What Once Was Broken

A/N: Rowan Tabris was my favorite Grey Warden in my playthroughs of the game. This little oneshot in what is going to be a series of oneshots, is the result of a prompt from the Dragon Age kink_meme. Orig. prompt was, Warden loses voice due to traumatic experience, Zevran helps him gain it back.

What Once Was Broken

Zevran didn’t think there could possibly be anyone less deserving…of this, than his warden. The city-born elf who was spat on, humiliated, treated like street garbage by the larger populace of the shem in Denerim while growing up, who stood up for justice, who risked his life every day for a cause that was not his own in the beginning for people who did not know or care just how much he accomplished and sacrificed and suffered for their sakes, did not deserve this. Nothing he had done warranted such treatment.

Wynn could set and mend broken bones, clean and close wounds, but there was little that could be done if what was broken ran deeper than that.

Rowan surprised them all when he surrendered himself to Ser Cauthrien after they’d just released Queen Anora from Howe’s spell enchanted prison. When Zevran protested Rowan only turned and gave him that sweet half smile that meant he wasn’t certain of the wisdom of what he was doing, but believed it to be the right way.

“We have nothing to hide,” Rowan had said. “Ser Cauthrien does not understand everything, else she would not stand against us.”

Oh, amore, sometimes you are so naïve, Zevran thought, but did no more to stop him. Hell, Rowan had a way with people, maybe this would turn out well like so many other daunting and seemingly hopeless situations they’d already faced and conquered. Now, he wished nothing more than to go back and charge into Ser Cauthrien’s ranks, forcing his warden and the others to come to his aid. Leliana and Morrigan would have been right behind him, he knew. If he’d argued more, if he’d forced battle, he might have spared Rowan.

Zevran sighed. If only hindsight were foresight, as the shem’s liked to say.

After the small infiltration group got Anora back to Eamon’s estate safely, Zevran immediately turned around to head after Ser Cauthrien. However, Eamon, counseled against making rash decisions, insisting that they needed a plan and nightfall to execute it. Zevran almost told the Arl to shove his plans up his noble ass. If not for Leliana’s soothing reasoning there just may have been an ‘incident’. He understood the logic and wisdom in waiting for nightfall, he understood more than anyone the necessity of planning and waiting, often times creating the opportune moment. That did not mean he liked waiting while the guards at Fort Drakon did whatever they pleased with his warden.

It did not surprise Zevran that they had to draw lots to see who would accompany him to rescue Rowan. The ex-Crow took great pride in that his warden instilled such loyalty in those around him simply by being himself. However, it did surprise him that Morrigan seemed especially enraged by the situation and Zevran could only be glad the witch was on his side. So with Sten and Morrigan behind him they stormed the fort. In the end, planning had not worked better than sheer force, and the small group fought their way to the great hall where dozens of guards waited for them. With Morrigan’s spells overwhelming almost half, and Sten’s great sword taking out nearly the other half, Zevran delighted in sweeping in and out of the chaos reaping death with his duel blades. When at last no man stood against them they moved to the door leading further into the inner workings of the fort. Just as they got there the door swung open and three more guards, a small patrol by the looks of it, stopped in the doorway. Two of them stood staring at the carnage, mouths agape. Zevran was about to leap on them when the third guard reached out with both hands and slammed the guards’ heads together efficiently knocking them out.

Zevran stared for a moment in surprise. Then the head of the third lifted and Zevran nearly collapsed in relief. Brilliant lavender eyes shone brightly out from under the shadow of the helmet, and long strands of light orange hair clung to sweat on both sides of his creamy, sun-tanned face. There was his beautiful warden.

“Rowan,” Zevran chuckled, in shaky relief. “How did you--” he stopped. Something wasn’t right. Too much pain pinched the corners of Rowan’s eyes.

The warden opened his mouth, said Zevran’s name, but there was no sound. Then he collapsed.

...

 

That was their daring rescue of their brave Grey Warden. They knocked down the fort gates only to find Rowan had apparently picked the lock of his cell, stolen the armor of a passing guard, convinced the fort’s Captain that he was one of his men, and was well on his way to walking out the front door to freedom. The young warden never ceased to amaze him.

There wasn’t time to check the damage at the fort, not with shouts and alarms sounding from further in. Once Rowan was safe at the estate, though, Zevran's vision turned red. The damage done to his sweet warden was unforgivable. The healing at Wynn’s hands had not been a pleasant thing for Rowan, nor was it easy for Zevran to watch. But he would not leave him. For his part, Rowan had borne it all silently, though Zevran could see he wanted to scream.

It was worrying that Rowan hadn’t said anything since their return, but Zevran guessed that his warden was still in shock and had drawn inward to distance himself from the pain.

Now, thanks to a heavy sleeping draught, Rowan was resting in his room with half of Arl Eamon’s guards protecting his recovery. They stood like a small army in the hall outside the door, for which Zevran was grateful. Even the maids who had worked there for years and were bringing food, drink, and other supplies for the warden and his companions were being scrutinized as possible threats, and were only allowed to enter once it was confirmed they were not.

“We cannot afford to lose either of the wardens if Loghain or Ser Cauthrien retaliates,” Eamon had said, and Zevran was glad the Arl was taking every precaution to prevent that. The shem might not be all that bad. Still, Zevran couldn’t help but think it was no less than Eamon owed Rowan after all they went through to save the Arl’s life and family.

Zevran sat in the antechamber that led into Rowan’s room. He was supposed to be eating, at Leliana’s persistence, but he couldn’t help but stare at the bedroom door. They left it open a little in case the warden woke and needed anything, but otherwise they stayed away to allow him to sleep. Only Bane, Rowan’s faithful, four-legged companion was allowed in under threat of Wynn’s wrath. Zevran's only consolation was that the wizened mage had to sleep sometime, and then Zevran could be with his warden again.

“If only I’d been there none of this would have happened,” Alistair was saying, and Zevran’s pointed ears perked up. He looked over near the fire where Wynn and the heir to the throne sat with their meal. They appeared deep in discussion. Alistair’s food was untouched, which was a surprise due to the warden’s normally voracious appetite.

“It does no good to wish to change that which cannot be changed,” Wynn said reprovingly, but despite her tone there was a kindness in her eyes, an empathy. After all, as Rowan had discovered, the mage had some past regrets of her own. “Besides,” she continued. “Rowan was right to keep you separated. We could not risk losing you both if something had gone wrong. And if Loghain had captured you both, what would have stopped him from simply killing you and ridding himself of the last two wardens in Ferelden who stand in his way?”

By the look on Alistair’s face, the warden knew she was right, but he didn’t like it.

“But if I’d been there,” Alistair argued. “Maybe they wouldn’t have hurt him, maybe they would have taken it out on me. I’m the threat to the throne. Or we might have escaped sooner. Damn it, I wouldn’t have let him go with Ser Cauthrien to begin with.”

Zevran flinched. Next to him Leliana spoke up in their defense about how there was no changing Rowan’s mind once he had decided to do something he believed to be right. But Zevran knew there was nothing and no one to blame but himself. He, above, all others, should never have let Rowan get his way this time. If he were truly in love with Rowan as the warden always said he was with that sweet smile on his face after they’d made love, than he should have fought his warden over this decision.

Without a word Zevran rose from his seat and stepped over a slumbering Oghren who had dutifully taken up position in front of the door and then almost immediately passed out. Then he slipped silently into Rowan’s room. He heard Leliana call after him, but no one stopped him.

A low fire in the bedroom hearth and the moonlight from the window were the only lights in the room. He stood waiting for his eyes to adjust. Once they had he could see Bane on the bed, head cocked, staring at him. Zevran walked slowly toward the bed to allow the mabari plenty of time to decide friend or foe. The beast may be playful and too intelligent for his own good sometimes, but ultimately he was a killing machine. Zevran had no way of knowing how a situation like this would affect the hound. His master was returned to him so terribly wounded and it might have set off his instincts to protect first, ask questions later.

When he reached the foot of the bed, Zevran stopped.

“Hey, boy,” he said softly, and saw the stub of a tail start to wag. “How is he doing?”

Bane’s tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth, then he bent to snuffle at Rowan’s hair before looking back at Zevran.

“May I sit?” Zevran asked as he lowered himself to the fluffy mattress. The mabari gave him a dog smile. “Thank you, kind sir.”

Then, forgetting about the dog, Zevran looked down at the orange head nearly buried beneath the covers. Reaching out he pulled them down enough to see Rowan’s sleeping face. Curled up on his side like that made him look so small…

With a satisfied wuff, Bane jumped off the bed and moved to the rug in front of the fireplace to sleep now that someone else who could be trusted would watch over his master.

Zevran scooted closer and ran his fingertips over one smooth cheek. Then he gathered the long orange hair, combing his fingers through it to keep it from ratting in the warden’s sleep and lay it against the pillow. He loved that hair. It was so long that the knot bounced against Rowan’s butt when he walked. Zevran loved to watch that bouncing braid when they were traveling. It made the long, uninterrupted treks much more...stimulating. And it was so soft, like strands of silk. Zevran would lie awake with his warden asleep against him, running his fingers through that hair. He’d been amazed the first time he caught himself doing it--amazed that he would even want to do such a thing. Sure, he did it sometimes when he was seducing a target, but mostly because he’d witnessed others doing it. He’d always thought it was more of a chore in the seducing game than something that would ever come naturally to him. Now, he enjoyed it, listening to his warden practically purr when his face was buried against Zevran’s throat.

Tonight he’d almost lost all that. Zevran got up and removed most of his clothes leaving only his breeches. As he settled in next to his warden a thought kept nagging at the back of his mind. When finally he drifted off, the troubling thought was still whispering to him.

He could have lost everything without ever knowing he’d had it.

---

Zevran woke late the next morning. He could tell by the heat of the sun streaming in from the window currently hitting him in the face. With a groan he turned his face away trying to go back to sleep. Then he felt a finger lightly trail the length of his nose and his eyes snapped open. Rowan smiled softly at him from only a few inches away.

Zevran sat up quickly, but was careful not to bounce the bed too much. Wynn’s healing had set and mended the broken bones and closed the open wounds, but the fix was weak. The warden’s body needed to do the rest of the repairing on its own, which meant pain and soreness for a while.

Zevran cupped a hand over Rowan’s cheek.

“You’re awake,” Zevran said, a little uncertain how to try to get things back to normal after what happened.

To his relief Rowan’s lips turned up in a half smile and he rolled his eyes at the obvious statement.

Zevran chuckled. “All right, put that at the top of the list of things I wish I hadn’t said.”

Rowan only smiled.

Zevran felt disconcerted. Usually Rowan couldn’t hold back his witty comments. But Rowan just continued to look at him. Those lavender eyes--when the sun hit them just right--made Zevran’s heart skip a beat. The ex-Crow was still tip-toeing around the whole 'love' thing that his warden was trying to get him to admit. Zevran kept telling himself he didn’t know if it was love because he’d never felt it before. Then another part of him would tell him that he’s felt everything else in the world so the only thing left would be love. He usually squashed that voice pretty quickly, but at the moment…he was certain it was love he saw in those eyes. The realization made it suddenly very hard to breathe.

Without looking like he was retreating, he did exactly that. Getting up from the bed Zevran went over to the water basin on the other side of the room and washed his face. He needed some air, but he still didn’t want to leave his warden, so this would have to do. After patting his face dry on a cloth he turned back to the bed where Rowan was trying to sit up, wincing as he did so.

“You shouldn’t be getting up,” he scolded. “Lie back down. You need to rest.”

Rowan looked at him with a frown and shook his head. Zevran sighed, frustrated.

“Fine,” he said. “At least let me fluff you some pillows.” A bit of sarcasm dripped from his voice, but Rowan ignored it. Zevran gathered the pillows at his warden’s back and helped him to lie back slowly in a more comfortable reclining position. Then Zevran sat on the side of the bed facing him. Reaching up and brushing hair from his warden’s forehead he pursed his lips together before asking, “How are you feeling?”

Immediately he saw a darkness creep over Rowan’s features before the other elf turned his head away avoiding Zevran’s gaze.

Zevran’s heart ached. The guards had been most unkind to his sweet warden. He could only imagine the humiliations and pain he suffered at their hands even in a single day. Such a short amount of time, relatively, but it had been more than enough to leave scars.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked softly.

No answer. Rowan didn’t even shake his head. After a while Zevran felt like he was being ignored. With a heavy sigh he stood to leave to give his warden some space and time to think. Rowan grabbed his hand, though, and didn’t let go. Zevran looked at him just in time to see his warden’s lips form his name, just like they had done at the fort. Again no sound came.

Zevran’s eyes widened. Sitting back down he held Rowan’s face in his hands and looked him in the eye.

“You can’t speak?” he demanded, confused and startled that he hadn’t noticed before.

Rowan looked ashamed. Hurt crumbled his features. He tried to look away, but Zevran wouldn’t let him.

“Are you still injured?” Zevran continued, fear rising in his heart. “Did Wynn miss something?” For a long time Rowan just looked into his lover’s face, then finally he frowned and gave a little shrug. Zevran got up quickly. “I’ll be back,” he said and was out the door before Rowan could…what? Argue? He couldn’t speak! With a sigh he slumped deeper into his pillows, folding his arms across his chest.

“Wynn!” Rowan heard Zevran yell. Bane barked, jumping up from the fireplace and raced into the other room after the blonde. “Wynn! Where is Wynn?” Zevran continued. He could hear Leliana’s worried voice ask if something was wrong with Rowan, all the while Bane’s excited barking continued. Then he heard a loud crash and Zevran cursing fiercely at his dog in antivan. From what little Zevran had taught him, Rowan could tell it was enough to make a whore’s cheeks blush. He couldn’t help but laugh silently.

Once the commotion died down Rowan found himself facing Wynn, a sour expression on her face, a concerned bard, and a flustered, half dressed lover. Bane, of course, appeared completely unperturbed by whatever had transpired between he and the antivan only moments ago.

Leliana approached him first. Bane followed closely behind her and jumped up onto the bed to lick Rowan in the face.

“You lost your voice?” Leliana asked, sympathetically. “You poor dear.” Then she laughed as she watched the warden trying to fend off the slobbery tongue bath. “All right, boy. That’s quite enough.” She wrapped her arms around the beast and hauled him away.

“I’ll brew you some of the tea I drink. It’s soothing for your voice. I drink it when I’ve sung too much.”

Rowan smiled at her and nodded, thankful that the bard cared.

Wynn did not spare him her disapproving scowl for not informing her of further complications. She went in to Healer mode after it was clear the warden was aware of her unspoken message that if he kept such secrets from her again she would not be so forgiving. Wynn checked his throat, running her soft padded fingers over the tanned flesh. Told him to say ‘aw’, and humph-ed when nothing but air came out. Rowan gave her a sheepish look.

Sorry, he mouthed to her.

But Wynn only pursed her lips and cast a spell over him. Rowan felt it tingling all over his body. It felt good, and it eased some of the aching, but when he tried to speak again, still nothing. Wynn frowned, dug into her bag she’d brought in with her and pulled out a small vial.

“Drink this,” she ordered.

Rowan knew better than to argue.

The day wore on and still Wynn could not cure the warden’s voice. Leliana’s tea had felt soothing to his throat when he swallowed and warmed his belly, but also could not heal his voice. Oghren had some interesting ideas of his own, which thankfully none of his other companions would let him orchestrate. One of them having to do with the dwarf’s theory of a “scare tactic” and a very large, very mean bronto Oghren had tangled with before. Rowan certainly didn’t want to know the contents of any of the vials the dwarf had produced from his travel bag. Shale only made a senseless comment that “it” must not be a pigeon after all, since “it” cannot sing. Alistair looked absolutely miserable that he had no ideas how to help his friend, and Rowan and Zevran both would not even let Morrigan try for so many different reasons. Sten offered no help, but commented only that the warden was weak to have let the experience hinder him in such a way.

Rowan wanted no more help after that. Not when his thoughts mirrored that of the large qunari.

Zevran stayed with him, though Rowan’s mood had darkened considerably, and even though he was quite certain his warden wanted to be alone. But if anyone understood what Rowan was going through it was Zevran, and he did not want to abandon his warden to his pain and grief as he had always been when he lived in Antiva.

Rowan lay on his right side facing away from his silent supporter. Zevran kept himself busy sharpening his blades, repairing the leather of his armor, sewing holes and tears in clothing and bags. Any attempts at conversation had been ignored. So the antivan simply shared the space on the bed and worked. The compromise gave his warden the space he needed while the dip and gentle shifting of the mattress behind him assured him that he was not alone.

When night fell, Zevran left quietly to eat dinner with the others while his warden slept.

---

Rowan woke some hours later to find himself alone. The room was completely dark aside from the moonlight and the shaft of light from the door that was open a few inches. He could hear his companions in there, talking. Leliana was even strumming softly on her lute and he could imagine Bane lying at her feet listening intently. The mabari loved the bard’s music. It was almost like any other quiet night during their travels between places. Those quiet nights when food, stories, and song were shared around the fire, those few hours when some of the worries and stresses of what they were trying to accomplish were set aside.

When Rowan concentrated on what was being said he realized they were talking about him. Their concerns were not trivial nor unwarranted, and Rowan felt unwanted guilt and stress wash over him. Fear of the unknown gripped his heart. The Landsmeet would make or break all their efforts up to this point. He needed the support of every land and army in Ferelden to stand against the Blight and it all came down to what would be said in the Landsmeet. If Rowan could not speak out against Loghain, if he could not lend his support to Arl Eamon and appear strong and unwavering in his sense of justice, they could lose it all. The time to follow the leads and finish gathering the evidence against Loghain was running out and here he was laid up in bed damaged and pathetically mute.

The word traumatized filtered to his pointed ears from the other room. He wasn’t certain who said it, but the word carried so much weight. It made him feel feeble, inadequate and deploringly pitiful. Doubts and fears from the time this all started rose to the surface again. What had Duncan seen in him? A skinny city-born elf barely old enough to be considered a man to his people was now supposed to unite the land against civil war and the terrible threat of the Blight and the Archdemon itself? Who had the right to decide such things, or expect so much from him? What right did he have to decide the course of action, or strategy needed? What right did he have to ask Ferelden’s armies, and the men and women who were not soldiers to stand with him against such terrible and unfavorable odds?

What right did he have to ask Zevran to love him when he was so weak? Zevran had suffered so much in his past and yet was determined that it would only make him stronger. Rowan was ashamed to have been broken so easily. Zevran would be disgusted to know he’d thrown his lot in with a coward too afraid to face what happened to him; to face his own demons.

The hot tears felt like a personal betrayal when they stung his eyes and trailed down his cheeks.

---

Zevran normally enjoyed the company of his warden’s fighting companions, but that night all they wanted to talk about was Rowan and their worries about the outcome of the Landsmeet. He knew they were not blaming Rowan, but Zevran couldn’t help but feel like there might be some resentment toward his warden from some members of the party. He was probably imagining it. In fact, he was quite certain he was. Even after his earlier comment that put Rowan in such a foul mood, Sten had almost looked concerned when he asked after the warden’s health just a short while ago. Finding Asala, Sten’s sword, had created a soft spot in the large Qunari’s heart for Rowan--he’d certainly gained Sten’s respect.

However, there was only so much the Antivan could listen to. Speculations and what if factors were a senseless waste of time. No good came from sitting around and worrying about what might happen if Rowan did not regain his voice. They’d even begun to discuss who should speak on Rowan’s behalf should he not be able to. That was when Zevran decided enough was enough and left. He could not sit there and listen to them trying to replace his warden. Zevran knew without a doubt that no one could stand in front of those people and sway them as his warden could. Rowan was strong, and had accomplished amazing and impossible things. He had the support of all those he’d helped and news of those deeds had certainly spread. No one could doubt the selflessness and sacrifice, and plain and simple goodness those deeds required. Zevran was certain many were now doubting Loghain’s claim that the Grey Wardens abandoned King Cailan. Whispers were rising from every corner of Denerim and they were certainly not entirely in league with Loghain and his cause. However, if Rowan could not stand for himself, speak out against Loghain with nothing but unwavering and irrefutable proof, representing all he is and all he and the wardens stand for, they would certainly fail because the shem are sheep and will follow who they presume to be the strongest.

There was no replacement for Rowan Tabris.

Zevran found he was walking aimlessly around the estate, too deep in thought to realize or care where he was going or who he passed. When finally he looked around he found himself in the library. Strange, since he’d never much enjoyed reading. Looking around at the leather bound books…that wasn’t going to change any time soon--their only attracting feature was the smell of the leather. As he turned to leave he locked gazes with a pretty little thing, an elf maid he'd seen around many times since their arrival. She was returning books to their rightful places, but now her complete attention was on Zevran. There was no mistaking the intent behind that welcoming look, but Zevran only smiled at her out of politeness and continued on his way, returning to his warden.

---

The antechamber was empty when he returned, and dinner was cleared away. Only Bane looked up from the area rug in front of the fire when he entered. He closed the bedroom door behind him and was grateful to know everyone had returned to their own rooms. No one would bother him or his sleeping warden. He wanted to see no one else but Rowan.

When he reached the bed his heart ached. Rowan lay on his back, his head turned to the side. The moonlight from the window fell across his beautiful face making him pale and ethereal. His fiery orange hair fanned out against the pillow was a pale blue in the lunar light. It would have been perfect were it not for one thing. His warden had been crying.

Damp tear tracks shimmered against his warden’s smooth cheeks, and there was a small knit in Rowan’s brow--the only signs of the enormity of his young warden’s distress. Zevran reached down and brushed long tresses from his lover’s forehead.

“Mi amore,” he murmured under his breath with a heavy sigh. His warden really was too young to have been forced into so much responsibility. Zevran remembered feeling the same way when he was a youth training with the crows. Their methods were brutal, hard and painful. Not unlike Rowan’s life now. But where Zevran had had years to train, and harden himself against the pain, the stress, and distance himself from the deeds he had to perform, Rowan had been granted no time to adjust--to become accustomed. His warden was running off his resolute sense of justice, and the support of his companions and friends.

But, he gazed at Rowan’s sleeping face, that was not enough right now. Not this time.

Zevran took his time undressing, depositing his hidden knives that he never dressed himself without onto the table next to his side of the bed. He watched his sleeping warden all the while. Rowan’s skin was flawless aside from some thin scars scattered across his body. Wynn’s healing skills at work. She couldn’t always erase the marks from the more grievous wounds completely, but at least she could keep them small.

Zevran knelt on the bed at his warden’s feet and slowly pulled the blankets down. He watched mesmerized as Rowan’s beautiful flesh was revealed inch by inch. The only clothing Rowan wore was a pair of loose fitting pants that Zevran gifted to his warden some months back. They were made of silk and hung deliciously low on Rowan’s slender hips. Zevran’s hands wandered to those irresistible hips now, rubbing gently up and down before slipping his fingers into the waist and pulling slowly. His warden didn’t stir as his pants slid down his lean legs and all the way off. The assassin made a soft sound in the back of his throat at the sight. Rowan’s smooth skin seemed to glow in the moonlight. The muscles of his torso were lined in thin strips of shadow making the definition stand out beautifully.

Zevran leaned down and pressed a kiss into the hollow of his warden’s pelvis where leg and groin meet. He breathed deeply, taking in the warm, musky scent. Moving between Rowan’s legs, Zevran lay down on his stomach and rested his head low on his lover’s belly. Closing his eyes he simply joined his breathing with his warden’s. He could almost feel their heartbeats slowing to match one another. Lying there he finally understood what Leliana had said to him what felt like so long ago, in the beginning of his budding relationship with Rowan. You two are good for each other. Zevran had not put much stock in the comment. Back then Rowan was still just a friendly companion, a warm body beneath the blankets, an enjoyable conquest. Now he couldn’t help but think that the perceptive bard had seen what was there before they even knew what to do with their attraction for each other.

Zevran lifted his head and smiled down at his warden.

Leliana was right. Even his warden had figured it out. "You love me," he began saying at some point in their travels, Zevran didn't remember quite when his warden started. But he suspected that his warden knew from that point on.

Everyone knew but him, it seemed. He smiled, sliding his thumb back and forth against Rowan’s side. But he was learning.

After he’d enjoyed just lying with his warden for a moment, Zevren kissed his lover’s bellybutton and pushed to his knees. The palms of his hands rubbed up Rowan’s torso to his collarbone, then traveled back down. Moving in circles he then mapped his lover’s body with his hands. Rowan frowned and turned his head to face Zevran, but remained asleep. Zevran could not resist his warden’s soft lips, and so took them up in a gentle devouring kiss. His warden tasted of apples. Zevran often wondered if it was because his warden enjoyed the fruit so much, but Rowan tasted so much better than any apple the assassin had ever tasted. His warden was an entire orchard.

Zevran’s tongue explored his warden’s mouth, savoring the apple taste, licking and sucking his lover’s lips. He felt Rowan gasp into the kiss, then begin to respond. Zevran smiled. His warden was still asleep, but could not resist the assassin’s charms it seemed. Zevran moved his kisses along Rowan’s jaw up to his ear. He sucked and nipped at the perfect pointed flesh that he adored. He loved it when he could make his warden blush because the very tips of those beautiful ears reddened. Rowan shifted beneath him. Zevran felt his warden’s knee bend and nudge up between his legs, and his breath hitched.

No one else’s touch had ever ignited so much fire in him at such a simple movement. His warden didn’t even have to be awake to bring Zevran to his knees. That meant something. It had to.

“Rowan,” he whispered against his lover’s ear before sucking on the lobe. Rowan gasped again, turning his head away from the assassin. Zevran pulled away in time to see fresh tears slide free from his warden’s eyes that were now squeezed closed. Zevran simply delved back into his attentions, this time against his warden’s nicely exposed throat. Massaging his lips into the flesh and sucking at the point where the pulse was strongest, he drew a hitched breath from Rowan. His ministrations traveled further down. He took great care in following the line of each new scar with his mouth, mapping the outlines of the nearly faded bruises. He knew Rowan was ashamed of the injuries so he showed his warden that there was no part of his lover he could ever be ashamed of. He lavished love on the most grievous wounds knowing that they were not completely healed and would cause a bit of pain. But Zevran knew it was a pain his warden needed to acknowledge. Ignoring such pain, trying to pretend it didn’t happen never worked for long, if at all, and could only make the scars run deeper.

Rowan arced his back pushing up into Zevran before lying back again. He tried to moan against the aching pain his lover was forcing from his wounds. It was a pathetic airy sound. He couldn’t stop the fresh onslaught of tears. He wanted to scream, and hated himself for being unable to do anything but writhe against the sheets. It made him feel like an animal. He opened his eyes to plead with Zevran to stop and the expression on the assassin’s face made him grow still.

Zevran knew. He knew everything--understood everything. The look on his face was not one of disgust at Rowan’s weakness. It was that of someone who had been through these same weaknesses, pains, and doubts before. It was an offering to lend whatever strength he needed to overcome.

Zevran kissed him again and Rowan clung to him this time. Desperation and confirmation that his lover understood him and what his mind was going through more thoroughly than any of the others gave him strength to never let go. Zevran moved closer between his warden’s legs and pressed gently against the tight opening there. His salve was in his bag across the room, but he didn’t think his warden would let him go long enough to retrieve it. He devoured his warden with equal ferocity. Somehow he didn’t think his warden would notice.

He pushed forward slowly and heard a strangled sound from his warden’s lips so close to his ear.

The moment he was seated fully inside his warden, Rowan’s hips began a gentle rocking up against him, nudging, urging Zevran’s quick response. Zevran pulled back slowly, his lips never leaving his warden’s, then slid back into the silky heat that eagerly pulled him deeper. Zevran reached back, running his palm up the smooth inside of Rowan’s thigh. He pulled away from the kiss long enough to look down between them at his warden’s thighs pressed against his sides. They looked the color of creamy milk in the moonlight. The thought of gripping that trembling flesh flooded his groin with a pleasurable burning heat.

With a groan he squeezed Rowan’s thigh, earning him a hitching gasp from his warden, which he took advantage of. Delving back into Rowan’s mouth he feasted hungrily at the sweet apple orchard. Then Zevran slowly began his gentle rocking. Pleasure burned through him as his warden’s eager ring of flesh gripped him tightly, warmly. He ran his tongue along his warden’s throat, suckling and biting to ensure there would be no mistaking his mark.

“You are not weak,” he said against Rowan’s ear and heard a sob from his warden. He continued his rocking as Rowan clutched Zevran closer to him. There was no beginning or end to them, they were one--whole--tightly bound up in the other, in sync with the other’s needs as they were their own.

“Zevran,” Rowan whispered against his lover’s ear.

The assassin bit firmly into the tender flesh encouraging his warden. He wanted Rowan to scream, wanted to hear him call his name once more, wanted to hear anything.

Rowan whined at the pain, his voice weak and cracking, but struggling to come through. Zevran sped his efforts a little, fighting back a deep groan every time he and his warden were joined at the deepest point. Zevran licked the bite in loving apology even as he snapped his hips up sharply, striking that little special place that made his warden come undone every time. Rowan’s body arced high, his head thrown back in a sharp cry that made Zevran’s organ tingle with pending release.

With a second well placed rub he felt Rowan’s release spurt in viscous tendrils against his belly.

“Zevran,” Rowan moaned into Zevran’s hungry kiss.

The sound of his warden’s voice almost undid him, sapping the strength from his limbs, rendering him weak as only his warden could do. Zevran’s heart had never felt so light and yet so heavy at the same time. Love was a heavy burden, after all.

“Say it again,” Zevran urged in a heavy whisper. His breath was leaving him as he drew close, so very close.

“Zevran,” Rowan said again in a way that seduced Zevran’s seed from his body and, as his warden’s inner heat squeezed and milked him of his release, he groaned two words he’d never been more certain of in his life.

“Only you.”

Rowan grinned up at him, and Zevran wiped away a tear track on his warden’s cheek before kissing him again.

“You love me,” Rowan said softly. Though the smile was there, the statement was no longer a gentle teasing.

Zevran stared into those violet depths and smiled back. With a nod he confirmed once more, “Only you.”