Chapter Text
He has been watching her, of that he cannot deny. She strikes a strange figure in a place such as this – woman, amongst men. He could not help but take notice of her. He is not the only one. Faces glance towards her, eyes linger. A white blouse, in a sea of black suits. She keeps a hand on the bar as she looks over her shoulder. A thrill moves through his spine, when her gaze meets his. Her cursory sweep of the pub squarely stops at him. She makes a study of him, through the crowd, passing strangers. Strange disappointment as she looks away, but it’s only for a moment.
With careful step, she makes her way towards him, two glasses in her hand. She takes a seat beside him on the bench, putting down the glasses. She pushes one towards him. “Thank you Miss, but I do not drink,” he says, stopping its approach with only a finger. She raises her eyebrows, faintly, with surprise. Her dark curling hair is pulled back ornately, neatly, but still, a single strand escapes and curls at her temple. So near, and she is more striking than he realized.
“You do realize exactly where you are?” she asks, raising the glass to her lips. The ice clicks together as it moves, dark amber whiskey moving smoothly down her throat. He chuckles under his breath, looks around the pub once more. It is busy, this time of night, filled with smoke and conversation. The newly installed electric lights do their best to cut through all of it, but so many will be too drunk to see properly later anyway.
“Places such as this are wonderful if you wish to study people,” he tells her. Seated in the very corner, this one small table, he slides closer to her, his shoulder pressed against hers. He leans his head close as she does the same, thick as thieves, and whispers to her. “That man, there. What does he say to you? For me, he is not supposed to be here. You see how he glances towards the door? He practically gulps down his drinks as though he expects an angry wife to burst through the door at any moment.” She follows the line of where he points, watches a bead of sweat run down the man’s forehead.
“That one.” The direction of where he’s pointing moves. “It is subtle, but he is one who cannot give up the drink. He downs far more than his fellows, and yet he is barely affected – save for the red in his nose. He will barely have a hangover tomorrow, because he will be drinking from the moment he wakes,” he says.
“And me?” She asks, “What can you tell of me?” At this, he leans back to look at her properly. She shifts in her seat, putting an elbow on the table to rest her chin against her knuckles. Her other hand rests in her lap, and she is silent and patient. Her grey eyes are cool, unflinching. She doesn’t shy away underneath his contemplation, doesn’t seem concerned by it at all. The collar of her blouse wraps around her neck, frames the warm brown of her skin. The sleeve ends just below the elbow, and she wears no rings or earrings. Her hair is barely contained by the way it’s twisted and manipulated, held in place by pins and hope.
“You give hardly anything away. You are open only just enough to keep others from seeing what exactly you have hidden. I think you are a woman far more complicated than she likes to appear,” he tells her. He watches as the smile spreads across her face, satisfied with his examination of her.
“Should I tell you what I’ve gleaned from you?” She leans in slow and close, and whispers it as though she’s discovered a secret.
“I would be delighted,” and he is, truthfully. Her hand finally slips from her chin, rests easy against the table. She crosses her legs as she playfully narrows her eyes, glancing up and down, making a sport of it.
“You wear your hair long, which is charmingly different from every other man,” she reaches upwards, barely brushes her fingertips against the shell of his ear. “You wear a single earring as well, which suggests you like to stand out. However, your hair is pulled back almost so that you can’t tell how long it is.” She slips a finger around a strand, pulls it loose against his face. “Your suit is the same as any other, but you pay particular mind to your pocket watch. That is the most expensive thing you own, I would wager. You are a man who wants to be noticed, but is far lonelier than he means to be.” Her hand falls from his ear lobe, settles on his thigh. She doesn’t break her gaze from his. “Miss Noya Mahariel.”
“Mr. Zevran Arainai.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Arainai,” she says. She moves back slightly although she keeps her hand on his thigh, reaches for the glass with the other. As she raises it, he reaches out, puts his hand over the top, and pushes it back to the table.
“I have a suite in the hotel across the street, should you enjoy drinking somewhere more comfortable and private,” he says in a low voice.
“Yes,” she says, without hesitation.
She retrieves her coat at the door. Taking it from the hanger, slipping it over her arm, holding it tightly as she looks back at him. He holds open the door, puts a hand at her back as she moves through. There are small puddles at the edges of the street, the dips in the cobblestone. Evidence of the earlier rain, only just ended. The slight heel of her shoe clicks against the street as they walk across it together, avoiding the waiting taxis. Denerim is going to bed, and its establishments will be emptying soon. The horses paw at the ground, wait for the drunkards to exit the pub.
The hotel is quiet, attended by waiting maids who give them polite nods as they pass. Noya keeps her arm linked in Zevran’s, and although they do not speak, they do give each other the odd glance. He pulls the key from the pocket of his vest, slips it into the lock. A flip of the switch, and the lightbulbs slowly hum to life. As Noya drapes her jacket over the back of the chair by the desk, she looks around. The room is either freshly cleaned, or barely used. The covers of the bed are untouched. A single suitcase in the corner, unopened. He puts his hands at her hips, presses a kiss to her shoulder.
“You certainly waste no time Mr. Arainai,” she says.
“Do you dislike it?” He asks, beginning to move his hands away. A single touch from her keeps them there. She turns to face him, hands on his shoulders, thumbs underneath the hem of his jacket. He lets it fall, to the ground around him, as she turns her attention to his neck scarf. Beginning to undo it, as he tilts his face towards hers. He can feel the tack of her lipstick, the color he kisses away from her. The taste of whiskey is still on her lips, and he undoes the clasps of her belt. She kisses as though it’s a fight. Fierce and without reservation, she gives no ground.
She pulls the scarf from his neck, sends it fluttering to the ground. Her fingers flit about the buttons of his vest, quickening as she presses her tongue against his. She pushes him back with the eagerness of it, and he pulls her blouse free of her skirts. They break, breathless, panting, as he pulls it above her head, casts it away just as the scarf. His hands track against the bindings of her corset at her back, pull at the tie there. His vest is almost on the ground, and she pulls at the buttons of his collar. She has moved them so far that the back of his legs find the bed. When he stops, she puts both hands on his chest, and shoves him back onto the bed.
Noya is quick to straddle him, her boots still on, hanging off the edge of the bed. She looks down at him, hands still pressed at his chest, and licks her lips. She bends down to him, and he closes his eyes as he seals the kiss. Zevran welcomes this devouring. His hands move underneath her skirts, against her stockings, over her thighs. The pain is sudden, pointed, jabbed into the side of his neck. He pushes Noya off of him and to the ground, as he staggers towards the wall, his hand clapped against his neck. She still holds the needle in her hands, looks up at him without expression.
“What did you do to me?” He half hisses the words as his vision begins to blur. His head seems to sway from side to side, and the world moves beneath his feet. “What did you do to me?” He means to shout it, but it comes out no more than a growl. He wants to leap for her, his hands extended towards her throat. A step, and he falters, falls. Noya pushes his limp body off of her legs, puts the needle back into the pocket of her skirts. She retrieves her blouse, slips it over her head. Tucking it back into her belt, as she makes a momentary stop at the mirror. She touches up what needs to be done, before taking the key from Zevran, locking the door behind her.
The maids pay her no mind as she makes her way back down the hallway of the hotel. Her fingers chime the bell at the front desk. As she waits, she simply examines the lobby. She leans leisurely against the desk, and shows no sign of impatience. When the clerk finally arrives, she gives him a pleasant smile. “Good evening,” Noya says, “I was wondering if you could send a telegraph for me.”
The headache throbs behind his eyelids. “It won’t last much longer.” A voice he doesn’t recognize. “Are you sure you tied them tight enough?” Zevran tests the bonds at his wrists, and yes, more at his ankles. He keeps his head bowed, his eyes closed.
“Yes, I’m quite sure, thank you very much.” A man’s voice. “You could have a little faith in me once in a while.” A scoff, from the woman, at that. Zevran feels hands at the sleeve of his shirt, being rolled up. A chair is scraped forward, and he knows without looking that someone is sitting beside him. Something cold, wet, makes its way across his upper arm. He knows what now presses against it. Another needle.
It’s quick. He has no reason to restrain himself. Bonds are easily broken, the chair beneath him kicked away. The needle clatters to the floor as he strikes it aside, takes hold of the person instead. At this, at least, Noya’s face shows surprise. He drags her up from her own chair, pulls her backwards, his claws extended and primed at her jugular. The other woman and the man move forward instantly, stop as Zevran makes a disappointed noise, with his tongue at his teeth.
“My, my, if you wished to invite more people, asking would have sufficed,” Zevran tells Noya. Her head is pulled back against his shoulder, and she has her hands wrapped around his arm, trying to pull him away from her neck. His other arm is wrapped around her waist, keeping her tightly against him. She’s breathing heavy, but that surprise is gone, replaced with cool fury.
“Release her, creature,” the woman says. A pale thing, surrounded by darkness. Her dress could almost be mistaken for one in mourning, if not for the blood red thread which weaves pattern throughout it. Black hair is pulled back into a bun, while a pendant sparkles at her throat. She raises her hands, rings adorning most of them, and she seems to almost stare through him. Her eyes are a pale green, almost yellow. An easy power in her. The man beside her has his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Messy hair atop his head, stains on his trousers, tattered shoes. The suspenders barely hold back the muscle of him.
“Release her before we make you,” he says, and, oh! It’s there, in the curling of his lip, the way his brown eyes shift to gold. His canine teeth begin to pierce against his lips. Zevran almost wants to laugh. The moonlight filters through the high windows of the warehouse, and they are centered inside it. Crates surround them, the still tools of iron workers. The great forges still glow with hot embers.
“Now, what does a witch, a wolf and a –” Zevran closes his eyes, leans close to Noya, and breathes in deeply, “and a human, want with me?”
“Morrigan. Alistair.” Noya takes one hand away from his arm, slowly lowers it. Morrigan instantly drops the rising magic, while Alistair takes another step forward. Zevran feels the sharp way in which she shakes her head, and at that, he finally stops. “If you’d let me go, we can talk,” she says.
“Ah, as we talked in the pub, or as we talked in the hotel room? I would very much rather keep you like this,” Zevran says, dragging her back another step.
“You know of the blight?” Noya asks, her voice steady even as his fingertips press into the soft flesh of her throat.
“An illness. What of it?”
“We seek to cure it. Thus far, we have not been able to cure it by any usual means. Doctors are at a loss, and researchers don’t know what to do with it. It is ravaging the people who cannot afford better care.”
“You have not told me yet what this is about.”
“The blight doesn’t affect those… those of another nature. We thought we could synthesize a cure from the blood of these others. Werewolf blood proved too volatile, so we went in search of a vampire,” Noya says.
“And how did you know I was one?” Zevran asks.
“I’ve studied the signs. It’s not without fault, and we’ve brought back… mistakes, before,” she says. “You’re our first success.”
“No. You are making another mistake. Vampirism is no cure. It is death,” Zevran says, allowing his fangs and claws to recede as he pushes her away, towards the others. She rubs at her throat as she straightens herself, and turns back to face him.
“It isn’t death. It’s a disease. A disease which works alongside its victims to make them stronger, and keep them healthy. If we could turn this disease to our advantage, then we could be rid of the blight along with who knows how many common ailments. This could change everything,” Noya says, as Alistair and Morrigan step up to flank her.
“One wrong step, and you will be condemning a city,” Zevran warns.
“Denerim will be destroyed if we do nothing. I will not stand by and watch my country slowly burn,” she says.
“How admirable. How very foolish. You are playing a dangerous game.”
“Because we must. You could help us, work with us. Imagine if your blood is the key to everything. What would that do for you, knowing you saved so many?”
“Nothing,” he says. At least they were decent enough to give him clothes back. He smooths down the vest, puts a hand over the pocket to ensure the watch is still there. He adjusts the jacket on his shoulders, and begins to head towards the door. Noya’s footsteps are quick, and she stops him with a hand on his arm.
“Zevran. I wasn’t wrong before, was I? You are lonely. Perhaps we could find some way to help you – cure you of what ails you.” He watches as she pulls a small card from her pocket, holds it out towards him. “Our address, if you’re of a mind to seek us out.” A passing glance before he takes it. This time, when he goes to leave, no one stops him.
Noya rubs the space between her brows as she goes to the tipped over table, begins to pick up needle and vial. “Do you think he’ll come back?” Alistair asks, looking in the direction of Zevran’s departure while Morrigan crosses his arms.
“He will,” Noya says, clasping the box of supplies in her hands, “without a doubt.”