Heirloom, Honor by BrynnethNathaniel leaned casually against the wall of the courtyard with his arms crossed. The last rays of the summer sun burst between the towers of Vigil's Keep to light the practice field in the center. Two figures leaped and dodged through swirling dust motes, performing an intricate dance with leather and steel. One figure was tall and stocky, his short hair glowing a golden red in the late afternoon sun. He wielded a longsword and shield that rang with the shrieks of metal against metal. The second man was short, lean, and boasted pointed ears and long, radiant, amber hair that matched his eyes, which flashed as brightly as his whirling daggers. Both men were stripped to the waist, the taller one with a broad, pale, muscular chest covered with fine blond hair. The elf was deeply tanned, his chest hairless and covered with an amazing display of dark swirling tattoos that circled around to his back and below his waist. They made quite a magnificent sight, although only Nathaniel was nearby to appreciate it.
He had met Alistair shortly after the destruction of Amaranthine, when the Warden Second-in-Command had arrived to help the Warden Commander rebuild the city and Keep. Seemingly jovial and friendly, the warrior obviously still carried grudges from the time of the Blight. When Alistair had discovered that he was a Howe, his face had reddened in self-righteous anger, and Nathaniel had been prepared for a fight. The Warden Commander intervened, however, and assured Alistair that Nathaniel was not like his traitorous father. After a few weeks of tension, the two had warily started practicing together and eventually developed a bond of respect, if not friendship. Zevran was still newly arrived to the Keep, having appeared two weeks ago to offer his assistance to the Warden Commander. Nathaniel was shocked to learn that Zevran was not being required to undergo the Joining. Apparently, he had some sort of agreement with the Commander to assist with training new recruits, even though he was not officially a Warden.
Something about the elf interested Nathaniel, although he had yet to pinpoint exactly what. Perhaps it was the way he seemed to breeze through life as if he was unconcerned about anything. Always he was smiling, lacing his words with witty humor, regardless of the situation. On his first night at the Keep, he had wasted no time in commenting on the relationship between the Commander and Anders, which was known only to a select few within the Keep. He had leered and flirted with both of them, actually asking to join them for the night, and neither had seemed shocked by his behavior. Alistair had simply shook his head and remarked to Nathaniel in a whisper that he knew it wouldn't take Zevran long to begin propositioning people. Laughing, he had warned Nathaniel to check his bed every night before turning in.
Certainly, the elf was undeniably attractive. At one time, long ago, he might have allowed himself to think of Zevran in a sexual way. But Rendon Howe was notoriously intolerant of anything he considered to be against the natural order of things. This included same-sex relationships as well as the status of elves. Only once had the young Nathaniel allowed himself to indulge in his desires, and his father had caught him in the unfortunate arms of an elven servant friend. The servant was beheaded and Nathaniel had not been able to sit or lay down without pain for a week. Never again did he allow himself to be tempted. Rendon's disappointment in him had hurt worse than the whip. His father had been his god, which made the time after the Blight all the more painful when the elder Howe's traitorous deeds finally came to light. But with the Commander's help, he had established his own honor, that someday would hopefully overshadow the evil done by his father.
Alistair's hearty laugh rang through the courtyard as he bowed wearily to Zevran, signaling an end to their sparring.
"Well, at least I'm getting better! I can last longer against you than I used to." The large warrior shook his head ruefully as Zevran chuckled.
"Indeed, my friend. But you must realize that defeating me may always be beyond your reach." He smirked at Alistair. "However, my bed is most certainly not, and I would be happy to spar with you there as well."
Alistair blushed and shook his head. "You never give up, do you?"
"Giving up is not a skill I'm acquainted with, dear warrior." He turned his head and met Nathaniel's dark eyes with his own. "However, if you are ceding this day's fight to me, perhaps our rogue friend over here would like to take over your side of the fight?"
Nathaniel pushed himself off the wall and leisurely strode over to the two men. "I don't believe I've yet had the pleasure. I admit that my melee skills are somewhat lacking in comparison to my bowmanship, but I would certainly be willing to test myself against you."
Alistair laughed. "Good luck, Nate. He may appear small, but he's like lightning on his feet. You two enjoy yourselves. I'm heading for a nice, relaxing bath." Grinning, he moved off to the Keep. Zevran turned his attention to Nathaniel, smirking.
"So, my good Warden. Shall we? Perhaps you would remove your armor top so that we may be on equal footing?" He raked his eyes suggestively down Nathaniel's body. A faint heat pulsed low in Nathaniel's stomach. He kept his face carefully blank, however, as he removed his top to reveal a slim but muscular chest, dark hair trailing from his pectoral muscles down to his belly. Was that a gleam of appreciation in Zevran's eyes? Andraste's ass, but he would not lose control with this elf. Slightly baring his teeth, he drew his own daggers and assumed a ready stance.
Zevran grinned and without any warning, lashed out quickly with one dagger, forcing Nathaniel to take a step back in surprise. Maker, but he was fast. Alistair certainly hadn't been lying. Angry at his lapse of attention, he flew in a whirlwind of slicing cuts towards his opponent. But Zevran calmly, almost leisurely blocked his blades, sending him back with a ferocious counterattack. Back and forth, they lunged and parried, daggers occasionally drawing a minor slash of blood. Both were swiftly covered with slick sweat, and with a few flicks of his wrists, Zevran had disarmed Nathaniel, sending the taller man's daggers flying. Not to be easily bested, Nathaniel saw an opening and lunged for Zevran's ankles pulling the elf's legs out from under him. The two rolled in the dirt, grappling for control of Zevran's daggers. Nathaniel managed to grab Zevran's wrist and bent it back, forcing the elf to release one dagger. But he forgot to keep his attention on Zevran's legs, and the assassin quickly brought a knee up to Nathaniel's hip and shoved, using the momentum to roll over top of the other man. Nathaniel closed his eyes as he felt Zevran's dagger pressed against his ribs, the elf's other hand buried in his hair pulling his head back. Well, that was shamefully fast. Obviously I need to brush up on my melee skills, Nathaniel thought, disgusted with himself.
A deep chuckle sounded above him, and he opened his eyes to see amber ones very close to his own. Both were breathing heavily, and he could smell a faint scent of lemon and ginger on Zevran's breath. He was also acutely aware of the elf's body pressing against his own and grit his teeth against the heat that sought to claim him. Control, he thought, it's all about control.
"Hmm," Zevran's voice was like the chocolat he had sampled in the Free Marshes: dark, smooth, exotic. "Now this is interesting. I must confess that I've spent the last two weeks imagining you in exactly this position. Not surrounded by dirt, however." He chuckled softly and drew away the dagger but did not remove his hand from Nathaniel's hair, nor did he pull away.
Anger mixed with the heat inside Nathaniel. "If you have been so anxious to best me in battle, you could have simply asked me sooner. I assure you that next time, we will use bows, and then we shall see who concedes defeat," he growled at the elf.
Zevran raised his eyebrows. "Actually, I have been watching you on the archery field, and I already know I cannot hope to best your considerable skill with the bow. Which is why I invited you to trade blows with me today. It was the easiest way to get you in . . . ah . . . a more intimate position." His burning eyes and smirking lips left no doubt as to what he was suggesting. His fingers in Nathaniel's hair scratched lightly against the scalp, forcing a slight hitch in the larger man's breath. Another wave of heat emanated from low in Nathaniel's belly, and he could feel the elf's pelvis pressing harder against his own. No, he thought wildly, I am not like that, not anymore! I have conquered those desires! He felt panic in the back of his throat and looked away from the Antivan's smoldering eyes.
Zevran hesitated in sudden concern. What was going on here? For the last two weeks, he had noticed Nathaniel subtly staring at him whenever he thought Zevran wasn't looking. He had recognized the hidden hunger in those dark eyes, for how often had he seen that look from others who wished to bed him? For himself, he found the rogue with his sharp tongue and his dark moods quite intriguing. Anger usually transformed into intense passion in a more intimate setting, and Zevran greatly desired to feel that intensity directed toward himself. The other rogue was clearly trying to conceal his interest, but Zevran had thought it was from a simple reluctance to display his feelings publicly. For days, he had been seeking a way to initiate some kind of private, physical contact in the hope of drawing Nathaniel's desire to the surface. But now, as he closely watched the emotions in the other man, there was obviously some internal turmoil going on here. Nathaniel was clearly fighting against his emotions, and Zevran intended to discover why.
"My dear Warden, am I making you uncomfortable?" Zevran kept his voice low and soothing, hoping to calm the rogue below him.
"I do not desire this intimacy, elf," Nathaniel growled between clenched teeth. "You are sorely mistaken if you believe that this could possibly interest me." His voice dripped with venom.
"Hmm. . ." Zevran rubbed his pelvis just slightly against Nathaniel's growing hardness. "Your body seems to be telling me otherwise. Are you quite sure?" His fingers left the rogue's hair and tenderly stroked Nathaniel's cheek. The gesture was almost affectionate, and this was more than Nathaniel could bear. Using his anger for strength, he shoved the elf off, quickly coming to his feet and snatching up his daggers. Zevran merely remained sitting in the dirt, looking up at him, eyes filled with concern.
"Nathaniel," the Antivan slurred out the name with a thick, enticing accent. "Truly, I did not mean to offend. I simply wished to return an interest I was sure I felt from you. If I miscalculated, I offer a sincere apology."
"Just stay away from me, elf," Nathaniel hissed. "I assure you I do not feel any interest." With that, he turned sharply on his heel and left the yard. Zevran watched him leave, brow furrowed in thought. Hmmm, he denies it, but there was definitely something there. He stood and brushed himself off absently. This one will take some effort, but the result may be well worth it. Humming softly, he sauntered off to the Keep, plans unfolding in his head.
***
The next day, Nathaniel avoided Zevran, spending most of the day at the archery field, sinking arrow after arrow in the practice targets. He purposely focused his thoughts on the accuracy of his aim and the perfection of his stance. He tried to forget the encounter with Zevran, but anger kept pushing his feelings to the surface. Finally giving in to his frustration, he tried to picture Zevran's face as the target, but it was quickly replaced by the image of his father, squinting eyes glaring at him over a hooked nose. Damn you, he thought bitterly. Thanks to you, I can't even look at myself without being disgusted. Is that why you sent me away to the Free Marches, Father? Because you despised me and what I was? Again and again, he shot arrows straight and true into the judgmental eyes of Rendon Howe. Finally, as the sun was setting, he dragged his weary body to the Keep's baths to soak his exhausted muscles and wash away the bitterness.
Finally drained of his fury, he dried off and wrapped a towel around his hips. His wet hair left dark spots on the stone floor as he made his way down the hall to his room. He did not keep his room locked since there was nothing there of any consequence to be stolen. Nothing except his family heirlooms, but no one else would want to keep something with the sullied name of Howe inscribed on it. He sighed. Someday, he would redeem his family's honor. Joining the Wardens was the first step to achieving this goal. He would follow in his grandfather's footsteps and avoid the mistakes of his father.
As Nathaniel entered the cold room, his attention was caught by a brightly wrapped box on the table next to his bed. What was this? It hadn't been there earlier before he left for the baths. Obviously, someone had entered his room and left it here, but who? Carefully, he picked up the box and examined it for any sign of a trap or poison. It wasn't heavy and didn't seem threatening in any way. Slowly, he slid a finger through the wrapping paper and removed it, tossing the paper to the floor. He found himself staring at the back of a picture frame and curiously turned it over. Oh Maker, he gasped.
It was an old, faded portrait of a smiling, dark-haired woman dressed in a fancy gown befitting a noble. His mother. She had died when he was only ten, but he still remembered that face, that sweet smile. Rendon had kept no pictures of his wife after her death, so Nathaniel had only memories. His fingers slowly caressed the canvas reverently.
"She was a lovely woman." The quiet, velvet voice came from behind him, and he whirled around. Zevran was stepping out from behind the armoire, dressed simply in a dark green tunic overlaying soft brown leather pants, belted at the waist. "I can see the resemblance in your eyes and your cheekbones."
"Did you leave this?" questioned Nathaniel. He was acutely aware that he was wearing only a towel.
"Yes. I hope you don't mind me entering your room without permission, but you did leave your door unlocked. Really, you should be more careful." He smiled disarmingly, and the green of his shirt emphasized the golden sheen of his eyes.
"Where did you get it?" His voice sounded harsh and accusing to his own ears, and he found himself regretting that tone. Maybe he did need to learn to relax more, but the Antivan was exceptionally skilled at getting under his skin and into places best left forgotten.
"The Commander sent me to the estate of one of the Banns last week, and I noticed this portrait in his home. He informed me that it was the late Elaine Howe, wife to Rendon Howe. He said she was a most delightful woman, and that it was a pity that she died young. Today, I went back to the estate and asked if I could perhaps purchase the portrait. But the good gentleman was kind enough to give it to me for free when I informed him that it was a gift for you. Apparently, not all nobles despise the Howe name. He said to tell you that the sins of the father need not dictate the path of the son."
Nathaniel stared back down at the picture. He was finding it curiously hard to swallow at that moment. "Thank you, Zevran," he said haltingly. "Really. This means . . . a lot to me."
"Please, call me Zev. And it's the least I can do for offending you yesterday. Truly, that was not my intent." The elf stepped closer, lifting his eyes to Nathaniel's. Really, those amber orbs were quite mesmerizing. Dammit, he needed clothes. This towel was making him feel too vulnerable.
"It's . . . okay. Perhaps, I overreacted a little. I tend to have somewhat of a temper. And call me Nate. Please." He returned Zev's gaze levelly, trying not to notice how close the elf was standing now. He could almost feel the heat emanating from that lithe, tanned form.
"Of course, Nate." Zevran smiled brightly and touched his arm tentatively. "Again, I apologize for misreading you. I'm not usually wrong, but in your case . . ." he shrugged offhandedly. Nathaniel felt himself flushing. Maker, help me. He closed his eyes briefly, then took a deep breath.
"It's not that you were wrong. But . . . " He struggled to get the words out. He wanted Zevran to understand; he owed the elf that much. "You see . . . my father, he didn't approve of certain things. Once he discovered exactly what my . . . tendencies were, he made sure he put a stop to it." He looked up to see concern in Zevran's eyes and looked away. "I have taught myself to not feel those kind of desires. Do you understand?" There, I've said it. Maybe now he will keep his distance.
Zevran reached up and very lightly touched Nate's cheek. "Yes, I do. I have encountered this before, especially in Ferelden. Other countries are more tolerant. My dear Warden, you have been deprived of a pleasure that is perfectly normal. There is nothing evil or wrong with sharing yourself with someone, whether it be man or woman. You should not deny yourself of this desire. Life is short, and pleasures are meant to be shared."
Nathaniel swallowed against the pain in his chest. For so long he had felt that his wishes were wrong, had bedded women to satisfy his father, to win the elder Howe's approval. But Rendon Howe was dead, and the son was free to make his own choices. Would it truly be okay to just give in for a change, to allow himself to feel what he had buried in his past? He met Zevran's gaze with pleading eyes. Help me. I don't know what to do. His fists clenched in frustration.
Gently, Zev reached out and took Nate's hands in his own, smoothing the fists and relaxing Nate's fingers. Idly, he stroked the rogue's roughened palms with calloused thumbs. "So much fury is not good for the soul, mi amigo. Always I can see the tension in you. Do you not tire of all this . . . brooding?" He cocked his head thoughtfully at Nate. "Let me ask you a simple question. What do you feel when you look at me? Right now?"
Nate could feel his heart pounding against his ribs. No more lies. "I want . . ." He took a deep breath. "I want to touch you." He didn't look away as he said this and saw Zevran smile. Slowly, the elf raised Nate's hand and placed it against his tattooed cheek. Nate gasped slightly. So warm. Tentatively, he raised his other hand to touch Zev's silky blond hair. The elf closed his eyes and with a soft hum, turned his cheek into Nate's palm. The taller man shivered, and ran his thumb down the tattoo, following it to Zevran's jaw. The heat inside him was coiling tightly, and he slowly let himself give in to it. This is not wrong, and it never was. How could I have believed this? Leaning forward, he hesitantly brushed his lips against the elf's.
To his surprise, Zevran parted his lips and slipped a hot tongue into Nate's mouth. Holy Maker. Nathaniel reached his hand into that golden hair and wrapped his palm around the base of Zevran's skull. His tongue met Zev's, and he stroked the elf's scalp with just the edge of his nails. The Antivan rewarded him with a soft moan that vibrated against Nate's lips. He imitated Nate's move, lightly scratching the nape of Nathaniel's neck. With a groan, Nate's hips pressed forward involuntarily against the elf, and he felt Zev's hardness beneath the soft leather. He broke the kiss and lay his forehead against Zevran's, breathing hard.
"It has been a long time since . . . since I've been with another man. I'm really not experienced . . ."
Zevran quieted him with a finger to his lips. "You worry too much, my Warden. I think we should take this slowly. Inhibition can be a very . . . difficult . . . wall to breach. It's best to savor things like this a bit at a time, like candy. Too much at once and you get a bellyache. But a piece at a time allows you to appreciate the sweetness of candy, yes?" As he spoke, the assassin slowly slid the tip of his finger back and forth across Nate's lips teasingly. With a low growl, the rogue bit Zevran's finger and sucked it into his mouth, licking it with his tongue. The Antivan gently withdrew his finger and placed it inside his own mouth, sucking it exactly as if it were a piece of candy. "Hmm, definitely sweet." Amber eyes drifted down slowly to Nathaniel's towel, which was doing little to hide the rogue's erection. "I would like very much to remove this encumbrance if I may." He lifted his eyebrows at Nate questioningly.
Nathaniel eyed him appraisingly. "Don't you think you should remove some items so that we may be on equal footing?" He purposely allowed his eyes to rest first on Zevran's tunic, then his pants. The assassin threw back his head and laughed.
"So this is to be another sparring match is it? Very well, mi amigo." The Antivan gracefully removed his tunic and trousers and tossed them aside. "And may I ask what weapons we shall be using this time?" He moved slowly to stand behind Nate, close enough that the taller man could feel the elf's breath on his shoulder. One hand carelessly caressed Nate's hip, a finger sliding beneath the towel. The rogue closed his eyes. Every barrier inside him was crumbling.
"Only what we have at the moment." Nathaniel's voice was hoarse, but controlled. Without any further hesitation, he pulled at the towel and dropped it to the floor. He heard the elf's soft hiss of approval and felt movement behind him. Zevran's smallclothes fell on top of the towel. Nate held himself perfectly still as the assassin slowly drew fingers and nails over his bare skin, exploring every inch of his back, his chest, his stomach. By the time those probing fingers reached his groin he was on fire, every nerve ending raw with need. Warm lips brushed his neck, and then he felt the Antivan's tongue tracing the outline of his shoulder blade. Teeth closed on skin, and the pain shot a bolt of pleasure straight to his erection. Before he could recover, Zevran's tongue was sliding to the ridges of his spine. Hard fingers caressed his hips while wet heat forged a weaving trail down his vertebrae, ending in a gentle probing at the top of the slit between his buttocks. Gentle fingers separated the lean, toned curves of flesh and suddenly, the assassin was circling his tongue around the tight sphincter of his entrance. Nathaniel gasped, and kept himself upright only through sheer force of will.
Behind him, the elf rose to his feet and gently guided him to lay back on the bed. Nate took the momentary reprieve to fully take in the sight of Zevran, gloriously nude and obviously not the least bothered by Nate's scrutiny. Every line of his body was taut and firm, beautifully accentuated by the sinuous curves of his tattoos. With a feline grace, he crawled onto the bed, hovering over Nathaniel, eyes predatory. But the rogue was committed now, and he was not one to submit passively, especially in the midst of the passion Zevran had awakened in him. In a sudden show of strength, he grabbed Zevran's hips and rolled the elf to his back, holding both of the assassin's hands above his head in a tight grip. Zevran raised his eyebrows in amusement at the display of aggression.
"Ahh, is this your revenge for our match yesterday?" He seductively thrust his hips up, rubbing his length against Nathaniel's, eliciting a growl from the rogue.
"You haven't even begun to know my revenge," he hissed. He lowered himself till they were skin against skin, both swollen members trapped between them. Nate began to slowly flex his hips, creating an exquisite friction that drew ragged breaths from both men.
"Indeed? In that case, I am greatly looking forward to seeing what else . . . ah," the elf groaned as Nate lowered his head and nibbled at Zevran's ear. The rogue chuckled, continuing to torment that sensitive spot with teeth and tongue until the elf was gasping breathlessly, his back arching against Nathaniel.
"I see you are . . . ah . . . quite knowledgeable . . . of elven anatomy, mi amigo," Zevran murmured distractedly, tilting his head back in pleasure.
"Mmmm," replied Nate. "Perhaps somewhat." And then there were no more words, as both men began to move in earnest, skin sliding against skin, the musky scent of their sex mixing with incoherent cries. At the end, Nathaniel released Zevran's wrists, and the elf gripped his buttocks, nails clenching into sensitive flesh. With a sharp cry, the assassin released himself, and Nathaniel could feel the rhythmic pulsing against his own length. He answered with a groan and added his seed to Zevran's, shuddering with the force of his ecstasy. Only after heartbeats finally slowed did he finally move off the elf, leaving the bed to retrieve his towel which he used to clean both himself and his lover, who continued to sprawl lazily on the bed, watching with half-lidded eyes. Tossing the towel aside, Nate lay back down on his side facing Zevran, head resting on the crook of his elbow.
"I must say that wall was breached rather more easily than I anticipated, my Warden." Zevran grinned lasciviously at him. "And you are not as inexperienced as you claim to be."
"Good," said Nate, "but you still owe me an archery match. And don't think I'll go easy on you."
"I wouldn't dream of it, mi amigo. Your aggression is quite . . . arousing. I rather hope you will never go easy on me." Zevran smiled suggestively, and Nathaniel was surprised to find himself growing hard again at the thoughts that provoked. Finally liberated from years of restraint, he looked forward to Zevran's challenge.
"I'm so glad you approve," he growled pulling the Antivan into a heated kiss. "Because my revenge isn't quite finished yet."
2. Elissa Cousland absolutely hated the paperwork that came with being an Arlessa. She wanted to be out in the training yard working with the recruits or spending time with Anders doing really naughty things. Anything was preferable to sitting behind a desk, looking over reports from the Banns. She sighed and dropped her head to the desk, wondering if she could make herself fall asleep and use that as an excuse to avoid any more tedious reading. Fortunately, she was given a better excuse when her office door opened, admitting a lithe elf who promptly draped himself on the chair in front of her desk. He swung a well-tanned muscular leg over the arm of the chair and leisurely began twirling a throwing knife around his fingers.
"Ahh, here is my favorite Warden Commander, caught napping! Is it that boring, my dear?" He grinned devilishly at her grimace.
"You know it is, Zevran. When did I ever like dealing with paperwork? And am I not the only Warden Commander?" She glared at him with the same steely look that made most of the new recruits shiver in fear, but her blue eyes were filled with mirth. She and Zevran went way back, after all.
"So then, you must be my favorite one, hmm?" He made a show of looking around the small room. "And where is your handsome mage? Let him do some of the work, and then you both can go have some playtime, no?"
Elissa shook her head ruefully. "Anders... do paperwork? If I let him anywhere near this desk, the Keep would be out of food within three days, the wrong people would be thrown in jail, and the Banns would feel insulted about something that Anders would never even remember. Oh, and templars everywhere would be hanged in public."
"That might not be a bad thing." Zevran laughed and ducked as Elissa threw an empty bottle of ink at him.
"What are you doing here anyway, Zev? Aren't you supposed to be working with the recruits this afternoon instead of lounging in my office?"
"Our wonderful recruits are currently practicing how to do simple repairs on their armor, courtesy of our esteemed blacksmith, Wade." The Antivan chuckled. "They do not live up to his standards, of course."
Elissa burst out in gales of laughter at the thought of the touchy artisan criticizing the work of the amateurs. "How cruel of you to leave them alone with Wade. You know he will absolutely rip those poor men to shreds." She glanced down at her desk thoughtfully, then decided to take the chance of bringing up a different subject. "Now why are you here with me instead of with Nate?" She hoped her smile looked completely innocent.
Zevran grinned, completely unabashed. "I wondered when you would finally say something about that. Nothing escapes your notice, does it?"
"We're a pretty tight-knit family, Zev. I'm not the only one who notices the change in Nathaniel whenever you're around. To be honest, I'm relieved and happy to see him relax a little." She sighed and gazed out the window. "You can't imagine what he was like when we found him, Zev. He was a brittle shell covering a world of hurt, and he lashed out at anything that moved. I must admit, I really disliked him at first. But then we got to know each other during all the trials we went through over the next several months. He never seemed to get over his bitterness at his father, but becoming a Warden definitely suited him. It gives him the sense of honor and respect he craves and insulates him from his former world." She shook her head in frustration. "The nobles are horrible to him, Zev. All they see is Rendon's son, not Nathaniel himself. He avoids them now."
"Nobles are always blind to everything except their petty preconceived notions, my dear." Zevran ran his thumb absently along the edge of the knife. "Nathaniel carries many demons, but this is something a Crow is familiar with, no? I will do what I can, if he will allow it."
"I just want him whole, Zevran. He's next in-command after Alistair, and he's my friend. From what I've seen, you've already done him a world of good. And no, I don't need any descriptions of what you did." She rolled her eyes as Zevran laughed.
"As you wish, Commander." He stood and bowed deeply, flourishing the knife. "You truly don't know what you're missing, however." He winked slyly at Elissa and left, humming softly to himself. The Arlessa sighed and shook her head. Secretly, she hoped that whatever was happening between the assassin and Nathaniel was something that would continue to grow. If anyone could turn the moody rogue around, it was Zevran.
***
Nathaniel cursed under his breath as the bear fled the clearing, his arrow having flown wide of its mark. Maker, but his aim was terribly off this day. He rarely returned to the Keep with nothing, but tonight there would be no fresh meat. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, and he needed to think about starting back. He would rest first, however. Days he was able to spend hunting were uncommon, and he relished the solitude of the forest. He placed his treasured Howe bow on the ground and shucked off the quiver of arrows. Sitting with his back to an oak, he raised his face to the flickers of sun drifting through the leaves above. Frustration at losing his quarry drained away, and he allowed his thoughts to wander. He knew why he was so distracted, of course. His mind was constantly circling around the image of a particular Antivan assassin, around the images of that assassin in his bed doing rather private things. He allowed himself a small smile; only two weeks with the elf and he was behaving like a besotted paramour.
The smile turned to a pained grimace as his thoughts moved down a darker path. Why was Zevran spending so much time with him anyway? He was nothing but a rogue with a sullied family name, despised by everyone outside of Vigil's Keep. If it weren't for the Commander's mercy, he would probably already be dead, thanks to his father's traitorous deeds. He had proved himself to the Wardens and earned their grudging respect, but to anyone else, he was only a Howe, the darkest name in Ferelden at the moment. He chuckled dryly, remembering the Queen's fury that he had been recruited to the Wardens instead of being beheaded. Even when they were young, he had always disliked Anora with her snobby attitude.
He sighed and closed his eyes. Zevran didn't care about his name, and he knew this. He was grateful for this. Unfortunately, there was still much about Nathaniel that Zevran didn't know, and Nathaniel was afraid to let the assassin see the darker side of himself. Eventually however, his control would slip, and he didn't think he could bear to see the Antivan's reaction when it did. He clenched his fists in agony, as a familiar wave of black rage swept over him. Why had his father left so many marks on his son? Could he ever be truly free from the damage done to him by a dead man?
Lost in tormenting thoughts, Nathaniel failed to notice the stealthy approach of an intruder. As he felt another body slam against his, he cursed himself and struggled to grab his dagger. The attacker was far too swift, however, barely a blur as strong arms locked around Nate's biceps, pulling his arms behind him. As the rogue tried to kick back, he was hauled to his knees with his chest arched back as the other man tightened his grip.
"Stand up, now." The command was whispered, harsh and cold. Thinking to throw the attacker off after he had more balance, Nathaniel obeyed. Before he could even think to move, he was shoved face first against the rough trunk of the oak. Immediately, a knife was pressed to his throat, the cold edge resting lightly against his skin.
"Wrap your arms around the tree, please." The whisper was a hot breath against the nape of his neck and actually sounded almost amused. The rogue fought the urge to turn against the knife and face this bastard. Keeping his breath even, he focused on looking for a chance to knock his opponent back while placing both arms around the trunk.
"Very good. I am going to tie your hands together. You will try to attack back, I'm sure, but be warned that this knife I hold is coated with a very rare, deadly poison. Only a scratch will cause your body to seize within seconds, and your throat will constrict, cutting off your breath. You will die in a mere few minutes as you slowly choke to death. If you hold still, you will not be harmed." Nate frowned slightly. The whisper held a familiar cadence, one he felt he should know.
A hand on the back of his skull turned his head and pressed his cheek flat against the tree. As the man began to move around the tree behind him, he felt the knife slowly drawn across the back of his neck and down his shoulder and arm, never losing contact with his skin. Nate slid his gaze as far to the side as he could, struggling for a glimpse of his attacker, but the intruder carefully stayed out of sight behind the trunk. He felt his hands pressed together, and within seconds, they were bound tightly. The cold metal of the knife was finally withdrawn, and the attacker stepped into view in front of him. Nathaniel's eyes widened in shock.
"Zevran? What in the name of the Maker are you doing?" Fury flooded every muscle in his body, and he strained backward against the ropes that bound his hands. It was useless, of course. The former Crow was far too adept at tying knots and binding his victims. Nathaniel glared at the elf, practically spitting in his rage. "Why are you attacking me? You could have killed me a hundred times by now if that was what you so dearly wanted!"
The assassin calmly approached his lover and stroked his cheek gently. "My dear Warden, I do apologize for taking this tactic. I am not here to kill you, nor even to wound you. I wish to talk, and as crude as this method is, it does keep you from running away from me." He trailed his fingers back into Nathaniel's hair, smoothing it back soothingly. "I promise you will have your chance to pay me back for this later, but for now, I only wish to talk." His amber eyes peered intently into Nate's.
"We can talk without you putting a knife to my throat and tying me up," Nathaniel hissed. "Not to mention threatening me with poison!"
"I assure you that this knife is perfectly clean, mi amigo. I had to be sure you would not fight back while I tied you. Again, my sincere apologies, but you will understand shortly why I'm doing this." He leaned forward and brushed his lips lightly against Nate's. Even as angry as he was, the rogue couldn't repress a shudder of desire. "You hide things from me, Nathaniel." His name sounded like a velvet caress when spoken in Zevran's heavy Antivan accent. "You repress certain... urges, yes?" Nate's eyes widened slightly. "You think I don't notice this, but I am... practiced in these things, my Warden. You feel these desires as a darkness inside of you, thinking they make you as evil as your father was, no?"
Nate turned his face into the tree, clenching his eyes shut. Maker, how did this elf know these things? Shame washed over him like a cold downpour of rain. He couldn't deny the accuracy of Zevran's statements. He totally blamed Rendon for instilling a predisposition for violence inside of him. These urges were carefully repressed, however. No lover he had taken had ever felt even a drop of the wildness that burned in his blood; he would not allow himself to cause harm. Images surfaced in his mind, memories of his father ordering servants to be whipped while his son reluctantly watched. He had never doubted that his past experiences under the direction of the elder Howe were the root cause of his aberrant wishes. Another outstanding Howe legacy, he thought bitterly. In the end, I am no better than he is.
He felt a soft breeze as the elf moved behind him. He heard the sound of tearing fabric, then felt the warm air of the late afternoon brush his back. He turned his head quickly to the side to see Zevran standing back slightly, holding the knife and admiring Nathaniel's bare back, his tunic cut apart. "Zevran, what in Andraste's... "
The elf put a finger to Nate's lips. "You fear that you harbor evil inside of you, Nathaniel. You let this fear shape your conception of yourself, and thus, you avoid others in your shame. You hold back what you truly feel, and you live in a cage of your own making. I intend to convince you that what you fee... is not wrong in any way." There was the sound of more movement behind him.
"Causing another person pain of any kind is wrong, Zevran," growled Nathaniel. "I will not become my father."
His lover sighed and touched his shoulder. "You are not Rendon Howe; you are Nathaniel. I think it's past time you learn the difference." The rogue felt something smooth, hard, and thin caress his back. "Do you believe I am evil, Nate?" The assassin's voice was both curious and detached.
"Of course not! You kill people, but that is your job. You know I don't hold that against you." Nathaniel's breath hitched slightly as the thin object moved up his spine to stroke the back of his neck. A knot of nervousness mixed with desire coiled low in his stomach. He had a sudden revelation of what was coming.
"I am glad to hear it, mi amigo, because I have truly enjoyed our time together." He felt Zevran's warm breath against his ear, and shivered involuntarily. "It can be more enjoyable if you will allow it. But first, I think we need to be rid of some misconceptions that are clearly troubling you." The elf's tongue darted out and licked the curve of Nathaniel's ear. "Choose a word, my Warden."
Nate's heart began to race. He had never participated in anything requiring a safeword, but he was familiar with the concept and the need for one. Strangely, he felt no fear, only a rising excitement mixed with intense desire. Disgust at this desire warred with anticipation. "Honor," he whispered.
"Ahh." The warmth of Zevran's body disappeared as the assassin moved away. "An interesting choice, that, and not surprising coming from you. Since you did not ask me, I assume you know the rules of this game and when to use the safeword." The rogue nodded slowly, swallowing hard. A piercing hiss rent the air, and Nathaniel felt a sharp puff of air against his back. "Do you know what I hold, Nathaniel?" So gentle, the voice that spoke his name like a caress.
"Yes," responded Nate. How could he not recognize a sound he had heard so many times as a boy? He turned his face against the rough bark of the tree but made no move to struggle against the bonds wrapped securely around his wrists. He didn't understand yet why Zevran was doing this, but he could not deny that it aroused him, as well as shamed him.
"I thought you might," murmured Zevran quietly. "If you need your word, use it mi amigo. I will desist immediately, I promise you." Another sharp hiss, and a stripe of pure fire flared across the middle of his back. Nathaniel gasped and arched back against the terrible burn of the cane. His fingers dug into the tree, gouging marks in the bark. At the same time, heat swelled between his legs, and he felt a familiar bulge beginning to form in his pants. No, Maker, no.
The thought was interrupted as another lash rained down on his back, a few inches lower than the first. He gritted his teeth and bowed his forehead against the tree as sweat began to bead on his brow. Almost unconsciously, he pressed his growing erection against the tree. His body shuddered, and he could hear his own breathing, ragged and uneven. He almost jumped as he felt calloused fingers tracing the quickly forming welts.
"I must say that these marks are quite... enticing." Wet heat licked over the sting, coaxing a soft moan from Nate. Hard fingers slipped into his waistband and shoved his trousers down. As the elf stepped closer, he could feel Zevran's hardness pressing against him. "Am I evil now, Nathaniel?"
The rogue was gasping with the intensity of too many conflicting emotions. "Devilish, yes. Evil... no." Zevran's tongue was continuing to trace the raised lines on his skin. "Zev... please."
The Antivan chuckled softly. "Please, what? More pain, mi amigo?" Again, he moved away, and Nate groaned at the loss of warmth. He braced himself for the next blow but was still unprepared as the next lash lanced across his bare buttocks. A sharp cry of pain and pleasure ripped from his mouth as his back bowed. The burn funneled its way forward, causing his member to ache with need. The bark scraped roughly against the length of him, creating even more exquisite pain. Dear Maker, he felt like he was cracking apart from every seam.
Two more swift blows came hard, one after the other. The first created another welt across the tight skin of his rear. The second fell directly on the softer skin of his thighs, just below the bottom crease of his ass, dangerously close to the vulnerable sac of flesh between his legs. Helpless with the onslaught of sensation, Nathaniel sank to his knees moaning in submission, not to the assassin, but to the realization that this was who he was. No amount of denial could erase the evidence that was so plain to see. And not only did it not turn Zevran away, it aroused him just as much as Nathaniel. Zevran wanted this, just as much as Nate.
He felt gentle fingers releasing his bonds, and he fell to his hands and knees, head bowed as the stinging pain continued to send delicious aches through his body. Warm hands caressed his back and buttocks, both soothing and stimulating the welts. He could hear Zevran's voice speaking softly in Antivan as the elf licked and caressed each stripe of pain. He groaned and pressed himself back against Zevran, pleased to find that the elf had shed his pants. His fingers curled into the dirt as the assassin brushed his erection against the slit between Nathaniel's buttocks.
"Zevran, please. I need you." The words tore from his throat, hoarse with desire. He shuddered as Zevran bit down on the welt across his right buttock, and leaned his head back, mouth agape with pleasure. The elf moved back momentarily to grasp a vial of oil he had laid nearby. Hands shaking with his own desire, Zevran swiftly slicked his length. Gripping Nathaniel's hips in a bruising vise, he drove hard into the rogue, guessing correctly that Nate was too far gone to care about any preparation. Both men groaned as Zevran held himself still, fully buried inside his lover. The assassin reached forward and gripped Nathaniel's hair firmly in his fist, pulling the rogue's head back. Using the grip as leverage, his other hand grasping Nate's hip, Zevran began to slowly thrust, withdrawing completely with each move before snapping his hips forward again roughly. Nathaniel grunted as each thrust shoved them both forward, and his arms shook with their combined weight. Then Zevran changed his angle, and each thrust brushed against that spot. Bolts of pleasure shot through his pelvis, and Nathaniel cried out as the Antivan brushed his thumb against a welt in rhythm with his thrusts.
"Zev... Maker, Zev!" He heard a rough groan behind him, and then the elf was pulsing deep inside him. The hand in his hair released its grip, and Zevran reached around his waist and grasped Nate's length, stroking hard. A wild cry erupted from deep within Nathaniel's throat, and spots of color danced against his eyelids as he spilled himself into the assassin's hand. He crumpled forward, his forehead resting against the dirt as his body shuddered with the force of his orgasm. Warm arms encircled his waist, and he felt the Antivan pulling him down to his side. They both lay quietly, Zevran pressed into his back, arms holding him close.
"You did not use your word." The assassin's tone was light and questioning.
"No." He understood now why Zevran had done this and what the elf was truly asking here. Zevran had taken the role of aggressor, the role that Nathaniel considered evil and had given Nathaniel the opportunity to stop it. But the rogue had not used his safeword, had not stopped what Zevran was doing, because he liked it. What the Antivan had done was done not out of malice, but done because he cared about the rogue. And that was the difference. It was all the difference, and Nathaniel finally realized that.
"Zev?"
"Hmm?" The assassin was running Nathaniel's thick dark locks through his fingers.
"Thank you." The words escaped in a rush of embarrassment. He could only hope the elf knew what he really meant.
"No thanks are necessary, my Warden. I think we need to get a bath, however. The forest does not exactly make a clean bed. And I think we should apply some poultices to your back." There was a clear note of amusement in Zevran's voice.
"No." Nate shook his head vehemently. "Let the marks... stay. Please." He turned his head to look Zevran in the eye.
The assassin raised the corner of his mouth. "As you wish, mi amigo. I assume there is a stream nearby?"
"Yes." Nate stood and extended a hand to the elf. When Zevran was next to him, he pulled the Antivan into a passionate kiss, biting at Zevran's lower lip as he pulled back. "You do realize that I'm going to pay you back for attacking me, don't you?"
The assassin grinned. "I most certainly hope so. In fact, I'm counting on it."