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They were in the Dalish elf’s tent, the first time Zevran had seen it in the few weeks he’d been travelling with the ragtag group. It was fairly organised, and smelt like the forest after rain - wet earth and a tinge of wildness, sharpness and warmth. Like Theron himself.
There had been no breathless, foolish declarations of love or anything else as they lay tangled together in the darkness of his tent, and Zevran was not too surprised. Theron was a reserved man, neither vocal during their travels or in the tent. He had been Theron’s first, a fact which had often brought him pride in the past with other people. Tonight had not been different. Just another conquest, another mark with their guard coaxed down enough to not push him out into the cold night air once the play had ended.
Zevran lay patiently with his bare chest against Theron’s back, a few stray black braids tickling and scratching his chin, as if they were merely spooning and sleeping. Well, Theron was. The Antivan hadn’t expected his offer of a massage to be accepted, but they had spent a large portion of the day fighting their way down the road, darkspawn horde after bandit gang. Wipe blood off their hands and faces and repeat, trudging onwards until the sun began to set and Theron called the group to a halt. The archer’s shoulders were so tense, tenser than his bow, that the offer had in fact been genuine. Naturally, things had progressed from there, and now Zevran was once again lying in bed with his mark. Waiting.
He had failed to kill the Grey Warden the first time, and knew if he returned there was a very good chance that the Crows would kill him as an example to the others. But, there could be no harm in trying again when they were alone. At least if he was punished for his initial failure he could die knowing he had attempted to rectify it.
He had sworn an oath of loyalty to the group. He had not meant a word of it, but knew it would allow them to accept his presence a little easier, or at least not outright kill him if he breathed wrong. Zevran figured that if he killed their leader, they would probably not let him live if he did not vanish into the night immediately after. Waiting for morning would be foolish. Kill, and then leave, hope he could put enough distance between himself and the group before the morning came. A running head start. A thousand Crow agents would be preferable to the wrath of the last surviving Grey Warden and his followers.
The Antivan shifted where he lay slightly, moving the arm that had been draped lazily over Theron’s side and reaching back, out of the bedroll, to the haphazard pile of his armour he’d ensured remained within arm’s reach of the bed. He felt a curved hilt at his fingertips, and then slowly pulled the dagger free of it’s sheath, into the warm furs. He felt the cold metal against the outside of his thigh, the sharp edge familiar. He’d done this so many times before. He was repeating the same motions again and again.
He lay there silently, listening to the sound of Theron’s deep breathing as he slept, able to feel the rise and fall of his chest and shoulders. As he saw it, he had two - or, technically, three options for the Dalish elf lying there.
One, he could simply put the dagger back, not kill him. Go about his day as normal tomorrow, and either try again some other time, or perhaps even see if he could take his oath seriously for once - but that was unlikely. He could play the reformed killer, earn the rest of the group’s trust and see if they would let their guard down enough to at least stop casting him those suspicious looks. Morrigan was wisely refusing to be won over. Perhaps he could even offer himself to Theron again (and again, and again. As long as it took. He was nothing if not patient. He’d fuck and be fucked.)
Two, he could be abrupt, like a snake. Stick the knife between or just below Theron’s ribs and twist the blade. Puncture his lung or kidney, sever arteries. Warm metal would grate against bone. The Dalish elf would bleed everywhere, of course. The blood would never come out of the furs. They would probably both end up dead, if Theron was alert enough to cry for help. That dog of his was asleep outside. Zevran wondered what it would feel like to have a mabari pin him down with all it’s weight and tear his throat out.
Three, he could be as gentle a killer as he had been a lover. All he would have to do was put his hand over Theron’s mouth, and slit his throat like they’d done earlier with the rabbits the Dalish elf had snared for dinner. It would probably just as messy. He would see the light leave Theron’s eyes, the expression on his face in the very faint light that humans couldn’t see in. Would he look hurt, afraid, upset? Angry that Zevran had gone back on his word so easily and predictably? Angry at himself for thinking he could have changed the former assassin so quickly? But Theron was so trusting, when he had no right to be. He was foolish for trusting the Antivan to this extent, for not kicking him out now the act was over. For sleeping with his back to an assassin. Did he want to die? It sparked an ember of anger in the blond, which built to a low fire in an instant. Theron was too trusting. How dare he be this at ease around the man who tried to kill him not a month ago? Perhaps this would be a grim reminder of how wrong misplaced trust could turn.
The blade was warm against his bare skin, silently urging him on. Zevran took a breath in as he gripped the hilt properly, moving his hand. Yes, he would be quick, for both of their sakes, and hope that the ranger would not cry out or struggle in his seconds of consciousness, as some people tried to do. As if that would change anything.
Yes, Theron had spared his life - many would say foolishly, if they knew or cared. The other elf could have easily put an arrow through his eye as he had done to the mage that had led his tired group to the ambush. Or, if he was worried about getting his hands dirty, so to speak, he could have asked one of the others to kill him. Alistair had seemed eager enough, the Antivan recalled.
But, the ranger hadn’t. He’d listened to his suggestion of following the group, even helped him to his feet. And ever since then, they’d talked or flirted on the road or around the campfire, which had finally culminated in this.
The Dalish elf had been hesitant at first, allowed him to take the lead as was so often the case. Theron hadn’t been the one to bring up the subject of his virginity, but had dismissed it as if they were talking about the weather or Alistair’s cooking. That had shown Zevran just how nervous the other man was, had prompted him to be gentle rather than fierce and murmur softly into that pointed ear rather than hiss and bite.
Zevran let out a quiet sigh, his hand hesitating, the blade not even an inch from Theron’s back, to the left of his spine, the point only just digging into his skin. The ranger’s sides moved in and out in steady breaths. Was this truly the way to repay such kindness as allowing him to live? Killing the elf while he slept? There was little honour in that. Theron could not reach for his bow; it was at the other side of the tent, he would not be able to reach it and use it in time before Zevran either fled, ended his suffering or he bled out. It was a cowardly method. If anything, Zevran knew he should at least wait until the morning, and ensure Theron had a fair fight. He was an assassin, but was he really a lowly coward who waited until his mark was asleep to strike?
The Antivan’s blade wavered, and then he heard a tent flap move behind him in the dead silence of the sleeping camp. He lay still, eyes wide as he realised it was the dog. Again he thought about being pinned down, feeling hot, stinking breath on his face just before his throat was ripped out and he was left to bleed and choke on it. He had seen Dudain kill many times. All it would take was a word from his master. Ma halam. You are finished. The war dog started to growl low in his throat, and Zevran lowered his dagger. The edge had left a small mark, a dent in the ranger’s back. It beaded a deep red against his skin.
“Dudain, atisha.” Theron spoke, his voice not thick or slow with sleep. It was clear, quiet and measured, as it always was when he commanded the hound. Had he been awake the whole time? Had he ever fallen asleep?
Zevran resisted the urge to flee senselessly, knowing he was without even his smallclothes, and the dog was between him and the exit. He got up slowly and carefully, as if he had not been caught about to kill a Grey Warden while he slept. The blond was able to feel Dudain watching him, but there was no prickling of eyes at his back. A brief glance back as he calmly pulled his things on showed that Theron hadn’t moved an inch.
Dudain stepped aside with clear reluctance as Zevran approached, the large hound slinking through the shadows to lie down next to the other elf. The former Crow paused at the tent flaps, and looked back again. The ranger had rolled onto his other side to look at him, and Zevran realised he had been wrong. There was no gleam of either fear or trust in his gaze, only a kind of weary, wary acceptance. Theron watched the flaps of his tent flutter shut and heard soft footsteps pad away into the night. A thin line of blood trickled down his side, soaked into the furs.
The next morning, Zevran found his forgotten dagger rammed up to the hilt into the ground right outside his tent, and Theron had deep shadows under his eyes; when Leliana asked out of innocent concern at breakfast, he said that he hadn’t slept the previous night.