Chapter Text
The ground is cold, but the air is colder. Fenris pulls his cloak tighter around himself, and tugs the hood low over his brow, hiding his distinctive hair. He is not sure whether his patch of dirt has warmed up at all from his body heat, but he does not fancy shifting position to find out.
He lies down, back pressed tightly against a wall, and tries to sleep. He does not dream, and is thankful for it.
Some hours later he jerks awake to the sight of brown leather boots in front of his face. He bolts into a sitting position but is stilled from standing upright by sheer surprise, once his gaze has traveled far enough upward. Another elf stands before him, regarding him with evident, honest curiosity.
The elf is blond, tan, more muscular than fenris. Twin dagger hilts are visible over his shoulders. Three dark, sinuous curves of a tattoo line one side of his face.
He looks dangerous, and a small smile pulls at one side of his mouth. Fenris is not comforted.
“What do you want?”
The unknown elf blinks. “Quite businesslike, I see.”
He has a thick Antivan accent, Fenris notes. He continues speaking. “Ah… actually, I had thought to offer you something, my friend.”
Fenris bristles. “I am not your friend.”
The other gives that small smile again. “No. But it is more efficient than, say, ‘my recent acquaintance,’ and rather more pleasant than ‘my potential enemy,’ don’t you agree?”
Fenris huffs, but says nothing.
“I am Zevran Arainai.” He makes a gesture that seems a cheeky mockery of a bow. “I imagine that these sleeping arrangements are… less than comfortable. I have a private room at a nearby tavern. The Hanged Man. The bed is…” he smirks. “Quite large, larger than necessary for just one elf. There is space enough for another, if you wish.”
“And I should just trust that you will not slit my throat in my sleep?”
Zevran crouches in front of him, honey-grey eyes meeting green with a look that is too incisive for Fenris’s comfort. Zevran reaches out his hand, finger outstretched, and makes to touch the markings on Fenris’s throat.
Fenris turns his head away to avoid contact, and then tilts his head in the other direction as Zevran’s fingers chase him, and then realizes that he is doing exactly what Zevran wanted in the first place, his fingers guiding without touching so that he can examine Fenris’s tattoos.
“As fast as I am with my blades - and I am very fast,” he adds with an unselfconscious grin - “I suspect that there is more to you than meets the eye, my friend. I would not wish to test just how fast or how deadly you can be.”
“Why, then?”
“My offer? It is a cold night. I am alone, you are alone. And because…” A sad, far-off expression flits across his face, incongruous with his cockiness and the deadly power under his leather armor. “…well. I would not have done this a year ago. But it has been a long year, and I desire company.”
Fenris flinches. “I am not a whore.”
To his surprise, Zevran flinches just as he did. Possibly harder. “I apologize. I did not mean to imply that you were, and - although I would not be opposed to such activities - ” a hint of his previous cocksureness returns in his wink - “I would be content to simply share space with another. I have food, and wine. If you decide you would like to join me, ask for me with the barkeep; I will tell him to look for you.”
The Antivan elf stands up and disappears around a corner without a backward glance. Fenris curls tighter into his thin cloak.