Zevran vs. The Inquisition

Chapter Three

"Mmm, that does take me back." Stretching, Zevran rubbed at his wrists. "There's nothing like a good racking to clear one's head."

The Iron Bull gave a rumbling chuckle, moving to the end of the bed to untie the elf's ankles. They might have lacked the proper instruments, but a bit of rope and a little imagination had gone a long way. "Clear your head. Right."

"Among other things." Zevran pushed up onto his elbows, watching as the Qunari's thick fingers made short work of the knots. "You have quite the deft hand, my friend."

"Ben-Hassrath, remember? We want you to talk, you talk." His brows drew low, his lips twisting into a smirk. "We want you to scream, you scream."

"So it would seem. But the Crows are trained to resist all manner of devilish torments."

"Uh huh. Personally, I thought you'd hold out longer."

Zevran laughed. "Then what would be the point?"

The Bull laughed with him, coming to sit beside him on the bed. "So how are you feeling?"

"You wish me to describe it? Were only I a poet, perhaps I could find sufficient words."

"You know what I mean. That merc nearly buried an axe in your back yesterday."

"How fortunate that you were there to relieve him of it. And his arm." The Iron Bull was just as amiable as he remembered, and still an impressive specimen of Qunarihood. Certainly a welcome distraction, but Zevran knew that look. The man traded in secrets, after all. He forced a smile. "Such things are simply a professional hazard. Surely you know this."

"Yeah, and I know my men. I know what happens when they're distracted. It doesn't always work out." He inclined his head, his expression turning mischievous. "So, the Inquisitor... he's your kid, huh?"

Braska. Zevran didn't need to feign surprise. "Why would you say such a thing?"

"Oh, come on. You spent half the job questioning my crew about him. I thought a Crow would be more subtle." He smirked. "Sorry, former Crow."

"Should I not be curious about my new employer?"

"Sure. But this is personal. You wouldn't be the first admirer to throw yourself at his feet. Though, if that was it you wouldn't be here with me." The Bull shook his head. "Age is tricky with you elves, but with enough practice you get used to it. I'm guessing you had a run-in with the Dalish about twenty years ago?"

"Twenty-two." Zevran sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. "I am truly beginning to hate the Ben-Hassrath. No offense."

He was surprised to feel a sudden weight on his shoulder. The Qunari had slung an arm around him. "Didn't hear you complaining before."

Zevran smirked up at him. "Perhaps you should remind me of their virtues." He walked his fingers up the Bull's chest, tracing the bold lines of his tattoos.

But the Bull caught his wrist. "Later, sure. But don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Nowhere that comes to mind."

He shook his head. "Qunari are raised by the Tamassran. They train us, choose our mates, tell us who we're supposed to be. It's simpler that way, eliminates... problems."

Zevran pursed his lips. "Is this meant to convert me?"

"Your kind don't get that. You have to figure it out for yourselves. And the first place most people look is their parents. Everyone wants to know where they belong."