#zevran x missella | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pb1138 · 5 years ago

Text

Beautiful Beyond Words

Zevran x my warden Missella Surana.

Fluff, mostly. Has an injury depiction. And a tango. Missella thinks about how beautiful Zevran is, and how that beauty has been to his advantage. (This story was WHOLLY inspired by this post. I mean, just look at it. Look at how fucking beautiful this is.)

He’s just so… pretty. Even when they’re meant to be focusing on something, even in the middle of battle, she’ll catch a glance of him and just… melt.

If you were to ask her why she’d spared his life, Missella might’ve said something like, “He’s a trained assassin. He fights well.” But no. For not the first time, she suspects, Zevran Arainai lives because of his beauty.

She looked down upon the last of her attackers and sighed. “What a mess,” she grumbled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a few specks of brilliant red settled starkly in her white hair and groaned. “Great!” Spinning on her heel to return to her companions, she threw her hands up in exasperation. “I’m going to need another bath.”

Alistair looked as if he were going to make some witty or semi-flirtatious joke, but with a quick glower from her, he thought better of it.

“Hey, their leader’s still kickin’.”

Missella and Alistair moved towards Oghren’s voice and were joined by Leliana, her purse noticeably fatter against her hip. Alistair stepped protectively by Missella’s side, his hand upon his sword. “What should we do with him?”

It would make sense to kill him. Obviously, this hadn’t been just a robbery gone wrong. This had been intentional, directed specifically at them, but… Looking down at him, down at his face, she had to swallow and suppress the urge to shiver. The way the sun was shining down through the trees, it illuminated his strong jawline, made his hair glow like sunlight against the waves of Lake Calenhad on a warm summer day. Clearing her throat, she shook her head and gestured vaguely down at him. “Just uh. Just tie him up.” Silently, she prayed the others could not hear the way her voice wavered just the tiniest bit, but she did not let it do so again. “We need answers. This wasn’t a chance meeting, I just know it.”

And as Oghren and Leliana set about taking rope from the nearby carts, she avoided the confused and almost accusatory look that Alistair was giving her. He had obviously not totally bought her semi-lie, but if he suspected the reason she stayed her hand was simply because the attacker was inordinately beautiful, she could not say. “Call for me when he wakes,” she muttered before setting off to find water to clean herself up.

Everything about him exudes beauty and sex. His hands, calloused through years of fighting and hard work, still move with the fluid ease and gentility of a painter, his long fingers nimble and gentle. His shoulders, scarred from endless fights, flexes and rolls and bends in such a prominent way that it is as though he’d been chiseled from a block of marble, strong and steady and stunning. His thighs, thick with a lifetime of muscle, still carry him as though he were a dancer, fast and fleeting and fluid. Even his voice in the most stressful of situations is still as beautiful as if Andraste were speaking through him.

It had been hard to keep her hands away from him at first, the offer having of course been made. Zevran is nothing if not a flirt, but she’d not trusted him, not then. Though the touch of a man had long since become a memory for her, and though she could think of having met no more singularly attractive person in her entire life, Missella would not submit to his charms only to be murdered as she slept naked beside him. But Maker did he make it difficult to say no.

It had been the most hellish of days when Missella learned she could trust this Antivan god, the most hard-hitting and devastating of any of their trials.

The day weighed heavily upon her shoulders. She was tired to the bone, every inch of her aching, but what hurt the worst was her heart. So many of her friends, her family, nearly every person she’d known for over 10 years of her life. Dead. Or worse.

She thought back to Cullen’s broken cries, the crazed way he looked at them, the spiteful way he spoke to her. Though they’d not been lovers, his crush upon her had been flattering (and a source of great amusement to both her and her friend Alena.) Given time, though, Missella could’ve considered it, could’ve seen him as someone she might carry a relationship with. But now? The look in his eye, the pure and utter fear… Even if he were to somehow recover from this ordeal, he would forever be changed, and her heart ached for that. He’d been such a sweet thing, so fresh in the world that just a glance from her could bring a blush to his cheeks. That man was gone, now. Gone, too, all but about 20 mages, many of them children.

She stared down at her hands, could still see the blood upon them, and for not the first time that day, she felt the tears stinging at her eyes. She’d killed so many of them herself. Her friends, people she’d spoke to every day, people she shared her life with. And she’d killed them.

So lost was she in her lamentations that she did not hear the footsteps softly approaching. She jumped as a weight settled over her shoulder, and as she turned to look, a lump rose in her throat. Zevran was settling beside her upon the log, his honey eyes focused on the flames. The blanket he had set upon her shoulders was soft and warm, and only when she pulled it tighter about her did she realize she’d been shivering. They said nothing for a long while, just sitting in companionable silence, and she thought back to the Fade, to their dreams. Alistair’s sister, his pure happiness to be with her, it made her heart ache knowing that he’d never be able to have that now that they know the type of person Goldanna was. Wynne’s nightmare, weeping over the corpses of her students, her friends, and it was one Missella suspected she will share in the future. And Zevran’s. Casting a glance at him, at his supple skin glowing like amber in the firelight, at his honey eyes half hidden by his wheat-colored hair, she had to wonder how much he has endured, how much worse the reality was from what she’d seen in his dreams.

Alistair walked past and dropped a log in the fire, startling her out of her thoughts, but thankfully he left as quickly as he’d come. She could feel Zevran’s warmth against her thigh, and without thinking, she scooted a little closer to him so that they were almost touching. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, smooth like velvet, and filled with concern. “What happened was…” He shook his head slightly and looked down at his hands. “I am sorry, Warden. I… I cannot imagine how you must feel.”

“Missella,” she whispered.

His head turned towards her, his eyes searching her face. “Perdón?”

She cleared her throat, the tears trapped in her eyes finally spilling out. “Please. Missella. It’s… It’s all I have left.” Her voice cracked with the final word, and her fists clenched tight enough that she could feel her nails cut her palm.

After a long moment, he slowly and carefully reached over and placed his hand over both of hers. “Missella,” he repeated gently.

And his touch that burns like fire was the final straw, the last drop of water against the dam, and her tears came hot and thick. Without thinking, she turned into him, pushed her way into his arms. Once his surprise had passed, his arms wrapped tightly around her, his cheek resting upon her head.

And it was there, wrapped in his arms so strong and warm, that somewhere betwixt her sobs, Missella decided that this man is one whom she can trust unconditionally.

Still, even with her acceptance that Zevran would not harm her, she put him off, denied his advances. Wynne had spoken with her, tried to make her see that she is a Warden now, one of the only two remaining Wardens in all of Ferelden, and that her duties should come first. It is painful advice, but advice that Missella took to heart, thankfully before anything had formed between Zevran and her. Though Missella is good at keeping emotional distances when necessary, she had had a feeling that Zevran was… different from her former lovers. No, that’s not right. She’s different now. The Missella from the Circle was just a child, young and stupid and impressionable. The three people whom she’d bedded before in her life had been purely out of physical urgency, just means to a pleasurable end, and the day after it was done, everyone was back to business as usual. Only one of the three had been a repeated instance, but even then it was still just sex, nothing more. She’d not even really liked the girl, not on any personal sort of level, just thought her pretty and skilled.

But Zevran. Missella can feel it, can feel her impending doom. She looks at him too often, sighs too frequently to herself when he does something particularly endearing or attractive. She does not look at him and think only about how good it must feel to have him between her thighs, how many uses he can find for his nimble fingers, how delicious his ethereal face must look in the thralls of ecstasy, how his silky smooth voice must sound as he whispers her name into her ear from behind. No, these are not the only things she ponders. She also wonders what it must feel like to fall asleep nested in his arms, to hold his hand on a leisurely stroll through the marketplace, feel his soft tresses slip between her fingers as she braids his hair back out of his face.

These are the thoughts that frighten her, that make her want to keep her distance. But Maker is it difficult. He’s so charming and lovely in all that he does. The other day, she observed as he poured himself tea and realized a smile had taken hold of her face. Everything he does, from lacing up his boots to cutting his food to striking down enemies, he does it with so much grace and beauty that it distracts her. Like a moth to a flame, she is drawn to him at camp every night, just to talk and nothing more. She likes to hear of his life, of everything he has accomplished. His stories make her wonder how her life might’ve been different if she’d not been born a mage, if she’d perhaps been born Dalish or even just into an alienage. Would she have flourished without the restraints of the Circle walls? Or would she have fallen prey to the inherent racism that runs rampant throughout the world?

So enchanting are his tales that she recalls them in the village of Haven, when she finds a pair of unusually pungent leather boots, she recalls his fondness of the smell of leather and offers them to him. He is pleased, and she blushes when he immediately drops to the ground to strip his current boots off and replace them with her gift. Even in the depths of the forest, his tales echo strongly enough that when she comes across a pair of gloves with strange embroidery upon them, she offers them to him. Dalish, she thinks, and he’s nearly overtaken with emotion. At these, he pulls her into a tight hug and kisses her cheek in thanks, and it’s all she can think about for the next three days, the softness of his lips against her skin.

It is not until a month later, nearly six months to the day that Zevran had joined their merry band of misfits, that she finally says yes to him.

Injured. Of all the stupid, asinine, completely avoidable states of being to be in, she finds herself injured. To make it more insulting, it’s not even a bad injury, just a persistent one. In all her years at the Circle, she’d been lauded for her healing abilities, but even with her spells and poultices and even with Wynne’s attempt at help, the wound would not close. They both of them decided it must have been made with some sort of enchantment they could not perceive, but Wynne suggested that their abilities may have prevented it from spreading.

Whatever the rate, Missella could not make the trip back to Redcliffe from Haven at anything even close to an acceptable rate. With no wagons traveling upon this road and no wayward adventurers with horses to bargain for, Missella had come to a decision: Alistair would travel ahead with the ashes and everyone except Shale and Zevran. At his refusal, she’d glowered at him, put on her sternest voice, and hissed, “Alistair Theirin you put me in charge here so you will do as I say. Arl Eamon’s health is far more important than this stupid leg. Now do as I say and hop to it.”

Grumbling, he listened, and their company set off ahead of them, ashes in hand, and Missella and her own smaller group trudged along at a snail’s pace. It took them nearly an entire extra week, even after Shale had gotten frustrated and insisted on carrying her when she could not continue. Though, in truth, she did not mind the company. She and Shale had become good friends these past few weeks, and of course Zevran’s company is and always has been far from unpleasant. In the three weeks it took to return to Redcliffe, Missella was hesitant to say their friendship had grown. Every night he helped tend her wound, washed her leg and bound it with fresh bandages, always with delicate, sweeping touches and dashing smiles that made her heart flutter. Several times upon this journey he suggested “sharing” a tent, “Purely to save the trouble of setting both up, of course. Practicality is key, my dear Warden,” he’d purr at her.

Saying no to these (very respectful) advances was growing increasingly difficult. The final time, she’d nearly given up, might’ve if Shale hadn’t come clambering through the underbrush, two large water foul in hand and a rather proud and triumphant grin plastered on their stony face.

Their return to Redcliffe was met rather unexpectedly. There was a carriage sat just outside the city along the road, a bored looking human slumped against it, looking to be dozed off. As he heard their approach, he tipped his broad hat up then clambered to his feet. “It’s you! The Warden! Oh, I’d just about given up.”

Zevran moved to stand in front of her, his arm stretched protectively across her. “And who might you be, my friend?” Missella tried not to let this gesture make her heart flutter, but it most definitely did.

The man blinked in surprise then smiled genuinely and took his hat off. “Errol, ser. Lord Eamon has sent me to wait by the roadside every day for your arrival at Ser Alistair’s behest.”

Missella chuckled slightly and gently set her hand against Zevran’s arm. “It’s one man, Zev. I dare say we’ll survive if it’s a trap.”

He looked as though he wanted to give some witty retort, but it was washed away with a sweeping and concerned glance over her body, his eyes lingering upon her leg which had bled through the wrappings. He seemed to be weighing the risks in his mind, and she understood. A kidnapping would not be without the realm of possibilities, and given her inability to run away, perhaps his caution was beneficial. He turned his gaze to the hills of the city, back to her, then back at the human. He relented, dropping his arm. “You’re the boss, Boss.”

She chuckled and hobbled her way over to the cart and let Zevran help her up. Errol looked at Shale, opened his mouth a few times, nervously wrung his hat in his hands. “Oh, relax,” Shale grumbled. “I’ll walk.”

Missella smiled gently at her friend reached over to pat their shoulder. “Sorry, Shale.”

Shale’s gaze softened as they looked back upon her, but they tuttered and just pushed on ahead. Errol scrambled to take his seat at the head of the wagon. Missella, for the millionth time that day, reached her hand over her wound and tried once again to heal it in vain. She could feel Zevran’s eyes upon her, could almost sense his concern though he kept it to himself. If she were to look at him now, she might cave, let him see her exhaustion and pain and melt into his arms. So, she stared at the road drifting away as the cart moved and forced herself to think of anything but the way Zevran’s eyes kept flicking over to her.

Alistair and Wynne were waiting in the courtyard of Redcliffe Castle when the cart pulled up, and Missella couldn’t help but smile at their concern. Zevran was quick to hop out of the cart, and he and Alistair came to help her down to the ground. Wynne moved over and put her hand on her shoulder, a healing spell flooding through her body but doing nothing except slightly alleviating her pain. “We were beginning to worry,” she said.

Missella gave a playful scoff and put her hand to her chest. “What, that I’d come to my senses and run off? Nah, you lot won’t be rid of me that easily,” she teased.

Wynne rolled her eyes but Alistair beamed from ear to ear as he took Missella’s packs from her and settled them upon his back. “See, Wynne, what’d I tell you? Like a barnacle, she is.”

Missella snorted and gently patted Wynne’s hand away. Her mood turning serious, she gestured towards the castle and started limping towards the stairs, using her staff as a walking stick. “How fairs Eamon?”

Alistair beamed brilliantly, and Missella couldn’t help the warm tickle of affection that pulled her lips into a gentle smile. “He’s fully recovered. The ravens have been flying in and out of here like crazy taking the news with them. He’s anxious to meet you,” he adds with a teasing smile.

Missella nodded more to herself than anything. “Good. I’m glad the ashes helped.” She began climbing the stairs, but it was evident to them all how deeply painful it was, her leg unwilling to hold her weight after the fifth. Just when she was about to growl in frustration, her legs were swept out from under her and, with a squeal, she was lifted easily into a pair of strong arms and held against a warm chest. Blushing furiously, she looked up at Zevran and stammered. “I-Hey! L-Let me down!”

Zevran just tuttered and adjusted her weight before he began climbing the stairs. “So I can let you injure yourself further and spend the next three hours trying to climb these stairs? I think not.” Though his tone was exasperated, he held a soft smile on his lips.

With a huff, Missella looked over his shoulder towards Alistair for help, but the blasted man was just smirking at her. Thankfully—and a little ruefully—her discomfort did not have to last long before Zevran had reached the top of the stairs and gently lowered her back to the ground. Leaning against her staff, she righted her skirts and glowered at him before mumbling a quiet, “Thanks.”

Zevran gave her a smirk that made her heart flutter and a warmth stir in the pit of her stomach before he ever so gently brushed his hand along her arm, leaving electricity in his wake. “It is always a pleasure to hold such a lovely woman in my arms,” he purred, his accent purposefully thick.

Maker’s breath. She swallowed hard and pushed on, hoping she wasn’t blushing as deeply as she thought (she was.) Zevran moved to hold the doors for her, and Alistair moved to take lead. A gaggle of servants stood ready to take their packs from them, and she thanked each of them with a warm smile. Alistair escorted her to the main hall where the Lady Isolde stood beside an older man with a grey beard, and standing in front of them was—“First Enchanter?” Missella’s face broke out in an almost painful grin, and in her excitement she moved to rush to his side but hissed as her leg denied her. Zevran was beside her side in an instant, offering her his arm to lean against, which she reluctantly took.

First Enchanter Irving turned at her voice and smiled gently. “I wish I could say you are looking well, my child, but it is not in my nature to lie.”

Zevran helped her over towards the humans as Alistair moved towards the man now standing near Isolde. Irving took her into his arms in a warm hug before pulling back at arm’s length to look her over. “It pleases me endlessly to see you mostly still in one piece, my dear.”

She smiled up at him, her ears lifting in response to his affection. Irving had ever been like a father to her, as much as he could’ve been in the Circle. She’d been worried about him since they’d liberated the Circle, worried what the Templars might’ve done to him for ‘letting’ the uprising happen, but he seemed well enough. Older, worn down by the loss of so many of his charges, but well enough. “Me, too, ser,” she breathed.

Alistair cleared his throat and gestured from the other man towards her. “My Lord Eamon, may I present my fellow Grey Warden, Missella Surana.”

Missella stepped back from Irving and pressed her fist to her chest, bowing her head in greeting. “Lord Eamon, I’m pleased to see you’ve recovered.”

“No thanks to you, I’ve heard.” As she lifted her head to look back up at him, she found herself taken into a firm hug, and she squeaked in response. His voice wavered a little as he said, “Thank you. If not for you, my son would still be… Thank you.”

She smiled awkwardly and tucked her hair behind her ear as he stepped back from her, his hands resting upon her shoulders affectionately. “It was my pleasure, my lord,” she said nervously.

Lord Eamon beamed down at her. With a gentle squeeze, he looked over at Zevran who was hovering nearby. “You two must be exhausted. Please, rest. I’ll order food and drink to be delivered to your rooms immediately.” With that, he nodded pointily at a servant who scurried off to do his bidding and released Missella. “If you’re feeling up to it later, we intend to host a feast here in the castle, to thank you for all you’ve done for my family and my city.”

She blushed slightly but nodded. “I look forward to it, ser.”

Irving put his hand upon her arm and smiled down at her in a paternal way that crinkled at his eyes. “I will be with you shortly to see what we can do about your leg, hmm?”

Missella nearly sighed at the prospect of being patched up at last. She nodded eagerly. “Maker, yes, please.”

He chuckled gently and dropped his hand from her arm. Alistair moved to show them the way to their chambers. He paused nervously outside a door and rubbed the back of his neck. “The rooms are… er… Well, they’re on the second floor.”

Missella pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed in exasperation. “Of course they are.” She shoved her staff into Alistair’s hands and looked pointedly at Zevran who was grinning far too smugly for her liking. “Shall we, then?”

With the same ease as before, he swept her into his arms, but this time she didn’t squeak. Rather, she put her arm about his shoulders to help leverage her weight against him, and Alistair pushed on ahead. Rather than set her down at the head of the stairs like she’d expected, he just hefted her higher in his arms and gave her a dazzling smile that her breath hitch, and for a moment she forgot why she was irked. Alistair opened the door to one room and gestured inside. “This is you, Missella. Zevran, you’re across the hall.”

Zevran grinned lazily as he carried Missella over towards the bed. “I do so love being near the lovelier of the two wardens.”

Missella rolled her eyes to hide her blush as he set her ever so gently upon her bed, and it did not escape her notice how his fingers drew along her arm. Alistair cleared his throat and leaned her staff against the bed, giving Zevran a look as he did. “There’s um, there’s a water basin just over there if you want to wash up. I’ll come by later, see how you’re feeling, alright?”

She smiled up at Alistair and patted his arm. “Alright. Thank you, Alistair.”

After a blush dusted his cheeks, he cleared his throat and stepped out of the room. Zevran gave her a sly grin and purred, “You don’t want help washing up, do you?”

Missella snorted and waved him off. “No, I don’t. Go on now, leave me be.”

He pouted as he walked backwards out of the room. “The beautiful ones are always the cruelest.”

Once she was alone, she let out a deep sigh and patted her cheeks willing her blush away. She washed herself and put on a clean dress she found in the dresser, then laid down to get in a nap. There was a knock on her door not much later, but she got enough sleep to feel a little refreshed. Calling out a quick, “Come in,” she pushed herself to her feet and leaned against a bedpost, smoothing out her dress.

Irving stepped into the room then and cast a cursory glance about. With a gentle smile, he nodded at her. “You’re looking much better, my child.”

She chuckled and gestured for him to come in further. “If this looks better, I shudder to think how bad I looked before.”

He just gave her a smile and dragged a chair over to the bed. “Let’s take a look at that leg, hmm?” With a nod, she settled on the edge of the bed as he sat down, and she placed her leg in his lap. He tsked as he observed the wound. “You always did like to go above and beyond, didn’t you?” he grumbled.

“Well, how else was I supposed to keep you on your toes?”

He chuckled at that as magic began to flow from his hands, the familiarity of it bringing a touch of nostalgia to her, comforted her like when she’d fallen down the stairs and broken her ankle, like when she’d taken seriously ill after eating a piece of shellfish, like the hug he gave her just before she was taken away by Duncan. She thought back to her life in the Circle, to how relatively happy she’d been. To think, if she’d never told Irving about Jowan’s plan, she wouldn’t have been made to help him, wouldn’t have been sent away. Maybe, if she’d been there, she might’ve been able to stop Uldred… If Alena and Anders hadn’t taken their chance to escape the same time Jowan was, Alena’s penchant for sniffing out secrets and gossip might’ve given them the advantage they needed, might’ve prevented so much unnecessary death, might’ve saved her home.

Irving looked up at her and sighed gently, halting in his movements. “It does not do well to dwell on the past, my dear.” He reached up and brushed away a tear she didn’t know had fallen. “Our paths in life are as rivers. We can alter the way, but eventually they all lead to sea.”

Missella sniffled and rubbed her eyes. “I know, I know.” She took his hand in hers and sighed. “Things were much simpler a year ago, weren’t they?”

Irving nodded in agreement and gently eased his hand back so he could get back to healing her. “It does seem like only yesterday you were brought to my office for the first time.” Though he kept his face free of emotions, his voice wavered just the tiniest bit. He shook his head, indicating the end of the conversation, and sighed. “This is one stubborn enchantment, my dear,” he grumbled.

“Mm,” she hummed. After a moment of silence, she looked up at him and tilted her head. “Why are you here, Irving? In Redcliffe, I mean.”

“Oh, Eamon asked me to come. He’ll be assisting in the repairs at Kinloch. And that boy, Alistair, he said you would need a healer.” He smiled gently. “I’m glad that he’s still taking care of you.”

“Me, too. I don’t know where I’d be without him. Without any of them, really.”

His wise eyes searched hers for a minute. “And that elf? The one upon whose arm you were leaning?”

She must’ve blushed because he grew a smirk. “I—I have no idea to what you are referring, First Enchanter,” she mumbled weakly.

His shoulders shook with gentle laughter, and the upswing in his mood made his magic tickle a little. “My dear girl, I am nearly 100 years old. I know infatuation when I see it. And you always have been and still remain a terrible liar.”

She swallowed thickly, turned her head to avoid the risk of her blush deepening. “Nothing can happen anyways. Even Wynne agrees.”

At that, Irving’s smirk melted off his face and his brows knit together. “And why ever not?”

“Because my duty is to end this Blight by whatever means necessary. If I were to become involved with Zevran, if feelings were to form…” She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “If it came down to it, Irving, if I had to choose between saving a man I love and ending the Blight… No.” She shook her head, her conviction renewed. “I cannot allow it.”

The magic from Irving’s hands receded, and he lightly slapped the freshly healed skin of her leg, making her hiss and draw it back. “Have I taught you nothing, child?”

“Ser?”

“In all our time together, did I never once import upon you the strength of love and affection?” He was huffy, now, leaning back in his chair to look at her. “Love is not nor has it ever been a weakness, child. Quite the contrary, out in the real world, love can be a great source of strength. Denying yourself happiness won’t make you any more or less strong when it comes to the end, and when your own life hangs in such precarious balance, are you really satisfied not taking every chance you have at joy?”

Missella blinked then and looked down at her hands as she pondered his words. “But… Wynne—”

Irving sighed. “Wynne and I are dear friends, and I admire her a great deal, but ever has she been staunch and rigid in her beliefs that we mages have duties beyond ourselves. And though there can be some truth to that idea, but it is not for everyone.” He reached over and clasped her hand between both of his, his tired eyes crinkling with a smile. “My dear Missella. Now that you’re no longer under my care, I can admit that I’ve considered you a daughter for many years now.” Ever so gently, he patted her hand and looked down at it. “And like any father, I want to see you happy. This path you’ve been sent down is a difficult one. You should take any chance you can to find joy.”

The tears that had been building in her eyes as he spoke spilled over. “I… Thank you, Irving.” She clasped her hand over his and squeezed it earnestly.

He stood, then, and sighed. “It is time for me to leave you, my child.”

With a trembling sigh of her own, she nodded and rose to her feet as well. The pain in her leg had almost entirely gone, just a dull ache left in its place. “I understand. Have a safe journey back, and thank you again. For everything.”

He left her then, and with another sigh, she plopped back down on her bed and rolled over Irving’s words in her mind. At some point, she drifted off back to sleep, and when the knock on the door woke her up again, the sun was beginning to set through the window. Alistair stepped into the room and knocked once more on the door. “Missella, are you awake?”

She lifted her hand and yawned. “Mm.”

He chuckled slightly and stepped closer but stopped a respectful distance away. “How’s your leg?”

“Much better. Oh, and, thank you, Al. For sending for Irving. It… It was nice to see him again.”

“Of course, Missella. Hey, the feast is about to begin. Are you feeling up to coming down?”

“Mm. Give me a minute to get presentable.” She heaved herself off the bed and limped about the room, washing her face and maneuvering her hair into a passable braid. Once she was done, she turned to Alistair and gestured at herself. “Is this good enough? I don’t know how fancy to be.”

He gave her a warm, eye-twinkling smile and nodded. “You’re always a vision, Missella.”

She snorted and pulled her staff to her side to lean on it. “And you’re full of shit, Alistair.” With a softer smile, she nodded towards the door. “Let’s go, then. I’m starving.”

They made their way down to the first floor carefully. Though Missella’s leg was healed on the surface, the pain had begun to creep back a bit. She insisted on taking the stairs on her own, grumbling something about being an “independent woman,” and she nearly cheered when she hit the bottom. As they pushed through the door into the hallway, they were met with the sound of music drifting lazily through the air, and a ball of excitement began to grow in Missella’s gut. She’d never been to a feast before, and from the sounds of laughter, she dared to say it sounded rather like a party. Not far down the hall, Shale stood, staring at a potted plant as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Missella grinned and hobbled a little faster over to her friend. “Shale! You’re here!”

Shale looked indignantly down at her. “As if I had anywhere better to be?”

Missella just smiled and patted their forearm. “I’m glad to see you, too. Are you going to come into the feast?”

“To what end? To watch 50 flesh sacks stuff their holes? No, thank you.”

Missella rolled her eyes and patted their arm again before turning back to join Alistair who was paused just outside the doors. He gently took her arm and lowered his voice. “Um. I suppose I should warn you. Eamon is probably going to uh… make quite a few toasts to you.”

She blinked. “Me? Why?”

He just stared at her a moment and shook his head. “Maker, Missella. Because of all you’ve done, not just for him but for Ferelden.”

She snorted. “But that wasn’t just me. It was all of us.”

“Oh, please. We’d be nothing without you. You know that.” He silenced her with an upheld hand. “Just. Be prepared, alright? It might get a little embarrassing.”

“After the past few months, embarrassing sounds like a fresh breath of air.”

Alistair just sighed, nodded, and opened the door for her.

As soon as she stepped into the grand room—which had been decked from head to toe with decorations and candles, each table filled with townspeople, many of whom she recognized—the band stopped playing and all eyes were on her. She faltered a moment but straightened up and smiled graciously around the room. Eamon rose from his seat and crossed around the table to greet her in the middle of the room, both his hands clasped over hers. “You are feeling better, I hope?”

She smiled and nodded. “Yes, ser.”

He beamed from ear to ear. “Wonderful, wonderful.” Glancing around the room, he cleared his throat and announced, “Friends, may I present our guest of honor, the woman who saved not just my own life, but the lives of my family, and the lives of nearly everyone in this room.”

Applause exploded around the room, and a servant appeared at Eamon’s side, carrying a serving plate with wine goblets upon it. Eamon handed one to Missella, then Alistair, then turned on his heel in one rotation about the room. The whole room rose to its feet, and quieted down enough for Eamon to call, “For the Warden!”

The townsfolk echoed his call, bringing a blush to Missella’s cheeks, but she met the raised glass with her own and drank deeply from it. Eamon ushered her over to the long table where many of her friends were seated. She nodded towards Isolde and Bann Teagan before smiling at her friends. She reached her chair, and just as she moved to reach for it, a hand brushed hers aside, and Zevran’s grinning face tilted into her view. “Please, my dear, allow me,” he purred.

She had to remember how to breathe, he looked so dashing. He was dressed in a puffy white shirt tucked into tight black pants. Through the fabric of his shirt, she could see the outline of his tattoos, and she had to force herself not to stare, but his face was washed clean and refreshed with sleep, and he’d washed his hair and pulled it back into a soft ponytail. Clearing her throat, she mumbled a soft, “Thank you,” and settled into the chair, and the hall sat down with her. The music began again, and conversation began to flow freely as Zevran settled into the chair on the other side of Alistair.

The food was incredible and plentiful. She felt a bit guilty that she ate as little as she did, but the past few weeks on the road hadn’t afforded her the opportunity to stretch her stomach much. Though, by the time she finished, the doors to the great hall had been opened, and the band had moved out there for people to stand and talk. Some, she’d noticed, had taken this as an opportunity to dance. Wynne had eventually asked Alistair to “indulge an old woman” and practically hauled him off by his ear to join her upon the dance floor, which left the chair between Missella and Zevran empty. To make matters worse, Eamon and Teagan were engaged in some fairly intense discussion concerning topics about which Missella knew nothing, so she tried to distract herself by people watching. She recognized some of these people from the last time she was in Redcliffe, during the attack. The blacksmith and his daughter sat at a far table, and once they locked eyes, they raised a glass to her which rose a blush along her cheeks, and she smiled in recognition. Murdock and Tomas were sat at another table, their own heads butted together in what looked like a rather frustrating discussion, and here and there she’d recognize someone else. Idly, she wondered about her friend Alena, if she would know anyone here tonight, and the thought of her and her unknown demise drew a shadow over Missella’s heart. It must have shown upon her face, too, because there was a heavy sigh as a body settled into the seat next to hers, and a familiar tan hand moved to refill her wine glass. “You know,” Zevran drawled, “For attending a banquet in your honor, you certainly do not seem to be enjoying yourself.”

Missella swallowed hard and brought the glass to her lips for an excuse to think of something to say. Unfortunately, this was her fourth glass of wine since coming downstairs, and her mind was beginning to swim. “I’m just, uh… Tired.” Maker, Missella, really? Tired? That’s the best you can do? she hissed to herself.

Zevran chuckled, and she could feel his amber eyes searching her face. “Come now, my dear warden, of all the lies you’ve ever told, that is by far the worst.”

She sighed and rested her elbow upon the table, her chin in her hand as she looked over to him. Thankfully for the wine, her cheeks were not able to darken anymore, because he looked otherworldly beautiful. He sat mirrored her, his chin in his hand as well, and he was looking upon her with what was at first a sly expression, but upon second glance she could see the softness of his eyes, the wide, open expression in his brow that did not exactly match the smirk he wore. She must’ve been staring too long because his smirk only grew wider, and she forced herself to avert her eyes. “Fine, fine. Honestly, I’m just…” She sighed again. “Seeing Irving brought back a lot of feelings.”

“Oh.” His voice was reservedly surprised, the tone of it bringing her to look back at him. The smirk had fallen from his lips, and his brow had knit together just a smidge in concern. A soft hand touched her shoulder, the thumb brushing a piece of hair back. “Are you alright?”

For all her efforts, she could not hide the way tears welled in her eyes, but just as he opened his mouth to say something else, she nodded, pushing the sudden rush of emotions back down. “I will be.” It was the truth, at least. Whatever was causing this bout of emotion would soon pass, replaced with the impending severity of the Blight. But, for now, she hesitated to speak anymore of the present beyond the faintest of truths: “Between seeing Irving and being here in Redcliffe, I’m mostly worried about my friend Alena.”

“The one who you helped escape?”

She nodded in affirmation, mildly touched he’d remembered. It had been months now since she’d told him the tale of how she’d been made to help Jowan escape and as a consequence helped Anders and their friend Alena escape. The girl was spunky and sly, but she had never been an overly talented mage, and even with Anders to protect her, Missella doubted her ability to survive in this harsh world. But, Missella could feel Zevran’s eyes upon her, so she shook thoughts of her naïve friend from her mind and turned a gentle smile towards her dashing rogue companion. “I apologize. I hardly doubt the shadows of my mind weigh heavily upon you.”

Zevran quirked a brow at that and frowned. His hand slipped from her shoulder to grip hers, the moment his skin touching hers sending a shock through her arm though she kept her face from showing it. “My dear Warden,” he started, his words careful and formulated. “In these past few months, I have felt a connection form between us, no? I consider you a dear and beloved friend. And all that weighs heavily on your mind also weighs on me.”

She had to turn her head to hide the quick misting of tears that once again crossed her eyes. She disguised the movement by taking a sip of wine, but when she looked back at him, she knew he wasn’t fooled. Clearing her throat, she squeezed his hand and smiled. “Thank you, Zevran. That means… It means a lot.”

The grin he sent her way was nothing short of dazzling. His teeth even glinted in the light, for Andraste’s sake. He brought her hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss to her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers before his ear twitched. “Ahh, listen! That is an Antivan dance! Please, my friend, won’t you join me?”

Missella blinked owlishly and stammered for a reply, struggling to think of even a single reason to say no when Irving’s words drifted back to mind. “I… Yes. Yes, Zevran, I think that sounds marvelous.”

Any surprise that Zevran felt, he kept coolly under wraps as he stood, her hand in his. She could feel more than a few pairs of eyes on them as he swept her into the next room, letting her lean on him in place of her staff. A handful of dancers saw them enter and scooted off to the side to watch as Zevran guided Missella to the center of the room, and the band stopped playing when Zevran waved a hand to them. He swung her easily into his arm, her hand clasped in his which he held up and out. Though Missella had had no occasion to learn to dance either in the Circle or out in the real world, the faith she had in Zevran’s worldly abilities allowed her to keep an easy smile on her face, not even a hint of fear for what was to come in her mind. Zevran nodded over her head to the band and flashed her another brilliant grin as the music started up again and he took his place offset to her right a bit.

Missella has always been able to pride herself on at least one fact: she is a fast learner. Particularly fast, if the material is something of interest and the teacher attractive. Another fact about Missella is that she has often been described as “graceful.” These are her two saving graces in this moment.

The dance began slowly. Zevran helps her, not just with his hand firm against the small of her back which helped steady her and hold her off her bad leg, but in that he muttered a soft, “One, two, three, one two three,” to help her catch the time signature of the dance as he guided her back for two measures, his feet bouncing instead of moving on the second beat of each measure, and her limp was all but forgotten in the way he moved her. Then, he dragged her easily into a turn on the third three, the movement catching Missella by surprise. He chuckled at her soft squeak. Casually, he leaned them to the side for a beat before spinning them to face the opposite direction. With perhaps more drama than necessary, he toed them three steps down, in time with the beat, his golden eyes never leaving hers. She squealed when, on the second three, his leg found its way under her knee and knocked it from under her while he pressed forward on the hand holding hers. She was caught easily by the hand on her back, not actually having dropped far at all, and she couldn’t help but giggle. He let her dangle there for half a beat before languidly pulling her back up to him, his leg still between hers. He used this new position to walk around her, pivoting her on one foot so that she was spinning, his face close enough that she could feel his heat.

“Zevran,” she breathed.

“Yes, mi amor?” he whispered back, pivoting on his own foot to step across her and back again.

She wanted to tell him how she felt, to let him know that his flirtations had not gone unnoticed, that she wanted desperately to reciprocate them, to ask him to kiss her, but her courage was not strong enough. She cast her eyes about the room for something else to say instead, and only managed a weak, “Everyone is staring.” And it was true, at least. They were now the only couple still dancing, everyone else moving to the side to watch. Even a few people from the dining room had come to watch from the doorway.

It was evident from the tone of his chuckle that he did not believe that was what she wanted to say, but he did not ask her true intentions. Instead, he just leaned his head closer, enough that his breath tickled her ear when he whispered, “Then let us give them something to look at, no?”

Before she could ask him what he meant, she was thrust away from him, held only by his hand as he stretched away from her. In her daze, she caught sight of Alistair whose face was set hard with jealousy. As quickly as she’d been spun away, Zevran tugged her hand and pulled her back into him, his arm held around her possessively as he cast a pointed look in Alistair’s direction, one that admittedly send a warm shiver down Missella’s spine. Over the next measure, Zevran dragged Missella away from Zevran and raised their hands over her head to spin her in place, slowly, walking around her as if to show her off to the room and claim her as his all at once. The song was coming to an end; she could hear it in the cadences with which the phrases were ending. Zevran stopped her on a third beat and stepped in to hold her, repeating the very first set of steps he made when the song began, the music following his steps to slow until, like before, he swept her leg from under her and caught her in a dip, this one far lower, and she could feel his breath ghosting across her chest.

Applause broke out across the room, and Zevran pulled her back to standing, a breathless, knee-wobbling grin stretched across his face. Perhaps she was light-headed, the wine and the dancing making her dizzy, or perhaps it was the thrill of the moment, but she could take it no longer. In one smooth movement, her arm hooked behind his neck, and she stretched on her toes to press her lips against his. In the blink of an eye, Zevran tensed in surprise, untensed, and pulled her closer to him, his hand moving to hold her cheek delicately, as if she were made of glass. As she breathed in the smell of him, tasted him, felt him in her arms, she knew she’d been a fool to deny him as long as she had. She broke the kiss and laid her forehead against his shoulder, panting. “Ask me again, Zevran.”

It took him a moment, but once he did, he placed a teasing nip to the point of her ear and moved his mouth to whisper just loud enough for her to hear, “Would you like to come to bed with me?”

She nearly moaned, her entire resolve dashed out the window. “Yes. Maker, Zevran, yes,” she whined, and to pontificate her impatience, she nipped the open skin beneath his collar.

With a flourish befitting only Zevran Arainai, he swept her up into his arms and beamed down at her, undoubtedly flexing around her. “My wish is your command, mi amor.” And Missella could not bring herself to be embarrassed when she realized the entire castle was still watching as Zevran carried her to the stairs to the second floor.

“Mi amor?”

Missella blinks, startled out of her reverie. “Mm?” she says, rubbing her face as if to brush her exhaustion away.

“Where did you go?”

The teasing tone in his voice piques her curiosity. She turns to look at him, and for hardly the first time, she is stricken breathless at the sight of him. He rests against a log, a leg drawn up towards his chest, his elbow rested upon that, a hand resting in his hair. His shirt hangs open and loose about his arms, the hint of a tattoo visible along his ribs. His hair is braided back on one side, so she can see the piercings in his ears, and his entire silhouette is illuminated by the warmth of the fire, the glow reflected in his inviting and contemplative eyes. Swallowing, she mirrors his pose and throws a lazy grin his way.

And for hardly the first time, Missella finds herself too lost in admiration to think of what to say. He’s just so… pretty. One might almost say that Zevran Arainai is beautiful beyond words.

44 notes · View notes