#spellwoven

It wasn’t such a problem – might even be termed a pleasure, in fact – when one’s eager, enthusiastic lover was close at hand. But when he wasn’t… Wystan groaned in frustration, staring up at the interlocking grey stones of his chamber ceiling, trying, without much success, to ignore the throbbing ache of arousal in his groin and just go back to sleep. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t exhausted, after all; they’d had a long day of it, fighting bandits in Amaranthine before making the long trek back to the Vigil. He’d barely taken the time to wash the road dust from his face and hands before falling into his very lonely, very empty bed.

“Rendanson.”

It was hardly the first time his heritage had been wielded like an insult, nor was it going to be the last.  But where Natanael had once sneered at his antagonists because he - unlike them - was going to inherit sizeable and well-managed holdings, now all he could do was scowl and hope that the savage wolfmen didn’t let their trellwolves rip his limbs off. He told himself that he did not fear their retribution, that he only held his tongue as often as he could manage for Rahaf and Thomas’ sakes, but the reality was he had no proof of his father’s innocence to answer the unspoken accusations. Rendan the liar, Rendan the thief, Rendan the torturer, Rendan the conspirator, Rendan the trellwolf murderer. Until he could clear his family’s name he did not have a snowball’s chance in summer of ever being able to walk with his head high once more.

Still, that didn’t stop him from wearing his family’s crest on a pendant around his neck, the snarling bear head a fitting match for his usual thundercloud of an expression. Rahaf sighed every time she saw it, but she’d since given up trying to convince him to take it off. Discarding his family heirloom did not make him any less Rendanson, Natanael had pointed out coldly, and it wasn’t as though the wolfmen would welcome him with open arms if he cast it aside. Moreover, it wasn’t like they were here for pleasure; they were here to work off their father’s debt to the heall, paid for with their sweat and tears because Rendan’s holdings had gone to his greedy neighbours.  

If Natanael was being honest with himself – a rarity, sadly – he did not altogether mind the work. While he was no burly wolfman he was not without his own muscle, and the chores (while mindless) were helpful in clearing his mind. Even more importantly, he could often do them alone or in limited company, which made them somewhat of a respite. Unlike his siblings, Natanael had yet to make himself any friends at the heall, a by-product of his pride in his heritage and his unpleasant demeanour. As far as Natanael was concerned, however, his lack of companions suited him just fine. He didn’t need to “play nice” with the wolfmen, or the gaggle of boys they kept around in the hopes of pairing them up with wolves one day. Natanael’s obvious disinterest in trellwolves only further separated him from his peers, which suited him just fine.  

There was, however, one young man who didn’t seem to take the hint. He was the only person that Natanael had had to actually go out of his way to avoid, his determination to befriend Rendan’s eldest son so strong that Natanael was finding it difficult to resist him. But while Natanael could steer clear of him at meal times and other gatherings there was no getting around it when they were partnered to do chores together, as they were that morning. Natanael tried not to grimace as he adjusted his axe over his shoulder, stepping past his chore partner with a stiff, “Good morning,” that was purely out of ingrained politeness.

Perhaps this time they could chop wood without engaging in mindless chatter.

“So? Do we have a deal?”

Zevran looks up to where the trader hovers, eager to make a sale. The assassin’s gloved fingers spread over the cover of the books he is holding—they are battered things, well-loved and well-read, and though they have no great coin value he knows how much they had meant to the woman who was forced to sell them to feed her children. “Four silvers?” he says, feigning foppish ignorance. “For these?”

“Ser, these are rare editions,” the trader beseeches; seeing nothing beyond the fine cut of Zevran’s clothes, too blinded by the clink of coin in the elf’s pocket to notice the blade up his sleeve. “They would command twice that price in Orlais.”

“Hmm, so they truly are valuable.” The elf turns them over in his hands, and when he looks up again, there is none of that harmless interest in his eyes; only dark threat and a thin, sharp-toothed smile. “Valuable enough that you would only pay their last owner two coppers, I hear. That when she tried to bargain, you made certain to see her evicted from your store; without her belongings.”

The trader’s face has turned white, and Zevran presses his advantage. “The people in this town are good people, or so a friend tells me,” he says, and with a silent, practised ease those books are replaced by a blade instead, its thin, sharp edge catching the light.  “And good people do not take well to extortion, my friend.”

Neither, he finds soon after, does the floor take well to blood. It is a horrible, clashing colour against the carpet, and he side-steps it with disdain, wipes the blade clean, and pockets the books.

He does this for the Warden. For the Warden’s overly-kind heart; for the people he wants to help, although Zevran cannot always fathom why.