Archive of Our Own ^beta

“It’s called a vardo.”

Jorlan raised one white brow skeptically. His piercing gaze swept over the strange little hut on wheels that Zariah had proudly driven out of the stable to present to him. “It looks like a pauper’s shack.” He crossed his arms.

“Well, it’s home--or has been, ever since I left Waterdeep.” Not one to be brought down by her new companion’s dour attitude, Zariah swung herself down from the driver’s box and marched, humming, to the rear of the wagon. 

Her crimson shirt swayed fetchingly in the sea breeze, showing off her dark throat. There remained a faint set of lines across her skin from the collar she had worn at Velkynvelve--the one Jorlan had latched into place the day she arrived. And, he reminded himself, one she still ought to be wearing, considering he had never truly released her. The drow captain looked away with a derisive snort at Zariah’s good temper. It did little to cover up the heat he felt whenever he looked at the young drow sorceress. Well he remembered the supple curves of her body, the breathless way she gasped when he overpowered her, and drew them tightly together. 

But there would be no more of that, now. No more heated passion. Jorlan was a free man, free at last of Ilvara and Menzoberranzan both, and he would not give of himself, not even to slake his own thirst. 

It was better to starve than to kneel.

Especially to a Baenre. 

Oblivious to Jorlan’s internal turmoil over customs that were as alien to her as Menzoberranzan was to Luskan, Zariah threw open the dutch door to her home away from home. She seized Jorlan by the wrist until momentum itself forced him to follow her inside. 

“It’s not very big, I’ll grant you,” Zariah said, smiling, “but I’d hardly call it a pauper’s shack. Here, let me show you!”

Within the little wagon it was blessedly dim. Jorlan barely suppressed an audible sigh of relief from the blazing autumn sun. 

Zariah lighted along the central aisle, her companionable chatter fading into the background as Jorlan took in his surroundings. Blue and white tiles arched into a sunken alcove to his left, their cheerful floral designs throwing back heat from a small iron stove. A bench, long enough to sleep on, made up most of the right hand wall. Velvet cushions made the bench seem quite inviting indeed, and his crimson eyes did not miss the details, either. Carefully-folded blankets peeked out of the not-quite-closed sliding cupboards below, along with additional pillows. Racks of personal items lined the slightly-bowed ceiling to either side of the central aisle, all the wooden surfaces paneled and painted in rich golds, purples, and reds. Jorlan nodded approvingly at the fold-out table’s efficient use of space, and the little wooden latch that kept it held to the wagon’s side when not in use. Last came the bed, or rather, the proper bed above that took up the entire rear of the wagon, filled with a plush down mattress and swathed with spider-silk sheets, and a bed of similar size below that could only be accessed by pulling back a painted wooden panel and crawling inside. 

“Is this where you intend to have me sleep when we leave Neverwinter?” Jorlan sniffed. “It stinks of that lizard barbarian.”

Zariah flushed deeply. She clasped her hands before her, eyes downcast and embarrassed. “Crowhix and I share the wagon--with his brother Uanju.”

“So you do rut with both of them.” Cold disdain dripped from his voice. “And you expect me to take my meditation, where, in this cramped cupboard while you debase yourself not an arm’s breadth above me? And you call yourself a Baenre.”

“I was going to suggest the bench,” Zariah snapped. “The new vardo I have purchased does not have all its comforts yet, and besides, I think you would not like to sleep near our kobold companions--or Darendel, for that matter.”

Jorlan gave a humorless snort. “Certainly not. I am a civilized man, I have no need to share my bedding space with animals and slave fodder. And where am I to sleep, then, if I am to accompany you all the way to Luskan?”

“Under the wagon,” Zariah spat angrily, “if it pleases Captain Duskryn. I was merely--”

Silently, Jorlan raised the flat of his hand. Zariah quieted at once and turned away. Neither of them moved for a long, painful moment. “...you would not strike me,” she said eventually, even though he had done so before at the prison. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“So sure of yourself,” Jorlan hissed. He took a step toward her and Zariah retreated, the small of her back pressed to the edge of the bed. “You Baenre females think yourselves above--”

“Oh?” Zariah’s grip creaked on the wood behind her. She would not look at him, at this man who had so briefly been her lover. Used her for his pleasure and then discarded her just as quickly, just as soon as they were free of Velkynvelve. “I’m not Ilvara,” she said. The heat of Jorlan’s body hovered, just beyond her own. For a man who kept insisting he didn’t want her, didn’t want anything to do with her, he certainly enjoyed reminding her of that fact--as long as he could be as close as possible to her while doing so. 

Zariah was so small before him, petite and beautiful in that special Baenre way. As lovely as her mercenary father was supposedly handsome. Jorlan knew she had power, knew that the girl before him could wield magic as expertly and deadly as a slave driver wields his whip. He knew she had cunning and strength that belied her mixed blood. But that submission…

“Don’t tell me what I already know,” he snapped, taking her chin in his strong hand. The pulse jumped in Zariah’s throat, bringing Jorlan’s attention once more to the lines her collar had made. She would look so much better chained, he decided. Slavery suited her. 

He was the superior creature here. This should be his task force to order about. And Zariah, though a drow woman and a Baenre to boot, was nothing more than Jarlaxle’s half-blooded whelp. It was his prerogative to treat her however he desired. She was half faerie--half wood elf--after all, even if she didn’t show it. He ought to turn her around and bend her over the mattress right now, slake this awful hunger that kept rising in him. Zariah would submit, Jorlan knew she would. She would allow him his rage and his lust, and only moan helplessly, despite all the power and connections at her disposal. 

Did she truly think he was so stupid as to believe that she would not then come around, and use him in turn when the moment arose? If she had any drow in her at all, how could Zariah do any less?

And Jorlan Duskryn would not be used again.

No, they must remain, and owe each other nothing--neither dagger, nor favor.

“...I only…” Zariah’s voice was quiet in the hushed interior of the vardo. Her coin-gold eyes glimmered in the dimmer light.

Jorlan roused himself from hunger-dreams of their slick bodies meeting, of Zariah’s devouring heat and passionate kisses. “You only what?” he growled, only realizing then just how close they had truly come. He withdrew to look down at her with what he hoped was an accurate expression of superior disgust, and not the desire he felt surging through his veins. 

“...” Zariah shifted, uncomfortable. “You said you did not like the sky, with all the stars at night. I only wished…to offer you a place that you felt more suited to.”

“Perhaps.” Jorlan released her chin, but only by a feat of internal strength. “I am not afraid of the sky.”

Zariah bowed her head, only relaxing at last when the vardo door swung shut behind him. That first day on the road she saw little of their new companion, Jorlan pointedly looking away whenever she tried to catch his attention. It was only in the hush of the night, long after first watch and when Crowhix was contentedly sawing logs beside her, his great, green-scaled bulk rising and falling in a steady, familiar, rhythm, that Zariah heard the vardo door creak open. She opened one eye, catching Jorlan’s brief silhouette through the gauze privacy curtain that surrounded her bed. Quickly, sensing his movement more than hearing it, she closed her eye again and feigned peaceful sleep. Just in time, for Jorlan drew back the curtain. He stayed at her bedside for many long minutes, only to retreat at last and settle himself, sighing gently with relief at being away from the endless sea of stars, on the bench.

Zariah smiled softly and settled in to dreams of pleasant kisses. One day, she hoped, he would no longer see Ilvara when he looked at her. 

One day.