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He’s certainly left his mark: a pretty little bruise at the base of her neck (lips and teeth and tongue, marks not easily concealed and not at all coincidental, though he would never say such a thing aloud). And he’s noticed, once or twice, how she occasionally presses her fingers to it, her lips almost twisting up into a grin. Normally, it is something Zevran would take a certain amount of playful pride in but the lingering looks of their companions have him a bit on edge these last few weeks.
It is not something for him to find shame in, no, but he is not their leader; the hope of their success doesn’t rest on his shoulders, but on hers, and he knows Mahariel has a difficult enough time bearing that burden without ‘the assassin? really?’ weighing her down even more.
And they have no subtlety, no tact. From Alistair’s concerned ‘whispering’ to Wynne’s outright lecturing, it is a wonder Mahariel returns to him night after night—though perhaps it is the reason. Only part of the reason, he hopes. But those hopes are for the quiet moments—the nights when she stays and sleeps beside him, when he cards his fingers through her hair (no easy task, truth told), when the silence lends itself to simple wants, leaving the guilt and uncertainty and panic for the morning.
He could simply ask her—she is remarkably forthright, all things considered—but he is not sure he’s ready yet for the answer, whatever it is. He is not sure he’ll ever be ready for the answer, though he knows as the weeks rush by that an end is coming, one way or another.
He cannot shake that feeling, even when she comes again to his tent later that night. And, more strange, more concerning, he is desperate to find comfort in her—not in the sex necessarily, but in her company, in letting himself believe that she would care to make any such effort for his sake. He would not be surprised, exactly—she has been unexpectedly kind to him, perhaps recklessly so—but he knows all too well that there are things he is not allowed to desire. He has waited for some sort of dismissal from the moment they met—or rather, the moment after, when he realized he wasn’t going to die. Sometimes, when he wakes up alone, he hopes for it. Knowing would be easier after all, he thinks. Perhaps.
She leans back against his pillow and shuts her eyes. He has no intention of harming her, no, but he could and her casual trust is somewhat alarming, even after so many nights together. He wonders if she treats every one this way—if she would bare her neck to Sten’s sword or follow Morrigan into the dark. Perhaps, had Taliesen been in his place, he would be here beside her now, and Zevran wonders if this is the moment he would strike, if she would offer his partner the same trust and if it would mean her end. It is not a pleasant thought.
He leans over her, the lantern throwing his shadow across her face, and she doesn’t shift at all. She is so remarkably unafraid of him. He drags his thumbs along the lines of her vallaslin, quietly pleased when his touch draws a smile. “I know very little of Dalish custom,” he says, thumb wandering across her lower lip. “Will you tell me about these marks?”
She opens one eye and cradles the side of his face, traces his tattoos as though they are as precious as her own. “Will you tell me about yours?”
She’s asked him that before, when they first met, in fact. The tattoos have never felt quite so heavy ‘til now. They’d been more a source of pride before. “You first,” he says, or rather begs. The slight break in his voice is near infuriating. Maker’s sake, he is a disgraced assassin, a pathetic, skinny little boy grown into a man and shaped into a blade, and he seeks solace in her arms. It would be different if nothing had changed—if he’d woken one morning without her and not noted her absence. His need—his want—makes him ashamed, afraid. When she pulls him down to press her lips against his, he shoves those worries aside, as he has every night.
“Something of a reward,” she says, “and something of a test. When we have earned our place, we take the vallaslin; we prove that we can endure the ritual, the pain, whatever it takes to serve the clan. We are marked as Dalish.”
It is not so unfamiliar then. He dips his head, places kisses along her jaw, soft, as though he isn’t desperate to give them, as though they have all the time in the world—they may, but the world may not have much time to give. She lets him; lips and teeth and tongue along her temples and ears and neck just as before, leaving pretty little bruises all over again. The others will see, will stare, will talk and whisper and lecture, and Zevran will watch for her reaction, will wait for an ending and hope quietly for something else.
He is not half so impressive as he’d hoped, however, because she doesn’t forget. “Tell me,” she says, her breath warm against his throat. How can he refuse? He doubts he would, had he the option. The realization almost makes him laugh.
“Something of a reward and something of a test,” he says. His attempt at humour isn’t lost on her, but she is hardly satisfied with his answer. “Anyone can be an assassin. Few can be a Crow; fewer of House Arainai. I am told the price paid for me was an impressive sum. I am marked, my dear, just as you are.”
“That’s not the same.” It could easily be a dismissal, but it isn’t. Care, affection even, is so evident in her voice, in her hands soft against him, he could curl up against her and stay here so long as the world lasts. He thinks she might even let him.
“Isn’t it?” Another kiss, along her collarbone, up her neck, at the corner of her mouth. “They tell me where I belong, same as yours.”
“Yet here we are.”
When she’d found Sten’s sword, of all blasted things, she’d sobbed. He shouldn’t have known—it was not a moment he was invited into—but he did. He heard. She’d retired to her tent, followed swiftly by Morrigan, and Zevran had heard. I can’t go home. And the next morning, she’d carried on as though nothing had happened.
He cannot go home either, if he can truly call anywhere home. Not the brothel, of course not. And not the Crows, on pain of death. He has nowhere else to go, no other cause to fight for, and now...
Here we are.
Now, he wonders if he would return even if he could. It is a dangerous thought, a gamble he isn’t sure he’s ready to make, despite her trust and her kindness and her care, despite her hands so gentle against his skin, her eyes trained so steadily on him, her marks as defining—and now as meaningless—as his own.
The end is creeping toward him and no matter how he tries, he cannot stave it off.
“Here we are,” he agrees, and once more—not for the last time, even tonight—he presses lips and teeth and tongue against her, leaving marks all his own, quiet answers to questions he is still afraid to ask. And she lets him.