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Sunlight filtered through the small opening of the curtains, warming Zevran’s face despite the neverending Ferelden chill in the air. The fireplace smoldered, having gone out in the middle of the night. Normally, Zevran would complain, but that was a bit hard when you had a living furnace nestled behind you, warming the entire bed. That and Zevran was completely unused to being in a bed of luxury, courtesy of good King Alistair.
The words were strange on his tongue having traveled and fought alongside the newly crowned king, not to mention how he had teased and prodded him all that time as well. He rolled over, ignoring the discontented grumble that his warden gave until Zevran settled again.
His warden. Alive and well. He chest constricted at the very thought, thankfully in a good way. When Mahariel had fallen after the Archdemon…
Zevran sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. It didn’t matter, now. Mahariel was alive, and he wasn’t going anywhere. Not for a little while at least. He knew eventually the woods would call Mahariel again. It was inevitable. After all, you could take the Dalish from the woods, but not the woods from the Dalish. That and Mahariel just hated all the people in Denerim. And Denerim in general. Absently he wondered how the warden would enjoy Antiva. As wild as Mahariel was, probably not by a long shot. He’d rather not risk it either, unsure if the Crows still had it out for them both.
Zevran’s thoughts were interrupted when Mahariel grumbled again, shifting so he could look up at the blonde. Tired forest eyes stared into whiskey depths, prying open Zevran’s soul and laying him bare. For a moment the Antivan wondered if he could stare into Mahariel’s eyes long enough to fall into the forests the Dalish loved so much. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. Not that Mahariel really ever did; the man was as mute as a summer breeze. Of course, Mahariel could speak. Everyone has heard his voice before, but everyone understood his silence just as well.
Perhaps that’s what had pulled Zevran in from the beginning. Forest eyes and silent words. Mahariel was no mage, but he was magical in his own rights, like evening sunlight filtering through the angry clouds of a blizzard. A bird to those lost at sea. A home untouched by the fires of war. An oasis in the desert.
Absently, Zevran traced the tattoos that framed his eyes. Vallaslin, Mahariel had called it. Blood writing. A coming of age ritual. He wondered if his warden would allow him to put his own ink writings into his flesh. Perhaps they could get matching ones. Maybe even be the ones to hold the needles as they marked themselves into each other’s flesh. He’d have to find out what the Dalish used to make their colored inks considering that Mahariel’s hadn’t even shown signs of fading over the years.
He hummed quietly as he brushed a hand through his warden’s hair, chuckling and twirling the longer strands that framed his face. Typically they were in braids, but Mahariel had recently washed his hair and hadn’t rebraided them. Perhaps he could convince the older to leave them down. Or maybe he could pilfer some ribbon or thread to braid into the strands. Maybe gold to match the earring Mahariel had worn since he’d accepted it. He hadn’t even known Mahariel had pierced ears when he had given it to him. Though knowing the man he likely asked Morrigan to pierce them. Maybe Wynne. Probably Wynne since she could heal him right after. That woman truly was a wonder.
Mahariel stirred again, this time without grumbling or groaning. Just a soft yawn and a huff, a sign that it was almost time to get out of bed as much as Zevran despised the idea. Well, technically he didn’t have to get out of bed at all if he didn’t want to. He wasn’t the one with royal responsibilities or heroic fame, but the bed would get cold and Zevran would grow bored without someone pretty to gaze at so he tended to get up anyhow.
He hissed as the chill breeze rushed into the once warm blankets, mock pouting until Mahariel leaned back to press their lips together, the tenderness a welcome contrast to his warden’s gruffness. There would be plenty more time to muse over his lover in time when Mahariel inevitably got irritated with the crowds and retreated to the quieter places with his crow.