WHAT WAS SAID

Authors notes: EEE! It's been a long time! Sorry—lots of things to do; uni, certificates, travelling. Busy, busy, busy! But, D is back for some more writing! I hope you enjoy this chapter—more angst and another look at what the past was all about. Zevran/Cousland's relationship was the main focus here.

-Dagny.

Warnings: Language.

It was a selfish notion, but one that played in her mind as Alistair lectured: the first miscarriage had been more tolerable. Wynne pulled the covers over her stomach, tucked a hair behind her ear and smiled. She knew Dorcas wasn't listening and her wizened face was alight with the comforting stare she sought—needed.

'Plenty of water,' the mage reminded her, 'and rest—rest is the best remedy for you now.'

With a warm squeeze of her hand (lingering, sounds like leather as it pulls away from hers) Wynne excused herself from their quarters. Alistair barely breathed a word of thanks before continuing:

'Umm, yes—as I was saying, this is no reason to be put off! It could have been from anything; riding, walking, drinking (because of that damned Oghren's special brew; honestly how you don't die-) so we have to be especially careful.' She was staring hard at the wall when he took her shoulder and pressed a kiss dutifully to her cheek. His eyes were tender—as they always were—yet there was something hard and vivid in his gaze; like a metal shard propelled upon the gentle waves of an ocean. It was cold, like a sword.

'The important thing is that you're healthy,' he explained his expression once so sincere with expectation and promise that she hardly recognised the man before her, hell-bent and determined without regard for what they had recently just lost. She feigned a smile, yet his disregard felt like a stone wedged in the pit of her gut. He didn't seem to notice.

'It'll take more than this to keep you down, won't it, love?' Alistair topped up her goblet of water and left for his chambers—whispered how good it will be when she's strong enough to try again with a squeeze of her thigh beneath the covers.

She'd been staring pointedly at the wall for what felt like hours. She knew better. Tightening the muscles in her leg, the bridges of Alistair's fingers lingered in this wretched heat under the hem of her gown. Dorcas managed to steal only a few minutes of solitude. In the draught of an open door, the fire flicked.

'He is a lot more confident than when we first met, yes? Less of an oaf—or more: I'm not quite sure yet.'

'Zevran,' she said, her eyes still closed though her brows curled up into her hairline as she traced the syllables of his name on her tongue. 'Alistair is posting you outside my door? Very strange—I didn't think a miscarriage called for an assassin's talents.'

There was bitterness there; etched, laced, enlivened in her slow drawl. Zevran winced. He tried to wheedle through the barrier. The leather flaps of his boots ('it's a gift,' she tells him, 'Antivan, like you wanted.') murmured in a dark susurrus along the uneven panels of the floor. He approached her bed with caution—with respect; cobalt eyes calm behind the skin of his lids. He rationed that she's, unpredictable—if only in his mind to maintain a semblance of respect and composure. He stood in front of her. Almost too close. Intimidating; a lean figure over what was no more than a woman—a playing thing. At the foot of the bed, he traced the folds of her covers, the junction where the silks tail into warmer cloths along the rise of her stomach. Her hands were manoeuvred over (where he knows) the small hole of her bellybutton hides. She noticed him staring. Zevran inhaled sharply through his pursed lips. He raised his eyes.

'It is company; you'll come to find you're in need of, my lady. Not protection.'

She snorted, eyes fluttering open. In the light, they shined amber. Zevran had always thought them the colour of fine ale.

'You are right.'

Bemused, he cocked a brow.

'Regarding?'

'Alistair—he's more of an oaf.'

'Ah—'

'If such a thing is possible; but, might I enquire as to what has made her ladyship draw such a conclusion?'

A click echoed through the humid quarter. Head turned, mouth open, her lips moved seamlessly, soundlessly. For a moment—that fluttering instance between realisation and willpower—there was an answer to his question. It died with the breathless sigh that left her; the hands that self-consciously stroked at a non-existent bump.

'I'm being selfish,' she warned; a tight voice that was chocked by the implications. With a deigning turn of her head, she watched the fire, gathered her thoughts. Her hostility forked into the recesses of her control once more. It left her tired—unguarded. Zevran licked his lips; his mind dark with hubris (spite, want, lust, anger, betrayal.) Her voice fractured his thoughts. He straightened along his spine.

'I just think that I've changed him—what I said making him less of the man—" Dorcas didn't finish. Biting into her lower lip, the elf watched the swell of blood beading underneath the tips of her teeth. 'Perhaps I shouldn't have lectured him—told him we're all out to help ourselves.'

Their gazes found each other when she looked, (naively, he considered) to him. The mask of integrity was gone—her eyes, large, circular portals into the mindset of not a queen; but a woman—a most foul and treacherous creature. Her lips (her sweet little mouth; hot, wet—) parted in a beseeching 'o'. He did nothing but stare; a harsh, cold glance which catalyzed the reformation of her facade—returning her to the Queen that abandoned him.

'As I said,' she muttered, flatly, 'I am being foolish—selfish.'

'A very feminine trait, your majesty.' The quip was quick, sly—too fast to be dwelt on. It earned him a short glower though she pressed on.

'Yes, well—Alistair has always been the one I wanted,' (Zevran's nostrils fluttered with disdain but she continued like a scorned child,) 'So obviously the medicine—the magic has gotten to my head.' Pausing, she raised her gaze (and yet, he felt as if she were looking down at him, snubbing him.) 'So if you're not here for my protection and I don't (breathe) care (want, desire, sounded truer to her tone) for your company, what would you do?'

'Something useful, perhaps,' he said through gritted teeth. His hold on his temper was slipping. Still, she persisted.

'Oh, and what would a retired assassin consider a useful gesture at court when the city is at peace?' He despised her tone. He closed his eyes. Clenched his fists. He was infuriated by the italics of her words. The audacity—how dare she...

('I hate you, madam.')

'Bedding a few lonely wives maybe? You're not the only one who isn't being satisfied by their partner.'

There. It was said, told, pronounced, articulated—and it lay in violent red streaks like darkspawn blood on the white of their shields. Blinding—painstakingly there. The silence carved his words into memory. He lifted a hand, motioning to apologize. The words never came.

'Do it,' she whispered.

'Dorcas—I—'

'Do it, then,' she echoed, cooler this time, with venom that leached the very warmth from his blood. This, was no longer a mere woman. 'Go on—go; find a little whore to play with.'

'Dorcas.' Trying to stimulate rationale through cohesion, he bowed his head, showed his submission despite the grin that tugged on his lips—the aha! of his verbal triumph.

She stormed ahead of him with the same, icy scripture.

'What's stopping you, Zevran? Why waste time when you could be out searching for another Rinna to sentence to death.'

A white hand darted to her mouth—Dorcas felt her lips with her fingers and wondered if these words truly came from her. Zevran was motionless. Droplets of perspiration dotted his upper lip. His face was in a scowl. There were the beginnings of an apology, but Zevran was already skulking towards the door. In the end, Dorcas was too proud to say it anyway—say, 'I'm sorry.'

Zevran left court for a year.

Without his company, the seeds of despair festered in her barren womb.