snarkysedai

The others could not believe that she welcomed the assassin into the group. Esha simply could not get them to understand.

She had tried, of course. These shemlen (and whatever the Qunari was; there was no Dalish term for them, that she knew of) mocked the Creators, ignored her beliefs and expected her to conform to theirs. Their beliefs, their Maker and his Andraste, those were civilized beliefs, and her Creators had no place there. She had tried to tell them about Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, the Trickster.

Alistair barely understood a word she was saying. She patiently sat him down and explained that the clan could not afford to offend Fen’Harel, but neither could they fully accept him. He must always sit on the edge, looking out. You could not offend Fen’Harel. Alistair, puzzled, told her that Fen’Harel was not real, and she huffed at him and told him he knew nothing.

Leliana listened with rapt attention, and compared it to stories. Esha was firm: Fen’Harel was Fen’Harel, and not a story like the ones Leliana shared around the fire at night, or told them as they were walking along the roads during the day. You could not afford to offend Fen’Harel.

Sten called her a fool, and refused to discuss the issue further.

Morrigan had listened, grave, and explained to Esha that letting the gods of the elves into the camp could be dangerous. Gods had power, real power, and Morrigan did not argue on whether Fen’Harel was a story, or a myth. She nodded and accepted and did not belittle her, but she, too, did not understand.

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When Esha came of age to get the vallaslin, she almost elected to keep her face bare. Fen’Harel did not have vallaslin; to be dedicated to him was the height of foolishness and insanity. But the Keeper was aghast at the very idea of an adult Dalish with no vallaslin, and refused, and so she had chosen to honor Dirthamen, instead, who kept the secrets and the knowledge that in her heart, she was dedicated to Fen’Harel.

Esha had always been odd. She knew him as the Lord of Tricksters and the Betrayer, and while the others of her clan would use his name as a curse, she would think of him with glee. Esha had always been fond of jokes and pranks, but Fen’Harel was more dangerous than just a trickster. He was death, and deadly, and cunning beyond all measure, and he had tricked the other Creators, sealing them away from the People. When she voiced her admiration for his cunning, however, she would be shushed, at best, and punished at the worst, and so soon Esha learned to keep her admiration of Fen’Harel secret, giving the knowledge to Dirthamen to hold.

So when she crouched over the assassin at her feet, taking in his features, listening intently to his words, she knew that her prayers had been answered, and Fen’Harel had come to join her.

He did not call himself such, of course, and when he gave his name as “Zevran, Zev to my friends,” she called him that, instead. Who was she to offend Fen’Harel?

“Zevran, Zev to my friends,” she would say to him, “you must tell me a story, and I will tell you a story in payment.”

“No, Warden. ‘Zevran.’ Or ‘Zev.’” He would shake his head and tsk at her, and she would grin wolfishly.

“Tell me a story, Zevran, Zev to my friends,” she would press again, and he would eventually relent and tell her stories about assignments he had gone on, people he had killed or made love to, and she would crouch beside him, head on her knees, eyes as wide as a da’len’s.

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She tried playing small tricks on him, but Fen’Harel was cunning and swift and caught her every time. When she was caught she would laugh, usually because he would laugh as well, and then he would tell her a joke, or try to trick her in turn.

He did not look like a wolf, Fen’Harel. He was more like a cat, a wild cat, lean and quick, and when he had his blades out he was like a whirlwind. He would practice for her and she would marvel at it. He offered to teach her how he fought, how he moved, but Esha asked him what the price was, first. You always had to ask Fen’Harel what the price was, or you would find yourself betrayed.

His first price was a kiss, which made her color from her scalp to her toes. But she paid the price, and he taught her how to wield daggers like he could, and how to fold the shadows around him, and move even more silently that she already knew how.

He asked questions about her, to the others, but they knew nothing about her, knew nothing about the Dalish.

Alistair told him that he seemed to be the only person in their group that she actually liked, which, when he told her, she objected to. She did not dislike the shemlen. But he was Fen’Harel.

Leliana told him that she fancied him, and when he told her that, she laughed and said of course she did; he was Fen’Harel.

Sten would not speak on the matter.

Falon ignored the question, for what could the mabari tell him other than that Esha was his sun and moon and stars and everything?

Morrigan told him, finally, that Esha believed he was the Creator, the Dread Wolf, come to join their cause. If Leliana’s Maker could get involved, why would the Creators not?

“She thinks I am an elvhen god?” he asked, amused. “I suppose I am pretty enough to be a god, yes?” His laughter came easy, and he told her about that as well, and then reminded her that he had given her knowledge, but she had not paid the price.

“What price, Fen’Harel?” She tilted her head to the side, eyes steady on his face.

“You must call me ‘Zev,’” he said in return, and she sighed dramatically.

“But you are Fen’Harel.”

“Ah, but it wouldn’t be good to advertise my presence, yes?”

She could not argue with such logic.

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He spoke to her of his mother, who was Dalish, and she could only nod mutely as he told her. Fen’Harel would be nothing other than Dalish in his mortal form, of course. He spoke of the gloves his mother used to have, and she gave him a pair of hers.

“They are like your mother’s,” she told him, eyes shining with glee.

He arched a brow at her then. “And what of the price, my Warden?”

“But they are a gift, there is no price.”

“Everything has a price,” he said, and she bit her lip for a moment, deep in thought.

“A kiss,” she replied, at last.

“That’s hardly a price,” he laughed, and his eyes gleamed.

“It is my price,” she replied, shyly. And then he kissed her again, and she was not quite so red this time.

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It became a game, as the weeks went by. She would ask something of him, and he would give the price: a kiss. And he would ask questions of her: Dalish words, questions about the Grey Wardens, stories about her life, and she would give her price as a kiss, as well.

She had kissed Tamlen, but Tamlen’s kisses were not like Fen’Harel’s kisses, because Fen’Harel’s kisses tasted of death and danger. Tamlen’s kisses had been sweet and loving and she had enjoyed them, even though they left her wanting.

Fen’Harel had tattoos. They were not vallaslin, he insisted. They were tattoos. He had some on his face, and others on other parts of his body, although he only teased her with the sight of some of them.

One day, Esha asked him if she could see the others, and Fen’Harel grinned with delight and removed the plain shirt he was wearing. Her eyes traced over the markings, some of which she knew, some of which she didn’t. He had a crow, however, and when she saw such a thing she laughed in delight and pulled off her own shirt to show him the ravens she had on her chest: Fear and Deceit, mastered by Dirthamen.

“Esha! You must not take your shirt off in the middle of camp!” Leliana sounded scandalized, rushing to her side to cover Esha’s nudity. Esha slapped her hands away as Fen’Harel stood there, arms folded across his chest, lips pursed in appreciation.

“Leliana, it is just skin. And besides, Fen’Harel showed me his!”

“Oh yes, Leliana. Turnabout is fair play, is it not?” Fen’Harel had grinned and laughed as Leliana explained to Esha something about appropriate times to remove clothing; apparently, the middle of the camp as they were settling in, with enough daylight left for everyone to see, was not appropriate.

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They went to the underground tunnels of the durgen’len, to the Deep Roads where Alistair told her she was destined to die, if she survived this Blight. She tried to not let her fear show, but she could not hide it as she wished, and Fen’Harel saw into her heart, down in the Deep Roads, and he promised to keep her safe, to take her away from there. He promised that they would leave Orzammar soon. Esha hated Orzammar.

“What price, Fen’Harel?” She always said this to him, when making their bargains, even when she called him “Zev” at other times.

“Let me think on it,” he responded. She was shamed that he saw her fear, but he was Fen’Harel, and he could see the secret knowledge, too, and she wondered what price he would want from her.

A week gone from Orzammar, with their new durgen’len companion, and Fen’Harel came to her and asked his price.

“Come to my tent,” he told her, holding out his hand, and she felt a stab of ice in her stomach. She had done nothing like this before, not even with Tamlen, and perhaps Fen’Harel would eat her soul and keep her from stopping the Blight. But she lay with him anyway, to pay the price, and because she wanted to, risk be damned. It had been buried deep inside, this secret want, and she had hoped that Dirthamen would not bring it into her heart again, but Fen’Harel could trick the other Creators, and he could find out.

“That was no fair price paid,” she objected, after. “How can it be a price paid when you want to pay it, Fen’Harel?”

“Then I would say we both got a bargain, my Warden.” And after, he shared her tent nightly.

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When the Crows came for him, in the capital city, she felt the stab of fear again. She knew Fen’Harel would betray her, one day, because that was his nature.

“Of course, I would have to be dead first,” she said to the Crow, Fen’Harel’s Brother, and Fen’Harel had looked at her with pain open on his face.

“And I am not about to let that happen,” he said, his voice full of certainty and something that Esha had no words for, not when it came from Fen’Harel.

And then the Crows were dead, and they stood over the one who had been his Brother and lover. She put her hand on his shoulder, offering support, and he put his hand over hers.

“What price, Esha?”

Her brows drew down in confusion. “But there was no bargain,” she tried to tell him, for there had been none made, no terms laid out.

“Has there not been one since the beginning?”

“The price was paid long ago,” she said, dismissively, “if indeed there was one.”

He took her hand and pressed something into it: an earring, gold, with a green jewel. “Here is my payment,” he said, and she shook her head. This was no new bargain, and she was not going to take the gift of Fen’Harel the first time. She knew the stories.

He raged at her then, insisting that she accept the price, but she set her jaw and refused. She would not bargain when she did not know the terms, she told him.

“You are a very frustrating woman,” he said. “We pick up every bit of trash and trinket we come across, but you will not accept this? Fine. You don’t want the earring; you don’t get the earring.” He was quiet for a long moment, anger on his face. Then he spoke again, quietly. "Do you wish me to leave, Esha? Do you want me to go?"

"I... You are Fen'Harel. You must do what is best for you. Who am I to keep you where you do not wish to stay?"

He avoided her the rest of that day, where before he was rarely away from her. That evening, in the big, stone house of the human lord, she found him and approached him warily.

“Come to bed, Zev,” she said, holding out her hand to him.

“No,” he told her. “You have other things to do than focus on me, surely. Go do those things.” He waved a hand at her, dismissively, and Esha felt her heart drop into her stomach.

She knew she should not feel hurt; he was Fen’Harel, no matter the name he insisted on, and she could not make demands of his time. The hurt did not disappear, however; it grew.

She spoke with Alistair, who said he knew nothing of things such as love and romance and relationships, and even less about the Creators, or Fen’Harel. Alistair still insisted Fen’Harel would kill them, even though he had been there when they had killed Fen’Harel’s Crow brother and he had made the choice to stay with Esha despite being angered.

She spoke with Leliana, who professed confusion while holding wisdom in her eyes. Leliana said it was sweet, and when Esha asked what she meant, Leliana had simply giggled.

She spoke with Sten, who ignored her, as usual.

She spoke with Wynne, the elder mage from the Circle Tower, who clucked her tongue in an “I told you so,” manner. Wynne had disapproved of how she acted towards Fen’Harel from the day she joined them against the Blight. Fen’Harel had told her to ignore Wynne, but the open disapproval irritated. He was Fen’Harel and Esha was an adult, with the vallaslin, and Wynne had no right to dictate what she did.

She spoke with the durgen’len, Oghren, who said she was ugly, and why would anyone want to rut with her, anyway? Esha took no offense; she would have been concerned if he had spoken otherwise.

She spoke with Shale, who professed disdain for all things squishy, especially the painted elf.

She spoke with Morrigan, who said that Fen’Harel was a fool sometimes, as all men were. “But he is Fen’Harel,” Esha argued, and Morrigan said there was no difference.

She spoke with Falon, her truest friend, but he gave no counsel other than the warm comfort of a dog’s love.

She sat on the floor of the big room in the human lord’s stone house, looking into the fire that was lit there, seeking answers.

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Fen’Harel spoke with her kindly the next day, no different than usual, and she wondered if he had been upset over the death of his Brother the day before. Deciding that this was the cause of his discomfort, she sought him out again that evening, asking him to come to her room to speak, and he agreed.

He spoke with her, about his Crow training, about the life he led as a mortal, and feelings and emotions. She watched his eyes, the color of amber, so earnest on her face, pleading with her to understand him.

“Are you saying that you’re in love with me?” It was impossible; Fen’Harel did not love mortals, not even Dalish ones.

“I don’t know. How does one know such a thing?”

“I am no wiser in that than you,” she said, but it was a lie; he was Fen’Harel and far wiser than she in all things.

“I still have the earring. I would like to give it to you, if you would take it.”

“What price, Fen’Harel?” She rested easily on her heels, elbows on her knees, chin resting on her hands.

“It would be a proposal, if you wish it,” he told her, and at her puzzled look, he said, “a promise for Bonding.”

“That is no price, Zev.”

“Oh. You do not wish it?” He did not hide the hurt in his voice.

“It is no price because it is one I would gladly pay,” she said, holding her hand out to him, and he put the earring in her palm and curled her fingers around it, eyes suddenly hungry.

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She left the room, left her Brother, Riordan behind, pain in her heart. She did not want to die, few people wanted to die, but most of all, she did not want to cause Fen’Harel the pain she knew her death would bring. Only a Grey Warden could slay the archdemon; she would have to die, or Alistair would have to die, or Riordan would have to die, and she had had a stomachfull of death and loss.

Morrigan was waiting for her, in the room that she was sharing with Fen’Harel at the human lord’s other stone house, in Redcliffe. Imagine: two stone houses! Creators, but shemlen were odd, and wasteful to boot. She spoke of promises, Morrigan did, of the promise of living, of saving the lives of all the Grey Wardens.

“What price, Morrigan?” For everything had a price.

“A child, with the soul of an old god.”

She crouched there on the floor, looking at Morrigan, sitting across from her.

“Think of the pain that your death will bring to Fen’Harel,” Morrigan said, and if she had called him “the assassin,” or if she had called him “Zevran,” or any other number of names and insults she had created for him, Esha would have dismissed her outright. But Fen’Harel would care, and would feel hurt at her death, great hurt, that she could prevent with a simple bargain.

“I accept your bargain,” she said, as solemnly as she was able. For was Fen’Harel not a trickster? Could he not trick even Falon’Din himself? Who was she to say that Fen’Harel had not arranged such a matter to begin with? He was Fen’Harel, and he could make bargains she knew not of.

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“What price, to go with you, Esha?” Fen’Harel said, at the gates of Denerim. They were surrounded by the dead: darkspawn, humans, elves, durgen’len.

“I would not risk you, Zev,” she said. “It will be too dangerous.” Fires crackled around them, casting shadows in the night.

“But Falon’Din will take you if I am not there,” he warned. “I can keep you safe. This is my price, Esha: you take me with you. I refuse to leave your side in this.”

“This is no bargain,” she argued, but he put a finger over her lips.

“It was always a bargain, Esha, my Grey Warden, and this is the price I am demanding.” The fire caught his eyes and she thrilled at the look there; this was Fen’Harel, how could she defy him?