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Zevran woke, long after the sun had risen. Sleeping in was not a luxury he could have afforded during the Blight, but now he intended to indulge himself whenever possible. He rolled over, and to his disappointment, found the other half of the bedroll empty. Sighing, he resigned himself to wearing clothes, in order to go out and search for Theron. He left his hair unbraided and trailing past his shoulders, but donned his usual uniform of assassin’s leathers. It was a force of habit, after all these years. It was good to stay ready, he always said. It meant you didn’t have to get ready.
To no one’s surprise, the other elf was by the archery range at the outskirts of the camp, clad in light Dalish armour with quiver of arrows on his back. Zevran grinned in appreciation at the studded leather skirt in particular, since it showed off his beloved’s beautiful, strong thighs. Several young Dalish children were dotted around the range, their faces bare of any vallaslin. Theron was coaching them, correcting their technique with a patient hand and kind encouragement.
As Zevran drew nearer, he heard a little girl chirp, “Can you show us, Warden-Commander?”, making the other children clamour for him to give them a demonstration. Theron relented, of course. They watched, eyes wide in awe, as he effortlessly nocked his arrows and hit the bulls-eye of each target, without any hesitation.
“Here!” one of the boys shouted, and tossed a piece of vellum up, high into the air. In the blink of an eye, an arrow had pinned it to the target behind, hanging from a tree.
Zevran clapped slowly. “Impressive,” he called, as he approached the Warden. “Be still, my beating-”
“Zevran Arainai, the next word out of your mouth had better be ‘heart’. There are younglings around,” the archer said sternly as he turned to look at his partner, and without taking his eyes off Zevran, fired his last arrow into the dead centre of the highest target.
The assassin laughed. “You know me all too well, my Warden.” He noticed that the other elf’s hair, usually pulled back in a long plait for practicality, was braided and pinned up in an elaborate rosette.
“Very pretty.” Zevran smiled, trailing his fingertips over it. “Almost as pretty as you, my dear.”
From behind them came a mix of of gagging and cooing. The Warden gestured to a little girl who barely came up to his waist. “Nyla did that for me.”
“Well done. You have made the Warden look even more beautiful.” Zevran flashed her his most charming smile. She blushed instantly, her little cheeks flushed pink.
“Younglings, this is my partner, Zevran,” said Theron to the children milling around him, who were openly gawking at the Antivan. “He fought at my side during the Fifth Blight.”
“Aneth ara!” they chorused. Some of them were holding child-sized practice bows, which Zevran privately thought was adorable.
“The children really wanted a lesson from me, apparently. The Keeper asked, and I could not say no to them.” The archer smiled, with great fondness in his expression.
“Well, if anyone’s going to give an archery masterclass, who better than the Commander of the Grey, hm?” Zevran smirked. “I could tell them about the time you plunged an arrow right into the eye of a genlock who had snuck up behind me during that skirmish outside Redcliffe.”
“Maybe something less gory, Zevran,” Theron said, his tone a little pointed.
The rogue pouted. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“So what do you do?” piped up one of the boys, curious.
“Me? I -” Zevran started, and did not miss the warning look his partner shot him. “I am… very good with knives,” he recovered, smoothly.
“Prove it, then,” an older girl with flaming red hair said, her manner haughty, arms crossed over her chest. The rest of them nodded eagerly.
“Do it!” Theron’s new personal hairstylist chimed in, and soon all the children were chanting, “Do it, do it, do it-”
Zevran looked to the Warden, unable to restrain his smugness. “I am wanted by popular demand, it seems.”
Theron waved a careless hand at him to continue, and the children cheered. As requested, he withdrew one of his daggers, fingers light around its handle. With a full-spin throw, it whirled through the air and hit the bullseye, landing right next to the Warden’s arrow. The group of youngsters oohed and aahed. He pulled out another, and this time, held it by its blade. The dagger struck the bullseye of another target, this time splitting the arrow in half with practised accuracy. More amazed applause, from his little audience.
“It’s all in the wrist action,” Zevran called, and then with a low purr only the Warden could hear, added, “as it is with so many other things.”
“Behave yourself, Zevran,” Theron warned.
Zevran shot the Warden his cockiest smile, and went back to his impromptu demonstration. The next two daggers he used to show off a little more. Standing before two targets, he flung both knives at once, curving the throws so that each hit the target on the opposite side. The children were cheering now, and even Theron looked amused.
“That’s incredible!” cried Nyla, her eyes the size of dinner plates.
“That?” Zevran scoffed. “Pfft. That is child’s play. Does anyone have an extra sheet of vellum?” The tallest boy rushed forward with one, flinging it high up. In the blink of an eye, the dagger had streaked through the air, piercing it to the target hanging from the tree.
The children were hollering in triumph now, and Zevran took a bow. “I’ll be here all week,” he told them, grinning from ear to pointed ear. “Now, does anyone want to stand over there with an apple in their mouth?”
“Absolutely not,” the Warden insisted, with a dark look on his painted face.
“I want to learn to do that!” a little girl with pigtails declared.
“I don’t see why you couldn’t. I was not much older than you when I first started to learn the art of knife-throwing,” Zevran replied, shrugging, as he yanked out his daggers from the targets.
A boy with a gap tooth gasped. “I bet Master Ilen could make us some throwing knives!”
“Oh dear,” Theron said, as they rushed past him toward the craftsman’s aravel, chattering with glee. “What have you done, Zevran?”
“Inspired the next generation of assassins?” Zevran answered with a little sheepish shrug, then pulled the last knife free of its wooden target. They watched the group of children bouncing around Master Ilen, unable to contain their enthusiasm, while he looked rather bemused.
“I must say, my sweet, you are very good with the children.” The corners of Zevran’s lips quirked up as he wrapped his arms around his beloved’s waist. “They seem to adore you.”
“I think they probably love Elgara more,” Theron said with a chuckle. The children had fallen in love with his mabari hound the second he had brought him into camp, and were usually fawning over him at any given hour of the day. “Why, are you thinking of having some?” was the Warden’s cheeky response, sliding his arms around the other elf’s neck.
“No, but I thought we could have great fun tonight trying to create one anyway,” the Antivan murmured into his lover’s ear with a wicked smile. He leaned in to press kisses to Theron’s neck, who giggled as he accepted them.
“First of all, eugh,” came a young girl’s disdainful voice, and they pulled apart, startled. The girl with red hair stood there, with her hands on her hips. “Second of all, Master Ilen wants to talk to you.”
“Oh,” said Theron, and Zevran smirked at how breathy he sounded. “I’ll speak at him at once. Thank you, Amara.”
“We might be in trouble,” sniggered Zevran, as they walked hand in hand toward the weaponsmith, who was at his workstation, where his apprentices learned wood-shaping from him.
“There you are.” Master Ilen’s brows were furrowed. “Why do the younglings suddenly all want daggers?”
“Is that something children do not naturally want?” Zevran questioned. “I know I did.”
“The Keeper asked me to give them an archery lesson, but they were also interested in other types of target practice,” Theron explained, hastily.
“Ah, of course.” Master Ilen nodded with a chuckle. “You were always gifted by Andruil, da’len. Truly, ever since you were old enough to stand and hold a bow, I knew you would be one of the greatest archers our clan has ever produced.”
“You flatter me, Master Ilen.” Theron was in danger of the blush taking over his cheeks. “I took your bow with me when I left, do you remember? It brought me great comfort during my travels, to have something of the clan with me.”
“I do, yes.” Master Ilen laid a hand on his shoulder. “I had the Keeper bless it before your leaving. I am glad to see it has brought you safely back to us, da’len.” The old man bestowed a kindly smile upon the Warden, and then his tone was a little more business-like when he spoke next. “Now, if the younglings want knives for target practice, I could have the apprentices craft some balanced blades from wood. It would be a good exercise for them, as they have not appeared to have mastered the finer techniques of wood-shaping required for more complex projects!” An apprentice nearby paused to scowl at his master, before he continued sanding a crude slab of wood.
“Just don’t tell hahren Paivel it was our idea,” Theron muttered, and then the two of them excused themselves. “Maybe you should instruct the younglings properly, before they end up hurting each other.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Zevran said, with more than a hint of mischief in his expression. “But only if you let me do my tricks blindfolded.”
The Warden laughed as they strolled back to their aravel, pausing beside the halla pen. The assassin could not help but notice the peaceful smile on his beloved’s face, as the archer gazed at the majestic creatures ambling around their pasture. They had not seen halla since their encounter with the Dalish clan in the Brecilian forest. Theron had missed his people so, back then.
“Does it feel good to be home?” Zevran asked softly, tucking an unbraided lock of hair behind the archer’s ear.
“To be with my clan is a balm for the soul,” the Dalish elf replied, a wistfulness in his eyes. “But I had built homes elsewhere, too. During the Blight, our little camp was home for a time. Vigil’s Keep too, it will be my home soon.” Theron looked up, meeting his lover’s golden gaze. “Most of all, in you, ma vhenan. You feel like home to me.”
And Zevran could not help but lean over and kiss his beloved, for he agreed wholeheartedly. He too, had not been one to settle in a place for too long - an occupational hazard, when one was an assassin. Never had he felt a sense of belonging, until he had joined the Warden’s little ragtag crew. And never had he wanted to belong to another more, than the man who stood beside him.
Zevran slipped his tongue between Theron’s lips, licking into his mouth, as the other elf cupped his face with one hand. When they pulled apart at last, both of them were breathless.
“Shall we retire to our aravel?” Zevran suggested, with a sly smile. “Your sweet thighs, in that little leather skirt, they beckon to me…”
“My thighs are doing no such thing,” Theron insisted, but took the assassin’s outstretched hand, and followed him anyway.