smile wrinkled the space on either side of his eyes.
“Yes.”
Wen blinked and squeezed his hand.
“Yes? You mean that? You’re not just—you aren’t going to take it back?”
“Maker’s pierced navel,” he said, struggling into a sitting position, “You do not believe me? And you were so persuasive, too.”
“No, I—” She clamped her mouth shut again and shook her head, “Yes, Zev?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes, of course, you beautiful murderess.”
She didn’t mean to lunge for him; would’ve thought better of it if she’d had the wherewithal. But all at once she was in his arms, her own wrapped tight around his neck, and both of them rocked back with the force of it.
“I love you,” she said into the salty skin of his neck, and kissed him there for good measure, “I love you. I love you.”
“I love you,” he murmured back, and inhaled sharply, “Ah—I should have known you would say something first.”
“I knew you wouldn’t want to force me,” she told him, but without any heat behind it. Her anger had faded away between one step and the next, gone in a breath and only a memory now.
“If you’d died,” she told him, eyes squeezed shut, breathing him in, “I would’ve killed you.”
His laugh was uneven, a little breathless, and likely that meant she’d need to let go of him soon. But when his words came, they were certain.
“Yes, I know,” Zevran said, “I love you for that, too.”
Hiii happy happy Friday! For DADWC, I'm dyiiing for more Blackwall/Thalia ;u; How about "Captured" from the 14 Days of DA Lovers list?
Hi Gin!! You and @contreparry had identical requests for this one, and then I got even more ambitious and added this one from @melisusthewee:
Thank you all! Here is some spicy banter laced with angst from Kingdom Come AU – might go in a future chapter? It's several years post-Trespasser and Thalia has been reunited with Thom Rainier after being widowed.
For @dadrunkwriting and @14daysdalovers!
WC: 1653
---
After dinner, Thalia hovers nearby while Thom washes the dishes in the kitchen sink. He’s dismissed the housekeeper early again, preferring to keep the company just the two of them. Thalia shivered a little when he said this, wondering at his subtext.
She leans against the long wooden counter, watching him work. She is taken in by the methodical movements of his hands; the steam from the heated water coats their faces in a thin sheen of sweat.
“Would you like some help?” she ventures.
He waves her off with one large, dripping hand. “I’d never let a lady stoop to such menial work.” His gaze lowers to the sleeve of her tunic, dangling loose without her prosthetic. “Besides…”
“I can manage drying dishes quite well one-handed, thank you.” Images come to her: porcelain smashed on the floor after she lost her grip on yet another plate, tears pricking her eyes; Cullen reassuring her in low tones while grabbing for the broom; the dog nosing his way in to sniff at the detritus. “It just took a little practice, that’s all.”
“Wasn’t questioning your capability.” Thom has turned front, carrying on as if she hadn’t spoken at all. She thinks again of his sharp tone the other evening, when she offered a sliver of her previous life with a previous man. I’m not at all interested in what you did with Cullen.
She sighs. Cullen liked when she helped around the house. She suspected her growing up as a member of the nobility irked him more than he ever felt willing to voice. She grew accustomed to taking the initiative, to navigating menial work alongside the lost arm, in order to prove she was self-sufficient. That she didn’t view him as a servant.
Thom Rainier, it seems, is different. She can’t shake some of the things he growled in her ear, deep in the throes of coitus. Her face flushes at the memory — but she can hardly call observing him do all the chores slumming it.
“Well, is there anything you would like me to do?” Thalia asks, exasperation seeping into her tone.
“You’re doing it.” His voice is brusque.
“What, standing here and annoying you?”
He turns and grabs her around the waist. Thalia lets out a surprised shriek as his warm, wet grip soaks through her jerkin and he lifts her, with no apparent effort, onto the countertop. Once she’s sitting, he slids into the space between her legs and leans in close.
“I assure you annoyance is not what I’m feeling right now,” he murmurs.
Thalia can scarcely breathe when he’s this close. She wants to put her hand on his face, fingers in his hair. She remembers the uncomplicated pleasure of their union, and despises the flood of conflicting emotions that have resulted. But what did she expect? It never could be simple with them. And she promised she would try to make this — whatever this late-blooming thing is between them — work. If she can keep the guilt from creeping in and eating her alive.
She leans back, kicking her legs with feigned petulance. Her feet no longer reach the floor. “You really are the sort of man my mother warned me about.”
Thom lets out a sudden, oddly delighted laugh. “Is that so?” She has never mentioned her family to him before, she thinks. “What sort of man is that?”
Dastardly men, low-born and cunning, determined to deflower a lady. Thalia recalls this conversation with her mother dimly, as if it happened in another lifetime. It was eclipsed by rhetoric she received in the Circle, where the phantom men were not peasants but templars, determined to exploit their power. It amuses her in a feral way that she’s been touched by both sorts willingly.
This she does not say. Instead she angles her head coyly and tries to grasp her mother’s ludicrous language out of the recesses of her memory. Holding the class difference up to his face feels unwise. “In the end I think she meant all of them. ‘A man has his appetites’ — that’s what she said.”
Her hair has fallen into her face. The ends of blunted auburn strands tickle her cheekbones. Thom reaches in and brushes them away with damp fingers smelling of soap. “I’m not sure I can deny that,” he says, voice a low rumble.
“Yes, well.” Thalia leans forward, curling her hand around the collar of his black doublet. “Mother’s idea of intimacy was to lie back and think of Ostwick.”
Thom chuckles. Thalia presses her lips to his, giggling at the tickle of his beard against her chin, and his hands palm her face, dampen her hair with dishwater. She pulls away playfully, shaking out her waves. “And I must admit I’m curious.”
“About — my — appetites?” he asks between kisses planted on her cheekbone, eyelid, temple. “And yet I’m more interested in yours.”
Thom smirks, disentangling himself and returning to the dishes. Their shoulders touch in a desirable, electric way. “Based on the other night, I’d disagree.”
Thalia chews her lip. “I wasn’t even really thinking. I was trying not to, actually, or I’d’ve never worked up the courage.”
“Well, I’m glad you did.” Of course he is. She’s never seen him so happy, as if her mortifying dissolution into tears after the fact never happened. “But now we’ve a bit of time to explore, don’t we?”
It is a delicious proposition — luxurious, a little. To have time to sort out desires, and not fit hurried love-making in between world ending crises? Even in peace time, communicating with Cullen about such things proved difficult. She blamed herself, mostly. Once she lost the arm and the Inquisition, it became an insurmountable obstacle to talk about much of anything for a long while. When he’d tried to bridge the chasm, she had only pushed him away further.
“Thalia.” She jolts, startled. Thom is watching her, thick brows lowered in concern. “You looked like you were folding in on yourself there. Am I being too forward?”
“No, no.” Is she truly so obvious? Or is it merely that he knows her that well? She twitches her mouth into an impish smile. “I think that would be nice. Exploring some… possibilities. I assume you know more than me, with your vast life experience.”
They both laugh, but it is true she likes him precisely the way he is. The grey gathering at his temples and threading through his neatly kept beard tug at some primal desire in her. If anything, it’s that she is so much younger that makes her insecure. All this time she has assumed he would prefer a woman more worldly — and no matter how much of the continent she travels, nor how many decisions she’s been forced to make, when it comes to him, she still feels as unprepared and inexperienced as the day they met.
“I don’t think you’re old,” she says defensively. “I just always assumed you’d have… er. Sophisticated tastes that I’d know nothing about.”
“What would make you think that?” he asks carefully, but she notes he doesn’t deny it.
“Well, you know, all those years in Orlais…”
“What about them?”
Thalia pressed the back of her palm against her mouth to stifle a nervous laugh. “One hears things about the conduct there, in… certain circles.”
She can hear, rather than see, his grin. “Are you asking me if I was a libertine during my time in Orlais, my lady?”
“Please do not try to ‘my lady’ your way out of this,” Thalia huffs. “It’s just… you had a certain reputation, and I thought…” She’s not really sure what she thinks. Just that it sounds salacious in a way that is both a little dangerous and terribly appealing.
“If I were to say ‘yes,’ what would you do with that information?”
“Ask you what it was like,” Thalia blurts.
“To what end?”
“I don’t know.” She feels the blush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. “It always seemed far too bold for someone like me. I know I mustn’t hold a candle to all those Orlesian women…”
“None of that, now.” Thom flicks water at her, as if admonishing a cat. “You burn a thousand times brighter than any woman I met in Orlais.”
“Oh.” Thalia looks down, simultaneously chastised and glowing with praise. “Even if I haven’t been to those scandalous Orlesian parties, where — er, everyone chases each other in their underthings?”
Thom laughs so heartily he doubles over, grasping the edge of the sink to steady himself. “I’m sorry, love, you think what happened at these parties?”
“Did they not?” Thalia demands, horrified. Where did she get such an idea? The Randy Dowager, Dorian? Maybe gossip about Vivienne, or an account from her knavish cousin?
“I don’t know about everyone,” Thom says, cryptically enough to make her stomach flutter, “but if you’d like a little game of catch-me-if-you-can, you only have to say so.”
“Wait, really?” Is it that simple? And is that what all of this means — that this is something she’d like to recreate? In her mind, she holds the idea up to the light and squints at it.
“No one’s here but us,” he reminds her, voice husky. “We can do whatever we want.”
She swallows hard; the fluttering multiples.
“Though it’d be nice to know what you’d like me to do,” Thom says softly, “once I capture you.”
Desire shoots through her like lightning. “I, um,” she stammers, “I shall have to think about it.”
“Well, you’d better think fast.” Thom shoots her a mischievous grin that threatens to melt her on the spot. “I am almost done with the dishes.”
