Rain beat a soothing rhythm on the wooden roof above, accompanied by a damp breeze that blew in from the broken window and cooled the room to a much lower temperature than was customary for summer in Kirkwall. After the past week of sweltering humid heat, the refreshing change was welcome, and Fenris had lowered the curtain he normally used to cover the window. Hawke had offered to pay for a new glass windowpane, but Fenris had refused, as he did all suggestions to repair the crumbling remains of the old mansion he called home. Truthfully, it was more of a temporary shelter that provided a bed, although the past several years spent squatting here belied the term 'temporary'. Nevertheless, it seemed wasteful to provide any kind of upkeep to a building that held no special meaning for him.

Fenris had lit a fire in the hearth to set off the gray melancholy of the rain, but it did little to improve his mood. He sat slumped in one of the straight-backed chairs at the scarred wooden table, grimly sipping Tevinter wine he had retrieved from the cellar. The far corner of the bedroom was piled with torn trousers that Hawke had generously donated to Fenris, and they served the necessary purpose of soaking up the water that dripped from the stained, sagging ceiling. Fenris glared at the offending cracked plaster, at each liquid drop that swelled slowly and then fell to dampen the rumpled cloth below.

The leaky ceiling bothered him no more than the decaying body in the foyer or the numerous cobwebs that decorated the corners of the rooms with intricate silk patterns. They were merely the characteristics of his chosen abode, which oddly reflected the condition of his current life as well. It was the rain that made him restless and drove him to gouge angry lines in the table with the steel fingertips of his gauntlets. The downpour kept him inside instead of on the rooftop where he had wished to spend his evening. If a certain assassin had chanced to return, he would not have objected, but there was little chance of that now. Not that it mattered if Zevran returned, but Fenris wouldn't have minded.

A rattle from outside the window brought him to his feet and reaching for his sword, which lay nearby on the table. Adrenaline surged, lighting his tattoos, and he instinctively reached for the Fade, phasing into the transparency of lyrium ghost. Danarius, let it be Danarius. Longing and dread mixed with fear and fury, and sweat beaded his brow beneath the rough fringe of his hair. He wanted this over; he wanted to be free.

As the lithe form dropped through the window, he moved swiftly to grab the back of the intruder's neck, pulling back from the Fade enough to solidify his hand, gauntlet digging into the rough fabric of the hooded cloak while his other hand raised the heavy greatsword high to strike. Hissing with anger, he yanked the hood back and wound his fist into golden hair, pulling the figure toward him before finally registering the bronzed face with amber eyes and sinuous tattoos lining a delicate cheekbone. Shock pulled him back abruptly from the protection of the Fade, but the lyrium markings continued to glow with a ready menace as he slowly lowered his sword.

"Truly, I do not mind a bit of rough play, mi amigo, but shouldn't we wait until I at least remove this soaked cloak?" Zevran seemed remarkably calm, if a little breathless. He made no move to step away from Fenris's grasp but remained carefully still, almost pliant. Fenris became startlingly aware of the softness of Zevran's hair within his fist, the fullness of slightly parted lips turned up to him, the glimmer of laughter in the warm eyes returning his gaze. It took a little more effort than it should have to loosen his grip and step away from the assassin, whose cloak and boots were leaving a puddle on the wooden floor.

"I might have killed you. Could you not have announced your presence?" Irritation hoarsened Fenris's growl.

Zevran chuckled as he removed the cloak with a shrug and laid it on the floor before the fire to dry. "Sometimes, I prefer to make a dramatic entrance. It adds a little spice to an encounter, yes? And I must say that witnessing that delightful display of physical luminescence made the danger so worthwhile." Zevran allowed his eyes to rove over Fenris's still-illuminated markings appreciatively.

The warrior snorted and returned to his chair, drawing his power back into himself and allowing his tattoos' glow to fade. As he settled into an alert, straight-backed posture, he watched Zevran remove his pack and place it on the table. The assassin withdrew the customary bottle of wine along with a flat, rectangular package carefully wrapped in parchment and tied with red string. His hair had become mussed from Fenris's rough treatment, and he casually reached up and yanked out the leather band holding it back, freeing silky locks that reached to the bottom of his shoulder blades. Satisfied, he draped himself over another of the table's chairs and offered Fenris a crooked smile.

"I was disappointed with the sour weather this evening, but then I thought, what is a little rain compared to the satisfaction of good company? I sincerely apologize for startling you, however. Perhaps you will allow me to offer a simple gift as reparation?" Zevran wrapped slender fingers around the parcel and extended it to Fenris, who accepted it gingerly, as if it were a combustion bomb. "I promise it contains no poison, trap, or explosive," said Zevran, with one eyebrow lifted in amusement.

Fenris turned the package over, curiously examining it before untying the string and setting it aside on the table. The parchment crinkled as he unwrapped it to reveal a solid, dark brown tablet with indentations that separated it into small squares. The bar was smooth and when Fenris lifted it to his nose, it had a faint, sugary smell. He glanced at Zevran with a furrowed brow.

"Mi amigo, have you never tasted the heaven that is chocolate?" Zevran eyes widened with astonishment.

"I have… heard of it, but slaves are not allowed to partake of exotic delicacies." Fenris gazed down at the bar of chocolate with new interest, unconsciously running the tip of his tongue across his lips. Zevran felt a certain pride in his restraint; he very much wished to kiss those moist lips.

"Please, allow me." Zevran reached over and took the bar, breaking off one of the squares and handing it back to Fenris. The warrior raised it to his mouth and carefully bit off a tiny chunk, swallowing it immediately.

"No, no, my friend." Zevran shook his head in exasperation. "Chocolate is like sex: it is sensual, it is divine. It is meant to be savored, not chewed like meat." He broke off another square and placed it directly on his tongue. Pressing his lips together, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the chocolate slowly dissolve while relishing the sweetness. When he reopened his eyes, he saw Fenris copying his move, placing the square delicately in his mouth.

"Mmmm." Fenris's voice rumbled deeply with satisfaction as he allowed the taste of chocolate to tantalize his taste buds. "It is good. I can see now why the magisters enjoyed it so much."

Zevran snapped the bar in half and handed one piece to Fenris. "It is made in Antiva and Rivain, where trees grow fruit that contain cocoa seeds. These seeds are ground into a powder, which forms the base from which chocolate is made. Outside of these two countries, chocolate is more difficult to find and fetches a high price in the marketplace." He smiled and took a sip of wine. "Some say that chocolate is an aphrodisiac."

Fenris raised his eyebrows. "Indeed? Is this why you have brought it here? Are you attempting to seduce me, assassin?" He kept his tone carefully neutral, exhibiting neither encouragement nor rejection.

Zevran placed his wine slowly back on the table. His gaze never wavered from Fenris as he spoke. "And if I were? Would you be offended?"

"No." Fenris's response actually surprised him, and he placed another piece of chocolate in his mouth to cover his reaction. After a moment, he continued. "I would be… perplexed."

"And why is that, my friend?"

"Is it not true that you carry a certain reputation? It is said that you are a master of seduction and that you often bed your marks. You are a notorious flirt, and your bed is never cold. At least, these are the words I hear."

"So you have been asking about me?" Zevran's smile widened before twisting into a wry smirk. "Well, I will not deny who I am or how I was trained to perform. An assassin learns to use whatever assets he has, and humans have always desired elves, have they not? If I should happen to discover pleasure in my assignments or on my travels, why should I not take advantage? The life of a Crow is difficult and dangerous; you find happiness when you can." Zevran stared down into his bottle of wine, idly twirling it in his hand.

"You are no longer a Crow."

"Sì, you are correct. As an assassin grows older, he finds that his bed is cold, even when there is another body to warm it, and his pleasure becomes a hollow thing with little meaning." Zevran raised his head to gaze into the fire. "An assassin is always alone, but he could wish that it were not so. There comes a time when a person wishes for more than a fleeting connection and single night beneath scented sheets."

Fenris gulped a large swallow of wine to drown the echo of longing that struggled to meet Zevran's words. Was it possible that he understood Zevran in a fashion that was deeper than words?

"But you asked if the chocolate was meant as a tool of seduction. I assure you that it was not intended as anything more than a gift. After all, you have been most tolerant of my presence these past three nights." Zevran leaned forward. "You have some chocolate on your mouth. May I?"

He reached out and ran his thumb gently against a dark smudge at the corner of Fenris's lips. The warrior's eyes closed briefly at the familiar touch but he did not pull away. Zevran smiled and placed his thumb into his mouth, licking sensuously at the smeared chocolate and purposefully ignoring the piercing gaze from Fenris. He heard the grating sound of metal on wood, however, as Fenris convulsively dug into the table with his steel-tipped fingers. Brasca, but I want this man… to see what is inside the fortress he has built around himself. But now is not yet the time.

With a reluctant sigh, Zevran stood and replaced his backpack against his side. "I must go now, mi amigo. I took a contract before coming to the Free Marches, and now I must go and complete it while the Crows scurry amongst themselves to find a new assassin to hunt me down." A feral grin flitted across his face, and Fenris could almost feel sorry for any Crow that tried to pursue Zevran. Almost.

"You are leaving Kirkwall?"

"Sì." Zevran rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "But I think perhaps I shall return soon. Kirkwall has proven most interesting, and I would very much like to know it better. Will you mind if I drop by again, my ferocious, glowing elf?"

"No." Fenris stood and looked as if he would say more, his hands twitching restlessly, and that in itself, Zevran had learned, was its own language when Fenris found it difficult to speak. He remained by the table, however, staring at the floor with a frown, eyes hidden beneath the shaggy locks of silver hair. Zevran felt a twinge of disappointment but donned his cloak and headed for the window.

"Until next time then. Take care, my friend." He only got as far as placing his hands on the window sill before strong hands grabbed him from behind and flung him against the wall between the window and the fireplace. Heat pressed against his flattened body as Fenris pinned him to the wall with hands outstretched, and Zevran could feel the other elf's heart beating rapidly. Fenris rested his forehead against Zevran's for several tense moments, just breathing, struggling for control over something he couldn't quite understand. Sensing his turmoil, Zevran raised his chin and parted his lips slightly, neither pushing the encounter nor retreating. Simply waiting.

Control snapped and even with the close contact, Fenris seemed to surge forward, lips melding with Zevran's, tongue sliding within wet heat. Zevran released a soft moan of pleasure and reached up to clench Fenris's hair within his fist, lightly scraping the warrior's scalp as he pulled Fenris even closer. Growling in response, Fenris tightened his grip on Zevran's wrists and deepened the kiss, hips instinctively thrusting forward. Zevran arched against him, reveling in the contact and marveling that Fenris, a self-proclaimed novice, could elicit this much desire with a mere kiss. He has done this before… before the tattoos perhaps?

Fenris clearly thought the same, for when he finally broke away, confusion clouded his desire-glazed eyes. Zevran stroked the back of his neck in a light caress, conveying reassurance and attempting to soothe the other elf. They remained like this for a few seconds before Fenris finally stepped back with obvious reluctance.

"I..." Overwhelmed, Fenris fell silent, but the furrowed brow spoke volumes. Zevran wisely pressed no further, choosing instead to end the moment with a light touch on Fenris's cheek.

"I will return for you, caro. This, I promise." He pressed a chaste kiss to the curve of Fenris's jaw before sliding over the window sill and into the night, his cloak melting into the shadows.

Fenris stood at the window for a long time afterwards, just breathing in the fresh scent of rain. Even though he was protected from the downpour, he felt strangely cleansed and… alive. It wasn't until he laid down on his bed at last that he finally realized the source of the newfound lightness in his soul. Hope.

###

Kirkwall burned. Screams rent the air as civilians scurried like rats seeking shelter. No one paid any heed to the bloodstained elf with white markings as he sprinted through Hightown. War smothered the air like smoke, and the will to live far outweighed the niceties of etiquette at times like this.

Fenris had little time. The templars had allowed Hawke and her companions to leave the Gallows, shocked by the downfall of their Knight Commander. Cullen would undoubtedly rally them, however, and Hawke intended to flee quickly before retribution took its toll. They had all separated temporarily, each returning home to gather whatever they saw fit to pack. There was no telling if or when they would be able to return, and Isabela waited impatiently on her new ship for their arrival. Fenris needed to hurry.

He held little in the way of belongings, having never intended Kirkwall to become his permanent home. In fact, he could think of nothing he even wished to bring, save a few books and some extra clothes. There was a greater purpose to his returning; one last thing he needed to do before accompanying Hawke to whatever future awaited them in the mage rebellion.

It still astonished him that he had chosen to follow Hawke and Anders. He had long despised the mage cause, countering every point Anders brought forth in his long-winded speeches for mage rights. If it hadn't been for Hawke, he would have left, leaving Anders to his fate after the destruction of the Chantry. He owed Hawke, however, for his freedom and his revenge against Danarius, and above all else, Fenris knew where his allegiance lay.

He took the stairs two at a time, brushing impatiently at cobwebs for what he knew would be the last time. The tiny room that had served as both dining room and bedroom was cold and dark, the fireplace full of scattered ashes. His eyes searched the room frantically as he darted from corner to corner… where had he put it? Finally, in the far corner of the hearth's mantle, he saw it, the bright red color catching the corner of his eye.

Moments later, he left at last, a ragged backpack secured firmly beside his sheathed greatsword. Without a backward glance, he hurried down the steps, jumping neatly over the mushrooms in the foyer and closed the front door behind him with a soft click.

The house lay shrouded in silence, left to settle into neglect and desolation, a haven for rats and spiders and flourishing fungi. Upstairs in the abandoned bedroom, an empty Antivan wine bottle rested in its new spot on the mantle, a single red string tied neatly around its neck, a last gesture of defiant faith in a place that echoed of brooding bitterness.