Crows By Night (Dragon Age: Origins, Zevran)

[RiversD]

Set before the time-frame of the game, when Zevran was still an assassin in Antiva(small assassination scene at the start). This leans pretty heavily into the coughing/fever/general illness whump side of the spectrum, so if you're not here for that: you have been warned. Also some mild mess. Completed one-shot, a little over 4000 words.

____________________

 

“The Antivan Crows send their regards,” Zevran hissed into his mark's ear, and relaxed his grip. The man slid off his dagger and crumpled lifeless to the floor, where a very expensive carpet began to acquire a nasty stain.

Zevran was glad there had been no witnesses to this particular piece of work. The mark had put up a better fight than expected, or else Zevran had been slower than he should have been. As a result, Zevran’s head ached with a bitter intensity, having been deprived of air as they grappled, and his left arm was likely to carry a twinge for some days.

Feeling that he had earned some compensation, Zevran moved to the table and finished his mark’s wine on his behalf. It was a good vintage, and momentarily dulled the pain. He could hear voices coming from the floor below, however, and prudently decided to make a swift and stealthy exit by the window.

It was a small town that he descended into: not a place for a stranger to linger having so recently dispatched the son of its ruling lord. So, despite the late hour, Zevran headed for the road.

His headache only deepened as he traipsed along the lonely highway, and his mood worsened with each passing horse that forced him off the main track and into an assortment of ditches and foliage along the way. By the time night began to fall in earnest the ache had spread throughout his body and it was all he could do to push his bedroll deep within a thicket for concealment and collapse upon it, disgusted by his own lack of stamina.

___________

 

Zevran woke damp and chilled in the grey light before dawn. He rolled onto one side and coughed until his ribs ached. He pressed his head against his dew-sprinkled bedroll and sighed. So, it was going to be one of those days.

Hauling himself out of the thicket, he drew his pack out after him and inspected his blades. They had come through the night untouched by the weather, as it should be. Zevran strapped a pair to his sides and readied himself for travel. The ground was too wet for it to be worth starting a fire, and he limited his breakfast to bread and a little red wine.

Pursuit would be less of a concern today, as the hypothetical murderer could have fled some distance in almost any direction as far as Don Savano’s men were concerned. This was just as well, for Zevran’s chest felt tighter than it ought today, and he was plagued by a persistent desire to cough.

By the time he approached the small town of Baéza, his throat felt hoarse and sensitive, and yesterday’s headache had returned with a vengeance. He paid for a bed at the local inn and drank more than he should, trying to soothe a scratchy dryness that refused to be slaked.

He retired to bed at last with the world spinning around him and woke to a heavy headache and a blocked nose.

____________

 

Zevran cursed and rolled over, reaching out to pull his bag closer to the bed. The sudden change in position woke a buzzing itch in his nose, and he ground it into the pillow while he groped blindly for a handkerchief. Naturally, he failed to locate one before the itchiness abruptly became something more pressing.

Caught without defenses, Zevran sneezed hard into the pillow. He groaned as this drove a hard spike of pain between his eyes and clenched his fists in the bedclothes until it subsided enough to allow for thought.

The need to blow his nose was now urgent enough to override Zevran’s desire to move as little as possible. He slid cautiously off the bed to the floor beside his bag, still trying to avoid any sudden or jerky movements, and rested his head on the edge of the bed for a few moments. It felt as though it were filled with sand.

Sniffling as best he could past the overnight congestion, Zevran resumed his search for a handkerchief by eye. He found one almost immediately, mockingly positioned exactly where he could have sworn he had reached for it earlier. He leaned down to take it and rushed it to his face as the tilt sent a drip running straight to the tip of his nose.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered into the cloth.

He blew his nose, managing to stimulate such a tickle as he did so that he was forced to pause, gasp desperately for breath, and sneeze again.

“hh! ‘TSSCHhue! Hh’tssCHUH!!”

With that, the tide turned in Zevran’s favour, and he was able to clear enough congestion to breathe normally, if carefully. His chest and throat felt delicately balanced, and he didn’t think his head could handle a coughing fit right now.

Getting ready to leave was a slow process. Zevran tried not to jolt his head too much, but still had to take frequent breaks to reorient himself. Foolish, he thought. A crow should have too much self-control to get saddled with a hangover. And an illness on top of that? Thank the Maker there were no witnesses.

He didn’t waste energy in hoping that this congestion and determinedly antagonistic throat would be as passing as the hangover. He was ill, and there was nothing to be done but suffer through it and hope that it did not turn into anything serious.

Finally making it downstairs, Zevran drank enough that he no longer felt fatally poisoned, and left the inn. Feeling a little extra delay worth his while, he found a small shop in the town whose proprietor was willing to sell him some additional handkerchiefs. This precious cargo secured about his person, he made for the road once more. Too much of the day had been wasted for him to reach Antiva City before dusk, but he could still hope to make it without being forced to spend another night camping.

He made it barely an hour after nightfall, but not without cost. By the time he stumbled up to the city gates it felt as though he had to fight for every breath, his chest tight and uncooperative.

Somewhere along the road he had picked up a fever. He could feel the shivers in his limbs where they should not have been, and the night felt colder to his skin than was natural.

He decided to leave collecting his reward until tomorrow, and made for his lodgings with what little speed he had left.

As soon as he was certain he was alone, Zevran sat down on his bed, took a single, shuddering breath, and dissolved into a brutal fit of coughing that shook his entire body. The spasm felt as if it could have no end, and Zevran’s ears were ringing before it finally relented. Even then, he had to deal with his running nose before he could breathe clearly.

Zevran lowered his head into his hands, his shoulders slumped. Whatever had carried him to this point- duty? Pride? Stubbornness?- it was slipping away from him now. He barely had it in him to lift his head. He kicked off his boots, undid his belt fastenings and set his daggers gently down beside the bed. Then he fell back loosely on the bed and sank into blessed unconsciousness.
____________

 

It was a difficult night, troubled by feverish dreaming and ever-more insistent demands from his nose and throat. A difficult awakening too, the presence of morning sunlight penetrating only slowly through the groggy haze of Zevran’s misery. For lack of a sympathetic audience to pity his sorry state, he forced himself out of bed and sat shivering on the floor, trying to remember which article of clothing was supposed to go on first.

He settled on the shirt, since his chest felt the coldest, and proceeded from there. It went steadily, if slowly, until half-way through pulling up a boot he was arrested by an urgent tingling in his nose. He wasn’t sufficiently alert to cover his face properly, his arms simply jerking stiffly in that general direction as he sneezed.

“hh’tsschh! hh- ah’tsschue!”

He shivered, needing more than a few moments to collect himself. The boot had flipped sideways on his foot, and he had to lean down and rearrange it before he could pull it up again.

He was still shivering as he tried to fasten his belts again, fumbling stupidly at the clasps. Even when he had them secured in their usual positions they felt wrong. All of his clothing seemed to rub in odd, harsh ways today.

The day had to be faced, however. Zevran pulled himself up and stretched. This induced a coughing fit so intense and painful that he didn’t dare completely straighten up afterwards. He rubbed at his aching chest and groaned a last, private complaint against the world.

He affected a self-confident slouch as he made his way down to the street. He had no idea how convincing it was, being unable to tell how clearly (or not) his illness was marked upon his face. He had the sensation of being uncomfortably clammy, but the swift touch of a hand against his own cheek and brow found no trace of moisture. So perhaps it did not show.

Zevran made his way slowly through the streets, less from a lack of urgency as because moving too quickly in his current condition made him feel light-headed. It pinched his chest, too, and made him liable to cough.

Eoman was waiting for him in the usual place. His eyes barely grazed Zevran as he stepped into the room, but he offered the mantelpiece a slight nod of acknowledgement. News of Zevran’s successful kill had reached the city before him. He was therefore permitted to approach and take his payment.

This hands-off method of payment was tradition. Later, Eoman might meet with him to offer a critique or suggestion, but he would say nothing during the exchange itself. Respecting the moment, Zevran moved silently past him to the rewards chest.

He crouched down with care. The chest unfastened without incident, but leaning forward and pushing back the heavy lid triggered the cough lurking behind his ribs. He coughed hard, the fit persisting until sparks appeared at the edges of his vision. Zevran redoubled his grip on the wooden lip of the chest, not trusting his legs to hold him until this was over.

He leant his weight against the chest while he recovered, chest twinging with every cautious breath. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Eoman was staring straight ahead, showing no signs of having noticed anything at all.

Zevran took the belt and pouch of coin that were in the chest and left as quickly as he was able, ears burning.

The light outside seemed unnaturally harsh after the shadows of Eoman’s rooms, and Zevran found himself squinting as he stepped out into it. Perhaps it was the last straw for his beleaguered nerves, for he had not gone more than three steps into the sunlit street before he was overwhelmed by an immediate and pressing urge to sneeze. He turned his back to the main thoroughfare as the sensation gained momentum, and directed his sneezes towards the gutter.

“ht’sschh! hh-tsschhue!”

He sniffed hard as he righted himself, which prevented his nose from dripping in public but produced a sharp stab of pain behind his left eye. The pain dulled a little as he walked slowly back to his lodgings, but it spread. By the time he arrived, the whole inner workings of his skull seemed filled to bursting with a throbbing ache that made it difficult to so much as keep his eyes open.

He didn’t have the energy to offer his landlady more than a nod as he passed. Then came the stairs, which sapped him further with every halting step. Half-way up he stopped, bent-over against the wood and plaster wall and coughed until his chest felt like stone and his knees like water.

It wasn’t until he actually took hold of the door handle that he realised how hard he was shaking. The key trembled and clicked against the sides of its hole as he locked the door behind him. He fumbled it on the way out, sending the key clattering to the floor. He kicked it aside and raised an arm to field another deep-rooted sneeze.

“huht’SSCHhue! huh… ”

He waited a little longer for his habitual second, but it did not come.

Zevran swayed and leaned his back against the door for support. He felt nauseous, the pressure in his head nigh-unbearable. He let his knees give way and slid to the floor. The relief of no longer bearing his own weight was enormous, and he relaxed into it with a fractured groan.

Then the world grew close and dark around him and he slipped unintentionally into sleep.

__________

 

“Zevran?”

The voice barely registered with Zevran’s sleeping brain, but deeply ingrained training kicked in and forced his eyes open to face the threat.

“You look terrible.”

Zevran turned his head very slightly and saw a dark-haired young man, well-built and with a carefully cultivated beard, lounging in the open window.

“Taliesen? Wh-” Zevran paused to clear his throat, displeased by the croak in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

Taliesen dropped lightly down onto the floorboards like a self-satisfied tom.

“I told Eoman you and I would be the perfect team for a little assignment he has in hand. He said you were unfit for service. So naturally, I thought I had better come and see what he was talking about.”

Zevran forced a smile. His lips felt tight and dry, but he persisted out of the dregs of his pride. “You were concerned for me, eh?”

“Say curious. But look at you. You couldn’t even make it to the bed?”

“I was being cautious,” Zevran lied. “You never know when some miscreant will try to take you by surprise.”

Taliesen laughed. “Then you should guard your windows. A child could unfasten these.”

“Not all children climb as well as we did, Taliesen.” Zevran’s throat felt dried out already. He coughed softly against his wrist and swallowed hard. This had the primary effect of making his ears hurt.

“Still, it is the weakest point of your room. You’re slipping.”

“Come over here and s-say that,” Zevran challenged him, knowing perfectly well that he could in no way defend his honour if he did. Fortunately, Taliesen was only in a teasing mood.

“Your manners are slipping as well. I’ve been in your room almost five minutes and you haven’t even stood up to greet me.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” Zevran drawled, pressing his back hard against the wall and praying that his legs would hold him. “I did not realise you wished to be treated like r-royalty-”

Zevran thrust himself upright, letting the door support his weight while the change in altitude muddied his vision with shades of grey. He thought he was pulling it off quite well, until a spasm racked his chest and set him coughing for dear life.

He distantly registered Taliesen’s incredulous “Maker’s breath!” but was too occupied with his pained hacking to acknowledge it. Sparks flickered behind his eyes as the fit wore itself out and he swayed, gasping for breath.

Then suddenly Taliesen was beside him, so close that Zevran reeled back, slamming into the door behind him. Taliesen cursed, reached around Zevran’s back and pulled him in. His free hand went to sweep back Zevran’s hair, but Zevran twisted away.

“Zevran, let me-”

“no, I- heh’tssch! hu’tsSCHuh!”

Zevran bent with the sneezes as far as Taliesen’s grasp would allow him, directing the spray towards the wall.

“Oh,” Taliesen whispered. “Sorry.”

He reached up again, more cautiously, and pressed his palm to Zevran’s forehead, pulling the elf’s head back towards him.

“Your skin is on fire.”

“So don’t get burned.”

Zevran wasn’t fighting Taliesen’s grip any longer. He wasn’t sure he had it left in him to fight sleep.

Taliesen pushed him forward and Zevran obliged with a couple of wobbling steps. They felt like falling and he grabbed for something to steady himself. His fingers closed on cloth and he heard Taliesen grunt.

“Easy there.”

The arm at his back dropped to his waist and tightened its grip so that Zevran was held steady against Taliesen’s sturdy torso. He forced himself not to struggle, his body automatically reading the situation as a threat. Taliesen must have noticed his tension, as he murmured close by Zevran’s ear;

“I’m sorry. It’s not for long.”

“I know,” Zevran whispered back, trying to sound self-assured but undermining himself with the laboured coughing that followed on the heels of his speech.

Taliesen steered him to the side of his bed and nudged him until he bent his knees and sat.

“You should take better care of yourself, Zevran,” he chided.

He loosened Zevran’s sword belts and began to relieve him of their weight.

“I am not your- your responsibility, Taliesen.”

Zevran realised that his eyes had closed and forced them open. The pounding pressure in his head made it difficult to keep them so, however.

“Of course not.”

Taliesen drew close again. Zevran found his tired eyes focussing disobediently on his polished trouser buttons.

“But you are much more entertaining when you are well.”

Gently, far more gently than he ever had in the past, Taliesen eased off Zevran’s shirt. Zevran shivered and, the impulse arising faster than thought, sneezed into Taliesen’s chest.

“ht’sschh! huh’tsschhue! Maker…”

He blinked, slowly registering what he had just done.

“… sorry.”

“An accident. Blow your nose.”

Taliesen pressed a handkerchief into his hand and Zevran shamefacedly complied. Taliesen smoothed his hair away from his face.

“Lie down,” he suggested. “Let me get your boots.”

“You d-do not have… to.” Zevran protested, but he lay back nonetheless. The pillows welcomed him in like a dear friend. His eyes fell closed once more and the world seemed to drift. Taliesen’s continued efforts to undress him seemed to be happening at a great distance, somewhere unimportant. Then the blanket rolled over him like a cloud and he slept.

___________

 

 

Zevran woke with a start and choked, feeling as though he were drowning. He rolled over, coughing so hard and fast that he began to struggle against his body’s instincts, fighting for permission to breathe.

Someone sat up on the bed behind him, and a warm, broad hand came to rest between his shoulder blades.

“Try not to panic.”

It was less the advice itself and more the desire to tell Taliesen exactly what he thought of such pointless advice which distracted Zevran long enough for the fit to die out of its own accord. He scrambled for a handkerchief in its aftermath and made the best use of it he could.

Despite his best efforts, he could still only draw breath through his mouth. His nose might as well have turned to stone overnight for all the use it was prepared to be. Zevran considered it enormously unfair that it was still so aggravatingly itchy even when no air was passing through it.

“What are you… doing?” he managed at last.

“Keeping an eye on you. Let me feel?”

Zevran didn’t understand what was being asked for until Taliesen snaked an arm behind him uninvited and pushed a hand up to his forehead.

“I think your fever has risen,” he announced, threading his fingers back through Zevran’s sweat-tangled hair.

“hm. Your fingers are cold.”

“I promise you they are not.”

“Perha- ah-” Zevran scrabbled at his face in frustration. The hot irritation of his nose was nigh unbearable, and every attempt he made to rub or press it into peace bought the most fleeting respite imaginable.

“Zevran? What is it?”

“It itches!”

Zevran rolled to his other side and, finding Taliesen lying beside him, ground his nose into the other man’s shoulder.

“Zevran, you will only make your nose angry doing that.”

“It is… already… furious! Tear it off.”

Taliesen laughed, his shoulder quaking under Zevran’s head.

“I can’t do that, but perhaps… yes, I will try to help you. Wait here, little fledgeling.”

With that he slid himself out of the bed, leaving Zevran with nothing but the bedclothes to rub his prickling nose into.

He could feel his eyes starting to leak tears of frustrated, congested irritation. His breath turned to ragged, needy gasps as all his rubbing and scrubbing and pinching failed to bring him the smallest measure of relief.

“hh…huhh…augh… hh-huh’TSSCHUE!”

For all the preamble, the sneeze burst out of him almost without warning and with entirely unanticipated force. Ears ringing, he tried to recoup some breath but was quickly over-ruled by his body’s determination to sneeze again. And again. Anything to be rid of this infernal, inexorable itch.

“ha’schuh! Ah… huh’TSSCH! AH’TSSCHUE! Ohh, no more, pl-hh! huhh! Hah’TSSCHhue!”

“Zevran.”

Curled in on himself under the onslaught of sneezes, Zevran had no breath to respond. His nose was burning, his chest heaving with exertion and continued need.

“Zevran, look up for me.”

Zevran forced himself to uncoil somewhat, stomach muscles protesting all the way, but had hardly begun to raise his head when another ticklish, ungovernable sneeze tore through his body.

“hhH’TSCHH! shi-”

“Relax, I’m here.”

Taliesen’s large, strong hand cupped Zevran’s jaw and gently lifted his chin. Then came sheer bliss, as a cool, damp washcloth descended on his nose, quenching the fire that had been tormenting him.

For all this, his relief was not so complete that he could prevent one last sneeze escaping the tattered remnants of his self-control.

“ht’sschuh! damn it.”

“It’s alright. Blow.”

Zevran frowned over the cloth at Taliesen. Whose hand, he now realised, he had effectively just sneezed into.

“But-”

“Blow, Zevran. I won’t ask nicely again.”

Determined to take back some autonomy, Zevran raised his hands and pushed Taliesen’s out of the way. Then, because stubborn was not the same as stupid, he blew his nose. This took some time, and when it was over he crumpled back down on the bed, completely spent.

His throat felt closed up and raw, his skin too hot, and his eyes ached behind their lids as though he had stared straight at the sun in his sleep. His chest still twinges from the coughs and sneezes it had just been subjected to, but at least his nose was quieted for now. He felt like crying, but he couldn’t spare the breath.

Taliesen took back the cloth. Zevran could hear him rinsing it out. Where had he found a basin? Zevran wondered. And why was he still here? Taliesen never stayed the night.

The mattress sank a little as Taliesen sat back down. He leaned across the bed to slide his arms around Zevran’s shoulders again.

“Come here,” he murmured.

Zevran moaned, his muscles resenting any change in position, but he let Taliesen draw him up and across the bed so that his head was propped up against Taliesen’s thigh.

“That’s it. Try to relax.”

“Everything hurts,” Zevran muttered, then wondered if he had really said so out loud, and how hampered his inhibitions would have to be to allow it.

“I know.”

Taliesen reached over to his right. There was a faint sound of moving water, and then the cloth was back, caressing Zevran’s cheeks and temples like Andraste’s holy hand. A shiver ran through his body and he moaned.

Taliesen paused and half-withdrew the cloth.

“Too much?”

“No. Please…” Zevran arched his neck against Taliesen’s leg, all the more aware of his aches without the distraction of the soothing cloth. He felt Taliesen chuckle to himself.

“When you are well, Zevran, talk to me like that again.”

Back came the cloth, and Zevran’s world shrank down to a series of tactile sensations. Heat, cold, rough sheets, soft cloth, firm hands, aching neck, slow sweet relief… at long last, he slept.

Sleep was a confusing experience that night. Zevran slipped from dream to feverish dream alternately searching and fleeing, never knowing rest. He woke many times, but never fully, coughing and fretting until soft words and cool hands sent him tumbling back into the darkness.

When at last he woke in earnest his fever had broken, and Taliesen was gone.

 

 

 

Edited February 6, 2019 by RiversD

[starpollen]

Love this!!  

[Wig_Powder]

Aw, poor Zevran! I knew I was going to romance him the moment I first saw some clips of him, and I won't deny that I wanted some sickfic as a result of that. I've found a few, but this one is great! Sneezing (obviously), hurt-comfort, and in-character sass...just the sort of things I'm looking for. Well done!

This fic and the Anders fic from a few months ago are really tempting me to write out my own Dragon Age sneezefic that's been kicking around in my head, except 1) it would probably be pretty long, 2) it features a canon divergence as a major part of the plot, 3) it would feature a really obscure character from the game, and 4) I'm not sure how much sneezing or even illness symptoms there would wind up being in some of the chapters. I don't know how many people would be interested given all that.

[Hedgehog]

It's nice to find the story here, too. It's such a good work! I like how Zevran is all alone in his misery for the good first half of the story and almost always makes the worst decisions according his health *lol*. That's sooo in character. Later on, the dynamic between Zev and Taliesen is absolutely brilliant. How Zevran perceives all of Taliesen's attempts to help him as personal threats; and how Taliesen understands this and is extra careful about it.

Spoiler

The whole Zevran background story has always been fascinating for me. And I cried when I had to kill Taliesen and there was no other way. ;(

20 hours ago, Wig_Powder said:

tempting me to write out my own Dragon Age sneezefic that's been kicking around in my head, except 1) it would probably be pretty long, 2) it features a canon divergence as a major part of the plot, 3) it would feature a really obscure character from the game, and 4) I'm not sure how much sneezing or even illness symptoms there would wind up being in some of the chapters. I don't know how many people would be interested given all that.

This sounds interesting.

[Wig_Powder]

 

3 hours ago, Hedgehog said:

This sounds interesting.

That's a promising sign. I'll make a post in the "general" section of the "Observations, Stories and Art" board to see if anyone else is interested. I do need some motivation to get writing again...

[LeapYearKisses]

I'm late playing Origins (I started with Inquisition lol) and I've just met Zevran.  Consequently, I have no idea who Taliesen is yet, but this was really nice!  I love sickfics that go hard on the whump, and this was so satisfying.  Makes me want to go right back to the game and pick up where I left off!