Chapter Text
Cahir Cousland walks Vigil’s Keep with his seneschal, Varel, at his side. The moon is high in the sky, its fullness casting enough of a light for the two men to see by. Cahir’s leathers make his footsteps near silent on the stone parapets while Varel’s silverite armor makes considerably more noise. They pass by soldiers on night watch, intent on their discussion. They had been addressing the state of the Vigil and its inhabitants since noon; taking note of their recruits, both Grey Warden and regular infantry, overseeing the reconstruction of Amaranthine, and conversing with rich merchants and nobility. They are only now reaching the end of a monstrously long list.
Varel’s voice is weary but strong. “The nobles are getting restless again.” Cahir rolls dark grey eyes. What else was new? “The official reason is the amount of volunteers is draining Amaranthine of its guardsmen.”
“And the unofficial reason?” Cahir’s voice is low, more out of habit than any desire to keep quiet, but the annoyance in his tone is clear.
“They’re concerned about how much influence the Vigil is gaining over trade routes.” Varel rubs weary eyes and shrugs. “It turns out merchants like the idea of heavily armed men guarding them and are choosing the Vigil instead of Amaranthine as trading partners.” Wonderful.
“How many are causing a fuss?”
“So far there only a few mumblings, no one dares to speak out openly.” The ‘yet’ was left unsaid. They continue to walk in silence while Cahir mulls over the information. The nobles wished to maintain their wealth and influence. They could not do so if Amaranthine became dependent on the Wardens for trade. It was in the Warden’s best interest to keep the nobles pacified but on the other hand, making Amaranthine more dependent on the Vigil means they are more dependent on the Wardens. That connection would be useful in the future, especially when there is another Blight. Cahir is about to speak when he notices Varel covering a yawn. A quick glance at the sky shows it is past midnight.
“That’s enough for one night, Varel. We’ll pick this up after we both get some sleep.”
“Commander, the affairs of the Vigil-” Varel protests, albeit weakly.
“Will keep until morning.” Cahir answers firmly. He lays a hand on his seneschal’s shoulder. “Rest. The Vigil will not collapse if we leave it be for the night.” Varel acquiesces, bowing before taking his leave. Cahir walks the parapets a few moments more, checking in with the night watch, his thoughts racing. Nobility left unchecked could prove dangerous. His attempted assassination led by Bann Esmerelle proved that much. If more information could be found about the source of these dissident murmurings maybe they could catch a potential problem before it began.
So engrossed in these half-formed plans is he, he doesn’t realize he is at his quarters until a sound catches his attention. It is a small thing, a rustle of movement in a room that is supposed to be empty. Pulled from his thoughts, he now notices the flickering light shining from under the closed door. Cahir narrows his eyes at the door to his room and rests his hand on his dagger, berating himself for his lack of awareness. The room’s layout is too enclosed for a swordfight, but he is nimble with his dagger; a blade coated with poison only needs one scratch.
Tense, Cahir opens the door with his left hand, keeping his right on his, now drawn, dagger.
He spots the intruder immediately and relaxes. Zevran Arainai sits on Cahir’s bed, leafing through a thin but descriptive volume on poisons. (It had belonged to Oriana, one of the few things to escape the fire.) Zevran looks up as Cahir enters, a familiar smirk playing about his lips as he shuts the book and puts it aside.
“I suppose it is too much to ask for you not to climb into my chambers through the window?” His chiding is undermined by the small smile he feels about his lips. He sheathes the dagger and joins Zevran by the bed, eager to touch, to hold. It has been months since they’ve seen each other. Desire, usually a distant and small thing, starts to warm and build in Zevran’s presence. The feeling had been odd when he and Zevran first started, but not unwelcome.
“And miss the chance to play the handsome and dangerous rogue come in the dead of night for an illicit romance? You know me better than that, amante.” A mischievous smirk plays about his lips that Cahir cannot help but try to taste.
Their lips meet in a slow, impassioned embrace. Cahir cradles Zevran’s face, relishing the feel of his Antivan’s skin under his hands, Zevran’s ever present scent of leather and sandalwood, and the warmth of his tongue in his mouth. In this moment, Cahir’s responsibilities, the Taint, the Antivan Crows, those problems dwindle into nothing and all that matters is that they are together again. They stay that way for what seem like hours, chasing the other’s lips when one attempts to pull away. Finally, they break away, foreheads touching and hot panting breath mingling between the two of them.
“I thought you were still busy in Antiva.”
“Technically, I suppose I still am, but the game gets tiresome rather quickly without you there, amante.”
“Flatterer.” Cahir leans back a bit to look at him properly. Zevran had lost some weight since they had last seen each other some months ago. A new scar curved around his neck, the skin slightly puckered around the edges but healed. Cahir traces the outside of the scar and keeps his face blank despite the concern warring with anger and fear in his belly. No one should have gotten that close to Zevran without a fight.
“Did Nuncio’s men find you?” You were hurt and I wasn’t there. The thought dampens the fire in his belly and his eyes roam over Zevran, searching for new scars. Zevran gently grasps his hand and brings it back to cup his face, kissing the palm.
“A lucky strike, amante. Nuncio’s getting paranoid. Especially after I killed my second Grandmaster.” Cahir raises an eyebrow but Zevran keeps speaking.
“But I hear you’ve been busy yourself, Warden Commander Cousland.” The title sounds so strange when Zevran says it. Cahir snorts but lets him change the subject. He detangles himself (reluctantly) from Zevran to approach his dresser. He takes out the array of weapons on his person and lays them neatly on the wooden dresser. The routine is so ingrained he could do so without opening his eyes.
“Busy is an understatement. Facing down nobles who want you dead is worse than fighting darkspawn.” The fatigue from today’s activities suddenly hits him and Cahir rubs at his eyes. They feel rough and itchy, like sandpaper.
“You haven’t been sleeping.” Cahir shrugs one shoulder in answer. Governing well wasn’t really conducive to a good night’s sleep. There was far too much work to be done and little time to do it; Cahir had a new appreciation for his father’s work in Highever. He hopes Fergus can handle it by himself. Andraste’s ass! He hasn’t spoken or written to his brother in months. He’ll need to send a letter in the morning-
Zevran’s warm hands at his shoulders is startling but nice. The whisper in his ear is even better. “You’re thinking too much, amante.” Zevran’s voice hitches down to a soft purr that sends shivers down his spine and drives his weariness back to the edges of his mind. “I think I know what you need.” Cahir raises an eyebrow as he turns around, resting his hands at Zevran’s hips.
“Another of those massages you’re so fond of giving?” He never thought of himself as the coy type, but with Zevran it seemed to happen more often than not.
“Among other things.” Their kiss is shorter this time, but there is a tension present that drives Cahir to bury his fingers in flaxen hair.
“Other things, you say?”
“Indeed, we will need at least day to explore all the….techniques I wish to try with you, amante.”
“A day?” Cahir frowns. There was far too much to do to allow a full day of rest. The Vigil needed repairs from it’s battle, recruits needed training-
“Yes, amante. The Wardens will not collapse if you are gone for a day, no?”
“Not for lack of trying.” He is reluctant, but lets Zevran steer him toward the bed. “Oghren is here, remember?” That startles a laugh from Zevran.
“Truly? Now I know where that stench was coming from as I passed the barracks.”
“He challenged the new recruits to a drinking contest.” Cahir smiles a bit at the memory. “By the time I walked in, they were all on the floor. Oghren was not impressed.”
"That does sound like our drunkard dwarf, but amante," Zevran gently pushes him to sit on the bed. “Oghren has no place here.” Zevran is now a pleasant weight on his lap and easily unbuckles Cahir’s armor. He bites and laps at patches of skin that reveal themselves a bit at a time. His tongue is warm and Cahir’s breathing hitches at each nip. “The only thing you should be paying attention to now is me.”