Dragon Age 1. Chapter 1 Confrontation

(I had meant to post this on Friday, but got caught up with NaNoWriMo stuff, as did Briala.)

And as always: Reviews make not just myself squee, but Briala as well.

Title: Fiercely Cold  
Chapter One: Confrontation  
Authors: **briala** and **1smut_princess**  
Rating: M (some adult references)

Summary: Ferox was a cold man, from a cold country, with a cold heart. Once he was only one of those things. Then everything was taken away in a fiery blaze and he raged across Ferelden, venting that frozen, wintry fury upon the Blight. With cold calculation he fought to bring Ferelden back from the brink, no matter the toes he stepped upon. All the while the only person he could rely upon remained by his side, plotting his own plots and sowing his own seeds.

Briala's AN: So, I brought somebody new into LJ's The Dragon Age Dressing Room, to play somebody I am not...he's actually based on someone I know with a twist. Rhion asked questions in LJ about Ferox's background and the next thing I knew I was waking up with my face mashed on the keyboard of my laptop and there was more, much more. I wouldn't trade the fun I've had working on this for anything done on my own because it's bigger and better than either one of us alone. When Ferox freezes up and can't think, just banging his head on a desk, Rhion pokes him and I help with the bashing until he finally starts talking to us. Sometimes it takes hours to get him to talk, other times his words just pour out on the paper like a spilled bottle of ink.

This story links into the strange place that Kirkwall is in the DASDressing Room. Duplicates abound with multiple Hawkes, Alistairs, Wardens...any variation or ending, it can all be found there. Ferox went there, saw the strange sights and met some strange people and that's how all of this came about.

Rhion's AN: I blame Briala. I woke up one morning to see a started document. Yeah. She woke up to see a much larger document later. This kinda happened. There's weird tie-ins to concepts from an ongoing RP arc and parts of Disquiet. Most collaborative works I've been party to were 'I write a paragraph/chapter, you write a paragraph/chapter' or some such. This is one big ol'weird clusterfuck of one starting a paragraph and someone else adding to a sentence of strange flow of consciousness. So far, it's been flippin' fun. Also, references my Murder of Crow's Zevran exist, he is the 'other' Zev mentioned, the one that creeps the crap outta Ferox. And also bashes him on the head. Dulsanaya from Bri's fanfic is the healer girl mentioned, so on, and so forth.

Normally I don't do slash in fanfic, in original fiction, yes, in fanfic, not so much, but here it works. So, yes, this is a Ferox/Zev thing, but hopefully it flows naturally. Trying to keep both of their identities in line, including Ferox's own weaknesses, Zev's patience, the blended angers and impatience, the intolerable waiting, so on, so forth, build up to obvious conclusions. For me this isn't my usual type of story, I'm all blood, guts, gore and whores. Nitty gritty and all that fun stuff. In less than two weeks, Briala and I have pounded out (ohai punnage, hows yous?) over ninety-thousand words.

XXX

Sten had taken dinner duty and was searing a haunch of deer while Wynne assisted in the preparation by chopping root vegetables she had located during the day. Ferox missed the kitchen at home, sitting next to the fire watching, helping when needed, but mostly listening to the chattering, the gossip of the day, of news that had arrived. The family would eat at the kitchen table when they were alone usually with servants and the odd off duty guard or two. Stomping down the memory he went back to checking and cleaning arms and armor. Always tend to your horse then your tack, prepare yourself for the coming day, then eat and bathe. See to everything yourself; it was the only way to survive.

The stew set into the coals, Wynne joined the girls down at the pond to bathe. Alistair and Sten had stepped upstream of the creek that filled the little body of water. Grimly, he continued his task. Near silent steps behind him, a jingle of a metal belt, Zevran had not yet left camp. Ferox couldn't seem to shake the little bastard. Just as 'open' and chatty as the day he arrived. _Go away. Leave me alone. I'm already sorry I saved your miserable life because you are making mine miserable as well._The others were trained to leave him alone, why couldn't this pointy eared assassin learn?

For once, Zevran was quiet, just sat next to him on the fallen log and attended to his own armor. They had run across a pack of wolves and a myriad of traps...Wynne tended to the many bites, chasing away infection with a cantrip, and stopped the bleeding of torn limbs. Even those heavily armored were hurt as the wolves found ways to sink teeth behind knees and into joints. They were going to need better armor, all of them. His mind went to these things analyzing ways to do better, to do more than just survive, to be able to tangle with what they had taken on...taken on unwillingly, pressured into by that old witch, conscripted by that damnable Duncan, they could have saved Mother...could have found a healer...should have done something there in the kitchen.

A snarl caused a pointed ear to turn in his direction as the assassin replaced a broken strap on a pauldron. Maker damn them all. At this rate, it wouldn't matter what he dressed them in, if they didn't learned to fight together as a group, they were all going to die, going to be taken away, going to leave him...the cold anger settled in his gut and a plan began to take shape. He was going to have to master them all, to become or provide what they needed so they did not die and leave him here because he was the one who would do the leaving from now on.

Perceptive amber eyes observed a change in the Warden, as if he had come to a decision. Alistair had already spilled all of his knowledge into this listening ear and even Morrigan had been quick to point out that the Warden sulked more than Alistair. Leliana had known stories about the Couslands and what had happened to them so recently. He listened, asked questions, and gathered the information to put it to use. The night the Couslands were murdered, the night Duncan came to take Ferox, was the night winter began to set into this man's soul.

He knew this coldness, this form of avoidance, it could get them all killed, unless it were directed. Feeling the shift in temperature, he waited for it to turn to hot rage or to dissipate, but the Warden did not move, other than to continue attending to his armor. With a side glance, the Warden's outward appearance had changed subtly, Ferox was composed, locked down, features hard. This was unfortunate, he had hoped...mentally shrugging, he would wait. If the Warden changed once, he could change again. Perhaps this was only temporary.

After that night, Ferox became all things to all people, a chameleon, and in doing so became nothing. He was as changeable in nature as a spring day, crisp, pleasant, warm and sunny, wooing with a smooth words, persuading gold to flow from pockets, kind and caring, a gentleman in every way...one who was getting exactly what he wanted with soft honeyed words...as changeable as any spy or Crow, a manipulator.

When required he was a killer, efficient, cruel when necessary, quick when not. He danced with that star sword and eventually ended the life of the the Archdemon itself. And Ferox had already arranged for a soft landing at Queen Anora's side.

Years passed.

Very few were smoother than the Prince Consort, he was a silver tongued devil becoming whatever the company with him desired, finding whatever it was that would cause them to agree to his terms. Trade deals negotiated, discussions with merchants, nobles, elves, Wardens; the Queen may have sent Ferox in with an agenda, but it became his own, always obtaining more than she thought possible. Little favors here and there she bestowed on him as if he were nothing but a favored pet. When his temper snapped and the temperature dropped, he remained calm and made a new plan, wishing to be no one's pet at all.

He was always so busy controlling his own affairs, there was barely room for anyone of note in his life. He sent Leliana away to seek her Maker's Bride, sent Morrigan away after giving her what she wanted, sent Oghren to the Vigil and gave him the family he needed, let Alistair play Warden at the Vigil after Ferox himself controlled the situation and took the titles and positions, things the King's bastard did not want, Sten returned home, Shale and Wynne traveled and were well cared for. Loghain...well we can't have everything we want. Useful man, too bad really...

Oddly, Zevran had stayed and ran the circle of informants, ones that located information Ferox could not and began to feed him this information, causing the Prince Consort to look in a direction he hadn't considered. Ferox knew he should have questioned this so called loyalty, but he didn't want to consider what it might mean, else it be taken or take its leave of him. _Do not forsake me_.

The assassin had gone nearly as cold as himself, guarded and wary. Occasionally he would come to deliver interesting bits of information himself and they would discuss the ramifications. As the evening passed, and a drink was savored, the elf would almost return to his animated self as he was at the beginning. As they said good night, he would feel as if the elf were assessing him, and Ferox, who had never removed the mask, could not stop the glare and the hardening of his features. Politely they would part, one cold and distant, the other chilling.

Anora had started by bossing...which lasted for all of twenty minutes when Ferox twisted her around his fingers giving her what Cailan had neglected. The moment she arched gasping, her eyes shuttered and the begging want and need took over her voice, she was his. She would finish his paperwork, just to have his mouth on her, tasting sweet juices, dragging her to the edge where powerful waves pulled her away from daily cares. She lacked for nothing as she had before. Anywhere, everywhere, a quirk of a lip and suddenly the room was empty or she was dragging him from it. Unfortunately, this attention meant some delegation, something Zevran didn't seem to mind.

When he was called away to Vigil's Keep to restore the building, play nice with the nobles, Zevran picked up more of the duties he was unable to attend. Once the keep was secure, Alistair was left to deal with the more mundane affairs, Ferox returned to Denerim and continued to earn favors from Anora. However, in order to obtain more power, Anora needed to be busy with heirs, and every hag in the place asked each month...gossip that it was the Prince Consort's problem, a 'Warden's difficulty', not the Queen's, it flowed in conversation. Daily he attended her, often twice...with the sniping of the nobility, the situation was deteriorating, until his very useful assassin, who had become indispensable, heard of a Dalish healer who frequented Kirkwall.

There he met disturbing reality, and questioned his own. But it was only a brief moment before Ferox twisted and landed on the balls of his feet. He would master this situation too. The way a familiar face and eyes stared straight through him, as though he were not truly there had been discomforting, as was the fact that he and the duplicate were of the same height. Every which way he twisted, the disturbing mirror that stared back at him only sharpened, there was no way to understand, and each assessment he made of character, each time he thought the duplicate's personality was pinned down...some other bit of information changed it. The way the Dalish healer stood near him, the way she leaned into him, caught his eye and the way the Crow's features softened, near imperceptibly, still hard, but there was fierce gentleness there.

He shoved those things away - it didn't matter. None of it was real. Even if the way the Crow stood over the slight healer with the ferociousness that his mother had shown in the kitchen...his last vision of mother and father. No. It was just a figment. A fragment of some other reality. He had come for one thing, one thing only, and he had gained it. When he left, they exchanged gifts, but unknown to Ferox not all of the gifts he received were tangible.

Through Anora's wretched pregnancy he would stare into the empty hearth in the middle of the night, seeking to banish those stirred up images. And Anora, who was used to having everything her way, now pregnant, was a constant grief and weight on his shoulder that was unrelenting. It nearly made him question the wisdom of the course of action, of the path, he had chosen. She was abysmally horrid. Zevran remained close, amazingly appearing just when he thought the cold fury would overtake him and cause him to take some unwise action. The assassin would distract the harpy with some bright bit or bauble, massaging her feet, or telling her tales to entertain.

In the light of day or when in Anora's presence, images of a hand lazily and familiarly grazing the apple of a dark bronze cheek, a green leaf tucked under an ear, would flee. But in the night, when it was quiet, quiet as any castle ever truly was, it would come back. And the mocking present folded in a box, thick spun silk threads, nearly invisible in the sort of light a puppeteer would use, took on other meanings. The duplicate said that the box was for his Zevran. Ferox had never given it to him, recognizing the way the dark laughter and the nearly evil twist of full lips on the duplicate's face meant grief for him if he had done so. No, it was a message and one he didn't want or believe in. Time and again during Anora's last months, as she waddled gracelessly from task to task, Ferox debated throwing the strings into a fire, just to be rid of the despicable items.

It didn't matter which way he twisted, he couldn't get away from them, just as he could not get away from the complaining harpy. Or anything for that matter. And when Zevran found the box, he took one look at the contents, and did what Ferox had been unable to and yet he still could not escape. Even when they disappeared, a pouch of ashes replaced in the box, some further odd symbolism that Ferox couldn't force himself to dwell on, they still haunted him. Time to time he would awaken strangling, or rub his wrist as though something was too tight and binding, jerking him this or that way.

Finally a screaming quieted, only to be accompanied by a fresh squall, heard even from his office several doors down. He raced, as that was what he was supposed to do, as that was what everyone expected of a dutiful husband and new father. To the door he was, and gaining admittance snatched a small swaddled bundle quickly from a midwife. If his hands shook more than he had planned, then no one thought it abnormal. Tiny, scrunched features, red with newness, hideous the way only a newborn could be, it didn't matter. Something still moved, and he was transported back in time for a brief instant. A nephew, passed over to him by his mother, who carefully adjusted his large and still growth-spurt awkward hands to hold the newborn properly.

He could not still the odd stutter in his chest, but only used it instead. It was what everyone expected, so it was hid and safely tucked away. Anora was haggard, waving the infant off to the waiting wet-nurse when Ferox sought to pass their son to her. He said the necessary things, brushing sweat clinging blond hair off of clammy cheeks and told her she was beautiful, amongst other things, while praising the robustness of their son.

The first night Calenhad Ardel Mac Tir-Coulsand, was asleep in his nursery Ferox waited with an amazing amount of impatience for everyone to go to their own beds. His son's name was an atrocious mouthful, but as Ferox was nothing more than a Consort, the fact that he had that much say at all in the naming of his son - that he had _sacrificed_much for just to have a chance at conceiving - was as much as he could hope for. The door was closed and unguarded, after all this was the Royal wing, and his associate had watchers where necessary anyway. With a push he eased it open so as to not awaken the assigned wet-nurse, desiring time alone with his offspring and the newest addition to the Cousland name. Earlier he had done the new-father act, gloating over how strong a grip on his finger the boy was and the lusty abandon with which he suckled milk. Now he wished for something quieter, something...only for himself.

When unarmoured, Ferox was a particularly quiet man. It came of sneaking into kitchens to grab hot rolls and a crock of butter or honey in times past. In times not so distant it was a skill employed when ambushing the unwary. Now it was put to use to slip past the snoring wet-nurse on her cot to slide in near the crib. A very empty crib. Coldness slammed down over him, and the flash of ice stabbing, sharp in his breast was quickly washed away too fast to notice. His associate was the first one he could think of, the only one who would have a list of possible perpetrators. No need to alert the castle that the Heir was suddenly missing, until or unless it was absolutely necessary.

The halls close to Zevran's room were populated with more guards, but all were silent. Ferox glided along at a normal pace, plans spooling out. No need for anyone to find out that his son was missing, and if the infant could not be found quickly, a replacement could be gained. His associate no doubt knew of some likely infant to match the descriptions if necessary. Deep in thought, he entered the assassin's rooms as quietly as he had the nursery. He paused as he heard accented words, clearly there was some form of...company being entertained.

"Yes, and we will have to make mud pies and raise unholy terror," a quiet chuckle. "Ah, how your parents cursed you with such a name, aie. We shall have to use something else, _da'len_, yes? Ah. Wait, I know just the thing," soft musing brought Ferox to a halt, and he tucked himself close to shadows, listening intently. "'Len', it means child. Yes, and it matches well with your name, Calenhad, hmn? That could work..." There was a burbling coo, while Zevran paced near the fire, babe's head tucked against a shoulder. "Well then, Len, considering how all it is here, you must have someone around who can care for you properly. What with the harpy-hag your father wedded, and he himself nothing but cracked glinting obsidian, whatever shall we do? Hmn? You must have someone at least who views you as more than a mad grab at power or insurance to a dynasty..."

There was a heavy sigh, and with shocking tenderness, Ferox watched the elf rest his cheek on the downy head. The cold fury was still in control, but the need to assess bought time, allowing the urge to reassert dominance and regain what belonged to _him_to fade. What took its place was confusion, pressing on all sides, a terrifying and startling thing, the image superimposed of Fergus doing the same thing with Oren in the night. Shuddering, fists clenched at his sides as he drew a tight rein on himself.

"It has been a long time to get you out here to greet the world, small one," the warmth and gentleness were no mocking mask, and the younger Ferox wondered wildly if this was the real Zevran, the one who existed before the living through the Blight and the immeasurable loss returned to control the situation. "Glad I am that you are here, but sad too. What games will you play that are natural for a child? None of us are particularly good models for you to be around, such poor influences for you to choose from..."

Grimacing, Ferox made himself turn away and slipped quietly away. He needed fresh air. Else he would do something particularly ill advised.

It was a nearly nightly ritual, Ferox would go to the nursery, see Calenhad gone and go to the assassin's room. Where of course he would silently enter or stand at the door, to watch, to see Zevran doing some particularly mundane activity. From a diaper change, to using a modified waterskin to feed the boy milk, or simply brushing soft fabrics and describing the simplest word for the fabric. The entire time the Antivan would talk and muse to the boy, radiating a calm and warmth that Ferox was wary of identifying.

Late one night, as he ate a solitary evening meal, and was left to his own devices, Ferox heard a knock. "Enter."

"Ah, more plain fare," his associate glanced over his plate. "If there was little fear of Crow activity, I would suggest bringing in a cook or two from Antiva. Actually, hiring a Crow to _be_the Head Cook would work, no one would dare poison the food, and he or she would be familiar with all of those pesky matters..."

Setting his utensils down, "The status of the kitchen is not something I expected would be something that holds your attention."

Zevran sat and poured a glass of wine for himself after topping off Ferox's, "Good food always holds my attention, as well as your son's." A sip of wine, and a mild tone, "He is growing well by the way, pity you do not spend any time with him."

"And when would you suggest I do that, given his busy schedule?" returning quickly as the chill began to settle on him. "As his nights are so frequently spent firmly ensconced in your room."

His associate set his glass down, "It has never occurred that a preemptive acquisition of time was more than available?" Zevran waved a hand as he shrugged, "I take him four nights in seven. Did you believe the three were meant for a personal break? Since you so often enter my chambers as well, did you also think that the door was unlocked for carelessness on my part?" Lips twisted into a faint frown, "My door has ever been open to you, yet you have not taken the time to connect those dots. Very well, will you like to take Calenhad tonight, or shall I?"

That look he knew, the tone was the same too, and he almost flinched away from the vision of the duplicate. Catching the temper in a slow breath before it chilled him past where he could not act, "Len looks forward to his bedtime stories." Pausing, wanting, needing an excuse, any would do. Uncertain, "I think perhaps your stories need more...local flavor."

A tension flowed away that was only noticeable for its absence, "By all means, I know little enough of these Ferelden things. Other than mabari of course, but truly, that is mostly _all_that Thedas knows of Ferelden."

"Next you will be telling him that we live in igloos like the southern Chasinds; someone must be there to stop that," Ferox snorted lightly.

"Auck, you mean they do not? Lies! Lies that silly historian told me!"

Muttering, "You walked around enough of it..."

An old laugh broke out, one of those ones that sounded warm and nearly honest, long lost, Ferox had thought to the time before. "How true!" Another chuckle, "And my feet are _still_unhappy. What I would have done for the socks the horseclans weave of camel hair! My friend, you have never had socks until you have had those... They make even such trudging, dreary miles feel as though you walk upon spun air!"

Brown eyes roll to the ceiling as he set a boot on a nearby stool, "I believe that that I have already overheard this discussion between you and Alistair. While you are negotiating for a 'proper' cook, it would be a small matter to obtain a pair of suitable, err 'wonderful' footwear. But, that does not answer the question of why you didn't bring them with you to begin with."

Normally some quip would be used as a rejoinder, for the assassin was as quick as any rogue could hope to be. Instead there was quiet, as though he had to debate and weigh options in fullness than with the speed of the easy kill. Ferox glanced up to see Zevran staring at him intently, "Because I did not believe I would have much reason to continue walking. Why bring the best to a dog's funeral?"

Had the hound not been at the child's side, he would have whined. "So why did you? keep walking I mean?"

"You spared my life," he shrugged and looked away. "And I had no reason to return. I thought that the very quest you were on was a death sentence, but at least it would have been one that had least served something better and grander than myself. If one has little will to survive, when presented with two options - die uselessly, or die usefully - someone who has never had the opportunity to be truly useful might choose the latter over the former."

Bitterly, "It _was_ a death sentence." Rubbing his forehead, "I said that you didn't have to stay, your life was, is your own, that you didn't need to be up there. I made the offering to Morrigan." Temper slipping a little, Ferox growled, "No one ELSE needed to die."

"And who was likely to be strong enough to haul _you_ from the bowels of that great carcass if not myself?" he took another sip of wine, made a face then drained it. "You made the offering while still intending to make sure you would not walk down those steps. I looked into the same expression in the mirror far longer than you did. If you were going to make me learn to keep walking, then _jodeme_, I was going to make you do the same. And look, everything has worked out neatly for you. Prince Consort, a bevy of people to order about, and insurance to make sure nothing else is ever taken from you that you do not give." A pause, "Or trade, actually. Besides, that is not the point. My life is not my own, it never has been. It has always belonged to someone other than myself. Now it belongs to Len, and will until the day I die. It is all quite simple." He watched Zevran scowl and rise to pace, "He smiled for the first time last night, his eyes all crossed. Have you any idea how _odd_that looks? But he smiled and you should have seen it."

If he had truly intended to stay on that tower he would not have...why did he? To save Alistair...snorting, _I don't think so._To marry Anora...hardly, although that was the first plan. After his stay at the prison in Fort Drakon, it became the backup plan. He wanted to retort, to give that reason, to argue, but Zevran was deflecting that sink into coldness...the elf should give lessons.

Ferox did not see the child's smile, that is true, but he saw the smile's reflection. The light on the brown face and the laughter it caused in the golden eyes, as if a light was lit within them - he had seen that. Instead, as if to pretend it was no great thing, "I was holding Oren when he smiled. My mother went silly ooo'ing and ahh'ing. The women were unbearable for days trying to make the poor child smile for them."

"Yes, women will do very odd things to gain such a reaction," a hand ran through his blond hair. "However, I of course do not have to do anything odd at all. A wiggle here or there, and he smiles." An amused grunt, "Also, his eyes cross when he is about to make a mess, at least when changing him. If I had known his aim was so good, I would have sooner learned that an extra drape of cloth would protect my vision."

Without a word of explanation, Ferox got to his feet, did not look anywhere other than where he was headed, closed the door behind him and ducked into the farthest room down the hall to laugh until tears ran down his face.

It was always wise to have an extra cloth on hand, as well he knew, because every Cousland male was under strict orders that if they were holding Oren and he needed changing, they were doing it. _Period. End of sentence. Do not look at your mother that way, young man. Do not make faces if it is bad. Do not quibble or whine. Simply man up and do something about it._

But it was the _image_ of Zevran's surprised expression. No doubt similar to one he had worn himself on a particular occasion. Holding himself up with one hand braced on the wall as he laughed, shaking his head, Ferox had to wonder briefly if the assassin had ever _changed_ a baby before. Then again, he had held Len securely and familiarly enough. What were the Antivan customs for such things, and would someone born in a whorehouse even know them? Ferox still couldn't get away from the idea of Zevran finding out just why women would put an extra nappy over a boy's nethers when changing them. Every time he thought he could, the vision of the normally composed and good humoured elf twisting into a scrunched face declaring that he was affronted and amused in one breath, popped back into his mind. Biting his fist, _A new phrase for battle - I hope I do not get pee on me again!_

Sliding down the wall, reaching for the mask of composure he had worn for so long, he realized just how much he hated it, before stilling himself and firmly replacing it. Something had cracked and he wasn't certain that he liked it and yet was relieved? Calmly, coolly, he stepped back in to finish his dinner and to try to enjoy the wine, which was fine until his little assassin did not approve of the quality of the vintage. Afterwards there would be story-time and somehow he would move beyond the doorway.

That night when he went to the assassin's room, Ferox knocked before pushing the door open. He had never really bothered knocking before, always assuming that Zevran didn't care who barged in on him, and trusted to his instincts to keep him safe, if the person entering was an attacker rather than a friend. He had believed that his associate was seeking to supplant him and had been careless in letting him see those actions. Ferox had been debating and was completely undecided on what action he had intended on taking against Zevran, if any, if the elf thought he would be a better parent. At least it would have freed his time to dealing with ruling Ferelden from behind Anora's shadow.

Yet the scene before him was one of a different variety entirely. A small bucket was close to the fire, but not too close, and Zevran was beside it with sleeves and cuffs rolled and shoved up, hair pulled back. Rocking back on his heels, "First bath, and a hand would be appreciated. Len is being particularly squirmy, and I have only so many hands myself. Of my own that is, I believe there are some mummified ones elsewhere..."

Eyebrow raised and the hurdle of the threshold was not so large. Rolling up his own sleeves, he crossed the room withing thinking of it. Looking to see that towels were close by, soap, and a cloth, all the things he remembered from Oriana bathing Oren in a washtub. "How would you like me to assist? Hold or wash?"

"Take your pick, oof," head snapping back a little when a small hand wrapped about a lip. "Len, come now," mumbling at the boy and jiggling him gently, "it is warm water, you liked your feet in it earlier. It is not cold," Ferox tested the water himself to see that Zevran was correct, and that it was also not too hot either, "and it will feel nice. Come, come it will be _nice_. Oh, why must you be so fascinated by eyebrows suddenly?" The last was accompanied by a grunt when two hands grabbed at the elf's face.

"Earrings...they'll be next." Wetting and soaping the cloth lightly Ferox cleaned milk crusties behind ears and under the multiple chins eventually finding Len's neck.

Zevran winced, "I already found that out two nights ago. And it was not my earring he yanked." The way his arm shifted to rub an elbow against his chest made Ferox nearly wince in sympathy. "It is almost enough to make me question the wisdom of Antivan body modification. Which would be why I am not shirtless for this endeavour. Changing clothes while juggling him is definitely a game of reflexes not for the faint of heart."

Other eyebrow raised considering this disclosure, as the folds of baby fat were cleaned of milk residue. "Are you certain that he actually swallows when you feed him, or is it just a milk bath?"

"Here now, I have no bosoms or milk of my own to feed him, I cannot help that the nipple is not correct on that," he jerked his head towards the small table. "It is close, but he keeps grabbing and squeezing the body of it..." this was nearly sheepish in its delivery.

With no more eyebrows to raise, Ferox nearly shook his head instead, and tried to stay intent on the task of washing someone who clearly wanted to be elsewhere. And it wasn't as if Len was not eating...he had the folds to prove it. Wrinkles behind knees, elbows, thighs, and seriously, how many chins? With a finger and a light touch he washed the tiny face rinsing it as he went, holding back the laughter at the disgusted faces to only a quirk of the lip.

Lastly, he soaped his head, gently over the soft spot. "Ready?"

"I am, whether he is...?" good humour thrown with a smirk as Zevran leaned with the infant down.

Feet touched water and kicked, then were quickly submerged up to his behind, and Zevran's hold shifted as Len's face went through several expressions all at once. The wide one with the pursed lips and crinkled brow was familiar to anyone surprising a baby, it was the place between indecision on whether to yell out that something had changed, or coo that the surprise wasn't so bad. Ferox splashed water over Len's back and shoulders, then cupping it over his head, while Zevran supported the bobbling little head that was seeking to understand the sudden difference.

"Ah, yes, cleanliness, this is something that you will find not all Fereldens have," conspiratorial 'whisper', "...particularly of the noble class. Excluding your father of course. He is a paragon of sanitation, and never once missed washing between his toes, not even during the Blight. Why there was this one time, when it was snowing up to our hips, and he said that it was time to get clean, and no matter that we had to wade through a frozen river to do it!"

"Do they actually have water in this great metropolis of Antiva or is it just dust baths?" Grabbing a towel, as Len splashed a little bit on his own. "You need an apron..."

Zevran made a dismissive sound, "We have large cisterns, and plumbing and running water. Things this country knows little of. Great aquifers beneath the ground, actual ways of draining away sewage..." He watched as the assassin let little droplets of water slip from finger tips in front of Len's eyes who watched entranced, even as one eye slid towards crossing itself. "It had best be a pretty apron then, with ribbons and frills. Something similar to Alistair's tastes for dancing the Remigold in."

"Your wish..." He definitely did not tell that story, granted he wasn't really speaking then, until long after they picked up Sten, Leliana, and Zevran. Alistair always needed to talk, so he probably told this story to them.

Even when he was quiet, Alistair was talking. When he was sulking his way out of the Wilds, he was talking...to the dog, to the trees, probably even to Morrigan. He remembers wanting to kill him. So what if he had been the only Warden, at that moment he didn't care.

Ferox had forgotten when he decided to stand up and fix it, to move them forward, to protect...was it before or after the Circle? Or was it the werewolves? Dwarves were last, so it wasn't then. He nearly asked, knowing that the assassin would have taken note. Zevran was always there sitting next to him.

The assassin was there nearly always, making himself constantly indispensable, his presence there not just in the shadows. Even after he had managed to escape his cell in Fort Drakon, the lone companion who arrived, after all, who would take note of an elf? was him. It had seemed natural. The one who could slide into places quickly and away just as fast was the only one to send for such a mission.

Len was deposited in his towel draped arms, "I will need a smock once he takes solids, so I hear. Something head to toe no doubt. At least Len is nothing like Alistair, so no worry of food flying everywhere during a desperate and mad grab to shovel more in. It is good he is a Cousland instead." A thoughtful pause, "Unless of course you were that horrible as well. Then it is simply too bad that we can not stick him to a teat until he is five the way the horseclans do."

Blinking back to the present, he quickly covered the squirmy wet infant and folded a corner on his head and kept Len facing towards the fire so he would not be chilled. Painstakingly, he dried every wrinkle, crevice, and fold of skin that had just been washed just as carefully and thoroughly. "I cannot speak for myself or my older brother, but since we were not allowed in the dining room with guests, until I was twelve, I would guess that _Fergus_was not very neat," exaggerating.

A philosophical shrug, "Better than being fed poison and not being given any form of antidote if our manners had been lacking. Antivan food requires a certain neatness," gesturing with scooping fingers, while the thumb rolled as the wrist twisted his hand towards his mouth, "and the dexterity to do it as gracefully as a high ranking feeder of the particularly rich. One thing that you Fereldens have over Antivans is the presence of utensils at all meals."

Nodding as he worked his way through diapering, it had been many years since he last did this too and it took a couple of tries to remember how to fasten it securely, especially before bed. Finding the clean clothes he started with the feet and worked his way up. Not catching chill was something his father drilled into his head. Dry clothes, warm socks, hat, layers, probably because they often walked on the rocky beaches, even in the winter because there was little snow there, but much ice and bitterness in the wind.

Zevran had remained silent, watching each of his movements, and if Len drowsily looked towards him, he would make a face. Eventually the assassin leaned in, ears nearly flapping, which got crossed eyes and a smile. It was a peculiar thing, but also a thing that was warm. Ferox had never realized that the assassin had that much control over the appendages, a twitch here or there but never the completely horizontal curling he was witnessing. A huffing sound that was nearly a laugh exposed toothless and pink gums.

"Ah, there you are," fingers came down to brush a fat cheek. "I knew you would come out and say hello to your father."

A satisfied sigh and the assassin pulled away leaving the boy in his care as he puttered around quietly whistling through his teeth, putting away the used and now unneeded items. Ferox stared down at his son, who stared right back curiously before twisting with a mighty yawn. He felt something loosening, just a little, and expanding. It hurt but it felt good as well, the familiar weight of a tiny life in his hands. Shifting Len up to his shoulder he rubbed his child's back in slow circles, slightly amazed that he had created this creature.

Stretching out on the rug before the fire, he propped up his head to look at this creature that he did much to obtain and took a good look at his features. "I hope you don't get your grandfather's nose. Other than that, look like whomever you will."

"Or his complexion," Zevran pressed his hands to his face, stretching the skin out. "Weathering is all well and good, but no need to look like one was accosted by the mountain of doom and gloom. Whatever would your subjects think then Len? Hmn? Though, it is true that people tend to only remember tyrants. A good king is one that the common people never particularly notice, the taxes do not go too high, the bandits are not too bad, and there is no war."

"You are..." he begins. Stops and begins again, "You are..." trying to remember the exact words he overheard, sternly, "...a public menace."

Zevran flopped into the embrace of a large chair, indolently lounging as he did so, "And here I thought nothing less than witnessing your son's aim would garner anything even resembling a smile from you. However, dutiful assistant and friend that I am, I would have taken one for the team in the name of being a good sport."

It was not the time, at all, to give into the urge to tell him the battle-cry he had crafted.

That word, friend, had not been used again after that night in Highever and the slight quirk in his cheek relaxed as he considered it, looking away. None of the others were. Certainly traveling companions, shrug acknowledging the closer relationship of a fellow Warden. When you can track each others movements, it's hard not to feel a connection. When Rory died, he hadn't looked for a replacement. Was that a reason Zevran stayed? They were friends? Trying to remember when that happened. What did he do other than be the drill instructor, wheedler, and all around conniver? All he wanted was for no one to die. When did that warrant friendship?

Focusing his gaze on the face pressed to his chest. Len clearly didn't know that, or much of anything, as he had fallen asleep. Nearby, the assassin had made himself comfortable in his chair, a leg thrown over the armrest, slouching into it, head tucked to the side, dozing like an overlarge feline, so he could not be questioned as well.

Laying his head back, he considered this evening. Uncomfortable, not unpleasant exactly...but a part of him wishes he had locked the door during dinner, the rest of him was not unhappy that he didn't. It all made his head hurt and he briefly desired desperately for a long walk...without camel socks...or whatever those were. Hair, not hide. How odd.

He's trapped, it was all a trap. Sighing, as he was tired as well and recognized that part of his mind was working his way out and was making contingency plans.

A grunt, and then a pillow landed near his head, "If you insist on thinking so hard, best not to do it with nothing beneath it."

Rumbling back, "I am certain this floor is very solid." Grabbing it with the arm not around the boy, he tucked the pillow under his head.

"So it is, so it is," mumbled agreement. "And it is far too unyielding, even with that rug, at least for a tender-head that does much thinking. However it is also Len's favorite place to sleep, I know not why. It is not as though the bed is hard. But he has been fussing badly near dawn of late, and so beside the fireplace is where we spend most of our time. Sitting, pacing, sleeping."

He sounded mostly asleep himself and Ferox lifted his head enough to watch Zevran roll in the chair until he was nearly upside down, one leg _still_over the armrest, the other now over the chair's back. "It is all a man can do to take a nap sometimes."

Making a mental note to find more rugs...or just throw the mattress on the floor. Glad they are not on the first floor with the flagstones. Meetings tomorrow...and wondered if he mentioned where he was?

_I'm sorry, I'm afraid that if you want your silly meeting you will have to come here and whisper, very very softly, or I will be forced to have someone kill you, or give you what I have been told will be a fussing child...take your pick.__ Continuing to imagine ways out of this trap while defending it at the same time, he slid into sleep._


	2. Chapter 2 Thorn in my Side

And as always: Reviews make me squee!

Series: Fiercely Cold  
Title: Thorn in my Side 2/?  
Author: Rhion & **briala**  
Rating: T (lingo)  
Summary:Ferox was a cold man, from a cold country, with a cold heart. Once he was only one of those things. Then everything was taken away in a fiery blaze and he raged across Ferelden, venting that frozen, wintry fury upon the Blight. With cold calculation he fought to bring Ferelden back from the brink, no matter the toes he stepped upon. All the while the only person he could rely upon remained by his side, plotting his own plots and sowing his own seeds.  
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.  
AN: Briala and I are on chapter nine of _Dream a Little Dream of Me_, and chapter thirty-five of this. _Dream_ is spawned from something said at a much later chapter...this is the 'real' Ferox and Zevran, however, both are real..ehh...it's just weird. Nevermind, just read please and reviews make our collective day. (For those who wish to know, yes, there will be sexytimes, but not until chapter six. Somebody's got to be 'drunk enough')

XXX

Apparently he needn't have worried over his meetings, as just after dawn Zevran tapped his foot, "It is time to take him to the nursery before that poor woman awakens and raises some sort of shrieking alarm."

Ferox narrowly avoided jerking and snarling awake. "And you wonder why the poor boy wakes crying," complaining.

"Well it was that or risk being tackled by a fairly large _shem_ when I snatched the baby from his arms as he slept," it was mild as he quickly did exactly as he said, sticking a knuckle deftly into Len's mouth before he became too startled himself and settled in to suckle back to sleep. "Him I do not wake up, and usually after he is settled once more, he passes right back out. Unless of course he hears the nursery door close. _Then_ he screams like a banshee. Ah but there was a reward, this evening he slept straight through, and all three of us gained some rest."

"If the guards..." of course they knew. "Did your charms not work on Len's Nan?" Sitting up. _Definitely more padding is needed for this floor_. "Do you want permission?" as he rubbed sleep from his eyes.

Watching as Ferox stretched the kinks out, Zevran shrugged, "The guards posted in the halls were all handpicked by yours truly, for their loyalty to you, their ability to defend both yourself, Len, and Anora. And also for the fact that they owe me favours personally, so will not mention my comings and goings unless _you_ press them. They understand how to be discrete and cover any tracks of yours as well. As for Sarah, I have let her be as she was picked by Erlina. Best for me to not be seen meddling in that arena."

_Ahh, Erlina, no wonder._ There would be no better person to ship home. Ferox had often wondered about her loyalties. Some days she did a little too much for a lady's maid and he had been guarded in her presence as well. The permission he offered wouldn't get very far in that case. The nurse seemed like a nice enough girl, but he had not spent much time with her other than a greeting.

"Found anything on her yet?" meaning Erlina or the nan probably both. Slowly, creakingly getting to his feet. _Another pillow too, perhaps several._

"She owes Erlina everything," Zevran sighed, pouring a cup of tea one handed then holding out to Ferox. "Saved her from a life of begging just to feed her own baby and care for her old mother. It is a regular sob story, yet the girl is impressionable, and already believes the worst of myself, as well as some grimmer take on you. Buying her would be easy, and then she would immediately go to Erlina and tattle it all into a little tale, yes? However, if stupidity and loyalty are her only faults, then they are not so vast as to be worth dealing with her. As for Erlina," he shrugged. "It is not true that all Orlesians are bards, but one should always be wary of pretty, elven Orlesians. They might not be bards, but they are certainly spies for someone."

A nod of thanks, Ferox took the mug, "Smells bad to me, has since 'rescuing' Anora. What a load of..." he bit his tongue on what he really thought. "Erlina needs to find other employ."

A truly dark laugh came out, the sort that was warning that Zevran had come up with something particularly thorny and masterful. "The documents of Cailan's, you recall the ones, where he was planning on setting Anora aside for the Empress of Orlais. Pray tell do you remember _who_ was listed as a contact? And how easy it would be to...change it to something else...?"

"If everything was drug down from Soldier's Peak, it may have been stored in the Warden's stash...which really needs to be secured by more than a couple of bookcases. Why haven't we hidden them...oh I remember, Arl of Denerim. Has Anora replaced him?"

"No, though there are times when I almost think Bann Shianni would be perfect, she runs the Alienage as a very tight ship," a second cup of tea was poured and he blew on it several times. "I say that not because of being a fellow elf, but because she does run it the way a captain would. However, one to further the goals of Wardens would be wise also... Arl of Denerim is a high profile position, yes? So much so that there is the possibility that when combined with the status of Amaranthine... My friend, I do not counsel that. There are enough precarious positions for all that putting someone...unique...at a much coveted place could bring down the ire of others."

Yawning, "I didn't mean for me or any other Warden to be Arl, I was coveting their basement...dungeon, only. The warehouse district is..." Searching for an apt description, "So flammable. But putting Shianni there we could do both - have an ally and someone who knows what they are doing. Somehow I don't think Anora is sufficiently distracted for that, however. But if we are slow to act, she will find someone and-" Grimly, "I don't think she'd choose an elf."

Zevran looked down at Len seriously. "You have an Heir. Do you need a Queen?"

"I want at least one backup plan and made arrangements for that while in Kirkwall. It is not something I look forward to, but, as you say, it is insurance. Hopefully the healer has not moved on and the work will not take as long on the second time."

"Then we reveal Erlina's deception, and then Anora owes you a far greater favour. Not only have you given her a child, the great pleasures of the marriage-bed, a city that has slowly regained its footing, a country that is going to become a great power, but also you have revealed the viper that lay so near her breast," he pointed out. "Tell her that for the duration, that until you find the right person to fill that role, that since the palace is right here in Denerim, that such duties can be shared out between yourself, with Eamon or I to take care of the smaller details. Tell her that your ability to choose the correct person for such jobs is the only boon you request in this case, so that the country and herself are best served, for you only _live_ to serve, yes?"

"Last I checked -" refraining from rolling his eyes was a narrow thing, "- It is what we _have_ been doing up to this point...to persuade it to continue a bit longer should not require too much sacrifice." _Will not shudder,_ but Ferox did not look forward to pleasing the harpy. "It is too early for this thought. Come put the boy to bed and show me your famous light steps." Setting the mug down and moving to open the door he almost teased, "Trap anything?"

A snort, "No. I find that most are aware of my former profession and they all find my unlocked door...disturbing. As though I am inviting them to find some horrid twisting and agonizing death. Possibly because I have been known to discuss the seven stages of lanthrax poisoning...and how it only takes the mere prick of a needle to deliver it."

Ferox remembered Alistair's face and reaction. Liliana laughed behind the gullible Warden's back and Morrigan 'helped' with the descriptions of the death throes as he recalled. Opening the door, with a gesture of 'after you,' Ferox closed it quietly behind them and strolled down the hall at his side until they neared the nursery.

It was and would always be difficult to be close enough to observe those who were sneaky when he was supposed to be the loudest one. Unless Ferox was in the lighter armors like at the beginning of their little adventure, he was unable to be nearby, even after having Master Wade muffle the dragon plate. Quieter, certainly, but never satisfactory, even in the leathers made from the Archdemon's hide, he was never exactly silent. So it was rare to see Zevran move so silently. Everything around the assassin suddenly seemed muted, even the door opening and Ferox's own footsteps - so long as he stuck close. Into the nursery they walked and then Len was placed in his crib, tucked in, and Zevran kissed a thumb before touching each of Len's lids, as though in silent wish for good dreams. The action had the peculiar rhythm of practice and long familiarity, like an Andrastian kneeling to receive a blessing. Or a fighter reaching for the hilt of their blade - as though to be sure it was there. Just as quietly as they had arrived, they left, and once they were halfway down the hall, their steps once more resumed a more normal level.

Or at least normal for Ferox, as he found himself wondering at how much noise Zevran _did_ make. Watching from the corner of his eye, he realized something with a start. Each step had a faint resistance, as though he had to tell himself to move like a normal person. Each breath, each small movement was the same. It was nearly fascinating.

As they neared Ferox's room, he felt compelled to make a gesture, a connection, but he hadn't done anything natural in a long time, without thought and planning or for the immediate goal of obtaining something. The mask of composure was still there but the crack extended into his vision and consciousness. Had Ferox been anyone else, even an earlier self, who had been shown lapse and how to begin the path of fixing it, he would have hugged the elf or at least said a thank you. Instead, he squeezed Zevran's shoulder before entering his rooms to prepare himself for the day.

For the first time that he could clearly remember, they did not part with wintry chill spanning between them.

Between meetings with Eamon, the Commander of Fort Drakon, and other minor affairs, Ferox made arrangements for several large thick rugs to be delivered outside the assassin's room and penned a quick note asking if assistance was required, or even wanted, to move furniture.

A prompt response was received, _The presence of a friend is always welcome,_ with the usual little swooping 'Z' at the end. He slipped it inside a hidden pocket to pick over later.

Steps almost dragging, he approached where Anora was 'holding court' with tea and delicate treats, wishing to be almost anywhere else. Waiting patiently in a side room he reviewed the documents waiting for her signature, many having gone through his hands, others not. Eamon had several proposals for various Arlings, Banns and Teryns, which were left vacant. He pocketed those to discuss with Eamon before it caught Anora's eye, as most of those proposed were Eamon's debt rather than the crown's. The Arl was making another grab for power...well continuing his grab. A few other items of interest, new trade negotiations to open - she would put his skills to those, and others that were completed. Something was off about her desk though, missing.

As he eyed it, unable to identify what was not there, Anora deigned to finally end his wait. Probably concerned with what may be visible or available to his gaze. A cat with the cream smile and a Cousland on a leash in her hand, she enjoyed this game when he would like nothing less than to strangle her. Pleasant, keeping his cold anger covered, he gave a summary of his morning activities and accomplishments and felt as if he was reporting in for his morning pat on the head. Politely, he inquired of her schedule and arranged to meet for dinner together, which she neatly penned in the little book she always carried. Ferox would like a look at that, usually he just slid it under the door to his associate and placed it back when he was done. Arrangements made, appropriate 'fond' gestures exchanged he made his escape as soon as reasonably able.

Making his usual lunchtime rounds he stepped by the nursery which always seemed to be bustling with chattering women at this time of day. Len must be awake, or a very heavy sleeper. Shaking his head, turning on a heel, he continued his walk. Greeting and giving greetings from the battlements to the kitchen, his destination, he stewed and adjusted plans. Settling in his corner near the fire he listened in on the kitchen gossip as the servants gradually forgot he was there. Ferox enjoyed this part of his day the most, simple, no expectations, no masks to wear or change for the company he was faced with. He sat back with a start at that thought, that realization that slipped in. He had enjoyed something simple, something that was nothing more complex than merely existing quietly.

Getting to his feet abruptly, shaking these thoughts and undeserved peace from him, he grabbed the heel of bread from the dish and continued his rounds by way of where his assassin tended to be this time of day to pass him Eamon's note. In addition, he wanted to ask about the desk. Zevran was looking over the lists of servants and duties double checking to see that the castle was in working order. Ferox's customary stride was familiar, the tread of a confident step on flagstones covered in runner rugs was as natural and normal a fixture in his life as the sun rising and setting.

Pulling out a small sheaf of papers, he gestured with them, "The usual dalliances, leave-taking, change in order, and supplies purchased. Sadly, not a thing out of the ordinary. One of these days a true seneschal will be needed, these unending lists make a man's eyes feel old."

"I wish Varrel had a twin," trading him for him Eamon's letter.

"Howe," one word, one name. "I hear he is rather detail oriented. And having another Warden around might open new ground...hmn? Ah, interesting reading."

"He is not personable and they," vague gesture at the unwashed horde outside the window, "would not deal with him. Otherwise, he fits the description."

Zevran shrugged, "He would know enough of how to act as though he were remotely personable. Besides, I only want him around so the morning wash will be done _without_ me having to ensure the weekly roster is filled."

A nod indicating he had heard. While considering it, "Have you been in to see to Anora's doings?"

"The usual mob of those petitioning favours or this or that gripe, let us also not forget the grand stories and advice for new mothers," casually said and offhanded, Ferox still detected the hint of sarcasm. "All of which is graciously received and well employed."

"Something is missing and I cannot place my finger on it. I will look again this evening before dinner with her Highness. In the meantime, prepare the Summons and you can try out your Howe, as you wish."

The thought of Zevran doing the laundry as a last resort combined with the requested frilly apron nearly quirked a lip, because the elf would, if pressed, and be fully capable and unflustered in the activity. Howe, imagined in that same circumstance, looked completely ridiculous, out of place, and unwilling to participate; and thus he was an even better candidate for the thought.

A thoughtful expression, "I will look into it if you like. Your instincts have always been of great service to those who pay attention."

Such a clever delivery the assassin gave that by its very perfection, Ferox had to hide a pleased smile. Whatever he had been planning was already in motion._Good, that is as it should be._ Instead he only nodded.

"If you find yourself without entertainment this evening, there is a new book I would like to lend you tonight," face carefully blank.

"If you have time, certainly I enjoy expanding upon what I know of local flavours," Zevran waved a hand, nose in his 'lists' as he walked, checking over the small details of a maid bustling past with a lazy glance, an armload of linens weighing her down.

"Provided my time is my own, tonight. It would be good to review that guest list at the same time. I would hate for the surprise to be ruined prematurely by an overeager party. His schedule is fairly busy this week and unless he unexpectedly drops in, which is unlikely given his adherence to protocol, there is time."

He has forgotten something. At the splitting of the corridor where they usually parted, instead of taking his usual route to his office, Ferox retraced steps to the kitchen and the laundry to look for and take a large steel flat bottomed, oval wash basin that Len could lie in until he could safely sit. It would be safer than dipping him in a bucket, especially when Len was so squirmy and uncoordinated. Later he could sit in it for bathing and it would still be plenty deep enough.

Carrying the tub back to Zevran's room, he set it on top of the rugs that arrived earlier, rolled and stacked in the hallway. In the tub he placed a mini keg of one of the dark beers that the duplicate preferred, perhaps his assassin might also enjoy it. After scrawling his FAC on the top end of the keg, he headed back for the afternoon meetings followed by endless paperwork before dinner.

Late that afternoon, when a carefully worded summons came across his desk for Nathaniel Howe's transfer to the Palace effective immediately, Ferox did not delay the signing. Immediately, it was sent downstairs to a horse and rider in a sealed satchel with the other Amaranthine and Vigil correspondence he had just completed. The sooner that Summons was served and fulfilled, the happier his associate would be to return to what he actually liked to do.

As any day was supposed to be, it was productive.

Shaven, bathed, perfumed in the wretched scent Anora preferred, his hair was neatly pulled back and braided. Dressing carefully for dinner Ferox emptied his pockets,, unwilling to hand Anora something else inadvertently. Looking at the signed note he had received earlier from his associate, he smoothed it out before tucking it away, hidden - unsure why even as he did it. Then, checking each letter Zevran had prepared, Ferox updated his script before tucking them away safely. The last letter, one to be given reluctantly later was put in a separate location.

Delaying, he removed and cleaned the ring, a physical representation of his bondage to Anora, before replacing the shackle on his finger. Stilling the urge to just pick up a blade and cut every string that held him, he attempted to breathe and ended up choking on the stink he carried. _This game is vital; calmly, coolly it will be done, it will be won. One way or another this 'groveling' will end. Taking one of Anora's Own, this one who is not a mindless pawn, will do much to ease this act and to lead her to begin to depend on me for once._

Strolling to Anora's private rooms, shuttering himself off, Ferox found his role and knocked lightly before entering. Calm. Cool. Collected...humble and pleasant, one with offerings for his goddess. _If this doesn't work, I'm going for a walk off Fort Drakon...No, no I'm not, taking a ship, perhaps, after a bath, but I am not taking that way out today._

"My dear, how lovely you look this evening, such a beautiful color." Warm kiss to her proffered cheek. He did not pull away from the wretched scent she wore, one that apparently complemented what she liked him to wear. He was not adverse to scent per se, but these were truly terrible and longed to scratched it from his skin, removing that if necessary, wishing he could claim an allergic reaction.

Keeping the conversation light as dinner was set at the table, he gave every social nicety, offering an arm, pulling out her chair, attention to every tiny detail as if he thought of nothing more than her person. Alone again he gave another report as to his afternoon activities after inquiring politely to her own and receiving less than satisfactory answers...vague and hidden. Her little book sat on the table near at hand as she noted interesting details he related.

Drawing her attention back to the meal, and away from his activities, by refilling her wine glass and praising the delicate greens grown in the palace greenhouses, he began to lay the groundwork for what rested against his chest. It was taxing, it always was, even with the years of practice. She would ask question after question, picking at this or that, devouring ceaseless details, never understanding that not every detail was needed. _End this._ Cousin Molly's third son Ned's best friend with the red dog was the one who had last seen the wooden spoon from the left drawer, was not an important thing for anyone to know or remember. At least, not the person in power. Too many of those things left a body blind to the forest, too stuck on the leaves, unable to even see the trees.

Eyes shifting, as if there was something else, he made polite, but distracted noises as if encouraging her to continue. Appearing as if his mind was elsewhere, he heard every word...unfortunately, as some was interesting, useful. To make matters worse, reading non-verbal communication was not Anora's forte, so, he carefully and gradually amplified his distraction until finally he did not respond to a question she asked twice as he stared into the flickering flames.

The way her silverware clinked with over-polite precision screamed 'concerned' aggravation, "What is on your mind, dear? You're very distracted."

As if he were called away from deep thought and lost himself for a moment, "I..." clearing his throat uncertainly, "Pardon me, I was quite rude. I was wondering, working rather, on a disturbing issue. I'm afraid it has weighed heavily in my thoughts today." Straightening, as if he was trying to put this thing behind him, unsuccessfully, "What did you ask, darling?" preparing to 'drift off' again, if needed. _Not your cousin's sister's son's paternal uncle's aunt on his mother side fiance's daughter's baby._

She lay a hand over his, "If it is something that worries you, then I no doubt must know of it."

Allowing the physical irritation and mental anguish of her prior ramblings show through, he used them as a catalyst for this supposed discomfort. "It is not something you would wish to hear, I'm afraid. Please, go on with what you were saying. I think." Hesitantly, "I mean, I hope..." Ferox looked down at his plate, hardly touched as if he were unable to eat with this hanging over him. _Oh harpy, guide this young and inexperienced one on the path he must take._

"Oh don't be foolish, if there is something that abysmal that it bothers you that much, it must be weighty," Anora was prim in her delivery. "And if it is so weighty that you are uncomfortable in even discussing it, then no doubt it is something that has great bearing upon the nation. I'll not have any risks within and without."

Again making a show of deciding to move on, to handle it himself, anything to drag her in deeper, yes, he risked her anger for the greater good...his greater good. A doubtful expression, "You are still healing my dear and I would not wish to press this matter upon you at this time. It would be irresponsible and selfish of me..." he trailed off, a pained expression.

"Whether I'm dying or healthy, I am still Queen, Ferox," the hand withdrew, and she became chilly. "I have duties and if your hemming and hawing over my 'delicate' state doesn't stop this instant, I'll be most put out. If you are unable to handle whatever the situation is, as is so clear by your distraction, then it becomes my responsibility."

Touching a hand to his inner pocket, he caused the paper to crinkle slightly as if it hurt him to do this and with a defeated sigh as if she had backed him into a corner, he pulled the multiple pages and handed them to her, shame in the gesture. "It must be as you say, but I am reluctant to harm you so, especially concerning something that is most certainly in the past..." Enunciating carefully, "Cailan's past."

"I located these when sorting through some Warden documents and forwarding documents to Vigil's Keep this afternoon. These are from Ostagar, from Cailan's chest which I discovered there. I am grateful that I had not just forwarded the entire satchel to the Vigil." _Fill it in, harpy. Look at them. Think about it._ "At the time, given the nature of what I was doing, I believed them to be unimportant. However that may not be the case."

She was quiet, her already pale skin taking on an unhealthy cast as two bright spots of color shone under her swipes of face powder. Behind his mask a thrill of satisfaction as her knuckles went white, making the paper crinkle, even as she smoothed and straightened out the page she was on. Her composure was in place, but it was seriously flawed, and by the time she got to the end of the first two pages, she was reaching for her goblet and draining it. Being the dutiful husband, he scooted his chair closer, lending his concerned 'presence', even when she leaned away faintly.

Sorrowfully, "I'm afraid there is one more and it is particularly...it looks very bad." Using an imploring tone one she herself used against him, one which caused distaste and creeping shudders up his spine instead of what she was attempting, "Please, let me keep this one, just this small one, it should not be used to upset you, my dear. I do not desire to have this thing cause you greater harm." Touching, where the letter was hidden, the paper crinkled invitingly.

"It should be destroyed, burnt, yes, then it will not be able to do you any damage." Pushing back his chair as if the 'right' decision had been made, pulling it from him as if he were going to remove this tainted thing from the presence of his lovely goddess, something that sullied her by its very existence.

Anora rose quickly, the break in her self-control shattering and cascading down as she took his hand quickly, halting him. "No. Let me see it. I must know what it holds, how far the ruin has spread."

To hide the momentary glint in his eyes, he turned away as if unable to bear the sight of the damage he was going to cause by fulfilling her desire to know this thing. Throwing himself back into the chair, overacting so she had the chance of actually reading his reactions, he put his head in his hands.

"Ferox," her other hand was held out, open in demand that he place the last, damning document there. Favorite dog that he was, reluctantly, he gave his mistress the letter. She shivered as she read it, still standing then suddenly sat and whispered, "Betrayer," as she stared down at the page.

Calmly. Coolly. "Let me take care of this for you, my sweet, so that you are spared this much at least."

Anora shook her head, fighting to regain calm, her resolve firming, "No. I must deal with the viper myself." She pushed her plate away, and folded her hands in her lap. "Please, Ferox dear, I need some time to myself. I'll retire for the night to my rooms."

"Allow me to escort you, please darling, let me do that at least," he leaned forward. "Just to your door."

"Yes," Anora nodded her features stilling slightly, the faint hint of relief far sweeter than any perfume, "Yes, I would like that."

Pulling her away from the table, regretfully he handed her the documents. Covering her book with a napkin, he hid his movements by interposing himself between her and it. Then offering his arm, "Come my dear, let us quit this place." At the door, he paused, "If it will help take your mind from this distasteful discovery, there is a small matter, a boon, if you will..."

As they walked, he explained. "Eamon and I have been discussing some of the vacant positions. I ask that you allow me to interview and choose the right person to fill the Denerim seat, taking into account Eamon's insightful advice, of course. As it will set the tone for the entire realm, it will take much time and careful thought, and if I lift this burden from you my darling," kissing her fingers, "it will allow you the time to do what is needed in this," gesturing to the letters in her other hand, "sad affair." His word was chosen intentionally, but his eyes were innocent and so very concerned for her welfare.

Back to the dining room, he recovered the little book tucking it safely away and exited with a 'lost item' he had earlier dropped intentionally to cover his tracks, should someone's eyes be upon him. Intent on his rooms, plans clicking over in his mind, he found himself at Zevran's door instead, staring dumbly at it, and forced himself to knock and wait.

When the door was answered and opened for him to enter, Ferox did not move. Quietly, not quite angry, "Here is that book on ancient history you wished to borrow. I will not come in and subject you to the stink of an Orlesian gare de triage de grange [barnyard] sprayed upon me. I seek a spar or a soak in the large tubs we had installed. If you care join me, you may choose the activity. If not..." a small almost frustrated noise escaped him, as if to say 'whatever'. "It is not important."

Zevran said not a word, his door still open as he went in to take his well used leathers from the rack, along with his blades. He pulled the door closed behind him, "Both would be best. A good warm up to get the blood pumping, then washing the filth away." His lips pursed slightly, "And then you, my friend, need someone to work the tension out of those shoulders 'ere your back snap of it."

With a grunt of acknowledgement, Ferox stalked to his room, listening to his assassin's signature steps beside him. He was not quite able to trust, to believe that his offer had actually been accepted. But other than requesting that something be done, he did not remember the last time he offered a choice like this to Zevran.

If it had been up to him, he wouldn't have worn any of it, but Anora needed to be wooed and that particular stench pleased her - as always, he did as the situation required to get what he needed. Ferox removed the finery, refraining from ripping it from himself, tossed them into an adjoining room which was rarely used, and quickly shut the door just to get the smell far away from him. Unwilling to be trapped in a metal barrel with a combination of scents that still continued to cause him misery, he pulled on serviceable sturdy clothing that smelled of yesterday and then buckled on his dragon leathers. Zevran was changing behind him quickly, his own armour donned faster than dragon hide, and then there was a set of fingers finding a last buckle and finishing it for him. Ferox furrowed his brow as he tugged his gauntlets on more securely. Usually the only time he had help was when trying to get out of the heavy set of plate, or wearing the abysmally unwieldy and gaudy Consort's armour Anora had had designed.

It was all over and done with quickly and other than the jingling of his belt, Zevran paced quietly beside him. No invitation to talk, no prompting or asking a thousand questions, he was just there. As usual.

The star sword was an extension of himself, the familiar pommel filled his hand and helped to alleviate the anxiety and vague feeling of longing. He was able to pretend being calm and collected. The urge to claw off his skin and the need to turn and beat this invisible thing that held him, easing. The sword was the promise of action to be taken, of movement that required little in the way of extended forethought.

When Zevran squared off with him, Ferox had expected the usual dancing fast-pace movements. Instead what he gained was a modeling of style that allowed Ferox to land hits, and after the second one, he began to hold back. Until Zevran kicked him in the knee, smirking at him. A quarter hour in, he realized that while he was hitting the assassin, he was still rolling or moving just enough to the side so the powerful blows didn't send him flying, or tear through the thinner armour. A knot relaxed and he stopped thinking about it, just continuing with the session until his arms and back began to ache from wielding the heavy weapon.

"Enough, I yield."

A grunt and blades whirled away into their sheathes, "Good, I think I might need a good long soak as badly as you do." Low groaning as the assassin doubled over, arms sliding behind legs as he folded impossibly in half, "Faugh, I need to start sparring with Cesar or Ignacio or someone who might be a challenge, because the guards are nothing special. Mph, and that is what I call a work out."

Ferox winced as the elf flipped into a back-bend while he watched, still putting his own weapon away. "Nathaniel is quick with a blade, but he prefers his bow."

"Oh I enjoy sniping as much as the next fellow, but I have not been against an opponent who could actually fight in some time it seems like," laces to vambraces were undone briskly so the sweaty cloth protectors underneath could be yanked off. "So I am out of practice in doing the rolling dodge where the blade slides off, rather than my usual tactics."

Mildly, "I wanted you to come to the Vigil and regretted that I needed you to be here."

A shrug was given as they walked into the baths, "It happens. I would have been there if circumstance allowed it. Times seem simpler when there is a foe that you can defend against with blade and boot rather than blackmail and bribery. Or piles and piles of paper. Ugh, the paper."

"Careful, your arch-nemesis might give you a papercut," Ferox teased. "And think of all the fun you'll have bringing Nathaniel up to speed... Nate's temper is very cold. That reminds me, I should like to see Fergus and if you discover that my paperwork is off, I'm certain you can smooth that over for me."

"I can deal with cold tempers, I have survived Ferelden thus far," glossing and waving it off. A satisfied moan as he slid into the water, "Ah, sweet relief. As always, you can rely upon me to smooth over anything you desire. A bit of paperwork is no trouble."

_Hot, hot, hot...oh that's nice._ "Although, if I waited until after Nate got up to speed, you could come with me to Highever, if you like. Or go elsewhere if you'd rather..."

A lolling head rolled his way, "I would rather good company wherever I go, so that does mean I am most likely to follow you rather than fumble around and try to find such on my lonesome. Besides you at least are civilized, as to what can be said for others nearby? Oh, wait. Len. Except he does still have the tendency of releasing excrement into his drawers and the conversations are more one-sided."

Ferox pulled the braid out of his hair and dunked his head as if purging himself of the last of the perfume. "This reminds me," coming back up for air, "I should show you a rock, or rather a rune-stone. A list of ingredients was provided. Add to that the hardest thing to obtain, one talented Tranquil, and apparently it will fund an enterprise, or so I have been told."

Leaning back, brown eyes closed with a sigh, "Zevran, you didn't say outright, but I have _not_ been good company, not when we met, not during the Blight, and not in the years afterward. One night sharing childcare duties doesn't change that I was wrong."

A washcloth was tossed so it landed on his chest with a wet plop. "You had lost everything and been thrown into an untenable position. You did what you could, and that mattered. Just because you did not respond in words, did not mean you refrained from responding with action. How many chances did you have to tell me to cease and desist and did not? Or to shut me out and leave me hanging for the Crows. How a person deals with a wound and the healing process is different from person to person." The water sloshed as the elf shifted with a sigh of his own. "You were as present as you could be. It was enough."

Ferox's eyes opened checking Zevran for sarcasm, "To this day, I want to throttle Alistair." Snorting, "Well, not right now this moment, he's not here. Talking. Endlessly. But it took time to realize that even though Alistair was older in years and experience as a Warden, that he too, had lost nearly everything that dark night at yourself, Sten, Wynne, Morrigan, Liliana, Oghren, even Shale - we all were in that position of great loss and each of us dealt with it differently."

"It is a wonder sometimes that I have, how a band of misfits and morose laggards managed to survive," soap was vigorously scrubbed into dark skin, sandalwood and strange spices wafting over with the motion. "I was always taught that laughter was the best medicine, but it was a commodity lacking unless I wheedled and wheedled. Ooufh, you all were a hard bunch. Except Oghren, he, and if you repeat this ever I will be most put out, was actually consistently entertaining. A disgraced drunk and a killer whore were the only ones with senses of humour it seemed like sometimes." A chuckle before Zevran lowered his voice, "'By the soddin' Ancestors where's yer dress, girl? Yer knickers are in a twist! Don't worry, I'll get them out - in my tent! Hurr hurr hurr'. And no matter how many times the Chantry boy told Oghren I was male, it never did seem to sink in. Ahh, good times."

"So you are saying that the amount the two of you tortured each other...?"

A hand locked with the opposite wrist and the assassin reclined, resting his wrist on his forehead. "Mmnhmm. On purpose. Wynne was a good laugh herself, except I do not think she grasped what I was truly seeking to do. Being serious and focused is all well and good, but to be so day in, day out, for years without relief is...unhealthy. Even you - of course your humour has been fairly caustic and pointed the time I have known you - were able to crack a joke time to time. Morrigan and Sten, oh that was some of the best. And here I thought the Qu'nari were incapable of humour. A hot poker to grab his attention in case he attempted to nuzzle. Oh, that was _priceless_, almost as much as the Witch's expression."

Ferox's lips twitched. What had promised to be a completely uncomfortable conversation flowed naturally instead. Seriousness was present, a deep undercurrent beneath the usual rambling musings. He did not feel taken to task for his shortcomings, no matter that he did it on his own.

Beside him his associate let his body rise up, floating in the deep bath, held in place by the weight of his head on the edge. What had at first seemed like useless chatter took on a new light and weight. Zevran's eyes were closed, what Ferox could see of his face serene. He wondered briefly how he always managed that, that constant rolling with the strikes, feeling them, but not internalizing them. It was obvious that Zevran felt things just as deeply as others, but relinquished the control of situations while still mastering them.

"Shall I gather Len up tonight?" broke the silence casually.

Pausing as he washed, Ferox nodded once and rumbled, "As you wish." It was still a trap, but it would be one he intentionally stepped into. He had 'acquired' this valuable thing and he did not want it to fall by the wayside forgotten. His father would not have approved losing this thing and would have hit him upside the head sooner than Zevran had, before Ferox was ready, before the groundwork was laid. He vowed quietly that he would not relinquish it now that it was at hand.


End file.
