Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Things had been going remarkably well ever since Zevran made up his mind to die. 

Finalising his contract to assassinate the Wardens had gone without a hitch. He had been provided with recent, useful details of his marks’ whereabouts and their expected direction of travel. Denerim had been crawling with people willing to sign on to his taskforce. And if that weren’t enough, the weather had been perversely cheerful the entire way down to the outskirts of the village where they would catch the marks unawares. All sun, no rain, for seven days in a row. His lackeys had declared it a miracle. 

Really, there was only one way to account for the unexpected spate of good luck: life was pleased to be seeing the back of Zevran. And quite frankly, the feeling was mutual.

Ah, and that explained the strange heaviness in his chest, didn’t it, as he watched the decoy leading his marks down the blind road into his ambush. Rolling his eyes, he shook his head to dislodge the feeling. The indulgent moment had gone on long enough, and it was time to return to the reward that lay ahead.

Such as it was, anyway. If nothing else, the state of nonexistence guaranteed an absence of suffering, and Rinna’s clammy, tear-streaked face flashing through his mind made for the timely reminder that nonexistence was more than he deserved.

Naturally, though, he would at least do these people the decency of seeing to them first before he addressed his own needs. After all, Zevran Arainai was the consummate professional, and it was an exciting thing to be the prey of an Antivan Crow, even if only in pretend. Why deny them the rush of adventure? So long as he didn’t emerge from the scuffle still breathing, the taster he was about to give them would do nicely. 

The mark’s team was a strange one. Four humans all told: a burly, handsome man with a crop of short, flaxen hair went in front of a curious but incredibly alluring witch, with delicate features as shadowy and exotic as the scraps she wore (in this climate, no less!). A redheaded, dew-fresh blossom of a woman walked alongside the man, scanning their surroundings cautiously, and the group appeared to be led by a mage with black hair, no doubt the one Loghain wanted. The frown on her angular face clashed with her easy strides as she and her party followed his hireling further into the trap he had laid.

Zevran smiled to himself and stood up from behind the bush to go over to them, silently grateful for his surprisingly calm state. Fear would have had to be answered with punitive jabs at raw spots, and what a bloody awful thing it was to know one’s own raw spots. As it was, though, the good luck played on and his body floated quite placidly to the moment that would escort him out of this.

His smirk was summoned easily, as was the signal to his concealed lackeys. They gave a nod and took their places. With one smooth effort, a giant log crashed down behind the marks, forcing them into the tiny space together with him and his associates. He drew his knives, heart rate beginning to pick up at last. 

Show time.

“The Grey Warden dies here!” The words sealing his death came out in a shout. Just the thing to put the marks on high alert, make them fight so hard that escape was impossible. The best approach, really, for hearts inclined to cowardice and indulgence.

As ready for the end as he'd ever be, Zevran advanced with his blades, only to stutter to a halt as the leader mage raised her eyebrows at him and… shrugged?  

“Stay behind me, and don’t kill Mr. Noisy,” he heard her call to her companions as they grabbed at their weapons. “I want a word with him.”

Zevran stood stock-still. She hadn’t really shrugged at him, had she? Surely not all Grey Wardens were so flippant in the face of death. A Crow death, no less, though his giveaway armour appeared to have escaped her notice.

And Mr. Noisy? That was uncalled for.

He started up again to move into the fray, and that bloody mage. She looked almost bored with that spoiled frown on her face as she waved her hands and sent seven people crumpling to the ground like their strings had been cut. 

His mouth fell open. Were they--?

Ah. No, their chests were moving; it had to be a sleep spell. 

Why did he even care, anyway? Always too soft a touch.

Before Zevran could return to the matter at hand, something hard collided into his head and shoulder with a revolting crunch. A burst of intense pain was all he knew before the darkness he had been chasing stole over him.

§

It was hard to be impressed with the afterlife when it did so very little to recommend itself.

Half of Zevran's body was aching like someone had taken to it with a meat tenderiser, and it seemed wrong. Weren't the dead supposed to be out of pain? 

Perhaps it was because the Maker frowned upon suicides. Was he doomed, then, to remain in this decidedly uncomfortable state until his sin was deemed expunged and he could move on to the Beyond?

A voice started to fill his ears-- quite a surprising one, at that. Though the Maker had never spoken to Zevran personally, the voice he was hearing now was… incongruous, somehow, with the profile supplied by the Chantry. Rather less booming and frightening than he had expected. In fact, it was quite the opposite: clear and vaguely mirthful. 

The only thing about it that had met with his assumptions was that the accent wasn't Fereldan. That was a good start. Perhaps the Maker was an approachable sort, then, one he could bargain with about alleviating this discomfort.

“Hello?” Something gently knocked into the sole of his boot. “Mr. Failed Assassination Attempt?”

He forced his eyes open and saw the facetious mage from before standing over him. Her arched, upturned brows gave her a distinctly villainous presence, and it was hard to tell if she was actively frowning, or she always looked like she wanted to drown someone. 

“Mmm… I… what?” She wasn’t the Maker, surely. Or even Andraste. Unless… 

Oh.

He groaned. “I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But you appear not to have killed me yet.”

“My goodness, you’re observant,” she deadpanned. “You should have been a scholar. You’re wasted as an assassin.”

A snort came out of Zevran before he could stifle it. “Just so. Well, since I am still very much alive, I would assume I am such for a purpose, yes?”

“He is very glib,” the gold-eyed witch said. Her full, painted lip curled a little as she appraised him with a look of open displeasure.

“I’m told that is my way,” he returned, a wicked smile coming to him. “Well then, let’s see… you probably haven’t killed me because you want information, no?" 

The Warden had barely finished saying, 'Yes, please,' before he continued. 

"In which case, let me oblige you. My name is Zevran, or Zev to my friends. I am an assassin in the Antivan Crows, and was hired to kill off the remaining Grey Wardens. As you see, though, I have unfortunately failed in this task.” 

And it was unfortunate. The way forward from here was either a death prefaced by some minutes of his marks holding it over his head, or something rather more gruesome at the hands of the Crows, if these people were kind (or unkind) enough to turn him loose.

The latter event seemed unlikely, judging by the complete lack of sympathy half these people were showing.

“My heart bleeds for you,” the blond man muttered, rolling his eyes.

“You may be pleased about it,” Zevran replied with a half smirk, “but for my case, this sets a rather poor precedent. Not the best way to be when you’ve a budding assassin career.”

The mage shrugged and nodded. “True enough," she conceded mildly, the corners of her mouth stretching into a grin. "So who hired you to snuff us out, then?”

Maker, this woman had a flippancy to her that made his guts twist, smiling and conversing with him as though he had done nothing more than stick a foot out to trip her as a gag. Apparently the taunting had already started.

“Oh, now it was… let me see…” Unable to resist himself, he stole a closer look at her while sifting through names in his head. Every feature was sharp and dramatic: prominent bow in the top lip; cold, grey eyes; a pointed nose that continued the line of her forehead without a dent. No doubt too terrifying for most Southerners' tastes, but somewhere exquisite and brutally intimidating like Nevarra or Tevinter, people would have been falling over each other to get a look at her.  

Strangely austere, too, for a mage. The Circle usually kept them in quite elaborate, richly-coloured robes, with buckles and piping and the like. This one, though, she sported an oversized, plain black set that made her look like a billowing shadow in the light breeze. Whether or not there was actually a body under there was up for debate. 

Zevran shelved his curiosity for the moment and forced himself to return to the task of saving his skin-- and without knowing precisely what she’d do with him if he didn’t try his luck, it was a prospect that grew more favourable by the second. He assumed an expression of pensiveness and the name came to him at last.

“Loghain, I think it was. Rather untalkative sort, actually.” 

Like most Fereldans.

"So you're loyal to Loghain, then, are you?" the young man growled, getting the most attractive furrow between his knitted brows as he did.

"Now, now,” Zevran said sweetly, “did I say that? What need would an Antivan have to pledge loyalty to a foreign power? I have no idea what Loghain’s issues with you are. I would guess you threaten his power, yes? That’s what it usually boils down to.” He shrugged, a hint of satisfaction creeping into his chest as the man’s flinty glare softened a touch. “Beyond that, no, I'm not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service, nothing more."

"Did… did you get paid much to do the deed?" the mage broached after some hesitation, as though the topic of his income were a sensitive one.

He laughed mirthlessly and shook his head. "I wasn't paid anything. The Crows, however, I understand they were paid quite handsomely.” He rubbed his chin, adding, “Come to think of it, that makes me about as poor as a Chantry mouse. Being an Antivan Crow isn't for the very ambitious."

She made a small, surprised noise as she raised an eyebrow. "Why are you one, then? Gumptious, enterprising fellow like you. You could make a fortune in business or politics."

Zevran sighed. "Well, aside from a distinct lack of ambition, I suppose it's because I wasn't given much of a choice. The Crows bought me as a child on the slave market. I was a bargain, too, or so I'm led to believe." 

The mage's other eyebrow rose, her mouth making an 'o' shape. "You’re an enslaved assassin?" 

"Yes, I suppose I am. Oh, but don't let my sad story influence you," he joked, waving a hand as her eyes widened. "The Crows, they keep one well supplied. Wine, women, men, whatever you happen to fancy.” 

He paused and gave a half-hearted shrug. “Though the whole severance package is garbage, let me tell you. If you're considering a career with them, I'd really think twice about it."

The blond man shook his head, looking thoroughly baffled. "You’re not very loyal to your employers, either, are you?”

The mage looked at the man in disbelief. “Alistair, they enslaved him. What loyalty does he owe them?”

The convenient segue made Zevran smile a little. "Mmm! Loyalty is an interesting concept, isn’t it? Perhaps we could discuss that further? Only if you are done interrogating me, of course."

He looked to the mage, who gave a murmur of assent and invited him to speak with a friendly gesture. Zevran nodded his thanks and proceeded.

"Well, here is the thing: I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will."

Those two options were unsatisfactory to her, if her knitted brows were anything to go by, a reaction as unexpected as it was encouraging. His tone grew enterprising as he continued. 

"My only way of escaping them is to land the protection of someone more powerful. But me, I like living, and you are obviously the sort to give the Crows pause, so why not let me serve you instead?" 

"And you think we will unquestioningly assume you would be loyal to us?" the witch asked in an icy tone. 

Zevran permitted himself to hint at his displeasure by arching an eyebrow. “I happen to be a very loyal person,” he said delicately, putting a hand on his chest. "Up until the point where someone expects me to die for failing. That's not really a fault, is it? Unless you would do the same, I suppose, in which case I don't come well-recommended." 

He shifted on the ground as the mage watched him. It was hard to tell if her half-smile was ominous or friendly. Experience said it was likely the former, which didn't help matters.

A silence hung over the group until she let out a low, thoughtful hum. 

"You're not seriously thinking about his offer, are you?" Alistair yelped at her. "He just tried to kill us!"

She shrugged. "It was nothing personal. I doubt we would have acted differently if we were him. Though I must say, it's a damned foolish move trying to kill the last of the only people in Ferelden qualified to stop a Blight, especially at a time like this." Her eyes twinkled, and Zevran conceded her point with a laugh. 

The mage pressed on, "Besides, we aren't really in a position to turn down help where it's offered. If we’re to make a deal, though, we should do it properly." 

Zevran watched with open fascination as she sat down cross-legged near him and smiled. Either this woman was remarkably stupid, or very sure of her safety-- perhaps both, even. 

Her companions evidently attributed it to the former, as Alistair strode over and made to pick her up by her shoulders.

"Rhodri! Maker's breath, get away from him before he stabs you!" He shook her with far more gentleness than his bulk could have managed, eyeing Zevran like he was made of unstable explosives.

A serene, patient look came over Rhodri’s face as she lifted Alistair’s huge hands off her and patted his arm. "Easy does it. Zevran has the right to make an informed choice. Besides, you saw the looks he gave me when we were handling his… ah… co-workers.”

Zevran frowned a little. The looks he had given her? No, he had kept a straight face, had he not?

She appeared not to notice. “He's no fool. He clearly knows when he’s lost. He was nowhere near this charming before we started fighting." She glanced at Zevran for confirmation, and he quickly chuckled and nodded.

"As shrewd as you are breathtaking," he purred.  

Rhodri snorted and kept her attention on him. "Let me make you an offer."

An offer. Ooh. Now that was a delicacy he was yet to sample, and certainly not what was usually available at a time like this. Always one for novelty, he nodded again.

"I’m not in the business of having people serve me,” she said plainly. “I’m not that kind of leader, and I don’t want that from you.”

Zevran felt his eyes widen before he forced inscrutability. Rhodri, not missing a beat, continued. 

"If you would like to join us, we’ll offer you full protection from the Crows while you help us to protect each other from any enemies we may come across as we work to end the Blight. You would not mindlessly follow orders. We work together and value each other's opinions and expertise. You would be a full, equal member, as much as me or anyone else, not a slave or a servant. You eat and sleep and live as we do, and you would be entitled to an equal portion of whatever income we get, which is your pay for your work. If, after a time, you find you disagree with our morals and values, then you are free to leave, taking your possessions and pay with you.”

“Warden, you are making it incredibly easy for him to slit your throat as you sleep,” the witch snapped as she drew up beside her. “Or to simply disappear and return with reinforcements!”

“On the contrary, Morrigan, I’m making it very difficult for him,” Rhodri replied, all teeth and prominent canines as she smiled up at her. “I’m probably making Zevran here the best offer he’s ever had. I’m giving him a feasible means of escaping the Crows and voiding his status as an enslaved assassin, and the only thing that binds him to us is his word.”

Zevran resisted the urge to shuffle backward as she looked at him intently, the gleam of predatory fangs still fresh in his mind. 

“If you’re as loyal as you say, a promise is no small thing to make.” Her voice took on a hint of warning now, “And you should know that I do not take betrayal well. At all. If you attempt to harm my team or myself, assuming we don't kill you in self-defence, you will be expelled immediately and it will be on you to ensure the Crows don’t catch up to you. Think very carefully before you answer.”

“This is ridiculous,” Alistair grumbled, cutting Zevran off as he made to answer. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Morrigan’s right. You can’t be sure he isn’t choosing to join just to save his skin long enough to kill you!”

Rhodri pursed her lips thoughtfully. “All right, we'll give him some other options, then, to make sure we start on the same page.”

That almost made Zevran laugh. Whatever she had presumed about life as a Crow was no doubt hysterically off the mark, but the prospect of having options was so intriguing that assurances of one offer sufficing died on his tongue. 

“If you’re truly set on killing me," she declared, "you and I can duel, right here, right now.”

“I-- Rhodri!” Alistair's voice was a near-shriek now as he swatted her shoulder. “Maker, you idiot, get up! Don’t you see how easy you’re making this for him?”

“That’s the idea,” she said with a shrug before turning back to Zevran. “I’ll even heal you first, if you like, so it’s a fair fight--” (a howled, “You’re JOKING!” issued from Alistair)--

“Or, and this can be your third option: if you have no desire to traipse around and fight darkspawn with us, fair enough. We can give you a few sovereigns and you can be off on your own adventure, no hard feelings.”

Incredible. A mark actually giving him the chance to kill her, one on one? It was better odds than he’d ever had, even without the advantage of striking from stealth. A simple slice across the throat, a knife between the ribs… even up against a proficient mage, one timely smoke bomb would distract her long enough for him to sink a blade in. 

But the decision made itself. He barely had to cast his mind back to the Crows before the pit of his stomach dropped. No, it was time to try something new.

Zevran met her eyes and nodded. “Then I pledge my unwavering loyalty to your cause until such time as you choose to release me. I am your man, without reservation. This, I swear.” The words of his tokenistic contract speech always came easily to him when he rattled them off, but somehow, they meant more this time. And why not? If her offer was genuine, only a fool would offer anything less than the same in return.

Those teeth looked marginally less threatening this time as she flashed him a smile and rose to her feet. “Excellent! Welcome aboard, then.” She extended a hand to him, and he winced as he took it and she hauled him up. 

“Hmm? Where does it hurt?” She scanned him attentively.

“I think I wrenched my shoulder and back during the fight,” he replied, gingerly twisting his torso. "And took quite a knock to the head, if I'm not mistaken."

“Anything broken or dislocated?”

Zevran shook his head.

“May I try some healing magic to help that?”

The unexpected offer made his breath stall in his throat. Beneficial magic was well out of the reach of most Crows, and the kind that damaged was forced on them. Exactly which of these he was about to receive was unclear, and after taking a moment to brace himself for the latter of them, he nodded, hoping the apprehension didn’t show.

“All right. Hold still a moment, and don't scratch,” Rhodri requested before she swept her staff over his upper body. 

There was no dazzling light or otherworldly hum from the spell as all the adventure tales had promised. In fact, nothing was happening at all until the sore spots erupted in furious itchiness, and keeping a straight face while waiting for it to ebb was a trial. He attempted to distract himself by looking at the black wraparound snake earring sitting on her right ear. He had seen something like it once, but the particulars hadn’t come to him by the time Rhodri lowered her staff.

“There,” she said. “How does that feel?”

Zevran’s eyebrows shot up as he rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms out, the aches and stings gone with the itch and leaving him with the most exquisite lightness of being.

“Excellent, thank you,” he breathed. 

“I don’t believe this,” Alistair said to nobody in particular, shaking his head. “We are actually bringing along the man who tried to murder us...”

Rhodri gave him a serene smile before turning to Zevran.

"Introductions are in order, I think," she declared and gestured around the group, starting with the redheaded woman.

"This is Leliana of Orlais. She is an armed Chantry sister who approached us in a tavern and asked to join us. Morrigan stands behind her. Her mother is the Witch of the Wilds, who informed Morrigan as we were about to depart the Korcari Wilds that she would be travelling with Alistair and me. Speaking of whom, this is he." She waved a hand at the blond man, who scowled furiously. "Alistair of Ferelden hated being a templar and wanted a career change, and so he was conscripted as a Warden. Back at the camp is Sten, a Qunari who murdered an entire family on their farmstead in a fit of rage and has joined us in hopes of atoning for his sins. And we have a dog, Jeppe.” Rhodri beamed as she added, “Jeppe is perfect. I think you'll fit in very well with us here."

Zevran suppressed the urge to laugh enough to manage a smooth smile and a ‘how do you do’ to the rather unamused party members. To his relief, it was enough to stave off what would, he guessed, have otherwise been a very long, heavy silence.

Rhodri clapped her hands once. “Excellent. Time to go, then. Unless...” she glanced at the cows. “Zevran, how long have these been dead?”

“Oh, not long,” he answered. “We slit their throats perhaps twenty minutes before you came.”

“Shame to let it all go to waste… who has a clean knife?”

Chapter Text

After a few moments had passed and no knives were volunteered, Zevran carefully unsheathed a smallish dagger that was strapped to his inner thigh and held the pommel out to Rhodri.

All eyes were on him by this point, which was to be expected. It was rather more surprising, though, that the thus-far unflappable Warden had now frozen except for the tiny motions of her fingers rubbing against her thumbs. Her face was suspiciously neutral as she stared at the proffered knife.

Zevran shrugged. “It is the only one of my daggers not dipped in poison. For obvious reasons, I would hope.”

Part of the Warden’s lower lip disappeared under her upper lip before they separated with a small smack. 

“Thank you for offering, Zevran,” she said slowly. “But I don’t want my food to be prepared with a knife that’s been near your crotch.” She turned away from him and looked at the others. “Does anyone have a non-poison, non-crotch knife?”

Silence fell, punctuated only by a poorly-stifled giggle from Leliana.

“Oh, very well,” the witch snapped, stepping forward with a dagger in hand. Without another word to anyone, she knelt by one of the beasts, unsheathed the blade, and began slicing into the cow’s ribs with neat, precise motions. A warm ‘thank you, Morrigan,’ from Rhodri went unacknowledged, and barely a moment had passed before the Warden faced Zevran again, all teeth as she smiled at him and indicated the knife that should long have been re-sheathed.

“Don’t worry, yours will still come in handy. While Morrigan handles the steaks, the rest of us should be able to work quickly enough to skin one of the cows, yes?” She pointed at a white one with a series of brown flecks on its back. “Perhaps this one? Those patches are delightful.”

Between the shock of the ‘crotch knife’ remark and watching her register open sullenness with bright cheerfulness, the chance to stash away clever, noncommittal remarks for moments like this had been lost. To his relief, his head nodded without being asked to, and she had barely returned the gesture before she bustled away. 

He was meant to follow after her. He knew he was, but when his body failed to follow the implicit order to get moving, Zevran managed little more than staring after her as she made a beeline to the desired cow. The snap-to dislike Alistair’s eyes all but broadcast as he glared at Zevran was surprisingly welcome after that; unfriendly though it was, at least it was familiar and offered several predictable outcomes. A degree of movement returned to his muscles, and, flashing a sultry smile in the Templar’s direction, he swanned past him and over to Rhodri, taking a spot beside her at the carcass.

“Right,” she said, not looking up as she extracted a knife from at her hip. “We get a quarter each. Strip away as much fat as you can, and don’t worry too much if you accidentally cut the hide in the process. Healing magic can work as well on dead flesh as it does living flesh.” 

Zevran glanced up in time to see the colour drain from Leliana’s face, her hands hovering in mid-air over her section of the beast as she stared at the Warden. Said Warden, however, was already whistling a jaunty tune as she drew her knife up the cow’s belly and around the legs and neck. Leliana caught Zevran's eye, and then they both looked to Alistair, whose nose was wrinkled as he hacked away on his own part.

“Wish you hadn’t reminded me of that, Rhodri,” he groaned. "Maker's breath. Talk about mages being a demon asleep…"

"Demons don't sleep," she said calmly, not looking up from her work. "Not even sloth demons sleep. They lie dormant to replenish themselves, but unlike us when we sleep, they're fully conscious the whole time. Besides, mages usually aren't possessed."

Alistair cleared his throat. "That, ah… was a figure of speech. You know the phrase, surely. 'A mage is fire made flesh, and a demon asleep.'"

“Ha! This part here around the abdomen is much easier to cut! Look, the fat is almost separate from the muscle.” The Warden tugged on the flesh demonstratively, beaming as the gentlest cut easily stripped large parts of hide away. After a moment, she looked up at Alistair. “Yes, I know the phrase. The Templars said it to us all the time, and they didn’t like it when I pointed out that the premise of us being fire incarnate is entirely flawed, but really. For one thing, even the weakest crude fire damages living things. No body can sustain temperatures significantly higher than its normal temperature without death or injury. Think how unwell we are even with a fever! And!” Her head bobbed a little from the emphasis, “Even if a mage body were to adapt and house such a high temperature, that would mean that we would either burn other things just by touching them, or, if we were properly insulated, if we were suddenly injured or we vomited, the heat would escape. An outbreak of food poisoning would see a Circle tower burn to the ground in minutes. It’s an absurd premise.”

Zevran kept his eyes on his work and his mouth firmly shut. In all fairness to the mage, her arguments were perfectly credible. How called-for they were, though, was rather more debatable. On his visit to the Antivan Circle, he had overheard exchanges of wry remarks between mages and Templars alike, none of them being answered with a lecture on physiology or magic. Perhaps they had no sense of humour here in Ferelden? Ah, but Alistair had made the joke. 

… Was Alistair not from Ferelden, then?

No, if there was a foreigner between them, it had to be the mage.

His thoughts were abruptly scattered upon hearing his name, and he looked up in the direction from which it had come to find Rhodri smiling at him.

“Such neat work! Look, not a single cut through the hide!” She gestured proudly at his quarter.

“And see the way Zevran took a risk and slashed up the artery and not along it? How quickly it collapsed from the blood loss? Very neat work.” 

Teacher Giuliana pointed a finger at Zevran’s target, a monkey that lay in a lake’s worth of blood before her face twisted into a scowl. 

“The rest of you were pathetic. Multiple stabs, slow bleeds, and I’ve never heard so much screaming in my life. If these were marks, their guards would have turned you into pincushions.”

Zevran shifted a little as Giuliana drew near him and the boy beside him. 

“Put out your hands, you two.”

They obeyed– of course they did– and she made a show of giving them a silver coin each. His eyes darted to the right, where the other children stood, and his stomach dropped. The unscrupulous, predatory envy writ large on their gaunt faces was enough to know what awaited when they were all locked away together in their shared bedroom that evening.

Giuliana gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Do well and we supply you well.” She looked at the other children, whose faces collectively snapped into neutrality. “Do poorly, and you clean up after the good ones- if you’re lucky.” She clicked her fingers and pointed at the mess of corpses and writhing stragglers strewn over the warehouse floor. “I want this place spotless when I get back. Get to it. Zevran, Taliesen, come with me.”

Zevran cringed inwardly as he glanced up and caught a flash of displeasure in Alistair’s eyes, and forced a slow smile.

He shrugged with a flourish as he turned to the friendlier Warden. “Ah, what is knifework if not an art, hmm?” A ridiculous remark, but it was the only thing that came to him. 

Rhodri acknowledged it with a nod, and surprisingly, the smile stayed on her face as she turned to Alistair and Leliana.

“Don’t worry, I made a lot of cuts in my part as well. See, though? A simple fusion spell mends the flesh nicely.” The incisions healed before his eyes as she made small, pinching motions that knitted the openings back together. A stolen glance at the two of them showed a calm slackness to their bodies that was hard to feign in the face of true concern; apparently, they were sure they had nothing to worry about. 

The Crows would have eaten you alive.

“Right. Well, Alistair, I think we’re strong enough together. If you and I lift, Leliana and Zevran can take the hide, and then we can be on our way, yes?” The Warden was on her feet and waved at Morrigan, who stood a few paces away with her arms folded, a large pile of steaks at her side. “We’ll be there in a moment, Morrigan! Now, my friend, you take the front legs and I’ll take the back, yes? Right. Three-two-one- hup!”

The two Wardens both let out loud grunts as they hauled the beast a short way off the ground. Zevran and Leliana quickly dragged the hide away, and the carcass hit the earth a moment later with a thud.

He eyed the gasping pair as they propped themselves up with hands on their knees, their faces bright pink and already misting with sweat.

“Ah… hah, a better job to do in the winter, I think,” Rhodri panted at the man through a grin.

Leliana, who had already picked up the hide and folded it to sit neatly in her arms, went and stood near them.

“You looked very strong, there, you two,” she crooned in a velvety voice, apparently not surprised by any of this. 

It took substantial effort not to snort as Alistair muttered, “I look like I’ve been boiled alive now, I bet…”

And Rhodri, she certainly knew how to take a flirtatious compliment, not an inch of modesty to her as she straightened up and nodded.

“Yes, we did,” she agreed, and put her arms out. “Shall I carry the hide? It might get heavy for you after a while.”

If Leliana was anything but pleased by that, she didn’t show it, nodding and passing the hide to her. Rhodri took it with a grin and she, along with everyone else, started to drift over toward the road.

Ah, and here came the difficult part. Flattering though it was, the problem with being called an equal was that there was no such thing. The Warden had called him, Zevran, an equal. She had used that exact word. And perhaps he was to her-- for an elf. Or for a supposedly formerly enslaved assassin. 

Still, even if these people genuinely believed there was no hierarchy among them, the truth of the matter would be revealed by where he walked in the group.

But where precisely was that spot meant to be? Certainly, the Crow masters had taught him about the proper place to be when seducing marks. Walking a step behind the human men to massage their ego; almost but not quite matching the pace of human women, who preferred a warm body closer by. The dwarves, rare targets as they were, liked it the same way, and naturally, remaining side-by-side was essential with another elf. 

But what about for a mark one had tried and failed to kill, and whom he was now an associate? Not even an educated guess came to mind, and a misstep here could prove fatal.

And it was so like him, wasn’t it, to dive into these things without a plan. Throw all his energy into the present moment with the unshakeable belief that if that went well, the rest would work itself out. After all, planning was Rinna’s job--

No.

He ignored the muscles itching to raise his hand and smack his face, and made his way to the very back of the group. That placed him a few paces behind the luscious witch, off to the side enough that she easily saw him in her periphery. When her gaze went onto him, however, and he gave his most charming smile, she curled her lip.

“No,” she said firmly, waving a pointed finger ahead of her. “I have no desire to constantly check my right hand side. Further up with you.”

He bowed with a flourish. “As you wish.”

That earned him a disgusted scoff, and his long strides brought him up near Alistair and Leliana, who walked side by side behind the Magewarden.

The Templar took his presence with even worse humour, his nose wrinkling into a snarl as he turned around to face Zevran. 

"Oh, no you don't," he growled. "As if I'm going to give you the chance to backstab us!"  With one hand forming an utterly useless barrier between Zevran and a rather nonchalant-looking Leliana, Alistair reached his other hand out and had started to shove Zevran toward the front–

“Alistair!”

The barked name made the man jump a little, and Rhodri was between them in an instant, using an overcrowded hand to hook four fingers under Alistair’s palm and lever it off Zevran.

"We do not manhandle or threaten group members unless there’s an urgent situation," she said, watching the human gravely. “You know this is a rule of ours, because I told Morrigan the same thing when she pointed her staff at you. If you’re concerned for your safety, I expect you to tell me, and I will handle the matter personally." She turned to Zevran, and his stomach lurched despite the relative calm that was ebbing her frown away.

"I’d like you to walk beside me, if you please, Zevran." Her tone was even and polite, but did not seem one that encouraged any arguments from his part.

"I-- Rhodri!" Alistair protested. "He could cut your throat when he's that close! You think I’m moving him away just to be unfriendly?"

“He’s had ample opportunity to cut my throat already,” she replied, shifting the collar of her robes to reveal a sinewy neck and a sturdy gold chain that must have cost a fortune (ooh, and Leliana! That sphinxlike expression was gone, the blue in her eyes all but swallowed by huge, greedy pupils as she watched the mage stroke a hand up and down her throat). 

“Still intact, as you see,” Rhodri continued before straightening up and readjusting her robes. “I presume it’s because he’s a group member and has no desire to throw away a chance at a new life, but if it’s because the three of you,” she waved a hand between the other humans, “will take action if he offs me, then walking side-by-side will pose no more risk than when we sat in the grass together.”

Zevran bit his lip as he watched Alistair’s dissatisfied expression, now tinged with a blush. There wasn’t an Antivan in existence who didn’t love watching a good bicker, especially when it made handsome men go bright red, but bickering over him? It was delicious and awkward in equal measure. 

The Templar let out a groan and nodded his head, which Rhodri accepted with a smile. 

"Zevran," she used an open palm to gesture at the place she had been occupying. "Please go to the front, and I will join you shortly."

He nodded quickly, pacing ahead where he waited with his back almost turned to them. Feigning fascination with a nearby bush allowed him to keep the corner of one eye on the edge of the group.

He pretended not to hear the conversation as it continued behind him. "Always tell me, Alistair, yes?" The Warden spoke gently now. "You wished me to lead, and I do, but you must talk to me if you have an issue." Skin patted metal; the shallow clinks suggested the back of a gauntleted hand. "Have I given you reason to think I would ever dismiss your concerns?"

The 'no' Alistair gave was mumbled.

"You are being honest with me? I can trust you to tell me?"

His 'yes' was soft, but much clearer.

Rhodri chuckled warmly. "Ah, good. Then we’re fine?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, we’re fine."

Another pat, and the mage drew up beside Zevran a moment later. The team fell into a walk, and awkward as this all had been, at least he knew where to be now. 

“I never had the pleasure of your own introduction, my Grey Warden,” Zevran purred. He had heard Alistair say her name, but Fereldans even butchered words in their own tongue, and if she was the leader, there was no room for mispronunciation. 

Her eyes widened. "Oh! My goodness, how rude of me. I apologise. I am Severin Rhodri Amell Callistus of Minrathous, Kirkwall, and for the last twelve years, Ferelden’s Circle of Magi.” 

Ah, that explained the odd accent; the rounded, nasal vowels and tiny trill to her Rs were suddenly much more noticeable. Nobility, too, no doubt. Only the very powerful had the gall to introduce themselves with ‘I am,’ as though no other means of addressing them could possibly exist.

Severin Rhodri Amell Callistus gave him a benign smile, jostled the hide into one arm, and touched the freed hand to her chest, her head inclining a little as she said, “Placetum.”  

And now she was mocking him. She had to be. No Tevinter mage spoke so politely with an elf, even if they had been living in the South. 

And yet nobody laughed, and her hand stayed on her chest until he cleared his throat and answered her with the hesitant chuckle he summoned. 

“Oho, a Tevinter this far south! Ah, but you must forgive me. I am… not familiar with the proper honorifics. How shall I address you?”

She frowned and waved a hand. “Oh, no need for any of that. Most people here call me Rhodri, so you can use that if you’d like.”

If he’d like. So there was, in fact, no point at all to that long introduction.

“Rrrrodzh-ee?” he echoed carefully, struggling to get his tongue around the foreign sound combinations.

“Oh, you’re close! Hrrrod-dree,” she repeated, slowing enough for him to clearly hear the rolled breathiness of the first syllable and the hard affricate that created the second one.

“Rhodri?” he tried again.

“Yes! Perfect!” She gave an encouraging nod. “And what about you, then? Am I saying your name correctly? Zevran, is that right?”

It took all his effort not to raise an eyebrow at her. People like him weren’t asked about their own names, and she knew it. No, this was definitely derision, but the blithe, menacing cheerfulness cloaking it made it hard to know what sort of an answer she actually wanted to fuel her jokes.

Give her something before she kills you.

“Ah, there is no need to worry, my Grey Warden. I can answer to anything you like.”

The Warden squinted at him. “Say your name for me, please?” she requested, tilting her ear toward him as he drawled it for her. “Ah, so it’s Zev- rahn , not Zev- rahn. Does that sound right? Be honest with me, please. Always be honest with me."

“... That was correct, yes,” he confirmed cautiously. 

She nodded, looking pleased. "Good, good. It would be terrible to mispronounce your name when I’ll be using it often. That would be frustrating for you.”

Zevran chuckled in an attempt to settle his twisting guts. It was the not knowing what she intended to do with him that made it so awful. Was she trying to lull him into a false sense of security so she could kill him in his sleep and feast on his innards? To use him as Darkspawn bait? Or, if he was lucky, perhaps she was on the lookout for a handsome slave when she eventually went home to Tevinter? He absently touched a hand to the shoulder she had healed; serving someone who was ready to keep him in good physical condition was a vast improvement in circumstances, when all was said and done. 

His thoughts were scattered as the mage spoke to him again. 

"Now, Zevran, I imagine you have some questions for us," she said, keeping her eyes on the road ahead as she spoke. "But for efficiency’s sake, perhaps you could tell me what you already know about us. Loghain must have given you a few details, yes?"

Zevran chortled as he cast his mind back to his very short, very abrupt meeting with the Teyrn, a man made of snarls and disgusted sighs. 

"Teyrn Loghain didn't tell me anything, I'm afraid," he said with a shrug. "Not to my face, anyway. But I was given a description of whom to slaughter, which I presume he supplied. Young and well-looking human adults, I believe were the words--"

He was forced to pause as a loud, rattling laugh burst out of Rhodri. 

"Forgive me, Zevran, but did you hear that, Alistair?" She looked over her shoulder with a broad grin, and out of the corner of his eye, Zevran saw her free hand tapping furiously on her leg. "Even the man who wants us dead has to admit we're good-looking!" Another laugh pealed out of her.

Zevran glanced back in time to see Alistair snort and roll his eyes. 

“Well, that makes it all better, doesn’t it…” he mumbled, the wry bitterness almost dripping off his lips.

The sunny look on the Magewarden’s face didn’t falter. “Ah, come now, amicus! It would’ve been like drinking poison for the surly brute, admitting that much on paper.” She held up two pinched fingers. “It’s a tiny victory, but a victory all the same!”

A relenting but genuine smile came to the Templar. “Yeah, I guess so.”

The matter apparently settled, Rhodri turned back to Zevran. 

“Apologies again, my friend. Please do go on. I won’t interrupt you to make foolish jokes with Alistair this time around.”

A skewed grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “To be truthful, my Grey Warden, I was given little information beyond your whereabouts and a few physical descriptors.”

“So you don’t know anything about the Wardens at all?”

He wavered one hand a little. “Oh, small things, but none of it came from this mission. Your order is known in Antiva for their prowess in battle against the fearsome Darkspawn.”

And against assassins, I was assured.

Rhodri nodded. “I see. Well, that means you need to be brought up to speed on some safety regulations.” She held up her index finger as Zevran raised an eyebrow. “The most important thing you need to know is that Warden and Darkspawn blood are both very dangerous. If you get any in an open wound or your mouth or eyes, you need to wash it off immediately and come to either Alistair or me for treatment so that Blight sickness doesn’t kill you.”

His eyes widened. “Hm. That was not relayed to me when I was discussing the contract.”

The Warden tsked, frowning and shaking her head. “Very slack of them. It’s a painful way to go. Well, I imagine you see now why Alistair and I don’t handle food, as a rule. Not unless we’ve washed and made sure there are no open cuts.”

He nodded. What else was there to say to that? 

But she seemed not to mind. In fact, the last few times he hadn’t been as eloquent as planned, she was as jolly as ever. 

The minutes dragged on in a stifling silence that he regretted not appreciating more when it was shattered by the Warden indicating ahead. 

“There’s a fellow standing by the side of the road up there,” she announced. “Do you see him?”

His eyes followed her outstretched hand and, once he had managed to ignore the jolts going through his guts (Nagale! They would not know you failed so soon.), he reluctantly joined the others in giving a murmur of assent. 

“Do you know anything about him, Zevran?” Leliana enquired. He turned around and saw her watching him with a polite scrutiny that matched the tone of her voice. After letting his gaze dart onto a deeply mistrustful Alistair, and then onto Rhodri, who was frowning (or neutral?) at something just beyond his face, he looked back to Leliana and smiled.

“Not I, my dear, no. He is a surprise to us all.”

“And how do we know you’re telling the truth, then?” Alistair demanded of him. He turned to Rhodri. “What if this is part of his plan, a set-up to catch us off our guard after the first fight?”

Zevran shrugged. “A fair point. You Grey Wardens are famed for your strength and stamina, after all. Tiring you out enough to be sure I could land a killer blow would be quite a sound approach.”

It was a trial not to chuckle as Alistair gaped at him before schooling his features into something more formidable. 

“You see, Rhodri? He even admits it would be a good plan!”

“Oh, it certainly would,” he nodded. “I could station a few archers up behind that pile of stones there, and in the cluster of bushes, I think I could fit two or three rogues. Where I would hide the muscle is debatable, but perhaps the man is just that.”
He permitted himself the tiniest smile. “Though really, I would have done myself a huge disservice revealing all that to you. Besides which, I was given a set sum of money for hirelings and traps and the like, and I spent all of it on the masterful lure back where we met.”

“Good thing we skinned that cow and got tonight’s dinner from it, then,” Rhodri said brightly. “Getting some of your money’s worth.”

Alistair squinted at her. “Are you not even vaguely worried about this? There is a man up ahead who is a stone’s throw away from the one who just tried to kill us!”

Rhodri shrugged. “I suppose there is a small chance that Zevran is lying to us and would rather die an enslaved assassin than live free with us,” 

Oh, and he nearly didn’t conceal the heaved breath that all but burst his lungs when she said that!

“But what happened to all that ‘fire made flesh’ business you were talking about? One moment Morrigan and I are a terrifying force of nature, and the next we’re sitting ducks on the off-chance of a two-part assassination scheme with very advanced warning. I think you need to make your mind up which it is that we are, Alistair, because the inconsistency is doing you no favours.”

He groaned. “You don't understand what I'm saying at all.”

Rhodri’s frown deepened. “You don’t think so? I only had to cast a sleep spell and an ice spell before everyone but Zevran was immobilised, and we had no warning of that. I have the energy to do such demanding spellwork four times over before I feel tired. Even if everyone but me were helpless civilians, your safety would be assured. But you are a Grey Warden and Templar. Leliana is an exceptional archer, and Morrigan is another powerful mage. What’s the problem?”

Alistair threw up his hands. “He’s right beside us! Right under our noses. He could stab any of us and let the others move in for the kill.”

Zevran shrugged again. “I could, yes. It is a reasonable concern. Though it would mean I broke my oath of loyalty to you, and that would be unwise for many reasons.”

The Templar tsked irritably. “I don’t trust him, Rhodri. I didn’t before, and I especially don’t trust him now.”

“If you do decide to make any attempts on the Wardens, Zevran,” Morrigan spoke up from behind, “I would consider it a personal favour if you started with Alistair.”

“Morrigan,” Rhodri held a hand up, shaking her head. “Don’t joke about other party members getting killed, please.”

The witch sniffed. “‘Twas only half in jest.”

“Enough, Morrigan!” The Warden’s voice was sharp now, and the first hints of true irritation were showing on her drawn brows. “I expect all party members to be respectful of each other. We are at constant risk of attack, and heavily rely on one another for safety. There is no room for fractured relations because of uncivil behaviour.” She took a deep breath and looked at Zevran, and his muscles tensed. 

“Alistair has safety concerns with you, Zevran,” she said to him plainly, and the alarm quickly redirected itself into a violent struggle to keep a snort from tearing out.

Truly? I hadn’t noticed.

“I take these matters very seriously,” she continued, “so if I may, I would like to put a shield on you, another on me, and then another on Alistair, Leliana, and Morrigan, as we pass the gentleman on the side of the road.”

“Huh?” Alistair frowned. 

“Arcane shield,” Rhodri said calmly. “Repels knives, arrows, and fists and the like. Powerful stuff. And, of course, as one of us, Zevran is protected by his own shield as well. What do you think?”

A small blush was creeping into the Templar’s cheeks, and Zevran almost felt embarrassed on the man’s behalf. It really was a very uncomfortable situation, and pragmatic as it was to have everything out in the open, the lack of subtlety lent the sort of feeling he imagined some people experience when naked.

After a moment, Alistair nodded. “All right. Let’s try it.”

Rhodri nodded and turned to Zevran. “Are you willing to do this, Zevran?”

Ah. More magic. Delightful. Still, the first spell she did had been perfectly fine– welcome, even, in hindsight. He nodded, and with three flicks of the mage’s wrist, all of them stood inside what looked like dim but vaguely iridescent bubbles. He strained his ears to check if any sound accompanied this spell, but nothing. Not even a low hum.

“Right. Well, shall we carry on and see what the gentleman has to say for himself, if anything?” Rhodri jerked her head in the direction of the road ahead. The suggestion was met with nods of varying enthusiasm.

As they continued down the road, Zevran’s mind reeled with questions he had no business entertaining at a time like this. This was the perfect time to finally consider plans. After all, what was this if not a new lease on life, assuming the Warden wasn’t about to feed him to a Darkspawn? 

But thinking about plans and futures took energy, and as the reality of the situation finally began to sink in, his reserves dissipated. The reason he had even taken the damned mission to begin with still had its teeth in him, the bite as angry as ever, and the pain was only starting to register again now. 

No, at this point, energy replenishment was the order of the day, and pondering whether two people encased in an arcane shield would simply bounce off each other were they to collide– well, it was at least amusing, if not energising, and certainly was within his mental budget.

By the time they were within talking distance of the man, the theory that yes, they would bounce off each other if at least one moved with sufficient speed, was the most favourable. Had Rhodri ever tried that? She seemed odd enough to at least entertain the notion, if only in theory.

A ‘good afternoon, ser,’ from said odd mage dragged him into the present moment, and Zevran fought another smirk as the man eyed them inside their bubbles.

“Oh. Er… hello.” For being as well-dressed as he was, the man was travelling with remarkably little. A small satchel and a bedroll were all the items he could see. A good start; he could practically smell the smoke of singed clothes from Alistair’s eyes burning into his back. 

The fellow took a deep breath and pressed on. “I don’t suppose you could help me, could you? Not many people travelling on this road right now…”  

Help? Oh, no. Zevran could hear Alistair shifting from foot to foot behind him. He studiously kept his sweating hands where they could be seen, chewing on the inside of his cheek all the while. 

“We could certainly try to assist,” Rhodri said with a nod. “What do you need?”

Having his request indulged did little to shift the glum look on the man’s face, but he pressed on. “Ah, where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself. Felix de Grosbois is my name, merchant and entrepreneur at your service.”

A merchant with no goods. Zevran began mentally reciting the Canticle of Trials. With any luck, the Templar would make Zevran’s death a quick, if rather violent one. Two bashes with that shield, and that would be it.

“You… don’t really have much in the way of a shop,” Rhodri remarked with a raised eyebrow. “Would you like us to find you some things to sell?”

Felix glanced at the other companions with a vaguely disbelieving look before he turned back to her. 

“I had things I was going to sell,” he said with strained politeness, “Not like I’m new to this. I was trying to get away from the war, see. Took a route I don’t usually take through the mountains in the hope of good weather. Didn’t get it, though, did I, and now I’m finally out of there, I’ve ended up losing my goods when my mule got spooked by a wisp and ran off with the cart still attached.”

Rhodri acknowledged this with a nod, and as her mouth opened again, the merchant quickly cut her off.

“Look, all’s I want you to do for me, if you want, is to take this.” He rummaged in a satchel beside him and produced a long, slightly uneven stick.

An amused sound issuing from both Rhodri and Morrigan suddenly made the rather unprepossessing thing much more interesting. 

“A control rod for a golem,” Rhodri breathed as she peered at it with wide eyes. She plunged her hands into her pockets and shuffled back a step. “If it’s genuine, of course. Where did you get it?”

The man looked pleased by the magic users’ reaction, though his tone remained lethargic as he spoke again, “That’s right. Bought it from some bloke in Jader. He promised it’s real, but I’ll never get to use it myself, and it’s too good to just throw away.”

“And why might you never use it yourself?” Morrigan enquired pointedly from the back. “A golem has great utility, particularly for a merchant travelling in uncertain times.”

Felix laughed darkly. “Hah. Yeah, there’s the catch. Well, as you can see from around us,” he waved a hand demonstratively, “the golem ain’t here. It’s to the southwest of us in a little village called Honnleath, and after this bloody disaster, all’s I want to do is go home, and I don’t want to keep the control rod on me in case some bandit reckons it’s a gem. So if you want the golem, you’ve gotta pick it up yourselves, I’m afraid.”

Ah. Marvellous. The moment was fast approaching where Alistair leapt into action and accused him and Zevran both of being party to a more lengthy and elaborate murder setup than Prince Azrin’s had been.

“Look, here, I’ll mark it on your map, if you’ve got one?”

Zevran’s stomach dropped as Rhodri, the only one who had seemed convinced of his innocence in all this, frowned a little and said, “I don’t know about this.”

The merchant’s face fell a little. “Oh?”

“We don’t know for certain if golems are properly sentient. Much of their production is kept secret. If it’s simply an enchanted machine like any other, there’s little issue, but their capacity to follow complex instructions would suggest consciousness.” She scuffed her foot on the ground and sighed. “I’m not sure this is an ethical choice. If we saw the golem and gave it the control rod to self-govern, though, that could be very dangerous as well…” 

“And leaving it trapped in a tiny village as nothing more than an ornament during a Blight, Warden, to be destroyed by the Darkspawn?” Morrigan pressed. “I think amid the other cast-offs we have collected, a golem would be one of the more welcome additions.”

“Morrigan,” Rhodri warned over her shoulder before looking back at Felix. “We’re quite an interesting collection of people, and we are in need of help. Well, we can at least go and look at the golem and see what we can do, yes? What does everyone else think?”

Zevran forced his jaw to unclench. Wasn’t the point of a leader to make decisions on everyone’s behalf? He could already feel everyone’s eyes on him as they awaited his answer, and none of them would be the right one. Eagerness meant he wanted to kill them, indifference meant he was playing it cool but wanted to kill them, and expressing unsureness meant both lying (what fugitive assassin would deny the protection of two Grey Wardens and a golem?) and that he had lured them into this and was turning back because of guilt and had thus wanted to kill them after all. 

He had to say something, though. They were looking at him and why did he not pay attention when the others had been giving their remarks? 

“If what the Warden said about Blight sickness is true, I do not imagine a golem would be susceptible to it,” he said with a shrug. 

This was received with a thoughtful hum from the others– and a begrudging mumble on Alistair’s part.

“Mmm. All right, then.” Rhodri nodded. “We’ll take it. Alistair, if you wouldn’t mind; the rod is enchanted.”

The mage wanted the Templar to take the enchanted thing. Was she allergic to magic? … Was Zevran drunk? Whatever the reason, Alistair seemed to think nothing of it and immediately stepped forward to take the rod while she pulled a map out of her pack.

“When you get to the village, just hold it up and say ‘dulef gar’ to activate it,” the merchant said, pulling a pencil out of his pocket and scribbling the words onto the map underneath where he marked the little village. “Thank you for taking that bloody thing off my hands. Now, I suppose I’d better get looking for that mule…”

“Would you like some help?” Rhodri asked, giving a nod of thanks as she took the map back.

Felix waved a hand. “Oh, no, no, you don’t have to do that. I s-” his eyes fell on Zevran and he cleared his throat. “‘Scuse me, had a frog in my throat, there. I sent my assistant to check the area, and I should be able to find him without any trouble. Thank you, though.”

Oh, you sent the elf to do it, no? 

Zevran raised an eyebrow at him as subtly as he could, smirking inwardly and praying for no trouble. Mercifully, it seemed nobody else had picked up on it– or, at least, no protests had issued by the time Felix jerked a thumb over his shoulder. 

“Well, best be off. If you see a mule where you are, just send it my way, would you?”

Rhodri nodded. “Certainly. Best of luck to you, then.”

The man huffed a woeful laugh. “I’ll bloody need it.”

And then they were moving again. Slowly, and with much caution from Alistair, but they were in motion. 

“You think this thing’s a real control rod, Rhod?” he mumbled to her.

Leliana snickered. “A control rod-rod?”

He snorted. “I make up for any awkward silences by doubling up on words wherever I can.”

The Warden waggled her brows, spinning around and walking backwards as she faced the two of them. “Well, if it’s a fake, it’s a very good one. I could feel the lyrium on it from a few paces away.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I suppose if we go to this Honnleath place and actually see a golem there, we can probably assume it’s genuine. You seemed to think it looked quite convincing, too, didn’t you, Morrigan?”

Zevran glanced back in time to see the witch’s vaguely sour expression soften as her brows rose. 

“I think it may merit the walk to this little backwater of a place to be sure that it is not,” she said with a shrug. “Take that as you will.”

Rhodri nodded. “I thought as much. That’s enough for me. You’re very knowledgeable on magical matters.”

Oh, and the witch wasn’t immune to flattery, it seemed. A smile threatened at the corners of her mouth, and she appeared to think she had everyone fooled as she trained it into a smirk.

“I learned things that your Circle did not cover, yes,” she purred before turning her attention to the countryside on her left. 

The Warden beamed (again) at Alistair and Leliana, and when she was facing ahead again, Zevran got his own dose of the wrinkle-nosed, sharklike grin. 

She leaned a little toward him, her eyes going back to the road. “Interesting times, these, aren’t they?” 

Her hands were where he could see them– she would start a fire if she kept rubbing her fingers like that, but so long as the fire wasn’t going to be used on him, safety for the time being seemed assured.

“That is certainly one way of putting it,” he conceded with a weak chuckle.

She nodded, still smiling, and that was that.

Chapter Text

Night had long fallen by the time they reached the party camp. In the middle of a clearing, an assortment of canvas tents sat like a row of teeth around a spitting fire. Off by a small hill, two dwarven men perched on a cart and made conversation, and a makeshift fort swathed with rags suspiciously similar to the witch’s stood at the perimeter of the site. 

A stilted, mercifully quick introduction to the qunari kept Zevran from making a game of guessing which tent belonged to whom. The man was… huge. Grey and frowning, as stingy with words as the rich were with money. Sten, the Warden said his name was, dismissed all pleasantries– and civilities– with a grunt and tramped back to the fire with the armful of fresh meat they had brought. 

"That's one introduction down," Rhodri said to Zevran with a conspiratorial wink. "Mr. Bodahn and Sandal are usually busy with lessons now, so we'll wait to say hello to them-- ah! And here's Jeppe!"

She gestured at a horse-sized dog emerging from between two bushes, blithe-looking enough until its gaze snapped onto Zevran and the hairs on its neck began to bristle. Zevran's innards turned to ice as it stalked toward them, growling softly all the while. Its head was almost double the size of Zevran’s, and how effortlessly those jaws crushed bone didn’t bear thinking about.

“He’s a marvellous guard dog.” Rhodri beamed as she knelt down, reaching out to it as though certain she’d leave the encounter with the same number of limbs she had started out with. 

The hulking beast fell silent and slunk into her arms, accompanied by an odour that made Zevran’s eyes water. He ought to consider himself lucky, Zevran supposed, that the owner of the miasma was placated. Or at least knew not to growl straight before going in for the kill.

“Hello, hollix,” Rhodri crooned warmly, smoothing her thumbs over the dog's well-muscled cheeks. “You were good for Sten while we were gone, hmm?”

If a hollix – whatever that was– could blink happily, this one did it. Though "happy" was perhaps an overly optimistic descriptor for something that had eyed Zevran like prey moments prior. 

“Zevran?” Rhodri smiled up at him. “Would you like me to introduce you to Jeppe?”

Introduce. And how would that go, Warden? ‘Jeppe, meet your dinner. Zevran, meet your end.’ 

Jeppe’s mouth lolled open in a pant, revealing a set of large, white fangs that evoked a fluttered few heartbeats and an instinctive urge to throw a piece of meat in there and flee.

“Mmm, he is a very large dog,” Zevran offered, forcing a smirk. “You must have to take him past the Alienage each day to feed him.”

“Take him past--?” Rhodri’s eyes grew until the whites showed on all edges. "Oh! Maker’s tits, you think he eats elves?"  

The dog gagged and shrank away as if he understood Common and wished he didn't, and the ashen-faced human shook her head hard. 

“Jeppe eats small game only, and if there’s nothing to be had, he eats what we eat. Your safety with us is assured." She moved a hand to the hound's chest. "But if you’re afraid of dogs, it’s all right. Jeppe is good at giving people space when they need it.”

She turned back to Jeppe and lowered her head until she and the murder instrument were at eye level. How the concentrated stench of that beast hadn’t killed her was anyone’s guess– though assuming she’d survive, the more pressing matter was that this odd, odd individual was now speaking with the dog.

“You must be gentle with Zevran, Jeppe,” he heard her murmur. "He is nervous. Give him time to settle, let him come to you."

He is nervous.

Zevran dropped to his knees. Beside the mage who was speaking about him to the dog with the head-crushing jaws. A reflexive action, but certainly the right one: death by mabari was a quicker, far more palatable way to go than prolonged embarrassment wicking his soul out of his body.

Surprise softened the Warden’s features as she paused in her conversation to look at Zevran.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” she asked carefully. “There’s no rush, you know. Jeppe wins everyone’s heart eventually.”

Ah, of course, it was all a trick. He was going to be crunched up by the dog while dying of mortification. Oh, this simply wouldn’t do. Not when there was still a chance to wrest back some control over how he left this mortal plane. No, a quick, if gruesome departure was best.

“There is no need to delay anything for my sake, my Grey Warden,” he declared before turning to the baffled dog and shooting it a smooth smile. “Greetings, my hairy friend.”

Jeppe edged a little closer and sat down, notably not moving to tear his face off. In fact, he wasn't making to tear Zevran's anything off. He was the picture of quizzical calm, sitting there like a Fereldan house adornment and watching his dinner with eyes the colour of the greenish mud he undoubtedly rolled in.

There is a proverb about not playing with your food in Ferelden, I am sure of it.

The sound of his name pulled Zevran back into the moment, and the Warden had a forbearing smile as she spoke to him.

“You can give Jeppe a pat, if you like? Put your hand out like this to let him smell you first,” she held her hand out demonstratively.

He swallowed back a whimper. Give him a pat. By this she meant, of course, to feed the dog his hand as an appetiser. And at this point, what was there to do but oblige? 

Enjoy your meal.

He inched his hand out. The mabari took a few sniffs, paused, and peered up at him inquiringly.

Do not stare at me like that. I know very well that I washed more recently than you did.

Slowly, and with puzzling cautiousness, the malodorous hound pressed his nose into Zevran’s palm. His thoughts alighted to the way the dog’s stench would imbue itself into the leather of his gloves, and it was only upon hearing a thrilled ‘Ah,’ from Rhodri that Zevran’s attention went elsewhere.

“That means you can pat him. He loves it up here, behind his ears,” she gave a demonstrative finger-wiggle over the indicated spot.

Shrugging was a less-than-wise response, but it happened anyway. At this point, if he was in for a copper, he was in for a royal. He scratched the other free ear, an eyebrow rising in spite of himself as Jeppe’s eyes closed blissfully. 

“Ah, perbonus.” Rhodri grinned and got to her feet. “Well, now that introductions are out of the way, it’s time for my bath. Would you excuse me?”

Zevran wasn’t given the chance to excuse her or not; she was already pacing away before he could even open his mouth, making a beeline for a smallish tent with a black patch on the top and a blue light emanating from the interior. 

It was a relief when the tent flap opened and she disappeared into it. Jeppe seemed less interested in brutal dismemberment than his looks suggested, and dogs couldn’t say things that made Zevran want to dive headfirst into the Void– not that he dared tempt fate by entertaining the notion of a talking dog. And certainly, doling out pats, banal as it was, gave him something to do.

… How long for, though? 

The smell of cooking meat and vegetables reached his nostrils, and he looked at the cluster of people sitting around the campfire. At some point, the food would be ready– though whether they were willing to give him any remained to be seen. Zevran the equal, indeed. 

And of course, the same agonising questions were dredged up again. When was the right time to go over? Was there even a right time? 

He realised he had been staring when Leliana's eyes went onto him. And then, naturally, so did Alistair’s. When Morrigan and Sten joined in, Zevran was already on his feet with Jeppe in tow, sauntering over with all the laxity he could muster.

He took a spot on an unoccupied log and grinned. “I thought you might see me better if I came into the light more.” Leaning back, he made a little show of crossing one leg over the other. “Let me know if there is a particular pose you would prefer. Or you could put me to work, if you wish? I’m told I am an excellent cook.”

Alistair, who was caught between an eyeroll and a snarl, opened his mouth in time to be cut off by Sten.

“I am cooking tonight,” the qunari said stonily, and returned to stirring the bubbling pot.

Zevran nodded quickly. “And it will be delicious, I’m sure. I was able to smell it from where I was before. What do you call this dish?”

“Stew.”

Well, that was painful. Was he related to the Warden?

“Ah, but surely you have multiple stews? The north of Antiva has some qunari dishes. Very varied and flavourful.”

“I am not a cook,” Sten grunted. "Only women are cooks. Men do not prepare food. At most, they heat it to eat.”

The safe, non-committal reply he intended to offer was cut off as blustering outrage issued from the three humans. Sten’s voice permeated the galled din with quiet, firm assertions about which sex was best suited for what task, evoking further outcry that seemed to cycle in front of Zevran without end. It was, of course, foolish to think that any one group could do a job better, but he was damned if he was going to pick a side around people like these. Especially if what Rhodri had said about Sten’s backstory was to be believed. No, he was going to smile, feign deafness, and scratch the dog’s ears.

By the time a wet-haired Warden joined them at the campfire (in the same robes as before? Or was her body indeed a shadow, and she had been naked the entire time?), the argument was going with the same volume and intensity. She stood there, squinting and surveying the squabblers with a low hum. 

“I… seem to have missed something of great import.” Her hand went behind her head, grabbing her tuft of a ponytail and squeezing the water out of it. “What’s going on?”

“Sten has informed us that cooking is a woman’s job,” Leliana said icily. 

Rhodri frowned. “Well, that’s not true. You’re cooking and–” her eyes widened. “Oh! I understand.”

All eyes went onto her.

“... Understand what , Rhod?” Alistair enquired.

She beamed. “I have a friend like Sten back at the Tower. Some days he’s a man, other days she’s a woman, and then the rest of the time, they’re just normal!” 

Zevran bit his lip, willing his quivering jaw not to betray his amusement as he saw the qunari look up at Rhodri with a glazed expression. The calm before the storm, perhaps? He kept a hand near a hip-knife in case the Warden (who had, it seemed, never encountered a normal woman or man) needed a quick rescue.

“I am a woman, Warden,” Morrigan spoke up now, raising an eyebrow at her. “Do you mean to tell me that is abnormal?”

Shock exploded over Rhodri’s face. “Oh, Morrigan!” she gasped. “I’m so sorry! No, my choice of words was terrible. I meant normal in the sense of occurring frequently, since there are far more… ah… people like me than there are men and women, and that’s what I should have said." She straightened up, nodding hard now. "There’s nothing wrong or abnormal about men or women, and if anyone tells you otherwise, I’ll see to them personally.”

Ah. So the odd woman is not a woman at all. 

The witch, whose expression was not unlike Sten’s now, opened her mouth and then closed it again.

“... Morrigan?” A deep furrow etched itself between the Warden’s brows. “Are you all right?”

That snapped her out of it. She rolled her eyes and touched a hand to her chest. “I am quite fine.”

Rhodri, who appeared to have missed the implied ‘ you, however, are certainly not,’ looked relieved to hear it.

“So… do you actually want to be called ‘she,’ Rhod?” Alistair asked now. 

She wobbled her head indifferently. “Call me whatever you like, but please be consistent.” After checking with everyone bar Sten that she had been addressing them correctly, Rhodri returned to the blank-faced qunari. 

“So, Sten,” she said, “are you a woman when you cook? Should we call you ‘she’ when you’re making food? What about when you’re eating?”

Sten shook his head and went back to the pot. “You all make no sense. I am a man, and this discussion is going nowhere.”

“Well, one of your statements is wrong,” Rhodri replied, shrugging. “Either you’re a woman at least some of the time, or men cook.”

“Parshaara! This is ridiculous. I will not speak more of this with any of you.”

“All right. If you change your mind and want someone to talk to–”

“The food is ready.” Sten thrust an empty bowl at her, bringing the conversation to a decisive close. 

For some reason or another, the Warden waited until everyone else had served themselves (even the dog had been given a large piece of meat to chew on) before taking any stew herself. When she had filled her bowl and torn off a hunk of bread, she ambled over to where Zevran sat.

“Are you sitting alone because you want to, Zevran, or would you like some company?” 

Zevran had become less separated from the others when Alistair appeared to register that he sat a mere log’s length away from Leliana, and the Templar had promptly put himself between them. Even so, though, the five-pace-long gap was a vast, yawning country when Rhodri indicated it with her hand. As several sets of eyes began observing their interaction, it was hard not to wish it was a chasm he could throw himself into.

Ah, but what was he doing? He was a professional seducer! When had flirtation stopped being an option? Suddenly blessed with a small boost of energy, he waggled his brows at the Warden.

“Well now," he purred, "who would pass up an opportunity to have such a ravishing individual beside them, hmm?”

She blinked at him. "Lots of people. People who don't want company, for one."

He waved a hand. “They must be out of their minds.”

Rhodri shook her head and… was that worry on her face now? 

“No, no,” she insisted. “It’s perfectly legitimate. You’re entitled to time to yourself when we aren’t working.”

Oh, the agony. 

Zevran was, at least, able to swallow back his astonishment at the whole horrific affair and answer more quickly this time. 

"No, no, please, go ahead." Leaving no room for ambiguity, he gestured beside him a little more expansively than he normally would have. She received the answer with a cautious smile and sat down a few handbreadths away. Her gaze dropped to the half-filled bowl of stew on his knee, lingering there for a moment before returning to him. As her mouth opened and he braced himself for yet more discomfort, she halted and looked away. 

Relief. Apparently the wellspring of luck hadn't run dry yet. 

Swearing to himself that he was famished, Zevran began shovelling his dinner in. Full mouths were seldom spoken to, and were expected to speak more rarely still. After another glance at him, Rhodri fell onto her food with similar gusto, and not a peep was heard from her or anyone else after that. 

When everyone but he and the Warden had helped themselves to a second portion, Zevran’s insides clenched as Rhodri’s eyes went onto his empty bowl.

Oh, no. Please don’t. I beg of you.

She inched along the log until they were almost touching at the thighs, her thrumming fingers turning her leg into a drumhead and oh, holy Maker, have mercy and smite me down now.

The Warden’s voice was low and soft as she addressed his bowl. Zevran listened for the keywords ‘why’ and ‘small portion’ with half an ear while he frantically assembled an excuse for minimising his presence. When the words never came and he realised he would have to ask her to repeat herself, the hairs on his arms stood on end.

All those years of Master Ramón pulling on your ears, and still you never listen when you should.

He cleared his throat, and as he went to make his apologies, his stomach growled audibly.

Brasca.

It didn’t help that she smiled at that. Or maybe it did; if his hunger amused her and he went to sleep on the food he’d had, life was still on the improve. 

“I suppose that answers that, then,” she remarked mildly. “You should go and get some more to eat.”

The suggestion was politeness at best, and a dare at worst. He waved a hand, the words springing off his lips before he even heard himself. “Oh, do not worry about me, my Grey Warden. We elves are remarkably efficient. Just the smell of food is enough to keep us going for a month.”

Rhodri laughed. "Your stomach seems to have a different opinion.” She pointed with her nose at his abdomen. Long, rawboned fingers reached out and rested on the unoccupied side of his bowl. “Perhaps I could bring you some more? You'll need to eat well if you want to keep up with us.”

Ah, now the true colours were really starting to show. It was the perfect opportunity to poison his food, all in the guise of a hackneyed power game. Rather unbecoming of her to pad it out by giving him a sensible reason to spite her and accept. Still, people had played far dirtier than this with him, and the satisfaction of seeing through platitudes was a balm for threadbare pride.

Zevran’s manufactured smile came easily. “Ah, my Warden,” he crooned playfully, “you would be amazed how little I need to keep up. Just ask the Crowmaster who bought me!”

His innards plummeted as her smile died on her face. Sadness was turning down the corners of her eyes, and it was remarkably difficult to find anything that suggested the expression was counterfeit. 

“You don’t have to be hungry any more,” she whispered, making the gentlest pull on the lip of the bowl. “I’ll eat, too, so you won’t be alone.”

It moved so easily out of his hands and into hers, but then, what could he do? Fight her over a bowl that didn’t belong to him, object to the poisoning he deserved? No, at this point there was nothing to do but let her have her way. If she intended to off him by poison, at least he had a few others on his person to keep things quick and painless. 

He barely kept a puzzled frown from materialising as a small, bright smile came to the Warden. 

"Thank you.” She tilted his bowl toward him. “Will you take your spoon for me, please? I don’t want to spash stew on myself when I fill your bowl.”

Zevran did as he was asked, eyes trained on Rhodri as she gave an appreciative nod, put her own spoon in her mouth, and trotted over to the fire with two bowls in hand. It was possible that one of the others had poisoned the stew while she had kept him distracted– pit viper venom could survive that sort of heat, and if they had all built immunity to it, unlikely though it was…

The metal-mouthed Warden came back with two-thirds full bowls, and a large hunk of bread rested on the rims like a bridge. 

As she sat down, she made a ‘mmhmm?’ at him, pointing with her nose at his bowl-- and it was his; there had been no swaps. He took it, and when she had balanced her bowl between her knees, she grabbed the bread and tore it in half, holding the bigger chunk out to him.

“You didn’t take any bread last time,” she said once the spoon was finally out of her mouth, waving what she apparently considered to be ‘his half’. “It’s nicer with it.”

As if out of nowhere, the flirty laugh that should have been consistently available finally returned.

“Mmm, my Warden! You are trying to fatten me up.” Zevran bit his lip and waggled his brows. “Do you prefer your men soft, hmm?”

Rhodri’s face went blank. “I don't have any men. Or anyone else. And people can be any shape they please. I brought you food because I don’t want you to go to bed hungry.”

Why did I even--

He took it, heavy rock of a thing that it was, and Maker be praised, that satisfied her. She had taken a large bite of bread, so further questions were, at least for the time being, impossible. After making peace with the possibility of grey stew and stale bread being his last meal, Zevran ate. He noted with relief that he had gotten the taste for food, no longer obliged to persuade ungrateful innards that filling them was what he and they both wanted. 

He smirked inwardly. Let it never be said that Zevran Arainai is not an optimist.

"Zevran?”

Ah, but it couldn’t last, could it?

Zevran let reflexes pull his mouth into a wide smile. “You rang?”

She chuckled. “‘Rang.’ Look, I noticed you were quiet on the way home. You didn’t ask any questions, even though you’re clearly a smart man and this is all new to you.”

A lurching half-gasp pulled the lump of chewed bread in his mouth into the back of his throat, and it took two hard swallows to get the bolus down the correct pipe. He glanced at Rhodri, whose eyes hadn’t left her dinner, and blessed the Maker– and his own ability to suffer silently– again. 

“I just want you to know that when you’re ready, you can ask me things any time you want. You don't have to worry about asking too many things, or if the questions seem too odd." She straightened up and chuckled. "Back at the Circle, I was an Enchanter. Answering everything day in and day out was a large part of my life, so it doesn’t bother me."

Keep her talking about herself. Leave the rest, keep her talking. 

"Ah, so you were a magic teacher, hmm?" 

Rhodri hummed noncommittally. “My students were the newcomer children. I was expected to tutor them, certainly, but most of them arrive at the Tower half-dead and traumatised.” She sighed into her stew. “They don’t want to learn magic. They want to know when they’ll be fed, and when they can go home again.” 

“When am I going home?” 

The woman who had been leading Zevran by the arm stopped in front of a door to turn and watch him with a malice that made his empty belly drop. 

“Back to that whorehouse, you mean?” She gave a derisive snort as he nodded warily. “Oh, no. You’re compradi now. Talav paid three sovereigns for you!”

Three sovereigns was a princely sum. More than he had ever seen at once; the prostitutes were only paid with copper or silver.

“What does a compradi do?”

Before he could react to his arm suddenly being free, a sharp blow to the head sent him stumbling. He had just enough sense to swallow back his yelp, and covered his throbbing ear with one hand.

“Whatever we want you to, you little shit,” the woman snapped as he straightened up. “You serve House Arainai until you die, and if you keep asking questions, that’ll come sooner rather than later!”

She grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and opened the door halfway. Inside, a slew of gleaming eyes breached the dimness as they snapped onto him. 

“Fucking knife-ear," she spat. "Get in there.” 

He was on the floor before he could realise he had been thrown. The door clipped his foot as it slammed shut behind him, shrouding everything in darkness.

Zevran blinked and suppressed the shiver creeping into his muscles. The way this individual was effortlessly dredging up old memories was nerve-wracking, and worse still was the way it was making his mind whirr with questions about her and the children in her care. Or perhaps it would be beneficial to know, give an idea of what to expect as her ‘equal.’

Why would you ask anything when you know the answer already?

The incursion of curiosity overpowered his doubt and pressed one enquiry over the threshold of his lips. “So what would you do with the children, then?”

The Warden shrugged with one shoulder. “Basic things. Look after them. Show them respect and tenderness. Listen to them. Children respond well to affection and stability. The ones who didn’t… well, I kept them as safe as I could.” She heaved a sigh that crumpled her upper body. "Like I said before, more damage control than teaching, but at least it got most into a fit state to learn. Children who don’t master the early curriculum never reach adulthood in the Circle.”

She had said a lot, and the words were making his fingers itch to do something to her. Something tactile and enjoyable, but none of the usual sexual things were fitting. He kept the conversation, decidedly lacking on his part though it was, on a simpler track: “What do you teach?”

Her eyes widened a little as a smile broke out on her face. Why, he couldn’t imagine; it was a question, not a compliment.

“Oh! Right Mm! So!” She set down her bowl and held up four fingers (why were they trembling?). 

“There are four schools of magic, two sets of opposites. There’s primal, which is tangible things like fire, ice, lightning, and earth spells. Opposing that is spirit magic, which deals with the ephemeral and unseen. Then there’s entropy, which is the study of death, transference and removal. Its opposite is creation, which is all about growth, transformation, and renewal. Usually a mage specialises in one of these.” 

Motion registered in the bottom of his periphery, and a brief glance down brought the Warden’s feet, rocking from heel to toe, into view. She was looking near his shoulder now; anywhere but his eyes, it seemed. Those eyes had won him many compliments, but perhaps she found them ugly. 

Or she was going to kill him and didn't want to give herself away. That seemed far more plausible.

“Before that, though,” Rhodri continued with blithe cheeriness, “they need a solid education in the fundamentals- arcane magic, it’s called. Teaches things like how magical energy works and is manipulated into spells, what makes a spell more or less powerful, mana, using staves without taking someone’s eye out…” 

She jabbed a finger in her chest, smiling proudly. “Arcane magic’s what I taught– plus reading and writing, since many of the children were illiterate, and the ones who can read usually don’t know runes. We use runes more than letters, see.”

If Zevran’s ears hadn’t deceived him, she had said all that in one single breath. How her lips hadn’t turned blue yet was anyone’s guess, but as she proceeded to very audibly draw in a lungful of air, it seemed reasonable to conclude that blue lips hadn’t been far off.

And he couldn’t afford to laugh about it right now. He could not, absolutely could not. Even though this person had managed to out-strange Alvara, Antiva City’s prizewinning eccentric, he would die if he laughed. Either because his body would give out from the effort, or she would kill him herself. Whichever it was, his death was certain if he indulged it.

Not that what he was doing instead was much better; the way he was looking at her was no doubt classifiable as staring, even by the standards of the gawking Fereldans. And with a studiously neutral face. Something had to change, and laughter absolutely could not be the end result.

He chanced looking away and clearing his throat. When he looked back, ready with a question about which branch of magic pertained to sensual experiences, his muscles wound like springs as he caught her softly frowning.

“That didn’t really work, did it,” she murmured. “I got too excited and talked a lot, and then you didn’t say much at all. I think I managed to make you more nervous. Too much information. I'm sorry.” She nodded and brought her hands together. “Well, the point is: if you need anything, you can come to me any time. Just… if you come to my tent, knock first, all right?”

Ah. Now they were in more comfortable territory. His smile came easily this time.

“Naturally. Be assured, my Grey Warden, I am the perfect gentleman.” He slowly dragged a finger over his lips, dropping his voice to a husk. “Until, of course, I am asked not to be.”

Why was she giving him a cheery smile? Why? Was she this jolly in the middle of sex, too?

“Oh, you don’t have to be polite all the time. The rest of us certainly aren’t, but if someone asks another person to stop, it’s expected they’ll comply. Anyway,” she got to her feet, “after dinner is work time for me, and that cowhide won’t skin itself. Would you excuse me?”

This ‘would you excuse me’ business was evidently some sort of rhetorical question, and Zevran itched to know if someone had ever said that they would not, in fact, excuse her.  

By the time that thought had come to a close, though, she was already standing beside Morrigan, making slicing motions with her hand and nodding as the witch spoke to her. Discussing the best way to slice open the assassin, perhaps.

Oh, now he was just being ridiculous. 

Though the witch did catch him looking at her and made a cutting gesture of her own while smirking at him. He bit his lip and shot her a lurid grin before looking away; surely she wouldn’t take to him with a knife when she had magic at her fingertips. Did havers of spells not find it gauche to murder like the great unmagicked?

Alone again, and very much aware that he was, Zevran finished his food as slowly as he could. With enough time to focus on eating, he was able to register that the stew was roughly on par with Fereldan fare, and did a marvellous job of softening the bread. A victory, if only a tiny one.

When his bowl was almost empty and he had decided against making additional noise by scraping out the last dregs with the spoon (if only he hadn’t finished his bread first), Zevran resigned himself to planning next steps. Which, in practice, meant ticking off everything he couldn’t do. 

Going out of sight was not an option for so many reasons. Without a tent, he had nothing to set up or hide away in. Unfurling his bedroll under a tree and going to sleep while the others were armed and awake was begging for disaster. The dog was availing himself of Alistair’s lap, which ruled out any interaction there. 

Zevran’s eyes dragged over to where the Warden sat, carefully scraping the innards from the hide. He could help her and in doing so, subject himself to more agonising inner debates on if and when and how she would lure him in and kill him.

Or he could try a different flavour of discomfort by attempting conversation with one of the others. Zevran glanced between them; no-one appeared even vaguely inviting. Perhaps there might have been a chance of decent conversation with Leliana had Alistair not guarded her like a jealous husband. And the same Templar put paid to the option of Zevran sitting alone and fiddling with his possessions, as this would no doubt be interpreted as preparing to use them and would result in Zevran’s summary beheading.

In reality, then, there was only one option. While he revisited the risk of chatting to Leliana, Zevran’s legs were already carrying him toward the Warden. Why, he could not imagine; this way lay the unknown, with a depressing certainty of painfully awkward ominousness into the bargain.

On the other hand, though, perhaps this was an excellent time to hone his craft in handling said unknown. Education was never wasted, and all his misgivings aside, Rhodri had thus far been the safest bet of the group. 

And really, even if she did defy his logic and offed him, it was no doubt for the best.

The Warden didn’t stir from her work as he approached. Not so much as a glance, or even an involuntary muscle twitch betraying plans to consciously ignore him.

Zevran cleared his throat and waved his hand, knees bent in readiness to dodge a thrown spell or fist, and he nearly jumped as Rhodri startled. She peered up at him, looking like she had fallen into her body from a great height. 

“... Perhaps I could assist you, my Grey Warden?" he offered cautiously. "Many hands make light work, after all.”

“Oh, how kind!” She smiled broadly. “Very thoughtful of you, Zevran. Thank you.”

Marvellous. More of the mockery, and worse still, a notion was threatening that this was someone who said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ unironically. The truth of the matter remained unclear, and the thought of being successfully lured into a false sense of security was an uncomfortable one. Why had he come over here again?

He elected to give a soft laugh as he sat down beside her, a regrettable choice as Rhodri stared at him quizzically. The moment passed with merciful quickness when she shrugged, seemingly more to herself than him, and returned to work. Carefully drawing a knife of his own, he joined her.

The scraping went on in silence (and no doubt with Alistair watching them all the while), interrupted only by certain companions’ theatrics to get the Warden’s attention when ‘good night, Rhodris’ of growing volume went unnoticed. Alistair was the last to retire, barely taking his eyes off Zevran as he addressed the Warden. It took her indulging his demand that she put a shield on herself before the Templar was satisfied and left.

As Alistair disappeared into his tent, a rumble issued from the clouds. Rhodri frowned as she touched a hand to her belly. “Was that my stomach, or the weather?”

That had to be a joke. She had eaten an entire loaf of bread along with the stew. Her stomach could not possibly have anything to say with so much food in it, especially when her shape suggested little room for said food– unless, of course, she housed extra stomachs in those huge shoulders.

Zevran chuckled hesitantly. “If I heard correctly, it was the sky’s doing.”

She took this in with a nod before glancing up at the sky, and his heart sank as he did the same and caught the ominous thunderclouds drawing up overhead.

“Mmm, perhaps we shall have rain tonight,” he mused, not quite keeping the glumness out of his voice.

“I think you might be right there.” The Warden looked around. “Where’s your tent, Zevran? Would you like me to help you set it up?”

He laughed mirthlessly as he recalled palming his tent off to one of the elven refugee families in Lothering. Sentimentality had almost had him convinced to keep his little home for himself, but reality was sharp-tongued in its reminder that dead men had no use for such things. The family’s hushed, sincere thanks had, at least, taken the edge off the loss.

“I do not have one,” he answered offhandedly. “Makes for very light travel, no? I shall skip my way along like nobody’s business.”

He cast his eyes around their campsite and saw several trees with thinning foliage that would do in a pinch– and a pinch this certainly would be. The prospect of waking up in a bedroll submerged in mud was a miserable one, but short of the clouds performing a vanishing act, there was no way around it. 

“No, that won’t do,” Rhodri declared. “You must sleep in my tent until we can acquire one for you.”

Ah, so it was sex she was after! Zevran smirked. “Oh-ho-ho, my Grey Warden! Already unable to resist me, hmm?” He bit his lip a little. “Tell me, do you sleep naked? I hope you do.”

The Warden sat back on her haunches and let out a laugh that would have rattled windows.  “Ah, you’ve caught me! I’m seducing you!” She held her hands up in dramatic mock confession. “In fact, I specifically went down that road looking for an itinerant assassin under orders to kill me. All so I could lure you back to camp and into my tent to have my wicked way with you! I’m certainly not putting you in my tent so you’re comfortable and out of the elements while you sleep. No, ser!”

“You meant a handsome itinerant assassin, surely,” he said with a wink, glossing over the rest before it could make him visibly cringe. 

She lay a hand on her heart. “My apologies. I believe I’ll be on the receiving end of strong censure if I share a tent with someone who tried to kill me today, though. Even if you are a newly-inducted group member. Something about lingering suspicions…” she shrugged with an off-handedness that bordered on theatrical. “Anyway, I feel quite sure none of the others will let you use or share theirs. They won’t mind sharing with me, though, so it makes sense that you take my tent, and I bunk with someone else."

He didn't quite manage to keep the nerves out of his laugh, which the Warden appeared not to have picked up on as she shrugged and chuckled along. As the prospect of her slipping into the tent and killing him as he slept grew more plausible, spending the night in the rain seemed remarkably appealing.

“Do not worry about me, my dear," he assured her quickly. "I have slept in very unusual places. Getting rained on is not the worst thing that could happen.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Oh, no doubt you can handle it, but even so, I couldn’t justify one of us sleeping out in the rain. Not when it was avoidable.”

“That is…” Zevran trailed off, pinning a smile over his despair as he tried again, only to find that no words came to him. There was only so much arguing one could do before it raised suspicion. As the Warden squinted at him, though, it seemed as though that level had already been exceeded.

He forced something, anything out. “Do forgive me, I… ah…” he chuckled wanly, trailing off when comprehension of some sort appeared to strike her.

“I know what the problem is.” She nodded decisively and got to her feet. “Yes. Excuse me for a moment, would you please? I’ll be right back.”

With that, she was away to her tent and disappeared inside.

In the cool glow of the lyrium, her silhouette sat hunched over something, and if Zevran wasn’t mistaken, he could hear the gentle scratching of pencil on vellum. He kept one eye on his surroundings and the other on the Warden until she returned with a piece of paper in hand.

She sat beside him and held the paper out to him. “I should have thought of this earlier, I’m sorry.”

The curious ‘hmm?’ was out before he could stop it, his hand shifting closer to hers all the while.

“It’s a schedule. I know it’s hard when everything is new,” she closed the gap and pressed the scrap into his palm. “It feels like you’ll never settle in, even if you’re doing very well, which you are. We stick as closely to this plan as possible, so you should find there won’t be too many deviations.”

He glanced down at the paper, caught the first words of a small list, and looked back up at Rhodri. 

“I need to get back to scraping this hide clean before the rain comes, but you look through that as much as you like.” She was already working by the time she had finished speaking, and Zevran quickly pocketed the paper and joined her.

They scraped together in an industrious, wordless harmony that might have been pleasant if his tight-wound muscles weren’t fraying at the edges because of it. The Warden made no attempt at conversation, and it was hard to tell if she had become very comfortable around him, or if she had quite simply forgotten that he was there. It was tempting to find out which of the two it was, but given the situation, invisibility seemed more prudent than drawing attention to himself.

An answer came a few hours later anyway when Rhodri drew in a deep breath, wiped her knife clean and put it away. 

“I’ll retire for the night, Zevran. Let me retrieve some things, and then the tent is yours, yes?” She stood up. "You can keep your things in there. I only ask that you ensure all liquids are properly sealed, as I keep books and papers in my tent.” 

Zevran nodded quickly. “Of course.” 

As she disappeared into her tent, he looked through his bag, taking care to check and recheck the stoppers on each of the poison vials he had stashed away. Risk minimisation, Master Claudio called it, and on the dwindling odds that she had meant to be kind, following orders to the letter was an obvious step.

Rhodri strolled into his periphery with a small bundle of things balanced in the crook of one arm.  “The tent’s available,” she announced as she made for a large, yellowing tent with a fur hanging over one side. “Make yourself at home. Sleep well!” 

“Good night, Warden,” Zevran said after her. He gingerly took his bag and bedroll and trudged over to her tent.

“Oh, and Zevran?”

Zevran paused when he was halfway inside and stepped back out. “You call?”

She smiled. “Thank you for helping me with the cowhide. I like working with you.”

Now that was promising, if she meant it. A good work partner was indispensable in troubled times, and if he could keep that up, his risk of death– at her hand, at least– would drop dramatically.

“Mmm! I am glad to hear it," was all he said, but for the Warden, it seemed to suffice. With a wave, she knocked at the canvas and cooed the redhead’s name, and Zevran lingered briefly before forcing himself into his own accommodations. 

In the Warden’s tent, two armfuls’ worth of books were stacked neatly in one corner, three large flasks of lyrium glowed like bottled heavens in another, and the smell of salt water and sun dried linen hung thick in the air. If he closed his eyes for a moment, it was almost like being back in Antiva City. 

Not that he would do anything as foolhardy as shutting his eyes before going over this schedule she claimed to have written him. Slipping off his boots, he opened out his bedroll and sprawled out on it. As he took out the paper and unfolded it, he froze as his eyes fell on the austere, sharp handwriting that made the title Schedule for Zevran. Was there any point in looking through it, really? If he really was going to die, it would happen whether or not he was prepared for it. 

Do you really deserve to be prepared for it?

Rinna’s gritty, purling wail pierced the hanging question and sat in his ears like glass, and the resignation he had half-dreaded, half-longed for all day settled in his belly with a grim, gentle finality. Pledging to slay darkspawn did not merit absolution, and even if he would rather have lived, it was reassuring to know that someone here would handle killing him before he could find a way to weasel out of it. He folded the paper, put it away, and dropped back onto the bedroll.

It wasn’t all bad, though, really. There were worse ways to go than while sleeping inside a warm, dry tent. A comfortably loud drone started as sheets of rain pelted down, the noise sapping the thoughts out of his head. Zevran closed his eyes and nestled the blanket around him, hoping for a wry moment before he nodded off that whoever shanked him in the wee hours would be shirtless.

Chapter Text

It struck Zevran as something of a double standard, this willingness to kill his marks but not himself. Many of them had done objectively worse things than he, and still he expertly gifted them an unpretentious, quick end. Deprivation of life was penalty enough; there was no need to stain his own character with cruelty. And really, any other assassin worth their salt would have done the same with him now.

But there were no other assassins here, and he wasn’t one for self-charity.

Instead, as squelching footsteps sounded from outside the tent, Zevran wore a bitter smirk and forced himself to lie still under the blanket as his own well-deserved, horrifically amateurish end approached.

It was still dark outside. When the rain had ceased was unclear, and how long he had actually slept was a question for the ages as well. At a guess, not long, but the abrupt awakening had given him a surge of energy, which was a boon. Dying while bone-tired would have made it harder to smile provocatively while the light finished extinguishing.

The tramping stopped, and silence reigned again.

And reigned.

And reigned.

Zevran drummed his fingers on his chin. If this executioner didn’t slop their way over soon, the rush would wear off and he would be forced to enter the next life half-asleep.

When five whole minutes had passed without any physical demise to speak of, Zevran sat up and cracked the tent flap open. The campsite’s patchy grass was drowning in gleaming moonsilver puddles, and in the middle of the marsh stood the Templar with his sleeping pants rolled up to his knees, gawping up at the rash of stars as he demolished a fist-sized block of cheese.

Shrugging to himself, Zevran closed the flap and lay back down. Naturally, his death would not take precedence over cheese or skygazing. Zevran the equal. Had Rhodri noted that midnight snacks came before his murder on that schedule she wrote him?

His insides somersaulted as he glanced at the crumpled piece of paper beside him.  

He went back to sleep.

§

By the sixth false start, the sun was rising and, to his eternal surprise, so was Zevran. And! The usual aches and woefully underslept status notwithstanding, he was healthy and notably un-poisoned. It was hard not to wonder when this death business would actually happen.

Feeling a little braver and a lot more wry, Zevran re-attempted scanning the schedule for hints of an answer. He got as far as unfolding it before his stomach began climbing his throat, and pocketed it with a sigh. Ah, well. The best kind of prize was a surprise, so they said. Especially if the prize was continued living, and the chances of such a reward seemed to be growing.

The lightness spreading in Zevran's chest grew impossible to ignore. If things like hunger and amateur astronomy waylaid these people, killing him really was low priority. In which case, there was nothing to do but go out there and give them more reasons to keep it that way.

Making a mental note to stock up on cheese at the first opportunity, he pulled on his boots and left the tent with a spring in his step. The parched ground had gorged itself overnight on the downpour, leaving the morning earth tender and loamy, and thin, toothless clouds hung listlessly in the clear sky. 

Another nice day? The Fereldans won’t know what to do with themselves.

He snickered inwardly and looked over at the Warden, who had apparently been the source of his last wake-up call. She sat with her back to him, throwing kindling into the dead firepit with one hand and eating bread with the other. Jeppe, who had just departed a large, stained tent, trotted over to her and knocked his head into her hand.

Chuckling, Rhodri dumped the tinder, tore her bread in two, and held out half to the dog.

“Hello, my handsome fellow,” she crooned, ready with more warm praise when he downed the offering in one mouthful. He got the other half for his trouble, and made that disappear with the same alacrity. “Time for your breakfast, yes?”

Jeppe’s tail assailed the ground with a dull whump-whump-whump, which apparently settled the matter. There was no right time to go over, but it had to be before she got up and caught the assassin staring at her. 

Zevran cleared his throat. “You rise early, my Grey Warden,” he remarked, strolling over with as leisurely a pace as a curated walk permitted.

He nearly sprained a muscle hiding his shock as the Warden caught sight of him and broke into a broad smile. There was no excuse to look so pleased given the time of day and the person approaching her, and yet she was looking at him like he was a birthday present. Even the dog looked happy to see him.

“Zevran! Good morning! How was your night?”

It didn’t do to dampen his life-preserver’s spirits, and certainly, her donation of the tent had made his restless night much more bearable. He exaggerated a delighted ‘Mmm!’ 

“My dear, nobody has the right to complain after spending the evening in such warm, dry lodgings!”

A beaming Rhodri's chest puffed at the remark, and the only reason that seemed to warrant it was that she took compliments about her tent personally. Her robes were capacious enough to repurpose as a tent; perhaps she wore the canvas when the black set needed laundering.

“It is warm and dry, isn’t it?” She nodded happily. “I must admit, I'm very pleased with how the spell turned out.”

‘The spell.’ Zevran’s fingertips shouldn’t have gone numb. He had survived whatever her magic was supposed to do this time around, and there was another half-day to prepare reasons not to sleep in the tent this evening. It was too early for panic.

Oh, but what if it was something slow-acting? The mages were all locked away in their towers, away from the rest of society practicing Maker-knows-what. A spell that gradually roasted or desiccated him wasn’t impossible. Maybe.

Nagale! Say something.

“Hmm?” His smile clicked smoothly into place. “Spell, you say?” 

Rhodri nodded. “I like to experiment with magic, you see, and Fereldan winters get harsh, so I wanted to see if I could insulate the tent. Took ten tries to get the right combination of grease and dry heat to properly seal and thicken it.” She paused and gave him a crooked grin. “The seventh attempt almost set the bloody thing on fire-- well, actually, it did for a moment, but it was worth it!”

The Warden indicated the tent, which the daylight revealed to have a large, circular scorch mark on the top. “See? Trial and error. Or trial by fire, you might say.” She laughed heartily at her own joke. 

“Anyway, time to feed the dog. You can come along if you like, or if you’d prefer a quiet breakfast before these noisy individuals wake up,” she gestured at the occupied tents, “the food stores are right here by the fire.”

More games, and this round was even worse than last night's. Leave it to him to decide how to inadvertently seal his fate. What joy. Nobody hailing from the birthplace of slavery could be unaware that decision-making was not in the purview of people like him.

And yet there Rhodri was, blithely smiling as though it were common courtesy to put her inferiors on the spot like this. 

"Or, of course," she added, "if you won’t vomit or faint from watching a dog hunt a rabbit or stoat, you can take some food and join us.”

Something was about to leave Zevran’s body. Whether it was his brain, his viscera, or that mysterious thing separating the living from the dead was unclear, but it was indisputably unsealing itself from him and preparing for egress.

His fingers suddenly re-entered his awareness as a cold, wet thing brushed against them. Zevran glanced down in time to see the mabari nosing his knuckles and staring up at him with doleful, dinner-plate eyes.

Zevran took the reproachful look in until he could no longer stand it– admittedly a very short period– before turning to Rhodri.

“Apologies,” she said, the asymmetry in her smile intensifying. “I’m not one for manipulative behaviour, myself, but our Jeppe isn’t above making the big eyes when he wants something.” 

“Mmm,” Zevran mumbled. “And… ah, what is it he wants?”

You, obviously. And the stoat, if he still has room for it.

The Warden chuckled. “Well, I’m not very wise to dog communication, but I’d say he’d like you to come with us. He loves company, and it seems he’s quite fond of you already.”

Zevran couldn’t help but laugh at the madness of it all, but the dog had apparently taken it as confirmation of attendance, his furiously wagging tail making a half-circle in the dirt now. 

“Well,” Zevran said only half-jokingly, “who am I to refuse the hairy fellow? I had better come with you.”

The quiver that took over Jeppe’s body was reminiscent of the way the lid of an explosives barrel rattled before combustion sent it into the heavens– and, according to Zevran’s legs, the reaction warranted taking a step back.

“Ah, bonus!” Rhodri’s hands tapped her thighs. “We’ll wait for you to get some food, and then we can go, yes?”

With a thin smile, he made for the red cloth spread out on the ground. The thing was almost spilling over with rations. More loaves of the heavy, dark bread made up the bulk, along with several blocks of cheese (one of which was missing a suspiciously large chunk); some dried meats he couldn’t stomach this early; and a dark green bundle, still tied up. 

Zevran took the blunt knife sitting by the bread and cut a small slice. As he fought with himself over whether or not to take a little cheese too, Rhodri mumbled something about 'might have some more, myself.'

He set the knife down and moved away, silently cursing the squandered chance to take the cheese.

The Warden drew up beside him, her eyes going onto his woeful sliver of bread. He quickly took a bite of one corner and immersed himself in appraising the foliage of a nearby tree.

“Zevran?”

He pinned his smile back on. “Mmm?”

“Do you like cheese?”

“I do, yes.”

Rhodri nodded, not looking up from where she squatted, hacking off a fifth slice of bread. “Have you ever tried it with this sort of bread?”

“... I have not.”

“It isn’t as light as the bread in the North, but it has an interesting sweetness that balances out the salt in the cheese.” She rose with a stack of open-face cheese sandwiches and carefully set half on top of his own slice. “Give it a try, tell me what you think. My hands are clean, don’t worry.”

His rushed attempt to sample the bread and deliver the requested review stuttered as she turned and walked away. Zevran balanced eating and catching up to seamlessly fall into step next to her. Along with the dog, the three passed through the thicket and pulled up in a large, open field.

When Zevran was able to take a moment to pay attention to the food in his mouth, he found the flavour quite pleasing.

“You were right,” he offered carefully. “The bread and cheese, they pair nicely.”

“Mmm,” Rhodri nodded. “It's different, but I find it tastes better the more you get used to it." She nudged Jeppe with her knee and gestured ahead. "Start looking, hollix."

The dog didn't need to be told twice, cantering away into the dewy grass with ears up and eyes wide. 

"I could help hunt a rabbit or something such if you wish, my Grey Warden," Zevran said in what he hoped was not too eager a tone. "You'll find I am very proficient with a bow. Quick and easy for all concerned."

She answered with a chuckle that set his teeth on edge– an unwarranted reaction on his part; he had hardly shown himself to be an adept fighter.

"No need for that, but thank you for offering. We–"

He nearly dropped his last cheese sandwich as Rhodri’s hand shot onto his shoulder. Out in the green, the dog was similarly statuesque, one paw hanging in-air as he leaned forward like a condemned house.

The Warden inched closer to Zevran. "He's found a rabbit," she whispered. Her free hand materialised from the other side of her shadowy body, and with one flick of the wrist, a small ice figure burst into being in the distance. Jeppe let out a victorious bark and bolted over to it.

“There!” The smile Rhodri gave Zevran was interrupted when her eyes widened. She gasped with comical loudness, tearing her hands off him like he was a hot coal. 

“My apologies for invading your personal space like that,” she said quickly. “I’m used to playing with the others, and I didn’t even ask if you were comfortable with it.”

He plastered a lazy, untroubled smile on his face. “It is no tragedy, my Warden. You are welcome to invade my space as much as you please.”

Relief flooded her features, and she let out a soft ‘hah.’ “You’ve got a fun turn of phrase. I think we’re going to get along famously.”

“I certainly hope so.” 

At that moment, Jeppe, who had been barreling back to them at top speed with the rabbit in his mouth, came to a near-screeching halt in front of Rhodri and Zevran, only narrowly missing a collision with their legs. 

“Ah, there you are!” she said jovially. The rabbit was frozen solid, caught mid-run. Zevran looked on as Jeppe set it on the ground at her feet, watching up at Rhodri expectantly. 

With a nod, the Warden squatted down and ran a splayed hand back and forth in the air over the rabbit. It looked for all the world like she was trying to stroke the damned thing but was being repelled by a tiny, invisible barrier. Within seconds, steam billowed off its body as the ice melted away, and in a few moments more, it lay lax with a dry pelt.

And still no lights or ethereal glowing fingertips. A little lacklustre, to say the least.

Rhodri, however, looked quite pleased as she got to her feet.

“Is that warm enough?” she asked the dog, who took the rabbit in his mouth again. 

Wag-wag-wag.

“Good. Now, I’m warning you, my friend,” she said, gently waving a finger, “if I find out you've only eaten half of it and stashed the other half in Morrigan’s bag again, there will be trouble! I swear most of my coin is going on replacement underwear these days.”

Zevran bit back a cackle at the thought of the cantankerous, snaky witch finding half a carcass amongst her unmentionables. The dog, on the other hand, hung his head, giving his tail a small, guilty wag. 

Rhodri rolled her eyes and clapped his powerful withers. “Well please, I’d hate to delay you. Go and scoff that down before the others complain you’ve ruined their breakfast, yes?”

He let out a joyful, muffled bark and sped back to the camp with the visible parts of the rabbit flailing in the wind.

The Warden thrust her hands into her pockets as they strolled back to the camp together.

“We do this every morning,” she said to him. “Jeppe’s strong, but the rabbits are so fast. The first time he hunted one, he only managed to bite its leg." She winced and shook her head. "The poor thing, it was screaming and limping… awful, just awful. I froze it as quickly as I could, of course, but it was one bad death too many. Now I only let Jeppe point at the animal, and then I handle the rest.”

Zevran nodded approvingly, feeling his breakfast settle. “Mmm. A good, clean kill. You are one after my own heart, my Warden!”

“Hah. That’s quite a figure of speech for a former assassin to use.”

He conceded with a laugh. “You make a point there. Though even if you were after my heart in the literal sense, in my profession,  it does not do to fear death. Not when we have so many brushes with it. In difficult assignments, success is a near miss.”

“I can imagine. Though with that said, with us, your chances of dying are likely lower than they ever have been. Odd sort of change to circumstances, really.”

Zevran gave a wry hum. “That is an apt way of putting it.”

“Well, give yourself some time to settle into the new normal and see how you fare. Ah, and speaking of normal, did you get a chance to look at the schedule? Any thoughts?”

A wave of gooseflesh broke out over him. “Oh. Ah…”

“It’s all right if you haven’t read it yet,” she added quickly. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. In my experience, it makes things a little easier by taking the guesswork out of the day, but different things work for different people.”

He forced a smile. “Just so, my dear.”

She glanced at him and looked away again. “I wonder if I might ask a rather personal question, though. You’re welcome to say no, of course.”

Zevran’s mouth curved into a delighted grin. “Oh, this should be good. Let me guess: you wish to know what colour my smallclothes are?”

A stomach-twisting moment passed when the Warden regarded him blankly before throwing her head back and laughing.

“Ah, Zevran! Not that kind of personal.” She beamed with her shark mouth and touched their elbows in the weakest nudge he had ever received. “No, I was going to ask: did– and again, you’re not obliged to answer– did the Crows ever teach you to read? If that’s holding you back, we can easily fix that.”

“The Crows had no need to,” Zevran replied off-handedly. “I had taught myself to read long before I came to them.” He might have earned some sympathy by adding he had cut his teeth on old newspapers salvaged by one of the prostitutes in the brothel. When the other outcome was disgust, though, the luck of the day seemed a little too fragile to warrant putting it to the test. 

He volunteered nothing more.

The Warden accepted his meagre offering with a nod, and they walked in silence until they were back at the camp. Jeppe, who lay prostrate by the firepit, barely looked up from his half-eaten rabbit as they drew up near him.

"Well, Zevran,” Rhodri said, “if you don’t mind, I’ll need access to the tent in the morning and at night to get some things. Leliana’s not a light traveller, you see, so there's no room for my things in hers.”

If there was a reason she acted like he was doing her a favour letting her into her own tent, Zevran didn’t know it. She was playing a long game if this was mockery, and if it was Circle manners, Maker help any elven mage who left the Tower expecting that sort of indulgence.

“Of course.” 

She smiled. “Excellent. Well, if I may, I’d like to go in there now and take today’s things.”

His shoulders drew up in a taxing half-shrug. “Go in whenever you wish, my Warden. It is your tent, after all.”

Rhodri shook her head. “For now, it’s yours. Don’t worry, when I get it back I’ll make you knock before entering and everything.” She gave him a genial wink and, after resurrecting the campfire with a wave, wandered away to the tent.

Zevran threw a small piece of wood into the fire and sat down on the ground, leaning his back and head against the stump behind him. The feeding flames rumbled softly, and his body was pleasantly warm despite the chill of the morning. His restless night settled its entire weight on his eyelids, and he let them close-- merely to rest them-- for half a moment. 

He was roused into what turned out to be wakefulness by a small squeeze to the top of his boot and a gentle voice calling his name.

“Zevran. Zevran .” 

Alarm stifled Zevran’s groan and he forced himself to sit up straight as fast as he could, stopping when he felt his foot get squeezed again. His eyes opened to see the Warden standing between him and the fire, which now had a large pot sitting over it. She was smiling and holding a wooden cup.

"Easy does it. Not a morning person, I see! Drink this tea, it should wake you up a little." Rhodri put the drink down beside him. “Be careful, it's freshly-boiled."

Mortified, he mumbled a ‘thank you, my Warden,’ took the cup, and smelled it. The steamy richness of steeped leaves infiltrated his nostrils, and after three long, tea-less months, it was hugely tempting to simply drink it. 

Of course, he would have been a fool to do it when he had slept (slept!) during its preparation. Zevran contented himself with warming his hands on the cup for the time being, willing himself to hurry up and get his wits about him. 

A few moments later, Alistair stumbled out of his tent with his short hair pointing in all directions and his sleeping shirt on backwards. He groaned a hello that prompted a hearty laugh from Rhodri as he shambled over to her, arm outstretched. 

"Sit down first, Al," she requested. When he had complied, she rewarded him with his own beverage.

"You're a lifesaver, Rhod," Alistair said into the cup. He blew, took a large gulp, and hummed contentedly. "That's great."

Rhodri settled down between the two of them.

"Too hot? I can cool it down for you, if you like," she gestured at Zevran’s untouched tea with an open hand.

“You gave him something to drink and you think he’s just going to down it?” Alistair creaked out a laugh. “Isn’t poisoning people a part of the assassin's routine?”

Rhodri’s mouth made an ‘o’. “I didn't think of it. Ah, it must be unnerving to be simply given something after years of having to check food and drinks!” She smiled at Zevran contritely. “I'm sorry. Should I try some of your tea to prove it’s safe?”

Zevran concealed his surprise with a small chuckle. “I can think of more creative ways to share what is in our mouths, my Warden, but do sample the tea if you wish.” 

He held his cup out for her to take, ignoring Alistair’s scowl, and his eyebrow quirked as Rhodri sipped at it and her face scrunched up. She wasn’t foolish enough to poison his drink and then sip it to prove it was fine, surely.

“Ugh. Revolting, but definitely safe.” She handed the cup back and shuddered. “I’m sure I have no idea how anyone can drink it, but to each their own.”

“I can’t believe you hate tea,” Alistair murmured, shaking his head.

Ah. “And yet you are the one who makes it,” Zevran observed in bleary amusement.

Rhodri smiled. “Mmm. Most of my friends and students in the Tower weren’t early risers, so I tempted them out of bed with sweet tea.” She gestured to her left, where the green cloth from the food pile lay open to reveal a box of tea leaves and another with sugar. “Seems to work for everyone here, too. If you find it helps, I’ll have some ready for you of a morning.”

Had he been any less sleep-addled or tempted by the smell of the tea, his wariness would have been enough to deter him from trying it. As it was, though, his urges won out. 

He gingerly took a sip. Warmth seeped down his throat to pool at the bottom of his stomach, and with nothing more to lose from here, he allowed himself to make a pleased sigh. 

“Sounds like you approve,” Rhodri grinned. “Good to know. Well, I'd best continue with the rounds, if you’ll excuse me. Morrigan can be snippy if her tea comes late.”

When she had poured another cup and walked out of earshot, Alistair snorted. 

"'Can be snippy,'” Zevran heard him echo in a mutter. “The day that heartless shrew is anything less than snippy, I’ll dance the Remigold in her rags.” 

Erring on the side of caution, Zevran stifled his snort and engrossed himself in drinking his tea. Now was the time to think of the day ahead, but how could he ask when he hadn’t even looked at that damned schedule? It burned in his pocket like unspent money, and when Alistair left the campfire to shamble away into the bushes, he huffed in defeat and took it out, folding the paper so that only the first three lines were readable. 

His eyes ached as he forced them down onto the page and re-read the heading. There was no reason for this to be so difficult; ‘Schedule for Zevran’  was a perfectly serviceable name for a document. Swallowing hard to preempt his querulous stomach, he sped through the next lines.

1. Wake up, attend to bodily needs, get dressed. If people are still asleep when we start breakfast, I knock on their tent and wake them up

2. Eat breakfast, discuss the day ahead.

3. Pack up camp, begin travelling. Kill darkspawn as necessary, discuss new skills, make conversation if desired. Take fluids throughout.


Remarkably tame for a death forecast. He edged the paper down.


4. Brief stop, attend to bodily needs, eat.

5. Continue travelling. Kill darkspawn as necessary, discuss new skills, make conversation if desired. Take fluids throughout.


He frowned. Tameness now verged on boring; a planned murder would at least break up the mundanity. They weren’t even giving him intensive work! 

The nighttime plans mentioned nothing more than setting up camp, eating, and ‘making conversation if desired’, before ‘attending to bodily needs’ and going to sleep, and it was outrageous. The page opened completely when his thumb departed the paper, and a jitter passed through him as he found another small, scratchy paragraph. 

When we reach a town, we will stay at an inn instead of making camp. They will provide our food, and before we move on, we will buy more from the market to take with us. Our communal food is for everyone to eat whenever they wish; this includes you. You are welcome to ask me questions or come to me any time. Please tell me or someone else if you are going somewhere. 

Adjust this as needed. You are doing very well. 

From Rhodri


“Oh, good! You’re looking at the schedule!”

Zevran stiffened his body to offset the startle, and looked up at the approaching Warden. She indicated the paper. 

“Do you have any thoughts or questions about it?”

He gave her a sultry smile. “Well, now. I noticed this plan has an awful lot of free time in it. No mention of what time I should warm your bed, or fend off unwanted suitors! Did I tell you about my knowledge of twelve different massage techniques! Think of the fun we could have with that, no?”

The Warden shrugged. “Sometimes we work late, and fighting darkspawn is an intensive task. Later on, you’ll need to help guard the camp overnight. I’d say make the most of the downtime where you can. You certainly don’t have to massage people or warm their beds.” She rubbed her chin, adding with a droll laugh, “If the unwanted suitor you mentioned is a darkspawn, though, it’s all hands on deck.”

Zevran snorted and waggled his eyebrows. “My hands are at your disposal, my lovely Warden.”

“Oh! I… ah…” Rhodri wiped a hand over her mouth. “I won’t be disposing of your hands. Forced amputation sounds… awful, not to mention impractical.”

He could have choked. “... Just so. Forgive me, perhaps that is not an expression they use here. I simply meant my hands are for you to use as you wish.”

“Ah! Of course, a figure of speech.” She laughed breathlessly and shook her head. “But no, only you can decide how your hands are used.” 

Zevran smiled cautiously. There wasn’t an answer he could think of that wouldn’t lead to some sort of protest from her. He settled for shooting her his most lascivious wink, flexing his fingers, and thanking the Maker he still had some tea to sip on. 

As the minutes passed and the party members drifted over to the fire, they were beamed at and greeted like the Warden hadn’t seen them in months. Her enquiry on how their night had been was repeated to each person verbatim, as though it were a foreign phrase she had memorised, and she watched them intently while they answered. It was planned to a degree that he had only seen in plays, and it was hard not to wonder what Rhodri’s own schedule looked like if her life was this regimented. Would it even fit in her pocket?

If the others were bothered by this predictability, though, they didn’t show it. If anything, they were at ease with it and responded as though there were no pattern to her at all. Perhaps they were too sleepy to care.

Half an hour later, camp was broken and the party was leaving. Zevran dawdled somewhere in the middle of the crowd, arranging and rearranging the contents of his pack as he tracked the others’ movements in his periphery. It had struck him as prudent to keep to the Warden’s left, if she was such a creature of habit, though if it turned out he had taken Sten or Jeppe’s place…

An answer was slow coming. Sten had dropped somewhere to the back in short order, but Jeppe was carrying a stick that wanted throwing and hadn’t a care for who did it, so long as they obliged. After several rejections from less obliging party members, Leliana was the one to acquiesce. Once it was clear that Jeppe was going to harass her for repeated performances, Zevran weaved his way past a glowering Alistair and announced his approach to the Warden by adjusting his pack with all the noise he could manage.

“And so where are we headed, my Warden?” he asked her airily as he fell into step beside her.

Rhodri did a double-take and touched a hand to her forehead. “Ah! I can’t believe I forgot to tell you our itinerary. I’m sorry, Zevran.” She rolled her eyes playfully. “We’re going to Redcliffe to collect troops to aid us in fighting the darkspawn.”

“Oh? That seems an enormous task. From the rumours I have heard, not many are keen to square off with those beasts.” 

“Hah. I’m sure of it. Unfortunately, they don’t have much choice. The Wardens are entitled to aid in urgent times, and as this is a Blight, well…” she shrugged. “Anyway, though, we’ll be approaching one Arl Eamon for assistance. Alistair assures me he is a good sort and can supply us with quite some people."

Now that was odd. How would a fledgling Templar know such an influential figure? Too curious not to, Zevran turned back and stole a glance at Alistair. To his surprise, Alistair's face was bright red and he almost looked… oho, was that guilt on his face? 

He faced front again before Alistair could catch him mid-appraisal, biting the inside of his lip. He would have bet all the coin he had (such as it was) that Alistair had a very intimate knowledge of this fellow. Perhaps he was the Arl's illegitimate son, or if they were not related, his secret lover! Oh, this was far too juicy for so early in the day.

Zevran gave a nondescript smile and nod and turned his attention to the road, his mind pleasantly empty. Death loomed overhead, as it was wont to do, but at that moment it was at arm's length, and that was as fair a deal as any in this day and age.

Chapter Text

“Rhod, wait. I need to tell you something I, ah… should have told you earlier.”

Aha, there it was. It was inevitable, really; things couldn’t follow the Warden’s schedule forever. These four days of predictability and compliance had already been miraculous enough. 

Zevran made sure his wry cackle was locked down before turning to look at Alistair, who now stood with all eyes on him.

The party came to a stop as Rhodri surveyed the man with a quirked brow. “If you’ve left it ‘til now to tell us you’re wanted in Redcliffe for some heinous crime, Alistair, your timing is very poor. The town bridge is right in front of us.”

“Wh-? No!” Alistair shook his head hard enough to make his short, styled hair flop a little. “No, absolutely not. I… erm…” He trailed off, squirming like a sinner in the Chantry.

The Warden stepped forward and rested a hand on his arm, her expression softening. “Mmm? You seem worried. What is it? Would you like to step away with me for a moment and we can talk, just the two of us?”

Why Alistair even bothered looking the Warden in the eye was a mystery, when her own gaze was fixed squarely on his cheek. Zevran could have counted on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had seen her make eye contact with anyone. Still, though, Alistair did– and with a very contrite expression, too. 

“No point in keeping it private. S’not something I can hide. Anyway, we’re nearly at Redcliffe now– wait, you said that already! Argh!” He sighed exasperatedly. “Rhod. Look. Here’s the thing: I know Arl Eamon because he… raised me.”

Rhodri displayed most of her teeth as she gave the Templar a delighted, split-mouthed grin and drummed her hand on his arm. “Ah, bonus! We’ll be visiting family, then! I look forward to meeting the Arl and paying my respects to him!” She paused. “Unless, of course, you don’t get along? We can set up camp and you can wait here if you’d rather not see him.”

“N-no, I like him. But he’s not– well, he is family, I suppose, but there’s also, uhm…” Alistair’s brows were knitted enough to hold a pencil in place. “Oh, I might as well just… argh! I’m-King-Maric’s-bastard-son-and-I’m-sorry-for-not-telling-you-sooner!” 

Zevran could have eaten the dramatic silence up with a spoon– and would have, had the Warden’s immediate shrug not spiralled it all into anticlimax first. Even Leliana's fascinated look faltered.

“Yes, I thought that might be the case,” Rhodri said off-handedly, her faraway eyes missing the spectacle that was the Templar’s fish-like gaping. “You and Cailan looked so alike. Anyway, though, are you telling me this because we need to approach this in a particular way?"

"... Well, no,” he mumbled. “But it's big news and you should've known sooner. I've never told anyone before now, but it's not really something you're meant to hide at a time like this." 

Rhodri whiffled a hand. "Nonsense. Who your relatives are is none of my business, unless they pose a threat to my own family. You could go up to Arl Eamon and exercise royal duties in front of me and it wouldn't be my concern until it affected my people." 

Alistair’s brows almost disappeared into his hairline. "Really? You're not bothered by this at all?" 

"Ha! Why should I be? My father is a Magister's heir, and will be head of one of Tevinter's most powerful families, and I'm his heir. I never felt obliged to tell anyone. Well, I suppose the earring gives it away," Rhodri tapped the snake curled around her right ear, "but even so."

A cold, clammy chill spited the sunshine and sank into Zevran's skin as he ran his eyes over her. Unwarranted, certainly; he had already been certain she was someone of some influence from the start. Somehow, though, in the space of the last few moments, she had grown two heads taller, a cubit broader, and her face was twice as murderous.

Alistair, looking eminently more baffled than perturbed, blinked hard. "Well! I wasn't expecting this sort of jolliness, to be honest. Then I s'pose we just… go on as normal, then?" 

"That's the plan, yes," Rhodri said serenely. "Unless you'd like me to start calling you 'Your Highness,' of course. Do illegitimate children have a right to rule here?"

"Doubt it." He rubbed his neck vigorously. "I certainly hope not. And definitely no ‘Your Highness.’"

The Warden nodded cheerfully. "See, then? We're just visiting family. Ah, don't be guilty, amicus!" She patted his cheek. "No trouble, hmm? Now, we must buy the Arl a present, and then we'll go and say hello, yes? Does he have an aquarium? Perhaps we could find some lovely fish."

A snort issued from the back of the group– presumably Morrigan's doing, and Zevran could have sworn he heard a small whine escape from Leliana as well. 

"... Fish? No, he hasn’t got an aquarium that I know of. We tend not to give gifts like that here." Alistair shook his head casually. "We can just come as we are."

Rhodri's mouth fell open. "What? No gifts? Not even a cake? Oh, there must be someone in town I could commission to do an Orlesian croquembouche." She waved a hand. "I don't have that sort of cash on me, so they can send the bill to my father."

Laughter erupted from the redhead and the Templar, and Rhodri pursed her lips at them. 

"Well, really," she said reproachfully. "That's not helpful at all. What, you want me to just show up to your adoptive father empty-handed? As though I thought so little of him I didn't bother to find something he liked? Preposterous."

"Well, for a start," Alistair replied through a grin, "I doubt a bakery in Redcliffe would be willing to send a bill all the way to Tevinter. They want coin in hand."

The Warden’s eyes widened.

"And it's considered better to come without gifts if it is a family visit, even if you are not family yourself," Leliana soothed. "Otherwise it looks like bribery."

"B-bribery?" she echoed weakly, staring at Leliana in horror. When Alistair confirmed this with a nod, Rhodri tipped her head back and let out a harassed sigh. 

"Come on, then, let's go. Bloody Ferelden. No gifts, my foot. How my cousins lived here, I'll never know…" She muttered a stream of Tevene, some of the content remarkably similar to Antivan obscenities, and tiredly beckoned the party to follow her into town.

Zevran could have jumped for joy. Not only was she a Northerner, she was a proud one. That was a commonality between them that made for easy rapport-building. He practically skipped his way over to the Warden's side and smiled up at her. 

"I know just how you feel, my Grey Warden,” he assured her sweetly. “We have the same gift-giving customs in Antiva. Not quite what we are used to, no?"

Rhodri stared ahead with a haunted expression, and she shook her head. "No, my friend, it certainly isn't. Bloody Ferelden…" 

§

At first glance, Redcliffe gave quite a pleasant sort of impression-- as far Fereldan places went, anyway. It wasn't a patch on Antiva City, of course, but such comparisons only yielded wistfulness and weren’t worth the energy it took to indulge them.

No, the optimistic approach was in order here. Redcliffe was… charming. Rustic. At the very least, it wasn’t raining, and it looked like it hadn’t been raining for about three days. 

The absence of rain helped the contrived optimism along rather more than Zevran expected. It was common knowledge that the ideal place was an urban environment with warm, sunny weather. Though Redcliffe was neither urban nor warm, it was dry and comfortable. Even the architecture wasn’t half bad, with a number of the buildings boasting enormous, detailed fish carved into the wooden supports. Really, the locals had done the best they could with what they had, and of all the places Zevran had seen in Ferelden (far too many, by now), Redcliffe was definitively the least worst of them. 

Of course, first glances were often deceiving. The evidence of that could not have made itself plainer when the party was stopped at the bridge into town by a local with a bow and quiver slung over regular clothes. He had circles under his eyes dark as bruises, and moved in jerky strides as he approached them.

“I ain’t going to stop you from entering,” he said to them, his voice reedy with exhaustion, “but do you know what’s going on here?”

Ah, brasca, was it that time again already? Zevran looked around for the corner where the pleasant façade would be peeled back to reveal a revolting underbelly– one that in this case was no doubt crawling with darkspawn. 

Zevran saw Rhodri squint at the question and Maker, could she not just get on with questioning the man? It was agonising being left wondering what flavour of evil was going to gobble him up in front of a wooden fish house.

“I… assume you’re not referring to the civil war that is currently ravaging the entire nation?” she eventually asked.

The man’s face fell. “So you don’t know? Nobody out there’s heard? What're you here for, then?”

The Warden gave him a sympathetic look. “A Blight is unfolding. People ‘out there,’” she indicated the gate they had passed through, “are dying like flies because of the darkspawn. If you venture outside the village, you’ll find there’s not much of an audience left. As for us, we're here to see Arl Eamon.”

“Arl Eamon?” the man shook his head. “Oh, dear...”

“Is something the matter with the Arl?” Alistair asked urgently. 

Oh, there was always something wrong with nobility, wasn’t there? They loved to gossip to each other about their maladies while maintaining a front of immortality around the great unwashed, though it must have been quite something if even the townsfolk knew...

It wasn’t until the word ‘monsters’ reached his ears that Zevran mentally rejoined the proceedings, cursing his poorly-timed contemplations as he did. 

“They come out of the castle every night and attack the village until dawn,” the man croaked, watching them pleadingly. “We’ve no army or king to defend us, and the few of us left are waiting for death.”

“Then I'll investigate the castle,” Rhodri declared. “If there's an explanation for this, I imagine it'll be found there.” She turned to the party. “Who will come with me?”

The man waved to get her attention. “Wait, ser. Perhaps you should speak to Bann Teagan first.”

Alistair’s eyebrows rose. “The Arl’s brother is here?”

“He’s in the Chantry. I’ll take you there, if you’ll follow me?”

Rhodri inclined her head. “Very well. Lead the way then, ser, if you please.”

§

The rest of the day went by in a blur. The man called Bann Teagan had somehow roped them into joining the woefully underprepared villagers in beating back the tide of ‘evil… things’, as he had put it. The party spent long hours hurtling around the village, recruiting all and sundry into the local defence– and, more surprisingly, assisting the more vulnerable of said all and sundry as they went. The Warden didn’t turn down a single request for help, to the approval of Alistair and Leliana, and the outright scorn of Morrigan and Sten. Siblings were reunited; a frantic father missing his daughter was promised extra eyes in the search. There were even donations of cash and food here and there.

It wasn’t so much the act of helping that was so very novel. Zevran wasn’t above doing small acts of kindness, himself, where the circumstances permitted it. Performing them in the open, though, that was rather more unusual. None of them seemed to care who could be watching, ready to exploit them and their efforts. Was this sort of serene, open goodwill normal outside of the Crows?

… If it was, did Rhodri and the others know how lucky they were that that was the case? 

He silently decided to enjoy the freedom of pursuing such harmless pleasures for as long as the opportunity was there. Though exactly how long that would last was very much up for debate now that he had been signed up to fight village-decimating monsters, yet another of his ingenious, wry musings as the companions sat together in the Redcliffe Tavern, watching the sun dither a hand's breadth above the horizon. 

His gaze was torn from the window as he looked around and saw the buxom, redheaded waitress standing at their table, a tray balanced expertly in the palm of one hand. 

“Three pints,” she handed a half-tankard each to Zevran, Morrigan, and Alistair, “and a strawberry nectar.”

“Thank you, ser,” Rhodri accepted her drink with an appreciative nod and took a sip.

The waitress raised an eyebrow. "'Ser?' Are you trying to get into bed with me? ‘Cos I ain’t that kind of girl.”

Rhodri’s eyes widened as she choked on her nectar. 

“I-- no, what--” she spluttered between coughs. Zevran smirked and took the glass out of her hand, setting it on the table before delivering a few firm pats between her shoulder blades.

“I was being polite,” she gasped when she had her breath back. “I hadn't meant to offend, truly. My apologies, Madam.”

That earned the table a bemused smile. Morrigan rolled her eyes and pretended to be oblivious to the scene while Alistair and Zevran looked on from behind their beverages.

“Ah, I think I’ve been around Lloyd too much to know politeness when I see it,” the waitress admitted with a wry chuckle, jerking her head a little in the direction of the barkeeper. “If I didn’t need the job so badly, I’d be away from that greasy bastard faster than you can say ‘spigot.’”

The little information the woman had offered was enough to piece a backstory together, bringing with it a similar impulse to step in as Zevran had with Isabela- take her aside, teach her enough bladework to keep the worst of the trouble at bay.

He turned his gaze to Rhodri, whose face would tell him how his chances looked for indulging that little urge, and her knitted brows were all the answer he needed.

"Is the tavern owner giving you trouble, Madam?” she asked seriously, and perhaps a little too loudly, as one of the militiamen at the table close by glanced over at them. 

The waitress’ eyes widened and she shot a glimpse over her shoulder, sighing with relief to see that Lloyd was engrossed in the task of counting the money he had fleeced from them and the militiamen who were drinking nearby. 

She looked back at them, her mouth a thin line now. 

“Keep it down, would you,” she hissed. “Didn’t I just say I can’t afford to lose this job? He gropes me and pays me next to nothing, yes, but if I get the boot here, then I end up somewhere much worse. I ain’t got any other options!”

Rhodri gave a half-shrug and went to get up. “I'd best have a word with him then, teach him some basic manners--”

The waitress hastily stepped in front of her, shaking her head. “No, no, don’t. That’ll just make things worse.” She smiled pleadingly. “It’s sweet of you, but I’ll be fine.”

“He'll be fighting with us tonight,” Rhodri answered, “and I don’t tolerate that sort of filthy behaviour. In fact, I'd better go and tell him he’ll be fighting, since we haven’t spoken with him yet…”

The waitress laughed. “Lloyd? Fighting? Ooh, you've got the wrong bloke there. He’ll lock himself away in his cellar like he's done the last few nights, and– hey! Where are you going?”

Zevran gave a low chuckle. “Somehow, I do not think that will be the case this evening,” he said to her as Rhodri, who was already halfway to the bar, had a groaning Alistair in hot pursuit. Morrigan rolled her eyes and slid over to the opposite chair, turning her back to the unfolding spectacle as the Warden and the barkeep exchanged words at a volume that grew by the syllable-- on Lloyd’s part, at least.

“There’s no need for that kind of talk,” he objected, wiping his brow with the bar rag. “That’s murder!”

“It isn’t murder to say that your source of income will dry up if you don’t join the collective effort to keep them and your village alive tonight,” she replied with a shrug. 

“It is if you’re sending me into the fray when I can’t even hold a sword,” he protested. Alistair clucked his tongue, folded his arms, and shook his head at the man reprovingly.

“Then I suggest you make your way down by the Chantry to practice with the other beginners,” Rhodri pointed at the door. “And if I hear of any indecent behaviour from you, I'll see to it personally that you face disciplinary action. Off you go."

Zevran stifled a snort as he watched the barkeep throw his hands up and stomp toward the front door, barking over his shoulder, “it better be as I left it when I get back…!” 

Lloyd turned to the waitress and pointed at her.

“Bella, you’ll run the joint while I’m gone, and don’t you dare undercharge.” With that, he tramped out, slamming the door behind him as he went.

In what appeared to be a rare moment of unison, Alistair and Morrigan rolled their eyes, passing each other as Alistair returned to the table and Morrigan (“I cannot suffer a moment more of these inane dramas”) departed the tavern. 

Bella walked into the centre of the room and declared that drinks were free for the rest of the day, to the uproarious delight of the patrons. A line formed as people drained their tankards and made their way to the bar, and no-one made a single noise of impatience as Bella quietly conversed with Rhodri for a few minutes before taking her place behind the spigots.

When the Warden rejoined the table, Alistair got to his feet.

“I want a word with Bann Teagan before things get exciting,” he said to her, making sure to shoot Zevran the requisite glare as he did. “I’ll meet you outside the Chantry, all right?”

With a wave, he was out, and Rhodri and Zevran were left alone at the table– with no shields on them, no less!

Progress!

“Well, that was exciting,” Zevran murmured to her through a chuckle. 

Rhodri shook her head. “I wouldn’t care to repeat it. Poor Bella. I’ll pay her a visit tomorrow, I think.” She cursed under her breath before her eyes suddenly widened. “Zevran!”

He quirked a brow at her. “Hmm? You already had my attention, my Grey Warden.”

“We must talk strategy for tonight,” she said urgently, tapping a finger on the table.

“... Strategy, you say?”

“Yes. You’re trained as an assassin, are you not? How do they fare on the battlefield? Surely you’re used to carrying out things a little more… clandestinely, yes?”

Zevran nodded, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “This is true. We specialise in striking from stealth. I can fight against others in head-to-head combat, though a large army may make things… particularly exciting, shall we say.”

Rhodri frowned. Her eyes went on him and scanned his face so intently that a part of him wondered if the answer was written somewhere there. “We must find a way to keep you safe out there.” 

Keep him safe? Did she know who she was talking to? Oh, this was painful, and the sooner the conversation and ocular scrutiny were over, the better. He slipped on a smile and manufactured a chuckle to distract her. “I do not think you will find the answer on my right cheek, Rhodri, however beautiful it might be.”

Her eyes stopped right in his own line of vision, and as it happened, uninterrupted eye contact was even worse than face-searching. Why had he not considered that before encouraging her to look elsewhere?

After what felt like an eternity but could not have been more than a second, the contact broke and she looked away. 

“Sorry,” she said solemnly. “I was thinking hard and not focusing on where my eyes were. Would you tell me a little more about being an assassin so we can plan something out for you?”

Relief. At last, an easy topic, even if the reason behind it was…

No. Just answer the question.

His humming laugh came much more readily to him this time. “With pleasure, my Warden. Well, let me see. We assassins tend to have very limited opportunity to carry out our task, which means that much depends on the first attack.” He shrugged and added as an aside, “and it keeps the dying process from dragging out. A good clean death, as it were.”

They had spoken of clean deaths before, and he knew Rhodri’s stance on the matter. Even so, it was gratifying to see her give an approving nod. 

“Debilitating foes with poison,” he added, “or crippling their limbs makes follow-up attacks much easier. Done well, if the first stab does not end things, the second or third will.”

“You would have to know anatomy very well to make good judgements on where to strike and applying knowledge of poisons,” Rhodri said as she traced a finger around the rim of her glass. Her voice dropped a little, and he wasn’t sure if she was still talking to him as she muttered, “Dexterity, of course, excellent strength, but in short bursts… eye for distance, awareness of surroundings… mmm…” She trailed off, chewing on her lip.

Zevran said nothing. There was little to add to the list of his skills she was producing in front of him now– at least where warfare was concerned. 

“I’d put you with Alistair for that, since he can clear quite a path, and it would be well for him to have someone at his back.” Rhodri sighed. “But he needs more time to warm up to you. For now, your proximity will startle him, and that could lead to disaster.”

He snorted and conceded her point with a nod. “It would be less than ideal.” 

“If there were better spots around here to hide and we weren’t playing a numbers game, it would be less of an issue," she continued thoughtfully. 

Zevran glanced out the window, looking down over the entire village. There were a handful of bridges and large mounds that would do in a pinch, though if he were overwhelmed…

“Oh, I could try to make do, I think,” he said offhandedly. “If I fail, I suppose I only fail once.”

He chuckled as Rhodri’s eyes widened. “Ah, do not take it badly, my Warden! One does not do what I do and fear death so very greatly. You know this!"

Her brows knitted, and the remnants of his mirth died away.

“I don’t want you to die, Zevran," she said soberly, "and I don't want you at greater risk of death than is absolutely necessary.”

Now that was a combination: a face that looked like the wearer wanted to strangle him, saying words expressing the exact opposite sentiment. It would have been hugely funny were it any less unsettling. 

“I would like you to stay very close to me this evening, then,” she nodded at her own decision. "Ideally behind me. I'll be on the frontlines much of the time, I imagine, but my shields will keep us both quite safe." 

Sending a mage into the fray seemed akin to entering a cat in a horse race, but the Warden looked nothing but sure of herself. He nodded quickly. 

“You won’t regret having Zevran at your back, my Warden,” he purred. “Count on it.”

Rhodri beamed and gave him one of those barely-there nudges. “Of course I won’t,” she said warmly. “I’m happy to have you with me.”

Before Zevran’s stomach could finish plummeting, Rhodri was already jerking her head in the direction of the door. 

“We should leave and get some practice in before sundown. I doubt my spells will hit you if you stay right behind me, but I’ll be moving and you’ll need to get used to shadowing me.”

In the corner of Zevran’s periphery, Bella had disappeared into the stockroom, and a tingling premonition declared the arrival of his opportunity to do a good little deed of his own. And, he had to admit, the opportunity for a moment’s respite from the Warden’s nerve-plucking remarks.

 “Of course. But first, please excuse me for a moment, my Warden.”

With a nod, Rhodri turned her gaze to the window, and amid the noise and studious consumption of alcohol, Zevran went unseen as he slipped away to the stockroom where Bella was rummaging in a large chest. His hand went under his shirt to unbuckle an unremarkable steel knife strapped around his belly, and he held it by the sheath as he knocked gently on the door jamb.

“Pardon me,” he announced calmly.

Bella glanced over her shoulder and promptly turned back to her task. 

“Gents’ is the second door after this one,” she jerked her head to her right, tsking under her breath. “I could’ve sworn that bloody wrench was in this one…”

“Ah, thank you, but no, I did not come to enquire about the latrines."

She paused and turned around again, appraising him warily this time. “What did you come here for, then?”

“Nothing to be concerned about, I assure you. I was sitting at the table with the Grey Warden and overheard something about your… ah… predicament here under the barkeep’s employ.”

Bella looked unimpressed with this opener. “If you’ve come looking to staff a whorehouse, I ain’t interested.”

Zevran chuckled. “Ah, no. No, I do not run any such enterprise. But I have had friends in similar situations as yours.” He stepped forward and held the knife out to her, keeping the blade pointing toward him as he did. “They always benefited from having a little extra, ah… protection, shall we say.”

Her eyes darted from the blade to him; he could almost hear the cogs turning in her head as she sized them both up. Such caution was warranted, of course; why would she trust a foreign stranger? He stayed still and kept his free hand where she could see it.

After a few more moments, Bella reached out a hand and unsheathed the blade.

“You should take the rest as well,” he prompted her gently. “In a dress, I suggest strapping it to the upper leg for quick access." He drew a thumb around the top of his thigh demonstratively. “If they face you head-on, aim for the face, throat, or the space below where the ribs join, and if you can get behind them, here where the head meets the neck will end things quickly.” He jostled the belt a little as a reminder for her to take it; she did. “But if you can run, do. Knives are always a last resort, no?”

Bella kept her eye on the point of the blade. “What d’you want in return, then? I ain’t got any money to give you.” She looked up slowly. “Unless you wanted a more physical thank you?”

“There is no need for that. Just keep the knife a secret. It is no longer a concealed blade if you show it to anyone, no? Word gets out very fast, even among trusted ones.”

She placed the knife in the scabbard and nodded. “I… thank you,” she said softly. “I’m sorry for being suspicious. We don’t get many elves in here, but you’re certainly a lot nicer than that Berwick creep.”

Zevran pursed his lips thoughtfully, reflexively dismissing the first part of the woman’s remark. “Ah, yes, the one we recruited earlier.”

Bella chuckled. “We ought to keep you and your friends around. The tavern’s a much better place to be when it’s not overrun with oddballs and pigs. Almost pleasant.”

He snorted. “Just so. I should leave, but first, you might consider concealing that blade before anyone catches you with it. I will keep watch while you do.” Without another word, he turned his back to her and stood in the doorway.

“I think the knife’s hidden now,” she announced from behind him. He looked over his shoulder and nodded.

“I am sure I don't know which knife you mean,” he answered through a smile that he allowed to stay while he left and made for the Warden’s table. 

Rhodri did her startled little head-rattle as Zevran drew up beside her, and pulled her gaze away from the window. She smiled at him. “Shall we go?”

“Always ready, my Grey Warden.”

In a silence that bordered on comfortable, Rhodri drained the last of her drink and they stepped out into the afternoon.

Chapter Text

“Carmela was joking. Tell me she’s having me on.” Taliesen slammed his brandy glass down on the table, knocking his chair on its side as he stood up and stormed over. “I didn’t really find out that the Zevran whose mournful arse I have covered for the last six months has put in a bid for the SOLO WARDEN CONTRACT!” 

Zevran folded his arms and raised his eyebrows at the looming, incandescent bulk. “You did, in fact.”

He heard the slap to his cheek more than he felt it. There was enough bite in it to warrant staggering, but he’d have been on the floor if Taliesen had meant to put him there. 

“You little shit. What fucking hot water you’ve landed yourself in this time. You and a handful of local hires against Grey Wardens!” Taliesen let out a groan, his shoulders crumpling like a concertina. “Why, Zev? You can’t even get through a normal job without help. I chose the three-threes contract to keep it easy ‘til you came good again. We’ll get a master contract soon. We’re doing well, even without Rin–”

“Enough, Taliesen–”

“No. No, it fucking isn’t enough,” Taliesen held up two fingers. “Here’s two truths for you, my darling. Number one, Rinna is– shut up and listen!– Rinna is dead. And number two, because she’s dead, that makes me the planner again. ‘Cause let me tell you something, Zev: your plans are horrid. Why is that, hmm? Why are your plans always so horrid?”

Zevran scoffed. “I cannot imagine.”

§

“So if I have understood correctly, my Grey Warden: my strategy tonight is to stay behind you as you cast spells?”

They paused as Rhodri fastened a leather utility belt around her, cinching her huge robe in until her top half looked like a collapsed hourglass. Her hands checked and re-checked the holsters keeping three flasks of lyrium in place.

“Essentially, yes. If one of these creatures accosts you from behind, let me know and I’ll handle it. Or you can kill it, if you feel up to it.” 

“Ooh. I do love a little action, myself.”

The Warden chuckled and sighed, gently motioning for them to walk again. “It’d be nice if someone knew what these things are. I’d have a better strategy if we had more information than the descriptors ‘evil’ and ‘monsters’.”

“We know they come out at night, they kill en masse, and slink away,” he mused. “I am not sure what that could be. Wolves, I might have guessed, or some nocturnal animal, but surely the villagers would recognise them.”

"I would think so. If I were feeling fanciful, I might've guessed something magical was afoot."

"Oh?"

"It’s possible a maleficar is summoning wraiths or some other Fade creatures. Their eyesight’s poor this side of the Veil, so they navigate by the emotional energies around them." Rhodri rubbed her chin. "If someone wanted to kill a whole village, setting them on frightened people in the dark is a sure-fire winner."

"Ah.” 

"But then it begs the question," she waved a finger now, "why would a maleficar target Redcliffe? Ferelden’s impossible to invade, and there's no opportunity for a mage here. Now Tevinter’s a different story. There, they could train in more tasteful magic and step into a cushy job. Talk about staying where you're not appreciated."

Zevran choked out a shocked laugh. "Does this sort of thing happen often in Tevinter, my Grey Warden? Mages fleeing the rest of Thedas and amassing a grand fortune in your fine country?" 

She wobbled her head from side to side like he’d asked her opinion on jam. "Not really. Even with schooling, most mages are average, and average mages are only rich if they’re born or marry into wealth. No, I’d say someone very powerful is behind this."

"... Yet you do not seem worried." 

His pint splashed in his belly as she gave a shrug. 

"I'm a powerful mage, too. So is Morrigan. That's two against one already, and Alistair’s Templar skills are also very useful."

"Mm…? There is no possibility of more than one of these maleficars?"

“Hah! It's already unlikely that one gifted maleficar is squandering their time here. Once we get into the multiples, it's the stuff of fantasy."

Zevran caught his eyebrow rising and promptly put it back down.

"Hm-hmm!" Rhodri grinned. "I saw that. You disagree? Do you want to make a bet?" 

He pursed his lips to school his nervous laugh into a sultry hum. "Now there's a thought. What would you desire if you win, my lovely Grey Warden?"

"Let's see… if I bet there are no maleficarum and win, you can tell me a story. Doesn't have to be long or true, or even good. Just a story. What do you think? Is that fair?"

"Oh yes, very fair indeed. And if there are maleficars behind this, you tell me a story, yes?”

“Right! It’s a deal. Now, let’s cover some safety pointers before we start practising.”

The Warden’s speech on magical hazard prevention was brief and absurdly commonsensical. Standing between a caster and the target was unwise, as was standing too close to the target, in the event of friendly fire. Do not distract the mage mid-spell, if possible. 

When the Warden urged that he do his utmost to avoid being hit by a mage’s staff or limbs in the event of unpredictable flailing, the last of Zevran’s willpower dissolved and he fell into paroxysms of snorting laughter. And at this point, why not? If she were to kill him for it, it would at least be quicker and less gory than an unidentified monster disembowelling him. 

When he had calmed enough to look at her, Rhodri was fixing him with a crooked smile as she rocked on her feet. 

“You may laugh, my friend,” she wagged a finger playfully, “but getting a hand or staff to the face makes up the bulk of magical injuries to bystanders!”

Zevran bit his lips together. The second onslaught of mirth came out like sobs as he glanced at Rhodri’s staff. Gnarled, sickly twig of a thing it was. Between the two of them, the staff would come out the worse for wear if it hit him in the face. 

Unless…

“Do… ah…” he broached, sobering with remarkable speed, “magical injuries come from touching the staff?”

The Warden shook her head. “Not unless you have lyrium affliction. You’re safe with me if you do, though, because my staff isn’t enchanted. I have the affliction, too, you see.”

He frowned. “I have never heard of such an ailment, but I suppose I could have it? How would I know if I did?”

“Well, most of the people who have it are mages, so it’s unlikely. Have you ever touched lyrium or an enchanted object before?”

Zevran nodded. “One of my better daggers, I believe, is enchanted.”

“Any itching, pain, burning, bleeding, or blistering when it’s close to you?”

“Not unless I accidentally cut myself with it.”

Rhodri smiled. “No lyrium affliction for you, then.”

“But you do have it?” He pointed his nose half-heartedly at the potions strapped to her hip.

“Mmm. The lyrium’s safe like this. No fumes get out through the glass or cork.”

“You drink it, though.” He had meant it as a question, but it came out more as a statement.

The Warden’s face hardened. “If I must, yes.” She shook her head as if she’d caught herself being too serious, and fixed him with a careful smile that chilled his guts. “But that’s not for you to worry about. Tell me, Zevran, do you dance?”

He raised his eyebrows at the irrelevant and frankly unnecessary question. “We are Northerners, my Grey Warden.”

She grinned and rolled her eyes. “All right, all right. My fault for not being more specific. Are you good at dancing? Can you hold a rhythm?”

A cheeky smile was on his face before he could think to put it there. “My answer remains the same.” 

“Aeya, you! Look, the reason I ask is because we should start practising, and you’ll find my combat drills to be very similar to a dance. If you’ll follow me over to this little clearing with the wall, I’ll show you what I mean…”

They strode over to a barren, cork-earth patch beside the Chantry with a crumbling stone wall on its perimeter. 

“Now, I’ll go through a drill, and we’ll take it from there, yes? Watch for the spell boundaries.”

The moment Zevran nodded, the Warden was facing the boulder, holding her staff as though she intended to run someone through with it. The air between them fell into a stifling stillness. When he was uncomfortable enough to try fidgeting a breeze into existence, small currents picked up near the back of the staff. 

The sound of a whip crack had Zevran darting back, knife at the ready, in time to see a series of pearlescent orbs leave the business end of Rhodri’s staff. They hissed through the air into the stone wall, where they burst open like fistfuls of powder and fizzled into nothingness. He kept his mortified scowl to himself, stepping back and resheathing the blade before she could catch him with it.

Besides, had he not been disappointed that her spells were amateurish and invisible? If the Warden did have the capacity for magic that twisted the air and summoned stars out of nowhere, it was clearly for special occasions. Not for him, healing or harming– and rightly so.

He was already smiling as Rhodri looked over her shoulder.

“Bit like an Antivan two-step, don’t you think? Shall I do it again?”

Zevran froze. Had anyone asked him to recount the auditory and visual fancies of the last few seconds, he could have supplied copious details. Information on how the Warden had moved around to facilitate these, however, was rather more scarce.

“Yes, please!” The answer was rather more eager than he had intended, but if anything, she was thrilled by it. With a jolly nod, she turned back to the rock. 

Zevran watched closely as she started up again. The staff was sweeping around her like she was paddling a canoe, moving in fluid, precise motions. By his reckoning, two of him could have stood behind her without being hit. Moving with her perfectly, it might have gone up to three. Even a novice could have knifed her flank with ease. Oh, this mage would be in terrible trouble without him at her back. 

As the second drill finished and the Warden turned around again, he smiled and nodded approvingly, if a little unevenly. 

“Lovely footwork, my dear Grey Warden. I am quite confident these creatures do not know what trouble awaits them! All those stars and crackles, such raw power… mmm! You are a marvel!”  

Rhodri shook her head. “Not raw power. If you can see or hear a spell, it usually means the caster isn’t concentrating hard enough. Those noises and stars are Fade energy escaping.”

Zevran’s thumbs twitched so violently they flicked his legs. “Ah,” he croaked.

“... Zevran?” The Warden’s hand had barely begun to reach out before it drew back. Unexplained comprehension widened her eyes. 

“Ah! The magic is frightening. Yes, I remember you were nervous when I talked about it on your first night with us, too. You were staring at me just like you are now.” She gave him a sympathetic smile. “You must have heard a lot of disturbing things about mages.”

He forced a smirk before the horror could paralyse him. “Hmm! I have read tales of angry mages turning people into toads, it’s true.”

“Hah! Those stories are pure grot. Especially the shapeshifting ones.” She chortled. “In my experience, angered mages like to target the eyebrows with a growth spell. You wouldn’t believe how many apprentices came to me with brow hair down to the waist after an argument.” 

Distract her.  

“... How many?”

Rhodri nibbled her lip. “Ooh… probably happened once or twice a week. Very popular revenge tactic. The Templars were usually laughing too hard to punish anyone, see.” 

She waved a hand. “We’re off-topic! My point is: if you’re worried, it’s all right. Over the years I’ve taught sixty-three children. How many do you think came to me unafraid of magic?”

He shook his head.

“Four. You’re not alone. I promise you, though, that your safety matters to me. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t insist on practising together now.” 

Zevran had to say something, but how did one get words out through a locked mouth? 

By the time he'd managed to unlatch it, Rhodri’s shoulders had drawn up in a slow, tight shrug. 

“That didn’t really help, did it?” she said softly. “I’m sorry, Zevran. I don’t know you well enough yet to know what calms you best.”  

“No, no,” he began, the overdue words falling out at a blather. “Not at all necessary. Forgive me, I–”

Rhodri gently held up a hand to silence him. “You need to be at least somewhat settled before tonight. If my spellcasting makes you jumpy, you could get hurt, and I don’t want that for you.” She puffed out a sigh. “Look, maybe we just need an uncomfortable truth for now.”

That wild, half-witted laugh was threatening again. An uncomfortable truth. An.

“Had I intended to harm you, I already would have. Very effectively, too. And if you wanted to, you could do the same to me, when my back is turned.” She shrugged again, much more loosely this time. “But I like you. I don’t want to hurt you, and you obviously have no interest in killing me. So far, neither of us have laid a finger on each other, or even raised our voices.”

Zevran clapped a hand over his heart. “You have my word, my Warden, that I have only your very good health in mind.”

She nodded. “I know. I need you to know I prioritise your health, too. We’ll take as long as possible now to make you more comfortable, but if you’re still not settled by then, you might need to find solace in a calculated risk tonight.” Rhodri gave him a small smile, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m a better bet than the monsters, after all. Well, at least until I have to identify herbs, anyway.”

He squeezed out a laugh. The Warden brightened immediately, bringing her hands together and rubbing them with a chuckle of her own.

“Right! Let’s get back to it, then. Shall I do another drill?”

§

For all its weakness during working hours, the Fereldan summer sun put in a long day. It felt somewhere near midnight when it finally disappeared (to spend a few hours wheezing and gasping, he presumed). Even then, the sky was unflatteringly bright as Zevran watched the moon rise from his place in front of the Redcliffe windmill. The Warden stood like a sentinel to his right, and the rest of the party was sandwiched between them and the decidedly inebriated townsfolk-cum-soldiers.

“Almost time, I suppose,” he mused aloud, fingering the pommel of his dagger. “I hope these monsters do not come late to our party, after all the effort we have taken tonight.”

The Warden chuckled and looked over at him. Her expression fell back into the usual severity as she ran her eyes over his face.

“It will be all right, Zevran,” she informed his cheek gently. “You shadowed me excellently while we practised. Not a single scratch on either of us! Absolutely nothing to worry about in that regard.” 

He blessed the Maker twice over as a thud sounded from behind them and Rhodri’s gaze returned to the front. 

“Was that the third drunken militia member to topple down,” she asked serenely, “or the fourth?”

Zevran didn’t bother to hide his snicker as slurs of ‘I’ll help y'up’ preceded a gasp of surprise and another thud. “I believe we are at five, now.”

“Hmm,” she nibbled her lip. “I think it might’ve been unwise of Bella to announce those free drinks, you know. Whatever these monsters are, I hope fire isn’t their weakness. If our comrades here,” she jerked her head over her shoulder, “get too close while I’m casting, they’ll go up like a torch.”

He laughed through his nose. “Let us hope, for their sake, it will not come to that. On the bright side, though, once they're down, they are unlikely to move from where they are. Perhaps if you need to cast fire and they are in the way, we could have someone roll them down the hill to the Chantry.”

A loud guffaw burst out of the Warden before she pressed her fist over her mouth. She cleared her throat, “Sorry. That was probably meant to be serious, but what a thought!”

“Oh, I was only half-joking there. Stranger things have happened.”

“Like standing in an odd little village waiting to fight unidentified things?”

Zevran glanced at the castle behind her. A putrid yellow mist had escaped the highwalled confines, flooding across the drawbridge like a lanced boil. 

“I do not think we’ll need to wait much longer to identify them, my Grey Warden.” He pointed his nose at the spectacle in the distance. 

The Warden looked over her shoulder and chuckled. “Hah,” she said under her breath. “That time already, is it?” 

She nudged Tomas, the man who had stopped them upon first entering Redcliffe, and indicated the castle. Tomas nodded, and with a yell that made the Warden flinch back and scowl (“Maker’s tits, you don’t have to be so loud…”), he had started a chain reaction of unsheathing weapons, frenzied prayers, and the occasional bloodthirsty, drunken roar.

Facing her own party, a rattled Rhodri motioned for them to come closer. 

“Well," she said with a thin smile. "Our time has come. We’re ready, yes?”

“Down to the last detail,” Morrigan huffed. “If you revisit your plan once more, I shall start to forget things.”

Rhodri hummed wryly. “If only we had details. Well, in any case, we all know what to do. Mind your stamina. Rest by the Chantry if you’re tired. Protect it as much as you can, watch out for each other, and come to me if you need healing.”

Alistair drew his sword in one neat motion, his face hardening as he watched the approaching fog. “Right.”

With a flick of the Warden’s hands, shields swelled up around each party member– except Zevran.

“Zevran?” She smiled gently at him. “Are you ready for your shield?”

It took an unfairly large effort to suppress a mortified wince. 

Is my hair golden enough to pass for hay? I could hang myself up in a field with the scarecrows overnight and take my chances.

Shelving the ridiculous temptation, he rested a hand on his hip and pouted his lips. “Oh, yes. Do please lavish me with your marvellous spells, my dear Warden.”

She snorted, and one flicked hand later, he stood in a bubble of his own.

A hushed prayer from Leliana coincided with a mouldering reflection of Redcliffe’s own army appearing, shambling down the hill in piecemeal bodies and rotting armour.

From Zevran’s right, the Warden hissed a string of profanities.

“I don’t believe– Morrigan! Are you seeing this?”

The witch drew up beside them, expressionless and humming softly in agreement. “The dead walk, it seems.”

Rhodri twisted her head and eyed the ashen-faced Tomas in open disbelief.

“You told me nobody knew what they were!” she exclaimed, throwing a hand in the direction of the approaching horde. “They’re corpses! How can you not know what a bloody corpse is? It’s you, but dead!”

The man’s indignant splutters fell away as she let out a low groan and beckoned to Zevran.

“Let’s go. Honestly, you couldn’t make something like this up…” 

They snapped into a jog. Zevran took longer than he should have to thank the Maker for the belt that kept Rhodri’s robe from catching the breeze and accosting his face as he moved behind her. 

Dodge, dodge, swivel-step, dodge, dodge. Check behind- clear. Dodge, dodge, swivel-step…

He couldn’t help but snort to himself. The displaced Antivan hireblade, whiling away a war in a dance with the back of a shadow. The spells were silent, and the effort of filtering out the toppling drunks and singing steel to catch the sound of an impact strained his ears.

At some point, the Warden began to wheel around. He checked his back and was already behind her by the time she said his name. 

“Break for a moment. I think they can handle the rest,” she nodded in the direction of the handful of corpses still standing, outnumbered by their party alone. “Let’s see if we can’t help some of the casualties, hmm?”

Zevran followed her over to a ghostly man who lay ashiver in a half-halo of scarlet dirt. The sword was out of his wound but still in his hand, and blood poured out of him like a broken wine cask.

He raised a hand that she never saw. “My Warden?” 

“Mmm?” 

“We cannot help him.” 

She paused and looked at Zevran. “Why not?”

He shook his head, keeping his voice low and gentle. “He has lost too much blood. The sword was in his liver, you see?” He drew a finger over the same spot on his own torso. “Many veins and such there. He should not have taken the sword out.” 

The Warden glanced over at the shivering man and sighed. 

“Allow me,” he indicated his dagger, making to step forward. “It is better than leaving him to suffer, and I am quite used to doing it.”

Her arm went out in front of him. “No. It’s not for you to do that sort of thing any more.” She shook her head, mercifully paying no heed to the way Zevran's eyes widened without his say-so. “I’ll do it. I just… you’re quite sure there’s nothing we can do for him?”

Zevran pinched his thigh to force some sense into himself. “I am sure, yes. I have plenty of training in knowing when someone is beyond saving.” He pointed his nose at the man. “He is very close to the end now, my Warden. He should be attended to quickly.”

He heard her swallow; she nodded. 

“I believe you.” 

She went and knelt down by the man, brushing the damp hair out of his eyes and murmuring softness Zevran heard in spite of himself. A simple turn of the hand was all it took to freeze the body, another to unfreeze it, and she rose to her feet again, scrubbing her hands as she did.

He inclined his head to her respectfully, the relief crowding out uneasy thoughts of being gratuitously frozen himself. 

She spoke before he could. “Thank you, Zevran. He might have suffered with me, if I’d tried what I was thinking.”

His smile was already in place, a modest reply all but leaving his mouth as a panicked footsoldier screamed his way into earshot from downhill.

“THE CHANTRY! THEY’RE DOWN BY THE CHANTRY! YOU HAVE TO HELP US!”  

Rhodri’s mouth fell open. “I don't believe–"

"ANOTHER ROUND OF THEM!"  Came Tomas' voice from further up the hill. Zevran glanced in the direction Alistair had bolted and sure enough, a second swarm was departing the castle.

“I believe they are asking us to be in two places at once,” he remarked wryly. “If only it were possible, hmm?”

The Warden’s eyes widened. “Perhaps we can’t be in both places physically, but with magic we can make it as though we were… Maker’s tits, you’re a genius!” She beamed. “We’ll light a grease fire, kill them that way!”

“Provided the fire actually kills them,” Zevran added quickly, “lest we end up having to deal with flaming undead. Could something be done to trap them, perhaps?”

“That’s a good point! Mmm– ooh! Morrigan might be able to help there!” 

They weaved through the first-wave stragglers until they reached the witch, who was shaking her head in disgust at the onslaught coming down the hillside.

“This is unsustainable, Warden,” Morrigan barked. “This handful of novices will not survive a second, let alone a third or fourth visitation of these creatures. ‘Tis useless!”

“I know. Listen, Morrigan, how are you with earth spells?”

The witch raised an eyebrow. “You intend to bury us alive to spare our pride?”

“Hm? No, no, nothing like that. I want a crack in the earth wide and deep enough for them to fall into.”

“‘Tis merely delaying them, to trap them in something like that,” Morrigan shook her head. “They can climb.”

“Line it with ice so they can’t grip. I can go further up, grease them, and set them alight. They’ll fall into it and burn to death before they can get out. Most of them, at least.”

Zevran flitted his gaze between the urgently eager Warden and her blank-faced counterpart. The silence grew heavier until the latter shrugged.

“Very well, have it your way. I shall start work on the crevice. I suggest you hurry, though, as they draw rather close.”

Rhodri grinned. “Thirty seconds? Enough time for a holiday. Come on, Zev!” She let out a laugh and broke into a run before his stomach could finish dropping at the unexpected name.

A hard shove to the back sent him stumbling forward.

“Get out of the way, elf,” Morrigan spat from behind him. “Unless you wish to be at the very bottom of this crevasse.”

Zevran burst into a sprint without looking back and quickly caught up to the Warden, who was already dousing the incline ahead with a lake of pearlescent slick. 

“Are you ready?” she said over her shoulder, face shining with sweat and gleameyed enthusiasm. “This is the good bit!”

“I was born ready for the good bit,” he purred.

“I won’t keep you waiting any longer, then!” A small tongue of flame materialised on the grease and rolled up the hill, carpeting the earth in a blockish inferno that blazed taller than Alistair.

“Warden, will you get a move on?” came Morrigan’s impatient voice from behind. “I cannot widen this before you have crossed it!”

Rhodri grinned at him. “No admiring our handiwork today. We'd better go before she kills us.”

A foolish laugh escaped him before he could stop it, and Rhodri joined in, twice as loud and three times as ridiculous as she waved him into a run with her. They cleared the gap with a dramatic spring that won a satisfying ‘ugh’ from Morrigan. The witch struck her staff once, twice, three times on the ground, and the gap yawned until it was too wide for even a galloping horse to clear.

“Ooh, marvellous! Keep an eye on that thing, would you, Morrigan?” The Warden beamed at her. “We’ll see to the nuisances by the Chantry.”

Had she waited for a response, Rhodri would have seen the sort of eyeroll that turned knowing recipients to stone. Zevran suppressed the urge to sigh– they were, after all, running away before they could witness the ‘good bit’ in action– and hurried down the hill after her. 

§

Zevran noted with delight that the incursion that had dragged them away from the pyrotechnics show uphill was smaller in number than the first two waves. Five or ten fewer– but fewer nonetheless! 

And, better still, with the sky finally dark, the fiery patch was easily observed from the bottom of the hill, obscured as it was by fir trees and long grass. Between the usual ducking and dodging in synchrony with the Warden’s massive, shrouded form, stolen glances were worth gold.

It was outright ungratefulness to will the sun away when it threatened at the horizon again and drowned out the silhouette of the fire. Zevran’s apology to the Maker was easily given upon seeing the last of the undead flee back toward the castle. He gave another apology with far more sincerity when the exhausted, bloodstained party found themselves assembled at the front of the Chantry. Bann Teagan stood to their left, the survivors in front, and a sea of corpses– their side who went down in battle, those that couldn't be saved afterward, and the maleficars’ lackeys all together, spanning out behind them all the way to the water's edge.

The man was making a grand speech of sorts that had the rapt attention of everyone but the Warden. Zevran watched on curiously as she frowned and rubbed at the grime on her wrists and robes with increasing irritability, not even stopping when the Bann turned to her and began addressing her.

“Ah… Warden?” Teagan cleared his throat politely. “Ser Grey Warden? I was, ah… just saying that we have some food ready, if you and your party would join us for a quick repast.”

Rhodri looked up and nodded. “Thank you, I heard you. My party can do as they please, but I must wash and put on clean clothes before I eat.”

The Bann shared a glance with Alistair.

“They’ll have wet cloths to clean your hands with in the Chantry, Rhod,” Alistair said, “but you’d have to go back to camp for anything else. The post-battle meal is only twenty-odd minutes, so we’d be done by the time you get back.”

“Quite fine. I’ll eat at the camp, then.”

Another, rather more uneasy glance, which the Warden appeared to miss. Good manners, however, snapped back into place for the Bann with the quickness befitting of nobility.

“Of course,” he inclined his head. “Please tell me if you would like anything from the meal, or anything else.”

“Thank you, we have food at the camp I was planning to eat. My companion, however,” Zevran’s stomach dropped as she indicated him, “is without a tent. I would appreciate it if you could supply him with one. I'm happy to pay, of course.”

Teagan blinked. His mouth opened and closed, and then opened again. “Yes, of course. I will see to the tent immediately, no payment needed.” He clapped his hands together decisively. “In that case, shall we go?”

“You shouldn’t go back there alone, Rhod,” Alistair protested. “Really. Just… ten minutes? Eat and go? I’ll go back with you early, even.”

The Warden’s face hardened. She rocked on her feet a little. “You know I always clean up before I eat dinner.”

“I think we’re probably closer to breakfast now, actually–”

“But this isn’t breakfast,” she insisted, her tone straining. “I didn’t wash, and I haven’t slept. I need to sleep. But I need to eat before I do that, and before I eat I need to wash and get these dirty clothes off.”

The exchange was pulling glances from sober passers-by, and outright stares from the drunken ones. Bann Teagan and the party hovered halfway between them and the doors to the Chantry, gaze wandering in every direction but the relevant one. 

“Perhaps I will go with you, my Grey Warden,” the words fell out of Zevran’s mouth like water, stunning him in the process, “I could do with a change of clothes, myself. I would hate for the grime to stain my leathers.”

“Not bloody likely–” Alistair began.

“Zevran has been at my back the entire night,” Rhodri cut him off firmly. “I am well, as you see. In fact, he helped to plan the firewall that kept you from being overwhelmed uphill. As far as I'm concerned, he has more than proven himself to be a remarkable addition to our party."

She took the Templar's hands in hers and gave him a wan but genuine smile. "I'm going to leave for camp now. Please go and eat. Enjoy your food and the company, and when you come, you can bring the tent with you, or have me come down to collect it.” 

Zevran jumped to attention as she turned to him.

“Are you ready to go?”

He nodded quickly. Not having it in him to take in the looks of the others as they left, he watched the path ahead, the Warden's praise rattling in his head the entire way back to camp.

Chapter Text

Zevran was smart enough to know he was a fool, and that was just the way he liked it. A person only needed enough smarts to survive their stupidity– and he certainly had enough stupidity to him to make the clever moments stand out.

It all worked out for the best like that, really. If nothing else, it had long imparted the revelation to him, brilliant fool that he was, the secret to life. Simple and unlikely: surviving life in all its exquisite dreadfulness required optimism, and the secret ingredient to optimism was pessimism.

The Warden, that frighteningly odd individual, had practically spent the night with Zevan strapped to her back like an infant. There wasn’t a single kill to his name, and still she openly gushed about him, in front of the entire party and half of Redcliffe.

It was perfectly reasonable to assume that her standards for excellence were so low that a compliment was a thinly-veiled insult. Or that the wholly undeserved praise was a more calculated move to make the others resent him. To keep him out of conflict so that his reflexes dulled for lack of practice. To lull him into a false sense of security, even, only to take him (somewhat) by surprise when she and the dog murdered him in the dead of night and feasted on his innards. 

And as far as Zevran was concerned, such thoughts only made the good things stand out more. He had survived a battle without a scratch. The leader of the party had given praise, and there was no taking back what had already been spoken, undeserved as the words might have been. His own tent was in the works. Even the sunrise had a peachy glow to it that was hard not to admire. No, this was more than enough for now.

At the top of the hill, the camp was finally in view. It was as higgledy-piggledy as they had left it; no more, no less. The tents sat in their usual semi-circle. Rhodri’s small, neat one with the blue glow and the black burnspot; Alistair’s huge, stained disaster; Leliana’s, yellowish and draped with a fur; and Sten’s sombre, nondescript affair sat at the tail-end. At the perimeter, Morrigan’s rag fort and the dwarves’ cart hovered like moons. There was something to be said for familiarity. Precisely what, Zevran didn’t know, but definitely something. 

At some point, his own tent would need to go somewhere, but the Warden’s audible panting snapped his attention out of hypotheticals.

He turned and grinned broadly at her. She didn’t notice; it didn’t trouble him one bit. 

“Ah… hah…” she huffed between breaths. “Looks like we haven’t been robbed by bandits or corpses. Mr. Bodahn and Sandal will be pleased to see their wagon is safe.”

“Who knew the undead had moral limits, no?” he quipped, allowing half a snort of his own as the Warden laughed appreciatively. 

“Oh, you’re good! Now, since you wish to clean your leathers off, would you like to take the first bath?” She smiled and rubbed her fingers. “I can wait.”

Perhaps it wasn’t a lie, but it was only a truth in the same way that people drawing their dying breath were technically not dead. 

He shook his head a little too hard. “A kind offer, my Grey Warden, but unnecessary. What if you took the first bath and I used the time to make us the finest Antivan frittata this side of the border?”

She smiled and shook her head. “I’ll have some cold leftover stew, but thank you. Please make whatever you want for yourself, of course.”

“Mm? You do not like frittata?" He whiffled a hand. "It is no bother, I can make anything your heart desires. Though perhaps with some local variations, given our ingredients."

Rhodri shrugged. “Oh, I like frittata a lot. Especially with those small red onions. Mm. What are they called? Salliculae… ah…” The Warden trailed off, talking to herself in slow but intelligible Tevene, ‘How did I forget the Common name when I speak the language all day…?’

Zevran smiled and answered in clear, smooth Antivan, ‘The red onions of Salle? The little sweet ones, yes? Esalota, we call it. I do not know the name in Common, unfortunately, but I understand the vegetable you mean.’

Rhodri let out a delighted squeak. ‘Ah, you understand me!’ Her pace picked up to a near-babble, ‘Didn’t know… Antivan is… intellig–... with Tevene… … … you?’

He chuckled. “Ah, forgive me. I got lost at the end, there.”

“Oh!” Her grin went lopsided. “Talked too fast, I think. I did understand you, though. And you understood me a little, yes?”

“Mmm, I believe Antivans can understand much Tevene if it is spoken slowly enough. Or very loudly,” he added with a smirk. “So no frittata without the esalota? That can be arranged, given that we have none.”

Rhodri scuffed her foot on the grass. “Oh, I like it with or without, but my plan for the next day or two is to eat the leftovers for dinner until they run out, see.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Zevran saw one of her hands wringing itself, and he absently touched the handwritten schedule in his pocket. 

“Ah, but of course!” He kept his smile and nod generous. “It is well to keep to a schedule where one can, is it not? Not having to constantly plan ahead frees up the mind for more important things, no?”

The Warden gaped at him like he’d bought her a house. 

“I… well, yes! Yes! Ha-ha! Yes, exactly!” She bounced on her toes, fixing his cheek with a gleaming smile. “Good to– yes, it’s good for a leader to be efficient, it’s true. Helps in the long run. Hah. Right. Yes. Ah…” 

She pointed her nose toward the campfire. “Would you like some help with cooking? I can… mmm, what can I do… ah!" Her chest puffed out again, and her shoulders… if he wasn’t mistaken, they just shimmied a little. "I can break the eggs. Leliana showed me how to do that just before you joined us."

Oh, she would have starved in Antiva. 

She down looked at her hands. “Oh. I need to wash first, though. And change. But I can get back to you as soon as I can to…” she squinted. “Hum… Cracking eggs isn’t actually that helpful, is it?”

He smiled, half from relief she'd reached that conclusion on her own, and half for a reason he couldn’t put his finger on. 

“You are good to me, my Grey Warden,” he purred, “but a frittata is the work of a moment. Do not let me keep you from washing. In fact, by the time you’re back, it should almost be ready.” 

Rhodri acknowledged this with a low hum. “You’re quite right, of course. It was an impractical suggestion.”

Untroubled though she looked as she rubbed her chin ( “Now what would be more useful…?” he heard her murmur), the remark twanged a previously unnoticed nerve all the same. 

“Ah, but think,” he trilled quickly. “That means we can eat together, no?”

Her eyes widened a little. “Mmm, very true! I suppose I’d better get to it, then.”

“If I could perhaps ask a favour before you go, though?”

“Mm? Anything you like.” 

“The fire has long gone out,” he gestured at the heap of char in the middle of the camp. “I wonder if I could borrow a little of that delightful magic to help me get it going again? I believe I lost my striker back in Lothering.”

She nodded, went to the firepit and threw a few logs in. He watched after her and waited for the flick of the hand to summon the bright, full-bodied flames that had cooked their food all week.

Any moment now.

… Or?

The Warden bent down, propping herself up with a hand on one knee, and held the other out by one of the logs. Her fingers started to tremble.

“Ah… hah…” her shoulders rose and sank like a bellows in time with her breaths.

Zevran strode over to her. “My Warden? You are well? If it is too strenuous…” 

Rhodri didn’t answer. A wisp of smoke curled out of the cracked log bark and crept skywards. Her fingers moved with shaky… encouragement, he would have called it, if it didn’t sound so embarrassing. Who encouraged a flame?

She did, apparently. And when a bright orange tonguelet slipped out and licked at the bark, she certainly smiled like she was proud of it. 

Through heavy pants, as it happened.

Zevran tried again. “... My Grey Warden?”

“Hah… a-hah… forgive me, I was… hah… concentrating.” She braced herself with both hands now. 

His insides crawled with embarrassment. "Shall I bring you a restorative of some sort? Something to chew on, perhaps?"

Rhodri shook her head. "Thank you, no. I need to wash." She straightened up slowly and gave him a crimson-cheeked smile. "Nothing for you to worry about, my friend. I’ll be back shortly. May I take my clothes from your tent?"

Zevran smirked. “Your tent now, my dear.” And what a relief that was.

“Yours until this other tent arrives," she chuckled breathlessly. “I won’t declare it mine again without proof you have yours first.”

She didn’t wait for a reply before leaving, and that was a mercy in itself. The fact that she wasn’t actually staggering toward the tent was another. 

Even so, Zevran listened out as he cracked the eggs, legs half-tensed in case the Warden fell unconscious mid-bath and he had to rush to fish her out of the water. He shouldn’t have let her go without a small rest– shouldn’t have asked a tired mage to do more magic in the first place– but of course, he never was one for keeping important things in mind. 

Nagale. If she drowned, that was the end of him. If he burst in on her bathing, that was the end of him, too. 

Why were his plans always so horrid?

Luckily, Rhodri had left the tent warbling a tune Zevran remembered a prostitute singing in the mornings as she dressed her hair. 

He kept cooking. Rhodri kept singing. It was a hair’s breadth away from pleasant. 

§

When the Warden re-joined him, dripping and looking incredibly pleased, the frittata was almost ready. He had taken the hot pan off the fire to let the heat in the iron cook it the rest of the way through. 

She plonked herself down beside him and started filling her bowl with leftover stew.

“Something smells nice,” she said, giving him a wink that would have been visible from the other end of the country.

He waggled his eyebrows. “Almost ready, too. I happened to overcook, so if you change your mind, there is a goodly portion that is yours for the taking.”

Rhodri beamed as she tore a loaf of bread in half. “Spoken like a true Northerner! I don’t remember the last time I heard someone say they made too much food.” Her eyes drifted over to the frittata and rested there. And with its golden exterior and halfway runny inside, who wouldn't gaze like that? It was a triumph. Even a Fereldan would fall in love with it.

“Hmm?” Zevran nodded down at the pan. “You look tempted there, my dear.”

She chuckled. “Oh, I am. I should eat the leftovers first, but it’s been a good twelve years since I saw a frittata made the proper way…”

Pleased, Zevran acknowledged the remark with a grin.

“I used twelve eggs in this," he declared. "The most I have ever eaten in one sitting is six. If you want to know if it tastes as good as it looks…” He took a bite and made a noise bordering on inappropriate as he chewed and swallowed it down. “Mmm! Let me assure you it does. And your half is waiting in the pan for you.”

Rhodri’s gaze was firmly on the frittata on his plate. Not a hint of a blush or a bitten lip for his sound effects. He was of a good mind to ask her if her preferences departed from the usual humans, elves, dwarves, to food.

She turned back to the stew and took a bite, and the urge to ask that question disintegrated. Alistair had looked tickled pink with himself yesterday mid-morning, serving up bowlfuls of the grainy, tombstone-grey concoction with all the delighted benevolence of a man who was handing out gold bullions. 

Credit where it was due, though: the Warden was as good as her word– or her plan, at the very least. She slogged her way through it valiantly. The only sign of it being the stuff of nightmares was the gusto with which she attacked the bread between mouthfuls. 

When the bowl was empty, he smiled at her. “Are you ready for a palate cleanser?”

He should have waited for an answer; why he didn’t was anyone’s guess. He also should have known better than to firmly grab the side of a hot cast-iron pan wearing a leather glove that bordered on threadbare in parts.

If nothing else, he should have concealed the discomfort better. Zevran hastily pulled his hand away and created a breeze by wiggling his fingers. 

Rhodri almost leapt a foot in the air. From her seated position, no less.

“Oh, Zev! Did you burn yourself?” She zipped over until their thighs were almost touching and held out her hands to him like she was receiving a gift. “Will you show me? I promise not to do anything without your permission.”

Zevran smirked and bit his lip at her. “Oh-ho! Will you kiss it better for me, my Grey Warden? Luck is very much on my side today.”

Oh, for the love of sanity, why?

The Warden blinked at him like he had thrown sand in her eyes.

“I’m… ah, sorry, but kisses haven’t been proven to heal wounds. You’ll just end up with my spit on you, and I think we’ve established that would be unwise." She smiled encouragingly. "But we can work out something that will help.”

The whole thing seemed hugely unwise. Ten minutes ago, it was a distinct possibility that casting a fire spell would send her to the Maker’s side. Or drowning from exhaustion thereafter. But who was he, Zevran the equal, to tell her to watch herself? 

Oh, it was too much altogether.

“Perhaps,” he edged his hand out toward her, “we could simply examine it, for now? No need for treatment as yet, I do not think. It does not hurt so very much.”

Rhodri nodded fervently. “Of course, of course. Whatever you’re comfortable with. Would you be amenable to me taking the glove off so we can look closer–? Ah, thank you.”

It was a curious thing, the way four of her fingers cradled the underside of his wrist with featherlight gentleness. Her thumb, as if disgusted by it all, was stretched as far away from him as it seemed possible. 

“Is this all right, my friend?” she indicated their point of contact with her nose. “Just to hold your hand steady. I promise not to make a full grip on you with my thumb.”

Zevran realised he had been staring, and when his fool blank look resisted being trained into something more sultry, he simply nodded.

Rhodri nodded back kindly. “All right. Nice and easy, here we go… tell me if you need me to stop and I’ll let go straight away…”

The glove was cajoled off delicately. Zevran couldn’t help but smile upon seeing that the unencumbered top half of his finger, though angry and rapidly swelling, was neither bleeding nor blistering. 

“Mmm, look at that!" He swallowed a relieved laugh. "Barely a trace of my carelessness.” 

Rhodri frowned. “Eh? It looks like you’re smuggling a cherry under your fingertip!”

He gave a casual wave with his free hand. “Ah, but that goes away on its own fast enough, no? No need to trouble yourself over it.”

Rhodri took her fingers away from his arm one by one until he was supporting the extremity on his own. She gave him a suspiciously patient-looking smile.

“It’s all right if the magic still unnerves you, amicus. I don’t expect that sort of thing to go away overnight. And I'm afraid even if you did ask me for magic, I couldn’t help right now.” She shrugged apologetically. “No mana left, I'm sorry. But I have some lovely heat balm to take the pain and swelling out, if you like? It’s in my satchel here…”

It was hard to know if there actually was a satchel that was situated to her right, or if that was simply what she called the great void her robes created. Whichever one she rummaged in ended up supplying her with a small jar of greenish ointment that she held up indicatively.

“What do you think? Shall we try it? You’ll only need a little, I think.”

Zevran’s mind faltered halfway through an attempt to jump to the worst possible conclusion. Topical poisons were common. The Warden, however, seemed an increasingly unlikely candidate for murdering him subtly. Or murdering him outright, when it came to that.

His finger throbbed. Pointedly. He affixed a smile.

“If you’re sure you don’t mind, my Warden–”

She shook her head so fervently that he stopped talking. 

“Not at all,” she insisted. “Not at all. Here, let’s get some on you…”

He chuckled weakly as she set to work. “You are clever, Rhodri, making all these balms and such.”

Rhodri looked up and let out a wild laugh. 

“Oh! I didn’t make this, Morrigan did. I never paid attention in herbalism, because it always bored me to tears. In fact, I said to my friend Stella, ‘So long as I can differentiate the vegetables on my plate, I’m proficient enough in plant matters.’” 

She gave him a sheepish grin and rocked her feet from heel to toe. “My herbalism teacher heard that. She smacked me in the back of my head with my book for my trouble.”

Was it too much to laugh? She’d grinned, and a grin was three-quarters of the way to a laugh. It wasn’t kind to hit students with books, Zevran knew it in his heart of hearts, but what a tame punishment, all told. 

He covered his mouth with his free hand and settled for watching her with a smile kept solely to the top half of his face. She glanced up at him– at him, in his eyes, not on his cheek– and once his digestive tract had stopped trying to escape via his mouth, he decided that there were worse things than eye-to-eye contact with her, odd and prolonged as it was. 

Rhodri returned his balmed hand to him by carefully setting it down on his knee. The pain was already starting to ebb, and if his eyes weren't deceiving him, the swelling was also subsiding.

"It takes about five minutes to work, so just sit easy while you wait. And while I think of it…" the Warden pointed down at his gloves with her nose. “These need to be replaced, my friend."

Of course, he could never have been permitted to feel too settled with her, could he?

Zevran smirked and refused point-blank to consider the awkward lightness of his money-bag as he did so. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he challenged weakly, giving a wicked laugh. “I think I could get a little more service out of them.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, and he was a fool for feeling surprised about it.

“Frankly, Zevran, I think the only service they can offer you now is not dissolving entirely, and even then it’s looking grim.” She put her hands together and opened them like a book. “How about this. We’ll go to Mr. Bodahn and pick you out a nice new pair. What do you think?” Rhodri gestured at his shabby set and smiled warmly. “You can still keep these if you’re fond of them. They can be your leisure gloves.”

Zevran pulled his fingers away from his money-or lack thereof- and used them to stroke his chin.

“I… am not sure what Mr. Bodahn’s prices are like, truthfully.”

Rhodri waved a hand. “Oh don’t worry about that. We’ll get a good deal with him. He promised us a hefty discount, and we have plenty of money stashed away in the common fund for times like this.”

“Ah,” was all he said.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, I– Did you think you'd have to buy your gear with your own money? Goodness, how thoughtless of me. I owe you an– no, wait! I owe you two apologies, in fact.”

He blinked. And then forced himself not to. “Two? I am sure you do not even owe me one, my dear Warden.”

“No, I do,” Rhodri shook her head hard. “I absolutely do. First of all, I'm sorry for not telling you that our common fund always covers work and basic living expenses. Armour, weapons, food, and shelter are all paid for by that. Your income is for you to save or spend on things you want. Now, secondly…” 

She turned again to reach into the Robe Void and/or her satchel. Buckling turned to rustling, which became the jingle of coins, and when she faced him again, she deposited three sovereigns and six silvers into his unexpecting, balm-free hand.

“I should have given you your pay in advance the day you joined us,” she said solemnly, “but it didn’t occur to me. Please allow me to offer my apology for this oversight by paying interest– hence the six silvers. That was my mistake and it won’t happen again.”

Zevran stared down at the money, hating the three sovereigns that made his first pay packet and the desire to pocket them and the interest both. 

“Most kind of you, my Warden,” he offered uneasily. “There is no need for the interest, though, I’m sure–”

Rhodri held up her hands. “There absolutely is. You are working with us,”

Working? Hah! Dancing, perhaps.

“And you are to be paid for it. Late pay means you accrue interest. I’m not taking that money back. It’s yours and none of my business now.” 

Without a word, he stuffed the coins into his money bag and could have wept with relief that the struggle was over once he had. There was no gloating, no smiles, no hands going onto his body to take something back. If anything, the Warden looked as relieved as he felt that he had simply yielded to her request. Her fingers drummed on her knees, feet rocking too rapidly for it to be comfortable. 

“... You know, my Warden, there is a very lonely frittata sitting between us,” Zevran offered tentatively. “Perhaps you might help me with it?”

Rhodri frowned. “Lonel–? Oh!” She looked at the frittata and up at him. “Have you eaten enough? You should have as much of it as you can. It's a long time since we last ate, and eggs are good for the health.”

“I could not eat a bite more,” he said earnestly, giving his belly a (careful) pat. “Getting through half of it was a challenge in itself. I’m afraid between the two of us, you will have to be the one to give it a good home.”

She swallowed audibly and eyed that damned frittata like she was going to make love to it.

“... You’re quite sure?” she asked hoarsely.

Zevran grinned. “Oh, yes.” He pointed his nose at it. “Go on, dear Warden. Enjoy it while it is still warm.”

After another loud gulp the Warden nodded and, fork in hand, reached down and speared a bite out of the pan. Zevran bit his lip, unable to resist watching on as she brought it to her mouth.

She chewed it slowly, eyes fluttering shut. Sighed, grinned, blushed– Maker’s breath, she might as well have taken the pan back to her tent at the rate she was going.

He couldn’t help but smile. “I take it you are enjoying it?”

It took a moment before she swallowed and turned to him, and he wondered if she had been prolonging the inevitable parting with her mouthful. 

“Yes I am,” Rhodri said softly. “It’s exactly how they made it at home in Kirkwall when there were no esalota.” She gestured at the pan. “This is beautiful food, Zev. The best thing I’ve eaten in twelve years.”

A pang of some sort registered in Zevran’s chest that he studiously ignored in favour of the jubilation of winning the Warden’s favour via simple cooking. He didn’t make bad food as a rule, but this had not even been one of his best. He bobbed his head with a flourish to point his nose at the remaining half (minus one bite) of the apparent masterpiece frittata.

“I shall have to keep that in mind,” he purred as he scoured his mind for the exact proportions of herbs and seasonings he had used in the mix and committed them to memory. “Do please go ahead and eat to your heart’s content.”

The Warden shifted a little. "Maybe you should keep it for your lunch. I can reheat it for you." 

He shook his head. "I prefer to eat it fresh, but thank you."

She glanced out toward the hill they'd scaled to reach the camp. "Then perhaps the others will want it."

Zevran laughed and didn't bother trying to stop it. "They will have had all the best foods Bann Teagan can supply. I am quite sure they will not have room for more. And truly," he added with a thin smile, "if they do not trust me, they will not want to eat something I have prepared."

The Warden appeared to consider this for a moment. Then with a nod, she took another bite, and another, and then another. 

"Mercy, this was good," she mumbled as she downed the last mouthful. "Absolutely perfect." She sighed and gave him an awfully soft smile for someone who tended to bustle and loudly declare awkward things. "Thank you for sharing your food with me. You're so kind, Zev."

Zevran chuckled before he knew what he was doing. "Practically a saint among men, no? I thought I was the only one who believed it."

Rhodri grinned at him with that joyful shark mouth and waved a hand between them. "We know the truth, you and I, don't we–"

A loud "Oi!" silenced her. They glanced over their shoulders and saw Alistair traipsing heavily toward them bearing a cumbersome-looking canvas bundle. The rest of the party strolled behind him, save for Leliana who walked by his side. 

"Ah!" Rhodri got to her feet. "Alistair brought your tent up after all! Come, he looks tired. We'll take it off him and set it up, yes?"

Zevran didn't need to be asked twice.

§

Rhodri beamed at Zevran as he left her tent with his armful of possessions. She bent down by the entrance to his (his!) decidedly spacious yellow canvas tent, and opened the tent flap for him with a small flourish.

"Welcome home, my friend," she said grandly. "Once I've had a little sleep, I'll be able to insulate your tent for you, if you're happy to do it." 

Rhodri wrinkled her nose as she glanced skyward. The sun was high enough to start warming the air properly, and there wasn't a hint of a cloud to delay proceedings. 

"It's going to get hot soon," she mused, "so it's probably for the best that it isn't already done."

Zevran smiled and set his belongings inside the tent without stepping in. The rest of the party were shambling into their own lodgings, and after a week of nobody murdering him in his sleep, it seemed reasonable enough to guess that it was unlikely to happen today. 

"Mmm," he chuckled. "I haven't met a hot day in Ferelden I didn't like. In fact, I haven't met a hot day in Ferelden at all."

The Warden snorted. "See how you go. There's a nice breeze, at least, so if today's the day you encounter warmth, you can tie your tent flap open.

"Anyway, I'll excuse myself now." She passed his tent flap to him and gave him a pleasant wave. "Sleep well, Zev."

There was no reason to watch her step over to her tent next door and disappear into it. 

Well, no, there was. It paid to keep an eye on her movements for any number of reasons an experienced assassin could reel off. And what need was there to list said reasons when he was his own audience? No, it was foolish. 

Satisfied, he pulled off his boots, climbed into his tent and cursed as he flopped down and met hard ground instead of his bedroll. Winded, he looked to his left and saw the absentee mattress, still rolled up and looking as smug about it as an inanimate object could. 

You're lucky that's all that happened while you weren't paying attention. 

Zevran agreed with himself by way of a sigh, hauled himself up, and made his bed. He lowered himself down onto it gingerly. 

Oh, and it was marvellous. Only a thin thing, and he hadn't even opened it out to lie under the blanket. Tired bones sank into the meagre padding like quicksand, and Zevran stared up at the canvas ceiling with the sunlight prickling through the weave and let himself enjoy this little moment in his little makeshift house supplied by this strange little group. Just once. 

§

The sound of his neighbour groaning woke Zevran up. 

He raised an eyebrow. There had been sounds issuing from Rhodri's tent as he was falling asleep as well: quiet, heavy breaths people made when attending to certain personal needs, but were doing their utmost to be subtle about it. 

Such noises– and far louder ones– had been part of the background noise more nights in Zevran's life than not, as normal as rustling leaves or the creaks of kissing floorboards underfoot. He almost hadn't noticed Rhodri's, and when he did, ignoring it was the easiest thing in the world.

This groaning of hers, though, this was something else. Certainly not the sound of enjoyment, though he had managed to nod off despite unhappy sounds often enough, too. 

He listened out. There was movement. Tossing, turning, some hushed remarks.

'Argh, no. Too much. It is too much, I cannot!' 

There came a slap of canvas on canvas, and footsteps as the walker strode out and away. 

Knife in hand, Zevran had reached over to peel back his tent flap just a little, but stopped upon hearing Alistair chuckling. 

"Too hot for you as well, eh?"

Rhodri sighed. "You have the right idea sleeping out here in the shade, amicus."

Alistair laughed again. "Not just a pretty face, am I? You know, Rhodders, you'd be a lot cooler if you just took your robe off."

"Mmm? I'd be a lot less modest, too."

"Nobody cares about that in Ferelden, though. You can roll your sleeves up or strip down to a shirt and breeches without any problems, I promise you."

Rhodri gave a disagreeing hum. " I care about it. I'm still a Tevinter who is out in public, and I would be in a state of undress even if nobody noticed or minded."

The Templar chortled good-naturedly. " Well, can't argue with that. Maybe you could magick a little breeze up your sleeves to cool you off."

She laughed. "You're splendid you know, Alistair. A real treat. I'm glad to have a friend like you."

Zevran chewed his lip to button in a hysterical laugh. So she did this to everyone, did she? Unable to resist, he cracked the tent flap open just wide enough to observe Alistair's suffering. 

His eyes widened in spite of himself: the Templar's face had the most ridiculous grin on it, and the giggle that came out was twice as bad. 

Alistair pulled his shirt off and sprawled gracelessly on his bedroll under the tree. 

"Back at you, Rhod," he sighed. 

The Magewarden, dressed in the usual colossal robe, was somehow both rocking on her feet and unfurling her own bedroll under the neighbouring tree, beaming all the while. 

Zevran forced himself to shrug. Alistair's had been an odd reaction perhaps, but despite the agony of the whole awkward scene, it was very reassuring to not be the only one being subjected to the Warden’s nerve-jangling remarks.

Oh, but Alistair didn’t think they were nerve-jangling, did he? He looked so pleased with himself and his company, drinking in the affection–and it evidently was affection– like he was made for it. Or was, at the very least, whole enough to appreciate it.

Chest aching, Zevran let the tent flap fall back down. He re-sheathed the knife, rolled over so his back faced the scene outside, and scrunched his eyes shut.

Chapter Text

“So who do you think is behind all this, then, Morrigan?” Alistair asked over his shoulder as the party left the camp.

To Zevran’s right, the Warden gave a tiny sigh.

“Why do you ask me,” the witch snapped, “when there are two mages here?”

“Oh, come on. Isn’t it obvious? Rhodri’s spent the last twelve years in the Circle, while you’ve been out and about your whole life.”

“And you suppose all mages in Ferelden outside of that pestilential cage you call a Circle know each other?”

Alistair shrugged. “Your mother’s the Witch of the Wilds. That must have attracted a certain type of… well…–”

“I would be very careful about the next words I chose were I you,” Morrigan cut across him icily. “Especially if you believe I keep company with someone who has an army of undead.”

Zevran stifled a snort as Alistair gulped. 

“You know what? Never mind.”

Rhodri hummed pensively. Zevran looked up at her; she was squinting and counting on her fingers. One, two… she shook her head. Three– slight pause… she shook her head again, smiling into the bargain. She gave a rather satisfied-sounding sigh and dropped her hands back down.

“Erm… Rhod?” Alistair broached uneasily from behind. “I don’t suppose you’d know… anyone?”

She shook her head. “I did wonder for a moment, but it turns out I don’t know many necromancers, even distantly. Most mages hate it because it has too much abstract mathematics, and necromancy has a bad reputation anyway. The ones I do know wouldn’t do something like this. Well, I don't think so, anyway.”

The Templar’s eyes widened a little. “Oh. Right. Well, that's… good to know."

Silence fell, and the party descended the hill. The mid-morning sun, and the heat that would have offset the chill in the air, was shrouded behind a dense layer of wretched Fereldan cloud that Zevran cursed all the way down to the stretch by the Redcliffe windmill. 

From further down the hill, Bann Teagan shouted out to the Wardens and waved. He jogged– that pace was enough to turn the man red– uphill and Rhodri guided the party to him until they met in front of the windmill. 

“Bann Teagan, good morning again.” She inclined her head politely. “I have gathered some of my party and we intend to enter the castle now to examine the source of the undead.”

The Bann nodded, panting noisily. 

“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, I– I’d planned to enter the castle myself. I can help you there.” He pointed at the windmill behind him. “Inside the windmill is a secret passage into the castle that only my family knows about. I have a– Maker’s breath!”

Zevran had already turned before the man’s index finger could finish crudely extending (again) , and caught sight of a frazzled noblewoman running toward them all, accompanied by a handful of guards mired in various degrees of exhaustion.

“Teagan!” she hitched her skirts up and bolted the last way until she was close enough to touch the man. “Thank the Maker you’re alive!”

The Bann pressed a hand to his heart. “Isolde, are you all right? What’s happening?”

The woman named Isolde shook her head. “I do not have time to explain. I slipped out of the castle as soon as the battle was over, and I have to return now. You must come back with me, Teagan!” She glanced over at the rest of the party and then pointedly added, “Alone.” 

Rhodri clapped her hands delightedly and strode over to them. “Oh, this is most convenient! We were about to go into the castle as well to investigate. Shall we venture forth together?”

The noblewoman's eyes narrowed as they drifted over to the Magewarden.

"Who is this, Teagan?" Her voice was soft and dangerous, and in the absence of an immediate reply from the Bann, a noise of confusion issued from Rhodri.

"Wh-? Oh. Oh!" She gave a loud, jovial laugh. "There is no need to be jealous, Madam! Rest assured, I'm not trying to steal your husband." She smiled warmly and gestured at the astonished man in question. "Bann Teagan here is old enough to be my father!"

Zevran turned just in time to see Alistair clap a hand over his mouth, and a hushed silence fell over the group. The woman stared like Rhodri had slapped her-- or, and it struck Zevran as the more likely case, like she was going to slap the Warden.

"Teagan is not my 'usband!" she hissed. 

Zevran bit his lip as Rhodri’s face fell into a pensive frown. 

"Oh," she said blankly. "Really? My apologies, I thought because you were standing so close to him, but you must just be good friends or– well, never mind-- agh!”  

The Warden stumbled back, clutching a freshly-smacked left cheek and sporting eyes like saucers.

“Maker’s tits,” she exclaimed at the party, “she just hit me! Did you see that?” Rhodri gaped at the woman, who had slipped out of the Bann's grasp and appeared to be moving in for a second go until Alistair darted over and put himself in front of her.

“Don’t you remember me, Lady Isolde?” Alistair said urgently. His enormous body made it impossible to see the woman’s expression, but the contemptuous tone to her reply said quite enough.

“ You?” she spat. “Alistair? Of all the… why are you here?”

Rhodri–carefully- moved Alistair to the side and stepped forward. "Madam, I ask you to mind your tone when addressing my party," she barked warningly.

The Templar looked at her with a pleading weariness. 

"Rhod," he murmured to her. "Just… let me handle this one, all right?”

The Warden’s face softened. She nodded once, firmly. “Of course. I’ll be here if you change your mind. Please go ahead.”

Rhodri went behind him and resumed her place beside Zevran, not speaking again while the Templar carried out short, quick talks with Isolde and the Bann. 

Zevran caught mentions of yet more monsters (were they related to Lady Isolde?), and someone by the name of Connor who had supposedly gone mad but was, according to this woman, absolutely not responsible for the goings-on in the castle or its jurisdiction. What an unhappy coincidence.

When they separated with a nod, the Bann approached the Warden and held out a ring to her. It looked remarkably similar to the trinkets the Antivan newly-rich bought by the fistful– in this case, like someone had welded a sovereign onto a wedding band. Perhaps the finery targeting that uncouth demographic was all the Fereldan nobles could afford.

“Here, Grey Warden,” Teagan said. "This ring will unlock the secret tunnel into the castle. I must go with Isolde.”

Well, at least it had a use. It certainly wasn't cut out for a career as an ornament.

"Not to be rude," Rhodri began, cautiously sidestepping away from the noblewoman as she spoke, "but safety is in numbers. Surely it would be better if we travelled together."

"Connor does not do well with new company at present," Isolde sniffed. "We should keep our numbers small where we can. You will be safe enough entering via the windmill."

The Warden waved a hand. "I'm not worried for us, Madam. My party is highly proficient and ready for anything. Unless you and the Bann are secretly mages, however, you do not appear well equipped to deal with unrest."

The noblewoman's fists clenched. Alistair waved– or rather, flailed his hands– to get their attention.

"They'll be fine," he said to Rhodri quickly. "Let's just get out of here and we'll meet them inside."

The Warden sighed. "This really seems very unwise, amicus, but you know them best. If you're sure, I will take us through the windmill."

He nodded fervently. "I'm very sure. Lead on."

§

“Well,” the Warden said slowly, peering around the dingy, dripping tunnel. “This is certainly… an interesting place.”

Zevran kept his mouth firmly shut. Especially as the party passed a cluster of cobwebs forming a silken lean-to against a broken crate. Could the troublemaking entity summon an army of spiders if it ran out of corpses? Surely it was better to let the nobility deal with insect woes on their own, especially when insects were so often filled with nasty fluids that stained brand new gloves. Like Zevran’s spiffing leather additions, for example, boasting simple but wonderfully neat stitching, and lined with a toasty wool blend. 

And, Rhodri had assured him as she paid Mr. Bodahn, acquired at a substantial discount.

Zevran ignored the glaring fact that he had nearly died from both laughter and shock at the mention of the original price.

In the tunnel, though, where the paid-for gloves were and Bodahn's exorbitant prices were not, Alistair hummed low under his breath. “It’s been a while since anyone’s had to use it. I only came here once, myself, back when I was small.”

“A pity you had not simply stayed down here,” Morrigan said off-handedly. “There was a dank, isolated spot a short way back that would have suited you very well.”

“Ugh,” Alistair groaned. “I’d pay good money to stuff you into that little gap and leave you there. Or in the prison cells up ahead… mmm, actually, if there’s a spare cell, I might just–”

“You think I would not imprison you first–”

“If it’s all the same to you both,” Rhodri walked backwards, fixing them with a playfully pointed smile, “I’d rather we kept the cells free for any offenders we find. Assuming we don’t kill them in self-defence first, anyway.”

The matter settled– or rather, put on hold with a series of glares and eyerolls between the squabblers, Zevran looked to the front again. They had almost reached the end of the tunnel, and if his ears didn’t deceive him, there was life in the room ahead. His flesh creeped; the sound of footsteps indicated it was people in motion, and the unnatural shamble-lurch gait was unique to the horde of undead from last night.

That explained the foetid stench, too . It was, at least, cooler underground than it was up on the surface, but nothing stayed pristine at this temperature for long. Or even halfway bearable, if the smell was anything to go by.

He chuckled weakly. “More of those creatures ahead, I think. This place is full of them, no?”

Rhodri spun back around, staff at the ready, and strode ahead of Zevran.

“Stay behind me, please. Carefully does it… Formator, but it smells like the morning after a Nevarran house party in here.” From behind her, he could see the Warden waving a hand in front of her face. “This place would do well with a little soap and water, or at least some incense. My stars!” 

They opened the door into the first room, and the stink in its fullness would have made the mabari weep. Even Alistair, whose body odour rivalled that of Jeppe’s, had started to gag.

The sight wasn't much better, come to that. The corridor was a boulevard of prison cells, and square in the middle were some ten or more of the revolting corpses, who had become very aware of the intrusion. The polluted air filled with cries and whistling as flaps of grey skin whipped (and occasionally blew away entirely!) in the breeze that their veerings made. 

Toward them, no less.

It was quick, at least. Between the five of them, the beasts were down to one within a minute flat. The last one lingered up in the front of the room, and by the sounds of it was giving the occupant of the farthest jail cell quite the fright. Suddenly the crying made much more sense.

A lightning bolt– Zevran wasn't sure which of the mages had summoned it– killed the beast dead, and he, being lightest on his feet, made it to the prisoner first.

Haggard as the fellow was, he couldn’t have been much older than twenty, wearing what Zevran recognised to be apprentice mage robes. Filthy ones, caked in dirt, blood, and given the lack of facilities in the cell, substances that Zevran didn’t care to identify. 

“Dorian Ishal Pavus,” Rhodri’s voice rang down the hall behind him as she approached the cell, and a stream of Tevene followed that contained the words ‘arse’ and ‘head,’ and sounded rather threatening.

The relief on the man’s face evaporated. He gasped like he had taken a knife to the chest, watching at the newly-arrived Warden with an open mouth. 

"By all that is holy, Rhodri! I can't believe it! And--and you've--" His gleamless blue eyes didn't stop widening until the whites showed on all sides. "Maker, you're huge! Taller than me, now! And your shoulders... how--?"

The Warden looked every bit the disdainful noble, her shoulders back and head high as she looked down at him with unconcealed contempt. She held herself so stiffly Zevran could have sworn he heard the scrape of bone on bone as she twisted her head to look his way. 

"Looks like I owe you a story, Zev," she muttered to him. The nervous urge to laugh was there, but Zevran couldn't force so much as a smile. He flicked his eyebrows and nodded; she turned back to the captive. "Explain yourself, and the magically-summoned undead.”

"I didn't do it," he pleaded. "You have to believe me, Rhodri! I would never--"

She shook her head and held up a hand. "I'm not obliged to believe anything you say, Jowan. It's on you to give a compelling argument, and I would advise you to make this one truthful." 

"I'm not behind any of this, I swear," he gasped. "I was hired by Teyrn Loghain to poison the Arl, and that's why he's sick, but I never started this! I was already imprisoned when all this began." 

Zevran bit down on his lips. Some drama at last! It was all he could do to keep an 'ooh' from escaping him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rhodri squint exasperatedly, and a furious noise from Alistair drew his gaze back a little further.

"Listen," Jowan entreated quickly, "I think I know what's causing this." He seemed to take Rhodri's lack of an interruption as an invitation to push on:

"When Teyrn Loghain hired me, I was sent to the Arlessa under the guise of being a tutor for her son, Connor. He started showing… signs,” (he said the word so meaningfully his head bobbed a little) “and she wanted a mage to teach him how to keep it all quiet.”

Alistair let out a string of disbelieving noises. “Connor’s a mage?” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe it!”

“She was terrified the Circle was going to take him away-- and they would have, of course. But Arl Eamon had no idea at the time, and she thought this way he’d never find out.” Jowan sighed and shook his head. “I hadn’t taught Connor much, but it’s possible he did something to tear down the Veil and let spirits and demons get into the castle. They probably killed and possessed all these poor servants.”

"These are servants?" Rhodri closed her eyes and shook her head. “Venhedis. I thought they were already dead. That poor child has been killing people he knows. Ae-ae-ae, Jowan…"

Zevran felt distinctly ill at ease as he cast an eye over one of the greying, rotten corpses by his feet. Its tattered clothing, with the dark red sash and darkwood buttons, resembled the garb he had seen Loghain's housekeepers in. Without thinking, he shuffled away from it and knocked into Rhodri, who had still been conversing with the prisoner. 

He froze, still half-bent as Rhodri turned sharply in his direction. Her harsh expression melted away, and she gently put her hands on his shoulders.

“Easy there,” she murmured, righting him with the carefulness one might have afforded a toddler. “Are you all right?”

Zevran ignored the strange pleasure of being regarded completely differently to Jowan and gave her a debonair smile. “Indeed I am. Forgive me, my Warden, I was not watching where I was moving.”

Though Rhodri did not smile back, she gave his shoulder a small pat before turning back to Jowan. Zevran caught the prisoner looking at him in bewilderment, and he feigned nonchalance.

“The Arl is a decent man,” Jowan continued after a moment. “But Teyrn Loghain told me he was a threat to Ferelden, and, well, I had no reason to doubt him. You know they don't tell us about anything that goes on out here in the Circle! And he promised me if I went ahead and poisoned him that he’d arrange for me to go back to the Circle, no questions asked. I never saw any sign that Arl Eamon was a danger, but I poisoned him anyway.” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “I’m such a fool.”

Rhodri heaved a sigh and folded her arms. Zevran knew that sympathetic look she sported now, having seen it in so many Crow recruits before it was either beaten out of them or they died of it. A quick glance at Jowan revealed that he had seen it, too.

“Listen, I never meant for it to end like this,” he entreated. “I swear. Let me help you fix this.”

Morrigan, who had been quiet for the entire exchange, surprised everyone when she spoke up. 

“I say this boy could still be of use to us, Warden. But if not, then let him go.” She shrugged. “Why keep him prisoner here?”

“I think I could at least help, if not completely fix things,” Jowan said quickly, while Rhodri's silence permitted it.

Alistair rested a hand on the Warden’s shoulder.

“He’s your friend, Rhod," he murmured, "you know him best. Even if he is a blood mage, this is an unusual situation…”

"Jowan is not my friend," Rhodri answered, not unkindly (though Jowan winced in the background anyway). "But thank you Alistair, your opinion is noted." 

The Warden turned to face Zevran. She spoke gently, “What do you think, then, Zev?” 

“Oh.” He chuckled uneasily. “I’m afraid my opinion will not help you much. I am no expert in such matters.”

“You don’t have to be, my friend. You’re a member of the team, so your opinion counts equally.” 

It took some effort for Zevran to contain his surprise, but with the aid of another chuckle, he stayed on track. 

“As you like. Perhaps we need not be too hasty to kill him yet.” He glanced at Jowan, who was staring at him intently. “If he truly meant us harm, I imagine he would have done something by now.”

She nodded to the party and turned back to Jowan.

"This area is safe for now," she said. "You’ll stay here until we’ve cleared out the rest of the castle. You may be able to assist later."

Jowan nodded miserably. “Then I’ll wait. If you need anything… well, you know where to find me.”

The Warden had already turned away, and as the man's face started to crumple, secondhand embarrassment forced Zevran to look away as well. 

They were halfway to the door, weapons at the ready, when Jowan called out again.

"Rhodri, one more thing. Please."

She looked over her shoulder. "Speak, then."

The pitiful man gripped the iron bars with his fingers. "What became of Lily? Did they hurt her?"

Zevran had already stepped away from the Warden before he'd fully noted the shift in the air. He ignored the disappointment blooming sick-cold through his guts as she spun around, nostrils flaring and hard eyes fixed on the cell she’d left behind. 

The pang of sympathy for the rest of the party, though, he allowed to remain. The bloody fools stood there– right in front of her– like effigies, watching her inquisitively and being the perfect targets for the assault that would shift them out of her path. 

Zevran smiled to himself with a grim sort of satisfaction as he reclaimed his knife from between the man’s ribs. Since he had forced himself to stop fighting against the Crows and accept his lot, the voice in his head that screamed distractingly loudly on kill assignments had grown quieter. He couldn’t tell if it was a good thing or a bad thing. 

A good thing at this moment, perhaps. The other recruit he had been paired off with, a spring-loaded bundle of elbows with the worst timing known to man, was no help. The rooftop jump ended up with her landing on a pile of crates, knocking herself unconscious and alerting the mark and anyone near the alley. And, of course, only awakening now, after Zevran had done all the work covering for her, cornering the mark, and neutralising him. 

Teacher Giuliana’s voice from behind had Zevran standing upright and turning to watch her with a smooth grin. She was apt to reward a good kill, and this had been his best so far, especially given the circumstances. His thoughts drifted to a cask of wine, perhaps even a few silvers for supplies to mend his boots.

Zevran didn’t move out of her way as she strode over with that snarl on her face. Why would he? She always strode, always frowned, always punished when someone did the job wrong. His partner was in for it, no question about it, but not him.

She was still like that by the time she got to Zevran, and he had barely finished inclining his head to her when her hard, scarworn hand belted him hard enough to send him sideways. 

He peeled his back off the cobblestones and rubbed his cheek, watching after the teacher who, now that her path was unobstructed, was making for his partner. The shock stung more than the pain of the blow itself, and the anger that he hadn’t expected it stung even worse than that.

Zevran forced looseness in his muscles on the party’s behalf, a part of him wishing even Alistair would take the hint and relax before the fist– or spell– came. He watched the hand of Rhodri’s he could see, scanning for the first twitch of motion.

… No?

Nothing at all?

Rhodri’s face softened briefly as she redirected her gaze from Jowan to the listless blockade in front of her. Her hand hung unused at her side.

Zevran allowed himself one single moment to enjoy the relief when the Warden quietly, calmly said, “Excuse me, please. I need to pass through.”

Oh, they got out of the way fast enough at that, but what entitlement! Not even Jowan was shrinking away! No hands brought up to protect themselves, no flinching. Spoiled bastards, built from head to toe with the expectation that she wouldn’t harm a hair on their heads.

He realised his jaw hung slightly agape behind his sealed lips, and replaced it.

The Warden drew up in front of the prisoner with a curled lip and a good half a hand’s height on him. 

“Well, Jowan,” she said silkily. “You did trick the poor Chantry sister into helping you destroy your phylactery. And then, upon being caught in the act by the First Enchanter, the Knight-Commander and several Templars, you proceeded to use the blood magic you swore you'd never dabbled in to crush everyone to the ground.”

Her nose wrinkled in a snarl. “You selfish brute! What do you think has become of her after your behaviour? I hope you were lying to me when you said she has a weak constitution, because if she isn’t in Aeonar, she's undoubtedly dead!”

Jowan’s eyes, which had been looking watery for the entire confrontation, had now advanced to pouring. He clapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders crashing down into a mighty, heaving sob when Rhodri’s loud ‘AH-AH!’ and insistent finger-snapping brought it all to a halt.

“Don’t you weep,” she growled. “Don’t you dare weep. You swore to me, in front of her, that you loved her. That she was the one you’d marry and escape with to live… ugh…” she waved her hand dismissively, “some magic-free, bucolic fucking wet dream in the arse-end of the country. 

“But when it came time to prove your devotion to her, or at least take responsibility for your actions, you left her– and others you had tricked into helping you,” she added in a clenchjawed hiss, “to die like dogs! You have no right to cry for her. No right to think of her. Nothing.” 

Rhodri tipped her chin forward and spat at his feet. “Disgratia. You shame me.”

Zevran was moving, somehow, back out of the way as the Warden turned on her heel and left the tear-streaked prisoner. To their credit, Alistair and Morrigan were far quicker at clearing a path this time. Not swift enough to avoid the wrath of the Crows, but standards were evidently lower on the outside.

Given the evidence of the last few minutes, it would likely have been perfectly all right to depart the room walking beside Rhodri. Optimal, even: the Warden liked sameness, and sameness was Zevran on her left.

At the same time, though, it made sense not to seek opportunities to be made into a punching bag, which could happen at the hands– or fists, rather– of even the most unlikely candidates. Perhaps that was why she had equipped him with healing potions galore. 

When the indecision felt worse than choosing one way or the other, Zevran strode after her until he was walking at her side– with an extra step’s distance between them. The other two– one smirking and the other wide-eyed– trailed after them without a word.

§

“I hope Redcliffe Castle isn’t usually this full of such nasty things,” Rhodri remarked as they made short work of yet another drove of enraged corpses. 

“I will certainly be leery of any invitations I receive from this establishment in the future,” Zevran quipped. 

Rhodri’s jovial laugh quickly turned to a loud yelp as she opened one of the doors off to the side and a blood-curdling scream came out. She recoiled violently enough to stagger a few steps, clutching her ears and grimacing like she was being flayed alive.

“Enough,” she shouted, voice climbing with each syllable. “Enough-ENOUGH- ENOUGH!”

The source of the noise– a young human woman who, it seemed, was hiding in the room– fell silent immediately.

“Please, don’t hurt me!” she begged. Already cowering, she sank to her knees as Zevran and the other companions stood peering over Rhodri’s shoulder in intrigue. 

Rhodri peeled her shaking hands off her ears and held one up. “Calm yourself, Ser, we're not going to hurt you,” she croaked.

“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered wildly. “I-I’m just so scared! There are monsters everywhere!” 

Rhodri nodded. “Well, you’re safe here with us. We are two Grey Wardens," she indicated herself and Alistair, "and our fellow party members are also most formidable.”

The woman let out a shuddering sigh and let Rhodri pull her to her feet. “Thank you. I'm Valena, the Arlessa's maid. Is she all right? Where is everyone?”

The companions’ eyebrows raised collectively at the mention of her name.

“Valena? Ah! The blacksmith’s daughter!”

Her eyes widened. “You know my father?”

Rhodri beamed and nodded. “This is very convenient. I promised him I’d find you! He’ll be so pleased to know you’re all right. We've cleared out everything up to this point, so you can safely escape through the dungeons. The Arlessa is in the castle, and we will speak to her directly, but for now you need to get to safety. She can come and find you when all this is over.”

Valena nodded quickly. Gasping her thanks, she bolted away down the corridor. The companions (sans Morrigan) shared a satisfied nod as they proceeded into the hall.

Zevran wasn’t sure where his eyes should stay when he was greeted with the sight of Bann Teagan gyrating and handwaving like a jubilant drunk in front of a small, surly-looking boy. Lady Isolde was standing behind the child, blanched and visibly trembling even from a distance. 

When the child caught sight of them, Teagan’s body went limp and he dropped to the floor, awake but lying still.

Rhodri raised an eyebrow, looking nowhere near as perturbed as Zevran felt.

“I… see,” she said slowly. “So we've been re-murdering your staff while Bann Teagan thrills you both with a dance number.”

The child looked less than impressed. “Are these our visitors, Mother? The ones you told me about?” His voice was harsh and menacing, and not at all natural for a person of his age or stature.

Isolde flinched a little. “Y-yes, Connor.”

Connor? Oh, dear.

“What are they, Mother?" he hissed. "I can’t see them well enough!”

“They are humans, Connor,” she replied softly. "Like you and me." She glanced at Zevran and added, "And an elf. We have them here in the castle as well.”

The boy gave a high, cruel laugh and clapped his hands. 

“Oh, I remember elves,” he crowed, “I had their ears cut off and fed to the dogs. The dogs chewed for hours! Shall I send it to the kennels, Mother?”

Zevran had heard similar threats before, but it was the first time he had been sure it would have occurred (and at the command of a child, no less), had the party not actually culled the poor, necrosed beasts on the way upstairs. 

He almost jumped as Rhodri turned around and forced him behind her with one hand. Her four fingers wrapped tightly around his arm, and were all that kept him from stumbling altogether.

"Nobody and nothing will put a finger on him," the Warden barked the pronoun forcefully, "or any other member of my party, demon."

She reclaimed her hand, and a throb preceded the blood pumping back into the rest of his arm.

“Please stay behind me, Zev,” she murmured to him. Easily done; it hadn’t occurred to him to do anything but stand there, resisting the urge to check his ears were still attached.

At that moment, the child’s head snapped back as though he had just been struck across the face. Isolde ran to him, and he watched up at her fearfully. 

“Mother?” he gasped. “W-what’s happening? Where am I?”

Isolde snatched the child into an embrace and looked pleadingly at Rhodri. “Grey Warden, I know how this must look, but he is not responsible for his actions!”

Zevran heard Rhodri tsk loudly.

“Wonders never cease,” she snapped. “A young child who is possessed by a demon is not responsible for his actions. Were you a town crier before you became the Arlessa?” 

She shook her head, not addressing Zevran and Morrigan’s snorts of laughter or the reproachful “Rhodri!” from Alistair. 

“How long have you been keeping this a secret, Lady Isolde?" the Warden demanded. "Your castle staff are dead twice over because of your negligence! The only survivor we found was your maid, Valena, hiding in a broom cupboard!”

“Connor didn’t mean to do all this,” Isolde insisted tearfully. “It-it was that mage, the one who poisoned Eamon! He started it! He summoned the demon! Connor was only trying to help his father!”

As Rhodri scoffed, the boy, newly enraged, growled and shoved his mother away. The assembly of guards in the room about-turned in synchrony, as if responding to an unspoken order, and made for the party, leading to a high-pressured scuffle that ended quickly when Rhodri and Morrigan both cast a spell that sent the guards to the floor in a deep, paralytic slumber and Zevran and Alistair finished them off. 

Zevran looked around, frowning. “Where did the boy go?” 

“He is hiding in his room,” Isolde said quietly. “He is afraid.”

Alistair went over to Teagan. “This is a dire situation. The demon possessing Connor could easily lay waste to all of Redcliffe if we don’t take action right now.”

Isolde let out a cry. “You’re going to kill my boy?”

He sighed heavily. “I don’t see any way around it, Lady Isolde. He’s an abomination, and a dangerous one at that.”

“I would be inclined to disagree,” Morrigan spoke up now. She smirked as all eyes went onto her.

“There is a way, but it will not be to your liking.” She shrugged with one hand. “The prisoner is a blood mage, is he not? He would have the means to send someone–” she gave Rhodri a meaningful look– “into the Fade to kill the demon and free the boy.

“Such magic has a high price, however. The caster would require a significant amount of blood to carry the spell through.” Morrigan turned to Isolde and ran her eyes up and down the woman. “By my estimate, one adult human would suffice.”

“Then let Jowan do it,” Bann Teagan said firmly. “His punishment was coming. Let the spilled blood have a use, for once.”

“The prisoner will be casting the spell,” the witch retorted, rolling her eyes. “How do you suppose he will keep the volunteer in the Fade once dead?”

As the Bann scowled, Isolde spoke up again. 

“Then use my blood,” she said resolutely. “There is no question. Kill me and save Connor.”

“No, wait.” The Warden raised a hand.

Morrigan’s lip curled. “Warden, if the woman is willing to die–”

“She need not.” Rhodri retrieved two flasks of lyrium from her satchel and held them up. “This is almost enough on its own to enter the Fade. I’m not sure how much blood would be needed when supplemented with this, but surely not enough to seriously harm anyone.”

She waved to get the Bann’s attention. “Have someone fetch Jowan, if you please.”

Teagan waved a hand at one of the guards, who disappeared and returned several minutes later with a subdued Jowan. In the relatively bright room, his cheeks looked even more sunken than they had in their encounter downstairs, and his huge eyes floated in their sockets.

“Rhodri? Did you get me out of here?” Jowan asked as the guard shoved him toward her. The forcefulness made him stumble a little, and Rhodri reached out and steadied him with the tips of her fingers. 

"I did," she replied curtly. "Your chance has come to put some of this right. I need to enter the Fade, and you’re going to help me get there.”

Without even waiting for Jowan's response, she turned to Zevran. He snapped-to.

“Bellissimo?” He smiled and nodded attentively.

“Zevran, if you would be so kind, please take Bann Teagan and Lady Isolde out to the terrace for a walk in the fresh air and wait for someone to come and bring you back inside,” she requested, gesturing at the pair he was to escort.

“Why? What will you do?” Isolde asked at a near-shriek.

Rhodri raised an eyebrow at her. 

“I will be doing what needs to be done to enter the Fade and kill the demon possessing your son,” she said shortly. “It will be a confronting scene and the less likely we are to be interrupted by emotional outbursts from spectators, the better our chances are of succeeding. Please leave and let us do our work.”

Isolde looked displeased, especially at the mention of ‘emotional outbursts,’ but made no motion to object. After a moment’s silence, she nodded gingerly.

“Very well,” she relented. “Please do what you can.”

“I will, Madam,” Rhodri replied with a nod. She looked over at Zevran. “I know the dogs are dead, but if you have any concerns for safety, amicus, come back indoors. Just… keep them away from this room unless it’s an emergency. I doubt this will take more than half an hour.”

He nodded smoothly, and couldn’t help but feel a slight twinge of irritation as his curiosity built. Repellent as blood magic sounded, there was an undeniable intrigue to it. No doubt there was quite a spectacle to witness if he had to keep people away from it.

“Certainly,” he said with a smile, turning to Teagan and Isolde. “Shall we, my Lord and Lady?” He gestured at the huge doors.

The nobles shared an uneasy look. 

“Y-yes, I suppose so,” Teagan accepted, offering his arm to Isolde and leading her out of the room.

Zevran turned back and saw Rhodri give him a wan but appreciative smile.

His eyes drifted down to the lyrium flasks in her hand, and the words came out before he could stop them.

“You… are sure you do not need anything, my Grey Warden?” He opened a small purse hanging off his hip and started digging into it. “Perhaps you might take some of the healing poultices in case the lyrium–”

He paused as a long, thin hand came into his periphery and hovered near his. He looked up and saw the Warden watching him with a rather firm smile.

“Thank you, Zev, but those are yours. And as I said before, my lyrium affliction is not for you to worry about. I mentioned it at the time to fully assure you that my staff was safe to touch. Nothing more.”

It was hard to know if ‘not for him to worry about’ was one of those embarrassing attempts at martyrdom to avoid inconveniencing others, or if it was simply a polite way of saying it was none of Zevran’s damned business. For the interim, it felt wise to at least presume the latter.

He nodded with the tiniest flourish. “Of course. Do please excuse my presumption. I shall wait for your signal to return, then.”

She nodded back; the finality to her smile evaporated. “See you in a little while,” she said with a wave.

“Count on it, my Grey Warden.” He waved back, sauntered out behind the nobles, and closed the door behind him.

§

A part of Zevran wondered how anyone could stand to be rich when it meant they had to suffer the company of people like the Lady Isolde. A handful of minutes strolling around the terrace revealed her, and Bann Teagan to a lesser extent, to be a vapid pair, fixated on the counterintuitive social mores that allowed them to blend in among the rarefied few in their echelon. 

But really, what a thought. How anyone could stand to be rich? Truly? The cleverer part of Zevran scoffed at his own ponderings, all too readily recalling the life of deprivation that had been his only weeks prior. 

He was forgetting it already, it seemed, if this was the line of thinking he had. Oh, that wasn’t good. Weak Crow, fed fat on a salary and gentle touches. What would he do when they found him again? Use his tears to clean the festering wounds after a month or two in the oubliette? Or would he simply pine away in there before the first day’s end, his soft little heart crushed to bits because nobody had made him tea that morning?

He swallowed hard, shaking his head to unstick the thoughts, and turned his focus to the outside world. Teagan and Isolde were neck-deep in conversation-- or perhaps it was an argument; it was hard to tell with these Fereldans at times. 

“We will not have any choice now, Isolde,” Teagan said wearily. “If Connor even survives--"

"Do not say that, Teagan!" 

The Bann held his hands up in a peacemaking gesture. "Very well. But he will still need to go to the Circle. It will not be so awful as you think, I am sure." He quickly turned to Zevran. 

"You… ah…" Teagan whiffled a hand in that way people did when they were trying to summon information out of thin air. Zevran chuckled inwardly. 

"Zevran, my Lord," he supplied helpfully. 

"Yes– Zevran," the nobleman butchered the pronunciation with his flat vowels and flaccid tongue, but Zevran overlooked it almost reflexively. One could expect nothing better from these cultureless people. "You travel with the Magewarden, do you not?"

"I do indeed."

"Perhaps you would tell us a little of what you know about her life at the Circle? It is not often we hear things from the side of the people living there."

Zevran nodded, a reflex built on decades of never saying no to a master, and he fished around for some snippets to feed these people. Ideally the truth, if he could manage it, but he hadn’t known Rhodri for long, and it seemed things could be rather… hostile in there for children at the best of times. 

"My Grey Warden is a mysterious one, but what I know I will gladly share. While she was there, the mages would ease into their early starts with a cup of sweet tea." 

The beginnings of tentative ease appeared in their faces; he pressed on. "They walked the halls in soft, warm robes" (hardly a lie given how sweaty the Warden could get) "and devoted themselves to study." He raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. "I do not suppose they were coddled or blessed with a light workload, but the clever children did well enough for themselves. I take it Connor is a bright boy?”

Isolde and Teagan both nodded fervently.

“Oh, very much so,” Isolde near-exclaimed. Of course she did; all the nobles with an inch of fondness for their children were convinced these little people were nothing short of prodigious. 

Zevran smiled in spite of himself. “Then I imagine your son will cope very well."

The way Isolde and Teagan hung off his words was remarkably gratifying. It was very comfortable, if foreign, to have such an effect on human nobles, and with any luck, being in their good books might keep him out of the firing line should anything go wrong. 

After a moment's silence, Isolde nodded. "Mmm. Perhaps, then."

The untalkativeness they slipped back into was comfortable enough, with Zevran being called on occasionally to answer questions about the situation in the castle. Though the answers undoubtedly troubled Teagan and Isolde, they seemed reassured by his calm, easy reminders of the attending members’ excellent qualifications.  

Some time later– how long precisely was a mystery– a guard appeared and ushered them back into the castle. Or at least she would have, had Isolde not scrambled inside ahead of her. Teagan gave Zevran an embarrassed look that Zevran returned with an untroubled smile. 

"Perhaps we should follow her, no?" he suggested, motioning to fall into a jog. Teagan nodded vigorously, seeming pleased Zevran had said it, and they hurried in after her. 

In the hall, Rhodri and Alistair stood patting the back of the boy, who looked rattled but remarkably whole, and certainly not any more demonic than most children his age. Morrigan had her back turned to the whole scene, fiddling away with some of the trinkets she had tied to her staff, and Jowan stood off to one side with one tattered sleeve rolled up, and was nursing the exposed arm with his other hand.

The only sign anything untoward might have happened were two sprays of congealed blood on the floor, one in deep red and the other almost black. Beside the latter of these lay the two lyrium flasks, and as the sound of the Warden coughing drew his attention, he caught a little of the same dark blood sitting in the corner of her mouth.

Zevran decided then and there, as per Rhodri’s own request, to put it out of his mind. Why his stomach continued to plummet despite this verdict was beyond him, but before he could redouble his efforts to distract himself, Isolde let out a nerve-peeling shriek (which in turn had Rhodri yelping) and ran over to her son. 

It was almost funny, the way both Wardens (though especially the Tevinter of these) caught sight of this stampeding woman and immediately fled from the boy’s side to give her a comically wide berth. Maker’s breath, she was a short, dainty Orlesian, not a bear. Her ancestors were the people who cried exhaustion when their arms tired from flogging their servants, and no doubt half her energy had been spent on the one slap she delivered to the Magewarden earlier.

Rhodri ended up orbiting out and around until she was standing beside Zevran. Accompanying her was a curious smell; more odour than fragrance, and metallic enough that it settled on his tongue. Lightning-struck earth, iron, and singed flesh, if he had to pin it down to something in particular. 

He glanced at the Warden’s face; her mouth had been wiped clean. He shelved all thoughts of lyrium and its related afflictions as best he could and breathed through his mouth.

“How was it for you, Zev?” she asked after a moment. Her voice had a soft rasp to it. “Were you safe out there? No trouble?”

Zevran gave her a broad, smooth smile. “Not a hint of a problem, my dear Grey Warden. I was the very picture of the charming host, and our charges were kept entertained for many a minute.”

“Hah. And here I was getting ready to apologise for giving you the worst job.” She gave him a skewed grin and shifted her weight from foot to foot like a duck.

He chuckled softly. "It made for an interesting change from my daily tasks with the Crows. Far easier work, too. I am in no hurry to complain."

“Mmm, I can imagine. Well, hopefully they’ll let us go now. There’s nothing more to do, and I’d trample the First Enchanter for a bath.” The Warden paused and added, “Not really, of course. Just a figure of speech, you understand.”

Surprising as it was to be notified of such a thing, it seemed less so given the person who had issued it. Zevran nodded. “But of course.”

She looked relieved (she often looked that way when he made it clear he had understood her), and had opened her mouth to say something else when Bann Teagan spoke up again. 

And of course, in keeping with the insatiable need nobles had for ordering people around, he had barely gotten his thanks out before putting the Warden on the spot with another request: to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes (surely that was a myth?) and take a pinch of said ashes in a last-ditch attempt to drag the Arl back from death’s door. ‘Nothing more to do,’ indeed.

Morrigan rolled her eyes so hard at the Bann’s entreaty that it was almost audible, and Alistair was hardly looking very confident about the whole thing either. 

Rhodri, however, gave a shrug and nodded. 

“We can keep an eye out for an urn as we travel through the country to rally troops to fight the Darkspawn, certainly. I don’t suppose you could give us any more information on where we might find it, or what it looks like?” She tapped her thigh. “I hate to put too fine a point on it, but urns are everywhere, especially now.”

The Bann proceeded, once he had gotten hold of a pen and paper, to write out the contact details for one Brother Genitivi, based in Denerim, whom Teagan guaranteed would have plenty of insights (never a good term when discussing a concrete need) on where the mysterious urn might be.

With their next moves made clear, they were almost ready to leave, until--

"Bann Teagan." Rhodri glanced at Jowan and then to the nobleman.

"Warden?"

"I am invoking the Right of Conscription against Jowan."

Alistair gaped at her. "What?" 

Rhodri raised an eyebrow at him. "He’s a blood mage, Alistair," she replied flatly. "Grey Wardens need non-Warden blood mages for certain tasks, and if they can’t find one, they will often take a regular mage and make them practice it against their will." She pursed her lips. "You'll recall my Aunt Leandra mentioning back in Lothering that my Uncle Malcolm was one such victim. Jowan, however, has already chosen his path. He will be of use to us."

"I-I see," Teagan said with a stiff nod. "There is nothing I can say to that, but I do not imagine my brother will be pleased to be deprived of the chance to deal his punishment."

A wide-eyed Jowan turned to the Warden and began walking over to her. "Am I going with you, Rhodri?" he asked softly, hopefully almost.

Rhodri looked around sharply at him, and he immediately scuttled back again. 

"No. You will remain here for now. You aren't going anywhere without speaking to Arl Eamon first."

She abruptly turned away from him and faced the Bann. "We may have need of his skills at any time, and at very short notice. Please do not kill him, torture him, or deprive him." 

Teagan's astonished look grew disapproving; apparently there was a limit to his upper-crust politeness, and no doubt the nature of the request itself was an unwelcome one. 

Rhodri held up her hands in a calming gesture. "He need not be pampered, but he must be at his best. I would ask that you look past your anger for now, and if you're not motivated by the treaties to comply, you might recall that we helped you when we need not have, and are about to do so again.” She gave him a pointed look. “It would be very well received if you did not make our task any harder than it already is." 

When the Bann replied with one of the most begrudging nods in recorded history, Rhodri inclined her head appreciatively, and her attention went back to Jowan. She eyed him gravely. "This is your second chance. Don't even think of breaking my trust again."

"N-no, I promise--" he began to stutter, but Rhodri held up a hand to silence him, shaking her head. 

"Your promises mean nothing now. Prove it." 

Without another word, she beckoned to the party. As Zevran and the others followed her out, he caught a glimpse of weariness on her face that shuttered into that familiar harshness as he drew up beside her. 

Was it better to pity her, or simply be pleased that her attachment to the mage swayed her? Weakness was likely the only thing that had stayed her hand when Zevran had tried to kill her himself. No, if ever there was a time to withhold the scorn usually due such things, it was now.

The party left.

Chapter Text

Departing Redcliffe was a surprising affair.

Not as surprising as it could have been, certainly; when the party had returned to the camp the night prior, Rhodri had advised in a raspy voice that they would be leaving Redcliffe when the sun was next up.

Zevran had come to decide that perhaps, then, it wasn’t the actual departure that was unexpected, but rather the moments beforehand. Very messy affairs, all told. The weepy, overjoyed blacksmith had leapt at the Wardens– logistically unfortunate given that he was still clutching his daughter Valena’s hand as he did. Amid his profuse apologies to Rhodri (and his daughter) as the Warden healed the young lady’s half-dislocated shoulder, he had managed to insistently press a fine dwarven shield into a baffled Alistair’s arms. 

The waitress in the tavern, Bella, had left her place from behind the taps to greet the party with a broad, victorious smile. She attempted to ply Rhodri with several bottles of expensive Rivaini rum while explaining that Lloyd, who had died during the battle, had no successors. It had been unanimously decided by the townsfolk that the tavern was now hers, and she was already on the lookout for fresh faces to staff the joint. 

To his own astonishment, Zevran was pulled aside as the party went to leave. With a grateful smile and a conspiratorial pat to her thigh, Bella slipped him a lozenge-shaped thing wrapped in linen, and turned him loose again before his absence could be marked.

As the party left Redcliffe and took a right at the crossroads, Zevran finally indulged his curiosity and–carefully– inspected the thing. The frail Fereldan sun shafted through it, a small resin token encasing sunflower petals layered one on top of the other with painstaking symmetry. Smooth, glowing, evidently plenty of work. He squeezed it tightly and slipped it into his pocket, keeping his smile to himself. 

Hours of walking in the vast, uneventful countryside had instilled a quiet mindlessness relieved by Leliana the obvious bard (Maker bless the Warden’s ‘armed Chantry sister’ euphemism) roping other members into singing with her, and various games that could be played on foot.

And, of course, by encountering strangers by the roadside toward the end of said hours. 

To Zevran’s relief, this particular fellow, a pale, shaggy-haired dwarf, had all the trappings of a merchant. Actual, tangible goods were half packed out of his buggy, and two oxen loafed in the grass nearby. Alistair was still grumbling about the possibility of an ambush, but with nowhere near the conviction from the first time; Zevran kept his hands visible anyway.

The dwarf waved in their direction, and as Rhodri waved back, Zevran glanced over his shoulder at Bodahn, who returned the wave and nudged his son to spur him into doing the same.

“How do, Tegrin?” Bodahn called out cheerfully as the party pulled up nearby.

The other merchant shrugged. “Good as it gets this side of the dirt, salroka.” He gestured at the Wardens’ party. “Looks like you got company, huh? If any of you’ve got any coin that wants spendin’, with Orzammar closed off I can sell you dwarven crafts at a neat discount. Once Bodahn gets off his ass and introduces us, anyway.”

Bodahn’s cheeks, already ruddy to begin with, were glowing like hot coals. “Well now,” he blustered, “you might actually know our Warden here, since you do business in Kirkwall.” He gestured at Severin Rhodri Amell Callistus, who stepped forward and introduced herself thusly before he could get to it himself. Tegrin watched her with interest, barely noting the other names when Bodahn stepped back in and reeled them off.

“You’re an Amell, huh?” Tegrin said to the Warden with a hum. “Didn’t catch any Kirkwaller twang in that accent of yours. Your Tevene’s convincing, too.”

“I save the Kirkwaller talk for birthdays and Satinalia,” Rhodri said with a chuckle.

The quip was acknowledged with a grunt, and Tegrin twirled his beard around one meaty finger.

“Now lemme see… the Amells… haven’t heard of them in a while… oh, wait a second. Fausten’s daughter had a Vint husband.” His eyes widened a little. “House Callistus, wasn’t it? Emmet does good business with them. Aurelio, I think his name is.”

Rhodri beamed and nodded, bouncing on her toes. “Aurelio is my father, yes! I’m his eldest.”

Tegrin averted his gaze to somewhere past the Warden’s shoulder until her body fell still. “Huh. Small world. Well, if you need a reference, I’m Ilse Tethras’ brother, Ancestors keep her.” He put a hand to his chest. “Funny way to be networking, out in a field in the ass-end of Ferelden, but here we are.”

“Yes.” She rubbed her chin. “Though truly, I’m not certain how much networking I can do at present, Mr. Tegrin. I just left the Circle, and I’m a Grey Warden now, believe it or not,” she gave off-handed wobble of the head. “We actually intend to make for Orzammar at some point to rally some troops. I… don’t suppose you’d be able to tell us why it’s been closed off?” Rhodri watched him hopefully, fingers gently tapping her thighs.

Tegrin stiffened. He curled his lip, drew in a deep breath, and after what felt like minutes, let it out again.

“I promised myself I was only hangin’ around here for travel or trade. No talkin’ shit.” He shrugged. “But your pap’s good to us, and so was your mam back in the day. Ah, why not? It’s gettin’ dark, anyway. Set up camp with me and we'll swap news over dinner, huh? Who knows, we might walk away with a deal yet.”

The offer was accepted with a ready nod. Forces parted and combined to collect firewood, set up the tents, and prepare the dinner and the firepit it was cooked over. While Leliana cut the vegetables, Zevran– under Alistair’s watchful eye– cooked a rich, decidedly not-grey lamb stew, which was served first to Old Tegrin.

From his place beside Rhodri, Zevran watch things unfold over the rim of his bowl. There was little reference to how things would proceed. Certainly, the dwarves supplied the Crows with all manner of precious stones and metals, for which the Crows paid extravagant sums, but such brokering was relegated to specialists in the guild.

In short, not Zevran. 

And if there was murder to be done, the contracts, often verging into bounties worth tens of millions of andris, were snapped up by more prominent houses than Zevran’s. Though, when all was said and done, if it came to a scuffle between the Warden and Old Tegrin, Zevran was handy to have. Sharp knives made short work of even the thickest necks. Especially when dwarves were known to be hardy in the face of magical attacks.

And, given the offence Rhodri had caused with Lady Isolde, stepping on a dwarf’s toes wasn’t hard to picture.

Tegrin took a spoonful of stew and smacked his lips loudly. 

“Ah,” he sighed. “This is some good eating. Haven’t had anything this tasty since I was in Hightown last!”

Rhodri smiled proudly and nodded at Zevran. “Our cook for the night is Antivan.”

Tegrin waved a hand. “Say no more. Won’t find better than Antivan food, even if it burns twice.” He nudged Rhodri, who was already wheezing into her hand, and snorted at his own quip. “Now, news. What’s goin’ on?”

“Hmm.” Rhodri tapped her bowl with one finger. “I suppose you already heard that my good friend Maevaris Tilani is set to marry your Thorold?”

“Hah? The Magister’s daughter?” He elbowed her again as she beamed and nodded, knocking her forcefully enough that she swayed a little. “Get outta here, I thought they were just business partners! Well, the Ambassadoria’s gonna be pleased about that.”

“Mmm.” A small smile came to the Warden. “I think Mae is very happy, too.”

“Hey.” Tegrin winked at her. “If your pap hasn’t already got someone arranged for you, you might consider my nephew, Varric. Y’ever meet him? Handsome sod, he’s turned out to be.”

Alistair’s gaping at Tegrin went unnoticed by the man himself and Rhodri as she wobbled her head thoughtfully. “I believe I met Varric a few times when we were both children. He’s almost ten years older than me, if memory serves. I would have been seven or eight, at the very latest. He thrilled me and my siblings with the most magnificent yarns whenever he visited, made them up on the spot.”

“Hah. Ya probably were taller than him already even then!” 

“I was,” she said solemnly, and held her hands a good ways apart. “But he was three times my width, and could have thrown me a substantial distance if he was of a mind to.”

Tegrin roared laughing, nearly choking on his last mouthful of stew in the process.

“I like a ‘Waller with a bit of humour to ‘em. Your mam was the only other funny one in her family, I’m sorry to say.” He shook his head. “Hey, any news on her? They find her yet?”

Zevran was grateful he had the good sense to keep his intrigue to himself. Alistair, and to a lesser extent Leliana, both looked up from their dinner with wide eyes. 

“Is your mother missing?” Alistair exclaimed.

Tegrin froze in the middle of setting his bowl on the ground. The beaded braids of his moustache hung forward in the air like tusks.

Rhodri glanced at the Templar. “Yes,” she said simply, and either not noticing or paying no mind to the gaping pair, turned back to Tegrin. “I have no place to receive mail at present, so something might have changed in the last weeks, but if it has, I haven’t heard it. So far as I know, we’re still looking for her.”

The merchant snapped-to and, once his bowl was touching the earth, heaved a sigh. “Ah, well. For what it’s worth, I’ll keep an eye out and let your pap know if I see anything. No such thing as too many eyes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tegrin,” she nodded with a small but genuine smile. “I believe you have two daughters, don’t you? Are they well?”

Tegrin proceeded to wax lyrical for much of the night about the undertakings of Bronja and Tomsia, who had both married young (he hinted several more times about the availability of his nephew amid these remarks), and were expecting their third and second children respectively. The youngest of his grandchildren, he declared, had teeth hard enough to leave an imprint in a sovereign. Said grandchild was already trying to sell her afternoon snacks to various relatives for toys and coin. This, Tegrin assured Rhodri, was part of a sense for business that ran strong in the family, and was well worth marrying into.

Zevran stifled a yawn when Tegrin’s one-way conversation had seen the fire dwindle to embers. It was only when Sten stood up and, with a brief nod to the company, strode away to his tent, that Tegrin appeared to notice the passage of time.

“Ah, Stone and Ancestors both,” he clapped a hand to his knee. “Night’s gone by quick. I better tell you what’s happening in Orzammar ‘fore we fall asleep!”

Alistair, with his usual subtlety, looked up sharply from the rock he’d been thumbing– audibly enough that his neck cricked in the process. Bodahn watched with rather more interest than he'd had while Tegrin was singing the praises of his descendants. And credit where it was due, Rhodri had given every impression of being thoroughly interested in the contents of Tegrin’s monologue. She gave him a strangely calm nod now, given the intentness with which she was watching him. 

“Word is, there’s been infighting among the Aeducan heirs. Bloody, too. Crown Prince Trian’s dead.”

Rhodri raised her eyebrows. “Dead?”

Tegrin grunted in the affirmative. “Killed by his own sister, apparently. She got exiled to the Deep Roads for that. Dunno why she did it, or what the middle brother might’ve known about it. He always was a shady feller.” He waved a hand. “Anyway, King Endrin was heartbroken, of course. Just got the news last week that he took to his bed and died of grief not long after.”

The merchant was good enough to pause and allow Bodahn and Alistair both to express their astonishment before he pressed on, “Well, they’re deadlocked now. The Assembly can’t decide who to put on the throne next. Half of ‘em reckon the King’s right-hand man, Pyral Harrowmont, should step up, and the other half want that second boy, Bhelen, for the job. Nobody’s allowed in or out of the Kingdom until they can make a decision.” He looked up at the Warden. “When were you gonna go?”

While Rhodri extracted a map of Ferelden from her satchel, Alistair zipped over and plonked himself beside Tegrin. The enormous sheet of vellum, once fully unfolded, covered the laps of all three of them, and Zevran even had a little verging onto his knee. He peered over the Warden’s arm. 

“Hmm. Orzammar is actually rather close to where we are now,” she gestured at the little dot nestled in the heart of the Frostback Mountain range. Said mountains were visible from where they were now and, Zevran noted with a private shiver, bringing the cold weather much more rapidly than was necessary.

“But I s’pose we shouldn’t go there now?” Alistair asked.

Tegrin shook his head. “I wouldn’t. There’s gonna be a lot of violence there at the minute. S’never quiet when this shit’s goin’ on, is it Bodahn?”

From his spot across the firepit, Bodahn shook his head. “I’m afraid Old Tegrin’s right, Ser Warden,” he said heavily. “It was bad enough when I left, and that were a few years ago now.”

The map shook a little as Rhodri’s knees bounced; she stopped immediately and sighed. “All our other business is on the other side here,” she circled her fingertips around the land lying to the west of Lake Calenhad. “Denerim, and the like.”

“Give it nine months,” Tegrin advised. “You don’t wanna get caught up in the thick of family matters, I promise you. Everyone respects the Wardens, see? They’ll make you pick a side, maybe get you to run some errands to help one or the other come out victorious. That shit never goes well.”

Bodahn nodded with a dolorous hum. “Won’t help the Wardens’ cause much either way, I’m sorry. And they’re slow to resolve these things, more’s the difficulty.”

“Hah! Tell me about it. Nine months is the quick side of things.” Tegrin moved the map off himself and stood up. “Anyway, do what you want with that information. I think I’ll make for my bed.”

“Mr. Tegrin?”

“Yeah?”

Now on her feet, Rhodri bent down and touched a hand to the man’s shoulder. “Is your family there well? Can we do anything for them?”

Tegrin stared up at the Warden, saying nothing until he finally let out a sigh. 

“Tomorrow,” he said finally. “Tell you tomorrow.” With a wave, he left the company and disappeared into his tent.

As Bodahn made his own goodnights and left to join an already-sleeping Sandal, Rhodri began collecting the dirty bowls and spoons lying around the fireplace. Alistair and Leliana had been sharing glances and then looking over at the Warden; Zevran, keen to busy his hands, hastened to pack away the leftovers.

“... Rhodri?” Leliana broached carefully. 

Rhodri straightened up with a stack of bowls in hand. “Mm?” She frowned a little. “You two look worried. If it’s Orzammar, you don’t have to go in if you don’t want. You can wait in a nearby town and I’ll handle matters there myself.” She gave them a bright smile. “No trouble.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s…” Leliana trailed off.

“Are you all right, Rhod?” Alistair finished for her.

The Warden’s face hardened, which as far as body language went, should have been Zevran’s cue to depart. But he was a fool, regularly bested by his own curiosity. He feigned difficulty finding the lid for the stew pot.

“What have I done to warrant this question?” she asked gravely.

“Your mother is missing,” Leliana answered with a gentleness that made Zevran’s flesh creep. “And Alistair said your friend betrayed you–”

“Jowan is not my friend,” Rhodri answered in a clipped tone. “Answer my question, please. What have I done to cause this concern?”

“Well, nothing, but—”

“Good.” The Warden gave a hard nod. “Then you have no reason to be asking.”

Hurt flashed over both faces, but especially Alistair’s. “Yes we do!” he protested. “What, do you think nobody here gives a damn about you?”

“You check on us all the time,” Leliana pointed out. 

There was something oddly satisfying about the way the Warden watched them there with her wide eyes and deep frown, as though stunned they had given back a little of the awkwardness she readily dished out. She could hang Zevran up by his toes for watching on later, if she wished, but there was no leaving now.

“You seem to be forgetting I was given the last word in this party’s affairs,” she said eventually.

Alistair shrugged. “And? We’re equals. You say that often enough.”

Rhodri’s shoulders tightened. “I'm surprised to hear this reasoning from someone raised by nobility,” she said coldly. “We’re of equal worth, but we don't have equal power. If we did, then nobody would have decision-making authority.”

“What, so we can’t check on you just because you decide where we go?”

“Yes!” She said it with the exasperation of a teacher who had spent hours fruitlessly explaining a simple concept. “Even if it’s not absolute power, even if I always consider everyone’s opinions and preferences, I have authority over where we go and what we do. You’re at a disadvantage. I compensate you for this by attending to your needs and neither asking for nor accepting the same in return.” 

She wiped a hand through the air. “Equal power does not exist. Power is always unevenly distributed. Redistributing it, even if it appears disadvantageous to do so, is what true, practical equality looks like. I don’t care what right Fereldan leaders think they have to bleed their hearts onto their subjects. I am not one of you and I will not be party to such shameful selfishness!”

Leliana stepped forward and squeezed Rhodri’s shoulder. “Who will watch out for you, then, Rhodri?” she asked softly.

The Warden gingerly picked up Leliana’s wrist with four fingers and eased it off her. “Did I not just say that’s not for you to worry about?”

“We care about you–”

“Enough!” Rhodri drew herself up to her full height and eyed them both indignantly. “If you care about me, then accept my efforts to put power back in your hands, and stop forcing me to waste energy repeating myself about this! If you want a leader who disregards your needs, ask someone else. And Zevran–” she turned to him.

Zevran abandoned the pot lid and sat up to attention with the smoothness that had been beaten into him for the better part of two decades. He met the Warden’s sombre gaze with an easy smile. 

“You called?”

“I’m sure you heard all this,” she said. “You’ve done it before, too, and I’d ask that you please keep my wishes in mind moving forward.”

He nodded and touched a hand, numbing as it was, to his heart. “But of course. Forgive me, I had no intention to offend.”

“I know.” She nodded. “I appreciate that the three of you did it with good intentions. From the bottom of my heart, thank you, but it’s unnecessary and unwanted. Please don’t do it.” Without another word, the Warden took the bowls and cups, and left for the lake.

Zevran, in a fit of blessed common sense, left the remaining humans with a wink and a wave before the collective air could tighten any further. He heaved a contented sigh as he slipped into his tent, warm and already smelling like home. It was a marvellous stroke of luck, really, that things had turned out this way. Coaxing openness and emotional truths out of a person was like pulling teeth at the best of times, and was a non-duty he could eschew without trouble. If only she’d asked him sooner!

§

It took every inch of Zevran’s self-control not to shoot Alistair a brazenly coprophagic grin as they passed each other later that evening, Alistair leaving his post, and Rhodri, at the top of the hill, while Zevran tracked upward to begin his own shift. The Templar’s reluctance to allow Zevran a turn at guarding the camp overnight had led to Rhodri, ever the long-suffering indulger of the fellow’s concerns, assuring him that she would accompany Zevran. 

Somehow, enough internal things tensed to conquer the urge and keep Zevran’s face still. He puppeteered himself into a respectful nod. Naturally, Alistair scowled in return. There was little to be done for that, though, except to imagine the Templar wearing that expression with a blush and the clothes he was born in.

From her place at the top of the hill, Rhodri smiled broadly down at Zevran in the same way she had every day. Her hands were held out like she was welcoming a long-lost friend.

“Ah, Zev! Good– well, I suppose it is morning, if only just.” She patted the ground beside her. “Are you ready for your first watch shift?”

He gave a flourished bow and sat down. “Dear Warden, I was born ready, and guaranteed not to disappoint.”

Rhodri waved the remark away good-naturedly. “You’ll be more than fine, I’m sure. We rarely get anything more than a wolf or two. Of course,” she added, “if you get through the end of tonight and you’re not confident about handling it alone, we can pair up for your shifts, no trouble.”

“Mmm! You’re as kind as you are ravishing.” 

Her grin widened at that. And then promptly died away.

“Zev?”

He inclined his head. “Here I am.”

“Here you are!” She gave a pleased, playful smile. Which, of course, died away too. “Since we’ve got a moment alone now, I wonder if I might ask you something. You’re welcome to say no, of course.”

An identical request had been made several times before, and it had always been tempting to joke that she may not, in fact, ask him something. After all, welcomeness was relative, and she didn’t seem the type to belt him for a cheeky quip.

Zevran feigned the sigh of a person drowning in fame and attention. “I will not be taking any questions tonight,” he creaked melodramatically. He completed his performance with a hand clapped to his forehead.

The Warden tipped onto her side and sprawled on the grass like a lounge lizard, fanning herself with her hand. “I understand!” she trilled back. “Thank you for letting me know. I will save my queries… for another night!”

With that, she sat up and watched the view ahead, entirely silent and giving every impression Zevran’s presence was no longer registering.

“Ah… my Grey Warden?” He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, and upon realising there was no reason to do so, drew it back again.

She turned and smiled at him warmly. “Sic, amicus?”

“I was… forgive me, I was only joking.”

“Ah? You were?” She rubbed her chin. “Yes, you were a little… operatic there, but people tell jokes with a straight face and tell operatic truths all the time, see.”

Zevran nodded quickly. “Quite right, that is an excellent point. The Grey Wardens do not recruit fools, evidently!” He cleared his throat and made what he hoped was an inviting gesture. “Please, whatever you’d like to ask.”

“Right.” She nodded. “Well, I realise that your situation in leaving the Crows is a complicated one, but do you need any assistance in getting a message to anyone at home?”

His muscles tensed. "A message?" he echoed carefully. "What sort of message would you mean, Warden?" 

“To tell them you’re safe. You said you have friends, and maybe you have family, too. If the Crows want you dead, your loved ones must be terrified for you." 

“Oh.” Zevran laughed in spite of himself, barking it out from a hard, bitter place at the pit of his stomach. “I am an only child, my dear Warden, and a long-orphaned one at that. And Crow friends do not think much of it if someone disappears. No need for a message, I do not think.”

Rhodri’s eyes widened. “Oh, Zev,” she breathed. “I’m so sorry, for both of those things.”

“Ah,” he flicked a hand. “Do not trouble yourself over it. I have done well enough without the Crows thus far, and my mother and father, well. They were both dead before I was a day old, so I have no real memory of them.”

“So young? Ah. Did you at least hear anything about them?”

Zevran shrugged. “The whores who raised me told me things here and there.” He chanced a look at her face to gauge her first impression of his home life, expecting revulsion or disdain and finding neither.

Instead, she crinkled her chin and nodded as though he had made a pithy remark about the climbing price of jam. “It’s good to have at least something of an account.”

He could have changed the subject, or let it hang; it wasn’t as though the Warden was opposed to awkward silences. In fact, that would have been ideal. But he always did like to make things harder for himself. Zevran the troublemaker, Zevran the little shit, ever the crosser of the line to sate his own curiosity and sabotage every opportunity for an easier life.

“I was told,” he said, leaning back on his hands, “that my mother was a Dalish woman, with lovely gold eyes.” Zevran gestured at his own and paused. In the absence of any show of displeasure from Rhodri, he pressed on again.

“She had fallen in love with a woodcutter, a fellow from the metropolis. She had to leave her clan forever, of course, to be with him, and they came back to Antiva City.” Zevran shrugged. “He died of some filthy disease shortly after, and my mother was forced into prostitution to pay off his debts.

Rhodri clapped a hand over her mouth. “Your poor mother. What a horrible time to lose a partner, and so far from her clan, too.”

He huffed a bitter laugh. “It never rains but it pours, no? I suppose on the bright side, she didn’t grieve long. I was born not long after that, and she died in the process.” The hackneyed quip that he trotted out every time he told the story fell out mindlessly. “Some might even call her my first victim!”

She didn’t laugh. In fact, with her puffing chest pulling her shoulders back, she looked personally offended. Would she have laughed if she’d made the joke herself?

“Has someone said that to you?” she demanded. "That she was your first victim?"

“I– what?--”

“You come to me if it happens. That was your only moment with your mother, and I won’t stand for that sort of disrespect toward either of you.”

He choked back a shocked laugh. “In all fairness, my Warden, I am an assassin. Such a remark is not so unwarranted, no?"

“You were an enslaved assassin,” she insisted. “And at that point in your life, you were an infant. You needed care, not restraint from some wanton urge to kill the first thing you laid eyes on!" Her eyes darted up to his. "Remarks that falsely diminish your innocence are always unwarranted.”

“Innocence!” He chortled, not bothering to restrain it any longer. “Now there’s a word I don’t hear very often. Very well, my Grey Warden. I promise you faithfully that if anyone unfairly insults my innocence, you will be the first to know.”

The Warden nodded solemnly. “Good.”

Zevran concealed the last dregs of his mirth with a sigh. “Ah truly, if only I still had her gloves to show you! My mother had lovely ones– Dalish make, they were. Very beautiful. The insides were lined with the softest rabbit fur, and the leather was like butter. Ah, and the embroidery! Wildflowers and vines, all along the back of the hand and up to the second knuckle.” He kissed his fingers. “Masterful. I have never seen anything like it before, and nothing like it since.”

Rhodri cocked her head to the side. “You don’t have them any more?”

“No, no.” He shook his head. “The Crows did not allow us to keep possessions. I tried to keep them hidden, but eventually they were found and confiscated, and that was the end of that.”

“Keeping gloves under your pillow, knife-ear?” Talav said, his eyes gleaming like murder as he smiled maliciously at him. At eleven, Zevran should have known better than to still harbour an attachment to such silly trinkets. It was leather, thread, and pelt, nothing more. 

But they were hers.

“Answer when you’re spoken to, you bloody mongrel!” A stinging backhander to the face nearly broke his skin open. 

Well-practiced in the art of keeping his face impenetrable, Zevran quickly straightened up and shrugged at the man. “They seemed nice enough to keep, master,” he said in contrived off-handedness. “The quality, as you see, is exquisite.”

His stomach turned as the master’s eyes narrowed. He rooted his feet to the ground, forbidding the urge to flee when Talav’s face dipped down near his. 

“So Crow gloves aren’t good enough for His Majesty?” the Master asked softly. “Do you offer your owner insult?”

“Not at all,” he replied smoothly, not even believing his own excuse as he said, “I wear my Crow gloves with pride, but these may have come in handy as a gift to one of my marks, win their good graces a little quicker.”

“You think me a fool,” Talav snarled, hitting again in the same spot so hard Zevran could have sworn his cheekbone just snapped. 

The swelling had already started, stretching the skin of his face like old linen. He kept his hand at his side, forcing himself upright and bowing a little. “I apologise, Master. I truly had intended to keep them for more difficult marks, but I have brought shame on House Arainai.”

“Too little, too late,” Talav hissed. He turned to another apprentice, a diamondfaced girl with claw-sharp elbows who had been strapping knives to her person. “You!” 

The recruit jumped-to. “Yes, master?”

“Oubliette for two weeks for this little shit. Take him there now. If he objects, cut his throat.” He looked at Zevran and picked up the gloves. “You weren't wrong about the quality, Compradi. The leather is quite supple.” He ran his fingers over the seams. “Nice feel to them. Shame about this flower-leaf embroidery shit. Dalish, I presume. Once someone’s unstitched that, they might be worth putting on.” 

Zevran’s stomach roiled fit to heave. With the point of a knife between his shoulderblades, he swallowed the bile surge back as the master strolled out of the tiny room, lightly smacking the gloves against the door jamb as he went.

Rhodri's hand reached out and hovered by his shoulder. She briefly met his eyes. “Ah. May I…? Unless you’d rather not, of course.”

There was no reason not to let her do what she pleased, really, was there? After all, it was only a body. What she’d do with it was anyone’s guess, but she seemed intent on at least offering said service.

With a half-shrug, he nodded. Rhodri shuffled closer, cross-legged, until their knees were nearly touching. A hard, warm arm hung off his shoulders like a sack of flour, and her fingers made the faintest grip on the farthest away of them. Ample opportunity had been given to move away without challenge. Search as Zevran might, though, he found no compelling reason to do so.

“I’m sorry they took your gloves Zev,” she murmured to him. “You deserve to have something to remember your mother with.” 

A barely-there pressure registered as her fingers squeezed his shoulder. It was just enough to induce a reflexive disarming jerk of the upper arm that Zevran didn’t quite manage to stifle in time. Rhodri gasped at the sudden movement; her arm flew off him and she shuffled back.

“I frightened you," she whispered. "My apologies, I–”

With the weight suddenly gone, Zevran's shoulders floated back up like they had had air blown into them. “No, no,” he prayed it was too dark to see the mortified flush he could feel creeping into his ears. He laughed weakly. “Not your doing, my Warden, just a little spasm. Crow reflexes, no?”

“I’d never intentionally make you uncomfortable.” She showed her palms to him. “I promise.”

The lightness in Zevran's top half was uncomfortable, and, he realised only now, an unpleasant sort of temperature to boot. And if that weren't enough, that damned thing Bella gave him was burning like a coal in his pocket. He pinned his gaze onto the surroundings he had been charged with monitoring.

“No,” he murmured eventually, “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

Chapter Text

Zevran gave the blacksmith an appreciative nod as he took his dagger back and hung it off his hip. With a wave to her and her deliciously muscular arms, he left the forge and sauntered down the sunny corridor toward the spice gardens where Rinna and Taliesen awaited him. 

Master Claudio appeared from around a corner up ahead. Flanking him on either side were two humans clad in silk and privilege. Tevinters, no doubt: no-one else carried staves so proudly. 

Zevran checked behind him. His back was clear; Zevran’s muscles relaxed halfway. He smiled and inclined his head to a half-bow at the Master and his company. 

The younger of the guests, a woman in turquoise and silver dress robes, ran wide blue eyes over Zevran. “Claudio, you’re horrible. You didn’t show us this one!” 

The older mage’s impatient sigh went unacknowledged as she made a beeline for Zevran, her hands already out to grab at him. Zevran arranged his face into a demure smile. The smell of her warm, sweet myrrh was turning his stomach when she was still two steps away. 

“Ah,” she hooked a jewelled finger under his jaw and dug her thumb into his cheek, angling his face this way and that. “What a pretty thing you are! Lovely lips, and those eyes! Gorgeous.”

He ignored the bite of ring prongs in his chin and peered up at her through his lashes. The platinum, aquamarine-eyed snake adorning her ear was alive, he’d have sworn it on his grave, writhing and coiling like it was being tormented with a hot branding iron. Not even a trick of the light explained it away.

“Cynthia, don’t touch it,” the elder mage reproached wearily. He stepped over and towed her hand away, his face scrunching with disgust as Zevran feigned a curious smile. More words, this time in, Tevene; Zevran managed to make out ‘your brother,’ ‘a child’, and ‘these rats’.

Master Claudio drew up beside the woman. “My apologies, my Lady,” he purred. “I am afraid Zevran is in the middle of a long assignment and cannot be spared.” 

“You will let us know if he is free later, sic?” She bit her lip and eyed Zevran ravenously. “If not for guarding the house during parties, I think I could find another few uses for him.”

“The very moment he becomes available, my Lady, I assure you.” The Master turned to Zevran, the agreeableness in his face flickering out ever-so-briefly as their eyes met. “Now, Zevran, I believe you have somewhere else to be, not holding up beautiful ladies, no?”

Zevran nodded once and smiled at the woman. “Forgive me, my Lady, I would have jumped at the chance. Next time, no?”

He excused himself with a deferential hand to the heart, stealing a last glimpse at the agonising snake as he went.

§

Tegrin declared his roadside shop officially open for business the next morning. Surprisingly, Sten had proved the keenest shopper of them all. The entire time the party was browsing, his gaze had remained fixed on an oil painting of a regal-looking woman with a shock of fiery hair, depicted mid-battle and, most unfortunately, with all of her clothes on. In his silence, Sten managed to outdo even Leliana, who had been cooing over a pair of garish, powder-blue silk shoes.

Even Rhodri hadn’t missed the display of pining. When it was revealed that Sten was short on funds (he mumbled something about the absurd price of cookies and ended the conversation abruptly thereafter), she bought the damned thing for him, and then the shoes for Leliana, too. 

A dust-caked tome that had snared the Warden’s fascination made the final purchase. What wisdom it contained was unclear, but if Rhodri wanted to learn the art of attracting particulate matter, she couldn’t have chosen better. The price was slashed for her– or perhaps for Old Tegrin, who sneezed fitfully whenever the book came too close to him– to a mere six silvers.

Along with the goodies, Tegrin handed Rhodri a fistful of letters to be delivered to the Dace House in Orzammar’s Diamond Quarter. The exact location within the Diamond Quarter was laid out on a hand-drawn map– and a small paragraph with the same instructions. With quiet thanks and a less-than-quiet clap to the back, Tegrin sent the Warden, and thus the rest of the party, on their way.

Much of the day passed in silence– at least for Zevran. The only person typically willing to make civil conversation with him on the road was the Warden. Other members’ addresses were, by and large, suspicious questioning regarding his former employers. These were deemed to be uncivil conversation by the same Warden, who quickly and firmly put a stop to them. Zevran couldn’t decide if he disliked the snide interrogations more or less than the deafening silence.

Especially on a day like today, when his sole conversation partner had spent the entire day with her head buried in the map. Even over lunch, the only words to voluntarily come out of her mouth were mumbles pertaining to the party’s itinerary, which the Orzammar debacle had apparently cast into disarray. When she would re-emerge to join the Living again was anyone's guess.

In the background he pretended not to hear, Leliana occupied herself by stroking her new shoes with a passion that bordered on publicly indecent. She had vigorously denounced, called it criminal even, that splendid footwear as a whole was incompatible with the rocky Fereldan earth. From his periphery, Zevran had watched Leliana fix Alistair and the Warden with the largest lash-fluttering eyes available to her. Had such assets been directed at anyone else, the cue would have been taken immediately, and the Chantry Sister would have been swept off her feet and carried like a bride for the rest of the day-- one could only presume with her new shoes on. 

Rhodri and Alistair, however, were not anyone else. With identical good-natured smiles, the two Wardens had registered her remarks with sympathetic nods– genuine ones, it had to be said– and turned straight back to the road. And what a sight the Sister was at that, scuffing her practical boots into the ground and looking as miserable as a wet cat. It was unfortunate, really, but the truth of the matter was that Leliana had brought this fate upon herself. Not least because this was nowhere near the first time she had made such a futile display. 

Indeed, from Zevran’s observations over the last nine days, it appeared that Leliana was experiencing a revival of urges that Chantry living discouraged, and she was very much in the mood for indulging them now. The catch, however, was that she only sought to indulge said urges with people who consistently failed to notice her overtures. And as fate (or rather, Leliana) would have it, her flirtations lacked the brazenness required to make them sufficiently obvious. That had not changed over the entire period Zevran had been forced to witness it.

It was likely the Templar who had her attention the most. She would pause whatever she was doing to steal glances at Alistair during any and every training session. When he wasn’t available, though, she seemed content to make eyes at the other, equally oblivious Warden while she trained. Always wanting, never pursuing.

But it couldn’t be said that Zevran was unfeeling or dismissive of the poor woman’s plight. In fact, in a moment of sympathy he had offered to help relieve Leliana’s needs on a generous no-strings-attached basis, but the good Sister had assured Zevran his services were unnecessary.

Which meant, of course, that there was nothing to do but watch Leliana suffer on, with nothing to comfort her but another bout of involuntary abstinence as she cradled a pair of shoes that couldn’t be worn. If nothing else, it was quite poetic.

§

The good thing about the oubliette was that it was impossible to drown in it. That, aside from staying in the filthy water too long, posed the most immediate danger, and dying from either of these were things Zevran had managed to avoid through a little tricky climbing and bodily twisting.

Ah, but the infections from falling into the water, those were harder to stave off. Impossible, in fact, as he had discovered upon being hauled out of there. For the first time in three weeks, he stood in the room he shared with twelve other recruits and scanned his body with a tiny, cracked hand mirror. The wound on his leg was by far the most painful, and had developed an offensive purulence that would need prompt attention if he planned on keeping the limb.

He left his face for last. The cuts around his eye were already infected, possibly even burnt from the poison on the blade that had given them, by the time he’d been tossed into the oubliette. By the grace of the Maker and judicious applications of Zevran’s own saliva, they had healed by the time he was out again. But with his predisposition to uneven skin tone where wounds had been– as numerous scars elsewhere had revealed– a blotch of any size on his face would be unappealing to a seduction target. Anywhere but there.

Zevran gingerly tilted the mirror upward, his heart sinking as two patches totalling the size of a hundred andris coin came into view. One started by the crease of his eye and the other splashed halfway down his cheek. Unevenly healed, poorly-located, and impossible to conceal with any hairstyle. His grip on the mirror handle tightened until the embossing pressed on a nerve; he threw the glass onto a bed and stormed to the tattooist as fast as his limp allowed.

“So, uh… Zevran…” Alistair began slowly.

From the corner of Zevran’s eye, Rhodri turned and fixed her gaze on the Templar. 

Alistair put his hands up. “I’m not going to ask him when he’s going to kill us, I promise,” he said quickly. “Really. I’m just curious about the… um… designs you’ve got.” He waved a vague hand over his own shoulder and up to his cheek.

Zevran shelved the temptation to count how many days it had taken to be approached with a query about anything other than his murderous intentions. A smile came to him with merciful ease.

“These?” He tapped his cheek with one finger, returning the nod that Alistair gave. “They are called tattoos, and I have them in many more places than just my face and back, my friend.”

“They have a certain appeal, I must say,” Leliana chimed in now. “They remind me of how we used to paint our faces in Orlais.”

“Ah, but these are not paint, dear lady,” Zevran said with a chuckle. He turned until he was walking backwards and waggled his brows at the pair of them. “They are ink, poked under the skin with many needles.”

There wasn’t a sum Zevran wouldn’t have been willing to part with to see Alistair’s face blanch the way it did now. If any more blood drained from the man’s head, they’d be peeling him off the ground. 

Alistair gulped audibly. “Oh,” he croaked. “I heard that, but I didn’t think it was true. Didn’t it… you know, hurt?”

“Oh, yes,” Zevran waved a hand in airy dismissal. “But it is not so bad, truly. In fact, many enjoy it enough to come back for more. I certainly did.” He hummed animatedly. “You know, I could give you a tattoo, if you like! I learned a bit of the art myself back home in Antiva. What say you, eh?”

Alistair’s body locked briefly enough that he lost his balance and stumbled forward. Zevran threw a hand out to keep the Templar from planting his face into the ground, and the prospect of being touched by an Antivan assassin, former though he was, was apparently enough to magically upright the man. Alistair rolled his shoulders back and frowned at him, pawing at his reddening face as he did.

Leliana drifted a little closer to Zevran, running her eyes over his face. “Do they mean anything to you, these symbols?”

He shrugged with one shoulder. “Some. Some of them are sacred to the Crows, and I cannot reveal their story. Others are there to make me even more beautiful than I already am.” He gave her, and then the scowling Templar, a rakish grin. “Accentuates the curves and musculature, you understand.”

“Huh,” Alistair chewed on his cheek. “Don’t think I’ve seen any of those kinds of tattoos on you.”

Zevran chuckled. “No, well, I would have to get into quite the state of undress to show you. I can, if you like, once we are somewhere a little more private.” 

Correction: Alistair’s face was not reddening. It was, in fact, purpling. He spluttered incoherently, attracting the attention of the other Warden again. She turned sharply enough to slice the air in two (mercy, was she jealous?) , and watched the two of them carefully.

“No. Nope,” Alistair choked to him. “I’m fine.”

Zevran gave a small but flourished bow. “As you like.” He turned to Rhodri, who was still staring them down– but especially him. He smiled at her and showed his palms in a tiny shrug. “He said no. I am not one for disrespecting boundaries.”

A firm, pleased smile came to Rhodri and she gave him an approving nod, though for what, Zevran couldn’t imagine. She peered over at her fellow Warden solicitously.

“You are all right, Alistair?” she asked gently.

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

She reached out and gave his arm a squeeze, and with a smile to him and then Zevran, faced front again.

“I thought about getting a tattoo,” Rhodri declared to the road ahead.

Zevran whirled around on one foot and fell into step with her again. He chuckled delightedly. “Oh-ho-ho! What tattoo can improve perfection, I wonder! Ah, but perhaps you have imagined an adornment beyond my comprehension, no? What is it you desire, my Grey Warden?”

Lavish praise went apparently unnoticed as the Warden wobbled her head from side to side. “I wanted lines across my wrist while I did my mandatory hospital wing training in the Circle.” She held up a robed arm and drew her fingertips across her forearm. “Kept running out of paper, see, so I had to write on my arm. You wouldn’t believe the way it sloped.”

It took all his effort to quash the urge to snort. After all, beyond being socially imprudent, his reaction was a little unfair– the Warden’s idea was a perfectly serviceable one, when all was said and done.

“Ingenious,” he purred. “Tell me when you want your little lines, my dear, and I will get my needles ready. I will be so gentle you’ll hardly notice a thing!”

She smiled and shook her head. “Thank you, but Tevinters aren’t allowed tattoos. Besides, with the Taint in me, I’m not sure when I’ll stop growing, if ever. I think that might make it look odd."

Alistair groaned. “I think I grew overnight again, you know. My shoes are getting tight. Agh, and they’re only new, too!"

"Ah?" Rhodri peered over at him worriedly. "You're in pain? We can stop."

“Nah, not in pain yet.” He sighed. “I will be if I grow again before I can get these changed, though.”

“Mmm,” she paused mid-step to give her foot a little shake. “I need another pair, myself. We’ll see if there isn’t something in Honnleath, sic?”

Zevran kept his eyes straight ahead and privately pondered the growth rates of the other parts of a Grey Warden.

§

Alistair and Leliana each knew a little about the town of Honnleath. 

The former of the two had undertaken Templar training alongside a fellow who had hailed from a small farm there, and advised the village was situated on a lake boasting a small but well-used dock. Given the general sparseness of the surrounds, said dock was undoubtedly, then, the pride of the hamlet and a not-to-be-missed attraction for anyone visiting the village.

Oh, now Zevran was just being cruel. 

Leliana, on the other hand, had been rather more secretive about how she had come by her information, as she was about how she came by most anything. What was revealed was a snippet about the Sulzbacher family. 

The Sulzbachers, so said Leliana, had a long and proud lineage of magical ability that had somehow not incurred the wrath of the Chantry. Indeed, one of the recent descendants, Wilhelm, was a former Circle Enchanter with a penchant for visits to the Deep Roads, and had apparently been of some service to the late King Maric on the battlefield.

At this information, Rhodri looked over her shoulder. 

“Did you hear that, Morrigan?” she said. “The Deep Roads! Golems are dwarven-made, I know, because the Juggernauts guarding Minrathous were a gift from the Orzammar Shaperate." She rubbed her fingers. "Maybe that golem belongs to the Sulzbachers…”

The witch shrugged. “If that fool merchant possessed the control rod, then this family must be truly pathetic. Anti-theft glyphs are perfectly simple, and very durable when cast correctly.”

“Hm. I’m not sure what to think. We still don’t even know if they’re sentient yet, let alone safe.” Rhodri tsked softly. “Never would’ve been this ignorant about golems with a Tevinter education, I know…”

“To be fair though, Rhod,” Alistair piped up now, “if you’d been educated in Tevinter, you would’ve probably learned about blood magic, too.”

“Eh? I don’t have a problem with blood magic, so long as it’s practiced ethically– ah come, don’t look at me like that, Alistair, of course ethical blood magic exists. You either use your own blood, or someone willingly donates a little. In fact,” Rhodri’s chest puffed out. She regarded the party with a proud, warm smile, and hands all but smacking her thighs, “my father has been using some of his own blood each week for years to enchant a lyrium-free staff for me! He got special permission from the Magisterium for it and everything!”

Morrigan snorted as Alistair’s mouth fell open and Leliana frowned deeply. Zevran’s own chortle died in his throat when he caught a flash of hurt passing over the Magewarden’s face. 

Without thinking, he addressed Rhodri with a flourished sweep of the hand. “Hmm! That would amount to quite some blood over the years, my Grey Warden, no? I imagine your staff would be worth a small fortune now!”

The Warden brightened immediately. “It is!” she enthused. “Tata has put in the equivalent of around six human adults’ worth of blood so far, and it’s ethically-sourced mage blood, which would triple the value.” She started counting off on her fingers. “Made from top-quality dragonbone, too, and heirloom status which would double the price again… I believe Tata said Mr. Tethras valued it early last year at… oh, it’d equate to about forty thousand Fereldan sovereigns.”

Alistair had somehow descended into a coughing fit by the time ‘Fereldan’ had left the Warden’s lips, and Leliana wasted no time in supplying the man with water, coos of support, and gentle strikes between the shoulder blades. In Zevran’s periphery, Morrigan bore witness to the spectacle with a disgust that matched his own sentiments. A flutter of luck prompted him to meet her eyes and steal a moment of rapport born of mutual suffering. Their gaze locked briefly; the witch’s revulsion grew. He summoned a flirtatious smirk to hide the pang of disappointment, and turned away.

“Mercy, Alistair,” Rhodri shook her head. “Are you all right?”

“Forty thousand gold?”  the Templar gasped, gingerly straightening up again. "That's… a lot of money."

Rhodri nodded. "Well yes, and the sentimental value is indescribable, but it isn't the most expensive staff in existence, by any means. Besides, what matters is it's one I can actually use, since most staves contain lyrium." She chuckled and held up her own staff. "This isn't even a proper staff, just a branch they broke off a sylvan tree. Barely does anything, but it'll make a nice hat rack once it's retired."

“So useless?” Zevran didn’t bother holding back a chuckle now. “Why have it at all, then?”

“One has to look the part,” she replied with a grin. “A mage without a staff? It’d be like leaving the house without pants on.”

An odd moment passed as Zevran tried to picture the Warden without pants, only to find that her lower half became a vast nothingness in the absence of a robe. He was almost grateful when Alistair’s voice, now much more serious, interrupted the musings.

“Rhod.”

“Yes, I feel it.” She turned to the rest of the party. “Darkspawn ahead, up in the village. Fifteen or so. We should hurry, before the villagers come to any harm.”

The Wardens broke into a sprint, with Rhodri’s last instruction of ‘Stay behind me’ shouted over her shoulder to the rest of the party.

§

Much in all as Zevran hated to be insensitive, if it weren’t for the Blight ravaging the little hamlet, Honnleath would have been nothing to write home about. Not least because there was nothing in Honnleath to write about.

Oh, there were houses there (though the word had to be used very loosely), and a windmill that looked like it hadn’t seen a day off since the Exalted Age. And, of course, there was the suspiciously golem-esque statue standing in the middle of it all, looking like it had been frozen mid-scream. After mere moments in the town, Zevran decided he could empathise with the urge.

That said, with the throng of Darkspawn burning things and murdering half the residents out in the open, nobody was wanting for something to do. And indeed, they were forced to do something as a battle promptly ensued. 

And of course, the Fereldan weather spoke for itself. Halfway through the fighting, the clouds made enemies of all that walked the land, person or Darkspawn irrespective, by opening and releasing enough icy rain to fill the Frozen Seas twice over. 

Still, though, the Warden’s party was not to be stopped. Not even Zevran curled up and died from the damp– though if anyone cared to ask him, it was a terribly close call. Hurlock mages were frozen and blown to bits; keen knives unzipped the throats of many a genlock; and a few clever arrows from Leliana (‘armed Chantry Sister’ indeed!) handled the pests up on the hill before anyone could become a pincushion against their will.

The (presumed) locals who had been fending the beasts off were all dead by the end of the scuffle. Most had already bled out, and a few who had sustained bites or contaminated wounds were already weakening from Blight sickness. Leliana prayed and Alistair looked miserable while Rhodri (who denied Zevran’s offer of assistance again!) put them out of their misery. 

Alistair blew water everywhere as he puffed out a breath. “It’s so quiet now. Creepy.”

Zevran chuckled and wiped his neck with one shivering hand. “I do not suppose this is a bustling place at the best of times, my friend.”

A shrieking sneeze pierced the air from the back of the party, loud enough to make the dog startle with a yelp. The offender, a drenched and displeased-looking Morrigan, glared at anyone who turned back to look at her.

“HA!” Alistair cackled richly and pointed at her. “Your mother sneezes just like that. I heard her do it in the Wilds while we were waiting for you and Rhod to come outside!” He threw his head back and let out a shrill, unnervingly accurate imitation of Morrigan’s own sneeze, only to give in halfway through and let his laughter buckle his knees.

“I sneeze nothing like my mother!” Morrigan snapped, visibly bristling as Alistair made another breathless attempt at parodying her.

The Warden, who had been stopping her ears and grimacing the entire time, stomped a goodly distance away from the spectacle. “If you people want to make a career of being noisy,” she yowled over her shoulder, “take up opera singing or something useful!” 

She moved her hands away and surveyed the party from her place further up the hill. “You’re all shivering. Well, except you of course, Alistair. We should find some shelter and warm up before you all catch your death. Perhaps one of these houses here.” Rhodri smiled wryly at Morrigan and Alistair as she added, “With a separate, soundproofed room for the screechers, if possible.”

Zevran, who was no longer able to feel his nose, jogged up to the Warden and swept his damp hair off his face. He shot her a winning smile. “Where will you lead us, my lovely Warden? I hope it will be a house with a lively party.” He sighed dramatically. “These small towns are terribly dull.”

Rhodri grinned as she cast her eyes up the lane. “Well, nowhere near that one on fire,” she gestured off to the right at the former inferno, still with enough guts to it to spite the cloudburst. “I think the rain will stop it before it spreads, but better to stay away from it anyway.”

The Warden squinted and waved a hand at a house off to the left. “You know, I think there’s purple light coming out of those windows.” She looked at Zevran. “Do you see it?”

Zevran glanced up at the modest little building and hummed in agreement. “I do, yes.” He swallowed. “That… does not strike me as the site of a party.”

“No.” 

Another call over her shoulder, first to Alistair, second to rally the party, and third a directive to stay behind her. This was becoming quite a theme in life. At least indoors it would be dry.

Oh, Maker, hopefully indoors would be dry.

§

Indoors, as it happened, was dry, and contained two things: Darkspawn, and the remaining population of Honnleath. The latter of these was encased in a large, lilac bubble, and given they weren't dead despite their proximity to their murderous roommates, it was presumably a protective shield. When he had a moment to, Zevran marvelled at the vivid glow of it, whatever it was. 

The room itself must have been nice once. Solid, wooden desks and burgeoning bookshelves lined every wall in the place, but the layer of grime made it impossible to know what colour anything was. The cobwebs outnumbered the people, and thick, daggerpointed crystals sat on the fixtures like they had grown out of them. 

A tallish human stood at the front of the group, watching the Warden carefully as she approached. In the light, his hair could have been blonde or grey, and he looked tired enough that not even Zevran would have begged pardon for mistakenly thinking him a man of fifty. 

“Is… is it safe?” he asked Rhodri in a hollow voice.

She nodded. “The Darkspawn outside have been handled. Are there more in here?”

The man shook his head, and with a flick of his fingers the purple blockade vanished. Hushed thanks to him and the Warden’s party came from the townspeople as they fled the building and left them alone. 

He strode over with a weary smile on his face. “Thank you for your help, all of you.” He inclined his head gratefully. “Was it the Bann who sent you to save us?”

“The… Bann?” Rhodri frowned. “No, we came here because we were given a control rod for the golem outside.” 

The man stiffened. “That bloody golem,” he growled.

Morrigan let out a laugh from the back. “I think, Warden, we have found the Sulzbacher mage.”

Oh, and what a frown that got from him! Morrigan was lucky not to have had him march up and knock her sideways. Or perhaps he was lucky he didn’t appear game to try his luck with her.

“You find my family’s suffering funny, do you?” He gritted his teeth. “The story about our golem gets out and we’re now the subject of ridicule!”

Rhodri quickly put her hands up. “Apologies, ser, we know nothing about the golem’s story. A merchant gave the control rod to us after getting it himself in Orlais, and told us to come to Honnleath and say ‘dulef gar’ to activate it. That’s all we know. If you’d like your rod back, we’ll gladly hand it over– Alistair, if you wouldn’t mind…”

The Sulzbacher shook his head hard. “No, no, keep it. Sooner that bloody thing’s out of here, the better. The golem murdered my father right outside where it stands now. My poor mother found him lying out there with every bone in his body shattered! She barely recognised him!” 

Were the Wardens related? Or did Wardenhood simply confer the same set of facial expressions to all its members? It had to be one of them; Rhodri and Alistair both had their hands clapped over their mouths– both left hands, no less! It was like watching a pair of Orlesian mimes.

“How awful,” Rhodri breathed. “Oh, ser, I can't imagine your pain. I’m sorry.” 

Sulzbacher chuckled bitterly. “So am I. Right as he was about to retire, too. No, you have that golem and good luck to you." He paused and rubbed his chin with one bloodied finger. "I… wonder, though, if I might ask a favour first.”

Fights and favours, Zevran decided, made the three-word summary of his new career. Morrigan's disgusted sigh was barely drowned out by Rhodri's matter-of-fact hum of interest, and her eyes narrowed dangerously as the Warden invited the man to elaborate. 

And then, as Sulzbacher beseeched the party to retrieve his missing daughter from a trap-laden laboratory further downstairs, the same eyes attempted murder several times, first on the man and then on the Warden when she readily agreed to assist. Well, at least she was consistent.

Chapter Text

It was unfair, Zevran knew, and bad mathematics to assert that most Fereldan children were, or had at some point, been possessed by a demon. He had seen plenty of demon-free children in this country. He must have. In passing, even, if not in great detail. Children were small and easy to miss, and that was undoubtedly why he hadn’t noticed more of the unpossessed ones.

Zevran’s attempts at reasoning, however, fell away like sugar beard in water as he stood watching the Warden speak to their second demonic child in a week– and their first demonic cat. The girl and the cat stood side-by-side in the bowels of her grandfather’s laboratory, apparently having bypassed all of the ghoulish traps he had laid. The party had had no such luck, forced to vanquish each and every little thing that cropped up on the way down. Most of the creatures– wraiths, Rhodri had called them, were things Zevran hadn’t heard of, let alone seen or murdered, and he envied the Zevran of a few hours before. Blissfully ignorant, and not liberally dusted in wraith ash. 

The Warden surveyed the cat with a frown and folded arms. Sulzbacher's daughter had done very little talking, and what she did say involved outright refusing the Warden’s gentle urgings to leave the laboratory without the cat– and the cat, it seemed, was stuck in one of Grandfather’s traps.

“She won’t go with you,” the cat said smoothly. “And she won't listen to you either. Amalia loves only me, now. I’m her friend, and you are nothing but a stranger.”

Rhodri squatted down until she was eye-level with the girl. “Your father is worried about you Amalia,” she said gently. “He wants you to come upstairs to speak with him.”

“I’m not leaving Kitty behind,” she protested. “She’ll miss me.”

“Even if she missed you, a true friend wouldn’t stop you from seeing your father when he was looking for you. Would you keep Kitty away from her own mother or father?"

There was a flicker of… something, but it quickly gave way to a resoluteness that had the child turning to the cat, as if pleading with it to answer for her. 

Kitty yawned and bowed forward in a long stretch. 

"What did I tell you?" she asked boredly. "It seems we are at an impasse, so I'd like to suggest a compromise, of sorts." 

Zevran stole a glance at Morrigan, whose eyes were rolling hard enough to pose a health risk, and stifled a snort.

"Release me, mortal, and let me have the girl. We will go to her father," Kitty heaved a sigh as she looked around her, "and leave this place forever."

The Warden raised an eyebrow. "That's hardly a compromise. You're offering us possession of a child in exchange for…?"

Kitty scoffed. "'Possession' is such a crude way of putting it. I merely wish to see the world through her eyes. Is that such a bad thing? I have no wish to harm Amalia."

"Darling demon," Rhodri said with a snigger, "the moment you annexe that girl, she is doomed to death. You both are! People recognise your kind from leagues away, and your would-be host is, by our standards, a frail one and easily killed by panicked villagers. All people of that age are."

"That," returned the cat nonchalantly, "is hardly a problem. I am strong enough for the both of us, and then some. She will be well protected with me."

"Well, no, she obviously won't," the Warden shrugged. "You don't seem to have grasped your situation, demon, so let me make things perfectly clear for you:

"You're trapped down here until someone releases you. Your would-be host will survive down here another two days at the very most, and not even her father was game to come down after her. We are your only hope, and we will not free you only for you to inhabit the body of a child. You are not the first demon we have killed, and you certainly won't be the last, so I'm afraid you aren't in a position to offer compromise."

“And what would you have me do?" the demon returned. "Release the girl and remain as a cat?”

Morrigan let out a testy groan. “Oh, if this pitiful brokering continues, we shall all die down here!” she snapped, striding to the front of the group. “Take the fool upstairs then, demon, if the Warden will not give up the girl. He is a full-grown man, and a mage.”

“The girl’s father?” Alistair shook his head. “We’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel if that’s all we can do here…”

“We have no lyrium left,” Rhodri said after a moment. “And Jowan is in Redcliffe. A good parent would put themselves in harm’s way for their child’s sake.” With a sigh, she looked over at Kitty. “Well, demon? In exchange for the girl, will you take an adult?”

The cat tsked. “You want me to believe you have an alternative lined up? That there is someone upstairs who will do as you say and simply offer themselves up to me?”

With another moan, Morrigan turned around and made for the way back upstairs. “Oh, very well. If it will end this ridiculous situation, I will bring the man and you shall see for yourself.” Her head was still shaking furiously when she turned the corner and disappeared from view.

A tense few minutes passed in her absence, and it was only when she returned with a blanched Sulzbacher that anything was said again.

Sulzbacher’s gasp reverberated through the chamber. “Amalia, you’re safe!” He made to run forward, only for Morrigan to snatch him by the collar of his shirt and pull him back and down level with her mouth. Zevran strained his ears as she whispered something to him, but from that distance, nothing was intelligible. Sulzbacher’s face pinched into a grimace, but as he looked down at his daughter, who was watching him with an unnerving sereneness, he nodded.

“I feel him, but I do not see him,” Kitty called out. “Bring him closer.”

Morrigan made a point of waiting a moment before walking the man down to the back of the party. “I approach when it suits me, demon, and not before.” Her voice was cool and clipped. “As you see, the man is here. Now, can we finally agree before we lose sight of what we came here for?”

Kitty sat down, her tail curling around her body to snake in between her front paws. “I release the girl, and you will free me from the trap so I can take the man instead?”

“Correct,” the witch said smoothly. 

“Mm. Then I will accept.”

In a moment that was eerily familiar of the scenes in Redcliffe Castle, the child’s head flew back like she had been struck across the face. She straightened up slowly, and when her eyes fell on her father, she ran straight into his outstretched arms. The man cried. The girl cried. Alistair cried. Even the dog looked overcome. Zevran fiddled with a dagger and blessed the Maker that Rhodri and Morrigan, at least, were nowhere near tears.

Better still, Morrigan made it clear she wasn’t going to stand for much more of this. She poked Sulzbacher in the kidney with her staff. “We do not have all day, man. Release the girl and let us have done with this ridiculous affair.”

The Warden put her head in her hands. “Morrigan,” she lamented softly. “It’s been difficult for them.”

“‘Tis difficult for me now,” the witch retorted. “Sickening, really.”

“No, no,” the man choked. “It’s all right.” He took his daughter by the shoulders and put a step’s distance between them. “I need you to go to one of the neighbours, butterfly. Will you do that for me?”

Alistair winced a little as the girl protested– refused– tearfully. She grabbed at Sulzbacher’s shirt, clenching it in her fists, and let out a nerve-jangling scream as he gently pried her fingers loose.

Rhodri, who had quite predictably covered her ears and shrunk away, turned back to the scene when the noise had died down to sobs. With a small, sad smile, she bent down to eye level with the girl.

“Amalia,” she said softly. “I’ll take you upstairs. Will you walk with me?”

More sobbing, enough to make the child’s entire body convulse. That was, presumably, a no. Another few fruitless attempts came and went (Morrigan’s impatient sighs got louder each time) before Sulzbacher whispered something in the girl’s ear and touched a finger to her head. Her body went limp in his arms, and he passed her to the Warden.

Zevran loved stories. However much of a little shit he was– and the whores never failed to remind him that he was one between smacks to the back of his legs– he and they both knew he’d behave decently enough with the promise of a story. Imaginations, gossip, old memories, anything would keep him out of trouble. 

In a fit of undisclosed guilt after stealing Eilo’s orange, Zevran had been good as gold for the entire week, and Cristofania hadn’t missed the spate of exemplary behaviour. She had given him a flourished kiss on the forehead, leaving a scarlet lip-paint brand there, and guaranteed he’d have a thrilling tale on Saturday morning.

But the moment was here, and Cristofania, who could talk the legs off a chair, was silent as she combed his hair. His legs swung impatiently in the air under the vanity seat, far enough off the ground that he had to scramble to get up there in the first place. He tilted his head as much as he dared to catch Cristofania’s eye in the mirror. She never looked up.

Her hand swatted him on the side of the arm when he tried it again. 

“Don’t,” she said gruffly.

Zevran froze for a moment, and when Cristofania had taken a lock of hair to braid without another word, he let his shoulders fall into a slump. She was not one to be pushed in a bad mood, and disappointing as it was to go without the promised yarn, it was better than doing without and having a beating on top of that. He sighed and watched his reflection.

Cristofania paused. She looked up and into the mirror. Zevran’s eyes darted between his own and hers, never settling until her expression softened.

“Sit up.”

He did as he was told, and the braiding continued.

“There was once a boy named Zevran,” she said after a moment.

Zevran sat up properly, with conviction, his chest swelling with excitement. The stories about him were always the very best.

“Hah. Now you’re interested, hmm? Zevran, he was clever. Taught himself to read, learned all the bones of the body, and had something good to say about everything and everyone.” Cristofania smiled, “And he was the second- fastest runner of all the girls and boys in the whorehouse.”

He caught himself scowling at her addendum and gave her a sheepish grin. She snorted, took two braids, and deftly twined them together.

“Zevran was a naughty boy, too,” she continued. “Being naughty was how he got ahead. He stole newspapers Cristofania hadn’t finished reading, and so he learned to read. He ate food that wasn’t his, and so he survived the grippe.” The whore sighed. “But he thought he was cleverer than he really was. He stole an orange when he thought no-one was looking, but someone saw him.”

Zevran’s body seized up, skin already anticipating the stinging smack of an open palm.

It never came.

“They watched him from the shadows, thought he was clever, too. And then, one morning, they came and took him with them, and now he has to be as clever as he can with them. That’s the end of the story, mi amorcito.”

A chill came over Zevran as Cristofania’s hands left his hair. Children left the brothel all the time, disappearing with strangers and not returning. But not him, never him. He was going to spend the rest of his life here, reading newspapers and fetching coffee and raking the leaves under the orange tree.

He twisted around on the seat. “I am going away?”

She pursed her lips and nodded once. “You are.”

He shook his head frantically. “I’m sorry for stealing,” he pleaded softly. Unexpected tears welled in his eyes. “I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”

Cristofania’s thumbs wiped his cheeks dry. “No more of this,” she said. Her face became impassive. “You’ll be so good for them, and that’s the end of it. Stop shaking your head, amorcito, or your braids will come out.”

“I can go out and sell things,” he said, the strain in his throat making his voice creak. “I am old enough to make money for us. I’ll take a job, I’m fast, I’m–”

Her hand pushed him off the chair, and Zevran dropped to his feet. His knees slewed under the unexpected landing, and his stomach kept plummeting. Another nudge pushed him into motion.

“Please don’t make me go,” Zevran whispered. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise. Why don’t you want me to stay?”

Cristofania paused, opened the dresser drawer and took out the gloves she had been safekeeping– once his mother’s, she had told him, and then would be his when the time was right. She took his hand and pressed them into it.

“We don’t always get what we want, mi amorcito,” she replied simply. She pointed at the gloves with her nose. “Hide those, and be careful.”

There had been something unexpectedly pleasant about watching the Warden gently bear the– sleeping, Sulzbacher had advised an appalled Alistair– child out of the laboratory and away to safety. Rhodri had spoken often enough about her own students in the Circle (‘gushing’ came closer to it, but that was by the by). Every story, every celebration of one or the other’s achievements was reinforced at least once by a credo that children were to be treated with care and tenderness. Really, it was hardly a surprise that she moved so cautiously, steadying the child’s head with one hand like the skull was made of glass as she walked.

Someone had carried him once. A flicker of soft, dark arms bringing him up off the ground lingered in Zevran’s mind, too vivid to discount as a dream. He shelved the thought with a curled lip, seizing on the opportunity to throw his head back in a laugh as the Warden reappeared and Morrigan, with a loud cackle, directed a blast of fire directly at the cat.

A second, much more genuine howl of laughter took him as Rhodri let out a shriek of disbelief* and dove into the erupting fray. The cat’s body was cast aside like an old coat as a large, purple woman, delightfully voluptuous and nearly nude, emerged from within. And with a pair of gleaming black horns, too, no less. How she had fit in that cat was a mystery for the ages, but what a welcome change of scene! 

The demon, greatly outnumbered, died quickly, and appeared to have taken the cat with her, since it never awoke again. The Warden turned to Morrigan and squinted at her, but before anything could be said, the witch jabbed Sulzbacher again and pointed at the exit.

“Right,” Sulzbacher said. He nodded fervently and rubbed his flank where her staff had poked– for the second time, no less. “Yes. of course. A deal’s a deal.” He strode to the front, far away enough to avoid a third prodding, and led the party upstairs.

“What deal, then, Morrigan?” Rhodri enquired on the way up.

“The deal, Warden, that secures us the golem,” the witch replied crisply. “That fool merchant gave the wrong words to activate it, and the one who knew the words was about to be offered up as fodder?” She shook her head. “The man agreed to pretend he would offer himself up to the demon, and when the girl was free, we would strike. ‘Tis a little embarrassing that trickery never occurred to you, as though it would be unthinkable to use on a demon! Well for you, that someone who knows better travels with you.”

A blush crawled up Rhodri’s neck and into her cheeks, and her head dipped briefly before she forced herself tall and upright again. She nodded and cleared her throat.

“I’ve always been glad that you came with us, Morrigan,” she said earnestly. “But you really did save the day today. We couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you.”

Morrigan’s face twisted into a suspicious frown. She pursed her lips and picked up her speed, leaving the Warden and Zevran alone behind her as she walked alongside a suddenly-jumpy Sulzbacher. 

Upon leaving the building, Zevran was delighted to note that the rain had stopped, and the flaming house had been put out. The townspeople had been quick to remove the bodies of the other locals, and upon Rhodri’s urging that they leave handling the Darkspawn to the Wardens, they accepted and retired into their homes. What else could they do, really?

Except, of course, for the cobbler, who had presented herself when Rhodri asked the crowd about the possibility of acquiring boots in Honnleath. She was a short, sinewy human with thin red hair, donning a pair of eyeglasses that flopped on the bridge of her nose whenever she nodded. After some words with her and Alistair, she guaranteed that they would both have a pair the day after tomorrow, and refused to accept payment for it.

Sulzbacher, upon supplying them with the correct words to the golem, went in another direction with the neighbour Rhodri must have palmed the girl off to. Morrigan wasted no time, taking the control rod from Alistair and marching over with the Warden to the little closed-off area where the golem stood.

She held the rod up, pointing it at the thing’s enormous, dark grey head. “Dulen harn,” she said, her diction slow and precise.

Zevran and Alistair drew up beside them. In the golem’s shoulders sat a smattering of small crystals, and they, along with the runes engraved into its head and collar, flared in a persistent, white glow.

Morrigan sighed. “‘Twas responding in much the same way now as before, though the glow is new.” She tsked at the Warden. “‘Tis defective. We should be grateful, I suppose, that we did not pay for the–”

Her words were drowned out by the sound of rock crunching on rock as the golem’s head began to twist and face forward. Zevran quietly cursed himself for being surprised when the Warden’s arms went out to push him, Alistair, and Morrigan behind her. Morrigan promptly swatted the Warden’s hand away and stood her ground, making an audible ‘ugh’ when Rhodri, undeterred, stepped in front of her.

The golem’s fists were freed next. Left, then right, and then its torso was given a brisk shake, sending bits of stone and dust everywhere. 

And then it… groaned? Not an unreasonable noise to make, Zevran decided, after holding the same position for some time.

It towered a good three heads over Alistair, the tallest of them, and eyed them with what seemed to be unimpressedness.

“Well,” it said after a moment, its voice deep and accent impossible to guess. “I knew someone would find the control rod eventually.” It glanced between the witch and the Warden, and groaned again, much more miserably now. “Oh, and it is another mage. Two mages. Just my luck.”

“You might be thankful anyone awoke you at all, golem,” Morrigan retorted icily. “I can easily put you dormant again and give the birds something to perch on.”

The golem snorted. “It thinks I should be thankful?” What a surprise. And a threat to leave me out to the pigeons again, too. Charming! It forgets that I can be left here for ninety years and wait for the next person to free me, long after it is dead in the ground.”

“Right,” Rhodri quickly stepped forward, holding her palms aloft. “Let’s keep this friendly, shall we? Do you have a name, ser?”

“Perhaps, though I have been called ‘golem’ for so long I might have forgotten it.” It waved a hand. “‘Golem, fetch me that chair.’ ‘Do be a good golem and crush that insipid bandit.’ Oh, and let’s not forget ‘Golem, carry me. I tire of walking!’”

The Warden raised her eyebrows. “That’s a rude way of addressing someone. People should use the name you give them.”

“True enough.” It looked around, “Though I have not heard much of anything for some time now. There was quite some screaming a few days before, and since then the Darkspawn have been prowling. I never thought there would be something less interesting than watching these insipid little villagers go about their lives, but there it was.” 

Alistair squinted. “The villagers had no idea they were being watched? Creepy.”

“Hah! And I suppose if it were in my position,” it waved an enormous finger at Alistair, “it would simply spend the next thirty years sleeping and pretending the birds were not fouling its arms?”

The Templar’s face erupted in a blush, and he acknowledged the remark with a mumbled ‘good point.’

The golem ignored the half-apology and turned to the mages again. “It does still have the rod, doesn’t it? I’m awake, so it must.”

Morrigan held it up and wobbled it demonstratively with her fingers. “It does,” she replied. “Right in its hand.”

“How strange. I… see the rod, but there is no urge to do anything it tells me.” It let out a small, bemused chuckle. “Well go on, then, mage. Order me to do something.”

The witch smiled wryly. “As you wish.” She pointed at the Templar. “Attack Alistair.”

A protective shield went up around Alistair before he could finish opening his mouth to begin his noisy protest. 

“Unacceptable!” Rhodri barked angrily. “We do not prompt attacks on–”

“Calm yourself, Warden,” Morrigan cut across her smoothly. She gestured at the golem. “As you see, nothing is happening. Had it moved to crush him, I might have prompted it to abort the attack.”

True enough, the astonished golem stood where it had awoken, not so much as turning its head to look at the person it had been ordered to squash.

“I don’t care, Morrigan,” Rhodri growled. “Things can go wrong, and it’s not worth the cost if they do. If you cannot restrain yourself, then you will stay at the camp from here on out.”

While the witch occupied herself with an eyeroll, the golem spoke again. “There was no compulsion,” it uttered softly. “No urge at all to carry out its command. So the rod is… broken? I have free will, then?”

Morrigan shrugged. “It would seem so. And what will you do now, then? Go on a killing rampage? You already killed your master, after all.”

Rhodri tsked exasperatedly. “There will be no more killing!”

“No, there won’t,” the golem shrugged. “Except for birds, of course. Though… did I really kill my master? I cannot say I recall. I hope I did, he was a cruel brute, but unless I am provoked, I have no intention of killing anyone else.” 

Zevran huffed a small, dark laugh and nodded appreciatively at the golem. It was an odd thing, feeling a spark of kinship with the talking rock, but odd things were starting to become a constant in life now.

“... What do you intend to do, then?” Alistair asked after a moment.

The golem sighed. “I am not sure. I barely remember my life before I came to this village. I am not even sure what lies beyond it. I find myself at a bit of a loss, truthfully. But it came and awakened me. Did it intend to do something with me?”

Rhodri shook her head. “Not if you were sentient. If you were only a machine, we would have taken you with us to help us fight the Darkspawn, but you have a mind of your own and it’s not for us to tell you what to do. I doubt you’re welcome in Honnleath any longer, though, so I don’t suppose staying is an option.”

“Hm!” It hummed in surprise. “That is refreshing to hear. Amusing, even, since the only thing I can think to do is go with it.”

Alistair’s face screwed up in concern. “Is that a good idea, really? It’s pretty dangerous-looking…”

The golem pointed at Alistair’s sword. “And I suppose I am to presume that it uses that sharp thing on its hip for, what, to cut a cake?”

“I kill darkspawn,” he returned hotly, “not my friends.”

It shrugged again. “How does it know to trust anything else that doesn’t have a control rod?”

Rhodri put her hands together and opened them out. “Let’s talk a little about what my party and I are doing, and our rules, and you can see if you like them or will abide by them, yes?”

A discussion, nearly identical to the offer the Warden had made to Zevran, followed. There were negotiations about pay (the golem initially had refused a salary until, after a little coaxing and explaining from Rhodri, decided to accept the money for the purpose of acquiring precious stones), accommodations, and the strict no-gratuitous-harming policy (relaxed a little to allow for the murder of offensive pigeons and other birds). 

By the end, though, the matter was settled and introductions were made. The golem’s name, revealed with no irony whatsoever, was Shale.

§

The additional day in Honnleath passed far more speedily than anticipated, if only because there was no shortage of work to be done. The cobbler and her apprentice daughter had worked with barely a pause while the Wardens (along with Zevran and Leliana; the other party members declined to assist) felled and hauled timber for the repair of the torched house. Jeppe, who was ecstatically applying his hunting instincts to find throwable sticks, had become the delight of the village children, and fetched to his heart’s content.

The work drew to a close shortly before the sun set, and the exhausted members shambled back to camp (the shoes would be ready to pick up early the next morning). When Rhodri had downed her second bowl of stew, she addressed the party.

“Your thoughts, everyone, if you please.” She waited until all eyes were on her to press on. 

“There is nothing more to be done further west of here for now, so we should revisit that sometime early next year.” A hand dropped into whichever Void she kept the map in, and she folded it out and held it up. “In the interim, I propose we go back along the Imperial Highway to Denerim to visit Brother Genitivi about the Ashes–”

“That’s longer than going up through the Brecilian Forest, though, Rhod, isn’t it?” Alistair asked through a mouthful of bread. He waved the cob in the direction of the map. “Be a bit quicker to go via South Reach, there.”

Rhodri nodded. “It is, yes, but we also need to recruit the help of the Circle of Magi, so I propose we pass by Lake Calenhad. It’s only a few days’ extra journeying, and would save us having to make the trip there especially later on.” 

He shrugged. “Can’t argue with that. I’m for it.”

“Right! Great!” She bounced on her toes and looked around at the others. “What does everyone else think?”

The responses, ranging from excited nodding to a single, stiff inclination of the head, signalled the unanimous acceptance of the new path. The Warden beamed, re-folded the map, and sat back down. 

“The best part, of course,” she said to everybody and nobody in particular, “is that you’ll get to meet my friends and my students and… oh-h-h-h!” Her hands pattered on her thighs. “This is going to be marvellous!”

With the same look of disgust, Morrigan and Sten left the campfire and pursued their own interests. Shale, though expressionless, stomped away and took refuge from talk of mages further up on the hill. 

Rhodri didn’t seem bothered by the mass exodus. She turned to the Templar, Leliana, and Zevran, watching them with a broad grin.

“Mmm, they’re not so fond of the Circle or mages, I know, so maybe it’ll be just us four.” She rocked back and forth on the log, her eyes shining like quicksilver. “Not to worry, I think we’ll have enough fun on our own, sic? The children will run us off our feet, and my friends will bombard you with questions– ah!” Rhodri snapped her fingers. “We should stop by Redcliffe and get some presents for them. Some baked goods, maybe, since Circle mages aren’t allowed possessions… I’ll have to ask Sten where he bought those cookies…”

Chapter Text

The best thing about Rinna was her mouth. It spoke sharp cleverness, belted out frightfully contagious laughter, and was replete with tender filth that made the blood sing in Zevran’s ears. That mouth drank him in, always drinking, always thirsty, and it felt good to be drunk.

And it would have been nice, Zevran thought bitterly as he tore his hand out from beneath his smallclothes, if that thought hadn’t come at such an urgent moment. But it had, and that quickly and efficiently killed the mood for another night. That would make the third month in a row, now (presumably, at least; it might have been longer, but the last four months in Antiva had been something of a blur).

With a sigh, he re-tied his sleeping pants, threw on a shirt, and stepped out of his tent. The change in temperature was almost refreshing. It was another unnaturally warm night– at least by the standards of the two Wardens, who had once again opted to sleep outside. Alistair’s snores could be heard even from where he lay under the branches of a sprawling tree at the other end of the campsite, and Rhodri was…?

Ah, she was awake, too. 

He almost hadn’t recognised her with her hair loose. It always looked so very short in that tuft she pulled it into. But there she stood, surveying the dead firepit with a mop of stick-straight hair going down past her shoulders, and Zevran chuckled without knowing why.

Said hair flew like it was trying to flee her scalp as her head snapped around toward him. The rest of her body followed, revealing one hand clutching a sandwich with bread slices thick enough to choke a horse.

Zevran returned her instant smile with a puckish grin of his own. “Well, well! What have we here, hmm?”

Rhodri’s expression went blank. “Oh, just a… person? The usual, you know.” She looked down at her snack. “Or did you mean–? Ah! Sorry, I didn’t even think to offer–” she held it out to him. "Please, go ahead and finish this one while I make you a proper sandwich."

“No, no,” he held up his hands. “I am not hungry, thank you. My greeting was perhaps an odd one.”

“I'm sure it’s normal somewhere," she said thoughtfully, rubbing her chin with her free hand. “Circle dialect was rather limited, so I’m not the person to comment on standard Common.” She indicated the road leading back to Honnleath. “I was about to go for a walk to see the dock Alistair mentioned. Would you like to come along?”

The real offer, of course, was to have his teeth repeatedly set on edge as pleasant, easy conversation was jolted by painfully awkward remarks or gestures. Seeing the acclaimed dock of Honnleath was an added bonus. 

He could have declined with thanks, announce a plan to take some water and try sleeping again. It wasn't like she'd kill him for it. If anything, she'd wish him more genuine luck in the endeavour than anyone else ever had.

“Do you know, I…” His gaze trailed over to his tent, dark and empty and promising a different, decidedly worse kind of pain altogether when he next entered it. Not that his comfort was any reason to choose one way or the other, but in any case, had he not agreed to do his part to keep his fellow party members safe? No, the way forward was clear.

He stifled the dread (of what? Her words, or the tent’s silence?) with a plastered-on smile and gazed up at the Warden. “I think that would be an excellent idea.”

Rhodri beamed, bouncing on her toes as though the prospect of his company was something to be delighted over. At a loss, he gave a flourished wave in the direction of the town. "Shall we, my Warden? Our landmark awaits us."

Her mouth sealed into a resolved smile, and she nodded once. "Right!" 

When the Warden had collected her satchel and staff, they took to the road. In the absence of any conversation on Zevran’s part, her gleaming grin fell back into the usual frown. Funny, how the transition scarcely fazed him now. No clenched muscles, no plummeting belly. If anything, the frown was enjoyable because it required no work to maintain and was always genuine. A smile took effort, and it was an effort often taken when addressing him.

But why was she taking that effort? Mercy, why had she been sharing her food with him, and making him tea, and asking his opinion on things, and making a shield out of herself, and being so embarrassingly gallant about every-bloody-thing?

More to the point, what did she want from him in return for it all? Things that changed hands, favours, courtesies, all had a material value that would be recouped in kind in some way or another. Certainly it wouldn’t be though the offer of a personal assassin, or a servant. Not money (ha!), or a punching bag. And going by her admonishments after that boy’s possession, evidently not a listening ear of any kind.

What, then? 

His startle came in the form of a hand dropping to his hip-dagger as the Warden let out a ‘ha!” 

She indicated ahead with both hands. “That,” she declared, "is a magnificent view! Don’t you think, Zev?”

“Hmm–? Oh, my.” 

Weak as the moonlight was, the last of the night-time cloud cover was peeling away, and the rash of stars shamed the darkness. A thin film of mist clung to the cattails lining the water’s edge, and the aged wooden dock cut through it all into the centre of the flat silverplate lake. Quiet as the grave, and entirely deserted.

They strode– or rather, Rhodri strode, and he hastened to keep up, to the very end of the dock. Without any fanfare, she dropped down on the edge, pulled her boots and socks off, and dangled her feet into the water.

Zevran chuckled as he sat down nearby. “I used to take walks down to the Pleasure Pier in Antiva City some nights to watch the moons on the ocean.” He leaned back on his hands. “This water is a little smaller, I must admit, but quite pleasant all the same.”

She hummed approvingly. “Were you able to see the lights of Rivain from there?”

A swell of homesickness snuck up on him as memories flashed through his head of lazy twin harvest moons and seawater as warm as a drawn bath. Stolen glances with Rinna and Taliesen, all wicked smiles and impoverished victory.

Zevran sighed with relish and faced his audience. “Oh, my Warden! Let me tell you." He shuffled closer to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. 

“Out on the left,” Zevran threw a hand out, “was the bustling port of Afsaana. Dairsmuid was right behind it, with its Circle Tower– that had green lights, so it always stood out. And on a clear night,” he leaned toward her and swept to the right, “I could even see the great lighthouse of Llomerryn-– ah…?"

The Warden was looking at him— right at him, straight in the eye, brows raised and saying nothing.

He pulled away. “Forgive me, I have made you uncomfortable.”

Rhodri’s eyes widened, and her hair flopped unceremoniously as she shook her head.

“Not at all!” She broke into a broad smile. “I was–- no, it’s good! You’re comfortable enough to touch me!” Her height wavered ever so slightly, Zevran surmised, from the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of leg muscles. “Please, go ahead. My goodness, you can even sit on me-– ah! Only if you like, of course!”

Zevran could have laughed. What a damned fool he was. She wanted to be touched! How had he missed it? The tea, the courtliness, the gentle tone of voice– Maker’s mercy, was she trying to seduce him, even?

That was a question well worth exploring. Sex with the Warden was hardly a bad prospect, especially if it did more to cement his protection from both the Crows and any disgruntled party members. At a guess, she was a virgin and would require some coaching, but she seemed a quick study. And how polite of her to wait until he was comfortable! Those good manners of hers might turn up in bed as well, which would be an interesting novelty. Really, it could be a very enjoyable venture for all concerned.

Testing his theory out was the first step– slowly and cautiously, of course. Northern-born as the Warden was, the poor creature had been held hostage in the South during a critical time in life. Coming on with all the heat and passion of their home region could easily scupper everything. 

Zevran gave thanks to the Maker for the timeliness of this stroke of genius, and looked up to find Rhodri peering at him with a worried expression.

“I promise it’s all right, Zev,” she said quickly. “Goodness knows Alistair and Leliana treat me like furniture.” She laughed breathlessly.

He snorted, recalling the way Alistair had plonked himself into the Warden’s lap during breakfast that morning. Leliana had then perched atop Alistair, and the grinning human tower had attracted many an eyeroll from Morrigan and Sten. 

“That is certainly an accurate way of putting it,” Zevran replied. He smirked and raised an eyebrow. “So you like to have people sprawling all over you, my Grey Warden, do you?”

She smiled. “So long as they want to, I do. You know, I think Alistair and Leliana actually have a bet on how much sprawling they can get away with before I evict them off my person– oh!” Rhodri threw up one hand. “Speaking of bets, I believe I lost one to you and am now in arrears of a story. I can’t believe I forgot!”

“Ah, yes!” He rubbed his hands together. "Lovely! And what riveting tale is coming my way, then?”

"Hah, well, suffice it to say I'm not short on stories.” She waggled her eyebrows. “I'm sure I've got a few that could knock your socks off."

He gave her a crooked smile. "Oh, no doubt at all there."

Her hands pattered against her kneecaps. "Is there anything in particular you’d like to hear about? Any specific category, that is?”

Zevran chewed his lip and blessed the Maker again for making this all fall into his lap. An avenue in, and a way to gauge how much damage Ferelden had done to the intimate life of this poor Northerner? Luck, it seemed, was clinging to him like stink clung to the dog.

“Tell me about something delicious, my dear Warden," he drawled slowly. "Something saucy.”

Rhodri frowned a little. “Hmm. Saucy, is it?”

“Only if it pleases you, of course."

“Oh yes, it’s quite fine. I wasn’t expecting to be asked about– not that I’m unwilling, I just don’t really think I have any… saucy stories– ah! No, that’s not true. I have one.” She held up a finger. “Shall I tell it?”

“I hope you will,” Zevran nodded encouragingly. “I am a captive audience.”

“Right. Well, I…” she laughed and shook her head. A blush was creeping in and staining her face bright red. “Honestly, it’s rather… my word, you’re going to think I’m out of my mind after this.”

“Oh, have no fears there,” he crooned, briefly touching her forearm. “I find being in one’s mind is overrated. It certainly never worked for me. Tell me everything, my Warden. Don’t spare the details.”

She chortled. “Bene. Well, I should preface this by saying, though I'm sure you've already realised, that I've lived a rather… sheltered life. In Minrathous, I had no idea how the average person lives, because we paid people to do most everything for us.”

He blinked a moment, mind reeling. “Surely not everything?”

“I’m struggling to think of something that people wouldn’t hire another to do, so take that as you will. Even though I was a child back then, I think I still knew less about how the real world works than most of my agemates." She shrugged, almost apologetically. "And Circles here have no interest in self-sufficient mages, so after I was taken there, there was still a disconnect from normal life. A bigger one, even. Southern Circle Mages don't cook, don't have families, don't go outside or buy things, nothing."

"Hmm?" Zevran frowned. "You didn't go outside? Not even a little?"

"No,” she said, “not unless we were sent for military service or to work for nobility. That was rare, though, and the chaperone Templars watched those people even more closely."

He shook his head. "Locked away in a tower all day and all night… no, I do not care for the sounds of that."

Rhodri chuckled, her smile not quite touching her eyes. "Anyway, with all my ignorance in mind, the story takes place four months ago at an after-dinner meeting with the other Enchanters. And it had been a lovely dinner, too. Baked creature–"

"'Baked creature?'" Zevran didn’t hide his uneasy grimace at the prospect of yet another anonymous beastie lusting after fresh elven gizzards.

"Mmm? We didn't often know what animal it was." 

He laughed wryly. "Ah, so that is what you call your mystery meats. Very quaint. Forgive me, my Warden, I thought there was another ferocious thing I needed to watch out for. Do go on. You’d had a lovely dinner…?"

She nodded. "I had, yes. Baked creature and overcooked vegetables in the Fereldan style, and the gravy was perfect. It was rich, had a gorgeous consistency that hid the vegetables beautifully…" Rhodri paused and, with fingers a-wiggle, gave a positively exultant sigh. "Just lovely. Anyway, the meeting came to a close, and the conversation turned to personal topics."

Zevran’s ears pricked up. He shuffled a little closer. "Oh, yes?"

"Yes. The question went around: what was our favourite magical contribution to society?"

He chewed his lip. Rumours had abounded among the Crow cohorts of a mage in House Nero who had won favour with his superiors for his liberal use of toe-curling electricity spells during his so-called ‘performance reviews’. Was magic really used thusly? Or did the Warden know of something even better? Oh! Or perhaps this was the prelude to her learning about one of these magical delights? Filth with a plot, the thinking man’s smut.

Zevran swallowed thickly. "And what was yours, my Grey Warden, hmm? Don't keep me in suspense now."

She cleared her throat. "I… said I loved the Circle Tower's gravy boats."

His eyes widened. "The...?"

"Gravy boats, yes. Ah…" she trailed off, wringing her hands. 

The temptation to wring his own hands was almost too much. Her face was turning scarlet now. That Tower was an entirely new level of freakish if it was doing erotic things with servingware, and the pictures Zevran’s imagination supplied were as intriguing as they were alarming. Were things really that desperate when one was locked away for years on end?

He cleared his throat cautiously. "You need not divulge any more if you do not wish, my Warden. I've no desire to make you uncomfortable."

A laugh burst out of her, and she waved a hand. "Oh no, no, it's nothing so serious. Besides, we've come this far, haven't we? Bene. So anyway, the entire table turns to look at me. First Enchanter Irving watches me like this," she squinted and let her mouth fall open a little, "and says, 'I am sure I misheard you, Rhodri. Say it again, if you please.'

"’Gravy boats,’ I say again. ‘They're marvellous! Not only do they make exceptionally good gravy, they somehow make the flavour match the baked creature, no matter the meat, every time without fail. It's positively remarkable,’ I said. ‘Truly intelligent magic.’"

Something inside Zevran was beginning to die. Right there, right then, stone dead.

The Warden sighed and scrubbed her winy cheeks. "I've never heard them laugh like it. One Enchanter burst a blood vessel in her eye. Anyway, I learned recently that gravy is made by the cooks, and the boat itself is merely a receptacle. Apparently even the other Circle mages knew that." She shook her head. "I have no idea why I thought gravy was made that way, but I did. But yes, that concludes the story. Gravy is a sauce, isn't it, so I think that counts."

Zevran fixed his gaze on her neck, not trusting his shocknumbed state to persist if he caught sight of her face now. "And, ah… that is your saucy story," he uttered weakly. 

Rhodri leaned in conspiratorially and echoed in a whisper, "That's my saucy story. My delicious, saucy story."

Was it better to laugh, or weep? Neither were ideal, but something would have to win out. The utter failure to gauge any level of flirtatiousness was a storm in a teacup compared to whatever the Warden was suffering from. A gravy boat that made gravy? Had she believed, prior to leaving the Circle, that hot dinners simply fell out of the sky? That fresh bread appeared every morning under a cloth left on the counter overnight? What was there even to say to her at this point?

He nibbled his cheek for a moment. "Well, my Warden, I can safely say that not only have my socks been knocked off, they have blown away entirely. I am… completely sockless."

She chuckled and touched her elbow to his. "I tend to have that effect on people. On the bright side, though, I do know how to make tea.” After a moment’s rummaging in her satchel, she produced two wooden cups and the tea bag. “Would you like a cup?”

Zevran nodded hollowly. “Most kind of you. Make mine a strong one, if you please.”

§

Zevran wasn’t afraid to accept responsibility for the failed flirtation of the night prior. There had been a language problem somewhere along the line. There had to be. If the Warden’s degree of obliviousness to cheeky overtures was representative of her host country, the population of Ferelden were lucky they had managed to make even one child between them. Did those who wished to reproduce even know what to put where for the desired result? Absurd. 

Perhaps Fereldans laid eggs instead; the winters certainly sounded long and harsh enough to allow a substantial brooding period. The thought of Alistair carefully balancing his enormous bulk atop a large egg had been almost enough to make Zevran choke on his lunch.

But no. There had to have been a mistake on his end, because the rest of the time on the dock had gone down as easily as a spoonful of oil. Rhodri had treated him with precisely the same painful chivalry as usual, and that meant continued interest. Misguided and painfully indirect as it was, Zevran knew desire when he saw it, and the only thing to do was stay the course and up the ante. Certainly nothing involving the word ‘sauce’ or variants thereof this time around.

No, this would require a more genteel approach. If Rhodri was a noble, she was probably proud. The Tevinters were especially notorious for their hubris, outdone only by the positively delusional Orlesians. And where there was pride, there was seduction via ego-stroking.

Zevran strode out of his tent that morning with a crooked smile and an arched brow, which the Warden was subjected to like the earth to daylight.

“Zev, good morning!” She grinned at him and patted the spot on the log beside her. “How was your night?”

He gave a low chuckle as he joined her. “Good morning, my Warden,” he purred. “Mmm! You are looking radiantly beautiful today. Do you mind my saying so?”

She shook her head with a decidedly graver look than the circumstances required. “No, it’s perfectly true," she said solemnly. "I know what I look like. Did you sleep well?”

Zevran barely managed to pass off his astonished stutter as another chuckle. Even so, Rhodri squinted at him as though he had temporarily taken leave of his senses.

“... Perhaps not,” she murmured, and rubbed her chin. “Unfortunately, the others will be awake soon, so there’s not much time to send you back to bed, otherwise I would. Ah! But if you need a nap while we walk, I can carry you.” She nodded, brightening now. “I think I could carry you for at least an hour. Would that be long enough?”

“Hm-hmm!” he bit his lip a little. “A siesta in the arms of a ravishing Grey Warden? What a delightful thought!”

Said Grey Warden nodded, looking very pleased with herself. “That settles it, then. You just tell me when you need a pause, and if we can’t all stop for a break at that time, I’ll take over for you.”

Zevran gave her arm a careful squeeze and, in the absence of any objection from its owner, left it there. “You spoil me, my dear. Tell me, how might I spoil you back, hmm?”

Rhodri shook her head with a warm, playful grin. “Spoil you? Oh, now that’s just not true! There’s no spoiling here, no ser! It’ll be my pleasure to help any way I can, no reciprocation needed.” She chuckled and added, “Besides, this was inevitable, don’t you think?”

He arched one brow, and before he could finish opening his mouth to agree that it certainly was, she pushed on again. 

“It’s the natural progression of things, really. Started with holding Alistair’s hand when he was lonely, then he and Leliana both wanted to be held, and, well!” She threw her head back and let out a hearty laugh. “Yesterday I was their armchair! The next step was obviously going to be a stretcher, or a palanquin! Hah! You see if the two of them don’t try to scramble onto me along with you, sic?”

Zevran snorted, not in a position physically or socially to do anything else, and when the offer of tea was extended, he took it extra strong again.

§

The golem, Shale, spent the next days peppering the entire party with questions: about themselves, about why their bodies were squashy and weak, about potential affinities with birds.

Oh, Maker, the birds. How Shale had tailed Zevran after overhearing him tell Rhodri an anecdote of life with the Crows.

“It was raised by crows?” Shale demanded. Had anyone else said it, Zevran would have been appreciative for the appalled tone of voice. As it was someone who neither knew nor cared about the Guild, with solid granite everything and who could have murdered him by poking him too hard, though, Zevran gave thanks for the fact that he had put on brown pants that morning.

He chuckled nervously. “Well, first by prostitutes, but the Crows came after that, yes.” He quickly added, as Shale made a gravely displeased sound, “Ah, but have no fear, my sturdy friend! They are not the kind you are thinking of.”

“Hmph. It is if it also assaults helpless statuary with its faeces. Does it do that?”

“If given sufficient cause, perhaps.” 

“Ugh, outrageous!” The decidedly less-than-helpless statue shuddered disgustedly. “Then still it is possible. The painted elf will stay away from me, or else!”

Zevran laughed hollowly. “I get a lot of that.”

To his right, the Warden rubbed her brow and gave a harassed-sounding sigh.

“You know what?” she said after a moment, loudly enough that everyone could hear. “I really hadn’t counted on saying this today, but I would like to both assure and remind the party that there will be no flinging of poo. Ever.”

Alistair chortled. “What, not even at the darkspawn?” He turned to Leliana and sighed dramatically. “That’s my Thursday ruined.”

Amid the playful shove from the Chantry Sister, Rhodri fixed Alistair with a soft, withering glare.

“I’m hoping against hope you’re joking–”

“You’ll never know!” His cackle grew loud and wild.

“Aeya-a-a. Well frankly, whether you are or aren’t is immaterial. Anyone at the stage of a darkspawn fight where they’re casting turds at it is beyond saving.” Rhodri shrugged off-handedly. “Not least because the darkspawn already smell more offensive than any excreta. They might even appreciate the gesture.”

Shale, who had been silent the entire time (their booming footsteps aside) let out a queasy groan. “These creatures with their foul exudates and flesh-related functions. I think I’m going to be sick…”

Alistair let out a fascinated gasp and jogged up to Shale’s other side. “Ooh, golem vomit! This, I have to see!” He gazed at their mouth. “Does it come out like precious stones? Gravel? … Are there ever any carrots?” 

Another moan from the golem issued as Alistair reeled off a wishlist of precious stones for them to vomit up. The Warden shook her head. In the background, Leliana giggled, the dog barked joyfully, and Morrigan whispered something to Sten. Without any better reason than the sudden urge to do something of his own, Zevran nudged Rhodri in the arm and waggled his brows at her.

Rhodri glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and– gently, gently– elbowed him back. He did it again; she reciprocated, and their foolish game played on longer than he would have admitted even at knifepoint.

By the time the party had set up camp for the evening, Zevran had decided that if his after-dinner planned sauciness– oh Maker no, not that word– didn’t yield at least some idea of the Warden’s openness to seduction, he would have to step back and make a proper plan. Tonight's impromptu attempt was… well, he was hesitant to call anything lucky now, after his most recent track record, but Bodahn and Sandal were (presumably, at least) making things much easier for him. 

The Wardens had fixed Mr. Feddic’s wagon after the unceremonious breakage of one of the wheels on one of the roughshod parts of the Imperial Highway, and the man and his son had surprised the party with a basket of ripe plums in return. Rhodri had insisted the party take one each only, and the rest were to be returned to Bodahn and particularly Sandal, who proved very fond of them.

Zevran’s idea couldn’t have been more brilliant. Food from their home region, to be eaten right in front of the Warden with every ounce of Northerner allure he had in him, interspersed with gently naughty remarks that would be dialled up to an average flirtation at the most. Anything more outrageous would have to wait until they were alone again. Oh, it was genius. Zevran was so pleased with himself he barely finished his dinner. 

But finish he did, and the time for dessert was finally starting. The plum Zevran had taken for himself sent sweet, fragrant juice trickling down the sides of his mouth with each bite. A horrible mess, all told, but there was no better prop for titillating overtures than the juice of perfectly ripe fruit.

To his right was Rhodri (where else would she be?), her own one still untouched while she watched the crackling fire. She looked around at Zevran when he let out a sigh of relish. He smiled winsomely at her and held up his one-third eaten plum.

“These,” he purred, “are magnificent. Almost as good as the plums back home, no?”

“Oh!” The Warden raised her eyebrows. “These are plums? Goodness, I thought they were apples. They’re that sort of shape, you know?”

This person was going to kill him by means of a ruptured diaphragm. Had the mages been kept in lockboxes, fed solely on bread and cheese? Or was she so poor with herbalism that she couldn’t even identify normal fruit and vegetables? No wonder her teacher took to her with the book.

Zevran shook his head with as much sweetness as his aghast state permitted. “No, no. Plums, these are. Apples have firmer flesh.” He took another bite and let his head tip back to emphasise the juice trail it had created. “Mmm. And they are so very ripe and succulent! Oh. Mmm!”

The Warden watched on with a small, warm smile as he dragged one finger up to his mouth and sucked the juice off it. He peered up at her through his lashes and took his lip between his teeth.

“Gorgeous,” he crooned softly.

Rhodri’s smile broadened. Though she was making no effort at salaciousness herself, she was certainly making no attempt to stop his display. In fact, she looked positively thrilled when he slid along the log to sit closer to her. His leg was almost touching her– well, it was hard to know what precisely of hers was under her robe there; there was still no visual proof that she possessed anything beyond extremities, but he was definitely in the vicinity of her lower half. Emboldened by her now-grin, he took the last bite of his plum and let out a low, smooth groan as he chewed it up.

The Warden’s feet rocked. “You like the plum. Excellent!” She nodded. “It’s good that your appetite is holding up well.”

Zevran flicked his eyebrows at her. “Oh, I have… enormous appetites, my lovely Grey Warden. You cannot imagine.” He parted his legs a little and made a show of palpating the knot of muscle over his kneecap in long, easy strokes.

She was out-and-out beaming now, her free hand drumming hard on the log. “Ah, perbonus! No more of this ‘running on the smell of food for a month’ business, then, is it? Good riddance, I say! Not healthy at all.”

Zevran considered asking Morrigan to open the ground for him so he could jump into it. It was either illegal or impossible to be this dense, if not both. He had made bedroom noises while eating that plum. Tipped his head back. Rubbed his leg! Andraste’s grace, he’d shown his neck to her! That alone was an invitation– a request, even– for kisses and bites to the area. He was lucky, Zevran supposed, that she hadn’t simply paid him a genial compliment on the veins there. Had anyone ever flirted with this individual? Ever?

Not that he was without a backup plan this time around, but before he could get a syllable out of a more provocative flirtation, the Warden had reached out and pushed her plum into his hand.

“Here,” she said. “You enjoyed yours, so you should have this one, too.”

He blinked. Chuckled, if weakly. “Oh, I couldn’t–”

“You don’t have to eat it now,” she urged gently. “But it’s important to have something you really like when you can get it. This, what we're doing, it's hard work, and Mr. Bodahn said the plum season is almost over. Go on.”

She turned to face him, and a strange urge to check her earring got the better of him. Zevran glanced up, and the black snake with its gleaming grey eyes was completely still on her ear. Her head moved a fraction, and the light rippled across it– nothing. 

Absurd.

He shifted his gaze to her face. Her eyes were trained on his cheek, and that ridiculous, hopeful look she got every time she tried to pass him some of her food was there again.

He took the plum (what else could he do?) and the Warden gave him a pleased nod. With barely another word, she had excused herself to make her way into the field, staff in hand, undoubtedly to begin the night’s training. 

Relatively alone now, Zevran stared down at the fruit. On paper he had obviously failed, but all the same, his third foray into intensive flirtations with the Warden had given an excellent yield. Never had he received good food for his trouble.

The plum was even bigger and juicier-looking than Zevran’s own had been– by design; he had chosen the worst of the bunch to ensure the one keeping him alive didn’t get it– and it was such a rich shade of purple, too. No doubt the Warden could afford a whole wardrobe in that colour, if her allusion to her family’s finances was to be believed. She might not even notice if such a sum were spent. 

Which meant, in practice, that this fruit was worth absolutely nothing to her, and there was no reason to be staring at it like the Warden had given him one of her kidneys. 

He ate the plum and had no idea how it tasted.

Chapter Text

The rain had come back with a vengeance, and was trying to kill them. 

Zevran’s declaration of this had made it clear which party members, in all their Fereldan ignorance, expected nothing better than perennially murderous weather. Alistair and Morrigan had both rolled their eyes at him, and then at each other, and then at the clouds. 

Happily, though, the expatriate majority vastly outweighed the worryingly acquiescent locals, with calls of unanimous, resounding agreement. 

Except for Rhodri.

Zevran wasn’t one to begrudge people their joy, but the Warden’s starry-eyed delight at the flash flood which had nearly swept her tent away was… well. If nothing else, it was a cautionary tale for anyone thinking of locking people inside a tower for a decade or more.

“Isn’t it marvellous?” she gushed to him as they trudged– well, Zevran trudged; Rhodri was positively larking through the lashings of rain and mud. “Real, live weather! Much more exciting on this side of the window, I can tell you!”

Zevran went to make some pleasantly non-committal remark but paused as the Warden threw her head back. Her mouth unlatched, tongue rolling out like a saddle flap, and her canines gleamed in the weak sun as she caught the rain in her mouth and gulped it down with relish. When she righted herself and turned to him again, she held up her hands to him in a conciliatory gesture.

“Now, I know our plans are a little delayed since we have to go back around and pass through Edgehall to get to Redcliffe, but don’t you worry about a thing, amicus!” She beamed down at him, her face dripping. “Our day-to-day schedule won’t change a bit! It’ll be business as usual. Bene.”

Zevran, who despite his now-waterproofed cloak could not recall ever being wetter in his life, grinned up at the Warden. “Do you know, we might even be able to streamline the day’s tasks while it’s raining.”

“Oh?”

“Well, in all this wet, we are getting our bath and laundry done while we walk. Very efficient, no?”

It was a joke. A joke . Why, for the love of all good things, did she have stars in her eyes?

“Oh-h-h,” Rhodri touched her hands to her cheeks. “What an excellent point! We’re ahead of schedule! Ah!” She bounced on her toes. “We could have dinner at any time!”

Leliana sniffed miserably. “It’s a pity we can’t find dry lodgings at any time…”

The Warden turned around and put a hand on Leliana’s shoulder, smiling warmly. “Good thing the rain’s warm right now, hmm? Besides, the more we walk, the sooner you’ll get to meet everyone!” She sighed. “I wish we could write to them that we were on the way, so they could look forward to it. I’d have told them all about the magnificent Leliana, and every mage in the tower would be in love with you before you even got there!”

The woeful look on Leliana’s face turned up into a small smile, almost childlike in its shyness.

“Well,” Leliana said in an uncharacteristic mumble as she grabbed one corner of her cloak and wrung it out, “we had better keep moving, then. I would hate to disappoint them.”

Rhodri beamed. She reached out and cupped the woman’s cheeks, and her voice was like a finger of brandy. “Oh, I don’t think you could, Leli.”

While Leliana looked fit to die from an acute bout of the swoons, Alistair’s blushing face registered in Zevran’s periphery. Zevran bit back the urge to groan and tried his hand at catching the rain on his tongue.

The upside to all of this was, at least, that Leliana had found the Warden’s attentions encouraging enough to attempt a little more boldness. In fact, Zevran probably owed her his gratitude. Thanks to her efforts, he had been made aware that complimenting Rhodri’s figure was most unwelcome.

Not that he had been contemplating doing so– at least not unless the Warden invited him to. After all, wearing clothes that left everything to the imagination tended to discourage remarks about whatever was obscured, not least because one seldom knew what precisely lay beneath the cloth. Leliana appeared to have missed that. The mystery of the unguessable body was relieved when Leliana made a thoughtful hum and indicated the contours of the Warden’s figure (her thoroughly waterlogged robes now clung to her on all sides) with a generous sweep of the hands. 

Zevran’s glance had been brief– and accidental; his eyes had mindlessly followed the direction Leliana had gestured in, but they fell on the Warden all the same. Sandbag arm and leg muscles bulged like stopper knots over spindleshank limbs; yawning shoulders tapered down to a wedgepoint on railthin hips. Utterly fascinating. And, if Zevran's cursory look had not misled him, she was also slightly bow-legged. The good Sister had, quite innocuously and very foolishly, paid a quick compliment and suggested something to draw the eye to her broad shoulders. 

By the time Leliana had finished detailing her proposal of a handsome belt with an elaborate buckle, the Warden’s face was purple. A barely coherent ‘no’ left Rhodri’s lips while she wrenched another cloak out of her bag and threw it over herself; a stricken Leliana left it at that.

Zevran had hardly looked at anything below the Warden’s neck to begin with. The fluttering silhouette, when caught in the breeze, reminded him a little too much of a bat for comfort’s sake. After that, though, he made a point of keeping his eyes in line with her chin or higher.

He didn't stop there. Fearing that another flirtation in too short a time frame might send Rhodri to an early grave, Zevran abandoned all plans to catch her eye for some days. It was possible she would notice the absence of his flirtations, attempt to fill the deficit by making her own come-ons to him. Or, if she was as spoiled for attention as nobility usually was, she might grow dramatic, broadcast her neglect, sulk, languish. Act coldly toward him, even, in the absence of the ego-stroking she perhaps considered her due.

By the time they had reached Edgehall three days later, though, Rhodri hadn’t so much as looked at him expectantly. Zevran resolved to withhold his flirtations a little longer, until they reached Redcliffe, in case she was simply slow to catch on: nothing. There were jokes and stories aplenty; she carried him while they walked, when he wobbled with sufficient melodrama. She still pushed the larger half of her food into his hands, dropped her voice to a genteel, close-quarters volume with him, slathered him with pleases and thank-yous and how-did-you-sleeps. What that all meant was anyone’s guess.

For better or worse– likely the latter, Leliana had regained some of her gumption once they arrived in Redcliffe. Zevran might not have cared that the Sister was of a mood to tease him, might not have taken it so damned personally, a few months ago. But there she sat, eyeing him like she had won a competition between them as they prepared the potatoes for the evening meal. 

“I am surprised you are here helping me with the cooking, Zevran,” she cooed, tilting her head ever-so-slightly in the direction of the Tevinter Warden, who along with Alistair was axing the gizzards out of a far-off tree stump for firewood.

Zevran permitted himself to raise an eyebrow as he plucked another potato from the bowl between their feet and quartered it. “Oh? Surely you know by now that I have no interest in poisoning any of you.” He tsked playfully. “For shame, Leliana! What little faith you have in me.”

The Sister gave a sing-song hum of disagreement. “You know what I’m talking about,” she reproached coyly. “You and Rhodri are almost never apart now. Did you think nobody had noticed?”

It took all of Zevran’s willpower not to raise his eyebrows at her. Someone who made flirtations as vague as Leliana had been doing could not possibly have missed the fact that Zevran had ceased attempts to catch the Warden’s eye a good two weeks ago. He forced looseness in his arms and, as if to show the laxity off, tipped his hand and let the potato pieces tumble back into the bowl.

“Ah, my dear!” He shuffled a little closer to her. “Have I been neglecting you? You said there was no need for my services, but if you find you are jealous, I am more than happy to offer them again.”

“No, no,” Leliana shook her head and took another potato. “That won’t be necessary, thank you.”

“But surely you must have sought to tell me something from all this,” he crooned softly. “I would hate for you to feel left out.”

“Not at all.” A smirk curled the edges of her mouth. “But I know a shadow when I see one.”

Zevran pressed down the roil in his guts with a chuckle. “Now that is quite an accusation to level at an Antivan Crow. You think I wish to kill her?”

She snorted. “Quite the opposite, actually. I think you are very fond of her.”

“Lovely woman,” he pressed the words through a vacant, gleaming smile, “I think you have been in the South for too long! Have you forgotten that we Northerners are warm by nature?”

“Only with one person at a time, then?”

Zevran waggled her eyebrows at her. “Oh, I have more than enough heat to go around.” He shrugged innocently. “But I know when such gestures are unwelcome. I would not dream of making anyone uncomfortable. My fellow Northerner, however, has been nothing but pleased about it.”

Gentle, bruised shock flashed over Leliana’s face, interrupted as a crisp voice from behind registered.

“You are a foolish woman,” Morrigan stepped past her to drop two blocks of wood into the would-be firepit. With a wave of her hand, a fire was lit, and she turned and eyed Leliana witheringly. “The assassin is clearly using his wiles to get into the Warden’s good graces. Though perhaps if you are gormless enough to be hoodwinked, I would do better not to intervene. He might be good enough to poison you first.”

Zevran made a low, sultry hum. “Ooh, I do love it when you talk about me as though I am not here. It makes me feel so mysterious! Tell me more about my wiles, dear woman.”

The witch regarded him with a curled lip. “‘Tis hardly worth remarking on further,” she said icily. “They appear to have convinced only the one person. Not even Alistair has fallen for your sycophantry, you know this?”

“My, my, you sound terribly disappointed.”

“Hardly. I merely wonder when, precisely, you will attempt to finish the job.” She shrugged with one hand. “The Warden was foolish enough to spare you; being murdered by you seems a fitting consequence. Unless, of course, you fear your Crows enough to want her to keep you alive.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “And am I to believe that you joined the Warden’s cause out of a sense of… patriotism, perhaps?”

Morrigan snorted. “You are as ridiculous as your haircare habits.”

“Am I?” Zevran shrugged and let his eyes drift over to Rhodri, who was striding over to them with a face almost entirely obscured by the pile of firewood she was carrying. “We all have our reasons for doing what we do. But if it brings you comfort, the next time someone shows me mercy, I will be sure to turn on them at the first opportunity. Will that do?”

His answer was not dignified with a response; Morrigan turned on her heel and left for her rag fort before the Warden could come within talking distance. Leliana, who had been silent much of the time, had her gaze firmly set on Alistair.

Zevran noted the swell of relief that Rhodri’s approach brought and, before he could begin to consider the cause, announced to himself that her arrival signified the end of Leliana's teasing. Appeased enough, he took another potato and peeled it.

§

Antiva had always felt like a place that was constantly changing. Alliances shifted like desert sands; people might stay in one place long enough to be used as a landmark, only to disappear without a trace. The weather was a moody whore at the best of times, never one way or another long enough for anything to be done. Certainly never long enough, as any Antivan launderer would loudly bemoan, for the washing to properly dry on the line. Small events, in the grand scheme of things, that would invariably coax a loud response from anyone who thought to notice them.

And then there was Ferelden. As that uniquely Southern, incessantly biting evening chill had begun to permeate the daylight hours, even the slightest breeze felt like a threat of snow and ice. The days were shortening quickly enough that Zevran no longer trusted his stomach or head for cues on when to sleep or eat. Rain came down with such a force it almost bored through flesh and bone on its way to the earth. Dramatic, was what it was. Hyperbolic, even.

But the stoic Fereldan people said nothing, did nothing. Well, no, that wasn’t true. They gritted their teeth and ploughed on, but that was all they ever did. Joy, misery, trial or leisure– everything was a muted, stifflipped affair with them. Zevran had started to nurse a theory that the Fereldans were so unflappable in the hopes that if they pretended to ignore whatever disaster was unfolding, it would simply go away on its own sooner or later.

Zevran wasn’t fooled, though. Even the trees weren’t having any of this cold-weather, short-day nonsense. Entire forests’ foliage were fizzing into opulent gold, sparkling like champagne in the soft light when he passed under them. Others were deepening into red and orange– he had initially mistaken this for a fire, only to be corrected by a deeply unimpressed Alistair. Zevran took the reprimand as well as he could force himself to. but how was he to know, after all? What sort of leaves changed colour with the seasons?

Or, when it came down to it, fell off? Now that was positively operatic. Leaves bursting into the colour of fresh flames, then all but throwing themselves off the branch to carpet the ground with their remains. Was it magic? Were the trees given to the same sort of theatrics as Antivans when exposed to cold weather? Trees couldn’t speak, after all; perhaps it was a cry for help.

Still, Zevran was nothing if not an optimist. While the world busied itself with dying, the Wardens grew. Alistair was now two heads taller than Zevran, with a chest like a barrel (much to Leliana’s delight), and Rhodri could easily have repurposed Zevran as a chinrest, if she were of a mind to. In the first month since leaving Honnleath, the Wardens outgrew three pairs of boots between them. Size was closely related to strength with them, and that in turn, meant that Zevran’s odds of being carried around grew further still. Even better, Rhodri radiated heat, which was particularly welcome in these colder times, and it was taking longer and longer before exertion demanded she put him down. With a proper bed and a bowl of fish chowder, Zevran could die happy.

The warmth of the Crestwood bakery was the next best thing, though. Burnt butter and sweet honey hung thick in the air, and opportunity to win extra favour with the Warden knocked with vigour.

"Ah?" Rhodri’s eyes widened. "They won't be edible in a month? But cookies are dry and hard already! And– and they’re not made of flesh, so they don’t even rot!"

The baker, who had up to now been obliging to the point of saintliness, looked at the Warden like she'd never been in a shop before. 

"...Yes," he began slowly, "but even most dry foods don't last that long."

She chewed on her lip, brows drawing in dismay. “I don’t think there’s another bakery near Calenhad…”

The baker said nothing. He stayed as he was behind the counter, eyes fixed on the Rhodri’s staff as she shifted from foot to foot.

Entirely unprompted– and possibly unwelcomely, going by Alistair’s glare, Zevran touched Rhodri’s arm. “You know, my lovely Grey Warden” he said with a winsome smile, “if we had the dry ingredients, we could prepare them ourselves on the road, no? We could get up a little early on the day of the visit and make them then.”

Rhodri made an interested hum. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he crooned. “We have a pan, and with a little heat and plenty of butter, we will be in business.”

This seemed good enough for her– and though it was hard to say if the baker was genuinely accepting of Zevran’s workaround or simply wanted the apparently-vulgarian Warden out of his establishment, he also gave his approval. The party left with three bags of dry mix. Enough, so said the baker, to make a total of one hundred and twenty cookies in three different flavours (“Everyone gets one of each,” Rhodri had declared while her hands drummed her legs). The victorious Warden, who insisted on carrying all the bags, held them in her arms like they were no heavier than a housecat, beaming all the way back to the party camp. 

§

Zevran Arainai and Severin Rhodri Amell Callistus were not friends, and Zevran was not, and had not been brooding about it. 

In fact, it was definitively true that he had not been brooding, because it was physically impossible, given that there was nothing to brood about. Crows did not have friends, and despite the fact that he was no longer hired as a Crow assassin, the training and conditions were not simply shed like a tunic at the end of the day. No, if anything, he was a Crow emerito, still as perfectly entitled to the label as ever. He had never had friends and he never would, and that was the end of it. He hadn’t put this much thought into Taliesen, or Rinna– though perhaps if he had paid these things a little thought, Rinna might still–

His stomach tensed in a particularly hard cringe before he could stop it. The motion was enough to alert the Warden, who was carrying Zevran through a hip-deep creek.

“Ah? Did you get damp, Zev?” Her arms curled and swelled upwards, bringing him higher. “I’m sorry about that, my friend. Is that better?”

Her neck was stretched to keep her sharp chin from jutting into his bicep– not that he would have been so opposed to her repurposing it as a headrest. Zevran affixed a coy grin to his features. 

“Forgive me, my Warden,” he said with a gentle touch to the shoulder, “you have kept me wonderfully dry. My mind simply wandered– a little too far away from me, perhaps. It must have been your radiant beauty unconsciously dazzling me, no?” He waggled his eyebrows.

“Ah, I see.” Rhodri gave an understanding nod and waded on. “These things happen. Right, so where were we? My turn, wasn’t it?”

Alistair confirmed that it was, and this was taken with a word of thanks. 

“All right, so: would you rather be able to fly like a bird, or leap like a frog?”

The ninth guard’s legs gave out, her hands falling away from her freshly-opened neck before she could meet the stone.

No, she was the tenth. The ninth was that fellow who tried the fast and dirty kick from on his back.

Number eleven hurtled around the corner, a colossal, scowling man decked out in plate armour that shone in the light like the midday sea. Sword drawn, eyes glittering, sweat on his brow already. 

Another easy one, then. At this rate, Zevran would have to eschew the cask of wine he customarily rewarded himself with after bigger jobs. Ten quick-and-easies didn’t fall under that category.

He smirked, shelved all thoughts of alcohol, and started the dance. Prowling, blades twirling like toys, taking the man’s eyes away for a second. Just long enough to make a swipe–

“Zev–!” Taliesen’s voice, at a worrying rasp, sounded from up ahead. “Poultice!”

Easily, so easily, Zevran bowed out of his own attack, winding past the enormous guard with a poultice at the ready. Taliesen sat against the wall, blood oozing out from under the hand he had clasped beneath his ribs. His tan skin had a paleness creeping in that made Zevran’s belly drop.

Wood soles on stone had his head turning– the guard was moving at a blur– Zevran tossed the poultice to Taliesen and weaved away, but not before another guard could seize him by the neck and crash him through the stained-glass window.

In the balmy afternoon, the blood from his cuts rained heavenward as Zevran plummeted through the thick, warm air. Red sky above, unforgiving water below. My kingdom, he wished, prayed, bargained through a swelling last breath, for a pair of wings.

Zevran chuckled. “Oh, an easy one.”

Leliana, who had sweet-talked a blushing Alistair into carting her across, caught Zevran’s eye from her spot up on the nearby bank and flashed him a quick, muted smile. 

Rhodri frowned. “Is it? Fancy that. I thought I'd made it quite hard, actually. What would you pick?”

“My dear Warden,” Zevran crooned, “if you can fly, you can mimic any jump by flapping your arms. No jump can mimic flying, though. Not for very long, anyway.”

Behind them, Alistair held the pack filled with cast-iron frypan baked cookies, lovingly made earlier that morning, over his head (Rhodri had insisted that for safety’s sake, they make a special trip carrying only them). He made a begrudging mumble of agreement, and Zevran kept his smug grin to himself.

The Warden hummed thoughtfully. “That’s a very good point. I’m still going to choose to leap like a frog, but it’s a much closer call than I thought it would be.”

“I don’t think jumping like a frog is as useful as flying when it comes to fighting the darkspawn, Rhod,” Alistair pointed out.

Rhodri drew up to the bank and carefully set Zevran down. She climbed out, hauling Alistair out after her, and with a few hand-waves (and an inspection of the cookies to ensure they were unharmed by the creek crossing), the party was dry and moving on.

“You’re right, of course, Alistair,” Rhodri conceded, returning to business, “terribly impractical. But one of my students, Clarrie– oh, you’ll love her, she’s my little clown. She told me not long before I left that she’d asked Enchanter Philomena what would happen if someone had legs as powerful as a frog’s and they kicked someone in the arse.” 

Zevran snorted. “Clever girl. And what was the answer?”

She huffed a giddy laugh. “Nothing. Philomena smacked her in the head with a book, and that was that. I promised her I’d do my best to find out, though, and this’d be my golden opportunity.”

“Hmm! I did jump and kick a man’s posterior once,” he mused with a grin. “I had been poisoned, you see, and lost control of my arms for a moment. My teammate was in need of a helping hand, and I had to give him the next best thing before my legs gave out, too.”

Rhodri’s eyes widened. “Oh, my,” she breathed.

He nodded. “Indeed. I can confidently say that they go quite a ways ahead when they stumble.” Zevran chewed his cheek, Taliesen’s disbelieving laugh at the feat echoing in his ears, as he added, “Once they are down, though, they do not go so very far.”

The Warden roared laughing and gave him one of those anaemic nudges, and his smile was absolutely not the result of that, but rather from the well-earned satisfaction of having told a story well.

“Good to know,” she said when she'd gotten her breath back, fixing him with her gleaming shark-grin. “I’ll let you tell Clarrie yourself. Come to that, I can think of a few others who’d be keen to know, so if you’re not averse to a small, adoring audience…”

He chuckled. “Always ready.”

From beside Alistair, Leliana caught Zevran’s eye again and subjected him to an infuriating smirk; Zevran arched a brow at her and faced forward. If one of the Maker’s foremost worshippers couldn’t tell the difference between friendship and friendliness– and make no mistake, there was a very obvious difference– there was no helping her.

“We must be almost there by now,” Alistair said, seemingly to nobody in particular.

Zevran smiled inwardly. The good thing about the Wardens’ perpetual ignorance of this exchange was that they frequently prevented escalations by interrupting the unseen proceedings. 

“Once we’re out of this clearing, I think,” Rhodri murmured. “My goodness, trust the leaves to stay on the trees when we need to watch where we’re going, sic?” She chuckled good-naturedly.

Leaving the wood lended an unexpected air of victory to the party of four, especially after Alistair remarking about bears being particularly active in the thickets once the leaves began to change. Even flippant, devil-may-care Rhodri hadn’t laughed it off, which as far as Zevran was concerned said more than enough. 

But the forest was behind them, and ahead lay the worn track down to, Zevran could only presume, Lake Calenhad. The winy water gleamed like lust in the mid-morning sun, knifed square in the middle by the most uninviting, needlepoint edifice Zevran had seen since House Kortez’s hospital. Any taller and the tip of it would have cut a cloud to the quick. The path to the tower was made mostly of guesswork, supplemented by the occasional piece of eroded bridge foundation; Zevran was almost (almost!) relieved to see the pathetic little pier down by the water’s edge, even with the loitering Templar stationed there.

“Ah!” Rhodri threw a hand down the hill at the sole building this side of the water: a whitewashed wooden house with an adjoining firewood shed– and a grey-haired, soft-bodied man on a stool in front of it, sucking down on a cup of Maker-knew-what. “Mr. Kester!” She beckoned them as she fell into a jog, waving at the man as she went.

The man called Kester waved back and was on his feet by his second attempt.

“Well, well! The Grey Warden is back!” He gave her a warm smile. “And with friends, too!”

Rhodri beamed. “Alistair is a Warden as well, Mr. Kester. And our friends here,” she gestured with a pride that made Zevran’s belly jitter, “have also come along to help.”

Kester kept them talking for a good while about the stories his father had told him of Grey Wardens– partly, Zevran presumed, as a means of checking the truth behind his father’s tales; quite a number of the myths he relayed were promptly debunked. 

Zevran offered a quick thanks to the Maker when Kester sighed and patted his belly. “And so what brings you all the way out here, then? Calenhad’s a lonesome place at the best of times.” 

“We’re here to enlist the help of the mages against the Blight, believe it or not. As a matter of fact, we were hoping to loan your boat to get over there.” Rhodri gave him a hopeful look as he stiffened, quickly adding, “I’ll happily reimburse you, if need be. You need not even do the rowing.”

Kester sighed again. “‘Fraid I can’t offer you the boat, Warden. Templars took it.”

Rhodri frowned. “They took your boat? What for?”

“Well, ‘ficially, I don’t know nothing. They wouldn’t tell me anything. Greagoir come and all he said was, ‘Don’t you worry, Kester, we got it all under control, we do.’ Then he put that Carroll feller in charge of my boat!’” He pointed at the Templar milling about at the end of the dock and shook his head. “But I did hear the boy mumblin’, and it didn’t sound good.” 

Rhodri’s shoulders squared, and she leaned closer to the man. “What was he saying, Mr. Kester?” she said urgently. “I need to know before we go over there. Please.”

Kester looked around furtively, and with a dark glance at the tower, dropped his voice to a murmur. “Abominations, he was sayin’, and demons. They’re never a good thing.” Kester gave a meaningful nod and then a sympathetic wince as the colour started to drain from Rhodri’s face.

“No…” Alistair agreed with a grimace. “Those are… quite bad.”

“Oh, mercy,” Rhodri whispered. She turned to the others, and her eyes were wide with fright. “My people are in there. We need to get to them. Everyone move! Now!”

She didn’t wait for a response, breaking into a sprint toward the dock. Zevran, lightest on his feet, caught up to her first, with Leliana hot on his heels. The clank of platemail was enough to know Alistair was somewhere in the vicinity.

Demons. Of course it was demons. Why had Zevran worried about something as pedestrian as dying by darkspawn or bears when there were demons waiting to lay waste to him? He ought to turn and make a break for it while he could. What business did loyalty have outweighing self-preservation at a time like this? Typical Zevran, always willing to dive into the lion’s mouth for a shred of kindness.

The mage was such a soft, tender thing, even in the face of death. She sobbed as her spell fizzled out, but instead of darting away from him and his knives, she stumbled forward and clutched Zevran’s waist.

He ought to have died then and there, really, for not shanking her at that impossibly opportune moment. But no, he let her velvety arms pull his malnourished frame against her, unendingly plush and pillowy. Simple fragrances, soap and clove oil, clung to the air near the hollow of her neck, indulgent enough to force him to bite his lip.

“I don’t want to go like this,” she choked, her head tipping onto his chest. “Can we just sit for a moment, eat a little? Please?”

Fingers reached around and grazed the small of his back. It had to be coincidence that she had gone straight for a secret erogenous zone of his, but Zevran found it odd all the same. With a smile, he hooked a finger under her jaw and tilted her lovely, round face up to look at him. 

“I think we can afford that,” he purred.

With a hand on his knee and another clutching a peach, the mage, whose name was Beatris, began narrating. She was adept in a branch of magic Zevran had never heard of (though in all fairness, he had never heard of any), and in terrible trouble with the local junta for attempting to draw attention to dirty dealings while she was conducting research for the Circle. With each bite of the peach, her hand slid a little further up his thigh, and by the time there was nothing but a stone left, his breeches were being unlaced.

Gentle questions started as she moved into his lap. About him, his interests, his family. What he loved, what he hated, peppered throughout with approving moans or soft, sympathetic kisses depending on how he replied. The whole thing was trite, terribly trite, and Zevran had just enough wits to answer whatever she asked as she fucked herself on him, and fucked him in the process. 

Until she paused.

What he had just said to her before that escaped him. Words were cheap and hard to hold onto, and Maker knew she had teased him fit to bursting before she’d even started climbing on him. 

“Something is wrong?” he mumbled.

She watched him with the sort of pity that made his guts twist.

“Did they really put you in an oubliette?” she asked in a pant.

Had he said that? 

“Just for training,” she added.

Ah, he had bragged. He smiled.

“Mmm. You see? My hardiness knows no bounds. My hardness, too–”

A yelp of surprise was stifled under her mouth, melted into a groan as she ground her hips against him.

“Come join me,” she murmured. Her thumbs stroked long, indulgent lines over his cheeks, along that bastard tattoo. “Leave them. I can show you better. We’ll go to the provinces, you and me, live like this forever.” She rolled her hips once, twice, as if to prove she meant it.

Zevran gave in and spent himself, stupid fool Crow that he was, gasping concessions and promises to the first friendly face to wring an orgasm out of him who wasn't a prostitute. But why would she ask him along with her unless she meant it? She could have deposited him beside the road, or kept pleading now that he was too incoherent to say anything clever. Mercy, she could have taken his knife and gutted him, but she didn’t.

She brushed his sweat-damp fringe out of his eyes, pulled him along with her onto the carriage seat, and slept like that. Zevran idly twirled a lock of her hair and decided that Beatris Rafaelo wasn't to be killed. Certainly not by his hand, anyway. The Crows would have to be handled somehow; perhaps he could speak to them on her behalf.

That was a matter for tomorrow, though, not now.

Not now.

He nestled into her neck and let himself drowse.

At the end of the dock, the Templar named Carroll watched them stampede over with a raised eyebrow. He was a young man, hardly older than either Warden, Zevran guessed, and his incessantly wandering gaze gave him a curiously adrift look.

“You’re not looking to get to the Tower, are you?” he said, straightening up. “Because I’m under strict orders not to--”

“What’s happening in there, Carroll?” Rhodri cut across him. She snapped her fingers impatiently when no answer came immediately. “Quickly! What is it?”

A childish smile broadened his mouth. “Can’t tell you,” he said in a sing-songy voice. “You’re not authorised.”

She closed her eyes slowly and opened them again. “I am a Grey Warden who has every right to be in that Tower,” she said.”Either you give us the information and take us across, or I throw you into the lake and take us across myself.”

The smug look evaporated; for someone who was so sure of himself, this Carroll fellow was remarkably easy to intimidate.

“Oh, uh… I don’t want to end up in the water. I’ve heard strange things live in there.” He nodded quickly. “I’ll take you right now. Just like you wanted!”

“What’s going on in the Tower, though?” Rhodri pressed as they all climbed into the boat. “Kester mentioned something about abominations and demons. Is it true?”

Carroll nodded, not volunteering anything more as he took the oars and dipped them into the water. 

“And?” Rhodri clicked her fingers near his face again. “Focus. Focus! What’s happening? Is everyone safe?”

“Don’t think so,” he mumbled. “There were a lot of demons last I saw, and that was two weeks ago when I was sent out here to take over the boat.”

The Warden went still, and silence fell over them until she spoke up again.

“This won’t do,” she shook her head hard. “We're moving too slowly. Carroll, you will swap places with Alistair, and he and I will row. Alistair, come please.” 

With a gently apologetic look from Alistair, a protesting Carroll was shuffled to the middle of the boat, and the two Wardens shared a glance before taking up the oars and moving the boat at a far speedier pace. What Zevran guessed was normally a two hour trip took half that as Rhodri and Alistair rowed tirelessly, their movements not slowing until they had reached the dock on the other side of the lake. 

The sprint up the endless flight of stairs inside the Tower awakened and exhausted muscles Zevran was not aware he had possessed-- and going by the gasps from Leliana and Alistair, the latter of whom was weighed down by plate armour, he was not alone in this. Between Rhodri’s demands and the giant spider he was sure he had seen lurking in one of the landings, though, resting was nigh on impossible. 

It came as a relief to reach a level she deemed high enough off the ground to warrant leaving the stairwell, and even more so when he saw that the only doors in the place were shut. That would afford him at least thirty seconds of stillness, and he propped himself up by his knees and drew in huge lungfuls of air while he could. 

He glanced up once he was able to and saw Templars with furrowed brows pacing nervously, a baffling state to be in when there was no noise coming from within. Surely if there were Fade beasts prowling, people would be screaming and casting noisy spells. That meant, then, that the mages were either safe, or dead.

Wouldn’t they be out here if they were alive?

The most senior-looking Templar left his place by the doors to stride over, a scornful frown etched into his face.

“Well, well,” he said, not taking his eyes off Rhodri. “Look who’s back, a proper Grey Warden and everything! Glad you’re not dead.” He curled his lip, looking outright disappointed that she still drew breath. 

A wide-eyed Rhodri ignored this remark and threw her hand at the door. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “Why are the great doors closed? I heard about demons and abominations from Mr. Kester.”

He rolled his eyes as though her manner of addressing him was nothing unusual. “That is none of your concern. Your business, surely, lies out there in the world you were itching to see.”

“I carry the Right of Conscription, Greagoir, and I am here to seek aid from the mages and anyone else I consider fit to give it,” she snarled. “ Why are these doors locked?”

Greagoir tsked, a weary look coming over his face. “Whatever hearsay you caught was correct. Abominations and demons have overrun the halls, hunting templars and mages alike.” He sighed heavily. “I told my men to flee while they could. We’ve barred the door while we wait for the right of Annulment from Denerim.”

Rhodri’s mouth fell open. “You locked my people in there!” she hissed. “And you intend to--”

“Not only the mages,” he barked angrily. “My men are in there as well. My first duty is to protect the innocent folk of Ferelden--”

“You locked innocent Fereldan children in there!” Rhodri shouted over the top of him, voice cracking. She stormed over to the doors. “I need to get in. Let me in!”

Greagoir squinted at her. “Still as arrogant as ever, I see,” he spat. “You seem to be forgetting how powerful abominations are. One could lay waste to an entire village--”

“Open the doors! I will handle it.”

There was silence for a moment before the senior Templar let out a long puff of air. “I am in no position to refuse help, I suppose. But know that if you go in there, I will not open the doors again until I have proof the Tower is safe.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Define proof.”

“Assurance from the First Enchanter himself, if he even still lives.” A wry sneer pulled at the corner of his mouth. “In fact, if you can bring him out alive, I will even pledge my Templars to your cause.”

Rhodri gave him a curt nod. “Fine. Now make haste and open these doors.”

Greagoir jerked his head at the Templars stationed at the entryway, and they set to work unbarring the doors.

Leliana stepped forward. “You know you won’t be going alone, Rhodri.”

Zevran sauntered over, smiling smoothly. “Not at all. We would not dream of leaving you to do all the work yourself.”

Alistair joined them at the doors and gave the Warden a firm nod. “We’re ready.”

Rhodri’s face softened for a moment before evening out again. “You’re good to me,” she murmured. “Thank you. Please stay behind me at all times, and give me room to cast.”

Her attention was snared by a loud creak as one of the doors started to scrape open, and as soon as there was a gap big enough to fit through, she had wedged herself in and shot out of sight. 

A breath stalled painfully in Zevran’s throat as a surprised gasp from the Warden reached his ears. Knives already out, he passed through the door in time to see her fall face-first onto the stone floor.

Chapter Text

Zevran had made a monumental error in being the first one inside after Rhodri. 

In the dark, stifling corridor they were now corralled into, the air was soupy with rot. Such was the stench that upon entering, Alistair immediately heaved up his breakfast, the contents of which would no doubt reach Zevran’s boots if they hadn’t already.

Boots, however, could be cleaned. What could not be washed or polished away was injury, and as Zevran steeled himself and glanced down at the Warden, the chances of coming out of this relatively unscathed had never looked bleaker.

In her place spread-eagled on the ground, Rhodri lay nestled in a small heap of mages and their entrails– though she was blessedly more alive than them. The source of her tripping, it seemed, was a sneaky, slippery loop of intestine that had departed its natural enclosure and covered a third of the cramped corridor floor, now mashed open under her boot and leaving a filthy skidmark over the stone.

Instead of being prudent and putting space between himself and the Warden, Zevran stayed where he was, pinned to the spot by some wretched, abstract sense of debt or loyalty, or, Maker help him, perhaps both. The crash was coming, suspended by a thin film of haze and blood, and the only thing he found himself able to do was sigh for the Warden who didn't yet know it herself.

“What are we going to do with her?” Taliesen asked in a hush.

An ‘mm…’ was all Zevran could manage, his vocabulary apparently having died with their third member. He shrugged with one shoulder, eyes not leaving the bloodpool glimmering around her like liquid rubies. 

“Hey!”

He looked up; Taliesen was glaring at him. 

“What the fuck is this?” He gestured at Zevran with a push of his palms. “You were laughing a second ago. Don’t go soft on me!”

Zevran raised an eyebrow, saying nothing. 

“We did what we had to do," Taliesen hissed. "Who knows how long the little bitch was playing us false? Years, maybe!”

Zevran swallowed down the lump in his throat and nodded. “We should leave her here, behind some of these crates. This warehouse is abandoned, nobody will think to look for her here unless we say something.”

Planning was not Zevran’s strong suit, but Taliesen was even worse at it. He barely needed a moment to turn the idea over in his head before he nodded. 

“Come on, then. Help me shift her and let’s get out of here.”

“Taliesen.”

The other Crow looked up impatiently. 

Zevran pointed his nose at Rinna’s body. “Close her eyes.”

Taliesen’s brows knitted, his eyes tightening into a squint, but no emotion came to Zevran strongly enough to change his own face in response. After a brief silence, Taliesen relented with a nod, squatting over her and sliding her eyes shut with his thumbs.

“There, Brother Zevran,” he waved his hands with a mocking flourish. “Our betrayer’s eyes are shut, as per the Chantry whore’s request. Now would you kindly get a grip and help me move this bitch? I need a stiff fucking drink, and I’m not getting it here.”

He sighed and took her by the boots to escape the necessity of touching the bare skin of her wrists. With far too much ease, they lifted her and took her over to the back wall.

“Zev.”

Zevran’s gaze bypassed Rinna's corpse to meet Taliesen’s eyes. His friend gave him a wry smile. 

“One less traitor.”

He summoned a smirk, nodding as they lowered the body behind the crates. “One less traitor.”

The Warden, having peeled herself off the revolting floor, summoned fire. Her eyes fell on the source of her accident. She choked; the spell sputtered out. 

“Rhodri?” Alistair’s voice echoed softly in the putrid dark. “... Rhod?”

The flame returned, weak and unsteady in the trembling hand that had summoned it. Some of the bodies were charred, others exsanguinated, others in halves. In the dim glow, the Warden’s face was the colour of ash as she inspected them. Holding his place, Zevran braced himself for the inevitable snap- of sanity, of emotion, of his skin splitting open from a spell or fist thrown in rage.

But wouldn’t the fortune-teller in the brothel have laughed now, as a rumble from down the corridor waylaid it all in the nick of time. In an instant, Rhodri’s attention was snared.

“What was that?” Leliana whispered as she drew an arrow from her quiver.

“Rage demon,” Rhodri grunted. She lurched into a limping run, staff at the ready, and Zevran could have kicked himself for being surprised when she barked, “Stay behind me!” over her shoulder.

The rage demon in question was found one room over, a magmatic slug of considerable size. Zevran toyed with the idea of making a quip about the beast’s fiery appearance being poetic overkill on the Maker’s part. After all, if they were going to die, they might as well die laughing.

He opened his mouth. “You know– atiya Andraste!”

A spell, blindingly bright, had left the Warden’s hand and tore through the air with a painfully shrill hiss. Upon reaching the demon, it exploded, flooding the room with freezing mist and ice, cold enough to make Zevran’s lungs burn.

“Venhedis!” he heard Rhodri gasp. Another spell screamed through the air and made a boom that rumbled in his chest. “Fall back! Fall back! Wait for me in the corridor!”

“Don’t be stupid,” Alistair shouted back. “We’re not leaving you with a–”

“DO AS YOU’RE TOLD!” she roared. Her voice dropped to a frantic hiss, “No-no-no-focus, you idiot.” Another deafening spell preceded a shriek coming from what Zevran dearly hoped was a dying demon. “Focus-focus-focus-focus– ah.” The Warden sighed shakily. 

The air cleared in a swirl, melting the chill on Zevran’s skin until his arms were dripping with condensation. In the middle of the room, a pile of ash was strewn over several stones, and the Warden stood in front of it, her upturned hands twitching violently. She turned and eyed the party one by one, brows pinching into a deep frown.

“I don’t have the time,” she said forcefully, “to explain to you three why I know my magic or this tower better than you do. I need people I can trust to follow my combat orders, however unpalatable they may seem.” Her knuckles whitened as she gripped her staff tighter. “If your hearts insist on virtuousness over compliance, go back to the great doors and stand vigil over my dead students.”

Alistair winced. “Rhod, it’s wrong,” he protested softly. “There has to be some sort of middle ground. It’s Ostagar all over again–”

“Don’t argue with me, please, Alistair,” Rhodri said flatly. “With me or by the door, the choice is yours.”

With one last look at each of them, she turned and jogged out of the room.

§

The party checked in each room (most of which were locked and then kicked open with disturbingly little effort on the Warden’s part) for the children first, and surviving adults next. The process seemed to go on forever, partly because Rhodri forbade all of them from going into any place she hadn’t checked first, and partly because the Tower was a small, endless circle. Hence the name, Zevran supposed wryly to himself. 

Even the destruction looked near-identical from room to room. The ravaged remains of mages and Templars alike were strewn from wall to wall; charred, exploded cupboards and wardrobes with tatters of singed robes in the blast radius; books and possessions strewn, burnt, torn. And blood! So much blood! No wonder some of the bodies were shrunken down to skin and bone. Zevran’s stomach threatened mutiny whenever he paid attention to the smell of it all too closely. 

After what felt like hours, the search had yielded nothing but a variety of greedy Fade beasts. The ash wraiths had made an unfortunate comeback, along with the foul-tempered fire blobs (Zevran refused to dignify them with a fearsome name). Some other wretched thing– Rhodri called it a despair demon– cropped up a few times as well. More times than his preferred number of zero, certainly, not least because the Warden was beginning to tire. Her spells swung between their usual untraceability to crude explosions and as time drew on, she was leaning further into the latter. 

Something would have to give, Zevran knew, and he could have laughed with relief when they rounded yet another corner and saw a room of terrified– but living mages. They were mostly children, and with the gauntness to their faces, they could all have passed for blood relations to the Warden. Screams of recognition bounced off the stone walls; Rhodri dropped to her knees. Whether it was relief, exhaustion, or aural agony on her part was hard to say; Zevran fancied it was all three.

Zevran diverted his gaze as the Warden shucked her bloodstained robe and allowed the frantic group to swarm and throw their arms around her– and then each other, when there wasn’t a part of her available to cling to. Shrill little voices filled the air like mad birdsong, clamoured and fought for the privilege of being noticed more than the others.

“There’s monsters everywhere--”

“A wraith nearly got me!”

“It’s so scary-- ”

Merciful silence finally came by the third time an older mage called for it. She approached the party with purposeful, if weary strides, surveying them all with bafflement and vague mistrust.

“Why did you come back to the Tower, Rhodri?” she asked, pursing her lips a little. “More to the point, why did the Templars let you in? Are you here to warn us?”

Rhodri held up a hand to the woman and nodded. "I’m coming." 

Rhodri looked to the children around her, smiling gently.

“These are your Aunt Leliana, and your Uncles Alistair and Zevran,” she gestured at each party member respectively. “We brought you all a present. Go and get it, and stay with them while I talk to Wynne, yes? You’ll be safe with them, and I’ll be over here where you can see me.”

Zevran had to bite his tongue to conceal his shock as Rhodri mouthed a ‘ thank you’ at the three of them and led the other mage to the other end of the cramped room. Before the panic could set in, there were a batch of wary but intrigued children approaching them. 

To Zevran’s relief, Alistair appeared to have some experience with children and strode forward to meet them halfway. He kneeled down, and even from that height, he was taller than some of them.

“‘Ello,” he greeted them with a grin. “I’m Uncle Alistair. You’ll never guess what we’ve brought for you.”

Leliana, who had been carrying the cookies, stepped forward with a warm smile on her face, standing beside Alistair now as she opened her rucksack and fished around for the bag. The children calmed at once, interacting with the two adults readily. There was no need to complicate things with his distinct lack of expertise with the smaller folk; Zevran stayed put,

In the first pause he’d had all day, he cast an eye around the room. It was large enough that everyone could have laid down without touching each other, but ten children and three– no, there was a fourth mage on her knees in the corner– trapped in here for Maker-knew-how-long seemed a particularly unpleasant way to wait out a war. Books lay on the ground in a neat row along the back wall, undoubtedly serving as pillows overnight—-

Something warm wrapped around Zevran’s fingers. Forcing himself not to reclaim his limb to smite the offender dead, he gazed down and saw a small elven girl-- he doubted she could have been more than eight-- holding his hand and scrutinising him with liquid brown eyes. She could almost have been him at that age: same dark skin, same flaxen hair, only hers had some waviness to it. It was unnerving. He reassured himself with the reminder that he was unlikely to have offspring wandering around, especially in a Fereldan Circle, when the people he seduced died within hours of their coupling.

“Are you really my uncle?” the girl asked in a thick Fereldan accent, squinting at him pensively. 

Zevran was thunderstruck- he had knives strapped to his back and blood spattered on his cheeks, and yet this child saw fit to simply approach him and take his hand. This had to be where Rhodri got that absurd trustfulness from; the Tower mages were so naive it almost defied belief. Doe-eyed foolishness had stayed Rhodri’s hand when he lay at her feet, and that same quality made this girl so sure that she was safe with him. A lucky guess for her.

Wherever the reason, the girl was still grasping his hand; he was no threat to her, and she made it clear she wanted an answer when she gave the occupied hand an impatient squeeze.

Zevran chuckled and raised an eyebrow at her. “Your uncle?” he echoed. “I might be. Do you come from Antiva?”

She frowned and shook her head. “I come from a farm.”

“We have farms in Antiva.”

The girl took in the information with a nod. “We had cows. Big ones, with black and white patches. Do you know my ma and papa? They’re farmhands.”

Zevran stole a glance in Rhodri’s direction; she was speaking too quietly for him to make anything out over the din of children talking and crunching away on their treats. It was clear that she was resolute about something, though, with all the forceful gestures she was making at her audience of the woman called Wynne and two adult mages. 

Another squeeze of his hand informed Zevran that his answer was too slow coming. He laughed again. 

“I might know them. I have met many people on my travels.” He pointed at Alistair and Leliana. “You do not want some cookies for yourself?”

The girl’s eyes darted between Leliana and him. She looked uncertain as she shook her head. 

He gave her an arch smile. “I find that hard to believe.”

Slowly, the girl took her hand out of his. “Wait here,” she instructed, stepping away and approaching Alistair, who had just taken the bag from Leliana. He gave the girl a pat on the head and held up three fingers as he tipped the bag forward for her to put her hand into. The girl nodded, pulled out three cookies, and spoke a hushed thanks as she beetled back over to Zevran. She glanced up at him furtively and pressed one of the biscuits into his hand.

“Here, Uncle,” she murmured, closing his fingers around it.

Surprised by the way the gesture moved him, he had to clear his throat before he could give a nonchalant chuckle and shake his head. 

“Ah, no, you should have this. I will be going back outside again soon, and there are cookies for sale everywhere out there.”

That was apparently an insufficient reason for the girl, who shook her head back at him. 

“Family shares,” she insisted. “That’s what Papa said, and you’re my uncle. Or you might be.” She ate her own cookies in four bites, the first experimental tastes lasting far longer than the second bites that made the rest of the snacks disappear. “These are good. Eat yours.”

He broke the cookie in half and held one piece out to her. “Family shares, I am told,” he said through a smirk. It was an oddly satisfying succession of lies, much more enjoyable than what he had usually had to tell on the job. This career change had been a good idea.

The girl needed little convincing, not trying to give it back as he put it in her hands and pretended to eat his half, wrapping his fingers around it to keep it concealed. 

“I want to go with you and Rhodri,” she said out of nowhere. A second passed before her eyes moved up to meet his. 

This career change had been a terrible idea. 

He was not paid enough to handle these sorts of situations. Emotional outbursts had usually been handled with a soft word and a quick, merciful cut around the throat. They didn’t even have the time to cry, usually. 

This , however, was something else entirely, and he was damned to the Void and back if he knew what to do.

He pulled his mouth into a wry smile and quirked a brow at the child.

“Are you quite sure about that? Rhodri and I fight monsters all day, and sometimes through the night, too. We have to sleep in tents in the cold, and I do not imagine our food is as nice as what you eat here.”

Any hope he had had of convincing the child of the superiority of life in the Tower disappeared as her eyes started to fill with tears. 

Brasca. Brasca. Brasca.

“I miss Ma and Papa,” she uttered in a wobbly voice. “The Templars said nobody ever leaves this place, and I’ll be good. You can just drop me at the farm and I won’t tell anyone.”

Zevran felt his muscles ache as he forced the smile to stay in place. His eyes darted to Rhodri; she had finished talking with Wynne, and was making her way to Alistair and Leliana. Relief. Turning back to the girl, he chuckled. 

“Ah, the Templars say that to frighten children. I know for a fact that a number have left the Circle to travel, and you are very young yet. A little more time, and who knows where you will go, hmm?” 

She looked somewhat mollified, which soothed his surprisingly frazzled nerves in turn.

“I must go and speak to Rhodri, but allow me to show you a small magic trick before I do, hmm?”

As the girl nodded, he made one quick movement with a hand and pretended to pull the other half of the cookie from behind her ear and held it out for her to take. She stared at the piece with wide eyes (had mages never heard of sleight of hand before?).

“Are you a mage?” she breathed, letting him deposit the snack in her hands. “How do you conjure these?”

“I am not a mage, but I am a magician, and a magician never reveals his secrets,” he returned with a grin. “But if you think on it for a while, perhaps you will work it out for yourself, no?” Surprising himself as he gave the girl a tiny pat on the head, he left her staring at the cookie and strolled over to rejoin his teammates. 

The party, now with the senior mage, clustered by the doorway boasting a humming, purple barrier. Shafts of lightning writhed like snakes in its confines, and the barrier swelled like a cushion. Zevran refused to acknowledge the amount of self-control he had to exercise not to simply poke it, and scolded himself again for not paying attention as Wynne stepped past him and dispelled it with a wave of her hand. 

The two mages strode through first; Rhodri had barely passed through the doorway before spinning around to face the rest of the party. 

“This is your last chance to turn back and stay with the children,” she said, watching each of them in turn with a grave expression. “If you come with me, you must obey my orders.”

Alistair tsked irritably. “That was meant for me, wasn’t it?”

“It was meant for all of you. You three are out of your depth now, and I need you to trust Wynne’s and my expertise. Here or with the children, both are worthy choices.”

Between being repeatedly begged by the little mage girl and keeping an eye on the fool Warden, even with the occasional order to do so from afar, the choice practically made itself. And really, a little distance never hurt anyone. If anything, it made for a good excuse to use his bow and arrows for once.

With a smooth smile, Zevran stepped closer. “I am ready to do precisely as you ask of me, my lovely Grey Warden,” he declared, touching a hand to his chest with a tiny flourish. “Direct me.”

Leliana and Alistair shared a look, and stepped forward together. “Us, too,” she said simply.

There was something rewarding about the way the Warden’s face softened. At him, at the other two, and it made Zevran’s guts twist. There was not a hope this side of the Void that he deserved it or the resulting warmth it brought, and still he guzzled it unabashedly. But Maker be praised, he had no time for self-flagellation. Rhodri was beckoning them through the door so that Wynne could seal it, and with his stolen moment still in his possession, he marched forward.

Chapter Text

The first thing Zevran heard upon passing through the now-barrierless entryway was a warning from Wynne that unknown beasts lurked the floors. He would have taken it in his stride if she hadn’t made it expressly clear that the beasts were unknown to her. No wonder Rhodri had waylaid them a moment to say a quick goodbye to the children.

The second thing he heard was shrieks, suspiciously similar to the fire blob from before. And then, because life never could allow him to suffer one thing at a time, a chorus of growls started up. 

He glanced around. The vaulted stone ceiling was dizzyingly high above them, and tall rows of handsome darkwood bookshelves surrounded them on all sides but one. If the half the tomes weren’t plastered with mage entrails, Zevran might have availed himself of a few to sell on the outside for a goodly sum.

Assuming he made it out at all, of course.

The party, following the sound, hastened past row after row of bookshelves until the bastard creatures were in view. The fire blob, he recognised well enough, but Wynne’s impassioned, 'Maker’s mercy!' suggested its four companions, black and toothsome and very large, were unfamiliar. 

Well, it was either that, or the way they were crowded around a greying Templar corpse and making it stretch and swell and…

Zevran squinted, drawing his knives. “Are they making that body into… one of them?”

He got no answer from the mages, who were already at work magicking the creatures into oblivion. Between the two, Wynne cast more steadily. Some of the spell invariably leaked into the environment before it could reach the target, but between that and the Warden’s everything-nothing swings, it was eminently superior.

Wynne also had an absolutely magnificent bosom. If the truth was known, so far as he could see, she had an absolutely magnificent everything, and those eye-catching red robes of hers drew the eye to all of it. 

Oh, and Alistair. For all his mercurial moods, the man was food for the eyes, and an absolute wonder with that sword. The speed with which he darted behind the fire blob and sliced its head off belied his immense bulk, and the burst of electricity that came with the act made a delighted ‘ooh!’ fall out of Zevran before he could stop himself. Not least because the sword came out intact; Zevran had been concerned the heat might melt the blades.

After seeing the ravishing Templar-Warden in action, everything seemed eminently more doable now. Alistair was slower than he, the Warden nowhere near as cunning, Wynne was busy with spellcasting and Leliana had a clear preference for archery. That made the perfect niche for an assassin. 

Zevran chuckled delightedly and slipped into stealth, passing the rest of the party unseen. Rhodri had her back to him, seemingly oblivious to another of the fire blobs approaching from behind the shelves. With a grin, he zipped behind it and– carefully– swiped his blades across its neck. The radiating heat made his leathers burn sweetly, just a mite hotter than the Antivan sun at its worst. He almost regretted not dragging it out as it melted into nothingness at his feet.

And that ended it. The other things died (the semi-Templar included), and the mages sagged a little, both red-faced and gasping.

“You need lyrium,” Alistair said to them pointedly.

Wynne nodded, panting. “We do,” she said. “I have none, though. Please, if you see any, give it to us.”

“We will need to scour the rooms,” Rhodri huffed. “Open all chests and wardrobes. Anything that looks private is fair game now.”

Leliana approached, holding out a small piece of paper. “I found this on one of the bodies.”

Wynne took it, looked over it, and closed her eyes. “I was worried this might be the case,” she sighed.

When the paper went to Rhodri, she read it aloud: “‘Uldred will show us the way. Finally, recognition within the Circle and freedom from the scornful eye of the Templars. We will not be shunned. Be ready.’” She threw it on the ground and spat on it. 

“Rhodri.” Wynne shook her head at her. “Save your anger for later.”

The Warden straightened, nodding once. “Onward, then.”

‘Onward,’ as it happened, meant taking a flight of stairs up and passing through a room of the same beasts as before, only these ones exploded on impact. A burst of fire bathed everything, mercifully brief enough that nothing was properly damaged. Zevran touched a hand to his face, sighing with relief to find that nothing came away with his fingers.

Up another flight of stairs, they passed into a large, empty space. A small antechamber was built into the middle, all stone and decorative wrought iron except for the opening in the front. Something was lurking. Its footsteps were barely audible, even to Zevran. Not trusting his human companions to have heard it, he hummed and touched the Warden’s arm.

“Be careful,” he said in a hush. “We are not alone here.”

“Where are they, Zev?” Rhodri asked quietly.

He pointed with his nose in the direction of the hub. “In there, I think.”

Weapons were fidgeted with as the party drew closer.

“We will need to go into the stockroom either way,” Wynne murmured. “There should at least be some lyrium dust in there, if not potions proper.”

From Zevran’s right, Rhodri shuddered softly. He pretended not to hear it.

When they had a clear view inside the stockroom, a pale human with a red Andrastian sunburst on his forehead stood in the middle of the room. His arms hung listlessly at his sides; if Zevran didn’t know better, he’d have guessed the fellow had been staring at the wall the entire time. 

The mages both gasped. “Owain!”

The man turned and regarded them expressionlessly, even as Rhodri hurried over and stood directly in front of him.

The Warden appeared unperturbed by the complete lack of emotion in him. How, Zevran couldn’t imagine; it was all he could do not to put a league of space between him and the man. But she– both mages, in fact, looked relieved to see him.

“Hello,” he said blankly. 

Rhodri gave him a weak smile. “Hello, Owain. Are you injured anywhere?”

“No.” He gestured mechanically at the interior, which was a mess of papers and shattered glass. “Please do not come in any further into the stockroom. I was trying to tidy up, but I still have not been able to get it into a state fit to be seen.”

“I… don’t think cleaning is important right now,” Leliana said worriedly. “Aren’t you frightened, Owain?”

Owain gazed at Leliana, who took a step backward. “I am one of the Tranquil,” he said calmly. “My emotions were taken from me a long time ago, but I know my situation is not ideal. I am defenceless, and if an abomination found me, I would surely perish.”

The Sister’s mouth fell open. Zevran found himself resisting the urge to do the same. Guilt squirmed in his guts for the revulsion he couldn’t pinpoint, and it somehow re-emerged as pity. The Crows had often drilled in the virtues of emotionlessness, of maintaining a cerebral outlook in all circumstances, and he couldn’t help wondering what they would think if they saw this man who embodied the ideal to the letter.

Rhodri raised her hand a little to get Owain’s attention again. “We need to get you somewhere safe,” she urged. “Do you know if anyone else is alive right now?”

“Yes.” Owain pointed a finger further inside. “Pharamond is behind those shelves. Nobody else.”

Her eyes widened. “Pharamond,” she whispered, and bolted past him.

Owain, repeating his request that they not venture further in, trailed after the party as they followed after her. Inside, a tall elven man surveyed the shelves with an empty face, pen and clipboard in hand. A moment passed before he turned in the direction of the noise they had made, revealing the same adornment on his forehead; Rhodri stopped dead.

“Oh, Pharamond,” she breathed.

Pharamond regarded her with the same permanently blank look Owain had, and nodded. “Yes,” he said serenely. “I am Pharamond. I did not think you would forget me, Rhodri.”

Her mouth pulled down at the corners ever-so-briefly. “Never. You’re one of my best friends.”

Pharamond said nothing; she drew in a deep breath and let it out again. “We need to get you and Owain to safety right now. The other survivors are in the library annexe, waiting for us to clear the abominations out.”

“We tried to go to that door,” Owain said from behind, “but upon seeing a barrier, we returned to the stockroom to continue working.”

“Owain!” Wynne looked horrified. “You should have said something! I would have opened the door for you.”

Zevran chewed his lip as the Tranquil took this telling-off with a calm blink. 

“The stockroom is familiar,” he replied. “I would prefer to stay here. I would prefer the Tower returned to the way it was.”

“Perhaps Niall will succeed,” Pharamond said, seemingly to no-one in particular.

Wynne frowned. “Niall? Succeed with what?”

“We do not know. He came into the stockroom with some others and took the Litany of Adralla.” Pharamond pointed at the top of the bookshelf slightly to his left. “It is normally kept there.”

The senior mage pinched her brow between her fingers. “As I feared then. The Litany is used to prevent mind control from blood magic. Oh, dear…”

Rhodri put a hand on Wynne’s elbow. “Come, then. Let’s take these two back and look for some supplies.”

It took cajoling from both mages before Owain and Pharamond agreed to be escorted to the library annexe. The Warden insisted they be accompanied the entire way in case something nasty was loitering unseen between the shelves.

“When,” Rhodri hissed to Wynne as the party made their way back to the stockroom, “was he made Tranquil?”

Wynne sighed. “Not long after you left, I believe. I didn’t know Pharamond well, but he did have a temper on him…”

“So does Marie!” she protested. “Worse than Pharamond’s, but she was human! Did they make her Tranquil?”

“I do not know the story, Rhodri,” the woman replied wearily. “And I believe Marie is dead, but at the time of her death, no, she was not Tranquil. Now come, help me find some concentration and distillation agents…”

Wynne paused and pointed at Alistair, Leliana, and Zevran. “You three, please look for lyrium dust. Dark red powder, kept in a glass vial the size of your hand.” She raised an eyebrow. “I am not sure if it needs to be said, but do not open or touch the contents of any of the vials. They can be incredibly dangerous.”

Alistair chuckled. “I don’t think we’d be game to.”

“Mmm,” Zevran smirked. “I, for one, am happy not to be turned into a toad from touching some mysterious ingredient.”

She took the remarks with a wry smile and left them to it. 

The Templar let out a sigh as they scanned the shelves. “Just when I thought I was shot of ever having to touch the stuff…”

“You never handled it it?” Leliana asked, taking a vial and holding it closer to the weak sunlight to inspect the contents.

“Mm-mm. Chantry doesn’t even let you see it ‘til you’ve finished training. Duncan conscripted me right before they were going to make me take my first swig of it.”

Zevran hummed thoughtfully. “Did they ever say what it tastes like?”

“Tastes like it smells, apparently. Lightning-struck earth is the descriptor everyone used.” Alistair watched him beadily from the corner of his eye. “Don’t drink it. Or steal it.”

“Me?” he touched a hand to his chest. “I would not dream of it.”

If the Templar had planned to snip something back, it was lost as Rhodri drew up near him and rested her hands on his shoulders. He turned and gave her a small smile.

 “‘Ello,” he murmured affectionately. “Any luck?”

The Warden nodded. “Found both agents. I was coming to check on your progress here. No sign of the lyrium dust?”

Leliana squinted at the vial in her hand. “I… can’t read the writing on this,” she said. 

“Mmm? May I look at…? Ah. Yes, this is it.” Rhodri’s face hardened. With a quiet issue of thanks, she took the dust to Wynne, who was already preparing several flasks with the other liquids. Wynne swirled the lyrium dust vial and inspected the small, red cloud climbing its way up to the stopper. Appearing satisfied, she waited until it had settled to remove the stopper, and began tipping a little down the neck of a flask.

When the dust hit the liquid, a burst of white light passed through the stockroom like a flash of lightning. In the returning dimness, the bottle’s contents now glowed a far deeper blue than the aquamarine of the lyrium Rhodri had kept in her tent.

“You’re afflicted, Rhodri,” Wynne said after the third flask was ready. “Isn’t that so?”

“I am.”

“Mid-concentration, then?”

Rhodri’s grip tightened on her staff. “If you please.”

Wynne looked over her shoulder. “If you would rather avoid drinking it, I could try to cast a mana regeneration spell–”

“Thank you, no.” the Warden shook her head. “This could be the last of the lyrium, and we can’t waste it on inefficient spells. Much better to drink it and do a small healing spell or two after.”

Alistair winced. His mouth opened, and as Rhodri’s eyes fell on him, he closed it again. With a nod, Wynne handed her two of the paler flasks and took a darker one for herself. 

“Your very good health, then,” she said, clinking the bottles gently and necking her own serve in a few gulps. Zevran, unable to resist himself, watched on in fascination as she took a deep sigh and stood straighter. A revitalised glow crept into her cheeks; she smacked her lips with a gentle frown. 

“Tasty?” Zevran asked with a grin.

Wynne raised an eyebrow and gently wafted the flask an arm’s length away from his face.

He sneezed.

“Oh,” he groaned, regretting his cheek as a metallic taste crept into the back of his throat. “Lightning-struck earth. Alistair was right.”

“He was,” she said. Her crispness belied the small curve in her mouth. 

Wynne turned to Rhodri. “I can cast as needed. Start when you wish.”

With a nod, Rhodri turned to the others. “Please go and wait on the other side of the shelves,” she indicated the area where they had found Owain. “Come back if you hear or see anything approaching.”

The three of them traipsed away; Zevran wondered the point of asking them to do that, as though a stock-shelf afforded any real privacy. Rhodri’s instructions that Wynne cast only after the entire bottle was gone was as audible as it would have been had they been in plain view.

“I will cast if I think you need it,” Wynne said firmly.

“Only if I lose more than a cup of blood.”

Wynne tsked softly. “Drink, Rhodri, if you must.”

Zevran counted three gulps, each one slower coming than the next, before she descended into fitful, stifled coughing.

“Keep calm, and take a deep breath. If it’s only a little blood, swallow it if you can.”

A gasp was attempted. Blood–he knew it was blood– purled in her throat like she was drowning in it, and Zevran was a wretched, teary-eyed fool for thinking of her. 

Taliesen grinned at Zevran from his sprawl on top of the crates. He spun the dagger in his hand with a keen flick of the wrist. 

“Not a bad idea, was it, getting her to meet us here?”

Zevran flicked his eyebrows once in agreement. “I suppose I will be buying the drinks tonight, no?”

“Too right you will be.” Taliesen’s eyes, rich and dark, glimmered wildly. “You ready?”

He hummed in the affirmative; the apparently lacklustre response evoking a frown in his partner. Taliesen eyed him beadily. 

Zevran shrugged, surprising himself as he failed to manage a more vigorous addition. “In my defence,” he said, “I will be spending a fortune on prostitutes from now on.”

Taliesen scoffed. “And what am I, hmm? A decoration?” His nose wrinkled a little. “I know she’s your favourite–”

“Ooh, Taliesen!” Zevran chuckled, swallowing his climbing stomach back into place. “So territorial you are!” He smoothed a hand over his chest. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with me.”

Taliesen reached down where Zevran stood and cuffed him on the shoulder with surprising hardness. “Don’t be fucking stupid,” he spat. “If anything, I should be the one asking you, about her.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow, resisting the urge to rub the aching spot, and forced another chuckle. “It was a joke, my friend. We both know there is only room for pleasure and death.” He sighed. “Perhaps if you would get a little softer in the belly, I might not need to go to the brothel after all.”

The knots in his guts untangled a little as Taliesen barked out a laugh, and then twisted back with double the tension as the door opened and Rinna sauntered in. He refused to find any familiarity in her smile or the wink she shot him. A mask was all it was, and he’d been a fool to think otherwise.

“What’s so funny, then, boys?” She swept a loose lock of hair out of her face– she never did try to tie back errant strands, even when she had to fight–

Stop.

Zevran smirked and looked to Taliesen to answer. Rinna drew up beside them, pulling Zevran into a kiss.

His gorge rose as their mouths met. Tricky bitch, nearly played him for a fool, and for how long? Like a lamb to the bloody slaughter. Her tongue brushed over his lips, and he could have screamed with relief as she suddenly pulled away again with an alarmed squeak. 

Her arms left him; Zevran stepped back. Taliesen’s knife was already at her throat, and Rinna stood stock-still. 

Taliesen bent down so his mouth was near her ear. “We know, darling,” he whispered. “Poison, Zevran.”

She gaped at him. “Zev–?” 

With a quick sweep, Zevran made a light cut up Rinna’s calf. The poison on his dagger was only a mild thing-- he couldn't bring himself to dip it in anything stronger-- but she’d be immobilised in under a minute. 

Her eyes welled with tears. “Know what?” she asked. “Why are you doing this?”

It was the continued acting that made Zevran angry. Admitting to it, fighting them– Maker, even the traditional Crow tactic of smiling smugly and saying nothing would have been less infuriating.

“Don’t play stupid, Rinnala,” he said coldly. “Did you truly think you would sell us out to that merchant without consequence? That we would not find out?”

“As though we don’t have eyes everywhere,” Taliesen hissed.

“Sell–?” she choked. “Sell the Crows out to our mark? Sell you out? Why would I do that?”

Zevran shrugged. “It is not for us to create an alibi for you. You did what you did, and now you pay the price.”

“N-no! Wait!”

Taliesen growled in frustration. “What?”

Her knees buckled until they touched the ground. “Look at me,” she pleaded. “Zev. Amor, look at me!”

He sighed and looked down at her. Impossibly brown eyes swam with tears, pinning him where he stood.

“I love you,” she creaked. “I love you so much. You know me, Zev. I would never!”

Zevran gave a loud, bitter laugh that made her flinch. He squatted down until they were eye level. “Even if that were true,” he sneered, “I do not care.” He waved a hand. “Do it, Taliesen, before she makes me vomit.”

Taliesen’s fingers fastened around her hair, and with one swift move, Rinna’s throat was opened. It was nowhere near his usual neatness, Zevran noticed: the blade had sliced too deeply, passing through her windpipe as well. 

Rinna wailed, much to Taliesen’s delight, blowing blood all over the fucking place. He almost looked disappointed when she started to quieten. Her skin was going the shade of white Zevran had only seen on a fish’s belly, and the screams had died down to voiceless gurgles. Sweat beaded on her brow, and even as her breathing slowed, slowed, stopped, her eyes were trained on him. She didn’t look away for a second, and when Zevran realised his eyes hadn’t left hers either, he spat on her to atone.

A fresh bout of coughing almost made Zevran jump. He took the opportunity to turn away from Alistair and Leliana and carefully wiped under his eyes. 

Wynne's voice took on an encouraging lilt. “Last mouthful… and done. Hold still while I-- there."

When her third bout of coughing finished, Rhodri’s gasps were, for the first time in minutes, unobstructed. There was a cheerful sort of clinking before the two mages emerged from their enclave, their hands full of lyrium flasks. The Warden’s face, though bright enough, was beaded with sweat, and the flash of teeth in her open, panting mouth was black with blood. She glanced at them, gestured forward, and walked on without a word.

Chapter Text

Why was it never long before Zevran heard another noise? How many people lived in this shoebox of a place? He could have sworn they’d passed some thirty bodies between the great doors and the stockroom. At this point, that was probably more than the population of Redcliffe.

Swallowing back a sigh, he touched Rhodri’s elbow and gestured ahead to an open room off slightly to the left. They hugged the wall, approaching out of sight. There were at least three voices, if he wasn’t mistaken. Two deep, one light, all speaking in a hush.

“What are we doing here, Willard?”

Someone tsked impatiently. “We’re making sure no-one disrupts Uldred’s plan. I thought I was quite clear…”

Rhodri stilled, head tilting in the direction of the other group. “I think I hear Tara,” she whispered.

“You know what I meant. Uldred isn’t even Uldred any more! This has gone much too far, I don’t–”

“This is what we’re faced with, Tara. There is no turning back now, do you understand me? If we turn back now, we will lose everything we've fought for!”

The Warden turned sharply to Wynne. “That filth is roping my apprentices into this,” she growled.

Before Wynne could answer, she stepped away from the wall and waved a hand. “Tara?” she called out, her voice gently rasping. “Ah, and Georgie, too. Good. Come over here, if you please, away from Willard.”

Zevran and the rest of the party peeled themselves away from the wall. Two wiry human mages, a boy and a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, were watching the party with open mouths. A third, substantially older and wearing a gold robe instead of the younger ones’ blue ones, observed the scenario with a curled lip.

“We…” the girl looked uneasily between them and her co-conspirators.

“We are explicitly here to thwart Uldred’s plans,” Wynne said firmly. “Join us now, or fight to the death.”

Rhodri’s eyes widened. She beckoned frantically to the apprentices. 

“Come, leave him,” she said urgently. “Please, please be sensible– SHIT!”

The man named Willard threw a gashed hand in the party’s direction, and a stream of rippling, singing blood was narrowly stopped by Rhodri’s shield.

Chaos ensued. Willard tipped his head back and lifted his arms, as if to call to something, only to have a fire blob fall out of thin air and… into him? This was without a doubt the strangest pornography Zevran had ever witnessed, and by far the most unpleasant. 

The blob was Willard and Willard was the blob, a blazing bag of flesh and char who was apparently as foul-tempered as he had been prior to the possession. Willard the Fire Blob threw himself at the party, magic assaults aplenty. That was probably for the best on his end, because the teenagers flopped over most unceremoniously, asleep before they could finish crumpling on the floor.

With a snort, Zevran distracted Willard long enough for Rhodri, for whom sleep spells were becoming something of a personal trademark, to bolt over and haul the anaesthetised teenagers away by their ankles. 

With five against one, Willard the Fire Blob didn’t have a hope. Especially, Zevran decided as he slipped around and neatly snicked Willard’s throat open, against someone like him. After all, who in the Fereldan Circle– and who in the Fade, for that matter, expects an Antivan Crow? What a gorgeous thing it was for a powerful beast to be easy prey.

Willard died immediately.

Tara and Georgie, once awakened, looked rather nonplussed about the whole affair.

Wynne marched over to where the blinking pair sat, shaking her head. “Blood magic,” she said reproachfully. “I expected better from both of you.”

“We were trying to free ourselves!” the boy protested. “Uldred promised us the Circle would support Loghain and Loghain would help us be free of the Chantry!”

Rhodri squatted down near them. “I have always told you,” she said gently, “that blood magic is dangerous, and only a last resort if you have had the proper tutelage and testing. No-one here is qualified to teach it, or even practice it.” She frowned. “You understood that. You never wanted to get into any of it. Why did you side with him?”

“A lot can change in a few months,” the boy snarled. “You might know that if you hadn’t fucked off and left us in this miserable pit!”

“Georgie!” the girl whispered furiously, shooting Rhodri an apologetic look.

“Shut up!” he barked at her. “Rhodri didn’t even try to take anyone with her! Didn’t leave a note, no letters. It was like we never existed to you once you were free.” The little bastard glared at the Warden and spat out, “Soulless Tranquil bitch.”

Zevran couldn’t remember a time in his life where he hadn’t attended Saturday prayers at the Chantry. The whorehouse children were many things, the whores would regularly say, but they were not unbelievers. 

The tiny Rialto Alienage Chantry was the most gorgeous building he had ever seen. The carvings of Shartan and Andraste, inlaid in the supports and the hardwood walls, were so magnificent, so consecrated in their perfection that not even the guards would threaten to raze it to the ground. 

After the Crows had bought him, his new house of prayer became the gilded, stained-glass edifice in Antiva City, which his mother’s taxes had no doubt been funnelled into while she lived. Magnificent, certainly, and inspiring an awe that matched the tone of the Canticles.

Now, in that grand place, he was down on both knees, eschewing the embroidered hassock for the well-deserved hardness of the marble floor. His prayer beads smelled of ancient sweat and Antivan cypress, hanging from his clasped, trembling hands, a fingerwidth away from the bridge of his nose. 

You have walked beside me
Down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh.
You have stood with me when all others
Have forsaken me.

The cold guilt turning in his belly was tamped down momentarily with a fervent plea for forgiveness, and Zevran did it again when the unpleasantness resurged, and again, and again. If he had to spend the rest of his life on his knees, he would do it. 

He prayed until his legs had gone numb, and even then was only interrupted when a hard kick toppled him over. Zevran clutched the prayer beads, not bothering to reach for any of the daggers on his person, and lifted his gaze without moving his head.

Master Eoman watched him from his great height, swinging a set of polished rosewood prayer beads on his finger.

“I heard you praying for that little half-breed,” he sneered at a respectably low volume.

Zevran gave no answer. What was there to say?

The Master squatted down and smirked at him softly. “Is there really any point, though?”

“The Maker has never told me otherwise.”

Zevran's insolence was met with a triumphant smile that made his blood curdle. 

“I’ll tell you something now, Thirty-Three,” Eoman whispered, teeth gleaming. “No prayer will turn the Maker’s eye to something like her, and you can be sure it’ll have the opposite effect if you're the one praying.”  

The Master chuckled and shook his head. “To come this far as a Crow means something's forsaken you. If you believe in the Maker’s divine hand shielding people from the worst things in life, you’d know that Forty-Seven-Two is nothing even to the All-Loving. She had no soul, and neither do you..” Eoman drew a finger under Zevran’s tightening jaw and forced it up to face him. His eyes narrowed menacingly. “And as sure as day follows night follows day, Thirty-Three, your turn will come. You’ll follow her footsteps and die as you lived: nothing.”

There should have been the usual anger and indignance that came with serious blasphemy. Failing that, at least a desire to point out that disputing the existence of a soul insulted the Maker. And yet, nothing compelled him to disagree. Zevran swallowed back the bile crawling up his throat, resisting the urge to curl into himself.

Master Eoman flicked Zevran’s jaw out of his fingers and stood up again. He wiped his hand on his cloak. “If you have the urge to do a good deed, you might pick yourself up off the floor before you leave a mark there. Or at least consider wasting away on one of the darker tiles.”

Without another word, the Master turned and strode away toward the Revered Mother's office. Zevran wanted to die.

Zevran clenched his fists as the briefest shock rippled over Rhodri’s face. When her usual frown was in place again, she raised an eyebrow at the boy. “‘Tranquil,’” she echoed, folding her arms. “Hm. I suppose I have Willard to thank for you picking up cheap slurs, is it?”

The boy scoffed. “People have always called you that–”

“But you never did,” she said simply. “In any case, we don’t have time to discuss the likelihood of the Templars burning my letters to you, or the fact that you two and Clarrie were in crucial, uninterruptible examinations when I was conscripted into the Grey Wardens–”

“You wrote to us?” the girl gasped.

Rhodri sighed. “Yes, Tara, many times. If we make it out of here alive, I suggest you take your questions to the First Enchanter about that."

"But–"

"Later, if you please. Now, as the Senior Enchanter has already said,” she indicated a frowning Wynne, “we are eradicating the blood magic in this Tower, and making very quick work of it. You two are fighting a losing battle, and I want you to give up now.”

“Rhodri, don’t you remember what it was like?” Tara protested. “The floggings, the dungeons, the constant surveillance? Greagoir's brutal, and he lets that handful of underlings get away with everything! We can’t keep living like this. We have to fight for change!”

“Do you think the Circle will ever be the same after this?” Wynne asked gravely. “It has already changed.” She rubbed her brow and sighed. “You are one of a miraculous handful of survivors, and unless you stand down from this now, your luck is about to take a turn for the worse.”

“They will stand down,” Rhodri said firmly. She looked around at Wynne. “May I have a moment with them, please, Senior Enchanter? They’re my students. They’ll listen to me.”

When Wynne nodded, the two teenagers were pulled to their feet and walked just outside of hearing distance. With their backs to the party, it was hard to know what was being said, but Zevran was sure he caught the apprentices’ eyes briefly widening. A suspicious look from the boy was quelled by some unknown thing from the Warden; hope threatened in the girl’s eyes and didn’t dim. 

And then they nodded, to themselves and to each other, and that was that. The three of them returned to the party.

“And?” Wynne asked. “What have you decided, Tara? Georgie?”

“Your side,” they replied together. 

“We didn’t actually do any blood magic,” the girl added quickly. “Just watched. Willard only wanted us to give him some of our blood.”

Rhodri said a filthy enough word to make Wynne purse her lips. She watched the apprentices worriedly. "Did he take any of your blood?"

They shook their heads. The boy held out his hands, dirty but admittedly free of blood.

"See?" he said calmly. "Nothing. Not even on my sleeves."

The Warden relaxed. Wynne relented with a sigh. 

“Very well," Wynne said. "I will give you the benefit of the doubt for the time being.” She pointed in the direction the party had come from. “The other survivors are in the library annexe. Wait with them.”

The apprentices nodded and as they made to leave, Rhodri pulled the boy aside.

“Pharamond and Owain still live,” Zevran heard her murmur to him. “I don’t know if your sudden affinity for slurs has brought other behaviours, but I expect you to treat them, and any other Tranquil mages, with respect.”

The apprentice winced. “I know,” he mumbled. “I shouldn’t have called you that. I only said it because I was angry. I– I didn’t mean it.”

Rhodri shook her head. “That’s beside the point. If you want to insult me, that is your prerogative, but it will not come at the cost of the Tranquil mages’ dignity.”

“I’m sorry, Rhodri.” His voice cracked a little.

“Prove it to me, Georgie. Go back with Tara to the annexe, and don’t abide a single bad word about Owain and Pharamond.” She bent down until they were eye-level and watched him gravely. “They’ve been good to you all these years, and someone needs to care about them, even if they feel nothing. I expect nothing less of you.”

He sniffled. “I'll do it.”

“Good.” She smiled. “I wouldn’t say these things if I thought you incapable of doing better. You’re a kind boy, and I know you won’t disappoint me.”

He nodded.

“Good,” she said again, and gestured to the girl. “You two go, then, and tell the others we’re well.”

Wynne and Rhodri waved the apprentices goodbye, heaving their own private sighs once they were out of sight.

Zevran sighed too, and didn’t know why. Something in here smelled like victory; he didn’t know what that was, either.

The party moved into the adjoining corridor. After seeing so many rounding hallways, Zevran couldn’t help but note a curious craving for straight lines.

And relative safety, but the former of these seemed a more likely encounter at this point.

The rooms in this stretch were, at least, much smaller than what they’d been walking through. That meant fewer enemies behind each closed door, which was always a good thing. 

They were nicer, too. Three or four of them were dormitories– and not the open slather, forty bunk beds to a single space affair like what they’d seen downstairs. At most, one dormitory had five beds big enough to sleep two or three people each, separated from one another by a three-quarter wall that opened out into a common hallway.

Zevran gave a low whistle as he poked his head around one of the walls to look inside one of the bedrooms. Along with the bed, the room boasted its own storage trunk, wardrobe, and vanity–or rather, the broken remains of them now. It must have been positively palatial by Circle standards while it was still intact.

“Who gets to sleep in here?” he asked, regretting it instantly as the Warden stiffened. 

Wynne looked over her shoulder at him. "The mages who pass their apprenticeship," she said, not unkindly but with a matter-of-factness he had often heard in himself when talking about life in the Crows. 

Leliana frowned. "But there are so few beds here. The dormitories downstairs–"

Alistair touched her shoulder and shook his head. "Don't think about it too much," he said grimly, wincing a little as Leliana's face went white.

Wynne called Rhodri and pointed at the room Zevran had peeked into. "Nobody took your room, Rhodri. If you stored anything useful in there before you left, you should collect it now. I'll do the same, actually…" she strode further down the tight corridor and went into the fourth room.

Rhodri wasted no time, wading over the wreckage to the trunk, which sported only a little damage to the top. She hauled the lid open, and a hard breath tumbled out of her.

“The pictures,” she mumbled, fishing out a hand-sized paper and kissing it. “They’re still intact.”

Rhodri looked over at him. Zevran glanced over his shoulder; Alistair and Leliana had gone with Wynne, so it had to have been him she'd meant it for. It almost came across as a request to come nearer and look with her, but why she would want him close by for that–

Oh. Oh. No, he knew. She kissed it because it was the picture of a lover. Perhaps she had been aware of Zevran’s flirtations, let him do it because she was too polite to turn him down– perhaps even too afraid to upset him– and now was the moment before the gentlest rejection in history. It had been a while since he had made any come-ons with any real intention, but she might have decided to dissuade him from starting up again. How awfully decent of her to be so thoughtful about it all.

His stomach sank anyway.

Still, he waded over the wreckage to her, ready enough to accept the rejection. She didn’t smile, but leaned in toward him when he drew close enough. Salt, burnt blood, scorched earth, all sweetened by sundried linen. The smell should have made his stomach turn. It did on some level, but he couldn’t find it in himself to shift away from her.

She brought the picture near him, a colour portrait of a tall, sharp-faced man with a sharkmouth and wavy, brown hair, standing with his arm around the waist of a slender, raven-haired woman who wore a remarkably familiar frown. They were flanked on either side by two older teenagers with confident smirks (twins, Zevran presumed), along with a beaming redheaded boy, and a solemn, bright-eyed young girl who held the woman’s hand. All but the woman wore luxurious, patterned robes and had staves strapped to their backs (the woman had a lush velvet gown that went to the floor) and every one of them stood proudly, resplendent in their finery. These had to be relatives.

“My mother and father,” Rhodri said softly, “and my younger siblings. The twins, Mazarin and Evander. Owen is this one here, and my youngest sister, Bethann. They all live in Minrathous, of course, so I got a picture each year to see what had changed as the time passed.” She gulped. “This is the last one they sent before my mother went missing.”

Not a picture of a lover, then. Zevran’s skin prickled with shame under the lightness in his chest. He smiled, and he couldn’t decide if it came because he’d summoned it, or if it had simply been waiting for the opportunity to emerge.

“I see looks run in the family,” he nodded at the picture. “Your mother is a stunning beauty.”

Compliments to mothers were always welcome with marks. Other family members less so, but treasured mothers were a shrine at which all good words were expected to be laid. And certainly, Zevran hadn’t said anything untrue.

“Yes,” her thumb brushed over the woman’s cheek. “My father always kissed my mother’s hands and told her so.” She sighed and slipped the picture into her satchel. “They’re a funny bunch. Full of stories and wickedness. I think they’d love you.”

Zevran’s body locked, and Rhodri– the Warden! Why did he keep calling her that?-- to his incalculable relief, wasn’t even looking at him. Already bending down to close the chest and, with a quiet request that he follow her, walking past him and out of the little room. She had no idea, and his muscles loosened again on that basis alone.

Wynne appeared in the corridor, with Alistair and Leliana hot on her heels.

“Are you ready to move on?” she asked.

The Warden touched a hand to her satchel and nodded. 

§

Try as he might, Zevran couldn’t shake the feeling he had stumbled into a particularly bad party. The rampant destruction the company encountered on the next floor up wasn’t out-of-place at boisterous, down-at-heel celebrations. Drunk humans, especially, had a real affinity for shattering windows and other glass, upending anything not nailed to the ground, and getting into fights that had the host finding bloodpatches and loose teeth on the premises for a week. 

Really, if it weren’t for the monsters and the fact that the floor and walls were festooned with swollen, bulbous entrails big enough to eclipse him, Zevran could have convinced himself he’d walked in on the tail-end of a human gang leader’s birthday. Was it always this awful here? Oh, to have been back downstairs, where the walls were cleaner and the main task was pilfering lyrium from the First Enchanter’s office. (And, in Rhodri’s case, a black leather book that, she declared to the baffled party, belonged more to Morrigan than to Irving).

And the timing of all this had been particularly bad (though when, precisely, was a good time to see tree trunk-sized gizzards and tendons snaking their way around like bunting?). The kitchen was the last room the party passed through before stepping into the– well, what was that room? The entrails parlour? Whatever it had been, Zevran found himself deeply regretting any gratitude he might have felt that the food in said kitchen was still fresh.

Perhaps the only good thing about having to enter said parlour via the kitchen was the fact that the party had been able to loop back down to the library annexe and drop off food to the ecstatic survivors. And, Zevran was quietly pleased to note, the Warden had spoken with the Tranquil mages and seemed satisfied with the way Georgie– and the others there, had been treating them. As good as the situation could possibly be, then.

Really, the problems had only truly started once they entered the entrails parlour. Even then, Zevran might have felt reasonably at ease with the situation had Wynne not audibly gasped. Touched a hand to her mouth, even.

“Th–this cannot continue,” she stammered softly. “If there were so many deaths on the lower floors, what has gone on up here? Is this from possessions?”

The blanched Warden reached around and touched Alistair, who was wearing a quizzical frown.

“You see it, too, right?” he murmured to her.

“Mmm,” she nodded weakly. “So much like Darkspawn corruption.”

Zevran’s stomach dropped at that. Wynne and Leliana looked around at them sharply.

“You do not think…?” Wynne’s eyes widened. “... Do you?”

They shook their heads. “The blood’s too red,” Alistair said. “Darkspawn blood is much darker. I’d hazard a guess that this is Abomination corruption.”

“Maker preserve us,” Leliana whispered. “These poor people.”

At the mention of sympathy, the two mages straightened up.

“We must stop them,” Wynne declared.

“Mmm!” Zevran smiled. “Better the abominations die than us!” He spun his blades in his hands, half to offset the nerves and half to encourage himself.

“Keep that enthusiasm,” Alistair muttered darkly. “I’ve a feeling it’s only going to get worse from here.”

Zevran shrugged with all the good-naturedness he could muster. “We will either come out of this alive, my friend, or we will not.”

“We can’t afford to fail,” Rhodri said simply. “Come, please. We should move on.”

§

The last room to clear out on that floor sat directly across from the staircase. The door was closed, and Zevran wasn’t sure if it was his tired muscles talking (in all fairness, the previous door had housed another of those bodacious desire demons), but there was something vaguely soporific about the air. Softer, warmer, with the vague, heavy pull of an Antivan summer afternoon in the minutes before a downpour broke the stifling humidity. He couldn’t help but love it.

From behind him, Alistair yawned. “That desire demon really took it out of me, you know,” he mumbled. He uncorked a stamina potion and downed it in two mouthfuls.

Wynne and Rhodri shared an uncertain hum. “I think we ought to brace ourselves,” the Senior Enchanter said, blinking owlishly. “There seems to be something that saps energy at proximity.”

Rhodri stifled a yawn and led the group away from the door. “We should split into two,” she declared. “Someone come in with me, and if we both fall asleep, the other contingent can drag us out, yes?”

Without thinking, Zevran, who was already feeling much more energised, gave a small wave and stepped forward. 

“I am ready and willing!” he waggled his brows daringly. “Shall we?”

Rhodri nodded. They strode back to the door. 

“Stay behind me,” Rhodri murmured. “If I fall and you’re still standing, go out and fetch the others. I’m too heavy for you to carry alone, and you need to get out before you drop, too.”

Zevran opened his mouth to complain, but under the sombre look she was pinning him down with, he could do nothing but nod once. Appearing satisfied, she opened the door and let out a surprised ‘Ae ae!’

“It’s Niall!”

Zevran looked around her shoulder and saw a rail-thin human lying on the floor. His long, dark hair spilled around him like a halo, and his cheeks were so sunken that Zevran had thought him dead until he saw his chest barely rise. Under one of his skeletal hands was a scroll– litanies were long texts, were they not? Was this what the mages were after?

“Oh dear,” Zevran sighed. His body slumped a little under the effort, which was decidedly less than promising.

When he looked up again, he was already being shoved back toward the door. He turned around and caught sight of a colossal red… thing looming behind Rhodri. A blob, not unlike the other blobs, but larger and with a sag to its entire body that gave the distinct impression of melting. Its one, yellow eye sat in a black socket, turned directly onto him.

“Wh–?” 

“Go,” Rhodri gasped. “It’s a sloth demon. I’m too close to it, I can’t cast–” she groaned and sank to her knees like an invisible hand was pressing down on her from above. “Go, Zev!”

“Ah,” the demon lamented in a guttural purr. “But we were just starting to have fun.”

Zevran’s knees buckled. “Ah… hello?” he called out the door. “We may–” he paused and yawned, an unfortunately pleasant heaviness creeping into his bones. Where was this bloody demon during the insomnia nights? “May need… reinforcements…”

Footsteps were coming, no doubt bound for the same fate, and Zevran was on the floor, sinking into the stone like it was a feather mattress. The gentle light filtering through the windows was just the right dimness for a midday nap, and what a gorgeous thing it was to feel so dreamy and leaden. Unwise, of course, but with a body that was nailed to the floor by forces unseen, what was he to do? He glanced over as a hand– ah, lovely Rhodri’s hand, reached back and took his shoulder.

“Go, Zev,” she slurred, giving it a futile push. 

There was no going for either of them, and Zevran didn’t mind that. Her hand stayed where it was on him, and he drank in the tender, earnest weight like parched earth. Those rubbed-eye shapes danced over his field of vision, cutting off grey eyes watching him with such apology. What a fool he'd been. What a damned fool. His mouth twitched in a rueful smile.

The (hopefully reassuring), "Goodnight, mi sol," he mumbled sounded like it had come from someone else. Maybe it had.

Zevran was satisfied either way; he gave in.

Chapter Text

Zevran had, in fact, died. Just as he'd suspected while he had been dying. He knew he was dead because he no longer had a solid body. He could see the floor through his ribs, which had never been a feature while he was alive, which meant he was a ghost. Handsome and charming as ever, no doubt, but indisputably deceased.

He looked up from his transparent torso and the stone floor beneath it. An ugly, choked gasp tore up his throat like a barb as his eyes fell on a very familiar door. Rippling and ghostly as it was, it was the same initiation holding cell door he had once hunched beside, identical down to its narrow grille window and the deep scratch marks in the wood around the lock.

That he’d even had the nerve to gasp had to be a sign of his months-long softening at the Warden’s side. What gall he’d had to indulge in kind words and soft nudges and pretend he nearly deserved any of it. The audacity of him to be shocked, the sheer effrontery of the tears swelling behind his eyes to find now that the Master had been entirely right about him.

But the eternity, it seemed, had begun, and with it, the re-hardening. What else was there to do? There was no hope of escape, and he didn’t deserve to be free even if there was. 

Zevran sat down beside the door and waited. The initiate holding prison struck him as an odd place to start the next life. Surely if the Maker had wanted him to truly suffer (and He no doubt did) He would have plonked Zevran into the week after Rinna’s death.

Ah, but then if Zevran was nothing, why would the Maker be overseeing this? No, the responsibility for his modest participation in afterlife misery had to have been delegated to some lesser being. One who undoubtedly had a taste for the more physically macabre side of life than the emotional side.

At this rate, the more pertinent question was: would he be reliving the same racking as the first time, or did he have the chance to fight back a little? After all, it wasn’t as though he’d be getting any deader if things went wrong.

… Or would he?

The lock clicked; he found himself cursing the quietness at which the jailor had come, just as they had the last time. No footsteps, not even a loud breath or a rumble of the key going into the lock. A Crow could open a spring-loaded latch silently, if they wanted. Zevran would have bet money they only made a noise to see if he would startle, and he was proud that he didn’t.

The door swung open, and the same two men from Zevran’s first initiation stepped in and grabbed him by the hair without a word to him or each other. Zevran was on his feet before they could pull too roughly, astonished by the way his arms stayed glued to his sides. There had been a plan somewhere in his head to do things differently. He'd reach for a knife, test the boundaries of the new world by shanking the jailors, but rigid muscles refused to so much as twitch. Those useless arms were down by his sides like they were painted on.

You coward.

“We’ve got it all planned out for you today, apprentice,” said the man to his left. He had a filthy grin and fingers like fish hooks that were making it their business to wrap firmly around Zevran’s wrists. “You won’t be worth a pinch of shit when we’re through with you.”

Zevran stayed silent, marvelling at his own uselessness as they wound him around corner after corner. Tiny windows– holes, really– in the corridors showed brief glances of the adjacent alleyway, a known place to stash fresh bodies. It was so narrow the sun barely got a look-in, and the stench of mildew and cat piss, overwhelming in the land of the living, had apparently managed to pass into the next life unabated too.

A hand wrenched his head back, cricking his neck in the process. It had to have belonged to the other jailor. Zevran looked over at him once the grip on his hair loosened, but the man was watching straight ahead with a smile on his face. Internally kicking himself for falling for the trick, he forced himself to look ahead again, and took the consequent second hair-wrenching with resignation.

The man on the left kicked a door open, and the rack sat just beyond, positioned in the middle of the tiny room like a guest of honour. His gaze lingered on the apparatus a little too long; a sharp joint to the back– a knee, Zevran guessed– propelled him the last way inside as punishment.

“I don’t care for delays,” the other man growled.

Zevran forced a smirk. “Forgive me. I was taking in her beauty overlong, I see.”

He got a backhander to the face for that. 

“Don’t like your attitude, either. Get on and lie down, you little shit.”

The man said that as though Zevran had been given the time to comply. Both sets of hands shoved and dragged him onto it with far more roughness than there might have been had he simply been allowed to climb on himself. But then, this was an initiation. Why would anyone be sweet with him?

His arms were wrenched above his head, up and out, and once they were tied down, his legs got the same treatment. The backboard of the rack was still wet, cool on the backs of his thighs and the jut-point at the top of his spine that dug into the wood. Sweat, specifically fear sweat, had that fulminant, waxy thickness to it, and the whole room stank of it. Zevran refused to add to it. Not a drop.

And then the dialling started, and that put paid to any and all resolutions. He watched from the corner of his eye as the pawl slid over the rusty ratchet, filling the chamber with the slow scream of aged metal on metal until it fell flush against the edge of the next gear. Was it better to brace the muscles, or relax into it? Something would strain and tear, subluxate and then dislocate completely with the next click. There didn't seem a way to avoid it.

He compromised and tensed his belly. The first stretch was comfortable, the second burned like a kiss. Zevran racked his brains as he tried to recall how many clicks he’d had the first time around. Was it five? Six? Mercy, it wasn’t more than that, surely. 

The third came, and he already wanted to writhe. Armpits and hips and knees all pulled like a puppet held to attention. Rigid-hard, one more turn and he’d split at the seams–

It clicked again, though Zevran didn’t know if that was the ratchet or his joints at this point. One hip was suddenly weak and floppy, half-floating unhoused in the no-man’s-land of his upper leg, and he didn’t manage to stop the soft gasp from coming out.

The man to his left chuckled. “I think I saw him flinch.” 

The other man hummed delightedly. “We’ll make you scream yet, apprentice.”

“We’re not going to go easy on you, you know. Don’t think that for a minute.” Zevran caught the first man smiling from ear-to-ear as he moved the roller up another notch.

The hip was out properly now, and his opposite shoulder had left its socket in sympathy.

Zevran’s eyes shut tightly and he clenched his teeth until his head pounded from the pressure. An agonised grunt escaped him. “No…” he gasped, “I wouldn’t… want you to hold back. I’d be disappointed if you… did.”

“This one has spirit,” remarked the second fellow with delight. “It’s a shame we have to break him, really. Go on, do it again.”

The roller cranked again, and Zevran heard his name. In his head, no doubt, but it was loud. Louder than loud, and insistent!

“No– no! Hold on, Zev, hold on!”

He summoned the last of his courage to indulge the idea that this might have come from outside of his head– the sound had echoed a little– and cracked open one eye.

A sharp, pale fist connected with the cheek of the man operating the roller. He went to the floor, and the fist-haver followed him down there with a stream of menacing-sounding Tevene and leagues of black robe rippling out behind her.

In the haze of the agony, Zevran decided that now was as good a time as any to look properly. He forced his other eye open, seeing nothing but hearing plenty of strained grunts, and the sweet crunch of bones breaking under decidedly aggressive punches. It was quite a welcome distraction, really. The other guard was hastening around the rack to join in the fight, which meant there was no-one turning the roller–

The yet-uninjured guard flew over the top of Zevran and ended up on the other side of the room.

Zevran gulped. Why had it only occurred to him now that if he was living out eternal punishment, he would likely not be exempt from whatever was being meted out down there on the floor? Why had he been silently cheering on whoever it was seeing to the jailors when he was undoubtedly destined for something much more unpleasant?

With two unsocketed limbs and muscles in tatters, no less.

Long, frantic fingers appeared from below, snatching the pawl of the rack and bashing it to spin the ratchet in the other direction, bringing a degree of instant relief as the ropes pulling Zevran in two loosened. The rest of the hand's body came up, dark-haired and wide-eyed and remarkably familiar. 

"It's all right, Zev," she whispered rapidly. "I'm going to get you out of here." She severed the ropes, and his aching limbs sank down to his sides. "Get off the table and stay away from the fight."

Zevran groaned and squinted at her. "... Warden? It's you?"

The Warden's answer was cut off by a curse as the man across the room woke up and made for them, knives drawn, and Zevran was left to haul himself off the table.

There was something terribly unhinged about the whole scene. An overstretched man gingerly easing himself off a rack while the apparition of a Grey Warden threw her enormous shoulder into the spectral midsection of an Antivan Crow, sending the knives flying out of his hands. 

That couldn't be right, though. No Crow would simply let go of their knives because they were tackled. No Crow would let themselves be tackled. In fact, that punch shouldn't even have connected on the first man's face. The Warden would have been dead before she could come within a bull's roar of either of them had they been the genuine article. Surely the afterlife wouldn't be so slack on such details, especially if the goal was to cause suffering.

Had Zevran not died, then? Was this a dream? As if challenging whatever had willed him here, he dared his joints to fix themselves, and he lost a breath as they did. 

Remarkable. 

His hands shook as he pulled the rope off himself, knees barely supporting his weight as he slid off the table and onto the ground. Somewhere in the back of his head, a voice was reminding him to heal the rest of his smarting body, but he paid it no mind. 

An arm's length away from the rack, the Warden seized the would-be Crow by the back of the head and drove it down into the edge of the table. The neck of the Crow, ghost, whatever it was, snapped, and the room went silent except for the thud of a fresh corpse meeting the ground. 

It took the Warden hurrying over to him for Zevran to realise he had been standing there, numb and quivering like a child the entire time. Not a single offer of help; not even a shout of encouragement. His shame shut his eyes for him. 

"Zev." A hand went on his cheek. "Zev."

Zevran forced his eyes open. Rhodri was bent down to eye level with him, watching him pleadingly. Her fingers and palm covered the entire left side of his face, stroking with the gentleness one might afford a mouse. He could feel the skin flushing under the attention.

Zevran gave a chattery laugh that sent a look of bafflement over the Warden’s face. 

"Nothing like a good racking, is there?" he offered weakly.

He could have kicked himself as her mouth fell open. Determination to keep things moving along pushed another sentence out: "And so what now, my lovely Grey Warden? Dinner? Dancing? More murder?"

The joke went over her head. She watched him gravely.

“We’re trapped in the Fade. The Sloth demon, it’s imprisoned us. We need to kill it here, and then we– oh, shit!”

Zevran glanced down to where Rhodri’s wide eyes had darted. His body, incorporeal as it was, was fading, and she and the room were following suit.

“Wh–? But I wasn’t injured! I– I am fine!”

“Listen.” Rhodri’s hand went onto his other cheek. “I will find you again,” she said, as firmly as if she had given an order. “I won’t stop looking for you.”

Zevran gulped. Her voice softened with each word, and she was fast approaching unintelligibility.

“Do you hear me? I will find you, Zev.”

She had said more, but one of them was gone. Knowing his luck, it was probably him.

Zevran decided, once he re-materialised, that he wouldn’t take any more of this Fade business seriously. Certainly, he would do his utmost to ensure that he and the Warden (and the rest of the party, he supposed), emerged alive. But really, if the best it had to offer was counterfeit Crows and a disappear-reappear trick, the Sloth demon might as well give up now. How embarrassing that a dimension held in such reverence by the Chantry was, in fact, the stage for amateur hour. 

If only they knew. 

He wandered in the nauseating mirage-rippling green for a stretch of time he didn’t bother estimating. Though eyes were on him, nothing gave him any trouble, and so he marched unaccosted until he dissolved again (he went much more willingly this time) and reappeared in a clearing with Rhodri and the rest of the party.

And a demon. Of course, how could he forget the demon? 

Though he dared not say it to anyone at the time, Zevran did consider this demon to be quite forgettable. The five of them vanquished the enormous thing with what he would have called mild to moderate elbow grease. Nothing more demanding than the thick end of a multiples contract, really. He’d treat himself to a cask of wine when all this was over.

It only occurred to Zevran when he woke up that the Warden hadn’t used any magic to free him. She was as implausible as his jailors, but she didn’t wake up looking demonic, so it wasn’t as though she had been possessed. Was it a show of power, perhaps? A wordless encouragement for him to toe the line?

It seemed unlikely. He couldn’t imagine why else, though, and put the entire thing out of his head before his stomach could drop any further.

The mage named Niall didn’t survive the departure from the Fade. The only thing that had even vaguely surprised Zevran was that Niall’s physical body hadn’t died sooner. The thought of magic being used to prolong death– and that was all it had been; there was no extension of life in the act of keeping Niall in the Fade– was revolting. Zevran didn’t let himself dwell on it. 

With the Litany in hand (it had been the scroll Niall was clutching!), the party took the stairs, and after making the brief acquaintance of a young, magically-imprisoned Templar who hated demons and mages (in that order), approached the door he was trapped next to.

The Harrowing Chamber (Wynne had named the room behind said door as such while they were climbing the staircase) didn’t sound like a particularly welcoming place. Certainly, given the circumstances of their sweep of the Tower, Zevran hadn’t expected a welcome with lillo flutes and minimally-clad dancers, but would it have killed them to call it something else? The Friendship Chamber? The Chamber of Cooperation? Or, at the very least, the Chamber of Strained Civility? He would have to take this up with a figure of authority later. The Tower was already a miserable place, and this didn’t help the mood at all.

In all fairness, though, the name appeared well-deserved once the door was kicked in and the party was greeted by the sight of yet more mages doing terribly illicit things to other mages with their blood. A tall, bald human in red (of course) robes in particular looked like he was having the time of his life as he suspended a writhing human in mid-air. Zevran presumed the unfortunate fellow to be a key figure of some sort; the other Tower mages all wore either blue, gold, or red robes, and this one was wearing a handsome green set. The First Enchanter, perhaps? Was it Irvine, they said his name was? Ian? … Ibsen?

Said important man fell to the floor, and several other similarly suffering mages in the vicinity relaxed from tortured positions as Rhodri began to bark out something in rhythmic, commanding Tevene. Judging by the expressions of the perpetrators, it didn’t appear that they had meant for that to happen.

The bald man’s gaze snapped over to the party (they were approaching him in a run, after all), and his lip curled.

“Well, well!” he crowed. “And what have we here? The eternal botherer Wynne, and…? Ah!” The man chuckled and shrugged at Rhodri with one hand. “Irving’s star Tranquil, of course. Uldred didn’t think much of either of you then, and I certainly don’t see your appeal, myself.”

Wynne shook her head in disgust. “You always were weak, Uldred. And now look at you!”

“I,” Uldred touched a hand to his chest, “am so much more than Uldred ever was. Mages are but the larval form of something greater, but together Uldred and I have become something glorious.” He smiled broadly. “This could be yours, too, Wynne, you know.”

“Stop him,” the man in green gasped from his heap on the ground. “He… is building… an army…”

Well, that was perfectly obvious. Zevran credited the man that perhaps he had been unconscious for that part of the conversation. It was kind of him to try.

And frankly, it hadn’t looked as though Wynne had been tempted by the offer. In fact, she recoiled a little, looking like she’d be sick if she didn’t steel herself enough.

Rhodri, who had been holding her staff in a white-knuckled grip the entire time, pointed it at Uldred. 

“There will be no negotiation,” she snarled. “You accident. You utter freak–”

“Now, now, there is no need to brandish your stick at me,” Uldred said with a mawkishness that set Zevran’s teeth on edge. “I was trying to have a civil conversation, and here you are–”

A head-sized boulder emerged, somehow, from the tip of the Warden’s staff, which Uldred didn’t manage to entirely dodge as it clipped one of his shoulders.

He gave a grimacing smile, clutching the shoulder with the arm that wasn’t rendered useless.

“All right, then,” he purred. “Negotiations over. Fight if you must!”

Not that anyone had asked his opinion on it, but Zevran was getting tired of the way monsters were either invading or erupting from people’s bodies. If it wasn’t the mages, it was the Templars, or some other unappealing Fade beastie. If he knew the name of the Arl in this part of the country, he’d be writing to them as a concerned (and very inconvenienced) citizen.

He shelved that thought upon remembering the state of the Arl of Redcliffe who was, in fact, the one responsible for this part of the country. Why he had even entertained the thought of a useful noble was beyond him.

Useless and/or dead upper-crust individuals aside, whatever had taken up residence in Uldred’s body had been absolutely right: Uldred was indeed Uldred “but more.” In fact, Zevran would have confidently asserted that it was Uldred plus another. The other resident ended up winning whatever internal battle might have been occurring, because the erstwhile Uldred grew into a frankly enormous creature with arms and legs like tree trunks and enough eyes to make a spider feel inadequate. Horns on the head (of course), and most interestingly, another set coming out of the elbows that were at least three times as long as the cranial ones. The ultimate villainous entity, according to the mumbles of Rhodri and Wynne, was known as a pride demon. 

Wasn’t that just marvellous.

The fight began. They were unquestionably outnumbered, by both blood mages and abominations (though it had to be said that other abominations were lesser than Uldred’s kind. Wasn’t it always the way? One could be great, so long as one didn’t out-great the leader). Alistair, though not a fully consecrated Templar, was still very adept at dispersing some of the blood mages’ harmful magic, and whatever Rhodri was reciting while she sent spell after spell at Uldred seemed to handle the remainder of it. 

Optimism grew as Zevran dipped back into the many shadows around the room, opportunities to take the lackeys abounding as they became absorbed in their spellcasting. In one swift movement, he was out by a pair of blood mages, and with another, he had slit their throats and sent them crumpling to the floor. The victory lent him the rush of energy he needed to slip out of sight again, the only sign of life he gave being a low chuckle as he sent another blood mage to her death. 

He cast his eye around the room when he hid again, and the situation appeared in their favour, if dire on both ends. Only Uldred and two blood mages remained, and the latter of those were clearly exhausted. So, however, was Wynne, and Alistair was also tiring. Rhodri, who had been exclusively fighting against a weakening Uldred, had been going between reading off the Litany and casting spells the entire time, many of them still wavering between invisible and all-too-visible. She either had larger reserves than Wynne, or the chanting had demanded little of her, because she at least seemed to have enough in her to continue for now.

As Zevran prepared to emerge and backstab the mage Wynne was handling, Rhodri caught sight of her flagging and let out a shout of alarm. She shot a spell at the Senior Enchanter and turned back in time to be struck hard in the arm and shoulder by Uldred’s giant hand, and went flying across the floor. 

That changed plans somewhat. Zevran darted out of the shadow to make for her. He turned briefly to slash the neck of Wynne’s blood mage as he did; Rhodri and Uldred were on the other side of the chamber. If Wynne was free to cast, a spell from her would reach them faster than Zevran and his knives. 

It seemed, however, that an exhausted Wynne had taken too long to get her bearings, as no spell came, and Uldred leaned over Rhodri, arm high and ready to deal another blow. 

To his relief, however, Rhodri was sitting up. He heard her growl through gritted teeth as she pointed her staff at the monster and sent a fireball at him that exploded on impact. The resulting energy surge tore through the chamber, blasting those standing off their feet, and sending anyone on the floor into a roll. 

Zevran hadn’t lost consciousness from that– so far as he knew. He remembered hitting the floor with a force that jolted every whisper of air out of his lungs, and he was sure he had landed in the same position he was in now. He didn’t remember feeling quite as much pain in his hip as before, but in all fairness, it was the second part of him to hit the ground.

The memory of the moments before him leaving his feet in the first place was slower to come back. There had been a spell…

His eyes flew open–

An urgent spell…

Zevran looked around wildly and found Rhodri lying on her belly of all things, facing the newer iteration of Uldred (was that bastard still alive?). The latter party, though winded on his knees, was in a decidedly better state than the Warden, whom Zevran could hear gasping for breath even from where he was.

Zevran was on his feet, knives out, in a limping run. His hip was screaming and the Warden still hadn’t managed to peel herself off the floor.

Her name came out of Zevran’s mouth in a shout. “Move back!” He hobbled a little faster, “Rhodri, move back!”

Uldred shambled closer; Rhodri was white as a sheet, drenched with sweat, and not moving back. Or forward. In fact, the only thing she was doing was giving him that apologetic look again, and inducing an unnerving urge to whimper that Zevran would mentally deny when he had a moment to.

Zevran blessed the Maker that he was quicker than either of them. With a growl, he sprang with the better of his legs and in three hacking motions, Uldred’s head was falling in one direction and his body in the other. Neither landed anywhere near the Warden, who had still not managed to so much as raise an arm by the time Zevran was on his knees beside her.

He ducked his head down. “Rhodri?”

A soft, slowly crescendoing hubbub was starting up behind him; he glanced long enough to ascertain that the party and the surviving mages were coming-to, and turned back.

The Warden tilted her head so that her chin was no longer propping her face up, and it flopped down so that one of her ears was against the floor. She looked up at him remorsefully.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered between breaths. “Are you… all right?” Her eyes went down to the hip he hadn’t realised he was rubbing.

Zevran stilled his hand and nodded quickly. “Full of vim and vigour, my Warden,” he soothed. “You seem to be doing less well.”

“I’m fine,” she panted. “Just lost control… of my magic. No mana left. What about… the others?”

He glanced behind him again, mostly to humour her. “Mmm. All well. Five mages are being seen to by Wynne. Alistair and Leliana are coming over now.” Zevran gave a reassuring wave to Wynne, who had caught them between spells and pointed at Rhodri. She nodded and went back to work.

The templar was first to arrive, and he (and then Leliana) were given the same reassurance the Warden had supplied Zevran with.

“Think you overcast on that last spell, Rhod,” Alistair mumbled, taking her limp hand and squeezing it. 

Rhodri sighed. “I did, forgive me. You’re not harmed, you two?”

They both shook their heads. The Warden smiled weakly. “What a relief,” she murmured. “Please, can you take the last of my lyrium and give it to Wynne?”

“What about for you?” Leliana crouched down, and Zevran could have kicked himself as she swept the soaked hair off the Warden’s face. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

Rhodri smiled weakly. “I’m only at risk if I try to cast any more spells. I’ll rest here until I can move again. Nothing to worry about. But please, help the others if you can. Any other potions she needs, you can take from me.”

Alistair shook his head. “Wynne’s got plenty of everything except the magic juice.” He and Leliana took the last of the lyrium out of Rhodri’s satchel and ferried it to Wynne.

Alone again, Rhodri looked over at Zevran. He stretched out on the ground beside her, giving her a cheerful eyebrow waggle. 

He gestured up at the tiny shaft of light coming down on them through the window. “I always did find sunbathing was better with company.”

She gave a wan laugh. “Zev.”

“You called?”

Rhodri’s eyes went back to his hip. “Take a red potion from my satchel and drink it. It’ll give you some relief for that hip.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “And for you…?”

“We can talk about me when you’re attended to.”

Zevran couldn’t help but smile. “No room for debate on that?”

She didn’t smile back. “None.”

“Ah, ah.” He reached into her satchel and pulled out two apple-red potions. “I know when I am defeated. I shall make this quick, then…”

Zevran uncorked the bottle, downed it in a few gulps, and wrinkled his nose a little. “Elfroot. Tastes like bad tea– ah!”

“Don’t scratch,” Rhodri mumbled; Zevran stilled the hand that was getting ready to scrape the bark off his hip.

“Caught me,” he chuckled weakly. “How long does it last…? Oh.” Zevran bounced his legs up and down– perfectly painless and, most importantly, itchless. He let out a sigh of relief. “Not long at all. And now we will attend to you, yes?”

Her face hardened. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“I…” she closed her eyes and puffed out a breath. “You can just leave it there. I’m… not quite spry enough to hold the flask right now.”

Zevran smiled and screwed the stopper out of the flask. “It would be more efficient if we worked together, though, no? We will get back to the children a little faster, sí?”

Rhodri gulped. “I… yes,” she sighed. “Yes, you’re quite right.” Her eyes darted up to him, and away again. “If you have a moment, that would be very kind of you.”

He nodded with a flourish. “My dear Grey Warden, I have all the hours in the day! Now, if I may…?” he reached a hand out near her face. “To steady you, you see.”

She swallowed again, looking rather more like he was about to hit her than assist her. “... Thank you, yes,” she whispered.

Zevran fixed her with a winning smile. “It will be the work of moments,” he assured her, sliding his fingers under her cheek and tilting her head away from the stone. The skin was cool and clammy, smooth as glass, and a perfect, soothing weight in his hand. Did she like to touch other people's faces for that reason?

He stifled the thought as soon as he realised he was having it, bringing the bottle to her mouth and held it steady as the Warden drunk it dry with long, deep draughts.

Her fingers were the first things to move, flexing and tensing, and the rest of her upper body quickly followed suit. It was only when her head left his hands that Zevran realised he had been holding her the entire time.

Rhodri swung upright before the panic could eat him alive, and stretched. Her legs inched around until she was about to stand, and when she was on her feet before him, she extended a hand and pulled him up with her.

She looked down at him with a small, sad smile that made his belly surge into his throat 

“Thank you for being gentle with me,” she said softly. “You’re so kind, Zev. So kind.” She held a hand out near one shoulder, and when he nodded, she took it and squeezed it. “Pretiotus.”

Zevran’s mouth went dry. Precious.

Another squeeze, and she gestured at the rest of the company. Zevran nodded and fell into a numb stroll beside her, hoping he would know to stop walking before an obstacle, like a wall or a sickly mage, would force him to.

Chapter Text

The party went from pillar to post for the rest of the day, with the first stop being straight to the library annexe to check on the survivors. It was hard to believe that it was only early afternoon when they came out, and of the same day, no less. Zevran had found it so implausible that he’d had to ask Pharamond out of the corner of his mouth, and even when he’d been advised that it was indeed only an hour or two past lunch, he shook his head. Every now and again, Alistair would shoot Zevran a glare, and Leliana a smirk. Business as usual, then.

The man in the green robes (he was the First Enchanter!) had taken Rhodri into his office shortly after. Rhodri had emerged some ten minutes later with a distinctly glazed look, and shambled over to where Zevran, Alistair, and Leliana were waiting for her.

“You all right?” Alistair asked worriedly. “You look like you’re about to keel over.”

Her eyes stayed fixed on a window behind him. “My mother,” she whispered. “She’s alive. My father found her.”

Her hands pattered against her legs for the first time since this whole dreadful business had started. Weakly, but the motion was unmistakable. Some part of Zevran wanted to cheer.

§

The mages’ request for a funeral was denied by the Knight-Commander. In a small act of rebellion, the remaining adults and teenagers flocked to the Chantry and prayed there, denying orders to bring the Circle into a fit state again. 

Zevran overheard the Greagoir issue an order to the remaining Templars to ‘strongly encourage’ the mages to return to work cleaning up. Half the Templars pretended to see nothing when they walked past the Chantry, and the other half followed the orders to the deliberately unspecified letter. Zevran had caught one Templar, a stout fellow with flaming red hair, distracting the latter of these from entering the Chantry several times before he was called away by the Knight-Commander.

When the mages had been driven out of the Chantry and the door was locked, they sang familiar Andrastian dirges where they worked. The clean, scattered voices bounced down the stone corridors, some singing in harmonic, others descant, often punctuated by heaving sobs. It was one of the most haunting things Zevran had ever heard.

Rhodri had announced to the party that she, at the very least, would not be leaving the Tower until her students had learned a serviceable portion of the Litany of Adralla by heart. Zevran seemed to recall that a ‘serviceable portion’ was a short paragraph or two.

He, Alistair, and Leliana had elected to stay with the Warden, and an enthusiastic remark from Leliana ended up volunteering them to assist the class with the memorisation. Rhodri had insisted that all attendees wash their face and hands at the very least, and change their clothes if possible, before the lesson began. 

This request of the class, he noticed, gave the party enough time to locate an untouched classroom and to set up a small, communal lunch that the fresh-faced class fell onto like wolves once re-assembled. (The party also had a handful of minutes that allowed them to freshen up themselves– even for Rhodri to re-emerge in a clean, black robe. Were children always so slow to do things?) 

The party sat down among the students, most of whom squabbled to sit near the Warden, and Tara and Georgie, who had slipped into the classroom, took some of the children and sat them down with them. The young girl who had shared her cookies with Zevran had caught sight of him as she made for the Warden. She stopped dead in her tracks, marched over to where he sat, and plonked herself down beside him.

Her little hand reached up and clapped him on the back. “I’ll sit with you, Uncle,” she advised benignly. “Is Rhodri your teacher outside, too? Or are you new?”

Zevran chewed his cheek to dissuade his mirth from betraying him. “I am brand-new,” he declared after a moment. “I do hope she’ll go easy on me.”

She nodded. “She’s really nice. But if you act too silly, she’ll give you a look,” the girl hooked a finger into one of her eyebrows and hitched it up. “Like this, see? That’s when you have to stop.”

He hummed with plausible seriousness. “Good to know.”

With everyone seated, the Warden got to her feet.

“Stelliculae? Are we ready? This is important, so you’ll need to pay attention.”

The class (adult party members included), answered that they were. 

“Are y’back for good now, Rhodri?” A boy spoke up from Tara’s lap.

She shook her head. “I’m not, no. There’s… a lot happening outside the Tower. Dangerous creatures are wandering the country, and your uncles and auntie and I are out to stop them.”

The girl beside Zevran gasped. “But Ma and Papa’s farm is out there!” 

Rhodri nodded. “That’s right, Martha. That’s why we’ll have to go again soon. We know how to kill them, see? You’re much safer in the Tower than out there–”

“There were monsters in here, too!” another girl protested. “They could come back!”

A handful of assenters spoke up, quickly forming a high-pitched din.

The Warden held up a hand. “Stelliculae. Stelliculae. Please give me your time.”

The class fell silent again. She smiled and nodded.

“Thank you. Nobody is entirely wrong. There are monsters outside, and there were monsters inside, too. And today I’m going to show you the best way to stop the indoor ones from ever forming.” She straightened up. “Who remembers what we learned about blood magic?”

Several hands shot up. One girl didn’t wait to be chosen, shouting out, “Don’t do it!”

“Absolutely right,” Rhodri nodded. “Remember to wait until you’re called on next time please, stellicula, but Cosima is correct. Why, then, Cosima? Why don’t we do blood magic?”

“It’s dangerous.”

“Right again. What’s so dangerous about blood magic? Who knows?”

The boy in Tara’s lap threw his hand up again, and when chosen, loudly announced, “They steal yr brain an’ a demon eats it! I seen it happen!”

Half the class tittered, the other half vehemently agreed.

“That’s not what happened,” Martha spoke up now. She looked at the boy with the weariness of an overworked tax collector; Zevran was quite sure something inside him everted itself from suppressing the urge to laugh.

“Oh?” Rhodri gave a gesture of invitation. “So what do you say happened, stellicula?”

Martha sat up straight and cleared her throat. “They summoned a demon, is what happened.” She paused, face scrunching into a frown before quickly adding, “and then the demon ate his brain! And without his brain, he turned into an abomination.”

That answer won far more concession than the boy’s had. How Rhodri was keeping a straight face during all this was a mystery.

It took the Warden several tries to get everyone on the right track regarding the particulars of blood magic, mind control, and demonic possession (especially between several enthusiastic chains of jokes about brains and the lack thereof), but they got there in the end. When she was satisfied, she produced the Litany from her pocket.

“And this is what keeps them at bay.” She opened the scroll and held her fingers an inch apart. “We need to memorise about this much of the Litany today, and I want you to try and memorise even more in your free time, yes? We’ll make a game of it.”

The class nodded and shuffled a little closer to her.

Zevran had been called a clever boy enough times to know it was true. None of the other children had taught themselves to read. They called the clavícula the ‘shoulder bone’, as though there was only the one bone in that area, and books, they had decided, were boring, even though they’d never touched one. It was lonely.

In the backmost part of the whorehouse yard, where an orange tree dropped fruit that the bats got to first, there was a gap in the terra cotta fence, just big enough for a curious child to peer through. Zevran rarely ventured out into the rest of the Alienage; he and the other whorehouse children weren’t allowed outside unsupervised, and there was rarely leisure time permitting an accompanied excursion.

The crack in the fence looked out onto the main road through the Alienage, and on the other side of the road was a room with a handful of children, some older than him, some younger. They sat in a circle, with books in their lap and an adult walking around in the middle. A school, Cristofania had called it, not for whorehouse boys and girls. When Zevran had asked why, she changed the topic.

In the quieter moments of the day, Zevran liked to creep out and, partially under the guise of raking leaves or picking up the bat-ravaged remains of the fallen oranges, steal glimpses through the fence. The children had different coloured books depending on their ages; three different colours, at least. Some of the children grew into a different colour; others stayed the same. 

Today, a smaller, dark-haired girl had graduated to a red book, and was reading from the first page in front of everyone. She looked to be his age; the envy made Zevran’s chest ache.

“Zevran.”

He froze. A hand went onto his shoulder and turned him around. Cristofania was watching him with a raised eyebrow.

“I was raking the leaves,” he said quickly, gesturing at the neat little pile by his feet. “And collecting the peels.”

She looked at the leaves, then back at him. “And you were looking at the school again.”

Zevran stayed silent, curling into himself despite his efforts to keep his body straight.

Something between Cristofania’s brows softened. She gestured at the leaves.

“You’ve been a good boy today,” she said briskly. “Come inside, amorcito. Renata has a little time now. Going to take the charcoal and draw the back muscles on Amador, hmm?”

A surge of excitement put some posture back into him. “I can watch?” he breathed.

“Mmm, and this time you can ask two questions,” she held up two fingers, “once she’s done. Come now, inside. Don’t keep her waiting.”

Zevran dragged Cristofania back indoors by the hand. She chuckled from behind him and squeezed his hand tightly; the envy fell away.

Being in a classroom was an odd experience. Zevran half-expected Enchanter Rhodri to wave him out, distract him with orders to kill or clean armour, or simply tell him to his face that his place was not among academic learners.

Nothing happened. In preparation for a promised memory game, Rhodri had started guiding the class through the first lines she had written on the chalkboard, clapping to the rhythm of a song everyone appeared to know except him. The children were clapping and repeating her, the teenagers were participating… even Alistair and Leliana were joining in as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

That meant, then, that Zevran was the odd one out, and did not belong here. A pervasive, heavy cold settled in his limbs, under his eyes, pulled his chin down toward his chest like lead. 

And then a nudge to the elbow scattered it. Zevran raised an eyebrow and looked at the source; Martha was watching him expectantly. 

She leaned toward him. “You need to join in, Uncle,” she whispered solemnly, “or you’ll never learn it. Are you shy?”

Him? Shy?

He chewed his cheek, praying the amusement wasn’t bleeding through, and shook his head.

“No-one’s going to laugh at you,” she assured him. “Rhodri doesn’t stand for that. Just try.”

She wouldn’t stop looking at him until Zevran, at a loss to do anything else, joined in the clapping and mumbled made-up lyrics as he went. That appeared to satisfy the girl; she turned back to the board.

The game started; everyone went in a circle, repeating one word each, all the way down to the end of the first paragraph. The Warden was generous with praise for success. Mistakes were coaxed into the correct answer, which was then lauded like they had been correct all along. The second paragraph was memorised, the game went again, and the bag of cookies was passed around afterward until it was empty. 

Rhodri’s triumphant smile didn’t quite meet her eyes the entire time. She clapped her hands once.

“Marvellous. I want you to repeat it in the morning over breakfast, and at night before you go to sleep. Leave this up on the board until you’ve written it down, yes?”

“We will,” they echoed.

Rhodri nodded once. “Good. Well, I think it’s about time we stretched our legs, sic? Let’s go to the stockroom, then, pay a visit to Owain and Pharamond.”

Zevran crawled with shame as the suggestion evoked what appeared to be genuine, pleased anticipation in the students. Even the teenagers, Tara and Georgie, were smiling as they climbed to their feet. In the hopes of dispelling guilt over the enthusiasm he couldn’t summon, he glanced over at Alistair and Leliana. Their smiles had a sad, strained tinge to them; he decided to forgive himself.

There had been a short period as Rhodri ducked out of the classroom– to ensure, Zevran presumed, that the way to the stockroom wasn’t still strewn with corpses. The sound of doors closing grew louder until the white-faced Warden was back in the classroom, beckoning everyone out.

In front of the stockroom, Owain stepped out and watched the group blankly. 

Zevran’s stomach dropped as soon as the empty voice addressed them.

“Welcome to the Circle’s stockroom of magical items. My name is Owain. How may I assist you?”

The Warden’s smile was genuine. “Owain, hello. We were learning about using the Litany of Adralla today.” She produced the scroll from her pocket and held it out to him.

“We memorised two paragraphs!” A copper-haired girl announced proudly.

Owain took this declaration, as well as the Litany itself, with a nod. “The Litany will prevent mind control related to blood magic,” he said simply.

The class issued various agreements and fell silent again.

“We’re hoping,” Rhodri pressed on, “to learn where to access the Litany in case of an emergency, like we’ve had here. Could we come in, please, a few at a time, and you can show us where it’s normally kept?”

“Yes. The stockroom should be sufficiently clean to enter,” Owain said. “Pharamond and I have removed all of the broken glass now.” He paused and looked over the class. “Please come in four at a time.”

Rhodri and three children accompanied him inside without hesitation. Zevran could hear them asking questions about how to reach, what the stick beside it was, why that bottle was green, and everything was answered.

They emerged; another group off three and the teacher went in with the same results, then another, and then several more. 

Martha squeezed Zevran’s hand as Rhodri came out and beckoned to her.

“Come on, Uncle.” She tugged on his arm. “It’s our turn.”

Alistair and Leliana hadn’t gone in; wasn’t this for the children’s reference?

Martha, as if sensing his hesitation, watched him patiently. “You don’t have to be afraid of the Tranquil mages,” she advised. “They just don’t feel things. You won’t catch it.”

Mortified, Zevran followed her in, and the girl smiled. “See? It’s not so bad. And Owain’s really nice. He’s just…” she paused, scrunching her face thoughtfully. “... Calm, that’s all.”

“Just calm,” he echoed under his breath. 

When everyone, including Alistair and Leliana had had a turn seeing the Litany, they thanked the stockroom mages and returned to the classroom. Outside in the corridor, Wynne stood waiting with a largish bag in tow.

Rhodri frowned. Before she could get a word out, Wynne declared that she would be coming with the group. 

Alistair’s brows shot up. “You want to… ah–?” 

“One moment, please,” Rhodri requested with an affectionate squeeze to his shoulder. She directed the children into the classroom with the announcement that there would be free time now (“and no dares on who can eat the most window spiders, if you please!” she called after them).

Wynne looked around behind the Warden. “Where are your things, Rhodri? Haven’t you taken anything from your room yet?”

Rhodri blinked. “My things? Well, no, we’ve been with the children all afternoon,” she gestured in the direction of the classroom. “They’ve learned the first two paragraphs of the Litany in case of a repeat even. Why, is there any need to rush?”

“We would do better not to linger,” she urged. “The children will grow used to you again very quickly, and the longer you spend with them, the bigger the disruption will be when you finally go.”

The Warden’s eyes widened. “We hadn’t planned on staying weeks, Wynne,” she murmured imploringly. “One night, perhaps, to help them settle, and maybe leave after lunch tomorrow.”

Wynne shook her head. “Today would be best. Now, even.” The Senior Enchanter was unmoved by Rhodri’s protesting stutter. She folded her arms and glanced over at the rest of the party.

Leliana took the hint immediately. With a careful touch to Alistair and Zevran’s shoulders, she nodded at the classroom. “Come, we should give them a moment. We can play a game with the children, no?”

Rhodri frowned. “You don’t have to leave. We’re just talking–”

“I think Wynne would like to speak to you alone,” Leliana soothed. She offered a small, kind smile and squeezed the Warden’s arm. “We will not be far away. Come and get us when you are finished, hmm?”

Rhodri tensed, one hand fisting her robes and kneading them between her fingers. She rocked forward on her feet until she stood on her toes, rising and dropping until a pointed look from the Senior Enchanter made her fall still. 

Zevran looked away from Wynne before the prickle in his guts could flash to a boil, opting to shoot a smile at the now pink-cheeked Warden.

“Or perhaps one of us could stay,” he offered lightly, “if you would rather have company, my Grey Warden.” Zevran winked. “I happen to be an excellent addition to any conversation.”

The Warden stiffened, her face almost the colour of wine now. Her head tipped down until her chin was almost on her chest before she straightened up again.

“No,” she said firmly. “Ah. That is, no thank you, Zev. I should, ah… no, it’s all right.” 

“No?” He nodded obligingly. “As you like. We will await your call, then.”

§

In the classroom, Alistair and Leliana had rounded up all willing children to play something Alistair called ‘Silly Messages,’ which sounded very much like a game he had made up on the spot. In all fairness to the Templar, however, it had been quite a success. The group sat in a circle (naturally) and Alistair whispered a message to whoever sat on his right. The message was passed on in a whisper, going around the circle until it had come back to him, and was invariably different (and sometimes nonsensical) when compared to the original. 

The game had been a good idea, for the most part. It required quite some concentration, and the children were happy enough to whisper among themselves while they awaited their turn. Magesong still echoed vaguely, even from behind the closed door, and despite electing to sit as near as he could to the door to listen for any concerning noises from the Warden, Zevran caught nothing until the end of their fifth round.

The message Zevran had just passed on, so far as he knew, was, “I tripped on a nug and ate open cheese,” and the Warden’s insistent, damn-near pleading voice briefly drowned out the whispers.

“Of course I knew they would die, Wynne. What hope did they have?”

Wynne’s voice grew audible and firm, “Then you ought to have more understanding for whoever will be left handling the aftermath of your coddling when you depart today. Again. ”

“An absence of neglect is not coddling!”

“If you are to be a leader, Enchanter Amell, you must learn to control yourself. Your impulsive spellcasting and urge to parent anything younger than you are plentiful evidence of that.”

Alistair cleared his throat and, with a little more volume than usual, announced that the original message was, “I slipped on the rug and hit both my knees,” which to Zevran sounded like an odd sentence to begin with. Did people play this game sober?

The children, most of whom had paused to listen to the discussion outside, appeared not to have heard Alistair, and quickly snapped-to as the door opened. 

Rhodri strode in with her shoulders back and Wynne following closely behind. She regarded the students with a smile first, and then the party.

“More free time, stelliculae,” she announced evenly. “We have an errand to run and will be back in a little while. Please stay in here and amuse yourselves while the others are cleaning, sic? There are adults outside you can call for if you need anything.” She turned to the party. “Uncles, Auntie, if you’d come with me, please.”

§

“What’s going on, Rhod?” Alistair asked as the party, now including Wynne, swept down the corridor.

“We have one more errand to do,” Rhodri replied, “and then while that’s happening, I’ll take the last of my things and we will–” she gulped– “say our goodbyes.”

She led the party down to the Great Doors (which were now much better lit, and not strewn with bits of mage), where Greagoir stood issuing orders to anyone within talking distance. His lip curled as his gaze snapped onto the approaching Warden.

Rhodri pulled up in front of him with her shoulders back and, though the difference in height was minimal, angled her head so that she gave the impression of looking down on him.

“I suppose you’ve come for those troops I promised you,” Greagoir said, raising an eyebrow. “Well–”

“As a matter of fact,” Rhodri cut him off, “I haven’t.”

His other eyebrow went up. “Oh?”

“I already have the First Enchanter’s assurance that the Circle is ready and willing to assist, so I thought I’d be generous and decline your offer of an entire consignment.”

The Knight-Commander inclined his head lightly. “Well, that is very generous of you, Warden–”

“I’ll be recruiting you instead.”

A series of admonishments issued from Wynne and Alistair (and Greagoir, of course, whose face was now contorting into all manner of enraged expressions). Even the Templars standing within earshot were mumbling uncomfortably.

Rhodri held up a hand to silence them. “You are precisely what the Grey Wardens are looking for, Greagoir. Devoted to a cause, no matter the cost. Protecting the innocent folk of Ferelden whom you’re willing to lay your life down for.” She tilted her chin a little further up, a blank, disdaining look sitting on her face like wax. “I couldn’t give you a higher honour.”

Greagoir’s nose wrinkled in a snarl. “You cannot just whisk away a Knight-Commander to serve the Wardens on a whim, Amell!”

“Oh, I absolutely can,” she shrugged. “And in case you think you can evade the call, let me make myself perfectly clear.

“Knight-Commander Greagoir,” she announced, her voice clear as a bell, “as the senior Magewarden of Ferelden, I hereby conscript you into the Grey Warden fold, effective immediately. Should you refuse conscription, I will have no choice but to execute you.”

Greagoir was hissing something about the impossibility of this; Rhodri spoke over him without a single hitch. 

“As of this moment, you are relieved of your Templar title and duties, and owing to the political neutrality of the organisaton, you are forbidden from bearing or using any and all items bearing Chantry insignia. You have exactly fifteen minutes to remove all of your Templar armour and be back here with all possessions and travelling items you intend to take with you–”

“Fifteen?” Greagoir protested. “This is a full suit, Amell, and the travelling supplies are in the basement!”

“Then you had best ask someone to assist you,” Rhodri replied coldly. “Fifteen minutes. Get to it.”

The (now erstwhile) Knight-Commander appeared to be stifling something- what, precisely, Zevran couldn’t tell, but the effort was giving life to a vein in his temple that was growing more prominent by the moment. With a sniff, he signalled to one of the other Templars, who hastily followed him out of the hall.

The Warden approached the redheaded Templar who had tried to keep his coworkers from entering the Chantry, who stood a little way off. He had been quiet throughout Greagoir’s conscription and now watched Rhodri with a calm, curious expression.

Rhodri inclined her head to him. “My apologies, Knight-Commander Bradley, for the suddenness of your promotion,” she said politely. “I hope you understand that it wasn’t my intention to add to your stress.”

The fellow smiled and shook his head. “We’re expected to step up at a moment’s notice, Warden,” he said good-naturedly, if a little wearily. “I’d best excuse myself, though. Not sure if the Kn— Greagoir, that is, finished calling off the Annulment, and that won’t keep.”

The Warden held up her hands. “Please, don’t let me hold you up. Ah– one thing, though, Knight-Commander.”

“Mm?”

“The younger students have been learning the Litany of Adralla and have a serviceable portion of it memorised now. I expect this won’t happen again any time soon. I have good faith that they will not want to see a repeat of today.”

A weak smile came to the new Knight-Commander. He nodded once, and left.

When the Warden had excused herself and returned with another, smaller bag of possessions, the party was invited to say goodbye to the students. Zevran had almost declined the offer, but the thought of his would-be niece taking offence motivated him to choose otherwise. 

With the way the younger children (the older two were nowhere to be seen) carried on during said goodbyes, though, he almost wished he’d followed through and refused. 

Zevran had managed to follow Cristofania’s orders to keep calm as she strapped his mother’s gloves to his sides and then put a coat on him. He sniffled a little when his shoes went on, but a sharp look from her silenced him. When she slipped her battered wooden comb into his small bag, the words fell out before he could stop them.

“I don’t want to–”  

“No.”

She took him by his hand and led him down to the front room, where a woman with a deep frown was sitting and nursing a glass of wine. Zevran didn’t recognise her; the brothel had enough women visitors, but none with tattoos on their face. 

Her eyes snapped onto him, and he froze.

“No–”

“Zevran,” Cristofania’s voice hardened. “Go to her.”

Zevran shook his head and turned away, burying his face in Cristofania’s skirts. He wrapped his arms as far around her legs as they could go. 

She grabbed his wrists and pulled them off, dropping a brief kiss to his crown. “Zevran…” she murmured warningly.

“No-no-no-no-no,” his voice raised to a shriek. “Tell her no–” 

A sharp smack to the back of his legs forced a sob out of him, and he snapped her skirts up in his fists. “I’ll be good, no please–”

There was a scramble. Footsteps from behind, another stinging slap to the legs, a hand wrenching material out from the grip of his curled fingers; Zevran screamed.

A hand shot under his mouth, pressing a cloth that smelled of alcohol into his nose, and in two breaths, everything went black.

Zevran stood as close as he could to the door without looking impolite, letting his gaze wander between bookshelves as the crying started up. The students were protesting and wailing and wailing and protesting, and Zevran heaved a sigh for all the good it did them. 

“Uncle.” 

Zevran steeled himself and looked down at only half-unexpected visitor, and she looked back up at him. 

He smiled. “Ah, Martha! You will keep practicing the Litany each night, yes?”

Her lip wobbled a little; she nodded. “D’you really hafta go, though?”

“I do,” he nodded back. “There are all manner of nasty things out there, and we must keep your Ma and Papa safe on the farm, no?”

“C’n I come?”

“Not this time, no.” He shook his head. “You must work hard here first, make good, strong spells–”

Zevran was cut off as the girl threw her arms around him, all but launching her head into his midriff as she did. His astonishment rendered him useless until a beat passed and he was able to summon a friendly laugh and give her a small squeeze back.

He took her by the shoulders and held her out in front of him, shooting her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. 

“You will work hard here, yes? And if I see your Ma and Papa, I will tell them how good you have been.”

She sniffled and nodded. “You won’t forget me?”

Zevran chuckled. “Forget you? Ah, you are toying with me, Martha! You must be famous by now. Everyone knows you!”

Martha wiped under her eyes. “A little bit famous, yeah.”

“There, see? What a question.” In the corner of his eye, Rhodri was beckoning him to follow her (and the league of children still attached to her robes). He sighed. “And now I must go, but it has been very good to see you. Thank you for taking good care of me.”

Zevran found himself wishing he had some small thing to leave with the girl as her eyes filled with water. What a thing it was to travel light. He compromised and pat her head, and left it at that.

Rhodri was the last out of the classroom (she had fallen prey several times over to the ‘one more hug’ trick), and stood in the hallway with a clenched jaw and unsteady breaths. She attempted to address the party several times but dissolved into a coughing fit whenever she began to speak. By the fourth time, she was stable enough to get a few sentences out.

“We should go,” she said in a strangled voice. “S’been close to fifteen minutes.”

Zevran, Alistair, and Leliana shared a glance (Alistair’s was, of course, another scowl when his eyes met Zevran’s) and nodded.

Halfway to the front hall, the party was stopped by the two older students.

“We just saw Greagoir walking around without armour,” Tara said, her eyes like saucers. “Is he–?”

Rhodri nodded. “You’ll be under the watchful eye of Knight-Commander Bradley now.”

Georgie laughed breathlessly, and gave her a small shove. “You did it, Rhodri. You really did it!”

“I told you I would. Have I ever lied to you?”

They shook their heads.

“It won’t be perfect, I know,” Rhodri said after a moment. “Better than it ever has been, though, I think.” She nodded in the direction of the classroom. “Keep an eye on the small ones, yes? For me?”

The request was met with nods and ‘of courses’ said with all the certainty in the world. It seemed to be enough. 

“We’re going now–”

“Now?” the boy echoed.

Rhodri nodded once. 

At the first hint of emotion in either of the teenagers, Zevran preoccupied himself with adjusting and re-adjusting the buckle on his poisons belt. It would have to be replaced soon; after a good decade of service it was falling to pieces, and it wouldn’t do to have twelve vials of lethal materials crashing around his feet with no notice.

The students left them, eventually, for the classroom, and Rhodri guided them (now with Greagoir in tow) outside and into the boat. The sun was hanging onto the horizon by the skin of its teeth, and Carroll rowed them through the scarlet water without a word.

Wynne sat at the front of the boat, facing away from the party, and Greagoir sat behind her. In the wider middle, Zevran sat beside Rhodri, and behind them, Alistair and Leliana sat with their arms around each other. Alistair had borrowed Rhodri’s spare bag of clothes to give Leliana an arm rest. The late afternoon chill had set in, almost crisp enough to be instantly uncomfortable; Zevran didn’t dare ask Alistair for one of the robes. He huffed a small, rueful sigh and forced himself into a fitful sleep.

“Zev.” A hand carefully nudged his shoulder before his eyes could finish opening. “... Zev?”

Zevran’s eyes flickered open. Whether or not he had actually slept was debatable, but the sky was dark, and in the weak moonlight, Rhodri was watching him carefully. She slid a little closer to him.

“You’re shivering.” She held a hand out. “May I use a little magic to warm you up?”

After today’s display of magical exhaustion, it was hard to know if the Warden was terribly forgetful, or simply had a death wish. Could she even make her fingers glow without keeling over?

Zevran had no interest in finding out. He sat up and gave her a roguish grin. 

“Do not trouble yourself, my Grey Warden,” he shook his head gently. “No need for spellcasting on Zevran, no ser!”

Rhodri’s eyes widened. Her hand darted back, and she slid away again. “Of course,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry, of course I understand… ah…” Her fingers wrung themselves until she glanced at Wynne, and fell still again.

“Ah,” she said after a moment. “You can’t just freeze. Here…” 

Zevran’s eyes widened as Rhodri undid the fasteners on her robe and pulled it off.

“Ah, my Warden,” he began. “No need to–”

“It’s– it’s all right.” She held out the robe to him; his eyes darted down to her arms, bunched sleeves and bare skin and bafflingly thick muscles sitting like a caricature over thin bones. Zevran swallowed and lifted his gaze. 

“The robe, it’s– it isn’t enchanted,” she pressed, her cheeks going scarlet. “No magic, I promise, but you’ll be warm in it. And I don’t get cold in weather like this.”

He chuckled weakly. “Ah, but your modesty laws. You are not uncomfortable?”

Rhodri shook her head. “It’s– don’t worry, I’m fully clothed, so it’s–it’s not so bad. I can roll down my sleeves and– and–” she hurriedly jostled her sleeves down and brought the robe closer to him. “It’s not for you to worry about anyway,” she shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. Please, just take it. I–I–I,” she paused and took a breath, watching him pleadingly. “I can’t fix it any other way, and–and you need to stay warm. Please let me help you.”

Zevran took the robe before the urge to hurl himself into the winy water overtook him completely. Rhodri looked relieved that he had, and with the sudden warmth creeping back into his skin, Zevran at least physically felt relieved. 

He summoned enough brains to mumble his thanks to her. A tentative smile crept into the corners of her mouth. Her hand left her lap and moved toward his shoulder, only to be ripped back when she seemed aware it had moved. 

She nodded quickly, apologetically. “Always, Zev.” 

Zevran caught the breathlessness in his laugh and didn’t like it. He yawned and with a nod, curled into himself, pretending to be asleep until he managed to pull it off properly.

Chapter Text

When Zevran was woken up, the boat was approaching the ramshackle dock. The Warden was wearing another robe, Alistair was wearing his scowl, and the others fell to the wayside. It was hard to know how late it was in the evening; Zevran doubted it had gotten completely dark too long ago.

It took another hour to reach the camp, by which time Wynne was exhausted enough to fall asleep by the fire while Rhodri, Zevran, and Alistair worked to set up her tent. Greagoir was left to set up his tent alone (or, rather, the act of Rhodri staring at him as she worked appeared to inspire a burning need to work alone and at great distance from her). Sten, Shale, Morrigan, who had already eaten, had gone to their own parts of the camp by the time the party had arrived. 

Another short while passed as Zevran watched on (mostly to monitor for imminent spellcasting exhaustion) as the Warden applied what seemed to be some sort of magically-summoned sealant and heat treatment to Wynne’s tent. Insulation, he guessed. When Rhodri had finished the job and then taken the cowhide from her own tent into Wynne’s, she called it ready, and Wynne was asleep in it not long after, even forgoing dinner.

The silence around the fire as the others ate was impressively loud. Alistair and Leliana had, for the most part, stared grimly into the distance as they spooned their stew into themselves. On occasion, one would sigh, which prompted the other to watch them worriedly. They were exhausting. 

Greagoir was making a career of glaring at his dinner, and occasionally glaring at the Warden when the stew had, presumably, been sufficiently intimidated. Said Warden met his gaze without fail every time it happened, and her eyes stayed trained on the former Knight-Commander long after he inevitably gave in and looked away. Zevran knew that look, that incalculable, cold scrutiny as the beholder pondered what to do with the object of its gaze. At a guess, Rhodri had brought Greagoir out of the Tower to kill him, and Zevran couldn’t help hoping she would ask him for tips.

Predictably enough, the former Knight-Commander was the next to retire. Leliana went up a nearby hill with the dog. Rhodri took the empty bowls and excused herself (“My Warden,” Zevran said, making to take them from her. She held them away, shook her head, and made for the creek). That left Zevran and Alistair alone, and the glaring started anew.

Zevran affixed a smirk and waggled his eyebrows with absolutely no conviction. “You have been making eyes at me for quite some time now, Alistair,” he purred. “I knew you couldn’t resist me. Tell me, have you been dreaming about me?”

Alistair somehow managed to both stiffen and loosen up enough to rise to his feet. He strode over and bent down in front of Zevran.

“You listen to me,” he said quietly. “I don't know what sort of angle you have with Rhodri, but I'm warning you: leave her alone. You shouldn't be trying to seduce her at all, but especially not now. D’you understand me?”

Zevran raised his eyebrows. “Seduce her?”

“Oh, as though anyone's missed you flirting with her.” Alistair pointed a strong finger straight at Zevran’s chest. “You might not have noticed– you might not even care , but she's grieving. There’s no way anyone goes through what she did today and doesn’t come out of it heartbroken. Don’t you dare prey on that to get her into your bed.”

Zevran didn’t quite manage to stifle his offended snort. “It may surprise you to hear it, my friend, but I have no interest in exploiting our dear Grey Warden. In fact, I stopped flirting with her quite some time ago–”

“Bullshit! You think I didn't see the way you've been sneaking glances at her today? Making those faces at her while you fed her that potion?”

“I was looking with my normal face, let me assure you,” he answered with forced smoothness. “I cannot help any allure I might have at rest.” 

Alistair’s glower deepened. Zevran couldn’t help but smirk a little as he added, “But when you put it so very forcefully, one cannot help but wonder if there isn't a little territorialism behind all that bravado, no? Have no fear, if you desire Rhodri, be assured I will not stand in your way.”

“She is my best friend!” Alistair snarled. “She’s called me her brother! Maker's bloody breath, is sex all you ever think about? Are you seriously incapable of feeling any sort of affection? Real, proper love?”

Zevran felt his face harden enough to shatter. He chanced raising an eyebrow anyway.

Alistair folded his arms and looked down on Zevran the way he inspected dying farm animals. 

“I pity you, Zevran,” he said after a moment. “But I don't pity you enough not to beat you into next week if you try your shit on Rhodri at a weak spot. Don't think I won't,” he shook his head. “Don't think I won't.”

The Templar walked away to Leliana’s hill without a backwards glance, and Zevran was left to soak in his shame.

§

At some point or another, the Warden re-materialised by Morrigan’s rag fortress. She offered something– it looked like the book she had requisitioned from the First Enchanter’s office– to the witch, who snapped it up eagerly. Prize in hand, Morrigan plopped with uncharacteristic gracelessness back down onto the log she had occupied, and by the time she glanced up from the tome to speak, Rhodri was already walking away. Morrigan watched her leave, and if Zevran wasn’t mistaken, the witch looked disappointed.

From the corner of Zevran’s eye, Leliana was coming down from the hill, leaving Alistair and Jeppe sitting under the bleak moonlight. She was halfway down when Rhodri crossed her path and stopped her. At that distance, Zevran couldn’t hear what was being said, and there was no real reason to even observe the interaction beyond the habitual monitoring of the Warden’s whereabouts.

For the sake of ensuring his protector’s safety, of course.

There was more touching than speaking, at least on Rhodri’s part. Leliana looked like she was moments away from going to pieces entirely as she spoke, and the Warden’s hands were on her shoulders, on her cheeks, wiping under her eyes. Nodding along. She took Leliana’s hands in her own and kissed them, left-right-left-right, and Leliana threw her arms around the Warden. Zevran didn't know what to think of it, but Rhodri returned the embrace, which surely meant she , at least, wasn't endangered. 

And then, the two parted ways and the Warden did the exact same thing to Alistair. Baffling. The templar grew teary, and there was a lot of burying of his face into her shoulder and clinging onto her back. Still, when all was said and done, and kisses were administered to his head and hands, they parted with the calmness of a wave leaving the shore. 

There wasn't much to muse on, there. The Warden had friends, and she was doing whatever it was friends did. Real, proper love. Not for him, then. 

Zevran’s guts wrenched a little; he sighed bitterly and took up poking the fire. The night was patchy and bleak, with barely a star to its name, but sparks pirouetted up and out from the embers when Zevran prodded them hard enough, and made for decent substitutes when all was said and done. The tip of his poking stick glowed like rage and the new wood spat and hissed. It was all mysteriously gratifying.

A heavy, even footfall gave away Rhodri's approach. Zevran refused to give a moment's attention to the urge to see if it was for him. As though his turn for affection was coming. Stupid, heartsick Crow, always craving what was never meant for him. That weak, soft little heart drifting around with its hands out, begging and begging and begging–

"Zev?" Rhodri stood off to one side of him with her hands behind her back, watching him like she was half-expecting him to scramble to his feet and cave her skull in.

His body straightened him up, and Zevran added the smile himself. "You called?"

Her eyes darted up to his for a short moment, soft and grey and– well, the colour was unimportant. When had eye colour ever been relevant to the manner in which eye contact was conducted? 

Never, was the answer. He looked at her nose instead.

“I… ah…” Rhodri paused, resting her fist over her mouth for a moment. She swallowed. “I need water.” 

Without another word, she quickly turned and departed for the creek, leaving Zevran to sit there on his log and watch after her. What else was there to do? She wanted to speak to him, but thirst had overtaken. That was all right. Zevran knew thirst, and the way it could creep up on a person.

In fact, he was thirsty, too. Right there and then. Dreadful, terrible thirst, the kind that made the fingers itch and feet burn. Couldn’t be ignored a moment longer. 

He followed her. 

Behind the hill obscuring the creek from the camp, the Warden kneeled by the bank, scooping the water up in her hands and plunging her face into it. She gulped it down loud enough to hear even from where Zevran stood a handful of paces away, scrubbing her face like fury, and once her mouth was unobstructed, Rhodri hissed a string of profanities and threw the rest of the water back into the creek.  

Zevran took a few steps forward, almost within stabbing distance of her, and how in the name of sanity was she still unaware of him? He made a point of crunching a leaf underfoot, and (at last) she spun around with her teeth bared and face dripping, a white-hot flame already crackling in the palm of her hand. The flame was hot enough to sting a little, even from his distance; Zevran took a step back with his hands up, and Rhodri–

Froze.

She gasped; the flame went out instantly. 

"I'm sorry!" She looked at her hands and then at him, that pleading look all over her face again; Zevran stayed as he was.

Rhodri tucked her hands behind her back and shuffled a step away from him.

“You’re afraid of me,” she whispered, quickly adding, “I understand! I do. After the way I acted in front of you in the Fade, why wouldn’t you be?”

This wasn’t the right time for astonishment or bafflement, especially when expressions of such were easily confused for fear. Zevran’s eyebrows rose nonetheless, and the Warden looked stricken about it. Her hands reappeared, thumbs wringing fingers half to death, and Zevran could have kicked himself for looking when Rhodri caught him and winced shamefully, her hands stiffening into stillness.

“I lost control of my magic,” she said, almost entreatingly. “That’s why I was so… brutal. Emotions disrupt the concentration needed for spellcasting, see, and when the unfocused mana escapes, it can damage everything around it. Like it did when we were fighting Uldred, and through the day.” She paused and shook her head. “And–and when I saw you there on the rack, I just…”

“There… were control issues?” Zevran offered cautiously. “Ah, but surely there is no trouble. These things happen.”

“It shouldn’t have.” Rhodri sighed, “But I had to protect you, and my fists were the last thing I had, see? And– and don’t worry,” she held up her hands quickly. “Wynne is here to help me train so it doesn’t happen again but– but you need to know I’d never intentionally hurt you. I’d–I’d–” she shrugged despondently. “I’d rather wash my hands in lyrium than raise a finger to you, I promise.”

Zevran couldn’t help but chuckle nervously, doing his utmost to banish the memory of her lyrium-bloodied teeth from his head. “Not a single finger? I think I could forgive one or two, for you.”

Why did he joke? Why, in the name of the beloved prophetess, did he do that? He fully deserved the firm, simple “No,” she answered with.

He smiled anyway. “Well, my Warden, be assured I am not worried for my safety at your hands.”

Rhodri’s eyes widened. “Truly?” she breathed.

“Truly,” he echoed with a nod.

The silence hung, not uncomfortably. She looked at him again, much calmer now.

“I came to you before because I wanted to thank you,” she said after a moment.

Another nervous chuckle. Zevran shook his head. “Not necessary, my dear Warden.”

“It is,” she insisted softly. “If it weren’t for you, those children, those other mages– Maker, I would have died today. You don’t know how brave you are, how kind you are, to put yourself through what you did, and for people you’ve never even met. People whose power puts you ill at ease.” She bent down until they were at eye level.

“You did that,” Rhodri murmured. “I owe you everything I have for what you did today. You are…” she chewed her lip for a moment, “the most heroic person I’ve ever met.”

A light, breathless laugh danced out of him, forced him to anchor his feet to the ground before a surge of energy could speed him away. “Oh, no. No, no.”

“Yes.” She nodded, not smiling, and straightened up. “You deserve so much better than the life you’ve had. And I want to make it expressly clear that you won’t be going back to the Crows. Ever! That life is over now. I know our deal was that I would protect you during the Blight, but I want to extend that.”

Zevran’s eyebrows rose. “Hmm?”

“Yes. I want to make it permanent. Lifetime protection.”

He froze. His turn to go statuesque had had to come eventually.  

Rhodri, of course, hadn’t noticed. “Once the Blight is over, you can come back with me to Minrathous,” she indicated herself with a clap of the hand to the chest, “and you will have the might and patronage of House Callistus at your back. That is a promise.”

Another surge of Maker-knew-what sped from his gut all the way out until his fingers and toes prickled like fury. His hands trembled from the effort to keep them bolted to his sides.

“I won’t test you, Zevran,” she pressed on, almost dogged now. “I won’t hurt you. No more of that, ever again. And– and if anyone– anyone gives you any trouble, or if you have any problem, you’ll come straight to me,” she drummed her hand against her chest again, “and I’ll sort it out, yes?”

She kept talking, insisting, declaring, but something in him gave way, and the words never seemed to make it to his ears. The Warden would realise he had stopped listening, and the only thing to do was to end this entire, mad conversation. 

At a loss for anything better to do, Zevran strode forward and pulled her into his arms, and before common sense could force him to release the poor creature, her hard, heavy arms looped around him and took him into the modest savour of fresh sea salt and a chest broad enough to pitch a tent on. Warm, damp cheekskin dipped down to his height and nestled near his ear.

Numbness washed over Zevran. When was the last time he had been in such close quarters to someone without either bedding them or fighting them off? Not since he was a small child, surely, and those moments had been rare as manners. Her splayed hands wrapped around his shoulder, rubbed up and down his upper back like he was worth the trouble it took to do so. All gentleness, all firmness, and he couldn’t for the life of him find anything false or ill-intentioned about it. 

Zevran didn’t lean into it. Did he? It was hard to tell, when they were pressed up against each other so closely. She had probably pulled him closer. 

But why were his fingers digging into her?

He released her far too rapidly for it to be considered a graceful tapering-off, and Rhodri, limbs and all, left him with impressive haste.

Rhodri showed her palms to him, eyes huge. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I made you uncomfortable–”

“No, no,” Zevran shook his head with equal rapidness and refused point-blank to note the unpleasant coldness seeping into the parts of him that were now untouched again. He chuckled breathlessly. “Nothing to apologise for, my dear, let me assure you.”

She watched him– his forehead, at the very least, for a moment, and nodded with renewed hollowness. 

“Shall we go back to the fire?” Zevran gestured weakly behind him. “I would hate to leave it unattended for too long.”

Another nod; they set off in a mindless shuffle.

§

Rhodri had gone to sleep in the very small hours of the morning outside, curled up against a tree trunk, and Zevran had kept watch from in his tent the entire time. He had quietly put on his leathers and kept his weapons close to hand, ready to shoot out at a moment’s notice. 

As it should be, of course, when one is part of a team required to do such things. Not that there needed to be a reason beyond the obvious benefits of keeping alive the one thing keeping the Crows from disembowelling him. What foolishness.

Now that the sun was coming up, though, and the Warden preferred to be the first one awake, watch was over. The time he had spent sleeping, Rhodri had dug a small grave for the bloodstained robe she had worn during their sweep of the Circle and carving a long list of names and numbers into the bark of the tree serving as a headstone. At some point, she had dressed her person for what Zevran presumed was Tevinter formal attire. Certainly, the exquisite black robes she had now, damascened with a gold thread diamond-chain pattern were not a pair he'd seen her don before this, and her head was shaved in a neat undercut. She wouldn't have looked out of place at an opulent party looking like that.

Zevran made a point of clearing his throat to rouse her as subtly as he could manage, but Rhodri didn’t stir. He coughed, and then, when there was still no response, he coughed vigorously, then heartily, then, Maker help him, he coughed theatrically. No luck.

With a sigh, he got to his feet and left the tent. The morning was cold and crisp, and the vapour of his breath curled around him and hung in the air. In the last weeks, the birdsong had started to peter out, and it was growing quieter by the day. Even the dog hadn’t stirred yet.

Rhodri was still asleep by the time he had approached her in a near-stomp, snoring softly. He couldn’t get any closer than a few paces away before the repulsion glyph he had witnessed her magicking into existence pushed him backwards.

He bent down a little. “My Warden? …Rhodri?”

Her eyes flickered open, and Zevran almost wished he had left her be as she glanced around blearily.

“Mm?” Rhodri caught sight of him and smiled a little. “Zev, good morning. How did you sl– oh!” Her eyes were like saucers as she scrambled to her feet and dusted her robes off.  “Forgive me, I–”

“No no,” he quickly held up his hands. “There is no need to apologise, my Warden.” Zevran tried to think of some clever, reassuring comment, but nothing came. He gestured at the tree. “You were busy last night.”

Rhodri nodded. “In Tevinter it is tradition for a relative to stand guard over the newly deceased person for a time, until the end of the funeral rites.” She sighed, “My children and colleagues didn’t have one, and I wouldn’t impose Tevinter funeral rituals on Fereldans. I haven’t the resources anyway, but I could at least stay with them for a time.” She gulped and glanced down at the small, neat pile of fresh dirt. “Or something associated with them, at least.”

Her blinking sped up; she turned away. “I’m taking Greagoir to Redcliffe today to dispatch him on his duties,” she said quickly, as if addressing the sunrise now. “Borrowing Mr. Kester’s boat again to row over there.”

“Hmm? That is quite a long trip, my Grey Warden. It took weeks to get here on foot.”

“A day or so of rowing I would say, perhaps a day-and-a-half.” She shrugged. “It’s quicker than walking, and time is of the essence.”

“Ah,” was all Zevran managed. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you would like some company? An extra set of hands to row the boat? I happen to have excellent endurance.”

Rhodri looked at him over her shoulder and wrung her hands briefly. “You’re always welcome to come, but I anticipate some tension with Greagoir on the journey over. Nothing that would come to blows for you, but if you don’t care for tense silences, you might not enjoy yourself.”

He chuckled. “A bad moment in your company? Surely not. I will be on my best boating behaviour the entire time, and if Greagoir is out of line, we can toss him in the water, no? Make him swim alongside us.”

Rhodri opened her mouth and closed it. She opened it again. “That is… remarkably tempting,” she mumbled.

“I’m sure it is,” he purred. “Well, now that that is arranged, I suppose I had best prepare myself for the journey ahead, no? Pack a little food and such.”

He went to excuse himself with a pleasant nod, only to hear her call his name when he had moved a grand total of two steps towards the firepit. His smile coming to him with suspicious ease, Zevran focused on his words instead: “Here I am.”

Rhodri wrung her hands again, bringing the rest of her body around to face him again. “I… wonder if I might ask how you’re faring after yesterday. Especially after the… ah… nightmare.”

“Me? Oh, I am quite fine, thank you.” Zevran chuckled airily. “It was an old memory, nothing more.”

She loosened a little at that. Emboldened, he added, “And this time, a Grey Warden with the most marvellous set of eyes came to my rescue! It seems I have landed on my feet yet again.” He flicked his eyebrows once. “Let us hope my luck holds out, no?”

Rhodri stiffened. “You don’t think this is luck, surely.”

“Well, good luck, of course,” Zevran attempted, faltering a little when her staring wasn’t supplemented with any other response. “Excellent fortune? … Maximal serendipity?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “My mother was kidnapped,” she said after a moment. “That's why she was missing.”

The abrupt change of topic made Zevran’s pre-prepared quip die in his throat. 

“She was taken during a morning walk in Kirkwall, I was told,” Rhodri continued, not missing a beat. “Her brother, my Uncle Damion, had accrued enormous debts to shady characters and told no-one about it.”

“Ah,” he said. “Unwise of them to take her.”

“It was. They took my mother and not Damion because they knew she married a rich Tevinter. My father paid the million-sov ransom, and then another half million when they demanded more. And when that wasn’t enough and they demanded more again, he realised he would have to take her back himself.

“He tracked her down to a small village on the Nevarran border. The cartel had driven out the residents long ago and were using it as a hideout.” Rhodri’s upper lip bulged as her tongue passed over her teeth. “What do you think my father did to them when he found her?”

Zevran smiled thinly. “I imagine the kidnappers were struck off the Satinalia greeting card list, no?”

She gave a small, wry smile of her own, which quickly tightened into a frown. “For a start. My father turned all twenty-six of the thugs, kidnappers, what-have-you, into blood sacrifices to restore my mother’s health, and then he razed the entire settlement to the ground.”

Rhodri lowered her head to eye-level with him, pinning him with a stare he couldn’t quite force himself to wish away. 

“I would do this much, and more, for you,” she said softly, fervently. “House Callistus fights for her people, Zev, there is no luck to it. You’re one of us. Don’t cheapen my devotion to you by calling it luck.”

Zevran, ever the optimist, clung to the happy thought that despite the alarm tearing through him, he wasn’t repeating his panicked theatrics from last night. His arms were down by his sides and, quite notably, not pinning Rhodri to him, and that was success enough.

He chuckled nervously. “Forgive me, my dear Warden, I had not meant to offend.”

Rhodri’s face softened. “You didn’t offend me, pretiotus,” she murmured. “I… am aware that the other party members haven’t warmed up to you yet, and Ferelden is an easy place to be lonely.” 

She shook her head, voice tightening a little. “It’s not fair, and it’s not right, but I can’t force them to be friends with you. But you aren’t alone, and you never need to be. I’m here for you whenever you need, and when you feel ready for a friend, you know where to find me.”

It was a curious thing, to have a body that was currently both entirely leaden and crawling with energy. 

No, well. ‘Curious’ was a little too cheerful of a descriptor. ‘Wildly strange and uncomfortable’ seemed to be more on the money. And why? The Warden was constantly overflowing with discomfiting phrases and sentiments; had two months really not been enough to inure himself to them? 

Zevran pretended what little saliva his drying mouth hadn’t stripped was brandy and swallowed. He waggled his brows. “You spoil m– ah,” he backpedalled as her mouth opened to make some sort of protest, “that is to say: good to know.”

Rhodri calmed at that. “Right. Good. Well, I should change out of these robes and make the tea.” She excused herself with a nod, and Zevran wandered to the creek to wet his mouth and wash off the flush of sweat he seemed to have acquired.

§

Redcliffe was a long way away by boat. Lake Calenhad, though small to look at straight on, stretched on forever lengthways. Barely a word was spoken between Rhodri, Greagoir, Zevran, and Alistair, who had insisted on coming for moral support, thought that was admitted while he made a decidedly hostile glance at Zevran.

It took the better part of an entire day-and-a-half to reach the familiar docks and fishstilted houses that had risked endearing themselves to Zevran with their rustic, provincial near-charm. With the bodies cleared away and the remaining people looking distinctly un-walking-corpse like, the place was really looking up. By the time the party had stepped off the boat, the sunset looked to be close to hand.

The first stop, so declared the Warden, was to the Chantry, and it was hard not to feel gratified about the welcome they received by the Revered Mother in her office.

“Mmm!” She put her pen down and left her chair to approach them at the doorway. “The heroes return– oh, and with the Knight-Commander, no less! Come in, come in…”

“No longer, Revered Mother," Greagoir said stiffly. The Revered Mother paused.

“...No?”

“No,” Rhodri said. “Madam, I have come to inform you personally that the former Knight-Commander is now in the Grey Warden fold.”

The woman stiffened. "You recruited the Knight-Commander?"

"I did. The Wardens have the privilege, and the obligation, to acquire more people power when it is lacking, and you cannot be in any doubt that there is need for more with a Blight now in full swing."

The Revered Mother’s brow crinkled. "I… suppose not. After what happened in Lothering…" she shuddered. "Though was it necessary to recruit Greagoir, of all people?"

"It was, Madam. He had offered to pledge his Templars to my cause in exchange for us sweeping the…” she swallowed, “the Circle Tower, and I resolved to take only one after these troubled times. But the one I chose had to be the most powerful, and the most dedicated, and that was Greagoir."

"This… will not be taken well, you understand, Warden," she said cautiously. "Greagoir is a well-respected, high-ranking part of the Templar Order, and suddenly removing him like this is asking for yet more ill-repute for the Wardens."

Rhodri nodded once. "I am aware of that. But I am hoping to keep things cordial between us by doing you the courtesy of coming to you personally to explain the situation. Templar resources have been more than halved, and you would not have heard the news for quite some time. I realise the Wardens are not entirely welcome in Ferelden as it stands, but I intend to pave better relations by communicating openly with you and making compromises where possible."

"With all due respect, Warden," Greagoir said snidely, "perhaps you might recruit another younger, stronger member of the Order for your needs?"

The Revered Mother nodded quickly. "Now that's a thought."

Rhodri fixed him with that blank look again. "Youth isn't a prerequisite for the Templars, and it isn't for the Grey Wardens, either. We prize tenacity and the drive to achieve an overarching goal, whatever the cost, and in that regard you have more than proved yourself.”

She turned to the Mother again. "As for the conscription, we cannot undo it, and there isn't the time to interview a better candidate. The Blight waits for no-one, and I know Greagoir personally very well. He will make his country extremely proud."

Rhodri dipped a hand into her pocket and retrieved an envelope. “This is a letter formally advising the Chantry of Greagoir’s conscription. I also left signed copies with First Enchanter Irving and Greagoir’s successor, Knight-Commander Bradley. Hopefully this will make it easier for you in the event of any administrative difficulties later on.” She carefully slid the letter into the Revered Mother’s fingers.

“A less than prudent decision overall, Warden,” the Mother said with a sigh. “But the Wardens are not necessarily known for their judiciousness.” 

“Then I’m behoved, Madam, to do my utmost to ensure that Greagoir’s recruitment was not in vain. Please be assured that I will do what I can.” Rhodri inclined her head. “In any case, we will need to depart, as we are quite pressed for time at the moment. Unless you have any questions, of course?”

The Revered Mother shook her head stiffly. Rhodri nodded again.

“Then I will respectfully excuse myself and my party, Madam.” She touched a hand to her heart. “I appreciate your time. Good day to you.”

§

Up on the hills at the western edge of the town, Rhodri stopped the party.

"Now, Greagoir," she said crisply, producing two envelopes from her pocket and handing one to him. "Here is your job. I have written a letter to the most senior Grey Warden available, outlining the current situation in Ferelden and our urgent request for reinforcements following the incident at Ostagar.”

Greagoir took the letter, turning it over in his hand with a suspicious squint.

“This one here,” Rhodri held the second envelope out, “outlines my orders for your conscription. You will deliver these two letters to the Grey Warden headquarters in Weisshaupt-–" 

“You have conscripted the head of the Fereldan Templar Order,” Greagoir hissed over her, “to be your messenger boy?”

Rhodri raised an eyebrow. “There is no shame in bearing an important message.” She touched a hand to her chest. “I, personally, find Ferelden to be one of the ugliest backwaters I’ve ever laid eyes on,” (Zevran nearly burst something trying not to laugh as Alistair’s mouth fell open) “but if your country has any sentimental value to you, you should be keen to help keep it from becoming a second iteration of the Anderfels.”

Greagoir shook his head balefully. “I don’t believe that for a moment, Amell. You always did weave an excellent lie.” He looked at the other Warden now, and then at Zevran. “I didn’t miss any of the looks Rhodri Amell gave me all through the years at Kinloch Hold. This is nothing but a debased hunger for vengeance! Typical Tevinter outrage that a Southern Circle did not pamper you and give you free rein to abuse magic as you saw fit!”

“Ha,” Rhodri flashed a sharp canine as she curled her lip. “That's what it is, is it? You don't think it might be because you're not fit to be in a confined space with vulnerable people?”

“You see!” Greagoir threw a pointed finger at her. “I was conscripted on lies!”

“You were not," she said coldly. "I did need a reason to keep you away from what's left of my children, it's true, and you are eminently conscriptable, so I seized that opportunity. But don't think if you weren't, that I wouldn't have found another way to get you out."

She rolled her shoulders back, a furrow etched into her brow. Her voice dropped low, “I taught sixty-three students over ten years, and at your hands, thirty-nine committed suicide. You slaughtered another fourteen, ten of them during Uldred’s possession, forced seven into Tranquility. I’m yet to find out what happened to another three.” She jabbed a finger into Greagoir’s chest. “Ten of my students still live! To say nothing of what happened to my peers and colleagues!”

“You speak as though I rejoice over their deaths,” Greagoir barked. “I did what was expected of me to keep the Fereldan people safe, and I most certainly did not drive anyone to suicide!”

“OH, YES YOU DID!” Rhodri roared, her face reddening from the effort. “I witnessed you allowing your underlings to do whatever they saw fit to my people, and the concerns I raised with you were always dismissed. Punished. You knew precisely what you were doing! Nothing ever changed!” 

Her nose wrinkled in a snarl. “Children are as resilient as weeds. Do you have any idea how hard you have to try to make one want to die? DO YOU?” She jabbed him in the chest again. “Of course you do. Of course you fucking do! You know it thirty-nine times over! You must have the blood of hundreds of my people on your hands by now!”

Greagoir let out a long, low groan. “Listen to yourself, the way you talk about them. ‘Your people.’ Still you carry that magocratic delusion that every person you choose becomes a member of the freakish Callistus dynasty–”

The reaction was coming from leagues away, and yet somehow Alistair had the gall to gasp when Rhodri’s staff slammed into the Knight-Commander’s elbow. The snap of the bone was barely distinguishable from the snap of the instrument, which lay now in two pieces on the ground.

Greagoir’s agonised shout, however, stood out perfectly well. Zevran couldn’t help but smile; injury looked so very becoming on the fellow. 

Rhodri pointed a finger at him as he groaned and clutched his forearm, her lips curling enough to bare the edges of her teeth. “That,” she said, “was for insulting my house.”

The former Knight-Commander pulled a bright-red potion out of his pocket, uncorked it with a shaky thumb, and drank the entire thing down. A wave of colour came back into his paling cheeks, and brought with it a contemptuous smile. 

“‘For insulting your house,’” he echoed snidely. “I see. And yet I am accused of killing– how many of your apprentices did you think it was? Fifty-something? And I go unharmed for it.” Greagoir scoffed. “Well, isn’t that a grand summary of Rhodri Amell and her regard for ‘her people’--”

“No-no-no– Rhodri, DON’T–!”

Alistair’s encouragements of cessation had come, Zevran presumed, at least a decade too late. By that time, the Warden had already tackled Greagoir to the ground (in much the same way she had taken down Zevran’s jailors, he noted with an unwanted jitter) and was two punches to the face in. Credit where it was due to Rhodri, Greagoir had not taken the attack lying down (so to speak); he had administered a knee to the gut that Rhodri had taken without so much as a wince, never mind lose any speed.

The scrabbling feeling in his belly persisted; Zevran decided to credit it as excitement for the first fisticuff he’d seen in a while and left it at that. Stifling a delighted snicker, he pulled Alistair back as the Templar made to separate the brawling pair. The temptation to intervene in some fashion was understandable; Maker knew Zevran was itching to deliver a swift kick to the kidney to Greagoir for that punch to Rhodri’s mouth, but of course, it was not their place to do so.

“I wouldn’t, my friend,” Zevran said delicately. “I think this is necessary to clear the air.”

Alistair wrenched Zevran’s hands off him. “Bullshit! She’s disfiguring him– RHODRI, DON’T HEAL HIM AND START UP AGAIN!”

Zevran, unable to resist himself, cackled loudly. “Ooh, you can get more punches in that way! A wise choice, my dear Grey Warden!” His laugh persisted even as Alistair shoved him hard enough to send him stumbling. 

The (slightly) taller Grey Warden, now unencumbered by Zevran, took hold of Rhodri’s arms and pulled her off Greagoir.

“Stop it– look at me!” he barked at her. “Stop it! You can’t act like this. Either kill him, or make use of him as a recruit. Don’t beat him nine-tenths dead and heal him enough to do it again! You pick one or the other, right now!”

Rhodri, now drenched in sweat and sporting a black eye and a bleeding lip, straightened up and dusted her robes off. She turned to Alistair and smiled weakly.

“Thank you, amicus,” she said with a nod. “You’re right, of course. It doesn’t do to forget one’s duties, and I appreciate you reminding me.”

With a wave of her hand, Greagoir was healed, and her lip curled again. “Get up, Warden-Recruit. Now.”

Greagoir, who appeared to have very little to say for himself at this point beyond his decidedly malevolent-looking scowl, gingerly climbed to his feet. 

“Now,” she said again, “because I have a feeling that losing your title has dissuaded you from doing your job…” she wiped her thumb over the cut on her mouth, and smeared a streak of dark, viscous blood over Greagoir’s cheek before he could knock her hand away.

She folded her arms. “Lesson one in Grey Warden affairs: Warden blood carries the Taint. If you contract the Taint, without aid you get Blight sickness and pose extreme danger to others. We haven’t the resources to heal you, and I will not tell you if what I did has given you the Taint.”

Greagoir’s eyes widened. “Are you out of your mind?”   he said in a near-shriek. “You might as well kill me now if I’ve been tainted! I could injure someone!”

“No need for concerns yet.” Rhodri shook her head and pulled the map out of her satchel. “You can be saved, but you’ll need to be put through the Joining. You’ll have about two weeks before you’re a danger to others. Not enough time to get to the Anderfels, but we can be flexible and send you to…” she traced her finger out to the north-west of the map. “Ah! Jader’s Grey Warden facility is close. They can put you through the Joining there, and you’ll continue to serve the Order under their instructions.”

“You would banish me from my own country to serve the Orlesians?” Greagoir hissed through clenched teeth. “The humiliation never ends. I am nothing but a sacrificial pig to you!”

“I have already told you that the Grey Wardens are an apolitical organisation,” Rhodri answered evenly. “Hence why you’re no longer wearing Templar armour. Now, I understand there is a ferry to Jader leaving from Redcliffe today.” She glanced over her shoulder, down the hill to where the ramshackle docks lined the water’s edge and boats of all sizes floated like loose teeth. “In fact, that larger boat off to the right might well be the one we want…”

“I am aware of the Jader ferry–”

“Good.” She nodded once. “Then clean off your face and let’s get moving.”

§

Tethered to the docks was a wooden ferry boat wide enough to choke off an estuary waited like a faithful dog. The line of people intending to board stretched triple the length of the dock, though it would have only been one length were the Fereldans not so imbued with the urge to put such distance between each other. They stood there in their own little microcosms pretending to be the only person in existence, clutching bags in one hand and their fare money in the other, and Zevran felt lonely enough to cringe just watching them.

The party joined the line. Rhodri, now showing no signs of the earlier fist-fight, stood at the front of the group with Greagoir (similarly unmarked but terribly dishevelled) to her right. Alistair and Zevran stuck close behind. It was hard to know if it was getting late or not; the sun was sinking, but that meant nothing these days. A sunset now might have been full early a month ago, but accepting the unevenness of the day-night cycle meant relinquishing the idea of normal, or even timekeeping. The sky was the colour of fresh apricots, and with all eyes on the thick, glowing light, the queue advanced in a gradual, staccato shuffle. 

“I thought I told you to get rid of that,” Rhodri’s voice was low and seething.

Zevran’s gaze alighted on a small wooden box in Greagoir’s hand, no bigger than one of the boxes the nobles used to carry pens in. Greagoir frowned and held the box a little tighter.

“I need my philter, Amell,” he hissed. “I cannot safely take my lyrium without it.”

“Grey Wardens do not carry or bear the symbols of political organisations,” she snapped. “I have told you this several times, and still you think you can flout our rules.”

The line shuffled forward.

“And what of your earring, Warden?” Greagoir pointed at the snake in her ear. “I presume you consider yourself exempt from the rules owing to your nationality?”

“If you paid even a moment’s attention to a culture other than your own,” Rhodri replied haughtily, “you would know that the inauris drakonilla is a cultural symbol and only has political meaning when paired with at least one other visible item bearing the same animal. Any other items I possess cannot be seen.” She put her hand out. “Give me the philter.”

When Greagoir hesitated, Rhodri sighed and snatched the box out of his hand. A wince crossed her face; Greagoir smiled.

“Forgive me,” he said silkily, “I thought you might not want to hold it when there is lyrium in the wood.”

Rhodri held the box out so it hovered over the water. In an instant, the box was burned to ashes, and she let the remains fall into the lake, looking away as she healed her blistering hand.

Greagoir’s nostrils flared. His hands bunched into fists, and there were small, ticking motions as his muscles drew him into the beginnings of a lunge.

Zevran’s hand snatched Greagoir’s collar before Alistair could finish ‘Hey!’- ing, grip tightening until the bastard was half-garrotted. With a pull, Zevran forced the man to bend down until he was able to speak straight into Greagoir’s ear.

“A most unwise move,” he crooned gently. “I would reconsider, if I were you–”

“Zev?” Rhodri’s voice was calm, and warm as praise as she turned back around. “Is Greagoir giving you any trouble?” 

He smiled broadly. “Oh, I do not think he would be game to.”

“Good. If you’ll please release him for me, we need to put him on the boat– thank you.” She nodded appreciatively, and once the man in front of them had hastened onto the ferry, she approached the captain, paid the fee, and put Greagoir onto the boat with hushed parting words that Zevran couldn’t quite catch. Greagoir stalked away toward the bow without a backwards glance, and once the boat was unmoored and sailing away, the three of them shared a collective sigh.

“That was disturbing, Rhod,” Alistair said eventually. “What happened today.”

Rhodri took this with a nod. “I’m sure it was,” she conceded. “Was it as disturbing as what Greagoir caused in the Tower, though?”

“Of course not. But it was still awful.”

“Mmm.” She sighed. “I’m not sure if this puts it into perspective or not, but nineteen punches and two weeks of fearing for your life was what luckier mages got for trying to stop a Templar from beating a Tranquil mage.” Rhodri looked at him sadly. “Greagoir has allowed, and personally administered, far worse than any of what he got today.”

Alistair winced. “... I’ve heard about things like that happening. Sorry, I…” he trailed off and shook his head. “It was just awful.”

Silence settled as the three of them glanced at the lake, where the Circle Tower stood in the distance like a pin rising from a mirror. Plumes of smoke hung around the spires, reaching into the sky in heavy, thick fingers.

Rhodri sighed again. “It was awful,” she agreed after a moment. “But I think it’s even more awful that Greagoir did what he did and believed he was doing the right thing. His duty was to the Fereldan people, and to him, we were never people. Even my children were nothing but an irredeemable danger who weren’t worth the effort to save from a violent death. 

“I realised when you pulled me off Greagoir that there was nothing, no suffering I could put him through, that would force him to start comprehending the enormity of what he’s done.” Her jaw clenched briefly. “He’ll think himself a hero to his dying breath, no doubt about it. And my people will go on finding their apprentices and peers hanging by their necks from the rail of their bunk beds until nobody remembers him or his underlings.”

Alistair sniffled and swallowed. He reached out a hand to her and then appeared to think better of it, pulling back before Rhodri could pick up the movement in her periphery.

“It’s… so sad, Rhod,” he said quietly. “The Tower and everything.”

“Yes.” Rhodri nodded. “In Tevene, we call something like that ‘perditus pernicium.’” Without offering any explanation as to what a perditus pernicium was, she looked away from the lake and gestured up the hill. “I can’t row back today. I need to sleep. Can we please go to see Bella and ask for a room?”

Zevran was already nodding by the time Alistair had turned to him with a pre-prepared glare, and he almost smirked as it melted away. 

Alistair quickly abandoned his surveillance of Zevran’s behaviour to nod at Rhodri. He smiled weakly and nodded at the hill awaiting them. “Good idea. Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Taliesen’s fingers curled around Zevran’s collar, tightened around the leather hems until the man’s knuckles went white. “What the fuck,” he hissed, “do you think you’re doing?”

Zevran looked up at the darkening, sweat-gleaming face and those wide brown eyes watching him like he was about to turn to sand. There was something terribly arousing about the intentness of the stare he was being fixed with, but the message never went any further south than the edge of his mind. Not even a sped-up heartbeat. There was nothing at all.

No words came to mind, and Zevran doubted he even possessed the wherewithal to scold himself for not bothering to look for any. He drew his leaden shoulders up in a half-shrug.

“What d’you mean, ‘you don’t know?’” Taliesen barked. “You stood there staring like an idiot as the guard was about to cut your throat open! I nearly caught a knife to the kidney covering for you!” He twisted around, and the slice in his leathers opened like a mouth. 

Something like that may well have happened. It was hard to argue one way or the other when thoughts, or even basic emotions that summoned memories, refused to stick. There was nothing to be done.

Zevran watched Taliesen’s display with numbed fascination and shook his head. “I did not ask you to save me, Taliesen.”

“Don’t give me that shit.” A long, stiff finger jabbed into Zevran’s chest. “This is the third time you’ve done this. You have no idea how lucky you are that I’ve stuck around.”

He shrugged again. “Go, then. I did not ask you–”’

“You fucking imbecile!” Taliesen shouted, renewing his grip on Zevran’s collar and shaking him violently. “She’s dead! Rinna is dead! We’ll have to get the master contract without her, and that’s all there is to it.” 

He dipped his head down and rubbed their foreheads together. “You need to get a grip, Zev,” he whispered. The closeness made Zevran’s stomach lurch; he pulled his head away.

Taliesen’s grip loosened, and in the corner of Zevran’s eye, he caught hurt flashing ever-so-briefly over his lover’s face. 

Taliesen sighed and rubbed his brow. “Look, just…” he shook his head and gestured at the bedroom door. “Let’s get out of here. These noble estates make my skin crawl.”

Zevran couldn’t feel his body moving as he followed him out. There was no sensation of feet landing on marble, no lurch of momentum to prove to himself he was even here at this moment. Unable to shake the idea he wasn’t already dead, he glanced in the gilded, floor-length mirror as he passed it, and with the way that waxy, empty face stared back at him, being dead suddenly seemed very possible.

§

Crestwood looked like the sort of place that would only attract the most avid fanciers of mould and moss. It was overgrown, cold as charity, and the rainclouds (no doubt a permanent or semi-permanent fixture here) were thick enough that the lunchtime sky looked like nightfall was approaching.

Quite predictably, the locals seemed not to notice the baleful, chilly swelter of an impending downpour, and bustled blithely in the small market square as though it were the clearest, warmest day on record. Zevran couldn’t decide if it was better to laugh at them or weep for them. 

But it was the shrill voice of the peanut vendor cutting through the din that pulled a soft, delighted gasp from Rhodri, sending Zevran’s stomach leaping. He pre-empted her search by nudging her and directed her to the stall. The Warden’s eyes, moon-like in her frighteningly gaunt face, gleamed for the first time in weeks. 

“Oh-h-h,” she breathed in a voice better suited to amorous newlyweds. “Peanuts.”

It was the only interest she had shown in eating since the day they returned from dispatching Greagoir, and that was nearly two weeks ago now. Zevran ignored the anxious twinge in his guts at the prospect of her losing any more flesh and flashed his most winning smile.

“Buy us some, my lovely Warden,” he crooned. “A bag for you, and a bag for me. I cannot stand to eat finger foods alone.”

She nodded fervently. “Yes. Of course. Peanuts…”  

They bustled– or rather, she bustled and he matched her speed– over to the merchant.

“Goomorningmadam,” she blathered, and steadied herself with a breath. “Two bags of peanuts, please.”

The woman eyed the Warden warily, but leapt into action upon seeing the proffered sovereign. Rhodri huffed a wobbly, excited breath, rocking on her feet like she was being paid to do it. Zevran talked over the swell in his chest as he grandly upped the order to four– no, six bags.

They strolled back to the party, each clutching half of the payload. Rhodri had already opened one of the bags and made a handful of peanuts disappear.

A wide-eyed Alistair pointed at her. “You’re eating! And not gagging!”

Rhodri nodded and mumbled through another mouthful, “I love peanuts. My mother and father would tell me I was the cheapest child in the world to feed because it was the only thing I asked for.” 

Zevran shot Alistair a broad grin. “We made sure to pick up plenty of peanuts for later.”

In the absence of a glare from the Templar (had he forgotten how to do it?) Zevran couldn’t help but smile wider at that, and he made the executive decision that Crestwood wasn’t entirely awful. Not when there was such an impressive peanut trade. 

§

Zevran was about to slip his poisons belt off when a knock came to the door of his room. Thanks to the generosity of the innkeeper (and the extremely slow day, Zevran presumed), everyone had a place to themselves on the proviso that everything was shipshape upon departure. 

At times like this, it might have been better to share with someone when one was in a small space alone, with no real idea who was on the other side of the door. Jeppe, for example, would either buy Zevran a little time in the event a Crow came calling, or ward them off with his miasmic stench.

That was by the by at this point, though. Zevran accepted his solitude and the consequences thereof with a wry grin and called out, “Hmm?”

“Hello, Zev? It’s Rhodri. I can come back another time if you–”

Zevran was already at the door, opening it. He hadn’t moved to it hastily per se– though even if he had, what was the issue? It didn’t do to keep his protector waiting. 

Rhodri stood in the hallway with two bags of peanuts, watching his shoulder with a tentative smile. In the handful of minutes since she had started eating the peanuts, the pallid look to her skin was already starting to disappear. Zevran smiled broadly and waggled his eyebrows at her.

“You look ready for a feast, there, my Warden,” he purred, pointing at the bags with his nose.

Rhodri’s smile grew more decisive. She nodded once.

“Yes. It could be a feast for two, if you have a moment? There’s something I was hoping to discuss with you.” Her eyes widened as though he’d given her something to widen them about. “Ah! Only if you like, of course. I can leave it for later.” She nodded quickly. “Whatever you like.”

“Mmm! My lovely Grey Warden is whisking me away to feed me peanuts?” Zevran chuckled. “I am living a dream.”

Rhodri shrugged. “I can feed them to you if you like. Is that an Antivan custom?”

He wavered between a hum and a laugh. “Truly, I was only joking, but if there is such a custom, it belongs to a group I know nothing of. Perhaps the very wealthy?” 

“Oh.” A laugh, the first one in weeks, huffed out of her in a single breath like she had forgotten how to stagger it. Zevran’s chest swelled anyway– and why not? There was no sin in enjoying another’s mirth. 

“I took that seriously for a moment, you know,” she admitted. “Thinking I’d have to find a palm frond to fan you with to complete the look.”

Zevran snorted. “A fan in this weather? We should try and lure the Archdemon somewhere hotter first, perhaps.” He gestured at the peanuts. “But assuming we forgo the fanning and feeding, simply eating peanuts together? Why not.”

Rhodri glanced around furtively and ducked her head down to eye level with him. Zevran leaned in.

“Let’s eat them on the roof,” she whispered. “I climbed out my window and up the nearby ledge. What do you think?”

He snickered conspiratorially. “Ooh! I would never have guessed there was such a rebellious streak under that innocent facade! Lead the way, my dear!”

Her deeply bemused look notwithstanding, Rhodri guided him to her room and out the window, handing him his own bag of peanuts when they were comfortably seated on the roofing tiles. The clouds, thick and grey as they were, hadn’t produced a single drop of rain, and the air had lost the buzz that preceded a downpour. It was clear, clear, clear, all the way down past the lush, emerald fens to the crumbling fjord.

“Not the worst view for a backwater,” Zevran said with a smirk.

Rhodri snorted. “Mmm. Home’s far superior, but this will do for the interim.”

“Oh? Tevinter must be positively ravishing if you’ve been spoiled with standards like these.”

“Hah. You’ll see for yourself, if you come back with me.” Rhodri paused and poked a couple of peanuts into her mouth. “Actually, that was what I was hoping to talk to you about.”

Zevran made an interested hum in the middle of his own mouthful (notably administered by himself and not the Warden). “Please, go ahead.”

Rhodri gave an appreciative nod. “Well, here’s the thing. I probably didn’t make it clear when I brought this up, but you’ll never have to work a day in your life in Minrathous– ah! If you decide to come, of course. You need not if you don’t want to, but–” she shook her head. “Argh!

“Anyway, the point is that we have more than enough money to support you spending your days however you please, whether it’s pursuing personal interests, academia, or something else again!” The fingers of the hand not holding her peanuts wrung themselves. “Do you know what you might want to do? I can arrange anything you like!”

“Hmm!” Zevran chuckled, his mind ebbing into the most inconvenient blankness. “Anything, you say?”

She nodded fervently. “Anything at all!” Her crossed legs shifted up and down like beating wings. “As many things as you want!”

“Well now, let’s see…” Zevran threw a peanut into the air, caught it in his mouth, and chewed it up. “The only thing I have any professional talent for is assassinating. I could go into business, I suppose– for myself this time, not the Crows.”

Rhodri peered at him worriedly. “You don’t have to work any more, though,” she insisted gently. “Especially not as an assassin.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? It is not the worst job, surely. You are respected, you are feared… the authorities overlook your tresspasses. And, you know, someone will always need killing, so it is not as though I will want for work.”

“Hah.” Rhodri smiled and shook her head. “As though a Magister’s heir doesn’t know about the job prospects for an assassin.”

Zevran smirked. “See? I could even be your personal assassin. I can give you a very good discount. Oh, think of the adventures we could have, my Grey Warden, you and me in Minrathous!”

“Mm? You don’t need to be my personal anything and we could have adventures together.”

“But I like the job just fine,” he said, half-jokingly. “Honestly, could you see me doing something else?”

The Warden shrugged and nodded. “I could see you doing a lot of things.”

He shrugged back. “I am content enough to do what I am good at.”

“That means you’re content enough to do a lot of things, then,” Rhodri grinned.

Zevran snorted. “Oh? Go on, then. Tell me what you could see me doing, my lovely Warden.”

The Warden ate another handful of peanuts and leaned back on her elbows. “Well, let’s see. I know you play the mandolin, so you could do that. My mother sings beautifully, so if you felt like collaborating, I’m sure she’d enjoy a duet with you now and then.” She rubbed her chin. “You’re clever, so I think you could be a great reader. We have an enormous library and can get more of any book you think you’d like. You dance, and so do I!” Rhodri beamed. “I could teach you traditional Tevinter dance, even! And you can show me some Antivan styles!”

He chuckled. “I do not suppose I could make a career out of any of those things, my Grey Warden.”

“But that’s the point. You don’t need to have a career any more. You can just…” she shrugged, “do as you please, sic?”

“Mmm? And how would that benefit your fine house?” he asked wryly.

"I… what?"

"Your house," he repeated. "I am not sure what it stands to gain from my pursuit of idle pleasures. Takes more than that to run an illustrious home, no?”

“Ah…” Rhodri blinked and looked away, rubbing a hand on her neck. “Goodness, I don’t know why you think you’d need to do anything to keep it afloat. The only people responsible for that are my grandmother, my father, and myself.” She waved a hand. “Everyone else can do whatever they like, so long as it’s not terribly scandalous or immoral.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow. “I am not sure how well Tevinter society would take an unrelated elven fugitive whoreson living in a Magister’s home, my dear,” he said delicately. “Certainly not when his time there is spent in a leisurely fashion at the household’s expense.”

The Warden sat up straight, her chest puffing like he had insulted her, and Zevran found himself curiously wavering between amusement and concern. 

She spoke stoutly, “If anyone had any issue with you, I would see to them personally. You wouldn’t hear that from any of the family, and if it came from someone else, they’d never be welcome under my roof again. You’ll do as you please, and that’s the end of it.” Her eyes widened. “Ah! Only if you want to, of course!”

He chuckled. His stomach was already jittering; why not make use of it? “I can do what I please, so long as I wish to do what I please, is it?”

A long laugh hissed through Rhodri’s teeth and crumpled her into a slouch. She delivered one of those ineffectual nudges and ate another mouthful of peanuts. “You know what I mean. Though,” she paused to take more peanuts, “if you want a career, nothing’s stopping you. You could be an academic, or make a business of your own– well, you could do anything you liked, really. Nothing’s stopping you.”

Zevran took a peanut and threw it into his mouth. “I could grow peanuts for you.”

He really needed to invent a specific expression to make when he was joking. Rhodri paused mid-mouthful, her huge, darkening eyes fixed on him like he was the last man alive. Had he forgotten their topic of conversation, it would have been easy to presume she was well past the point of mentally undressing him. Was this how the frittata had felt when she looked at it?

“Well now,” he purred (albeit carefully; he had no plans on being the lech Alistair accused him of being). “I was only joking–”

“Oh, bugger!” She mashed a hand into her face and chuckled.

He snorted. “Though with the look you were giving me, I may have to consider it.”

Rhodri arched an eyebrow playfully. “No, please, pursue whatever you wish. I’ll find a peanut grower out there somewhere. If it’s a career you want, though, I’d like to at least suggest something for your consideration.”

Zevran took a small handful of peanuts and ate them quickly, and didn’t know why. “Oh?”

“I… realised just now that I must have sounded like I think little of assassins,” she said slowly. “I don’t enjoy killing, myself, but I don’t think any less of you because you were one. Especially because you don’t pursue it for pleasure, or carry it out in a cruel way.”

His shoulders loosened unexpectedly at that, and he embraced the distraction of noticing that her remarks, welcome though they were, didn’t constitute a suggestion. He opted to give a patient, attentive nod.

She ate another handful of peanuts. “But you didn’t have much choice in the matter, which you’ve said yourself a few times, and the conditions were awful.” Rhodri tipped her head to one side and watched him like she was studying him. “It seems like the Crows kept your world very, very small.”

That was impressively rich talk for someone who had spent the last decade-and-some in a tower with a smaller floorspace than the average noble’s estate. Zevran chuckled in spite of himself.

“Mm? How small is a world that is laden with daring pursuits, wine, and ravishing beauties?” He waggled his eyebrows. “I even had enough free time to take up the mandolin, and learn a little tattooing.”

Rhodri shrugged. “A few hours a week of leisure isn’t going to remedy a lifetime of being forced to live as an enslaved assassin. My suggestion, if I can make it…?”

Zevran shrugged and nodded.

“Thank you. I would suggest at least trying a few different things first. Hobbies, studies, work, anything. You have the freedom to do that now, and there’s no reason you can’t go back to being an assassin later, if you miss it enough.” 

She leaned closer, watching him with a confident smile now. Her voice dropped to a warm murmur. “Remember, pretiotus. Anything you want, I can make it happen for you,” she snapped her fingers, “like that. It would honour me greatly to fulfil your every wish.”

One of two things was evident: Either the Warden’s nerve-jangling remarks were increasing in their discomfit quotient over the last months, or they were always this horrific and Zevran was, despite frequent exposure, permanently unable to digest them.  

Or she was flirting with him. After all, she had become something of a closer talker these days, and who called anyone ‘precious one’ without wanting to get them into bed? And fulfilling one’s every wish? For goodness’ sake. 

Perhaps she liked sex as a means of coping with grief! Now there was a thought! Had the perennially woo-less Alistair considered that? It was doubtful. Zevran decided not to discount it.

He smirked gently. “My every wish, you say?”

The Warden’s smile broadened, almost conspiratorially. “Whatever your heart desires.”

“Oh-ho-ho,” Zevran chortled. “Then I had better make some plans, hadn’t I?”

Her eyes widened. “So… you’ll come with me? To Minrathous, that is?”

Why the Warden looked like he had just found the cure to lyrium affliction was beyond him, and there was absolutely no need for the air to stall in his throat. It was the next step– the only step, assuming they survived the Blight. It was a plan, a strategy. It was nothing but good sense to say–

“Well, now! I certainly have no burning urge to turn down such a generous offer.” Zevran waggled his brows. “So long as the invitation remains, I will gladly go.”

Her mouth fell open. “I–! Yes! Yes, it’s permanent. Oh… great!”   

As far as was possible from a seated position, Rhodri bounced, her hands pattering her thighs at a near-blur. Zevran smiled. And why not? If she was pleased to keep him alive, so much the better. In fact, being the victory that it was, he could smile as widely as he pleased, and he did.

Rhodri stopped abruptly mid-movement, as she had done ever since Wynne joined the party. Her body stiffened, head dipping down as a shamefaced scarlet blush poured into her cheeks. 

Clearing her throat, she straightened up. “Ah… anyway,” she shook her head, “if you think of something, let me know and I’ll… ah… arrange it, sic?”

Somewhere, in the back of Zevran’s head, lurked the vague outline of a plan to cause gross inconvenience and exasperation to Wynne. In the here and now, however, there was a fully-formed urge to fuel the distraction (and move on from the topic, if he could wangle it).

Zevran pursed his lips almost exaggeratedly. “Mmm. This is a new path I’m on. All sorts of new options, no? I shall have to think carefully and bring you some answers.” He tossed a peanut into his mouth, and then took another and held it up near Rhodri, almost patting himself on the back for the timely segue. “Can you catch peanuts, my Warden?”

Rhodri frowned at the peanut bag, the redness already disappearing. “I… haven’t ever tried.”

She took one and threw it up in the air, and Zevran watched in a muted half-amusement half-dread as the peanut hit the Warden in the eye and, following a spate of frantic swats and curses, bounced down the roof tiles and into the drain.

“Oh,” she groaned, rubbing her eye. “They’re salted.”

A snort tore out of Zevran before he could help it, and he rapidly followed it up with an apology, picking another peanut from the bag when he could get her to look his way again.

“Open your mouth,” he lined up the peanut, “And keep still, no? I shall make it come to you.” A simple, easy flick of the wrist sent it sailing straight between her teeth, and he smiled triumphantly. “Ah, see? You could catch peanuts for Minrathous.”

Rhodri chuckled and wiped her left, slightly watery eye, crunching up the peanut. “Shame I didn’t know I had that talent back at the Circle. ‘National-level peanut catcher’ would have looked good on the curriculum vitae the Minrathous Circle had me submit.”

He chortled and readied another peanut. “If only. Shall we keep practicing?”

She grinned and nodded, grabbing a handful of nuts from her own bag. “I’m ready.”

How clever of him, Zevran decided as they sat and threw salted peanuts into each other’s mouths, to keep Rhodri (no, the Warden! The Warden!) both well-nourished and in good humour with such a simple game. Better still, how smart of him to make it so that he enjoyed it as well. A greater enjoyment of a task improved one’s performance. That was a well-known fact. 

How efficient, he decided, how indisputably clever of him to enjoy her enjoyment.

Chapter Text

At some point on the road to Denerim– Zevran wasn't sure when, precisely– Alistair and Leliana had both become aware of the other's lingering gazes, namely by catching each other in the act.

Whether this event marked an improvement or a turn for the worse was difficult to know. On the one hand, their maddening mutual obliviousness had finally been smothered to death, but crawling out of that very same grave was an entirely new, rather more revolting beast: locked, smouldering eyes and tentative hand-holding.

They did it constantly, and it was dreadful. It should have been illegal. It was among the most powerful emetics in existence, a sentiment– no, a truth , that was shared by Morrigan, who looked physically pained every time she caught them doing it. 

Wynne, who had found a favourite (and quite possibly an adoptive grandson) in Alistair, watched all this with muted glee and whenever Leliana was absent, offered him sugary courting advice that made Zevran want to tear his testicles off and stuff them in his ears.

Rhodri, both astonishingly and predictably enough, had been impervious to the blossoming affection between the two– or at least to the nature of said affection. It took Wynne using the lunch break to mortify Alistair with gentle teasing on his lovelorn expression and the general romance of it all before Rhodri finally, violently caught on.

“Wh-? Oh!” Her sandwich fell out of her hands, and Zevran impressed even himself as he shot a hand out and caught it before it could land in the grass. “I– ah, thank you, Zev. Very good catch.” She took a bite of the sandwich and frowned at Alistair. “Are you and Leliana together? Romantically?”

Alistair’s face turned a shade of red Zevran had once doubted to be physically possible. He pawed at his winy cheeks and mumbled something about ‘well, maybe, we’ll see.’

Rhodri leaned toward Zevran and said out of the corner of her mouth, “My stars, Zev, I had no idea. Did you?”

He swallowed down a sob of laughter and nodded. “I had my suspicions,” he said carefully.

Leliana, who had gone with Sten to refill her waterskin, now approached and took her usual spot at Alistair’s right. The two shared another stomach-turning look, and Rhodri gave an approving nod. 

“Well, isn’t that just great!” Her sandwich-free hand tapped her knee until a look from Wynne stopped it. Rhodri cleared her throat. “So, ah, when’s the wedding, then, you two? Have you decided?”

Alistair and Leliana’s soft, shy smiles froze.

“The…?” Alistair attempted.

“The wedding, yes,” Rhodri nodded. “Will you wait until after the Blight to have a larger celebration, or should we just stop by the next Chantry? Certainly, we can spare a day or two along the way and make it an occasion to remember!”

There was something deeply, powerfully gratifying about watching Alistair visibly go through roughly the same horrors Zevran recognised in himself when he was subjected to this sort of talk. He had a little more sympathy for Leliana, who looked like she was about to die from the shock of it all, but his fellow-feeling could only stretch so far when he was the recipient of the vast majority of such awkwardness. 

“The…? Ah…” Alistair closed his mouth, opened it, and closed it again. And then he turned to Leliana, who was returning his gaze, and both of them sported the most delicious panicked look. Who knew this quality of juicy social misery was available outside of Antiva?

Rhodri, who had been observing their distress with a small frown, suddenly brightened as unexplained comprehension appeared to dawn on her. Her sharkmouth pulled into a huge, one-directionally conspiratorial smile, and she held up a hand.

“Ah, now I know what you’re thinking,” she nodded sagely. “Who marries for love, sic? But don’t discount it! My mother and father married for love. Everyone said it would fail, and yet there they are, twenty-one years on, and they still get along!” 

Rhodri beamed and, appearing to mistake Alistair, Leliana, and Wynne’s collective gaping for a display of awe, nodded again. “That could be you, too! Worth a try, certainly, and if it turns out you don’t really like each other like that, well.” she shrugged. “You can have an affair and stay platonic.”

Zevran covered his mouth and nose with one hand. There was no other option; a physical barrier had become necessary to keep the mirth in now, especially as the silence would make any such display perfectly audible.

Alistair looked over at Leliana again. “I don’t know where to begin with this,” he said to her numbly.

“Well, start by choosing a date,” Rhodri piped up, only to stop as Alistair shook his head.

“Marriage… is not something we have discussed, Rhodri,” Leliana said, watching Alistair carefully as she spoke. He nodded supportively.

Rhodri’s grin faltered. “Oh, really? But you’re good friends, and you’ve known each other a while–”

“We’ve known each other for a few months!” Alistair spluttered.

She nodded. “Yes, exactly! That’s plenty of time. You obviously get along well, and it’s better to be married to someone you like than someone you don’t.”

“Fereldan marriages… tend not to work this way,” Leliana added delicately. “We do not marry people we dislike, and affairs are frowned upon, no?”

“Look,” Alistair held up his hands quickly as a baffle-faced Rhodri went to speak, presumably to express her astonishment that affairs were neither universally expected nor accepted. “If there’s a wedding date to be set, we’ll let you know straight away. For now, we’re just… seeing how we like it.”

Leliana nodded and rested a hand– rather heavily– on Alistair’s knee. Once Alistair was able to see through his blush, he took her hand in his and they shared a smile that made Zevran’s skin crawl. Zevran could have sobbed with relief as Rhodri sighed and nodded as though this was something one had to come to terms with.

“Well,” she said after a moment, “it’s your choice. I hope it works out for the best, whatever you decide.” Her face suddenly brightened, “And this gives me more time to plan an excellent wedding gift– you know, just in case.” Rhodri (Rhodri!) made the most enormous wink at them, and Zevran blessed the Maker as Alistair and Leliana unmired themselves from their red-faced, mortified writhing enough to nod appreciatively at her.

Unable to help himself, he caught the Warden’s eye and waggled his eyebrows at her in a show of solidarity he couldn’t quite explain, and grinned through his chuckle as she returned the gesture with twice the intensity. Alarm threatened to push into the forefront of his mind, and as if to assure it that he was suffering enough, he stole another glance at the revoltingly tender new couple. The concern backed away; it was enough.

§

On every visit, Denerim had managed to be both everything and nothing Zevran had expected it to be. Antiva City, the vibrant, beating heart of his country, had apparently spoiled him, allowing him to furnish the belief that all nations sported a similarly grand capital. This place didn’t come within a bull’s roar of home, and there was not one iota of bias in that judgement. Denerim was, quite simply, a modest place with a great deal to be modest about. 

Its houses were dilapidated. The sodden, muddy market square in the middle of the revolting sprawl was no doubt the delight of every dog in the area. Even the Chantry and castle, two structures that invariably received far more attention and money than any other of a city’s edifices, looked primitive. 

Given most everything else he had seen of Ferelden, though, it would have been foolish to have high, or even moderate hopes of anything lovely, and as a result, the backwater this country called a capital city had very adequately met his low expectations. 

The party’s first day there had been spent traipsing about in search of one Brother Ferdinand Genitivi, a scholar who Bann Teagan had assured them would have all the information there was to be had on the Urn of Sacred Ashes. The ramshackle rowhouses that lined the boggy roads all looked the same: wooden, falling apart, all either light brown or a queasy off-white, and for the longest time, Zevran was convinced they had been going in circles. Apparently, though, they had traversed a fair way, eventually stumbling upon the place, which thankfully was by a shop, the Wonders of Thedas- at least the sign hanging off the eave would be some sort of landmark if they had to return. 

And of course, as was providence’s wont, the Brother was nowhere to be found. According to Rhodri (who had emerged from Genitivi’s house with a slightly clenched jaw), his assistant, a mousy young man named Weylon, lamented that Genitivi had disappeared without a trace. The last sighting, so said the assistant, had been somewhere by Lake Calenhad some months ago. 

For all its manifold flaws, nobody except Morrigan seemed keen on departing Denerim immediately; it was a long way from anywhere else in Ferelden they needed to be. It was (almost) unanimously decided that the party would spend a few days in the would-be city to replenish their supplies. Well, that was presumably what they were there for; they couldn’t possibly have come to sightsee. 

The rest of day one had passed well enough. The benefit of a capital city was always in its relatively high level of imported goods, and their first night, holed up in the Gnawed Noble Tavern, marked the first time in months that Zevran had even seen Antivan brandy, let alone drunk any. So delighted was he that he had four-- two more than he usually allowed himself-- and after passing the night playing rounds of Diamondback with the Warden and company in a pleasantly squiffy state, he took himself off to his shared room with Sten for the best sleep he’d had since coming to Ferelden. 

By the time he had awoken the next day, it was well after lunch time, and the only person still in the Tavern at that point was Morrigan, curled up by the fire and engrossed in a book. Zevran knew better than to disturb her with questions of the others’ whereabouts; he had seen her transform into a spider with his own eyes only a week prior, and was particularly keen to either get in her good books, or failing that, to not feature in any of her books at all. 

Though Denerim had little to recommend itself in terms of local attractions, Zevran was reasonably sure that the brothel would at least be somewhat similar to the Antivan ones. With a month’s wages on him and the desire to have at least one orgasm this month, it seemed the obvious place to part with his money. 

With the help of the hand-drawn map supplied by one of the elven servants at the Tavern, he eventually managed to track down The Pearl. As he stepped inside, he was pleased to find that his guess was not wrong: from its heady smell of mingled bodily juices, perfume, and fresh perspiration; the soft groans that the alcohol-sipping patrons seemed inured to, right down to the plush velvet curtains blocking out prying eyes from the street, it was as if he had paid a visit to his childhood years. Whoever said you could never go home again had grown up in the wrong place. 

But where to begin?

Waltzing into the taproom, Zevran cast his eye around in search of a free seat and caught sight of a most unexpected individual at a nearby table. A busty, bejewelled, leather-clad individual he had called a friend for many years and had presumed to be at sea-- incorrectly, apparently.

Her pretty, dark face was flushing a very entertaining shade, with her teeth very firmly biting her lip. Ooh, if people could purr, she would have been as the pale, black-haired somebody beside her borrowed her ear with their mouth, their fingers running up her neck to cradle her jaw. Their face was obscured, but when he looked closer and saw a wraparound snake earring--

Isabela’s eyes fell on Zevran, catching him standing there like a fool, and she let out a small squeak of surprise. The head resting against hers immediately pulled away and turned around, and Zevran quickly slapped on a smile to cover his unreasonably delayed shock at the grey eyes that met his. Clueless, naive Rhodri had to be among the last people one would expect to see at a brothel– especially talking Isabela into a giggling mess. 

More to the point, why was Rhodri even at a brothel in the first place? Had she only mentioned that she was interested in a little company, Zevran would have gladly offered, indulged his own curiosity (and no doubt hers), and saved a sovereign between them to boot. Had she still not understood he was available? 

Ah, but good for her, really. She was pursuing her fancies as she desired-- and rightly so. Perhaps now that they had run into each other here, she might even consider him as a potential candidate in the future. Luck was funny like that.

Mmm, and Rhodri was blushing, too! Whether it was because of embarrassment or arousal was a mystery. If she was embarrassed, though, it was short-lived. She shot him a smile before quickly turning to Isabela and speaking to her. Isabela gaped at her and nodded, and Rhodri, looking very pleased indeed, waved Zevran over to them.  

His stomach jittered as he approached them; Isabela was looking between them now, smirking like Satinalia had come early. Rhodri reached over the table to push a chair out for him. 

“So you have met the Queen of the Eastern Seas and the sharpest blade in Llomerryn, I see, my Grey Warden,” Zevran said with a smile, gesturing at Isabela as he sat down.

“You forgot ‘your favourite pirate wench,’ you mean bastard,” Isabela returned, giving him a friendly shove in the arm. Grinning, Zevran let his body be pushed back a fraction before he straightened up.

“My apologies, Isabela. Dear Warden, she is all three of those things, and I am a horrible man for forgetting it.”

Rhodri snorted. “You two sound like you know each other well.”

“Oh, we know each other very well,” Isabela nodded, smirking and eyeing him with unabashed lust. 

It was hard not to sigh with relief as Rhodri, who had miraculously picked up on the cue, nodded and gave a small, ‘ah.’ Mother of Mercy, she even had a small smile. Never mind hoping for a chance on the road, it was happening today!

Small talk first, bedding soon after. Does Isabela still have those silk ties in her quarters?

“We have crossed paths many times over...” Zevran pursed his lips as he counted on his fingers. “Eight years? Has it been eight?”

“Something like that.” Isabela waved his calculations away; she never was one for numbers and, realistically, neither was he. “Long enough to know he’s very bendy,” she added to Rhodri pointedly. 

Rhodri nodded. “Mmm, I noticed that. I’ve never seen anyone look like they’re dancing as they behead something. Ah! Spectacular.” She beamed at Zevran. “You’re a true showman, Zev.” 

There didn’t seem to be any sultriness to that proud look she had; Zevran had to work industriously to stop a squint from pinching his eyes. Before anyone could say anything else, the Warden shocked them both and got to her feet. 

Not that Rhodri seemed to notice, still smiling as she spoke again. “I think I’ll leave you two to catch up.”

“Wh-- you’re leaving?” Isabela exclaimed. “But the sex!”

Sadness touched the Warden’s smile for a moment. “The chance to spend time with friends is a rare gift, especially at a time like this. Please don’t pass it up.” She straightened her shoulders and jerked her head in the direction of the madam of the brothel. “Besides, I should speak to Madam Sanga.” 

Rhodri put a hand on Isabela’s shoulder in a gesture Zevran was sure would make Isabela freeze, as anything not laced with a little humour or offhandedness tended to do. 

“It was lovely to meet you, Isabela,” she said warmly. “Please take care of yourself, and think on what I said about docking in Kirkwall. You’d like the Hanged Man, if it’s still there, and who knows? You may even run into my aunt and cousins there. I’ll see you around, Zev.” 

With a wave to both of them, she wandered away to Sanga, who looked pleased to speak with her. The two fell into a gentle stroll toward another hallway, conversing as Rhodri indicated one of the windows.

“Well, that didn’t go as I’d planned,” Isabela sulked, blowing an errant lock of hair out of her face. “And I was just about to take her back to my cabin, too.” She raised a brow at Zevran. “You’d better make up for it.”

Zevran smirked, taking her glass of wine and sipping from it. “Now, when have I ever been a disappointment?”

“Any time I tied you up and shoved my finger in your arse, you smug git,” she retorted before leaning in and pointing at the hall Rhodri had disappeared down. “Do you know how often I get to be fucked by a mage? You usually have to pay triple for that, and she was going to do me for free! And here you are, travelling with her? Incredible.” She shook her head. “Well, go ahead and rub it in my face. How good is she?”

He shrugged and looked away. “I do not know.”

Isabela made a small noise of astonishment. “You haven’t--? What’s wrong with you? I was almost ready to have her on the bloody table after she told me what she wanted to do with me.” 

Zevran could barely conceal a squint. Were they talking about the same person? She certainly had enough of a libido for it to be believable; the soft curses and gasps his neighbour made in the mornings and evenings were ample proof of that. But Rhodri, seductive? Or, more to the point, even open to seduction? 

Isabela had apparently caught his disbelief, and an irritating compassion softened her features.

“Oh, I see! You have tried!” She patted his hand sympathetically. “Probably just aren’t girly enough, sweetheart. Shame, she’s a good-looking one. But not to worry, I know something we can do to help you forget about it.”

But of course! Rhodri does not care for men. Ah, that is a shame. He ignored the disappointed pang thudding in his chest as he smiled and waggled his brows at Isabela. “You insatiable woman. Lead the way, then, my dear.”

They rose to their feet. Zevran kept a pace or two behind Isabela as they walked, an old protective habit forged in a time before she was decent with a blade-- and an admittedly hard-dying habit when Isabela purposely kept her gait sultry to show off her lush, round posterior to him. 

They were about to turn onto the hallway leading out of the establishment when Isabela suddenly stopped him and pointed with her head. He followed her gaze and saw Rhodri standing outside a doorway, talking with a handsome redheaded elven man, a tall, muscular human man, and two other ample individuals. The five of them shared a nod, upon which the tall man pulled her into a rough kiss.

“Maybe I was wrong,” Isabela chuckled as Rhodri took his face in her hands and after briefly kissing back, moved her head away, her slightly slackened jaw and openly lustful stare plain to see even from where an astonished and frankly aroused Zevran stood with Isabela. Rhodri placed a hand in the middle of the man’s chest and steered him backwards through the open door, the other three smirking at each other as they followed them in. 

“You bastard, Zev,” Isabela murmured to him as the door closed. “That could have been me.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he muttered back, untucking his shirt to cover his erection. “Let’s get out of here.”

§

Sex with Isabela was always enjoyable, and over the years as their paths continued to cross, familiarity had made it even better. Zevran knew her right nipple was far more sensitive than her left one, and thus an easier target if she wanted to finish quickly. Her legs always tried to cross when she was close, and letting them shut around his hand while he teased her made her scream like a demon. Familiar, but never boring. 

“I see you’ve improved again,” Isabela said breathlessly from beside him, reaching out a shaky hand and clapping him on the shoulder. 

“Practice makes perfect," he panted back, the aftershocks from their coupling still pinging through him.

“It wasn’t a five-way, I grant you. But you did the work of three, and I can’t fault you there at all.”

Zevran huffed a laugh and acknowledged the satisfactory feedback with a flick of his eyebrows. 

Isabela slowly got up and out of bed, picking up his shirt from the floor and throwing it to him as she scanned the room.

“Where are my…? Ah!” She bent down again and straightened up, triumphantly waving her underwear at him before putting them on. "So how did you and the mage end up meeting, anyway?" 

Zevran chuckled. "An unsuccessful assassination attempt."

She paused in slipping on her thigh-high boots. "That's not like you. I didn't think the word fail was even in your vocabulary."

"Rhodri is quite a bit more powerful than she lets on," was his half-attempt at an explanation while he tugged his shirt over his head. 

Isabela cackled at that. "She was your mark? Well, that explains a lot."

"Oh? Did my Warden show off for you today?" He mindlessly tied the back laces of her corset as she turned her back to him.

"You could say that. She cleared out a gang that was giving Sanga trouble around the same time as I was caught in a little scuffle of my own. Not half bad with that staff."

That was as close to a compliment as Isabela got. He agreed with a hum as he continued to dress, retrieving his breeches and smalls from the far corner of the room.

“Can’t read flirts for shit, though.”

He snorted and nodded. That sounded more like the Rhodri he knew. “And so what magic words did you use to tempt her into your bed, hmm?”

“Hm-hmm! Going to give it another shot, are you?”

Zevran shrugged, perhaps a little too off-handedly. “Simply to make her aware I am available. It may mean I save her a handful of silvers the next time we are near a whorehouse.”

Isabela shrieked with laughter. “Ha! Saint Zevran, patron of the frugal and oversexed! Ah, do you know what? She’s easier to talk to than you think. Don’t glare at me like that, it’s true!” She flicked a hand at him. “She clearly isn’t discriminatory, so unless you’ve been a complete arse to her--”

“I haven’t--” he began, only to have Isabela cut him off.

“Didn’t think so. You know what I think your problem is? You’re not clear enough.”

He squinted at her. “Not clear enough?” he echoed. “I told her I hoped she slept naked the first day I met her!”

Isabela snorted. “Who haven’t you said that to? I bet you’ve made saucy remarks to everyone in that group you’re gadding about with. She probably thinks you’re a flirty sort, and you’re just speaking normally to her.” Isabela shrugged, adding, “Not that she’d be wrong there.”

“But I made a concerted effort with her!” Zevran protested. “How does anyone miss the difference between a casual remark and brazen, intentional dialogue?” He demonstratively brought his face inches away from Isabela’s as he mentioned the latter, and Isabela nodded and rolled her eyes. 

She took a finger to his forehead and pushed him away. “The bugger can’t tell the difference between conversation and flirting, and you’re wondering how she differentiates between flirts! Some master seducer you are!”

“None of my marks were quite this dense,” he grumbled, more ruffled by Isabela’s banter than he had expected.

“No, she’s pretty damn stupid, I’ll give you that. It took a few tries on my end to make it clear. Kept laughing it off. She caught on well enough when I made it clear that I meant what I said, though.”

“What did you do?”

Isabela shrugged. “Put my hand on her thigh, told her I have a ship with very comfortable quarters, and that I wanted to take her back there so she could fuck me senseless.”

“Ah,” he said; Isabela never was one to mince words. “So I will need a boat.”

She tsked and gave him a playful shove. “That’s what I get for trying to help a friend. Come on, walk back with me to The Pearl so I can collect my crew.”

“You are setting sail today?” He pulled on his boots and buckled his belt. 

“Mmm.” She peered out the door, scowling at the sky. “Heard it looks like bad weather all along the coast for the next few days, and I don’t want to be stuck in this mousehole while I wait for it to clear up.”

“A short run-in, then, but a good one all the same,” Zevran acknowledged cheerfully as he followed her out. 

A part of him had anticipated running into Rhodri again when he dropped Isabela back at the Pearl, but there was no sign of her, and he had lingered just enough to tip his friend off.

“Go on, get out of here,” she frogmarched him a couple of steps towards the door. “Either she’s still busy, or she’s already left. If you want to win her over, you’d better hope it’s the first one.”

Zevran grinned and rolled his eyes, waving as he took his leave. 

Isabela’s advice swirled through his head the entire walk back to the Gnawed Noble, and even impinged on his thoughts as he played a few rounds of Wicked Grace with Leliana, Wynne, and Sten. The more it percolated, the better sense it made to give it a try. Isabela had made the foray and delivered the truth that the Warden did, in fact, respond well to the straightforward suggestion he had never quite been game to try. 

But it made sense to at least offer his services. They were both attractive; she liked him, he liked her, and certainly he could have done a better job kissing her than the sloppy human who had claimed her mouth. Even the Southerners who made a living selling sex wouldn’t be up to standard. Their backwards clientele knew nothing of the more exciting techniques, and with no standards of their own, the usual tumble would have more than sated them. No, a Northerner Warden needed Northern passion, and who better than him to give it to her? 

And if she declined– which he would make it eminently clear that she could, with no hard feelings whatsoever, he would leave it at that. Simple. What was there to lose?

Said Northerner Warden reappeared at the doorway as everyone was about to start eating at the dining table. She caught sight of them and strolled over with a vague sway to her walk that was unreasonably arousing. Zevran tensed his legs to redirect the blood, and when he caught her eye, pointed his nose at the empty seat beside him at their table.

“There you are!” Alistair’s loud voice carried easily to Rhodri, who was still some paces away. “Where have you been? Zevran told us you were busy, but it’s dark outside now!”

Zevran bit his lip as Rhodri watched Alistair with a placid smile. 

“I was at The Pearl,” she replied casually, jerking her head over her shoulder in the direction of the door she had come through.

The Templar’s fork fell onto his plate with a clatter, and Zevran permitted himself a moment to glance around the table and drink in the medley of baffled and mortified expressions the answer had evoked. Even Wynne, who was usually unflappable, had closed her eyes and was shaking her head. A brick-red Alistair frantically waved his hands in a shushing gesture (and appeared to be making a point of not looking at Leliana throughout).

Rhodri raised an eyebrow at him as she sat down beside Zevran. “Is this for me, Zev?” she asked quietly, pointing her nose at the plate in front of her, piled high with turnip and mutton pie.

“It is indeed,” he replied through a grin. “I had them serve a double portion for you.”

His stomach threatened to escape via his throat as she gave him a soft, warm smile, and perhaps he shouldn’t have done anything of the bloody sort when he knew perfectly well she would look at him like that–

“That’s so kind of you,” she murmured. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

Brasca , and even her voice was warm. Never again. Never, ever again, but it was well to keep her happy, even if the whole bloody thing was awkward and it made the air swell in his chest. Not healthy at all, but he had done far worse things to secure a future than order food for someone.

A mercifully well-timed distraction was supplied by Alistair, who clearly had clearly not finished with Rhodri, and not even Leliana’s patient hand on his shoulder seemed to calm him.

His voice was at a hiss now, “What were you doing at The Pearl anyw–”

“Alistair,” Morrigan interrupted, watching him with a withering look. “Even you cannot be so dense, surely, as to wonder what people do there.”

“To be fair,” Rhodri said with her forkful of pie hovering near her mouth, “I didn’t know what it was before I actually went there.” She paused to eat it and set the fork down on her plate. “All that guard Kylon said to me was there was an establishment called The Pearl that had some troublemakers on site, and would I please clear them out.”

Rhodri shrugged. “I was expecting to see fish and clams and things in this Pearl, but when I went inside?” She sliced a hand through the air. “Not an undersea creature to be seen. I thought they were all out the back somewhere, so I took care of the miscreants and asked the owner after to see the lobsters. But then you know, someone showed me their nipple, and that’s when I realised it wasn’t an aquarium after all.”

Alistair could gasp and shush the now-pandemonious table as much as he liked, but with the way Leliana was watching him out of the corner of her eyes, Zevran knew for a fact that the Templar would benefit from this in some way or another.

And as for Zevran, he had finished the day with as much money as he had started out with, along with one rare Isabela encounter, two orgasms, and some key information that might well brighten the Warden’s days– (and nights!) quite substantially. That had to be as close to the perfect day as possible.

Chapter Text

Zevran had a feeling Rhodri didn’t like Wynne.

Certainly, Rhodri had been good to Wynne-- kind, really-- but she never smiled at her, and Rhodri smiled at everyone. It was nothing but pained looks or obedient nods. Not-quite-stifled flinches, occasionally, when she was given a sharp look for those harmless little mannerisms of hers.

It was a funny coincidence, really, because Zevran found himself not particularly liking Wynne, either. The curious urge to make the Senior Enchanter's life difficult had intensified quite impressively, enough that it was a persistent feeling, rather than a situational one.

When Zevran thought about it, it was hard to see the point in Wynne’s being there. She did nothing to improve the Warden’s spellcasting, which had been promised prior to joining the party (and those “training” sessions had usually ended up with Rhodri storming off after an hour or two). The only improvement she appeared to bring (to Zevran's mind) was in her self-appointed position of selective grandmotherly figure to Alistair– and now Leliana, too. The templar, naturally enough, drank up the fondness like a sponge, and under Wynne’s gentle admonishments (she seemed to run out of these where Rhodri was concerned), Alistair was less inclined to glare or snap at Zevran. 

Or, at least, it had been that way yesterday, when Alistair had asked Wynne (quite loudly) if she had yet been informed of Zevran’s career history. That sort of behaviour was nothing Zevran was unused to; if anything, it was amusing. Had Alistair hoped that Zevran would clutch his pearls and bemoan the outing of his deepest secret?

The display had attracted gratifyingly strict censure from Rhodri, who also refused at this point to tolerate Wynne’s reprimands of indecorous displays of temper. Rhodri and Alistair had made up shortly after Alistair had, following his telling-off, apologised to Zevran. Sincerely, no less, and with a very red face. Zevran almost had to pinch himself. Wynne, however, had no interest in pursuing the topic further, and put substantial distance between herself and Zevran. Rhodri had noticed the shift and, as if to make a point, paid even more attention to Zevran after that.

Late the next afternoon, Rhodri was stopped as she, Zevran, Alistair, and Leliana were leaving the Gnawed Noble to pay a visit to Sergeant Kylon in the hopes of him elucidating on an unknown issue promising good coin. 

“You’re going out?” Wynne, who had been in an armchair close by, rose to her feet and took her staff. “Perhaps I shall come with you. I was hoping to visit The Wonders of Thedas again before the day is out.”

“We are going to see the Town Guard,” Rhodri said briefly. “There may be additional work for us.”

“Ah,” Wynne nodded, giving Zevran a wide berth as she weaved her way around to the other side of the group. “I would be happy to assist with–”

“No, thank you,” she shook her head. “Please stay here.” 

Zevran bit down on his lips, watching Wynne’s unimpressed look out of the corner of his eye. Alistair and Leliana exchanged glances, but nothing more came of it, and with that, the four of them left.

Sergeant Kylon had been standing out the front of the Town Hall, a drier spot after the day’s downpour than where they had seen him yesterday, chatting with what appeared to be a handful of his inferiors– though the wall was lined with clusters of people in all sorts of different armour. When Rhodri caught his eye and waved to him, Kylon smiled and walked the last few steps over to them. 

“Ho there, Warden!" he called out. "You remembered me!”

Rhodri nodded. “I wouldn’t forget you when you asked for help, ser. Some of my party,” she gestured, “has also agreed to assist. You won’t find better.”

“Ah,” he gave an appreciative smile. “Most kind. I know I said I’d have the lead for the next case, but I’m still waiting for one of my men to get back to me. He’s taking his sweet time, isn’t he?”

“Not to worry,” she shrugged good-naturedly. “We can check back after dinner, if it pleases you?”

“Mm,” Kylon nodded. “Hopefully that will be long enough for Cameron to report back. Ah, but before you go, I wonder if I might borrow you for a moment, Warden?” He glanced at Zevran, Alistair, and Leliana nervously. “Just Rhodri, if you don’t mind. Being crowded makes me uneasy.”

Rhodri accepted the request with a nod; Zevran kept a close eye on Kylon’s hands– and a hand on his own knife–as they strolled back over to where Kylon had stood before.

“Pfft,” Alistair snorted. “Town Guard hates being crowded. Talk about getting your dream job…”

There were a lot of noncommittal looks on Rhodri’s part, and Kylon looked terribly anxious. She shrugged, held up a hand… nodded, shook her head… shrugged again… Whatever it was, Kylon eventually relaxed. When she made to leave, one of the armoured men off to her right appeared to catch her intense interest.

Alistair and Leliana, having also picked up on this, joined Zevran in beginning to sidle over, only to fall still as Rhodri shook her head at them and held up a hand. They waited and waited as the Warden spoke, too far away to hear clearly over the last-minute bustle of the marketplace behind them.

After what seemed like an age, the Warden nodded at them, said something, nodded again, and turned around in time for a dirt-caked mabari to speed through a nearby puddle, spraying her, the man, and Kylon in whatever horrific thing it had been rolling in.

Rhodri raised an eyebrow, glanced at the dog, and strode back to the party.

“Well,” she said after a moment. “We may have a little extra work guaranteed. Just a follow-up, mind you, but still.”

“Oh?” Leliana said.

“Kylon wanted an explanation about why there were reports of a man trapped in ice in the Pearl,” Rhodri said with a shrug. “It was me, of course, but he seemed worried that the man might cause mischief again later tonight, now that he’s finally thawed out, so I said I’d go back by the docks and re-freeze him if need be.”

Leliana laughed behind her hand; Alistair blushed. Zevran grinned, feeling as satisfied as he might have had he cast the spell himself. 

When Rhodri advised that there was nothing else to do but check back with Kylon after dinner, the party turned around and made for their lodgings again. In the corridor outside their rooms, Rhodri stopped Zevran.

“I wonder if I might have a word with you, Zev,” she said quietly. “I need to wash first, but could we perhaps speak alone somewhere?”

“Of course,” Zevran nodded, guts twisting a little. “Is everything all right, my Grey Warden?”

“Oh, yes,” she nodded back quickly. “Nothing worrisome, but there’s something I’d like to discuss with you first before I talk to the rest of the group about it.”

Nothing worrisome, but merited discussing with him personally. An assassination contract, perhaps? Ooh, maybe she’d ask him to take out Wynne!

Oh, don’t be ridiculous.

The curiosity gnawed at Zevran as he sat alone in his and Sten’s room. It might have been something related to whatever she had heard while they were in town. What she could have heard was anyone’s guess. Not anything related to the Crows, surely. Not when she had promised so damned earnestly that he wouldn’t be going back to them. 

No, there was nothing to do but wait until she was back from washing to speak about it with her.

Heat pooled low in his belly. Why had she mentioned she was washing, specifically?

He tsked at himself. To give a time frame, of course.

While she washed herself. Naked, no doubt.

Zevran let out a testy groan and rolled off the bed, cursing the fool notion he'd had of going to that bloody brothel and doubly cursing seeing Rhodri there. After doing twenty push-ups and snatching up the abandoned novella gathering dust on the window sill, he dropped back onto the bed and summoned all his focus on reading the text.

While Rhodri was washing. Naked. Using her hands to–

“‘In the village of Ostfold, Kerensa and Pascow ran a puzzle shop,’” Zevran read aloud, tensing his legs as firmly as he could. He moved his finger under the words while he spoke, “‘Everyone was baffled by the place. Surely no-one could make a living in so small a place on selling puzzles alone, but there was nothing else in the shop display.’”

It was hard to know if the interrupting knock at the door (and Rhodri announcing herself) was welcome or not. On the one hand, it meant no more reading about a puzzle shop (were Fereldans truly that naive?) that was clearly a front for a mercenary guild, but on the other, the makings of an extremely poorly-timed erection continued to threaten. Why, for the love of all good things, did a libido have to resurface now? And so insistently, too.

He kept the book open in his lap and settled back against the pillow, keeping an intentionally relaxed posture as he invited Rhodri inside.

The door opened and she stepped in–

Oh, Maker, where is your robe, Rhodri?

Where was that damned robe to cover up the sleeveless linen shirt clinging to her every-fucking-where? He strained his legs hard enough to pop the joints and blinkered his periphery with his hand, looking at the wall in front of him. 

“Ah, forgive me,” he said. “Did you need something to cover yourself with?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he heard her give a cheerful laugh. “My goodness, you can look at me. The modesty customs are only for public places. Here in our quarters, among friends, there’s no need for that.”

“Ah,” he chuckled weakly and lowered his hand in time to catch Rhodri giving him a winsome smile as she strode over. There was nothing indecent about her, and it made no sense at all to dwell on her clothed state. Full-length leather breeches were a perfectly normal leg covering, and Alistair often wore a similar sleeveless shirt around camp. In fact, the front of his had an even deeper slit than Rhodri’s did. Hers was only low enough for her amulet to hang out and bounce against her chest while she walked, and he would not look at her chest.  

Damn the Pearl.

He blinked as Rhodri sat down on the floor by his bed cross-legged and leaned back on her hands, grinning up at him. 

Your protector is on the floor while you’re goggling at her from your bed.

“Forgive me,” he said quickly, and patted the bed beside him. “Please, there is no need to sit on the ground. Plenty of room up here.”

He was a fool for patting the area right up by the pillow. A damned fool. Somewhere in the middle of the bed would likely have been taken as an invitation to sit upright, with a little distance between them, but Zevran, Lord of the Fools, patted right-fucking-beside him. 

And, of course, the Warden who followed instructions to the letter said, “Oh! Of course,” with an appreciative nod and lay her enormous, warm body down beside him on his cramped little bed. If the smell of hot salt existed, she was wearing it and starchy linen, and there was a small, pleasantly neutral fragrance of hair oil– flaxseed, perhaps. Her warm, hard arm necessarily pressed up against his side, large enough to eclipse his own arm and easily long enough to have reached any part of him she might have wanted to–

Oh, enough! Enough!

Rhodri gave a contented sigh that settled his own nerves (after all, what was there to be nervous about?), and linked her fingers on her belly. 

“While we were out today,” she said to the ceiling, “I overheard some mercenaries talking while I finished things up with that Kylon fellow. Remember when I asked you all to stay put?”

Zevran turned his mind back to that moment and focused on it vividly (and thus not on the simmer in regions mercifully covered by the book). “I do, yes,” he replied. 

“Mmm. The mercenaries were saying that they had a run-in with a Dalish clan a little south of South Reach, in the Brecilian Forest. You probably know that the Dalish signed a treaty guaranteeing to aid the Wardens in the event of a Blight. And you’ll know, of course, that since the clans are often on the move, this might be our only opportunity to reach one before we need to go to Orzammar.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “True enough. So we will pursue this clan with all due speed, then?”

“We will,” she said. “I asked to speak with you before I told the others, because of course, none of the rest of us have any ties to the Dalish.”

Zevran chuckled. “Are you seeking advice on how to proceed, my Grey Warden? I’m afraid I may fall a little short, there.”

No-one in Clan Marendis hit each other. It had been a whole day since Zevran found them, and nobody had been belted, or even shouted at. The children sat restlessly through stories– not Zevran, though– and played and learned. He did, too, because they had said he was one of them, and it almost felt like he had wandered right into someone else’s life. 

The forest was a frightening place. More trees meant more places for people to hide behind, slipping around the tree trunk until they were at your back to sink a knife between your shoulders. But even the adults were unbothered, told Zevran with a chuckle that there was enough arrows between them to take out two bears. No mention of people. The halla grazed idly in their makeshift pastures, the fire crackled cheerfully, and his first night in the aravel was spent between two unarmed children who slept soundly. Zevran could barely believe his luck.

The Crows came after lunch the next day. Four of them; he didn’t recognise anything about them except the tattoos around their eyes. They singled him out in an instant.

“That,” the one in front snarled, pointing at Zevran with a curled lip, “is ours.”

The Keeper, an older woman with deep brown eyes, looked unmoved by this. “Zevran is not chattel,” she said coolly. “He came to us of his own free will. If he were loyal to you, he would have stayed.”

The leader paid no regard to the remark and looked at Zevran. “You come with us now, and we won’t kill you. Put up a fuss and we kill everyone.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He got to his feet, only to pause as Uthria, who led the hunts, gently clasped a hand around his wrist.

“You may stay with us, da’len,” she murmured to him. “We are not afraid to fight for our children.” Uthria turned and waved a finger at the other children, who nodded and retreated into a nearby thicket.

The Crows had their knives out already, advancing on the clan with identical, stomach-turning smirks. A few Dalish nocked arrows, another few reached for a dagger strapped to their person.

“Going to make us kill a whole clan before we get to you, is it?” the backmost Crow taunted. She spun her blades with practiced ease. 

The Crows would make good on their guarantees. If not now, then shortly after. He’d serve House Arainai until he died, Triana had said as much. It had seemed like an order at the time, but now it rang more as a simple truth. The clan had been good to him. No beatings; full, fresh meals with plenty of meat; stories galore. What gratitude, offering these good people up to the Crows like sacrificial pigs.

He couldn’t do it to them.

Zevran moved Uthria’s hand off his with all the tenderness he could, and walked over to the Crows.

“I’ll go,” he said to them. They smiled broadly, their eyes undoubtedly gleaming at the prospect of untold punishment.

The Keeper went to Zevran, bent down until they were eye-level. 

“You are sure, da’len?” she asked softly, seriously. “You were settling in well with us. You need not go back to them if you would rather stay.”

A dagger glinted in Zevran’s periphery, almost certainly intentionally angled to do so. He gulped and nodded.

“I’m sure. I want to go home.”

She watched him with a sad, knowing smile, and nodded. “Go then, Zevran. Mythal guide you.”

“Oh, move, already,” the Crow at the front shoved Zevran away and into a walk. “I don’t have all fucking day.”

Zevran swallowed down the lump in his throat, and didn’t dare look back.

Rhodri had been watching his cheek intently enough to burn a hole through it. She nodded now. “To be honest, Zev, I didn’t come with any particular questions. My priority is keeping you comfortable and safe while we carry this task out, and there’s a lot to consider.”

“Is there?” Zevran raised an eyebrow playfully. “Here I was thinking I was very easy to please.”

Oh, you fucking fool.

“O-oh,” Rhodri stiffened beside him. “I’m sorry, you are! You’re great! I–”

“Ah, forgive me,” he held up a hand, “I should not have joked like that. The wrong time for humour, perhaps.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh! Hah, not at all.” She smiled affably. “You joke a lot, maybe I should’ve kept an eye out. Anyway, though, I suppose the first thing is to ask if you’re comfortable coming with us. If you’d rather stay at South Reach while we go looking, you could wait for us in one of the inns there.”

Zevran shook his head. “Mm, that would not be a safe option, not with the Crows on my trail.” He waggled his brows at her, “And why deprive you of my sparkling company, hmm?”

Rhodri grinned. “We’ll have a good time, I know it.” She rubbed her chin. “Well, the only other thing I can think to ask is if you have any preferences about how we do this. I know you said you don’t have very strong ties to the Dalish, but if you’d rather do the talking, or there’s a certain way you think would be best to go about it, you can tell me.”

He chewed his lip thoughtfully. There wasn’t much to say, all told, and if anything, Rhodri seemed to be putting more importance on it than he was.

“Of course,” she added quickly, “you can always tell me later, if you’d rather. Or whenever it occurs to you. Any time!”

Zevran had to say something. Had to. Something, anything. His mind darted back to the clan outside of Antiva City, where the Keeper’s sympathetic wince had burned itself into the back of his eyes.

“Good to know,” he said smoothly. “Truly, ah… nothing really comes to mind, at present. My ties to the Dalish, as you said, are quite minimal. I know very little about my mother, which I suppose means that any clan we meet could be family.” He shrugged. “I would have no way of ruling it out.”

“Would… erm… would it be acceptable to ask the clan we meet, perhaps, if they might know of your mother based on what you’ve been told about her?” Rhodri broached. “Only if you wanted to know, that is.”

Zevran shrugged again. Shrugging was becoming something of a reflex for him these days. “I do not see why it would be unacceptable. Surely there are worse things to be curious about, though I know little of the customs, myself.” He nibbled the inside of his cheek, thoughts of the Antivan clan creeping back in, and sighed. It was, it seemed, his fate to plaster this unfortunate individual with the minutiae of his life.

“I did spend a day or two with a Dalish clan, though,” he offered tentatively.

Her eyes hadn’t left his cheek. “Oh,” she murmured. “How old were you when you did that?”

“Eleven.” He chuckled, the rest of the story pouring out of him before he could staunch the flow. “I had spent too long staring at my mother’s gloves, I suspect, and ran away when I heard a clan was near the city. The Crows found me after a day or two and took me back to Antiva City with them.”

“Oh my,” Rhodri breathed. “Ah… were…? Mmm.” She looked away, fingering the hem of her collar. “Forgive me, never mind.”

It was hard to know what, precisely, prompted Zevran to contort his neck in an attempt to catch her eye. Perhaps it was the novelty of having someone interested enough in his blither to want to ask a question. Or a simple curiosity of his own, even. But Rhodri glanced at him, meeting his eyes for a harmless, tentative moment, and Zevran smiled before he could force himself to.

“Hmm?” he prompted gently. “Do please ask, anything you like. Some things I may not be allowed to answer, to keep the clan safe, but otherwise I am ready with all sorts of juicy information for you.”

Her head turned back to face him, and she returned to studying his cheek. “I suppose it wasn’t a very long visit, so it’s not a very well thought-out question…”

Zevran waggled his brows. “Oh, I do love half-baked questions,” he purred. “They can lead to the most interesting topics, no?” He nudged her playfully. “Do not deprive me now, my Warden! The suspense is killing me!”

Rhodri chuckled and nodded. “Hah. Bene, bene. Well, in the short time you were there, were you happy?”

“Mmm…” he pursed his lips and tipped his head contemplatively. “That is no half-baked question, though I am not quite certain how to answer it. Truthfully, I never really thought about it. It was pleasant enough, certainly, but not what I was expecting.” He shrugged. “I was a child, no? And I do not suppose I knew any better at that point. It was foolish, really, to run after them the way I did.”

“I don’t think it was.” Rhodri shook her head. “Foolish, that is. It’s normal to want a family, a connection.”

He snorted softly. “Not in the Crows.”

“Mmm, not in the Circle, either.” Rhodri sighed. “But our lives in the Crows, in the Circle, they weren’t normal. Even the life we have now isn’t normal.”

He chuckled wryly. “Hunting darkspawn is abnormal? Surely not.”

“It is.” She gestured at the window, where the muffled din of the nearby marketplace crept in. “Those people out there, doing their shopping and moaning about taxes and bringing vegetables home to their parents and children and spouses, they’re the normal ones.”

Zevran squandered a curious moment picturing himself carting food and a hatred of tariffs home to some unknown person awaiting him–

Maybe she has dark hair and is washing while she waits for you to come home. With peanuts.

He laughed. Aloud, slightly nervously. Oh, death.  

“It’s true,” Rhodri insisted gently, apparently– and very fortunately– mistaking his spate of lascivious madness for doubt. 

“A strange thought,” he offered. “How very domestic.”

“When we go home to Minrathous, you know, we’ll be living a normal life, too.”

She’ll be washing every day, like normal–

“Oh?” he chuckled. “And what will our normal look like?”

Don’t say washing don’t say washing–

He chanced a look at Rhodri. She was frowning pensively, one eyebrow hitched heavenward.

“Well…” she began slowly. “We’ll meet with friends and family. And go to parties, that’s normal. Read books, go to the Sidereal Telescopium… ah! And we’ll go for walks!” Rhodri nodded emphatically. “We’ll take a walk to the beach every day. That’s very normal. We can even go swimming, if you like!”

A droll grin took over Zevran’s mouth as he pictured her in the water, taking up as much space as a small island as her robes floated out in every direction. “How do you swim in your robes, my Grey Warden?” he asked before he could curate the impulse. “Modesty is difficult enough in dry conditions. Or do you have a special set of swimming robes?”

Rhodri threw her head back and roared with laughter. “Zev!” She nudged him– with nominally more force than usual– as she wheezed into her hand. “Aeya. Oh my stars, listen to you! Swimming robes, indeed! Oh!” She wiped the tears out of her eyes and took a deep breath. 

Zevran waggled his eyebrows at her, his grin broadening. “Was I that far off the mark?”

“You were! We have swimsuits. Think a singlet and short pants sewn together, in stretchy material so you can climb into them.” Zevran focused on the arch look the Warden was giving him as thoughts of tightly-clinging swimsuits attempted to infiltrate his consciousness. Why had he brought the topic up?

“And it might surprise you to know,” she continued, “that even though we Tevinters wear black most of the time, our swimsuits are very colourful.”

“No!” He snickered. “Are they?”

“They are! Red, blue, all sorts of colours, in stripes even! At the beach, it’s no holds barred. We throw caution to the wind and really let ourselves go!” Rhodri waggled her eyebrows at him as he snorted. “You may laugh, but I haven’t told you the best bit yet.”

He bit down on his lips. “There is something better than stripy swimsuits?”

“Oh, yes.” She flexed her fingers dramatically. “There is always a vendor or two at the beach selling drinks, you see? And they come with tiny, colourful paper-wood umbrellas in them.”

“No-o-o, Rhodri, they do not.”

“They do!” Rhodri beamed like a wild thing and her voice took on a flourished, grand tone, “And what’s more, every day on our normal walk to the normal beach, I’ll go to the vendor and buy you a drink with a perfectly normal pink umbrellicula in it!”

Zevran laughed. It had only meant to be one small, low chuckle, but it hung on like a persistent cough, and Rhodri nudged him again and declared his drink would have two umbrellas in it, and stupid as it all was, he kept hoo-hoo-hoo-ing into his hand until his belly ached.

At some point it calmed, and out of the corner of his eye, Zevran could see Rhodri watching him with a broad, sunny smile. At a loss for anything else to do, he shot her a toothsome grin back. 

“It’s good that you’re laughing more these days,” she said cheerfully. “You deserve to laugh.”

The sigh she made after that, mercifully, obviated the need for a response on his part– which was good, because he had absolutely nothing to say to that. Rhodri sat up and swung her legs off the bed. She looked over her shoulder at him. 

“We got off topic, there,” she chuckled. “I should probably leave you in peace and get dressed for dinner. Never know when there might be another Tevinter in the room, ready to scream about your wrists being on display to all and sundry.”

Zevran snorted and shook his head.

“But, ah…” she peered at him searchingly, “Was there anything else you wanted to tell me about the Dalish elves today, before I go?”

“Nothing more leaps to mind at the moment.”

“You’ll tell me though, yes, if there’s anything?”

He managed a lopsided smile and nodded. “I will.”

Rhodri smiled back. “Good. In which case, I’ll excuse myself…”

Zevran hushed a quick thanks to the Maker, considering himself just about in the clear as she rose to her feet and took her warmth and freshly-bathed everything up there with her. All in all, that had gone well. The book in his lap had been an inspired, entirely necessary idea, and these damned breeches were too cramped for comfort now, but he had made it.

And then, right there in front of him, she stretched.  

Long and languid, rolling her shoulders and tipping her head back to bare her neck to him completely unselfconsciously– and entirely unintentionally, no doubt.

… Or?

It was poor timing either way; Zevran cursed the prickling heat in his bastarding breeches and looked away, rescinding all prior religious gratitude with a despairing inward grumble. 

Rhodri’s footfalls caught his attention, and he– completely unintentionally, of course– caught sight of her lower half as he watched her saunter away to the door. Long legs, almost absurdly so, and rounded out with thick, solid muscle that bulged under that tight leather all the way up to–

Oh, didn’t Zevran know about bulging right now. Mother of Mercy, could it not have happened at any other time?

He gulped and busied himself with cleaning something– anything– off his fingernail, making sure the book stayed over his lap.

“See you in a bit, then.” 

Zevran looked up in time to catch Rhodri wave and go, closing the door behind her before he could so much as smile back. He waited until he heard her own door open and close to tsk, toss the book away, and unlace his breeches.

A sigh of relief escaped him as he hooked a finger down his smallclothes and rotated his erection to lie flat against his belly (how had he missed the pain of it crushed down like that?). 

The walls in this place were too damned thin. If Rhodri didn’t hear the wet sound of him fucking his hand from her own room, she’d catch it when she walked down the hallway to go to dinner. Zevran compromised by sliding his foreskin back, licking two fingers, and carefully rubbing small circles under the exposed frenulum, not daring to breathe more than half a slow, silent lungful of air as he did.

She was going to be the death of him. Sleek, black hair and smooth, warm skin, pressing against him without a second thought. Hot salt and starchy linen and fresh, clean body, washed from head to toe. She could wash him from head to toe if she only said the word–

Zevran froze, holding his breath as a door shut. Quick, even footsteps with a springiness you could hear in the push-off– had to be Rhodri’s– passed along the hallway and away down the stairs, quieter and quieter. 

And then, finally, nothing.

He sighed, spat into his palm, and took himself in hand again, working his cock in rapid, unrefined motions. No build-up, no technique whatsoever, paying no heed to the amateurishly audible slicking and sucking the action was making, now he was sure it wasn’t Rhodri who’d hear it. Terribly desperate, really; there was a hint of some silly, wry embarrassment about it he’d pay attention to later. 

It could have been him. Hard, warm arms holding him against the wall of the whorehouse, long fingers cradling his jaw while her mouth availed itself of his like he was fresh water. Hungry Tevene filth in his ear, all tender, drawled vowels, every single word of it genuine when it came from the mouth of a blunt speaker. Steering him into that little bedroom when her patience had sufficiently waned. Zevran let out a small whine and gripped a little tighter, his hips curling into his hand. Oh, please.

Oh, please.

A wave of gooseflesh crawled up Zevran’s spine (already?) and he sat up, not bothering to begin fumbling around for something to finish into. If he’d had any sense, he would have grabbed something beforehand. Absently resigning himself to a mess, he sped up, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. A choked gasp stuck in his throat as his orgasm hit him like a sharp slap, much intenser than such hasty, amateurish work deserved. Reflex sent his other hand south in time to catch most of the spend, but even then, a thread evaded him and hit the middle of his tunic.

Brasca.

Zevran flopped back onto the bed and lay still awhile, letting the throbs die down as he remastered the art of breathing normally. When he trusted himself to walk again, he shambled over to where the basin stood, peeled his shirt off, and cleaned himself up. He rinsed his face until the third mirror check showed his cheeks had returned to their usual colour, and once satisfied that nobody would guess how he spent the last two (two!) minutes, he dressed and went downstairs.

Chapter Text

Morrigan was so keen to leave Denerim the next morning that she practically dragged the party toward the city gates, laden down with the final food shop as they all were. 

That came as no real surprise to Zevran or, he presumed, to anyone else. The witch had been decidedly emphatic about not wanting to be in town for long, if at all, from the beginning. And really, given the general lack of appeal Denerim had, who could blame her for that? 

As they approached the city gates (and the lack of Denerim that lay beyond them), Alistair’s broached request for a pause saw Morrigan’s face change from grim delight into seething murderousness. Zevran could have drunk in that look forever.

The party obligingly drew to a halt. Alistair, who was now making a concerted effort not to notice Morrigan’s glower, turned to Rhodri with his hands behind his back.

“Bad timing, I know,” he scuffed his foot on the ground.

Rhodri rested a hand on his shoulder and rubbed it, smiling patiently. “We’re about to leave, it’s true, but no trouble. What is it you need, amicus?”

He gulped, only appearing to pull himself together enough to speak once Leliana peered at him with doe-eyed concern and linked her hand with his. “Well, ah… the thing is that… mmm… I wonder if we could look someone up while we’re here.”

“Look… up?” Rhodri’s eyes fell into a squint. “My goodness, how tall is this someone if you have to look up at them?”

“No, no,” he waved a hand. “Means to visit them.”

“Ah!” Rhodri beamed and clapped Alistair on the shoulder as if to congratulate him on his request. “A social call! Excellent. Perhaps we could find a nice gift for them here in the market place. Who are we seeing, then?”

Alistair’s voice dropped to a near whisper, “My… ah… my sister.”

Both Leliana and the Warden gave a delighted ‘ooh!’ and the latter of them gently requested Morrigan to ease off on her (vocal) complaints.

“Well, half-sister,” Alistair added quickly. “Her name’s Goldanna. She… ah… lives in that house over there, actually,” he pointed at a ramshackle rowhouse at the edge of the marketplace, sagging in the middle as though weighed down by its sole window. 

“Ah!” Rhodri nodded. “Well, come, let’s find her a present. Has she got any children, a spouse?”

“No idea. I think I saw that she remarried, maybe.”

“Ah?”

He shrugged awkwardly, “I’ve never met her, and she probably doesn’t know who I am, either. I only found out once I was a Grey Warden and checked some records that I even had a half-sister. The address was all that was listed.” 

Leliana gave Alistair a smile that would have made a horse vomit. It was too much; Zevran looked away.

Rhodri clapped her hands once. “Right, time for action, then. We’ll bring a decoration for the home and something to eat. Half of you will follow me to the bakery, and the other half can go with Alistair to buy flowers.”

Alistair brightened immediately. “A cake,” he said, assuming a decisiveness that bordered on miraculous. “I have a– bit silly, really, but I have this recurring dream where I’m eating cake with my family and it just– well, it just seems like it might come together now, doesn’t it?”

She beamed. “It does! Let’s get to it, then.”

With Sandal and Bodahn left minding the cart by the gates (the dog was instructed to remain and keep the younger Feddic company), their half of the party wound their way to a bakery, where a grumbling Morrigan and Sten were placated with a large bag of cookies to share between them. 

Zevran, distinguishing himself as eminently more useful, drew from his minimal baking knowledge and maximal people skills, assisting Rhodri (Alistair’s former decisiveness had given way to nerves and rendered him utterly ineffectual) into charming the baker for a recommendation of Ferelden’s finest desserts. They left the establishment with an apple butter cake in hand, iced to perfection with a brown sugar buttercream. One of the baker’s finest productions yet, so they were advised at the time of payment. 

They met with the rest of the delegation outside the house, and Alistair requested to be accompanied inside by Leliana, Rhodri, and Wynne– and Zevran, it was decided, since Rhodri deemed it unsafe to leave him without a Warden in such a crowded public place. Zevran wasn’t complaining. Who knew? Perhaps if he was sufficiently winsome, he’d be given his own slice of cake.

The Templar stood at the door, ready to knock, but his hand was most pointedly not doing any such thing. 

“Ah…” he cleared his throat, drew his hand back to rap on the wood, and froze. His free hand was all but strangling the vivid bouquet of flowers he had in hand. “Maybe, ah… maybe this is a bad time.” He shuffled back a little. “We could leave, couldn’t we? S’not really the right time to pay a visit, what with the Blight and that.”

He leapt a foot in the air as Leliana rested a hand on his waist, and probably would have gone even higher had the good Sister not dragged him back to solid ground. She patted him gently and subjected everyone with a pair of eyes to abject misery as she gave Alistair another of those simpering looks.

“It will be all right,” she cooed. “Goldanna will love you. Tell me who wouldn’t be thrilled to see you.”

Rhodri grinned and nodded. “Well said, Leli! And see, Alistair? You already have a sibling,” she tapped her chest indicatively, “and I love you like gold. There’s another lucky one waiting in here!” 

She used the hand that wasn’t holding the cake to give him an encouraging clap on the back and nodded at the door. “Knock first, nice and firmly. One step at a time, sic?”

“R-right,” he stammered. “Knock first.”

He did, and Rhodri pat his back again. “Ah, bonus! And now we’ll introduce ourselves and ask for a moment of her time, if she lets us in, yes?”

Alistair nodded, and when the party was given permission to enter, they strolled inside.

Zevran wasn’t sure what he had expected the inside of a Denerimian market square rowhouse to look like. Or any private Fereldan dwelling, for that matter. Surely a human house would at least be as clean and comfortable as the average Alienage residence. Certainly, with the lack of overcrowding and access to building materials of reasonable quality, there was no excuse for it not to be. 

With that in mind as he stepped over the threshold, he allowed the idealistic part of him to nurse the idea that the uninhabitable look to the exteriors was nothing more than a facade to dissuade home intruders, and that the indoors were correspondingly cosy, clean (and, most importantly, structurally sound). 

In the case of Goldanna’s house, the unprepossessing outer was nothing but indicative, a warning, even, of what lay within. The place looked... unwell. Zevran chewed on his cheek as he cast his eyes around the large, open room. In one corner was a sizable copper tub, where clothes soaked in steaming hot water that fogged the windows– which explained the creep of the mould into the ceiling and surrounding walls.

On the other side of the hearth, the bleak walls were sloughing off their cladding like dead skin. Wherever the surface was still reasonably intact, ancient dust and filth lay deep in the cracks and chips. Beyond a heap of semi-clean hay strewn with rags, and a few wooden crates, there was nothing to speak of in terms of furniture. It was easily as hopeless an environment as any of the slums he had lived in, the sole difference being that it was a larger room. Which meant, Zevran supposed wryly, more misery per square inch. 

The woman who had invited them in (presumably Goldanna) stood in the middle of the room with an armful of dirty laundry. She couldn’t have been more than thirty, with a mop of shoulder-length hair that was arguably far closer to copper than gold, but on the other hand, Copperanna had less of a ring to it than her current name. 

She set the clothes on the ground and strode over to them, surveying each party member with an arched brow. 

“You got linens that need washin’?” she asked brusquely. “I charge three bits on the bundle, y’won’t find better. An’ don’t trust that Natalia woman, either. She’s foreign and she’ll rob you blind.”

Zevran caught a breathed, ‘Oh, my word,’ coming from Rhodri and bit his lip.

“Er… no, no,” Alistair said with a chattery laugh, shooting an apologetic glance at his emotional support foreigners. “Don’t need any wash done, thanks. My… ah… my name is Alistair, and if you’re Goldanna, then I’m your… ah…” he cleared his throat delicately. “I’m your b-brother.”

The presumed Goldanna squinted at him and folded her arms. “Eh? My wot? I am Goldanna, yes. ‘ow d’you know my name, eh?” She cast her eye over the rest of the party with the same mistrust, her gaze lingering briefly on the cake and flowers as well. “Why you showin’ up like yr here fr a party? Wot sorta tomfool’ry are you folk up to?”

Alistair began to open and close his mouth like an abducted fish, producing nary a noise of explanation as he did. When the awkwardness grew stifling, Leliana patted Alistair on the back and prompted him with a gentle, “It’s true, isn’t it, Alistair? You have the same mother, do you not?”

That worked, on both him and Goldanna, who was now watching him with wide eyes. A jolt of reconnection flashed over Alistair’s face as he (presumably) rejoined the here and now. He straightened up and cleared his throat again.

“Right!” He nodded fervently. “Yes, our mother, she worked as a servant at Redcliffe Castle, before she died. Did you know–?”

“You!” Goldanna said in a near-shriek, pointing at him. “I knew it! They tol’ me the babe died along with Mother, but I knew they was lyin’!”

“Huh?” He frowned. “Who told you that?”

“Them’s at the castle! I told ‘em the babe was the King’s and they gave me a coin an’ sent me on my way!” She clenched her fist. “I knew it!”

Alistair’s face turned up in a tremulous smile. He stepped forward, thumbing the stems of the flowers like fury. “Well, uh… surprise, I suppose. I’m not dead, I’m right here, ah… sister.” He cleared his throat. “Nice to finally meet you.”

His face faltered as Goldanna scoffed loudly. “Fr all the bloody good it does me,” she said bitterly. “You killed Mother, you did, an’ I’ve had to scrape by all this time! That coin didn’t last long, an’ when I went back to the castle, all’s they done is run me off again!”

“Ah, but surely that isn’t Alistair’s fault, Madam,” Rhodri broached carefully. “Infants don’t murder their mothers, and plunging family into poverty is hardly in their best interests either.”

The air went still as Goldanna’s gaze (and the glare containing it) slid over to Rhodri. She ran her eyes over the Warden once, and then again, and gave a deeply unimpressed snort.

“An’ who in the Maker’s name are you? Some tart ‘e’s got,” Goldanna jerked her thumb dismissively at Alistair, “followin’ 'im about an’ holdin’ all ‘is riches?”

Alistair bristled visibly at that, even more so when Rhodri’s eyes widened (though Zevran would have argued her expression appeared more born of bafflement than offence). 

“Hey!” he barked angrily. “Don’t speak that way to her–”

Rhodri stopped him there with a string of gentle hushes, using her cake-less hand to rub his arm. “It’s all right, Alistair,” she soothed. “A misunderstanding, that’s all. No trouble.” Rhodri turned to Goldanna with a smile that didn’t quite hide her puzzlement, and held up the cake a little. “This… ah… this is a cake, Madam, not a tart. Tarts are… well, a little more like an open pie, I would say. This one is an apple cake, with brown sugar icing.”

Goldanna’s glare deepened. Alistair closed his eyes with a wince. Something smacked Zevran (who was already struggling to maintain his composure) on the back of his right shoulder. He glanced to the right and caught Leliana lowering her arm from her assault and giving him a pointed look. Raising an eyebrow at her, he resigned himself to the wordless request and lightly guided Rhodri down until her ear was close to his mouth.

“I believe she meant ‘tart’ to refer to a whore in this context, my dear Warden,” he murmured to her.

Rhodri’s eyes widened. “Oh. O-h-h!” She gave Zevran an appreciative nod and straightened up with a bright smile (and Maker’s breath, was she blushing, too?). 

She spoke warmly, “I understand now. You must have seen me at the Pearl a few days ago, but no, I’m afraid I was only a customer there, not an employee.” The Warden chuckled jovially, entirely oblivious to the way Alistair froze under her hand. “I must admit, I’ve never had a compliment like that before, but thank you very much indeed! High praise coming from a handsome lady like yourself. And may I say,” Rhodri took her hand off Alistair to make a grand gesture at the now-gaping Goldanna, “I think you would make a fortune working there, too!”

Zevran flattered himself that he was the only one not to gasp. Even the walls sounded like they had taken in a sharp lungful of air– though it might simply have been that they buckled from the sudden pressure change from everyone else’s reaction. 

Wynne, who had been quiet up to now, gave a sharp, irritated sigh. “Oh, really , Rhodri,” she admonished impatiently. “Must you be so inappropriate?”

The Warden’s bright smile faltered, her mouth falling open. “Inappropriate?” she echoed in a disbelieving tone, gesturing at Goldanna. “But– but she–”

Goldanna pointed at Rhodri, “I dunno wot's wrong with you,” she hissed, “but I’m about to give you ten more problems if you don’t get out uv my house right-now.”

Rhodri’s eyes widened. “O-oh. Oh no, I caused offence.” She glanced at Alistair worriedly and then back at Goldanna. “Forgive me, I thought we were being friendly. Of course I’ll go, yes. Should– should I leave the cake… ah… where would you like it, Madam?”

“Y’can stick it where the sun won’t touch it,” the woman growled. “I want all uv you gone.”

“No, no, please, this is my fault,” Rhodri said quickly, entreatingly almost. “Alistair has been so looking forward to meeting you. Don’t mind me, I’ll go, right now.” She carefully set the cake down on a crate beside the front door. “It’s out of the sunlight here. Ah… please, take care and enjoy yourselves. My best wishes to you and your family, Madam.”

With a polite nod, a scarlet-faced Rhodri opened the door and slipped outside, and Zevran followed her out with a wink to Leliana, closing the door behind him.

In the uncomfortably crisp mid-morning air of the marketplace, Rhodri paced a track into the mud. 

"I don't understand," she lamented. "She paid me a compliment, I paid one back, and then she was angry. What went wrong?"

Zevran sighed and strolled alongside her. "I do not think she meant what she said in a complimentary fashion."

"No, I gathered that by the end, but she had no reason to suspect I might work at a brothel! You've seen what people wear when they’re soliciting sex. I'm completely covered from the neck down! For all she knew, under all this," Rhodri waved a hand over herself, "could be five hundred rats standing on each other’s shoulders!"

Zevran--barely--stifled a snort. "No, quite true–"

"And–and prostitutes, they ask you upfront if you want to get into bed with them," Rhodri said, almost at a babble now. "They have to, that's how they– I didn't ask, so why would she call me that unless she thought I had such sex appeal, even modestly dressed and behaved as I am, that I must work in a brothel?" 

She shook her head and gave a flustered shrug. "Surely that's a compliment, Zev! How is that not a compliment? Odd, to be sure, and not appropriate for a family reunion, but she was a little sharp and I thought returning the compliment would brighten the atmosphere."

Zevran opened his mouth, and it closed again as though an invisible hand had taken his jaw and shut it for him. Not an unreasonable reflex, given the situation. Was there a right way to break what was apparently news to the Warden that prostitution was, on the whole, not a career that was generally smiled upon? There was something flattering in her finding the remark complimentary. Why spoil that impression?

On the other hand, she wanted to know, and Zevran was not of a mind to keep her in the dark when she had always– so far as he knew, at least– been candid with him. He took in the final innocent moment with a sigh and, with all the delicacy in him, advised the general societal perspective regarding the sale of sexual services.

Rhodri, who had been listening to his explanation with an open mouth, shook her head a little. "People think prostitution is unwholesome?" she said, echoing his most recent words. "Oh, how absurd. It's a regular job. Go to the Pearl, do ten hours, and go home with the money." She whiffled her hand. "Just as unhygienic as any other job that requires close contact with the body, like a surgeon or a wrestler.”

Zevran couldn’t help but smile. “Just so, my dear Warden,” he purred.

With a sigh, Rhodri looked over her shoulder at the house containing Goldanna, half the party, and the cake that Zevran ought to have stolen a slice of on the way out. Her brows drew together sadly.

“I hope I haven’t spoiled it for him,” she said in a near-whisper. “I’ve never seen him so hopeful about something.”

Surprising himself, Zevran rested a hand on the Warden's shoulder, and he gave a noncommittal hum in an attempt to force calmness. It was a friendly gesture, and there was no vice in friendliness. There wasn't. There wasn't. 

“Truthfully, my Warden," he said after a moment, "I do not think his interaction will go well. This Goldanna looked displeased from the moment she laid eyes on him.”

When Rhodri’s gaze went onto him, he offset the zing of tension in his shoulders with a shrug, lifting his hand off her before panic made his body decide to drop the entire limb like a deciduous branch. “And, well. I know nothing of family, but surely a misfired compliment is not cause for refusing a sibling, no?”

“Mm. I hope not.”

He smiled. “There, you see? Nothing to do there, except perhaps complain if someone implies you work in a brothel,” Zevran winked jovially.

“Hah.” Rhodri gave a soft chuckle. “Imagine being unhappy about something like that. Anyone would think she’d called me a slaver. Now that, I would be in a hurry to correct– oh!” She nodded back in the direction of the house, out of which a rather nonplussed-looking Alistair, Leliana, and Wynne were now emerging.

They wandered over to meet them a short distance from the house, and extremely heavy footfalls off to the right revealed that the rest of the party had left the bench they had parked themselves on and were joining the cluster.

“Alistair?” Rhodri watched him hopefully. “How did it go?”

Alistair kissed his teeth. “Well, it… ah… not what I expected, to be truthful.”

The Warden’s face fell. If the hand of hers that Zevran could see wrung her robe any harder, she’d tear a hole in it and all hopes of modesty would go up in smoke. “O-oh,” she stammered softly. “I’m so sorry–”

“She only wanted money from me!” he exclaimed. “Said she had less than no use for me if I wasn’t going to make her and her children live like the royalty I was born into. I– royalty! Agh!” Alistair threw up his hands. “Who of us lives like bloody royalty here? The only thing I can offer them to the level of a royal is the workload!”

The beaten-dog look to Rhodri evaporated. She straightened up (had she really been hunching so much this entire time?), shoulders back and displeasure all over her face.

“She turned you away for a lack of money?” she demanded. “How dare she. This is outrageous!”

“Is it, though?” Alistair gave a helpless shrug. “I– I thought family was supposed to accept you without question, but I don’t know, maybe it’s not. I just– agh.” He sighed, “I feel like a complete idiot.”

Silence permeated the air around them, stifling as foundry smoke and heavier than lead. Leliana was rubbing Alistair’s back, Wynne watched on sadly, and Morrigan observed the entire woebegone scene looking like she was about to heave up the half-bag of biscuits she’d eaten.

“Right,” Rhodri muttered in a growl. “Right. Wait for me here, please. I’ll return in a moment.” She turned on her heel and strode towards Goldanna’s house.

“Rhod, no, don’t–” Alistair said quickly, making to dash after her. 

“No trouble,” Rhodri held up a hand, not looking behind her. “We left something belonging to us in that house. I’m just going to retrieve it.”

Alistair stayed where he was, frowning and floundering and back on the fishmouthed gaping like he was being paid a fortune to do it. Leliana drew up beside him, striking a balance between being the soothing force for Alistair’s woe and feeding that insatiable curiosity of hers by keeping her eyes glued to Rhodri while she did.

An audible curse came from Goldanna’s house as Rhodri threw the door open, reached around inside, shouted something unintelligible, and then came back into view with the cake in hand. She slammed the door behind her and approached the party with a slight swagger to her walk.

“I do declare,” she said haughtily, before Alistair’s open mouth could deliver what admonishment he might have been able to summon, “that that woman is a wretch. You know what we say in Tevinter, Alistair? Love who you’re given.” She held up the cake. “Who you’re given is right here. You want to eat cake with your family? Bene. We’ll sit on that bench over there and eat the whole thing, this Goldanna bitch be damned. Come.”

Leliana smirked as Rhodri linked arms with a thoroughly speechless Alistair and marched him, the cake, and by extension the rest of the party, off to the bench in the shade.

Chapter Text

“… Rhod?” Alistair said her name with the cautiousness of someone waking a bear. “There’s… something wedding-related I’m curious about now.”

Rhodri smiled, her eyes gleaming. “Oh-h-h,” her hands– momentarily, before she caught herself doing it– drummed against her thighs. “Have you and Leliana changed your mind about marrying? I know we only left the topic a few moments ago, but it’s never too soon to–”

“No, no,” he waved his hands like he was trying to flag a ship down, and Leliana got a worried look again. “Not us, not us!”

“Ah.” She deflated, if only slightly. “Ah, well. I suppose there need not be a wedding to have cake, sic?”

“Erm… yeah, definitely.” He blinked. “Anyway, that thing you said about marrying someone you don’t like…”

“Mm? It’s perfectly true,” Rhodri said with a nod. “Affairs can only be so distracting, see? At some point or another, you need to see your spouse.”

“... Right. So Tevinters are, erm… expected to marry someone they don’t love, or even like?”

Rhodri shrugged. “It happens often enough.”

“Will you have to?”

Zevran decided, before the panic could decide for him, that he was listening as intently as he usually did to group conversations. If he was paying closer attention now, it was quite simply because he was paying attention to the fact that he was paying attention, which increased the rate of attention paid exponentially. It was inevitable.

Besides, if she ended up in a marriage to some contemptuous oaf, who was to say she couldn’t have her affair with Zevran? Plenty of rich Tevinters had their way with handsome elves– behind closed doors, of course. And Zevran was a man who dwelled in the shadows. It was the perfect set-up. He would have to bring up the idea with Rhodri later.

Rhodri hummed thoughtfully. “I must marry, and fairly soon. That’s non-negotiable if I want to be the heir, which I do. I'm happy enough to do it. But Tata has always said I can marry anyone I like, so long as it isn’t a woman.” She wobbled her head a little. “I never bothered looking, though, so I’ll probably have him find me someone once I go back to Tevinter.”

Alistair’s eyes (and Leliana’s now, too) were like dinner plates. “You… really don’t mind if he puts you with someone you’re not in love with?”

“It’s not so unthinkable in Tevinter. The point of marriage for us is to merge two households, create new family connections, make children. Dozens of people are affected by it, so whether two people are romantically tied…” she shrugged. “It’s not so relevant. No strong family is built on throbbing hearts. The one with similar values, who will work with you and not against you, that is the spouse who will bring you through life in one piece.”

He blinked. “I… well, I s’pose it’s good to be with someone like-minded, but forever’s a long time to be stuck with someone you don’t feel anything for.” Alistair shook his head. “It just sounds like Tevinter parents don’t give a damn how you feel, so long as the marriage suits everyone else.”

Rhodri raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say that, did I? Most parents look for someone they know we’ll  get along with, and we’re usually listened to if we veto their choice. Some parents choose the most politically advantageous person, certainly, but I think most are very considerate when matchmaking.” She chuckled, “Do Fereldan parents let you marry someone who is patently bad for you and your household, just because you’re in love with them?”

“Well– well it’s their choice, isn’t it?” Alistair blustered. “And what if it turns out they’re wrong, and you’re a perfect match?”

Rhodri shrugged. “What if it turns out your mother and father chose a good partner for you, despite your initial misgivings? No system is perfect, I don’t think. Many Tevinters are in strong but romanceless marriages and pursue affairs to plug the gap. Many Fereldans go to pieces four years into the marriage because the passion has faded and the true incompatibility can no longer be ignored. Which sounds worse to you?”

“Both sound pretty awful to me, to be honest,” Alistair winced a little. “I hope I don’t end up in either one.”

Rhodri gave a good-natured laugh. “Let’s hope you marry someone perfect for you, then. For me, I’ll be extremely pleased if my husband and I are friendly and we raise plenty of happy children together.” She rubbed her hands together and grinned, adding, “Ideally in the not-too-distant future!”

“Maker’s breath…” Alistair shook his head.

She laughed again. “Definitely don’t do it our way, amicus, if that’s how you feel, but most of us are satisfied. Stick with your romance, sic?”

Alistair sighed. “You know what, I think I’d better…”

Zevran couldn’t help but ponder the curious fact that, going by Rhodri's standards, he was a suitable marriage candidate. Her father’s sole criterion was no women, and Zevran was a man– and that seemed unlikely to change. He and Rhodri got along well, the two of them, and there were certainly worse ways to spend life than rearing a cheerful brood of children in good company. After all, life did not begin and end with oneself, and it would be quite the shame not to pass good looks and charm of his level on to the next generation. Who would be able to resist a fat little infant– or a league of them, even, with a winning smile and bright grey eyes? No-one, that’s who.

In all, it was arguable that if Rhodri hadn’t accidentally omitted other requirements issued by herself or her father– no elves, no assassins (even if not actively trying to murder her in particular), no Crows, no people with no notable families… well, it meant they two could– in theory, of course– make a good fist of it together.

And that was really all there was to the thought. There was no need for panic to creep back in and accuse him of feeding some sort of hope that only led to danger for all concerned. His had been a perfectly sensible notion, and really , it was well to have considered it. Indeed, what might have occurred if Rhodri happened upon the idea herself later and brought it up? Had he not mulled it over himself, he would have been caught by surprise, and what then?

No, it was perfectly reasonable. A sensible marriage, unlikely as it was to occur. Were it to happen, though, Zevran would prove himself a capable father, and whatever needs Rhodri might have in the capacity of a spouse would no doubt be easily met. And marriage would bring the benefit of permanently securing a lifetime away from the Crows!

Which she has already guaranteed, without wanting marriage or children from you.

Zevran’s fingertips went cold. Even if that were the case, idly pondering the concept of being legally bound and with offspring wasn’t so dangerous, surely. Not when there wasn’t any emotional attachment required– Rhodri explicitly said there wasn’t. Any fool could see this was purely practical.

But why had he even entertained the thought?

He could have laughed as the answer hit him– he nearly did, in fact. It was so very obvious: why did anyone think of those sorts of things? Sex, of course. Encouraged in marriage, and a necessary step in procreation. A natural, healthy impulse if ever there was one, and after Maker-knew-how-many months without so much as a wet dream, it was no doubt a sign that that part of him was ready to be brought out of dormancy. Emotional attachment indeed! Why would there be any risk of that when Zevran was obviously incapable of it anyway?

He sighed with relief. All that fluster for nothing. This was why it was well not to lose one's head and read too much into flitting fancies, when it all invariably came back to the simple and the obvious.

Zevran smiled to himself and pondered the going rates in Denerim brothels.

§

There was something terribly, deeply filthy about forests. Perhaps it was the fact that the only thing separating the foot from a layer of dirt going all the way down to the core of the planet was grass. Hair scarcely separated skin from whatever was touching it; why would grass be any better?

The answer, of course, was that it wasn’t any better, and that dirt in all its states– dust, silt, mud– would plague Zevran and his gear for the rest of his days. 

And it wasn’t as though Zevran was a snob. No, indeed, he had eked out an existence in some of the most squalid slums imaginable, but he took permanent solace in the fact that once the mould and bodily byproducts and other mysterious filth had been scrubbed away, the walls and floors beneath were perfectly sanitary. And they kept the worst of the elements away. The outdoors didn’t have a leg to stand on in that regard.

“I do not suppose there is any way we could tempt the Dalish to come to us, is there?” he croaked miserably as he took in the endless, uninterrupted stretch of trees ahead. “Surely they would benefit from a brief stay on the outskirts of a town. I am beginning to forget what buildings look like.”

“Zevran,” Rhodri said gently, raising an eyebrow at him, “we passed a hamlet shortly after lunch, and we haven’t gone more than twenty paces from the Imperial Highway– the heavily paved Imperial Highway,” she added with a chuckle, “since leaving Denerim.”

From behind him, Alistair scoffed and Leliana giggled, and Zevran was quite sure he had heard Morrigan and Wynne rolling their eyes. He heaved a sigh and kicked a nearby rock.

“Ah,” Rhodri clucked her tongue sympathetically. “You are not enjoying the fresh air?”

“It smells like fresh dirt,” he sulked. “And my boots, they are dusty."

He glanced up in time to see Rhodri’s expression go suspiciously neutral. Glazed, even. A small vein was rapidly gaining prominence on one side of her head. Was that wicked individual trying not to laugh?

“Ah,” she said again after a moment. "The ground is too dry, is it?"

"My boots speak for themselves," he lamented, kicking one shod foot up indicatively as he walked.

"Is Antiva not dusty, Zevran?" Leliana asked through a smile he could hear. 

He sighed and turned around, walking backwards as he faced the party. "Not my Antiva City," he returned, permitting tenderness to creep into his voice. After all, there was no shame in loving one's country. 

"Perhaps out there in the Drylands there is dust," he waved a hand dismissively in the direction he guessed the Drylands to lie. "And the sun burns hot in Antiva City, to be sure, and everything dries out quickly, but it almost always storms in the afternoon. Big, heavy rains that wash away all the dirt, and so the next day starts fresh." He kissed his fingers. "You could eat your breakfast off the ground, it is so clean."

Amid the doubtful looks from the Fereldans, a nostalgic-sounding sigh issued from Rhodri and, to Zevran’s intense surprise, a hint of a smile flickered over Sten's face as well. 

“You paint a very romantic picture, mon râleur, I must say,” Leliana chuckled. “But I do not think all that water would be very welcome to the people who end up flooded with it.”

Zevran beamed. “You flatter me, dear lady. If an Orlesian calls me a complainer, then I must be very good at it.”

“Yes, you are,” Rhodri chimed in cheerfully, and he, Leliana, and Alistair snorted in unison.

“It’s true,” Alistair added, somewhat less blithely than the Warden. “You could complain for Antiva.”

“Oh, now the praise is going to my head,” Zevran cackled. “You’ll find I am nowhere near as talented as my countrymen in that regard, but I am a suitable enough representative in the South. We Northerners complain like we are getting paid to do it!”

“He isn’t joking,” Rhodri said over her shoulder when Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Tevinters, Antivans, and Orlesians are all born whiners. It’s good for the health.”

“Good for the–?”

“Oh, yes,” Leliana linked arms with Alistair and smiled up at him. “If you let your troubles bottle up in you, you’ll fall over dead at some point.”

Alistair’s eyes widened. “Is… is that true? I mean, really true, not some old wives’ tale.” 

There was a clamour as the Orlesian, the Antivan, and the Tevinter all made to vigorously impart how many people they had seen or– and the numbers were far higher here– heard of expiring from an acute lack of complaints and the complications thereof. 

Leliana declared that she had witnessed a handful of stiff-lipped Orlesian nobles die suddenly and violently as all their complaints consumed them at once, a harsh result from years of playing the Grand Game a little too well. And Zevran, well. How many times had he been given a mark who had made a point of not complaining to anyone, and then, in a moment of urgency, blurted the wrong details to the wrong person? Their deaths, after all, weren’t really caused by Zevran; he was nothing more than the last sentence in the book, when it all boiled down to it. The true cause of such deaths always lay a few chapters back.

“In fact,” Rhodri announced after relaying her own anecdotal evidence, “some three years ago, my mother told me that there was research from the University of Orlais, warning of the dangers of not complaining enough!”

“Mmm!” Leliana nodded vehemently. “I think I heard about that from a friend. An especially big problem long-term, is it not?”

Rhodri nodded gravely. “It is. The constant discomfort imbalances the four humours, you see Alistair, and then over time places a great strain on the organs. Then one day,” she snapped her fingers, “something gives out, and that’s the end of you.”

Zevran clenched a hand victoriously. “HA! I knew it!” he cried. “I said it to Taliesen often enough! ‘Mark my words,’ I would say to him, ‘scholars will find it is bad for the humours!’ Too much of the biles. He called me a fool, but who is the fool now, I ask you? Who?”

“Not you!” Rhodri said in a near-shout, grinning at him like the victory had been her own. Leliana and Alistair started to laugh, and everyone else rolled their eyes. Zevran’s chest swelled until it was fit to burst.

He swivelled on his heel to face the front again, his long-forgotten dusty boots all the way down on the ground while his head was up and up and up, past the treetops and clipping through the clouds. His laughter rang like bells and his voice came from his chest, “Not me!”  

Oh yes, him. Yes him, coming back to them again and again with his hands out like a dog begging for scraps. It was wrong and he knew it, and there was no escaping knowing it.

Zevran breathed through the stopper in his lungs, forced the air in until there was no chance of them collapsing. His fingertips were tingling. 

Ah, but Leliana had asked him a question! Stale by now, but still unanswered. He seized it anyway.

“Ah, and about the flooding, Leliana,” he waved a hand with all the nonchalance he could muster, “we have gutters. Big ones, deep, on the side of the paths and the paths are all angled just a little, so that the rain runs straight into these gutters. You should see how many people fall in those things and break something. Oh!” He chuckled. “Just dreadful.”

The Chantry Sister took in this information with a hum, and made another when Rhodri vouched for a similar system in her own country.

“But where does it go then?” she asked after a moment. “Who gets flooded at the end of all that?”

“Oh, no-one.” Zevran smirked. “All those gutters drain into an enormous reservoir, where we bottle the water up and sell it to the Orlesians.”

Everything seemed to happen at once: Rhodri laughed so hard she sank to her knees; Leliana cursed Zevran; Alistair gave a surprised squeak. What the others did was beyond Zevran’s notice or care, not least when several fat, icy drops of rain plummeted into his hair. Through deep, body-wracking guffaws, and as of a few moments later thick sheets of torrential rain, the Warden directed them into the canopy for the fastest camp set-up in existence.

§

“You really ought to get a move on, you know, Zevran.”

Zevran looked up at Leliana over the potato he was peeling. While everyone else went about setting up camp amid the downpour, they were tasked with making the supper together, and it had to be said: Leliana wasn’t making that much more headway with the carrots she’d been dicing.

He gave her a flourished inclination of the head anyway. “Ah, forgive me! I was overcome by your radiant beauty. Shall I move and sit in the rain so I am not distracted while I work?”

She snorted. “You know I’m not talking about potatoes.”

“Oh?” He waggled his brows, already dreading wherever this was headed. “You are being a little ambiguous, my dear. I suppose I will simply have to live my life at twice the speed to ensure you are not disappointed. Will that do?”

“Now, now,” she smirked at him. “There is no need to be flippant. All I’m saying is Rhodri won’t be on the market for much longer, and once she’s taken, I don’t think she’ll have much time for the affairs she speaks of.”

Zevran allowed himself a single, peevish sigh. “Are you still on about this, woman?”

Leliana chuckled. “And why not, hmm? You’re still her shadow, still blushing up to your ears when she so much as smiles in your direction. And still not saying a word to her about it!”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he diced the potato and tossed it into the water.

“Of course you don’t.” Leliana threw him a shit-eating grin and ate a piece of carrot. “I didn’t see you trip over your feet the other day to get over to Rhodri when she realised you weren’t walking beside her. Not at all.”

Zevran’s stomach threatened to escape via his bellybutton; it took two goes before he had tensed it back into place. “There was a rock in the road.”

“Mm-hmm. And I suppose there was another rock right after that when she said that it didn’t feel right without you walking next to her, no?”

“It is possible, my dear lady, to trip for more than one step,” he said brusquely, and snatched another potato from the bowl.

From his periphery, Leliana rolled her eyes. “I don’t see why you don’t just make a move. Even if she’s not interested, she’ll be flattered, and you can move on.” She winked, “Of course, the best case scenario is much more likely, and then we’ll have one each.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow. “One what?”

“Oh, Zevran,” Leliana lamented. “Keep up, darling. One Warden each! Think of it! We could compare notes, no?” She reached an elbow up and dug it into his ribs with another, much more lascivious wink.

He tsked and gave her a withering look. “Does your gentleman caller know you are encouraging ‘The Assassin’ to seduce the Warden? Amid her grief?”

“Pish tosh,” she waved a hand airily. “Obviously you're not about to kill her. If you were, you’d have done it already. And as for the grief, it’s been two months now. Didn’t she go to a brothel last month? Besides, if she doesn’t want to, all she need do is decline.”

“Hah. Well, I’m glad someone is being sensible, at least.”

“Unlike you!” Leliana nudged him again. “Come on, I want to see if it’s true what they say about Grey Wardens’ endurance.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow, privately pondering if said endurance reflected the number of prostitutes Rhodri took into that little room with her. “I am surprised you think it would be prudent to talk of such things given how private our dear Warden is.”

“Hah. I know for a fact that Rhodri and Alistair talk to each other about just about anything going on between their legs.” Leliana smirked as the potato in Zevran’s hands slipped free, and he barely caught it before it landed in the mud. “Interested, are we?”

“My dear woman,” he chuckled weakly, dicing the potato as quickly as he dared, “what on earth were you doing to pick up information like that?”

“Oh, nothing sinister. Just accidental overhearings. Why do you think those two insist on going to chop firewood together, hmm?”

Zevran silently cursed Leliana and the curiosity her remarks were imbuing. “... Ah. Not to exercise brute strength for the good of the party, then.”

“That too, of course! But enough of that,” she waved a hand. “My point is that they confide in each other about these things. I don’t doubt Alistair will confide in her once we get around to that, as well. And what problem is it?”

“No problem,” Zevran shook his head quickly. “It is good to have a third party opinion about these things, I think. I am surprised to see a Fereldan doing it, but well and good.”

Leliana snorted. “And don’t I deserve someone to confide in?”

“Naturally.”

“There, see? And if you hurry up and get to business, she’ll have Alistair, and you’ll have me. Isn't that a fair deal?”

“... I am astonished we are discussing this, but yes, I suppose it is.”

She clucked her tongue. “Come now. Surely the Antivan seducer isn’t a prude under all that salaciousness.”

He gave a wan smile. “Perhaps you have gone where even I dare not follow.”

“And where have I gone, hmm?” Leliana arched a brow at him. “Gentle encouragement to flirt with someone who’d suit you well? What a wicked, sinful place that is!”

“Hah. Never mind the other remarks, then?”

The good Sister smiled warmly. “Exactly. We need not talk about anything, if you don’t like, but my original point still stands. She’s fond of you, no? I think perhaps not quite aware how fond she is yet, but with the right kind of suggestion, I think she’ll wake up to herself.” 

Leliana winked, apparently blissfully unaware that Zevran’s life essence was haemorrhaging out of him, and added, “Take it from me, though: don’t be subtle about it, otherwise you’ll be in for a long wait– ah, here comes the firewood!”

Beaming now, Leliana rose to her feet and offered all manner of stomach-turning compliments to a sopping-wet Alistair, who grinned and reddened like a sunburnt child as he set his armful of wood on the ground. Rhodri, who was equally drenched (and Zevran was not looking at anything below her neck or even vaguely considering Leliana’s suggestion of what she and Alistair might have been discussing while chopping the firewood), deposited her own load next to his and straightened up. She and Alistair shared a look, the latter suddenly becoming far more nervous than the former. 

“Go,” she nudged him. “I’ll handle the firewood. Go on.”

Alistair’s face was purpling, but he took the instruction with a nod. “Right. Erm… Leli, are you free for a moment?”

The man making the request almost jumped as Leliana touched his forearm, and when she had declared that she was and carefully bent his arm so that her hand hung off it, Alistair took his cue and escorted her away. With his back to them, a single rose with signs of thumbing on some of the petals could be seen sticking out of his back pocket, bobbing a little with each step he took.

By the time Zevran had looked away, Rhodri was already industriously wicking the moisture out of each piece of wood, sending small clouds of moisture into the chilly night air. Not of a mind to interrupt her, or that fetching little frown of concentration she was sporting, he picked up another potato and returned to work. It wasn’t as though there was any hurry for him to do this flirtation Leliana spoke of– indeed, it wasn’t even compulsory. No, there was nothing to do for the moment but enjoy the silence and attend to the task at hand, and so he did.

Right up until Leliana’s astonished yowl tore through the camp: “SO YOU’RE THE ONE WHO PICKED MY PROPHETIC ROSE!”

A deeply-absorbed Rhodri didn’t notice the noise, even when Zevran– quite ungracefully– snorted. If Leliana’s proposal today was anything to go by, no doubt he’d have all the dramatic details before the night’s end, whether he wanted to or not.

And what sin was there in being content enough to know? Only fools wished to be unaware of the goings-on around them. Zevran could cope with the accusations of nosy fishwifery that came with being someone who knew things.

He took another potato.

 §

In the heart of the forest, after dinner, Zevran sat by the lake with his poisons belt open and vials ready for re-filling. It was a simple enough task, but a damned fiddly one, and best carried out with close access to fresh water lest an errant drop find its way to him and require immediate washing-off.

From somewhere back and to his left, behind the enormous rock he was leaning against, Rhodri’s voice carried. He glanced over his shoulder, but upon seeing no trace of her, he returned to work.

“We need to leave this until I can get a new staff, Wynne. Our progress is minimal in the current conditions.”

“Hm,” Wynne said. “If you are inclined to use your staves as a bludgeon, Warden Amell, I think it may be well for you to adjust to spellcasting without.”

Rhodri scoffed. “You say that as though I go through a Circle's worth of staves a month, when I have only ever had the one. There are few people so single-handedly responsible for the murder of my students and peers as the one I hit, and fewer still who would think it clever to insult my house on top of that.”

Wynne gave an unimpressed-sounding little harrumph. “And what if you don’t find another staff? The Wonders of Thedas had nothing free of lyrium. Will you simply give away the training altogether?”

“You seem not to have noticed, Madam,” she said coldly, “but since leaving the Tower, I have only cast imperfectly during our training sessions. Is it so unthinkable that I falter when you have me vividly picturing my slaughtered children, while unspent mana burns me from palms to fingertips?The pain is excruciating! How much must I be expected to suffer in the name of nominal progress?”

Zevran paused, guts roiling. Evidently, this conversation was not for his ears, but the situation put him in a difficult position. Standing up and announcing his presence now would see him accused of eavesdropping, which he certainly was not doing. He had heard things, to be sure, but keen elven hearing was hardly a moral failing.

And he couldn't gather up all his things and run away, either, not when all of his things were carefully spread out on the ground. It would take longer than a round of Wicked Grace to clear up. Perhaps he could emerge from behind the rock, stab Wynne, and thus end all possibility of the conversation continuing. He would do his utmost to look remorseful if Rhodri scolded him for the act.

Oh, now he was being ridiculous. There was nothing to do but keep an ear out for the end of the conversation while he worked, and that was precisely what Zevran resolved to do.

“How much you should suffer is for you to decide,” Wynne replied. "How keen are you to avoid a recurrence of what happened when we were fighting Uldred? That fireball could have killed someone.”

“A recurrence is highly unlikely.”

“You cannot be sure of that.”

“I can, actually. Uldred and Greagoir are gone, and if I may be a little grim here, they saw to it that I have almost no children or peers left now. Any would-be mass killer will be terribly disappointed in Kinloch Hold’s current offering.” 

“Your flippancy does you no credit, Warden. You know that isn't what I mean by a recurrence.”

Rhodri groaned irritably. “What do you mean, then, Wynne? The circumstances are different here. My party consists of proficient adults, and I’m not two weeks away if they need my help.”

“And suppose you were separated from them and they were incapacitated? Some of them killed? What then?” Zevran could practically hear Wynne standing with arms akimbo as she spoke.

Rhodri sighed. “I would give my very best efforts to protect them, as I always do.”

“Well, to be truthful, Warden Amell, I think that as it stands, your best is insufficient, and you owe it to your party members to improve where you may. How you will stop a Blight when you cannot keep your temper enough to safely cast a fireball is beyond me. You cannot even resist the urge to rock and slap your legs like a lunatic, even when it obviously disturbs others. You are far, far too self-indulgent. In fact, if I may be blunt, I find myself wondering what persuaded Irving to apprentice you at all.”

Silence fell. Zevran caught his fists clenching rather than adding the deathroot to vial number five, and relaxed them. And, because he was unable to resist, he threw a quick prayer heavenwards that the lack of noise was due to Rhodri having frozen Wynne to death, only to find his hopes dashed when the latter prompted the former with a 'Hmm?'

“If you consider yourself a better leader, Madam,” Rhodri said stiffly, “you're more than welcome to say it to the rest of the party and take it to a vote. If you're chosen, I will stand down without trouble.”

“I’m not interested in leading,” Wynne replied plainly. “I want you to put this petulance behind you and act like the leader everyone thinks you are. Control your emotions. Cast spells properly. Adapt to your circumstances. Exercise a little discipline once in a while.” The heel of a boot squeaked as it spun on the wet grass. "I think we should train in the mornings as well, ideally starting tomorrow. Good night to you, Warden Amell.”

Only one set of footfalls reached his ears, and they didn’t match Rhodri’s gait. They went around behind him, looping back toward the camp. Zevran glanced behind him and caught sight of Wynne shaking her head as she marched back toward the tents. She reached her own and, as she turned and stepped inside, caught him watching her. Perhaps he had meant her to, perhaps not, but the flash of anger searing his guts upon meeting her eyes had been entirely unplanned. They stayed like that, him staring her down and her watching back haughtily for what felt like hours. When he finally remembered to, Zevran gave her a smile that no amount of self-flagellation could force to touch his eyes. Unease crept into Wynne’s face, and it tasted sweeter than a swig of honey. She disappeared into her tent, and Zevran called it a victory.

From his right, Rhodri heaved a sigh and a thrill surged through his spine and out to his fingertips as her footfalls drew nearer. Zevran looked up as the Warden came into view around the rock and caught him sitting there with his hazardous things spread out in front of him like a Feastday arrangement.

Rhodri stopped dead. Zevran pinned on an ineffectual smile that faltered as soon as he caught the shame creeping into her own face. He rose to his feet, carefully and slowly as he could manage, but she still watched on like he was going to belt her.

Such displays were nothing new to him. There was always the odd mark who cottoned on earlier than expected, watched him for the first time with the appropriate level of fear given the circumstances they’d allowed themselves to be eased into. The difficulty, of course, was that he had always resolved their fear by making it come true– and thus expedited their journey to that next place, where such feelings were either nonexistent or, by that point, unnecessary.

Zevran racked his brains for a solution that didn’t involve murder, only to pause as Rhodri spoke in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

“You heard all that,” she rasped.

With a wince he didn’t quite manage to stifle, he nodded once and half-wished he hadn’t as Rhodri hung her head, her eyes fixed on the ground.

What was there to say to that? An apology? A distraction by means of a filthy poem? Offering a helpful, ‘Do try not to be so ashamed of yourself?’ What, for heaven’s sake?

Nothing came to him, and when the silence grew suffocating, Zevran slipped off his gloves and reached a hand out toward her. A friendly pat to the arm, a more than suitable response, and far less intimate than other things he had once used to put his marks at ease. Rhodri’s eyes went onto the hand as it edged closer, her body tensing, and when he caught her eye and smiled, comprehension of some sort appeared to strike. She almost stumbled over herself to take the proffered hand, her long, warm fingers (and never the thumb) slipping under his and gently guiding his hand toward her.

Zevran’s mouth nearly fell open, heat creeping into his ears as Rhodri bowed her head all the way down to where she held the back of his hand, and kissed it.

“Parce,” she said, and kissed it again. “Parce, non dignus.”

Have mercy, I am unworthy. Zevran knew of the apology from a book he’d stolen years ago, some dramatic stuff and nonsense shipped straight out of Minrathous. The book hadn’t mentioned how to reply, particularly when an apology of any sort was not called for. And certainly, he wasn’t in a fit state to speak or do much of anything beyond trying to keep himself from keeling over.

He would have to say something, though. It didn’t do to just gape and go weak-kneed at a time like this (or at any time, really.) Before he could so much as croak out an ‘ah...’  Rhodri had released his hand and was walking away, pulling the hood of her robe over her head as she went. 

The urge to follow was strong. To say something, do something– though what, precisely, Zevran couldn’t imagine. That, and the fact that his feet were rooted to the ground, held him in place, rendering him as utterly useless as ever. He conceded defeat with a sigh and sat back down.

Something would have to change. It didn’t do to have his protector consistently injured and ashamed of herself, especially unnecessarily. Kisses were best given for pleasure, not apology, and Maker knew misery had no place in peak performance.   

Perhaps Leliana had a point after all. Flirtation lightened the hearts of all sorts of people, eased their burdens and puffed up their egos a little. And Rhodri was a proud person, there was no doubt about it. Proud like a show horse. The right sort of remark could well lift her spirits like nothing else, restoring that crucial sense of self. Not to mention the ways one could reinflate that pride between the sheets if she accepted! A worthy task, and it was indisputable that Zevran, master seducer and verifiable satisfier of all and sundry, was just the man for that very job. Once a little time had passed and the harshest parts of that distress had eased, the action would really begin. 

With a pleased nod to himself, he turned back to vial number five, and to the other fourteen vials awaiting attention.

Chapter Text

Leliana didn’t say a word to Zevran until the next day, but she didn’t have to even by that point. The night before, Zevran had returned to the campfire after re-equipping his poisons belt to find the Chantry Sister and the Templar remarkably engrossed in each other. Right there, in front of the leftovers. Going by the inescapable sucking noises their lip-clashing was producing, one of them was moments away from being slurped into the other like a mouthful of soup, lost to the world until the later stages of digestion freed them again.

The only person seemingly able to tolerate the display was Rhodri, who sat on another log on the opposite side of the fire, absorbed in a book. It was eminently possible that she had been reading before this nauseating spectacle had begun, and was yet to notice. The nearest one to the epicentre of it all, and yet the most unaffected. Some people didn’t know their luck. 

Had Zevran managed to find a reason to sit with her, he would have. After all, that confrontation with Wynne had been unpleasant, and it was better to be close to hand if Rhodri– the Warden, damn him! – needed anything. 

But these things had to be approached with finesse! Simply bustling over to ask what wishes she might have would worsen the situation. Dramatically, no doubt. And if the truth was known, Zevran didn’t quite have it in him to survive another round of the Tevinter apology hand kisses. 

No, there would have to be another justification for going over. It wasn’t lying to have another reason to be there. The truth of the matter was that keeping an eye on her, in the Warden’s mind, wasn’t a good reason, and if a ‘good’ reason was the price of admission for being useful to her, Zevran would simply have to pay up. 

He must have stood there for a good few minutes, twiddling his fingers and waiting for the prerequisite excuse to sail into one of his ears. Nothing came. And when Leliana and Alistair finally paused to take a breath (the noise of their parting could have been mistaken for someone ripping their stuck foot out of a bog), Leliana wiped her mouth with one finger and shot Zevran the briefest, most infuriatingly smug wink.

Zevran’s eyeroll went unnoticed as she returned to Alistair, whose head was now shamelessly buried so deeply in the crook of her neck that one might have been forgiven for thinking he was trying to dig a rabbit warren there with his nose. Perhaps that was precisely what he was doing, and Leliana was turning his attention back to her mouth before things could get medically hazardous. With a sigh, Zevran glanced at Rhodri, who had still not looked up from her book. She seemed content enough; he admitted defeat for the night and went to his tent. 

§

There was a nervousness to Zevran that he couldn’t quite shake the next morning as he rolled out of bed and readied himself for the day. Or perhaps it was dread. It was mostly unnecessary, whichever it was: at some point, Alistair and Leliana would resume sucking each other’s faces off, and the only thing that could be done to counter the dry retching Zevran was guaranteed to go through was to take an early breakfast, and thus ensure he had something to bring up when the time came.

The issue of Rhodri and Wynne, however, was a rather more complex and urgent matter, and one he couldn’t bring himself to put off. He had wavered on so many things regarding the Warden that it almost defied belief. Mercy, even Leliana, ditherer extraordinaire and queen of the ineffectual interactions, had given him the hurry-up with his seduction! 

Zevran shook his head as he pulled on his armour. Was he losing his grip on himself? Was that what it was? Softened by foreign kindness to the point of stupefaction? If there was one thing the Crows fed on, it was indecision, and as the matter currently stood, Zevran was living life with a target painted on his back.

That wouldn’t do. Something would have to change. After all, Zevran Arainai was a man of action– considered action, certainly, but it was plain for all to see now that he was spending far more time considering than acting. 

No more, though. It was time to take those ineffectual thoughts and turn them into results. 

Cloaked with cotton and newfound resolve, Zevran stepped out of his tent into the cold, misty morning and swore a solemn oath to himself that two things would happen before the week was out. For a start, he would make his saucy intentions clear to Rhodri; and second, revenge of some sort would be exacted on Wynne for the crime of being who she was. 

The latter of these was rather more urgent. With sessions now scheduled day and night (and Rhodri had acquiesced to this change, as Zevran could see Wynne through a wider gap in the trees, issuing instructions to Rhodri where they stood in the nearby clearing), he would need to take action today. Naturally, it would have to be a clandestine operation. Maker knew if Rhodri caught wind of Zevran’s operations, she’d die of the shame, unnecessary as it was, and Zevran would be left alone–-

He caught his face pinching into a wince and forced blankness again. How very unhelpful.

The point , he reminded himself firmly, was that an untraceable agony would befall Wynne and– ooh. Perhaps it would keep her too distracted to inconvenience the Warden any further. Something like her staff reduced to splinters in a tragic attack by a blind bear mistaking it for a snake, or a moth chewing enormous holes in her robes–

Now there was a thought. Zevran approaching Morrigan the shapeshifter with the request of a lifetime. Would her transformed insect self be conspicuously large, like her spider form? Or could she shrink herself to, say, the size of a housecat?

His step got a spring to it as he marched over the dewy grass to Morrigan’s satellite camp. Zevran had barely spoken with Morrigan, but this was looking to be quite the stellar opportunity, especially knowing as he did that Morrigan loathed Wynne. Not an inch of fellow-feeling between them, despite them both being obviously gifted mages, they hadn’t exchanged a single civil word since meeting. It was possible, in fact, that Morrigan had more venom for Wynne than she did for Alistair. She was hardly fond of Zevran, either, but if she sufficiently hated Wynne– and it certainly appeared that she did– an alliance could spring up between them in their united cause. Oh, it was perfect.

A loud crack, followed by a not-quite-stifled, suspiciously Rhodri-like yelp reached Zevran’s ears when he was halfway to Morrigan’s set-up. It was the same every training session. He didn’t bother to unclench his fist, tightened on reflex, as he turned to the source of the noise and saw the same Warden drawn into herself, clutching her hands and shaking her head. Wynne was a few paces away, notably doing nothing while observing her with a calmness that would have been more suited to a sleeping child. 

A little too aware of the roiling in his guts, Zevran turned on his heel and stalked the rest of the way to Morrigan’s area. As if the Maker had understood the purpose of Zevran’s visit, Morrigan herself emerged from her tent, fully dressed and topped off with a scowl as she caught sight of him approaching.

“No,” she said before his mouth could finish opening. She folded her arms and eyed him beadily as he raised an eyebrow.

“My dear Morrigan,” Zevran chided gently. “How ever will you know what delights I bring if you turn me away before I can list them?”

Morrigan scoffed and shook her head. “I would not lie with you if you were the last male to draw breath. I have no need for your list. Keep your efforts focused on the Warden, if you please.”

Oh, not her too. He forced a smirk and tutted, “You wound me, my dear!”

“I have considered doing far more to you than that, you can be sure.”

“It may interest you to know,” he pushed on before the conversation could be ended, “that I am here for an entirely different reason.”

Morrigan arched a brow at him. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I swear on my honour,” he said, quickly speaking again before Morrigan could cut him off with what was undoubtedly a remark on the dubiousness of his honour. “I could not help wondering–”

Another crack, much louder this time, stopped him there, and upon seeing Rhodri doubled over, visibly trembling even from where he stood, he clenched a fist until his nails, short as they were, bit into the meat of his hand. Wynne, who had paused in her waiting to look over at them, began suggesting the Warden take note of her audience, and unable to bear the shamefaced look he was about to get, Zevran turned back to Morrigan again.

“Tell me, my dear witch," he purred, "can you turn into a moth?”

§

Zevran sat by the campfire, keeping an eye on the clearing while Morrigan set to work. When she emerged from Wynne’s tent an hour later (she had even chewed a hole in the tent through which to escape!), Zevran had a sandwich waiting for her. She took it, ate three bites, and fixed him with a smug smile.

“Good session?” Zevran asked through a grin.

“Indeed,” Morrigan purred. “The old cat has several sets of enchanted robes, and I must say, lyrium clothing makes a fine meal for a mage moth.” She gave him a nod and left for her tent without another word.

Rhodri came back shortly after, watching Zevran like he had swallowed a hundredweight of explosives. No surprise, really, and Zevran had come to breakfast prepared. With a grin, he beckoned her over and produced the last bag of peanuts.

He shook the bag a little and took out a peanut. “How well have your peanut-catching skills held up since we last practiced, hmm?”

The distressed look evaporated. Rhodri’s eyes widened as they fixated onto the sole nut– darkened, too, if Zevran wasn’t mistaken. Would he have to woo her with a bag of peanuts? …Was it really that simple?

Oh, of course it wasn’t. How would he get her to shift her lustblown gaze from the food onto him? Especially when she wasn’t one for gazing into the eyes of others. Why did he always complicate these things?

“Oh-h-h,” Rhodri breathed. “My goodness. At this time of the day, too!”

Zevran waggled his eyebrows. “Peanuts for breakfast seems an excellent way to start the morning, no?” He shrugged, adding, “Of course, if this is not a suitable time for–”

“No-no-no,” she said quickly, head shaking fervently enough to dislodge a few strands from her once-tuft, now-ponytail. “We can– no, we can definitely try now.”

He gave a pleased laugh as she sat down beside him. “Ah, good. Open wide, then, my dear Warden. We shall start off easy, yes?”

By the fifth successful peanut catch, Zevran looked over Rhodri’s shoulder and caught Wynne passing to go into her tent, surveying their antics as she went. With measurable distaste, of course.

Show time.

Unable to resist himself, Zevran caught Wynne’s eye and met her unamused look with a smile, making a point of widening his eyes enough that he knew the whites would be on full display for the shortest, shortest moment. Wynne froze; Zevran barely stifled a delighted chuckle and returned to Rhodri, who had missed the entire exchange while chewing up her sixth peanut. 

The former Senior Enchanter turned on her heel and made for the lake, shaking her head as she went. Rhodri held out a hand toward the peanut bag, smiling at Zevran like she knew what he’d won for her. 

“Shall I throw you a few, pretiotus?” Rhodri asked with a conspiratorial wink. Her voice was low and wicked, and oozing warmth. “Keep your skills sharp, sic?”

The top half of his belly finally settled, and the bottom half started to jitter. There was no pleasing everyone, apparently, even when everyone was localised to the one body. Zevran blamed the misbehaviour of his lower stomach on hunger, and the solution to that was about to be placed in Rhodri’s hands.

“Ooh,” he passed the peanut bag over and straddled the log they were sharing. “Please, yes.”

§

Zevran had never really been one for living a balanced life. He had only presumed as much up to now; balance, for all its virtues, had always struck him as a state reserved to the people who could afford to have it. Where was the balance in training and torture and murder and seduction, day in and night out? Nowhere he’d ever looked. 

At this point, though, there appeared to be little option but to force balance. Four months ago, he would have laughed at himself for thinking so, but there was such a lot going on. There really was! 

Ignoring Alistair and Leliana’s escalating passions was a full time job in and of itself. More, even.  At least the average worker (so far as he’d heard) had the night off after a day shift. 

Not so with their theatrics. The noises that came from Leliana’s tent– the good Sister refused to enter Alistair’s due to its untidiness and the lingering smell of the dog who also slept in there– could be heard, no doubt, from the other end of the country. Indeed, the moans from Alistair alone had been enough to attract the attention of bears on more nights than one. Zevran found himself praying that Rhodri, who had been a terribly good sport about offing the bears, would take Alistair firewood-chopping and use the opportunity to suggest a decrease in volume.

As if that weren’t enough, Wynne had been consistently attempting to catch Rhodri alone. In the mornings and at night were the worst times–but then, was there ever a good time? Zevran doubted it. At least through the rest of the day, he was able to plaster the Warden with conversation (questions about magic, in particular, kept them both too busy– and interested, it had to be said) so that the Senior Enchanter couldn’t get a word in edgewise. 

At the start and finish of the day, however, he was forced to think on his feet. Conversation and holey clothes, as it turned out, were not quite enough to keep Wynne at bay then; he had to keep Rhodri busy. In a stroke of genius, Zevran had devised and enrolled Rhodri in his impromptu, very urgent course on knife safety, and then another on poisons and antidotes. 

Predictably enough, Wynne hovered nearby, tutting with enormous displeasure as she darned the holes in her robes. If she thought that would dissuade him, though, she was out of her mind. Not least when Rhodri, whom Zevran seemed to recall admitting no interest in herbalism, was hanging off his every word about poisonous (and life-saving) plants. And engaging with questions (thoughtful ones, even!) of her own. 

Most importantly of all, Rhodri considered both of Zevran’s study programmes to be of greater relevance than Wynne’s, and that meant that said hovering and displeased tutting were dismissed. In favour of him and his teachings. How sweet it was to be the preferred one, even when the competition was decidedly less-than-stiff. Zevran could have gone on teaching her forever; he certainly had enough material for it.

In fact, they had only just begun to cover one of Zevran’s favourite poisons, a paralytic that put skeletal muscles out of commission within a few breaths, when a flash of motion from behind a bush up ahead had him standing with his knives out. A shield swelled up around the party– of course– and Rhodri gently steered Zevran behind her.

“Be warned, outsiders,” a woman with a shock of long, red hair surged out from behind a tree with her bow drawn. Dark curls of vallaslin wound over her forehead, and beneath her eyes and mouth, pulled down as she surveyed the party– Zevran and his tattoo included– with a deep frown. “The Dalish have camped in this spot. I suggest you go elsewhere, and quickly.”

“We are peaceful,” Rhodri called out cautiously. “My greetings to you. We are two Grey Wardens and company, and we will not attack. We have been looking for your clan these past weeks.”

The Dalish woman raised an eyebrow. “Grey Wardens? How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Hmm,” Rhodri frowned thoughtfully. “I tend to be better at proving it when the place is crawling with darkspawn… ah, wait, I have an idea!” She patted her satchel. “I have a knife in here. If I take it out and make a cut in my arm, you’ll see that my blood is black, tainted. Will that suffice?”

Zevran bit his lip as the woman frowned deeply and then, after some deliberation, shook her head. 

“If you carry the Taint, your blood is better kept inside you where it cannot pollute the forest.” She beckoned to them. “Come then, all of you. I will take you to our Keeper so he can decide for himself. Keep your hands to yourself in the camp, and remember our arrows are trained on you.”

Rhodri smiled and inclined her head. “Thank you very much. Our behaviour will be exemplary, let me assure you.”

“We will see about that. Come.”

The Dalish camp was a song’s distance away, sequestered off in the middle of an abandoned ruin. Crumbling marble columns encircled the camp like long-dead guards, all but reclaimed by the moss and vines. The camp itself, though, was replete with life. Amid the Aravels and industrious campfires, Dalish elves milled, worked, and played, and Zevran felt a foreign ache as an unnoticed breath swelled in his lungs. 

Zevran left Antiva City as soon as he’d word of the clan drawing near to the outskirts, hugging the forest border as Clan Marendis travelled further south. He hadn’t prepared anything to take with him– not that he had so much as his mother’s gloves with which to present himself to the clan, or perhaps even identify himself as someone’s son. It was a bitter thought that he shelved the entire afternoon he spent creeping out of the city. 

The road out of town had next to no traffic, even at the point near nightfall when he had finally reached it. Farms lay on either side of the rows, hills shaved down to their skin from where the grains were harvested the week prior. Zevran spent the stretch walking between poplar trees that occasionally breached the undulations.

He reached the forest after sunrise, not thinking twice about departing the road and marching straight into the thickets. Perhaps it was sleep deprivation; perhaps it was giddy excitement. The Antivan Dalish had a reputation for being violent; even the Crows had said it. But Zevran’s mother had been one of them, and she had only left to follow an infatuation. That had to say something to their credit.

And really, even if the Crows were right and something even less hospitable than them existed, at least Zevran’s death was guaranteed to be an interesting one. 

When exhaustion finally prevented Zevran from putting one foot in front of another, he sought the shelter of a bush and curled up under it, and awoke Maker-knew-how-soon after when hot, unexpected sunlight streamed into his face.

“Put the knives down, da’len.” The voice was calm and sober, and the woman who owned it was watching him with a small, firm smile, showing him her empty palms. Her face was covered in swirling, dark tattoos, nothing like he had seen in the Crows before, and it was hard to know if she was Dalish, or from another guild altogether.

The daggers Zevran had already drawn before his eyes had finished opening were re-sheathed— what else could he do, after all? Deny her and have his throat cut? The woman gave an appreciative nod. She sat down near him.

“Why are you sleeping in a bush, child?” she asked gently. “Where is your family?”

“They are nearby,” Zevran said reflexively. “There are many of them. I sleep where I wish.”

The woman nodded. “Well, then, I should leave you to it. I am sure they would not look kindly on a Dalish talking to their child.”

His eyes widened. “You are Dalish?”

She laughed and twirled a finger in the direction of her face. “You did not recognise my tattoos?” 

Zevran shook his head. The woman beckoned behind her, and several others emerged with similar curlicues and lines in dark ink over their foreheads and cheeks, watching him with sad smiles. In their dark green leathers, the breastplates adorned with stitching that reflected their tattoos, they looked like they had strolled straight out of a storybook. An excited breath swelled his lungs and climbed up his throat.

“All the adults have vallaslin,” she said with a smile. “Now, go to your family before they come looking for you.”

“I-I have none,” he said quickly. “I lied. I want to come with you.” Zevran scrambled upright and stared the chuckling woman in the eye. “Please, I want you to take me with you. I was looking for you.”

The woman’s eyes twinkled. “I thought that might be the case. Come, then, da’len. We will go home.”

“My mother was Dalish,” he said, almost at a babble now. “She died. I do not know her name, and I only had her gloves, but they were taken away.” 

She laughed and nodded, took his hand and pulled him up with her, told him her name was Uthria. Didn’t ask anything more about his mother, but Zevran decided there was time for that later. The other Dalish formed a circle around him as they walked back to the camp, still watching him with that pitying look every so often. Zevran’s heart sank every time they did it, and as they approached the clearing where the ships were parked and the halla grazed and the Dalish children played and ate and weren’t being beaten, his heart climbed all the way back, light as a feather and so very ready for something better.

The party fell to a halt in front of a tallish, pale mage, no doubt the Keeper. The man was bald as the face on a sovereign and sporting vallaslin Zevran couldn’t recall having seen in the clan he had been with. Behind him lay a host of bloodspattered elves on makeshift beds. Some were coughing and writhing, others slept fitfully, and others still were suspiciously motionless. There could only have been fifteen of them there, but given the size of the camp, that was a positively enormous number of the entire clan. 

The mage put his staff away. He looked at the escort, then cast his eyes over the rest of the party.

“I see we have guests,” he said in a smooth, low voice, scanning the party from top to toe all the while. He turned back to the woman who had brought them there. “Who are these people, Mithra? My time is scant, and my patience even less so for outsiders today.”

With a respectful nod, the woman named Mithra pointed at Rhodri. “This one claims to be a Grey Warden, and there is another one in the party, so she says–”

“That’s me,” Alistair piped up quickly, and gave a friendly little wave. “Hello!” 

The woman raised an eyebrow, and Alistair’s hand snapped back down by his side. “They say they wish to speak with the clan,” she continued, as though Alistair had never spoken. “I thought it best to bring them to you, Keeper, so you could decide for yourself.”

“I see,” he said after a moment. “You were right to bring them to me, Mithra, ma serannas. You may return to your post.”

She nodded once, forcefully. “Ma nuvenin, Keeper.” Without another look at the party, she turned on her heel and marched back the way they had come. 

The Keeper turned on them now, surveying them again with unreserved fascination. “Well, much of the introduction is already done. As our guard said, I am the Keeper of this clan.” He raised an eyebrow at Rhodri. “Do you know what a Keeper is, Grey Warden?”

Rhodri tilted her head a little. “Not in great depth, Keeper, no. But the Fereldan Circle of Magi, where I was kept, saw kidnapped Dalish children brought in from time to time. From speaking with them, I understand the Keeper is a lore-keeping mage who is responsible for guiding the clan through decisions.”

“You understood correctly,” he nodded. “Which of our children were snatched away to your Circle, then, Warden?”

“There was Elrian of Clan Sabrae, Aravas of Clan Virnehn, and Vunin of Clan Ghilain.” Rhodri sighed. “I’m sorry, Keeper, but none still live.”

The Keeper closed his eyes and shook his head. “The last two names I don’t recall, but Elrian was a cousin’s child. He should be seventeen by now. What happened to him?”

“There was an incident some months ago in the Tower,” Rhodri said, her voice a little strained now. “An internal coup, blood magic gone wrong. Demons and abominations infiltrated.” She swallowed. “My party and I were already out on Grey Warden business, and we came too late to save him, and many others.”

He looked behind her. “I do not suppose you came to return Elrian’s body to a clan? I see none with you.”

“Forgive me, I did not,” she bowed her head a little. 

“Where is the body, then, if not with you?”

Rhodri winced. “The Templars refused to release any of the bodies from the Circle. I would presume Elrian’s was burned, along with everyone else who had died, and the ashes would have gone into Lake Calenhad.”

The Keeper grimaced and hissed through his teeth. “This is very much against our funeral rituals, Grey Warden. We do not burn our dead! They must be buried, given staves of oak and of cedar, and a tree is planted atop the grave.”

“Forgive me,” she said again, looking terribly remorseful now. “Had I any authority in the matter, neither Elrian nor the other two children would have been stolen from their people in the first place. They belonged with their clans and were happiest with them.”

“I have no doubt of that,” he replied shortly, and as if curating his own curtness, the draw in his brows softened. He let out a sigh. “Thank you, Grey Warden, for delivering this news, though I am sure it was not the reason you came looking for us.”

“It was not the sole reason, Keeper, but I had always planned to deliver the news of those children upon finding you.”

The Keeper frowned and studied the Warden’s face briefly. “Thank you,” he said again. “In any case, our introductions remain incomplete. I am Zathrian. And you are…?”

The introduction of Severin Rhodri Amell Callistus of Minrathous, Kirkwall, and the Fereldan Circle of Magi (placetum) made Zathrian’s eyebrows rise.

“Manners from a shemlen,” he murmured. “A Tevinter shemlen, no less. Unexpected. Well, Grey Warden, if you have come to deliver news of the Blight, I already know. I sensed the corruption in the south, and would have brought the clan further north if I could.”

An unimpressed snort came from Sten in the back. “So their first reaction to trouble is to flee from it? Curious.”

Rhodri wheeled around, pink-cheeked and eyes narrowing as she looked at Sten. “Unacceptable,” she barked at him. “You do not have the right to come onto another culture’s land and disparage them! You will speak civilly, or you won’t speak at all.”

“So be it,” Sten sealed his mouth and folded his arms, looking distinctly nonplussed all the while.

Rhodri faced front again, watching the equally-unimpressed Zathrian with an apologetic smile.

“I’m very sorry, Keeper,” she said earnestly. “You were hoping to bring your clan further north, you said?”

Zathrian smiled thinly. “I was, yes, but as you see from the suffering behind me, we are in no fit state to travel.” He rubbed his brow with his fingertips, “I imagine you wish to speak of the treaty we signed with the Wardens. Is that correct?”

Rhodri nodded. “It is, Keeper.”

“Mm. Unfortunately, it is looking like we might not be able to live up to that promise. A little explanation is in order, I think.” He gestured toward the makeshift hospital, “If you’ll follow me, please…”

Closer inspection of the people lying on the stretchers showed that they had all sustained bites and deep, long gashes that looked to have been administered by sets of sharp claws. The arms of some of them were sprouting dark, downy hair, and their eyes were turning a bright, gleaming gold that Zevran had only seen in animals.

Of course. More unknown evil. The darkspawn that ventured into the Brecilian Forest in hopes of wreaking havoc would no doubt be up against very stiff competition from hairy beasties on home turf. Zevran swallowed a weary sigh; had he not said the forest was a dreadful place to be? Being right could be an agonising thing sometimes. 

The Keeper proceeded to advise the party that the clan had been living in the Brecilian Forest, as was their custom upon coming to this part of the country. A month into their stay, the clan had been– and Zathrian had paused quite suspiciously before saying it– ambushed by a pack of werewolves. Though they had managed to drive the beasts away, a great number of Dalish had been lost to their injuries or a curse imparted through werewolf bites, and more still were expected to die (or, more accurately, be slaughtered by their clan before they could complete the transformation into werewolves themselves, and gobble up all and sundry). 

Zathrian barely needed any prompting from a keen-to-help Rhodri to elaborate on the curse. Somewhere in the forest, so said the Keeper, dwelled the wolf Witherfang, who was the source of all this disaster. Yet more of the clan had been sent into the forest pursuing the wolf a week prior, and they had not returned. Zevran was quite sure he had heard a children’s story once about hunting something and bringing its heart to a suspicious-looking individual, just as the Keeper was now asking Rhodri to do. By the time the name of the tale had come to Zevran, though, Rhodri had already pledged to assist the clan, and the moment for the witty remark had passed. Always the way, really.

“I must return to caring for my people,” Zathrian bowed his head slightly. “I wish you luck in the forest, Grey Warden. Creators speed your way. If you need to know anything else, please speak to my First, Lanaya, or our storyteller, Sarel, and if you have need of equipment,” he gestured at an Aravel where a grey-haired man stood shaking his head at a younger man working a piece of wood, “Master Varathorn can assist you.”

“Ah! Keeper, tell me please, before you go,” Rhodri held up a hand as Zathrian made to leave, and he paused. 

“Hmm?”

“Your patients,” she gestured at the host of sickly elves behind him. “Are you using any particular magic or restoratives for their condition? Anything we might use should we encounter any afflicted clansmen in the forest?”

“I am,” the Keeper replied, “but the spellwork is nothing I can teach you within a week. Keeping them cool has helped to slow the spread of the curse, but I am the one best able to treat them.”

With a nod to the party, Zathrian left them alone and weaved his way toward a hospitalised clan member who was thrashing on his stretcher violently. He was covered in thin, dark hair everywhere but his face, and the sweat made it stick to him like a thin layer of glass. With a wave of Zathrian’s hands, the patient fell still, his skin going even whiter.

Zevran’s attention was torn away from the scene as Rhodri clucked her tongue sadly.

“We should set up camp back where we met the guard and then start looking for this Witherfang,” she said after a moment. “I need to speak to Master Varathorn before we go, though. Perhaps one of those staves he has there is for sale…”

Unable to resist himself, Zevran glanced over his shoulder and shot Wynne the filthiest smirk he could arrange on such short notice, and immeasurable joy poured into him as the Senior Enchanter’s eyes narrowed. 

“Zev?”

Ah! Caught! He faced forward again, waggling his brows at the Warden who had said his name. She watched him for a moment with gentle bemusement, and beckoned him into a walk.

She bent down toward him a little as they strolled through the camp, speaking to him in a murmur, “I thought I’d check how you’re faring, now that we’re here. Are you well, pretiotus? Would you like to stay here while we look for Witherfang?”

“And leave your side, my dear Warden?” He chuckled, “Perish the thought.”

Rhodri blinked. “You can. We won’t be gone too long, I don’t think. A handful of weeks, at the very most.”

Zevran laughed again and declined the offer without thinking. The panic staggered in with sharp teeth and dangerous proclamations aplenty, and try as he might, Zevran couldn’t think why the automatic response was to decline any offer to be away from the Warden. He swallowed his stomach back down his throat and added quickly, “We are in a rather acute situation, no? All hands on deck needed, I would think. Besides, if it turns out these elves are relatives to me, surely I would make a better first impression assisting you and Alistair.”

None of this was met with any argument from the Warden; Zevran considered it sufficient, and blessed the Maker as his own body started to relax a little. Perhaps it was enough for both of them; perhaps it was simply the truth, and he could only access it when panicked. Besides, there was no need to have more people staring at him.

He waggled his brows at her. “Thank you, though,” he crooned. “You are very gallant, my Grey Warden. You know this, I hope?”

Rhodri smiled and nodded. “Yes, I do.”

Zevran smiled– not despite himself, but certainly not because of himself. “Good.”

§

The one Zevran presumed to be Master Varathorn looked, at first blush, to be something of a taskmaster. And then, after Zevran had caught the wince of the wiry, redheaded apprentice as the man approached, the status was all but confirmed.

The Master tsked and shook his head, and pointed at the remarkably wavy piece of wood the apprentice was holding. “I don’t know what you’re doing there, but that wood is warped completely. Did you leave it out in the rain?”

The apprentice looked at the man with wide eyes. “N-no, Master Varathorn! I… ah…” he shrugged helplessly. “I think I… used too much heat.”

“I told you about that, Ammen,” Varathorn reproached. “This is living wood! What does it require?”

The young man hung his head. “Delicate hands and patience.”

“And not…?”

“Not more heat.” He sighed. “My actions bring me sorrow, Master.”

Varathorn nodded. “And so they should. Truly, the art will be lost to us forever at this rate. Throw away your dead wood and start anew, while I speak to our guests.”

“Yes, Master,” the apprentice nodded and all but dragged himself back to the workbench, taking another piece of wood as he went.

Master Varathorn tutted quietly as he strode over to meet the party, giving them a somewhat harassed smile. His eyes went onto Zevran briefly, and then down to his cheek, where they lingered until Rhodri’s greeting tore them away again.

“Good morning,” she said pleasantly. “Are you Master Varathorn?”

The Master managed one last glance at Zevran’s cheek before fully engaging himself in the conversation. “I am. Please forgive my distraction, stranger. Was there something you needed?”

Zevran took a moment to look around him while the two spoke, not least so the Master had less of an opportunity to glue his eyes onto Zevran’s tattoo again. It shouldn’t have been a problem, being stared at. It had happened often enough, after all. 

In fact, it wasn’t a problem. The only real problem, if indeed there was one, was that being stared at by this man felt like a problem. And the only cure for such irrational thinking was to prove it wrong by letting the Master stare a hole into Zevran’s face for as long as he pleased.

Something in his gut steeled as he looked back and saw Rhodri writing something down on a small piece of paper. The Master was nodding and speaking, and Rhodri scribbled more down.

“Only… when… fallen off… tree. Right. I’ll bring back whatever I find of it,” she said, looking up with a resolute smile. 

“Do that,” the Master said with a nod, “and I’ll craft it into something useful to you. I excel in making blades from ironbark. Or you could have a breastplate, if there is enough wood for it.” Rhodri stiffened at that, her eyes widening. Varathorn raised an eyebrow. “... Is something the matter, Grey Warden?”

The pen and paper were left on the table as Rhodri straightened up, wringing her fingers. “I hope not,” she said after a moment. “I just… I wonder how to suggest this, Master, as I don’t know if it will be polite to you or not. I would hate to offend.”

“Speak, Warden. I will trust your intentions are well-meant.”

Rhodri gave an appreciative, if rather cautious nod. “Your wares are beautiful, Master, but my party has what it needs.” She swallowed, “I had meant to bring you ironbark to use for your own clan. Much of their equipment must have been damaged in the clashes, I presume.” 

Master Varathorn’s eyebrows rose high enough to risk disappearing into his hairline. “I… had not expected such generosity from an outsider,” he said hesitantly. “That would be a great gift to my clan, if you truly mean that.”

A beat passed where Zevran half-expected Rhodri to turn to stone, and then, as she visibly relaxed, perhaps go the complete other way and turn to sand. 

“Ah,” she chuckled and nodded. “I did mean it. I’ll be happy to help.”

“... I, ah–” Varathorn cleared his throat. “Thank you in advance, Grey Warden. Well, then, since my staves are no use to you, if you find a sylvan branch in the forest to your liking, consider bringing it to me and I can at least sand away the rough edges to make it comfortable to wield.”

The offer was accepted with thanks that bordered on profuse, and with a last nod to the craftsmaster, the party left.

§

At camp, the party members planning on joining Rhodri’s probe into the forest selected themselves with minimal trouble. Wynne and Sten were requested to stay behind; Alistair and Leliana, looking woefully underslept for reasons the entire party was painfully aware of, asked to stay and rest. 

That left him, Shale, and Morrigan. And Jeppe, of course. Morrigan made a point of opting to go simply because it was the opposite of where Wynne would be, and Shale was surprisingly curious about the woods. Zevran smirked inwardly as they traipsed between the trees, silently hoping someone would happen upon them and react to the odd assembly. There had to be some compensation for being among all the revolting nature– and there was plenty of said revolting nature to be had. 

That said, even if no-one showed up, it wasn’t a dead loss. Or so Zevran’s optimistic streak advised him, anyway. The midday sun filtered through gaps in the thinning canopy; the remaining foliage caught the full brunt of the light on its back and glowed down on them like adoration. Gold above, gold below, gold unlatching from the pinprick fingertips of the trees and drifting down to join the rest of the carpet beneath his feet. It was the most brazen, most utterly ineffectual display of wealth Zevran had ever seen in his life, and he shuddered to think how dark the forest got in the summer, when the canopy was at its thickest and deepest colours.

Rhodri, who seemed to have been visited by the same cheerful thought, gave a happy sigh and grinned at them. “It’s nice here, isn’t it? All these falling leaves and such, it’s very exotic.”

Morrigan snorted. “I would hardly call this exotic. ‘Tis a natural part of the cycle. The weather grows cold, the trees drop their leaves and go dormant until the weather is warm again.”

Zevran shook his head. “I do not know how you stood the winters out here, Morrigan,” he said with a small shudder. “Did you never wish to go to a warmer forest?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she tsked impatiently. “There was no room for wishes, and leaving the Korcari Wilds to march north through the flatlands would have been a death sentence. Flemeth and I dwelled where we could, and we lived well enough. Fire and cold balm make a great difference to one’s comfort levels.” 

She shrugged one shoulder, and if Zevran wasn’t mistaken, a hint of self-consciousness was creeping into her tone. “Beyond that, I know the Wilds as well as any other of its natural denizens, in winter or summer. It is home to me. Is it so unthinkable a place to live well?”

“I am afraid the current winter weather is unthinkable enough to me,” Zevran confessed. “I shudder to think how it must be when it is colder.”

A soft, pitying ‘ooh’ issued from Rhodri, and Zevran’s stomach dropped. Morrigan squinted at Zevran like he had just declared his betrothal with an ogre.

“You fool,” Morrigan uttered softly. “We are nowhere near–”

A pained, exhausted groan cut the witch’s diatribe short, and the party glanced around wildly. 

“Rhodri,” Zevran touched her arm and gestured at a small cluster of bushes, where a Dalish man lay, dragging himself toward them on his belly. His skin was like chalk, and he was covered in open wounds that looked to have drained most of the blood in his body. 

Her eyes widened. “Mercy! Keep still a moment, let me close those gashes!”

With a wave of her hand, the fellow’s wounds were sealed, but no colour was returning to him. She bent down, extracted one of those bright-red potions from her satchel, and steadied the man’s head with a hand as she administered it to him.

Even after it had been drained, he looked half-dead. He panted as he creaked out, “Wh-where are the others?” 

They looked around; Rhodri shook her head. “There are no others. You are the only one we found. Who did you come with?”

“Other– other hunters,” he gasped. “Sent to kill the wolf Witherfang… bring his heart… we were attacked…”

“... By the werewolves?” Rhodri asked. The man was slow to respond, his breaths getting shallower, but he managed a nod. 

“Gone now,” he breathed. “They fled to the ruins… long time ago.”

“Right.” She straightened up. “We need to check the area for survivors, and then we’ll take you back to your camp.”

A cursory examination of the immediate surroundings revealed a handful of bodies, and by the time they had returned to the sole survivor, he was drifting in and out of consciousness.

“Zev.” Rhodri’s hand hovered near his arm, and Zevran made a point of ignoring the urge to close the gap.

He smiled smoothly. “Sí, mi sol?”

She leaned in and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Can he be saved?”

Zevran cast a glance at the man and sighed. “Mmm, I could not say either way at this point. He will be lucky if he does. We are a good three hours’ walk from the camp, and that is a long time to be so poorly.”

“I can run,” she stepped back and began unbuttoning her robes. “I’ll strap him to me with my robes and we can run back, all of us. Come.”

A not-insignificant amount of shushing and jostling began as Zevran and Shale hoisted the unfortunate man into Rhodri’s self-made sling. Her robes crossed over his back, sandwiching them front to front, and Zevran immediately shot down any notion of the delights of being pressed up against her like that. Some people didn’t know their luck. Not least because they were now largely unaware of his surroundings, but even so.

With one hand wrapped around his back and the other hand securing his head in the crook of her neck (he would not think about burying his own face in there! He would not!) Rhodri burst into a run, and the rest of them were hot on her heels. Even Morrigan was saving the breath usually reserved for complaints to use for the trip back. Hopefully that wasn’t where all of their luck had just gone.

Chapter Text

Zevran would have paid good money to be one of the Dalish as the party drew up, red in the face and drenched in sweat and, in Rhodri’s case, running with the fellow strapped to her like an infant in a sling. It was delightful enough to spectate from the other side, but the dramatic levels of bafflement on the part of the clan was palpable, and Zevran ate it up with a spoon.

When the initial shock had subsided, the act was, quite predictably, well-received by the clan, not least because the man had somehow survived the hour-and-a-half’s run back. Whatever magic Rhodri had been intermittently poking the poor soul with must have worked. Zathrian thanked them, and the onlookers’ gazes had softened since the last encounter. 

Except for the curiosity with which they regarded Zevran and his tattoos. Curiosity and some kind of pity. Did they look at all city elves like this? The discomfort settled under his skin, and when Rhodri excused herself to shamble back to camp, he left with her. 

In their own camp, things were easier, somehow. Oh, there were plenty of looks from Alistair and the others, too, but at least they weren’t so weighted. Dislike of an assassin was a reasonable thing. Mistrust of him because he flirted with anything that had a pulse was also merited, no doubt. Scrutiny from humans and any other non-elves didn’t quite smart the way scrutiny from the Dalish did. As though Zevran weren’t aware he wasn’t one of them. 

Rhodri never looked at him like that. She smiled at him and meant it, and it wasn’t laced with pity or exclusion. What, precisely, it was laced with remained to be seen in its entirety. Hopefully enormous reserves of untapped lust.

And if he would get on with it and make a move on her, he would find out. He would have to do it soon; the deadline Zevran had set for himself was one day away, and he wasn’t keen on failing to meet expectations.

It would have to wait for at least a little while, though. Upon returning to the camp, an exhausted Rhodri curled up near where Zevran sat in front of the fire. Leliana and Alistair had a stew bubbling, and the campfire was crackling gently.

“Need a little rest before I can eat,” Rhodri mumbled, seemingly to no-one in particular, and for all intents and purposes looked to be asleep before anyone could say anything about it. Her robe had been put back on once the man, Deygan, had been handed over to Zathrian, but it lay askew on her now, and one of her legs was uncovered. Without thinking, Zevran carefully took the corner of her robe and draped it over the exposed limb, and made a point of not acknowledging Leliana’s smug smile as he took a stick and fruitlessly poked at the fire.

§

Tonight was the night. It had to be, and despite the hours he had spent alone during his watch shift, Zevran had still failed to decide on how he would carry out his maximal flirtation. Gifts were unacceptable. Compliments were futile. She didn’t care for offences to modesty. At this rate, it was looking like he would have to simply hire Leliana to serenade her on his behalf. Oh, agony.

He was pulled from his bout of woebegone musings (how spoiled he was that this was his most pressing issue) by unmistakable Rhodri-esque footfalls coming from behind, and arranged his body into the most acceptably sensual position he could manage. He glanced over his shoulder and his stomach gave an unwanted jitter as he saw her walking toward him. 

She was carrying a steaming cup, smiling warmly at him and looking every bit the newly-awoken person. He chewed the inside of his cheek; she would have been a tactile delight at that moment, his cool fingers warming themselves on her toasty, blushed cheeks or running through the hair that hung loose and gleamed like obsidian in the moonlight.

“Hmm!” He waggled his brows as Rhodri sat down beside him. “A welcome sight indeed! Is it my birthday today?”

Rhodri grinned. “Hello, hello. I made tea for you,” she passed him the cup. “And if it is your birthday, it’s perfect timing, because I have something for you.”

“For me?” he bit his lip. “Oh, my, I am spoiled. Let me guess… is it a Grey Warden with a fine set of eyes?”

“Hah. People make for poor gifts,” she chuckled and shook her head. “Especially Grey Wardens. Haven’t you seen how often we need to be fed?”

He conceded her point with a snicker and nodded. “Just so. Tell me, what is the occasion? You know if you want something of me, you need only ask.” He bit his lip, pleased with the way things were effortlessly going in the right direction, and spoke in a low voice, “You’ll find I am more than willing, without any need for payment.”

Rhodri blinked. Of course she did. He kept the wicked smile in place anyway; perhaps she was simply slow to catch on.

“There… ah…” she frowned softly. “There is no occasion. And I wouldn’t really be allowed to say I was giving you something if I expected something in return. It’d be more like swapping then. No, this is just a gift. A regular gift.” Rhodri peered at him worriedly. “It’s normal, I promise.”

Shame washed through him, making his innards– and very nearly his exterior– cringe. He laughed hollowly.

“Forgive me, I am unused to this kind of thing.” He paused and added, “No-one has ever simply given me a gift before, you see. It is not the done thing in the Crows.”

Her eyebrows rose, and the mortification soaked in a little deeper. “Didn’t you have birthday presents in the brothel? Even something small, like an orange, or a special story?”

He laughed again, from a rather more bitter place this time. “I do not know my birthday. Whores and their children are not counted in the nation’s registry, and there is no point in guessing it when it is not worth noticing.”

Rhodri’s face fell. “But it is worth noticing,” she insisted softly. “You deserve to have a special day. Once we’re in Minrathous, you’ll get birthday and Satinalia presents, and just-because presents throughout the year. Go ahead, Zev, pick a birthdate.”

Zevran, too astonished not to, let out a long ‘ha.’ “There are many to choose from...”

“You can share mine if you like,” she brightened. “We could have a joint birthday party and everything. I’m born on the first of Molioris.”

“Molioris–? Ah, Bloomingtide. So you are born on Summerday, are you, my dear Warden? An excellent choice, very easy to remember.”

“Thank you, I picked it myself, so my mother says.” She winked and laughed. “The parties are always enormous, because everyone loves celebrating Summerday when someone else is paying. Lots of music, lots of dancing–” she waggled her brows (waggled them!) and added, “and plenty of presents for you, guaranteed. One of the best days for a party.”

It was tempting to say yes. And it occurred to Zevran, mercifully before any true concern could begin to eat him alive, that it was likely tempting because it was the sensible thing to do. After all, had the Crows not taught him to seize on opportunities that would benefit him? If it was a sin to be pleased that things had gone well, he could no doubt summon up some dreadful memory to taint it a little and keep the enjoyment at acceptable levels.

But really. Only a fool would have said no to the offer, and Zevran was no fool. He smiled, perhaps a little more broadly than planned, and nodded. “In which case, I am now a Summerday baby.”

Rhodri beamed. Bounced a little where she sat. “Oh… great! Fantastic! Right, well, let me give you your present, then, before I forget myself altogether.” She turned away and rummaged– whether it was in the Robe Void or her satchel was unclear– and reappeared with–

“Gloves!” Zevran blinked away his bafflement. It was a curious gift, considering she had only recently supplied him with brand-new pair. “My word, I am spoiled for choice, between these and my other gloves.”

“Turn them over,” she said gently. “Look closely.”

"Oh, believe me, I intend to--" he stopped as he glanced down and saw the intricate embroidery on the gloves, and the air caught in his throat a moment. “Oh, my.”

He held them up and examined them in the moonlight. A basic pattern of leaves and furling roots trailed up the deerskin exterior, and he recognised it immediately. "These are Dalish, are they not? Much like my mother’s.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You remembered my story.”

“Yes,” Rhodri nodded. “I always pay close attention when you talk to me. I bought them from Master Varathorn earlier this afternoon.”

“The leather was less thick, and it had more embroidery,” he pondered aloud before quickly adding, “but these are very close! And quite handsome!" 

"Oh, I didn't imagine they'd be identical to your mother's," Rhodri said quickly, holding up her hands. "I didn’t intend to replace them or anything like that. More so that you… I don’t know…" she shrugged in a jerky fashion, "so you at least had something to think of her with." 

Zevran’s cheeks ached from smiling. He threw his gloves off, pulling the Dalish ones on and flexing his fingers. They sat comfortably, so supple and flexible, and the soft fur interior began warming his hands straight away. 

"A perfect fit, my Warden," he purred. 

The Warden beamed like she’d been the one given the gift. She wrapped her arms around her knees, pushing off with her foot to rock herself. Zevran bit his lip in a half-smile and shifted his newly-gloved hands to admire his gift and the giver all at once.

She had barely fallen into her new rhythm before she froze mid-sway. Her fingers tightened around her knees, foot replacing on the ground.

“Ah. Forgive me,” she mumbled, eyes dropping to the ground. “I know I’m not meant to. I just– it just happens sometimes, before I even realise I’m doing it.”

Zevran shuffled closer and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Mm? Why would you apologise for something like that, my lovely Grey Warden?”

“What? I– well, It’s offensive.”

“Hmm? Offensive to who?”

“… Everybody.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Everybody?”

Rhodri gave a bleak, bitter scoff that damn near stole the throat out of him. “Come on, Zev,” she said with a razorblade laugh. “Do you think I don’t see the way people look at me? The way they stare?”

Zevran swallowed, suddenly feeling terribly exposed. He pulled on a sultry smile, praying his wits would guide them into happier topics of conversation. 

“Well, I do stare at you, it’s true,” he purred. “Guilty as charged.”

His belly dropped as her face fell. She looked away and nodded, her voice down to a mumble now. “I know you do.”

“Ah, but–” he began quickly, anxiously even. He paused and cleared his throat, forcing languor, “My dear Grey Warden, you and I both know you are very beautiful. Who could blame me for drinking you in from time to time? Of course, if it makes you uncomfortable I will stop.”

Rhodri raised an eyebrow at him. “You stare at me differently, though. Alistair is beautiful, too. So are Morrigan and Leliana. You don’t look at them the same way as you do me.”

“Ah, my dear!” he trilled, only partly because his belly was jittering roughly enough to shake a vibrato into him. “Can I not have my preferences? Is it so unthinkable that I find you much, much more attractive than I do them?”

He decided the discomfort had been worth it as the doubt evaporated from Rhodri’s expression. She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Well now, that’s a fair point. I am very beautiful, it’s true, and we like what we like.” She looked at him and nodded firmly. “No, that’s very reasonable.”

Flirtation: missed. Still, at least that stomach-turning hurt face was gone. He smiled. 

“Good. In any case, you might wish to reconsider your stance on moving your body.” He squeezed her shoulder. “We are not like these uptight Fereldans, my dear Warden. We are Northerners! Passionate! Expressing ourselves is in our blood!”

Rhodri shrugged, that sad look creeping back in. “Not like this,” she said hollowly.

Zevran shrugged back with a flourish. “Perhaps, but it would be boring if we all went about it the same way. I happen to find your way to be very enjoyable. It isn’t often people are so open with me, and it’s most refreshing.” He caught her eye and winked as obviously as he could manage, adding in a purr, “Charming, too.”

Her breath snagged. Loudly. 

Loud enough, he thanked the Maker, to cover the swell in his own chest from watching her face soften. A blush was staining her cheeks the colour of wine, and in the process evaporating all memory of her months-long oblivion to his advances. At last, at long last, the copper had dropped.

Zevran shuffled a little closer, steadying his enthusiasm with a careful breath. “I’ve a question for you, my Warden, if I may.”

Rhodri shook her head like she was trying to physically force her expression off her face. “Ah! Yes.” She nodded. “Of course, yes. You can ask me anything. Please, go ahead.”

He bit his lip and smiled. “Tell me, Rhodri, are you aware that you’re blushing?”

Her eyes widened. Looked around. She touched her cheek briefly and glanced at her fingers as if to check for evidence.

“I…” she swallowed and spoke slowly. “I… couldn’t say with any certainty since I can’t see my face, but I feel my cheeks burning. If– ah… if you told me they were red, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

His smile broadened. “They are quite red, yes.”

Rhodri gulped again and looked out at something behind him. “I believe you.”

Zevran shuffled forward a little. “Did I make you blush, lovely Rhodri?”

Her cheeks darkened to scarlet before she could clear her throat and answer, “Yes.”

He waited to catch her eye before he spoke again, keeping his voice to a low, warm purr. “Do you like it when I make you blush, mi sol?”

“I– ah…” Rhodri’s eyes darted around again. She cleared her throat, “Why are you asking these questions, Zev?”

Zevran chuckled before the nerves could make him do something much more foolish and opted for the bluntness he should have employed months ago.

“Well, my Grey Warden,” he said evenly, “the truth is that I happen to fancy you. A great deal, in fact.” He gestured at the flare of colour spilling into the rest of her face now, “And I get the impression that the interest might be mutual. Would I be correct?”

No verbalised answer came, but it was unnecessary. Zevran knew what a person caught out looked like, and Rhodri, with her wide eyes and sudden lack of breathing, was unmistakably one of those. 

He smiled and pressed on. “If I am, perhaps it would be well to say that I am more than open to us getting closer. Getting… entangled with each other, if you will.” Zevran flickered his eyebrows once. “What say you, my dear Warden? Does it take your fancy?”

Silence held for a few beats as Rhodri shifted her gaze onto Zevran, studying his face for Maker-knew-what. He kept his head tilted at an open, sultry angle that invited her to study him further down, too, if she wished it. 

It wasn’t until the pause was growing pregnant that she met his eyes. Bright and inquiring, almost white with the stark moonlight bouncing off them. Fixed on him. Her brows drew ever so slightly. 

“I don’t think that would be fair on you, Zev,” Rhodri finally said. 

An astonished ‘Eh?’ fell out of Zevran before he could stop it. He excused himself and chuckled a little. “I am not sure what you mean, my dear.”

“You would be at a disadvantage if we did this,” she said simply. “It’s difficult enough for you as it is.”

He laughed again, throwing a quick prayer heavenward that it wouldn’t become so hysterically funny that this all went to the Void in a handbasket. “Lovely Rhodri, I live a charmed life at your side! Whatever do you mean?” He held up a hand and counted off his fingers. “You treat me like everyone else, share your food, make me tea in the mornings, even! I have a salary!” He paused to permit the chuckle he couldn’t quite restrain. Him, with a salary!  

“And on top of all that, you have invited me to live in your estate in Minrathous and do as I please for the rest of my days! And protect me from the Crows–”

“Yes, exactly,” Rhodri cut him off there, nodding solemnly. 

“‘... Exactly?’ I do not quite see where the difficulty starts. And certainly, if we were to grow closer, I would think there is even less difficulty. Such arrangements tend to meet needs, no?” He winked. “And let me assure you, my dear, that your needs would be more than adequately met if you put yourself in my clever hands.”

His flirtation fell flat under the solicitous look she was giving him. “You said it yourself, Zev. I protect you from the Crows. I’m the only thing keeping them from you. There is a much greater power imbalance between us than, say, me and Alistair, or me and Morrigan.” She peered at him curiously. “Did you never notice how I won’t touch you unless I ask first, or unless it’s an emergency? How I don't push you to do anything if it can be helped?”

Why Zevran looked down at his feet was beyond him. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t noticed that Rhodri was careful around him, but had it not been Tevinter manners, sharpened for a fellow Northerner? Fear, perhaps? There was something so jarring about it all that there didn’t seem to be anywhere else to look. All the warmth, all the rapport, and she had made a point of keeping him at arm’s length the entire time, for his own sake.

“You see,” Rhodri continued, “you rely on me for safety, and don’t even have the option of leaving if I were to behave objectionably.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully, relieved that he had not been asked to speak sooner. “You have a point. Though usually, the people who plan to behave objectionably would not be so concerned about such things. Am I wrong? Do you have plans to shatter my kneecaps if I do not do as you ask of me?”

She gasped. “Of course not! I’d– I’d never–”

“Then surely there is no issue,” he chuckled. “We are adults who can consent, and if we both do, what is there to stop us from having a little fun?”

“What stops us is the fact that you've spent your life forced to suppress your own wants and needs to meet the whims of others,” Rhodri pressed. “I was listening to you when we took watches together and you told me about life in the Crows. You had no say over your own body. If we went this way and I…” she hummed a moment. “Ah! Let’s say I asked if you wanted sex. Given the life you’ve lived, and knowing that I have the power to make your life miserable, even if I wouldn’t dream of it… how would I know that if you said ‘yes’, it was because you wanted it? How would I know that you felt you could say ‘no’ to me without consequence?”

Zevran raised his eyebrows. “I have never lied to you, Rhodri, and I have no burning urge to start, either.”

"Ah?" Rhodri let out a disbelieving laugh. “Lying to me is the least egregious part of all that. Forget about that! You’d be lying to yourself, and putting yourself through the same thing the Crows forced you to, because you thought you needed to please me.” She shuddered. “Horrifere. The thought makes my skin crawl!” 

Momentarily at a loss for words, Zevran made an ‘ah’ to buy himself some more time. And then, when nothing came, he made another.

“You see, don’t you, why this topic cannot be entertained?” Rhodri asked, apparently under the impression they were both in agreement now.

“... I will admit that I did not consider this issue at length,” Zevran conceded, “if at all, really, but had I believed you would make a sex slave of me at the first opportunity, I would not have offered. My offer still remains.” He sighed. “Truly, Rhodri, I think that if we can only have this conversation when we hold equal power, the chance to discuss it may never come.”

She nodded heavily. “Yes, exactly. Short of a miracle, this subject isn’t one we can broach.”

Zevran’s stomach started to fall. “But you know,” he pressed, “life is not so simple as that. No two people share equal power across the board. Even if I were a Magister, we would not be the same.” He shifted forward. “And so far, this conversation has only been about my interests. What of you, hmm? What do you want?”

Rhodri shook her head firmly. “Whether I want this or not is of no importance, pretiotus, and I will not answer that. Your safety and freedom take priority, and I will not let anyone, or anything, get in the way of those. Especially not myself.” 

A thud registered in the lower half of Zevran’s gut– no doubt his stomach finally landing. A heaviness crept into his shoulders and neck, dragged his head and body down. He caught sight of the gloves on his hands, delicate and beautiful and given so sweetly, and looked somewhere, anywhere else.

“Well then,” he said after a moment. “I suppose I shall have to be optimistic and keep an eye out for that miracle, no?” An acute pang registered as clever words began to run dry; he rose to his feet. “In any case, I should leave you to your shift before I talk your ear off.” With a nod, he turned and made his way towards his tent.

“Zev?”

Zevran turned around, far too quickly for his liking. His chest ached a little. “Hmm?”

Rhodri fixed him with another one of those pleading looks, and it wasn’t helping matters. “Do something for me, pretiotus,” she said gently.

“Of course.” He pulled his mouth into a smile. “Name your wish.”

“Tell me if you think of anything I can do to even things out between us.” The flicker of hope must have shown up on his face, because she held up her hands quickly, adding, “I don’t say this to get into bed with you, but as someone who cares about you. I want for you to have the freedom to live life on your own terms. It’s your right.”

“... Ah,” he said. It seemed to be all he was capable of saying at this point. 

“I’ll think on it, too,” she nodded fervently. “I will. If there’s anything I can do to put power back in your hands, then mark my words, it will happen.” Rhodri bent down until they were eye-level and nodded again. “I will always try for you, Zev. Believe it.”

Zevran swallowed the huge unease her words brought, but this time it wouldn’t go away. His body had apparently decided on its own that this was all the discomfort he could stand for one night.

He chuckled. “You are a good friend to me, Rhodri. See you in the morning, no?”

Rhodri’s eyes widened. She looked like Satinalia had come early. “You’ve…” her fingers wrung themselves roughly. “You’ve never called me a friend before.” She bit her lip and smiled at her feet, nodding her head. “I’m so proud to be your friend.”

It was a strange thing to have a chest that was swelling in one part and shrivelling in the other. Unpleasant, really. Zevran preferred to have his emotions one at a time, and his preferences were notably not being observed by any part of his mind at that moment.

He smiled anyway, and let the weaker part of him drink in the tender grin he was getting back. “Likewise, my dear.” 

His words finally spent, he made another wave and made a beeline for his tent, hoping against hope that sleep wouldn’t be as elusive as it was looking to be.

Chapter Text

The afternoon breeze had started to roll off the sea and into Minrathous, balmy and humid enough to drink. Rhodri sprawled beside Zevran on a chaise on the balcony, soaking it all in with closed eyes and a serene smile. She wore her finery like she’d been born in it, and for a reason Zevran couldn’t summon up at that moment, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. The silence between them was comfortable, pleasant even. The afternoon tide was crashing in the distance, and the bustle of the metropolis nearby was down to a soft hum.

“I took care of the Crows,” Rhodri said to him without opening her eyes.

Zevran nearly choked on his own tongue. “I– what?”

“I said,” she repeated evenly, grinning now, “I took care of the Crows. You’re free.”

Rhodri looked over at him, snorting as she watched his mouth fall open. Her hands pattered on her thighs. “Told you I’d find a way.”

Zevran could barely get enough wits to speak to her in more than a hoarse whisper. “How…? That is to say, what did you do?”

She shook her head with a small chuckle. “Not for you to worry about, Zev. It’s done, and that’s what counts. And of course you know that means it’s safe for you to go anywhere you like, now, if you wanted.”

He took the remarks with a nod. This decision-making business was a miserable one, and no matter how many times he made it clear it wasn’t his forte, Rhodri never did hesitate to put options in his lap. And without a single inkling of what she might prefer, too!

It wouldn’t do. There was no need for all this to be lumped on one person– especially when that person was him, and it was time to do something about that. 

Zevran bit his lip and shuffled over toward Rhodri until their legs were almost touching. Her confident smile fled, and in the corner of his eye, one of her hands wrung her robe.

He looked up at her with a small, wicked grin. “I could just leave, could I?” he asked. “Just like that?”

“Of course,” she cleared her throat, nodding hard. “You always could have, but now you can without fearing consequences from the Crows.”

Zevran chuckled. “Duly noted, thank you. But tell me, lovely Rhodri, is there no-one I might stay for? No-one, for example, who I might fancy? Who might fancy me back, perhaps?”

Rhodri’s cheeks went pink. Zevran huffed another laugh, groin stirring as she studied him turning his body around to bring them face to face. “Nothing holding us back any more,” he murmured, “now that you found us that miracle, no?” 

She snickered weakly. “Well, it’s certainly not impossible any more.”

“Mmm,” he leaned forward and rubbed his forehead against hers. In the blur of the closeness, Rhodri’s eyes slid shut. Where his self-control had gone was a mystery to him, but in its absence, Zevran let the rest of himself inch forward until, with softly encouraging hums from Rhodri, he was straddling her and her arms rested over his shoulders. He left a gap between their fronts for the sake of modesty, but with the way her hips were curling underneath him and her teeth were biting down on her lip, the gap might as well have not been there at all.

He leaned down to her. “What shall I do, then?” he husked onto the corner of her mouth. “Am I wanted here?”

Rhodri swallowed. “Please.”

Zevran chuckled and pulled away, noting the promptly-stifled beginnings of a protest as he did.

“Hmm?” he teased. “‘Please’ what, Rhodri? Stay? Go? Teach you the Antivan Midsummer dance?”

She watched him seriously. “You and I both know you know the answer to that.”

“Oh?” He nibbled his lip. “Do I, now?”

“Yes. You’re already sitting on me, and my arms are around you. And you’re hard and pressing into me with it,” Rhodri pointed down with her nose to where her robe was parted and the bulge in his linen pants rested firmly against her there where it was soft, a little enveloping-- and if Zevran wasn’t mistaken, the source of a small, warm wet patch. When had all that happened?

Zevran chuckled breathlessly, “Well now, I wonder what that could mean.” He dipped forward again, planting his hands on either side of her, and carefully rocked his hips against hers, winning the most delicious gasp in his ear for his trouble. 

He buried his face and the grin on it into the crook of Rhodri’s neck, finding salt and starch-- and old leather and soft cloves, too. His stomach leapt.

“Ah,” he huffed weakly. “You smell like me, Rhodri.”

Rhodri smirked into his cheek. "Sic, ensoñado,” she purred, her grip on his shoulders tightening when the name made him groan and arch his back a little. “And you smell like me.”

Zevran sighed and nodded, stealing a glance down to where the damp patch was spreading. 

“I do,” he pressed a kiss into her neck and rolled his hips again. Her hands kept him from lifting his shoulders too high, forcing him to drag his chest up along hers whenever he moved. “Yes, I do.”

Rhodri opened her robes all the way out and gently eased them out from under his hands. She lightly draped one side of the robe over the top of him, and then the other, and with her beneath him and private darkness above Zevran took the cue, took his mouth back to the hollow of her neck and ground against her in long, deep strokes.

Rhodri shuddered and breathed a raspy ‘please’ by his ear. Her hands drifted along his back, trailing further down with each movement until they settled on his rump. They rested there, only making their presence known when gripping him to her if he shifted too far away, and Zevran didn’t dare wonder what she meant by it when he was pleasing her and she was pleasing him, and he was moaning and she was sighing and she hadn’t asked him to leave.

A tight shiver travelled up his spine. Already. Zevran gave an embarrassed little laugh and made to deliver a self-deprecating apology for his pathetically (and assuredly uncharacteristically) lacking stamina, but Rhodri was speaking before he could open his mouth.

“Ah,” she panted. “I’m close.” 

Zevran groaned, half in enjoyment and half to curse the way such announcements invariably sent his restraint crumbling. Her fingers dipped down and caressed the underside of his buttocks. He clenched his fists and rubbed his whole body against her without marking rhythm or style. Rhodri stiffened and gave the choked little growl Zevran heard coming from her tent most nights despite himself, and the volume of his own succumbing moan startled him–

Awake?

He hazily looked down at his pillow, and at the blanket trapped beneath his hands that looped under the fold of his buttocks.

Ah, and of course, he was also looking at the considerable amount of spend he had managed to soil his bedroll and sleeping pants with. Marvellous. 

Cursing under his breath, Zevran sat up and shucked his pants, only to scramble back into them as a lumbering, distinctly bear-like gait came into earshot.

“Ah!” Rhodri’s voice was clear and ringing; she was running. “Bear in the camp! Everyone stay in your tents!”

Zevran got his knives out anyway, ears still ringing, and slung his bow and arrows over one shoulder for good measure. He lingered by the tent flap, ready to dart out at a moment’s notice. His fingers pinched the tent flap open a little; nothing of the fight was visible. There were noises: roars, an explosion, and a loud thud quickly after. And then, nothing.

Rhodri’s victorious laugh cut through the new silence. “It’s safe again! Thank you for co-operating, everyone. Back to watch for me, and good night to you all!” 

Zevran couldn’t help but hope, however weakly, that it was more theatrics from Alistair and Leliana that had prompted the surprise wildlife visit, as it had been every other time. 

But Alistair was snoring loudly enough that it was possible he hadn’t even noticed the goings-on of the last few minutes. Which meant, of course, that Zevran had been doing the exact same thing as that wretched, stomach-turning pair. Alone, no less, because Rhodri certainly hadn’t been involved in any official capacity.

Bruised and mortified, Zevran let the ache of it all wring a quiet ‘agh’ out of him, and he set to cleaning up.

§

There was nothing wrong. Life was as good as it got and Zevran was an ungrateful bastard for acting like it wasn’t.

In fairness to him, though, it wasn’t as though he’d chosen to sleep poorly. The fact that he’d tossed and turned for the rest of the night was merely a consequence of that issue. He’d pulled the new gloves off and on, and then on again. Put them under his pillow when the noise in his head grew too loud, and then when the pain in his chest became distracting, he’d taken them back out. There was no pleasing anyone, and as Zevran rose in the bleak sunlight, he permitted the self-indulgence to creak one long, soft grumble out of him. 

It took some self-convincing to leave his tent when he had finally dressed. How, precisely, he was meant to look Rhodri in the face after their conversation last night had been issue enough, and one he hadn’t actually found an answer to. In fact, if he was honest with himself (which he always was), he hadn’t even bothered to start looking for one. 

After that pathetic display he had unknowingly put on, that had attracted a bear (oh, Maker, couldn’t he have died of the embarrassment of that!), how he was supposed to even be in the same country as Rhodri– the same continent, even– was a mystery to him.

But something would have to be done. It didn’t do to feign nonexistence in the four walls of his little canvas home. No, he would have to simply play it by ear. It wasn’t the first time he’d made a complete show of himself, and it wouldn’t be the last, either. If Rhodri wanted to discuss it, he would discuss it. If she pretended it hadn’t happened, so would he. That was all there was to it.

With something of a plan in place, Zevran departed his tent. He paused to stretch, glancing to the left and then to the right, where he saw a bear the size of his tent, lying on its side encased in a block of ice. 

Rhodri, who was tending to the crackling fire, grinned over her shoulder at him.

“I thought the clan might like it!” she said cheerfully. “I froze it so the meat would stay fresh, and they can use the pelt and claws, too! What do you think?”

Ah, so she had decided they would be pretending. Good. 

“Oh, I think they will like it very much, my Warden,” he purred, going over and sitting with her. “... I do wonder how we will get it to them, though. That bear is quite a size, no?”

“Here’s your tea,” Rhodri handed him a steaming cup, and wobbled her head thoughtfully. “It’s not so heavy. Not as bad as a cow. If someone from the clan can come and look at it after I melt the ice, Alistair and I can easily carry it to their camp if they decide they want it.”

“Ah,” he smiled and took a careful mouthful of his tea. “You have a plan for everything.”

She chuckled. “Is that possible? Can you have a plan for even half of everything?”

Zevran shrugged playfully. “Somebody must, surely.”

“Hah. If you see them, tell them I’d like to meet them.” Rhodri passed him a stack of cheese sandwiches and rose to her feet. “I’d better get Morrigan’s tea to her, and then I’ll feed the dog. If you’ll excuse me– ah, and enjoy your breakfast, of course.” With the same courteous smile she always gave him, she nodded her head and disappeared with a steaming hot cup in hand and the hound at her side.

And with that, he was alone. The air around him was ringing, vibrating on his fingertips and in the inside of his chest. Uncomfortable, yes, but baffling, more than anything. He took a bite of a sandwich and decided, before the accusing voice could decide for him, that this was what embarrassment felt like, and he was only experiencing it because he was sensible enough to be polite to the person keeping him safe from the Crows.

Leliana stepped out of her tent moments later, and Zevran had to stifle a laugh as the sound of Alistair’s snoring briefly, considerably amplified while the flap was open. She tucked a loose strand behind one ear and strolled over toward Zevran with a broad, gleaming smile.

Oh, no.

“Good morning,” she smirked. “A very good morning, even.”

Oh, no.

He slapped on a smile. “My dear Leliana, you are looking even more beautiful today than yesterday! However do you do it?”

“Now, now,” she flicked a hand at him. “Don’t try and distract me with flattery, mon râleur. You did not see the way Rhodri was from those noises you were making last night! She was stopping her ears, and ooh, so red in the face!”

Zevran’s stomach had to be swallowed down from his throat several times before he could so much as get an ‘ah’ out. Leliana snickered. 

“Oh my word, yes,” she pushed on. “You cannot doubt you have an effect on her, Zevran. There is no hiding it! Go on, go to her and–”

“Ah, my dear!” he trilled, rising to his feet (or rather, the panic reverberating along the planes of his bones levitated him off his posterior). He pressed his pile of sandwiches into a gaping Leliana’s hands. “I would love to stay and chat, but I am afraid I must go and speak with the Dalish about the bear behind me, no?”

The good Sister raised an eyebrow at him. “So you say.”

He allowed his smile to grow firm. “I do. Pardon me, if you please.”

Without another word, he departed for the Dalish camp. The entire five-minute walk was spent ignoring the nagging thought that he had excused himself in precisely the same manner as Rhodri.

§

Zevran couldn’t bring himself to go near the other Dalish children. Uthria had insisted Zevran hand over his knives upon arriving at the camp, both for his safety and the safety of the other children. And then she had told him he could play with them while she spoke with other adults! But she hadn’t taken anything off the other children in front of him; how was Zevran to know they didn’t have concealed daggers? They almost certainly did; the forests were hardly a safe haven. 

And there he was, without blades, and the children monitored him in the way all children sized up fresh meat. He was no stranger to it, and so long as they didn’t come after him, Zevran was happy enough to take a spot by the bushes on the periphery of the camp. A truce, of sorts. Loneliness was better than the alternative.

The master of the hunt, Uthria had called her Varian, had allowed him to hover there for a short while before marching over to him. Zevran stood as straight as he could; the Dalish frowned on cowardice.

“Not playing with the others, da’len?” she asked him with a brisk but warm smile. 

Zevran shook his head. 

“Why not, then?”

He froze; there wasn’t time to think of an excuse. With a careful smile, he gestured at the place where she had been sitting. “Perhaps I could be useful to you? While I wait to play, that is. I can help with anything you like.”

A sad look flitted over Varian’s face that gave way to another resolute smile. She nodded. “Good. Come, da’len. I will teach you to sharpen a blade.”

“I already know,” he said quickly. “Mine were all kept very sharp.”

“The ones Uthria took off you?”

He nodded. Varian hummed approvingly.

“You can show me what you know, then.” She led him back over to her place by the fire and handed him a blunt knife and a coarse whetstone.

The pommel of the dagger sat in his hand like an old friend; Zevran’s stomach settled immediately. He set to work immediately, keeping half an eye on Varian as he did, and she was smiling before he was barely a few motions in.

“Well, well!” she clapped her hands once. “We have a boy who’s been learning his lessons well!”

Zevran felt his eyes crinkle as he soaked in the praise. He flipped the blade to draw the other side along the stone. “I have been sharpening blades since I was seven.”

“I see. Tell me your name, da’len.”

He looked up. “My name is Zevran.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Zevran! A good Dalish name. Who are your mother and father, then? They must be proud.”

“They are dead. I never met them.” 

“Ah,” she said sympathetically. 

He shrugged. “My mother was Dalish. I don’t know anything else.” The thought of his mother’s gloves, long since taken, crossed his mind. Zevran pushed it out of his head and focused on the knife.

“Keep up like this, Zevran,” Varian gestured at the blade, already looking much sharper, “and you’ll be coming with me on the hunts soon. What do you say to that?”

“I could do that,” he said quickly, and looked up. He nodded fervently. “I could hunt. I can already kill monkeys and nobles! And shoot arrows!”

Varian threw her head back and laughed. “Can you now? Killing nobles! Remarkable.” She paused. “Ah, are you one of those Crow boys?”

Zevran nodded again; Varian’s face softened a little. She put a hand on his shoulder and pulled it away again when Zevran reflexively recoiled. 

Her voice became gentle, “I hear the training is very hard with them. Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Mm. Well, you remember that you have come through that to where you are now. Those days are behind you, but what you learned with them will serve you and the clan well.” She gestured around at the camp. “Look out for your people, and your people will look out for you.”

It seemed implausible, but Varian appeared to mean it. Zevran nodded, “Yes.”

“And think! Work hard enough, and you might become my apprentice! The next master of the hunt for Clan Marendis, hmm? What do you think of that?” Varian folded her arms and gave him a meaningful look.

Zevran’s mouth opened a little. He nodded carefully, not daring to believe it wholeheartedly. “I can prove myself.”

Varian chuckled and sat down beside him. “All in good time, da’len. I’m the master for now. Let me get old first, yes? And in the meantime,” she picked up another dagger and a finer whetstone, “there’s work to be done.”

§

It was one thing to enter the Dalish camp beside a Grey Warden. Zevran formed a part of the background, briefly noticed by the shape of his ears– and then, of course, by the tattoos on his face. Acknowledged, if momentarily, and then dismissed as a flat-ear who was only there on the Wardens’ say-so.

Coming alone was another thing entirely. Especially when Zevran was no longer a runaway child, but a tagalong adult. All eyes went on him and stayed there, and while there wasn’t quite the same scorn held for a human, he was clearly not considered family or friend. 

The guard from yesterday, Mithra, stood at the periphery of the camp, and waved to him as he approached.  

“Andaran atish’an, traveller,” she smiled politely. “Your efforts to help Deygan are greatly appreciated. We need every hunter we have, especially now.”

“Traveller” was pleasant enough; Zevran considered it a victory.

“Andaran atish’an,” he replied, inclining his head to her. “Yes, we heard from the Keeper about the last attack by the werewolves. Your Deygan, is he well? Did he survive the night?”

“He did,” Mithra gave a small, decidedly relieved-sounding laugh. “I had been afraid he was too far gone, but your master brought him back in time, it seems.”

It was Zevran’s turn to laugh now; Mithra raised an eyebrow.

“The Grey Warden, you mean?” He snickered and stopped himself as quickly as he could manage. “Ah… ahem. Forgive my amusement, but Rhodri is not my master. We are all… how to put it… something like co-workers. The Grey Wardens lead, but we are treated equally.”

Mithra’s other eyebrow went up by now. “Creators,” she murmured. “That is an arrangement I have not seen before.” She shook her head. “Fair enough. If there is someone you need, you are welcome to seek them out– ah,” Mithra pointed behind him. “Your co-worker approaches.”

Zevran glanced over his shoulder and waved at Rhodri, who was walking over to them as quickly as one could without actually calling it running. She stopped a long stone’s throw away, waiting and with her hands behind her back. Her eyes were fixed on the foliage of a tree off in the other direction.

Mithra dropped her voice to a near-whisper. “What is she doing?”

“An excellent question!” Zevran grinned and called out to Rhodri, “You are so far away, my Grey Warden. Do not tell me you’ve grown shy!”

Rhodri’s head snapped back around, her eyes wide. “Oh!” She hurried the rest of the way over, giving them both an apologetic nod. “Sorry. No, I’m not shy, but I wasn’t sure if I should wait for you to finish.”

He chuckled. “Ever the courteous one. Please do join us.”

“Ah, thank you.” She smiled appreciatively at him, and nodded again at Mithra. “Good morning. I hope you’re well.”

Mithra blinked. “... I am, yes.”

Rhodri either didn’t notice her surprise, or chose to ignore it. Either way, she hummed blithely. “Excellent! I won’t keep you, but I’ve come to ask about a bear.”

“A… bear.”

“Mmm. One came into our camp last night, and I killed it and froze it.” She waved a hand toward the path leading to the party’s encampment. “It’s still there now, fully intact and in a large block of ice, so the meat is still very fresh. Is it something you and your clan might like?”

Mithra frowned. Rhodri’s eyes widened, and she quickly added, “My apologies, of course, if I’ve offended. I don’t doubt the skill of your hunters, but since they’re not allowed to venture too deeply into the forest, I thought meat might be hard to come by. We have more than we need, and it makes sense to share.”

“I see.” Mithra cleared her throat. “That is… generous, Grey Warden, but not my decision. You might go into the camp and inform our First.”

Rhodri beamed. “Excellent. Thank you very much. If you’ll excuse me…”

She bustled off. Of course she did. Zevran gave the guard a quick nod and hurried after Rhodri.

§

When the First had accepted the offer of a fresh, cold bear, Zevran and Rhodri hurtled back to the camp. Alistair had only recently stumbled out of Leliana’s tent, and had to be plied with two cups of tea and half a block of cheese before he could comprehend his fellow Warden’s request to help shift the frozen bear behind him. Rhodri had used that time to melt the ice away, and once Alistair was finally on his feet, the Wardens, accompanied by Leliana and Zevran, took the bear to the camp and handed it over.

“That was a big bear,” Alistair mumbled to Rhodri once the pleasantries were out of the way. “Nice of them to invite us to eat some with them. First time I’ve been asked to an early bear lunch.”

Rhodri nodded thoughtfully. “Same for me. Well, at least officially. We might well have eaten bear in the Circle, for all I know.” She hummed. “You know, usually when we’re invited to lunch or dinner in Tevinter or Kirkwall, we’d bring a gift for the host. Orlesian chocolates or wine, but we don’t have anything with us.”

Zevran chuckled a little. “I wonder what wine would pair with bear meat? Surely there would not be much call for that, even among the eccentric rich.”

“Oh, there are enough Orlesians who would try it,” Leliana piped up now. “So long as it is en vogue , they will go for anything in their droves.”

“When I was small, a lot of people were eating monkey meat,” Rhodri mused (Zevran quietly choked on a laugh at the thought of his subsistence meal being favoured by the overly moneyed). “It was supposed to be very good, but surely the meat would taste like banana–”

"Excuse me!” A gentle voice, not at all made for shouting, had the party turning around. Said gentle voice belonged to a gentle-looking man with a soft, round face and long, grey hair in a braid that went to the back of his knees. His vallaslin covered his entire face in long spiderleg strokes that reminded Zevran of Master Varian; his heart gave a fond little squeeze at the sight.

Rhodri beamed at him. “Good morning! I hope you’re well.”

The man’s eyes widened a moment, but he was quick to nod at her as he drew up in front of them. “Thank you, Grey Warden. Andaran atish’an. I do hope your initial welcome by the clan was not too harsh.”

“Ah? No, no trouble at all,” Rhodri waved a hand. “Perfectly understandable. I hope with time they will feel a little more comfortable while we’re here.”

“Oh, yes, certainly,” he nodded again. “I believe that is already happening.”

She smiled, fingers tapping her legs. “Oh, good. That’s… mmm. Wonderful. Ah, but I was distracting! Was there something you needed?”

“Ah. Well…” A deep flush spread through his cheeks; the Dalish were not known for their directness in asking favours, and Zevran quietly resolved to advise the Wardens of this at the next possible opportunity.

The man cleared his throat. “Ah, my name is Athras, Grey Warden. I am one of the hunters.” He pointed at the clearing further ahead on the path. “I would have gone with your party to hunt Witherfang, but the Keeper has… mmm… well,  he has forbidden me.” A furrow deepened between his brows.

Rhodri nodded sympathetically. “I did hear that, yes. Deygan was the only survivor among those we found in the forest yesterday. I can see why the Keeper would want to keep everyone else at home.”

“Of course,” he agreed hastily, nervously even, and coughed again. “I wonder if I might ask if you saw a woman there, among the dead? Shoulder-length white hair, light skin, green eyes? Looked about my age, quite round in the middle. It’s my wife, Danyla, you see. She is– well, was a hunter, and I wonder what has become of her.”

“Oh, my,” she breathed, looking at Zevran encouragingly. “Let’s just think a moment, Zev… let’s see…”

Zevran hummed. “I recall seeing a woman with grey hair, down to here,” he drew a line over the middle of his chest. 

“Ah, no,” Athras shook his head. “That would have been Pailan, Creators rest her.”

“No, that lady is the only one I can recall seeing as well,” Rhodri said after a moment. Athras’ frown deepened.

“It is… so strange,” he said, almost quietly enough that he might have been talking to himself. “Zathrian told me Danyla is dead. She was gravely injured by the werewolves, I know, and the curse spread rapidly, but he will not let me see her body.” He kissed his teeth. “I am beginning to wonder if she became a werewolf, and he is keeping me from the forest so I do not pursue her.”

Rhodri gasped; Zevran would have bet money it was because of the potential injustice of being lied to. Storming over to the Keeper and interrogating him about being untruthful about the whereabouts of the missing woman would undoubtedly cause a rift, and in that moment, Zevran made the split-second decision to cut over her.

“What would you do if that were true, my friend?” he asked the man, not unkindly.

Athras shrugged. “I… do not know. Perhaps she would still know me as her love? Perhaps she would know our daughter? She stands over there, eating by the fire.” He pointed at a young girl with a shock of red hair, chewing on bread and watching the fire with the grimmest expression Zevran had seen on a child. “She is only twelve, but already she has the poise and patience of a grown hunter.”

“Ah!” Rhodri beamed and nodded. “What a fine young lady she is turning out to be. You must be proud.”

The man’s eyes grew watery. “We are. There is no right age for a mother to die, but these are tender years for a child. They need their mother and their father as much as ever, and we three have always been close.”

Zevran couldn’t resist stealing a glance at Alistair and Leliana, whom he understood to be as lacking in mothers and fathers as he was. They were sharing a sad little look between themselves, and then their eyes went back to Athras. Zevran went unnoticed, and a pang of loneliness dug at the pit of his stomach.

“We will watch out for her,” Rhodri said firmly. “If she is a werewolf, then perhaps once we hunt Witherfang and this cure is found, she may be returned to her usual form, yes?”

“Oh, I hope,” he replied breathlessly. “I hope. I have an amulet made by our craftsman here. It’s not much, but I would happily give it to you in return for any news of Danyla.”

The Wardens– the whole group, really, declined the offer of remuneration but assured the fellow that if there was any news to be had of the lady’s whereabouts, he would be the first to know. More pleasantries, hushed ‘ma serannas’ and ‘not at alls’ continued in a near-cycle until all participants reached a point of mutual satisfaction and went their separate ways. And judging by the questions Rhodri, who was still pondering a gift for the lunch hosts, was asking about winemaking at home as they made their way back to the camp, the party's way would be in the direction of camp-brewed moonshine unless Zevran stopped laughing and tried a little harder to disabuse Rhodri of the notion.

Chapter Text

“You know,” Rhodri said thoughtfully as the party wound through the deeper forest, “I don’t think I have eaten bear ‘til now. It reminded me of a few of the browner meats they’d serve in the Circle, but none tasted quite like that.”

Zevran and Leliana (and Wynne, who of course had declared she would be coming along) nodded in agreement. Bear meat was tender enough to be cut with a fork, with a curiously strong, somewhat fruity flavour; one of the clan had said during the meal that bear meat tasted like whatever the animal had last eaten. The first thing Zevran did, upon hearing that fact, was to thank the Maker that that bear’s final meal hadn’t been a darkspawn hock. 

“I think I had it a few times,” Alistair chewed his lip. “The Fereldan nobles like bear quite a lot. I think one Teryn even had a sort of bear farm. Must’ve made a fortune off that.”

“I can imagine.” Rhodri looked over her shoulder at Morrigan, who in keeping with her usual demeanour of the last weeks, was yet to say a word. “What of you, Morrigan? Did you eat bear meat very much?”

Her eyebrows rose as Morrigan tsked irritably. 

“Why do you ask me such questions?” she snapped. “I do not probe you for pointless information, do I?”

“Hey—” Alistair snarled warningly, only falling still when Rhodri turned around and touched his arm.

“It’s all right,” she soothed, and glanced at Morrigan worriedly. “I’m sorry, my friend, I didn’t mean to annoy. I’m just curious.” She smiled encouragingly, and gave an inviting wave of the hands, “And certainly, you’re welcome to probe me any time you like! Day or night, probe away, deep as you like!” 

Zevran-- barely-- held in a snort as Morrigan’s face hardened. The beginnings of a blush were threatening in the corners of her cheeks where makeup had not touched. She closed her eyes and shook her head. 

“Warden,” she said tiredly. “That did not sound the way you hoped it might. Leave the topic.”

Rhodri’s smile faltered. “I–? I don’t… that is to say, yes, of course. You’ll let me know if you need anything, though, won’t you?”

“I need nothing.”

“I know, but in case you do later–”

“Enough, Warden.”

“Right, right, of course. Forgive me.” Rhodri faced front again, frowning pensively.

In the corner of Zevran’s eye, Leliana was watching him watch Rhodri. Not having it in him to feign ignorance until she tried to extract a confession out of him, he turned and smiled at her.

“I hear that frog is popular in Orlais, Leliana,” he purred, adding, “speaking of odd meats.”

If being directly addressed had taken her aback, she didn’t show it. “It must be,” she replied with a smile. “It is eaten even when other meats are more fashionable.”

Zevran snickered; Rhodri hummed. “That’s why other countries call the Orlesians ‘frogs,’ because it's their national meat.”

“Mmm,” Leliana chuckled wickedly. “Just like we call the Antivans ‘chickens,’ and the Rivainis ‘fish.’ Ooh, and of course, like we call the Tevinters ‘baboons,’ hmm?”

Rhodri grinned. “Mmm. I’ve been called that now and then, especially by frogs.”

“They call you baboons?” Alistair cackled. “I think that's probably ‘cause of your blue bums, not because you eat the meat. Too much lyrium.”

Wynne’s disapproving ‘Oh, really, Alistair’ was drowned out by Rhodri’s very loud, very Tevinter-sounding ‘Ah!’

“No, he’s right!” she declared dramatically. “In a pants-down line-up, you’ll see glowing blue cheeks from start to finish! We have to wear blackout underwear so we don't blind whoever's standing behind us. But on the bright side-- so to speak, of course-- we do have a torch wherever we go.” She gave a grin that showed most of her teeth.

It was tempting to point out that a lyrium posterior would hardly be in Rhodri’s best interest, her affliction considered. After everything that had happened the night before, though, Zevran was not the man to make any conversation with regard to such parts of her. He swallowed a sigh whose cause he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

Alistair snorted and shoved Rhodri. “Next time we go in a cave, then, we’ll send you in arse first.”

“Hah,” she dug her shoulder into his upper arm. “A fine way to showcase Tevinter modesty. My father would be proud.”

There was no reason, none at all, to let his mind drift to the artificial calm and privacy of the thought of being wrapped up under Rhodri’s robe. Zevran turned his focus onto the light tingle in his fingertips, and the give of the grass underfoot, and, because he was the weakest being in existence, pulled his cloak a little tighter around him.

§

The deep interior of the Brecilian Forest– Zevran had been calling it that since they were a day’s journey in, but surely they had to be in it by now, and it stank. Nobody else seemed to think so, but Zevran had a nose and a brain, and regardless of popular opinion, the unfortunate truth was that the forest absolutely reeked. Sickly-sweet pine needles, wet dirt, and bear shit. Where were the spices? Where was the salty air that blew in off the sea like spindrift? Even this far into the forest, there were small, makeshift bridges going across some of the wider streams, so evidently someone was living here. Had they never heard of incense? The place was nothing but wood! How , in the name of all good things, had they never thought of incense?

He tutted under his breath and shook his head. To his right, Rhodri chuckled. “Are you cursing the pine trees again, Serah?”

“Unsuccessfully,” he sighed. “They are still not dying.”

Leliana giggled, and Alistair, in an astonishing act of– what was it? Comradeship? Social pleasantness? … Civility?-- spoke to him. Without the context of enragement or irritation. Was it even possible?

“No-o-o-nsense!” the Templar trumpeted. “It’s fresh air! Get a little more in you! Won’t find air this clean out by the sea, not with all that salt gusting around!”

Rhodri audibly gasped at that, and Zevran wasn't above admitting he had done the same. It was possible that Alistair had meant to be comradely, or even pleasant, but rude remarks about the sea and its bounty were nothing less than an attack on a Northerner's personal dignity.

“Well I never,” Rhodri sniffed. “Did you hear that, Zev?”

“I wish I hadn’t,” he murmured hollowly.

“I distinctly heard the sound,” she declared before Alistair could finish laughing, “of a brother who doesn’t want to come on holiday to Minrathous and eat all the cheese his heart desires!”

That shut the bastard up. 

“Ah-ah-ah!” Alistair darted over to Rhodri’s unoccupied side and slung an arm around her shoulder. “Let’s not be too hasty here! I… ah… who needs fresh air anyway, right? Overrated!”

Leliana chuckled. “I think you are missing the point, cher.”

Rhodri rubbed her brow. “At this rate, I’ll be feeding twenty people the platters of Tantervalean sweetgrass cheese that you won’t be eating, Alistair.”

“Twenty!”

“Cheer up, Al,” she said with a grin, gesturing at a nearby tree that appeared to have snapped in two in the middle of a bog. “You’ve got plenty of pine bark in your fresh-air forests to chew on instead. Think of all the roughage you’ll have in your diet with that!”

Alistair frowned. “That’s not a pine. They’ve got the green needles.”

“Ah, whoops,” she chuckled. “Haven’t covered pines yet, have we Zev?” She looked back at the tree and squinted a little. “You know, that bark is quite blue. I don’t suppose it could be the ironbark Master Varathorn– getbehindmeGETBEHINDME!”

A tree had come to life. Of course it bloody had. Life wasn’t strange enough as it was, and the forest was in dire need of freakish entities such as sentient, wildly aggressive trees like the enormous sylvan that was now walking (charging, in fact) toward them. It even looked like a person. The bloody thing had arms and legs, hands, a head– Maker help him, it had a rib cage. 

The party’s scuffle with the arboreal murderer was mercifully brief. One spell from each mage floored it before Alistair could finish his quip about swapping his sword out for an axe, which was best for all concerned, really. 

They gathered around the… corpse? Was it a corpse? It had died, but dead trees usually became wood. Did it even count as a tree if it was behaving like an animal? Questions for the Dalish Zevran wished he had known to ask. Whatever the thing had become, there they stood, staring at it with silent bafflement.

“Well, Zev,” Rhodri said to him after a moment, “You might refrain from cursing trees when they’re in earshot. At least until you’re absolutely sure it’s more likely to kill than offend.” She snickered at her own dreadful joke (though admittedly, so did Zevran and Alistair) and sighed. “Ah, well. Since we’re here, let’s see about that ironbark…”

§

This forest was jam-packed with wolves. There were grey wolves. There were black wolves. There were Blight wolves– those were ones that had been infected with the Taint and rather than die of Blight sickness, had become something else entirely. Wolves, wolves, bloody wolves. And absolutely none of them even closely resembled the wolf they were after. Not a single white wolf in sight– not even a very light grey one to make them do a double-take. 

In fact, when it came down to it, they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the werewolves, either, and as much as Zevran had decided a meeting with them was likely inevitable, he couldn’t help preferring the idea of the encounter occuring later. Much, much later, if possible. 

For now, though, the sun had almost finished setting. The crisp cold was piercing, and the forest was glowing like fortune in the last light. Nobody said a word, and if Zevran wasn’t mistaken, the party was even walking quietly to avoid interrupting the scene. 

Past the two makeshift bridges up ahead was a clearing on a hill. There was enough room for a few tents, a campfire, and a little node off to one side where Morrigan would no doubt establish herself. Rhodri was going between looking at the site and at the bit of the forest that was smouldering the most at that moment. She looked over her shoulder at the party, indicated the clearing with a question mark on her face, and got nods from everyone. That settled it. 

Well, no, it didn’t settle it, in fact, because seemingly as soon as the party had decided where they would be setting up camp for the night, they were ambushed by–

“Are those werewolves?” Alistair squinted at the approaching figures with a frown as he whipped his sword out. “They’re– Maker, they’re walking on their hind legs!”

Zevran shouldn’t have bloody thought of the werewolves. It was his fault. It always happened that way: as soon as he thought of the unwanted thing, it invariably came for them. Why couldn’t he have not-wanted something useful, like a large sum of money or a bowl of fish chowder?

Such ingenious ponderings came to him from behind Rhodri’s back, to where he had been steered by said Warden in the usual fashion. He shook his head and readied his knives.

And then, nothing. 

He peered out from around Rhodri’s shoulder, and the werewolves– three of them, with decidedly people-like chests, if somewhat hairier– stood there, glaring at the party, though it might have been the shield Rhodri had summoned that separated them that was the actual cause for that sour look. No, that was unfair of Zevran: perhaps they weren’t glaring. That might have been the normal expression for a werewolf. Perhaps they would treat the party to a smile and reveal sets of dazzling white teeth that never looked so friendly or inviting. 

The middle werewolf growled a little; Zevran decided that they had been glaring after all, and all hopes of deep-forest hospitality vanished. Its jaw unlatched, and the entire party made a medley of surprised noises as the creature addressed them in a rumbling snarl.

“The watch-wolves have spoken truly, brother and sister,” it said. “The Dalish send humans, of all things. I suppose you are here to cull us for our attack on the camp? Put us in our place?” The creature snorted. “What bitter irony.” 

Zevran considered tilting his head a little to show off his pointed ear, only to decide against it at the last minute. He stayed as he was.

“Hm,” Rhodri said scornfully. “You speak. Irony, you say, that a human comes in pursuit of a cure. Why is that? Let me guess: the white wolf whose heart I’m after is actually a human in a hairy cloak?”

The werewolf snapped and lunged, only to bounce off the shield and stagger backwards a few steps. Zevran couldn’t help but snort, and to his relief, Alistair and Morrigan did as well.

“You will not speak of the white wolf in this manner!” the werewolf shouted when it had steadied itself. 

“You murdered half a clan,” Rhodri spat. “My sympathy for your tender sensibilities is in rather short supply.” She lifted one hand and summoned a small, white-hot flame. “You will tell me where Witherfang is, or you’ll die now!”

Something wasn’t right. The Keeper had made that odd little pause, hadn’t he, when recounting the werewolves’ attack. Why was that? The werewolves weren’t denying they had done it, but why had they done it?

Without thinking, Zevran put a hand on Rhodri’s arm– and then, when his chest suddenly felt a little too light from the warmth radiating through her robes, he whipped the hand away again. The flame died out. Rhodri turned and lowered her head near Zevran’s, her expression softening.

"Mm?” she asked gently. “I’m listening. Tell me, Zev."

“Ah…” Zevran cleared his throat and willed his stomach to stay put. “Perhaps we need not leap to the exciting part immediately, no?” The entire party fixed him with a wide-eyed look, though Rhodri, to her credit, was polite enough to shutter it almost immediately. 

He shrugged with one hand. “I, for one, would be very interested to know why they attacked the clan.”

"Of course." Rhodri nodded hard and pointed at the werewolves. “You will give him what he wants,” she said stonily, and when no more reply than a growl came, her voice rose to a shout that made Alistair and Leliana jump. “Answer the question, damn you! How dare you make him wait!”

Zevran's knees were not about to give out from under him. They were not.

The werewolf scoffed. "You and your barking do not intimidate us, human."

"I'm not to blame for your lack of a healthy fear response," Rhodri retorted coldly. "In the Free Marches, my people wear wolf hides in the winter. I'm not so far removed from them that I won't repurpose you in the same way if you keep delaying. Answer the fucking question!"

“I am not about to enlighten you!” it snapped back. “You know nothing of us, and even less of who you serve. I suppose it was the old one, Zathrian, who sent you after us?”

“Zathrian did ask us to seek out a cure,” Zevran cut in with a calm nod. “You talk of him as though you know him.”

The werewolf growled and shook its head. “We have never met. If we did, he would not have survived the experience, I swear it.”

He hummed. “Not fond of him, I take it?”

“We have every reason not to be. And you,” the wolf’s hackles raised, “are also unwelcome here. You should run from the forest while you can.”

“Ah, but we do need that cure,” Zevran gave a small, bargaining shrug. “It is a little difficult to turn back without it. If you know the white wolf, perhaps we could parley with them? Surely there is a peaceful way to resolve all this.”

“I know why you seek him, and it is not to parley!” it shouted. “We are done talking! Go back to the Dalish, and tell them we will gladly watch them suffer the same curse as we have for too long!”

“We cannot retreat,” Zevran reiterated gently. “Not without some hope of a cure. Perhaps we could work together to find one? No need for bloodshed here. We could even cure you, too, if you wish it.”

“You seek the heart of the one who protects us!” the werewolf bellowed. “We will not deliver you to him! I do not wish to fight you, but you force my hand!” It turned to the other wolves. “Come, brothers and sisters! Swiftrunner calls you to b–”

The werewolf’s speech gave way to collective yelps and the snap of bones as an invisible and almost silent force (summoned by Rhodri, of course) collided with the creatures and sent them– and an emerging few werewolves they collected on the way– through the air and into the exposed side of an eroded hill. Awfully close to where they had intended to camp, Zevran noted, which went against the Crow principle of not killing where one slept. Perhaps the principle had been impressed because of the stench that came with new death, or the hygiene of it, or simply because even the Crows had standards about that sort of thing. 

As it happened, the werewolves had not died from the attack, but from the way they were crawling, reasonable motion– and certainly fighting– no longer appeared to be an option for them. A handful more werewolves went to the hairy jumble of limbs sticking to the side of the hill, and without thinking, Zevran stopped Rhodri when she raised her hand to cast again.

“My Warden,” he said urgently. Rhodri nodded and tilted her head down near his, not taking her eyes off the werewolves.

“Sic, Zev?"

“Perhaps we might allow them to surrender?" He indicated the werewolves. "They are clearly not able to win against us, even in these numbers.”

“Eh?” Alistair goggled at him. “You’re joking! They would’ve torn our throats out if it wasn’t for that shield!”

Rhodri frowned. “Is it because they haven’t answered your question yet?”

Zevran wobbled his head a little. “In a sense, yes. I have a feeling Zathrian may have left out some select details about this curse business. Something in the way he spoke, no? Too many pauses.”

“The curiosity is not unwarranted,” Wynne ventured now, “though the werewolves did not seem too willing to part with any information.” She looked around grimly. “The Brecilian is already a dangerous place. Many enter and are never seen again… no, I do not care for the idea of releasing the beasts, only for them to return with an army.”

Zevran turned to Rhodri. “Perhaps we could simply ask? Give them another chance to respond. If they refuse, I will not press the matter further, and the party can dispose of them as it likes.” He held up his hands in a peacekeeping gesture.

The Wardens shared a glance, and Rhodri looked back at Zevran. She nodded. 

“All right,” she said kindly. “We’ll go a little closer and ask. Stay behind me, please, Zev.”

They drew nearer to where the uninjured werewolves were easing the mangled ones out of the dirt.

“Werewolves,” she called to them. “You have one more chance to cooperate before we attack with the intent to kill. Tell us why you ambushed the–”

Rhodri was cut off by a rather frantic shout from Alistair (similar noises of concern issued from Leliana and Wynne shortly after, and Morrigan was quick to curse as well), and she and Zevran turned in time to see a rapidly encroaching wall of mist enshroud the rest of the party from behind.

She held her left arm out to Zevran. “Hold onto my robe or my arm, please, Zev,” she said quickly. “Don’t let go.”

Oh, and that was the trouble, wasn’t it? If given a choice between holding her arm or her robe, of course he would rather take her arm. And it was probably safer and better for all sorts of reasons to hold onto a limb than the clothes covering it– monitoring body temperature, injuries, ensuring that they wouldn’t become separated in the (however unlikely) event that her robes dissolved.

But it was undeniable that some selfish thing in him thirsted for the closeness, and she had already said that closeness was impossible. She had said no, and that was all there was to it. 

Zevran took her by the robe, and let himself be led into the mist, back toward the others. By the time he and Rhodri and the rest of the party had found each other and formed a protective circle, lest the mist-maker come after them, the fog had started to lift and the werewolves were nowhere to be found. 

“They’re… completely gone,” Rhodri said quietly, looking around in all directions. “I don’t believe it. I didn’t hear a thing!”

Alistair groaned. “We should’ve taken them out while we had the chance! ‘Give them another chance to respond,’ what a stupid idea that was!”

Zevran channelled his irritation into a light chuckle. “I must say, had I known we would get a fog wave for our trouble, I would have preferred we simply disposed of them.” 

The forest was getting terribly dark now. Night was coming quicker and earlier as the weeks passed, and amid the clusters of evergreens blocking out the moonlight and the swallowing blackness the disappearing fog had left in its wake, there was hardly a thing to be seen. 

Rhodri shrugged. “It is what it is. We’ve taken gambles before this, but this time it hasn’t paid off. We’ll just have to be careful for now.” She gave the party a confident smile. “Not to worry. I’ll make shields for the whole camp and take both watch shifts tonight in case they decide to loop back.”

“My Warden, I could take the first watch shift,” Zevran offered quickly. “I can alert you if there is any problem. After all, I was the one who suggested this gamble.”

She chuckled and shook her head. “That’s not how it works, Zev. Besides, I’ll be doing some spellwork that needs renewing from time to time. Thank you, though.”

Morrigan, who was already pulling her tent canvas out of her bag, tsked at the party impatiently. “Do the rest of you plan to help set up the camp? Or shall we all stand about exchanging pleasantries until the werewolves return?”

Rhodri gave Morrigan a fond smile that the recipient took with a vigorous ‘ugh.’ 

“Excellent point, Morrigan,” she said with another laugh. “We really should be exchanging pleasantries while we set up, shouldn’t we?”

Morrigan gave another disgusted ‘ugh,’ and amid the wash of guilt over his contribution to Rhodri’s self-imposed workload, Zevran pondered what tasty thing he could ferry out to her later on in the dead of night. Not an apology, or a kind gesture– not that there was anything wrong with treating his protector well or doing what he could to pardon himself. No, if she ate well, she would perform at her best– and if the werewolves did return, that is precisely how the party would need her performing. And certainly, she wouldn’t be eating them alone. He, too, was craving…

…

Ah, Antivan-style bear stew empanadas. Which he had developed a sudden urge for. Lovely. 

§

Antiva City went to bed in the last hours before sunrise. She loved a party, a late dinner, unexpected visitors; any excuse to steal back waking hours not absorbed by work. By the stroke of four, the so-called ‘inhospitable hours’ started, and the people slept. 

So it was said, anyway. Zevran wondered what, then, society thought the early-rising fishers and farmers who fed ‘the people’ were. What society thought he was. 

He knew what they thought he was well enough, and it didn’t bother him. At daybreak, when he sat alone on the beach in the balmy dark and stoked a fire in the sand to roast his little fish, he was as free as any of them, and that was enough. 

“Where’s my fish, hmm?”

Zevran turned to the direction of the familiar voice, a smile already on his face.

“Lovely Rinna,” he crooned, “surely you know I am cooking this one just for you!”

She snorted and sat cross-legged beside him, one of her folded knees resting squarely on top of his. “I’ll believe that when I’ve got the finished product in my hot little hands.”

He chuckled, indulging Rinna as she drew him into a risky public kiss. “You’ll be waiting a while. I only just got the fire started.”

Rinna leaned back on her hands and smiled at him from the corner of her eye, almost dreamy. “No hurry,” she sighed cheerfully. “Taliesen won’t be up before noon, and we’re seeing Claudio at dusk. As far as I’m concerned, we’ve got all the time in the world.”

Zevran was weak. Too weak to squash down their suspended disbelief and keep them level-headed, and he was too weak to immerse himself fully and embrace the danger that came with it. However he approached it, he had lost before he had even started. 

But Rinna’s warm, soft leg was resting against his, and her chest was rising and falling with her breaths, and she smelled like cedarwood and freshly-oiled leather, and all that had to count for something, even removed from any context relating to the future.

He acknowledged her comment with a smile that he couldn’t help but mean, and held the fish over the flames.

Zevran hummed to get Rhodri’s attention as he approached her with a pan in his hand. That had been all it took to get her looking over at him, which in turn revealed that she had been keeping half an eye on him the entire time he had been awake and cooking the empanadas (a fact which did not make his stomach, or any other part of him, jitter).

Rhodri grinned as Zevran sat down beside her. “I could smell good things from all the way over here. You’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

“I have!” He took the pan and set it down on the grass in front of them. “I was seized with the urge to cook, and there was nothing to do but fulfil it.”

Her eyes widened as they fell on the empanadas. “Oh, my,” she breathed. “You have inpaniare in Antiva?”

Zevran chuckled. “Not with bear meat, but empanadas are a well-loved dish back at home.” He pointed his nose at the pan. “I do hope you will try some? I would not trust Fereldans to give me proper feedback on them.” He shook his head and put on a harassed, melodramatic tone, “‘Ah, the meat is not grey!’ ‘Ah, this spice, Zevran, what do you call it? Salt? Too hot!’ ‘Ah, not enough cheese!”

“Hah,” Rhodri snorted and took one. “I’d like to be able to stand up for Alistair in that regard, but he has said all of those things verbatim at some point or another.” 

She took a bite of the empanada and froze. Chewed once. Twice. Three times; swallowed. Her eyes were white on all sides, but her pupils were wide enough to crowd out her irises altogether as she fixed her gaze on it. Almost, but not quite enough, to make him regret producing a meal of that quality-- though perhaps enough for him to wish that he had looked the other way when she was making her amorous eyes at something of his own creation.

“Oh no,” she uttered weakly. “Oh, I’m in trouble now. What on earth did you do to make such ordinary ingredients this good?”

Zevran smirked through the glow spreading in his chest, took an empanada for himself and nibbled the corner off it. “Hm. Not bad, though I say so myself.” He nodded at the pan again. “You should eat some more, my dear Warden. Aren’t you hungry?”

Rhodri’s belly interrupted her ‘that’s not for you to worry about’ with a decidedly loud rumble; she scowled down at her torso. 

“That answers that,” Zevran declared smoothly. “Do please help me finish these.”

She squinted at him. “I think you should be eating the rest on your own. Now that it’s getting colder, you’ll need to eat more to keep the flesh on you.”

“Maybe so! But my stomach can only hold what it has room for, and what of the empanadas I cannot eat?” He caught her eye and gave her a sad little look. “You do not want them to sit here alone in this pan on a cold night, surely. Not you, Rhodri.”

Rhodri’s mouth fell open. “Are… are you trying to make me feel sympathy for inanimate objects?”

He grinned. “Is it working?”

“... Yes.”

“Excellent.” He made a cutting motion over the pan. “Leave these four for me, and you can eat the rest. Ah, Rhodri, you wound me with your looks! All right, I will have five. Does that please you?”

Rhodri ate the rest of her empanada and folded her arms, watching him beadily. She chewed her mouthful and swallowed it. “Six.”

“Six?”

“Six,” she nodded.

“Five-and-a-half?”

“Six.”

Zevran sighed and nodded. “I will be so full you will need to roll me back to my tent, my dear Warden.”

Rhodri snorted. “I’m sure we can arrange something. Eat, please, and be thankful my father isn’t here right now. You'd never hear the end of it." Her face took on a dramatically pained look as she spoke in an even thicker Tevinter accent, "Ah, Domine, tell me this portion is for a fly! You are so thin, so thi-hi-hiiin! Do not stand too close to the fireplace, I fear I may confuse you for the fire poker!"

Zevran cackled, chewing hard on his lips in a failed attempt to button it in. "Does your father speak that way to everyone?"

"Mmm… he probably wouldn't say it to a stranger, but I think he'd consider anyone else fair game. You, certainly. He worries for anyone who isn't well-built, you see." Rhodri chuckled and rubbed her chin. "He might have passed that on to me, now that I think about it." 

He chanced a smile. "I did get that impression."

She smiled back. “Then you had better get on and eat well now, before we get back to Minrathous and I’m forced to take you to emergency banquets.”

“There is no such thing,” he shook his head and took another bite of empanada. “Surely not.”

“Would you like to find out the hard way?”

Zevran snickered. “My goodness, the life of the wealthy is another world entirely.”

She grinned. “I will say that money is an excellent cure for thinness.”

“Mmm, I am sure it is an excellent cure for most every issue, no?”

Rhodri went quiet, frowning as she took another empanada. She drew in a deep breath through her nose and let it out, and before Zevran could backtrack (after all, did money undo what had happened at the Circle? Why did he say such thoughtless things?) Rhodri spoke again.

 “It could well be,” she murmured absently, biting into her empanada. The frown melted away again, and she chuckled like nothing had happened. “Maker, Zev, these are bloody good.”

§

When, in the name of sanity, were they going to get into the middle of this bloody forest? 

Or were they already there? It had become hard to say. The party hadn’t encountered the werewolves again since the encounter three days prior. What it had continually met with was that bloody mist. As if out of nowhere, it would appear ahead of them, as if in a wall, and the party would be forced to turn back and try another route. 

“What if we just tried… going through the fog?” Alistair said to Rhodri. “Maybe it’s just there to deter people. If that mist was what helped to get the werewolves away from us, whatever we’re looking for might be just beyond this.”

“Or,” Morrigan spoke up from behind, “Something lies waiting for us to do something so foolhardy, and attack us when our vision is at its worst. This is clearly the work of spirits within the forest.”

Rhodri sighed. “I wonder how many more routes we can exhaust before we’re left with no other option than to try. Sometimes it almost feels like the forest is rearranging itself when we’re not looking…”

“Take another track, Waren,” Morrigan insisted. “‘Tis possible we will find the cause of the mist along the way.”

Rhodri looked at the rest of the party. “I am inclined to trust Morrigan’s expertise. Is anyone in disagreement?”

Silence. She nodded. “On we go, then.”

And on they did go. And on. And on. It seemed to be the only thing anyone ever did in this neverending crop of trees and beasts and freezing, spirit-induced fog weather. Winding paths fed into even windier paths, occasionally via a clearing where bones were strewn. A real Brecilian welcome, Zevran thought miserably. Why couldn’t the Dalish have set up camp outside of Rialto?

By the second day, they happened upon their fifth clearing, which was kept as neat as a pin. Not a bone or corpse in sight. Nothing but a roaring campfire off to one side–

A roaring campfire off to one side?

“Stay behind me,” Rhodri’s shield was up before the one presumed to own the fire, a redheaded elven man who wouldn’t have been much older than Zevran, stepped out from behind a boulder. He was, to Zevran’s astonishment, in the same leather armour the Dalish favoured, but his face had not been tattooed with their vallaslin. 

The fellow held up his hands and called out to them in a gentle, clear voice, “Friends, turn back please. These woods are a danger to–”

He was cut off by a gasp from Wynne that had the whole party turning to look at her. She pushed past Rhodri and Zevran, and her eyes were filling with tears.

“Aneirin?” she asked. “Is that you?”

The man frowned. “I am Aneirin, yes. Who–? No, wait.” His mouth fell open “I remember your face. You were more impulsive, stern… Wynne?”

More stern? Zevran could have snorted– and in fact, he very nearly did. But he didn’t, of course, because emotional reunions tended not to take mirth from onlookers well, and there was only so much of those noises Zevran could pass off as a cough or a sneeze. 

The Senior Enchanter kept moving until she was standing in front of Aneirin, watching him like he was her long-lost child (ooh, and wouldn’t that have been a juicy story! A mage’s illicit son, taken away and raised by Brecilian fog beasties!). 

“I thought they had killed you,” she whispered.

Aneirin nodded. “They very nearly did,” he said gravely. “The Templars ran me through out here, while I was searching for the Dalish, and left me for dead.”

Wynne clapped a hand over her mouth and either coughed or sobbed into it a little– Zevran suspected it was the latter of these. Leliana and Alistair passed him and Rhodri to hover around Wynne, dispensing awkward little back pats and sympathetic coos.

“I brought this on you,” Wynne choked. “This is all my fault, Aneirin. How did you even–?”

Aneirin smiled sadly and shook his head. “Do not be so fretful, Wynne. Come, sit with me awhile and I’ll tell you what happened.” He looked past her to the others. “You’re all welcome to join. Please, I’ll make some tea for all of us.”

Chapter Text

A part of Zevran wanted to introduce himself to Aneirin with his proper name, and the other, larger majority was screaming at him to use a pseudonym. After all, who was Aneirin, anyway? An elf of that age, no vallaslin, hanging about in the forest? It wasn’t entirely unlikely that he was a Crow.

He let the others go ahead of him. Alistair and Leliana stepped up first; Morrigan’s brief introduction came next, and Rhodri rounded things off.

“I remember you,” Aneirin chuckled at her. “You were the last child they brought to the Circle before I ran away. You followed the Tranquil around like a little duck. That was you, wasn’t it? ‘The littlest Tranquil?’”

Zevran’s fingers twitched; he let his fingers dance over the pommel of his hip-dagger.

“It was,” Rhodri answered defensively, drawing herself up to her full height, “and the Tranquil mages were very good to me right up until I left the Circle this year.”

“Rhodri…” Wynne said warningly.

Aneirin gave a sad smile and held his hands up. “It’s all right, Wynne. Forgive me– Rhodri, was it? I didn’t mean to offend. I remember the scenes fondly, but I do realise it was an unbecoming name to give a small child. You’ve certainly outgrown it now.”

From the bottom of Zevran’s periphery, Rhodri’s hand clenched her robe. "I have not," she growled softly. 

Aneirin cleared his throat, looking distinctly uneasy now. "... Well, I'm sorry to hear that," he said after a moment, and quickly turned to Zevran. "Ah, forgive me, I didn't catch your name.”

“Zevran, of Crow House Arainai,” he replied smoothly. “Now turned co-adventurer. How do you do?”

Ooh, and if there had been a way to freeze time so he could drink in the way that man’s eyes widened at that, Zevran would have. He would have to try drawing it later; perhaps he could even tattoo it onto himself.

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” the fellow croaked. Without another word, Aneirin ushered a glaring Wynne, and the templar and bard loitering beside her, to the campfire. The rest of them trailed after him.

Aneirin sat down on a log by the fire. “I had thought to apologise for not having spare cups, but it looks as though you have been journeying for quite some time.”

“Some months,” Wynne nodded, joining him on the log and rummaging in her satchel. “Oh, my cup’s gone right to the bottom of the bag again…”

The young man gave a fond pat to an identical satchel by his feet. “It always amazed me how much these Circle bags could hold. Irving told me the only magic to it was clever design, but I suspected it was something more. I’m glad I thought to take mine with me when I escaped.”

Wynne, having located the elusive cup, handed it to Aneirin and sighed. “I still wonder how you managed to do it. The Templars swore up and down that their eyes hadn’t left the doors the night you disappeared.”

Aneirin chewed on his smile as he filled the cup with leaves. “I hope you like wedgegrass tea. Anyone else who would like some, hand me your cups.” He waved his hand once and a shower of ice fell neatly into Wynne’s cup; another wave, and the contents were steaming, and the tea went back to Wynne. “They only expect mages to escape. Never a thought to anyone else who might give it a try.”

Wynne frowned. “You disguised yourself? As a Templar, I suppose. I am surprised nobody caught you.”

“Oh,” Aneirin laughed and shook his head. “Oh, no. Not a Templar.” He lifted one hand, and Wynne’s mouth fell open as his fingers proceeded to sprout sleek, white feathers. 

Off to Zevran’s left, Morrigan observed the display with some of the worst-concealed intrigue Zevran had seen from her so far. There she sat on a nearby stump, clutching a drink she had prepared herself with tight fingers, watching that man over the rim of the cup like he had found a way to kill Alistair without anyone knowing. Aneirin looked up in time to catch a glimpse of her eyeing him and gave her a brief, smouldering smirk. Morrigan scowled and looked away.

“A shapeshifter,” Wynne uttered weakly. “But how? The topic is barely even touched-upon in the Circle."

Aneirin looked back at her and with a wiggle of his fingers, the feathers were gone. “There was a book,” he said with a smile. “A black, leather-bound grimoire. It was written in a mixture of Ancient and Modern Tevene, had just about every kind of forbidden magic in it. Shapeshifting, necromancy… whoever wrote it even had a ritual for prolonging her life by raising daughters and stealing their bodies…” Aneirin shook his head. “Those poor girls had no idea what was waiting for them when they became women.”

An unexplained urge compelled Zevran to steal a glance at Morrigan, who had gone ashen-faced. Her hands shook; she carefully set the cup on the ground and shoved her wrists awkwardly between her knees. Something else, he wasn’t sure it was, either, prompted him to try and catch her eye. It wasn't his heart sinking per se; Maker knew Zevran didn’t have a heart to sink in the first place. No, it must have been something sexual.

That didn’t sit right either, though, did it. Sexual anything in him seemed tied to the one person for now, and Morrigan wasn’t it. In which case, it had to be a mysterious third thing. Why did he always make life so hard for himself?

Ah! No, it was perfectly obvious: Zevran was concerned for his safety. Suppose that black book Rhodri had taken from the Circle had belonged to Morrigan’s mother. What then? After all, Morrigan had confirmed more than once that her mother was the Witch of the Wilds. To be raised like a pig for slaughter at the hands of one of Thedas’ most powerful women, only to be intentionally sent from her… that had to be some matter of concern for all present. At some point, once they were all out of this wretched forest, Zevran would have to mention it to Rhodri.

Morrigan’s eyes snapped up to meet his, and it occurred to Zevran, as she watched him like she would disembowel him if he didn’t look elsewhere, that the most immediate danger was right in front of him. He smiled– carefully– and decided that now had never been a better time to meticulously examine his boots.

“I read that thing from cover to cover,” Aneirin continued. “We always had a steady colony of ants coming into the kitchen, if you remember, so I tracked them over time and was able to shift into one. I’d only meant to use the spell when I was craving a little fresh air or food, but something…” he shrugged, “switched in me after that last fight we had. I realised I was never meant to be in the Circle after all. And so I shifted that evening and escaped unseen.”

Wynne exhaled shakily and wiped under her eyes. “I remember that argument. I berated you over something trivial. I cannot even remember what it was about, now.”

“Keeping my eyes on my hands when casting nullification enchantments,” he said softly.

“You remembered,” Wynne murmured. “Of course you did. Those things stick with children. I failed you, Aneirin.” She shook her head. “I was always so harsh with you, paid no regard to your background or your needs. You tried so many times to make me listen, but I pushed you away.”

Zevran was not biting his lips over the drama of the scene. Nor was he in the process of gauging Rhodri’s reaction to this outpouring of regret. Even if it did undoubtedly strike a chord of some sort. He wasn’t looking, not moving his–

No, he was looking. Definitely looking. He was looking, with his two nosy little eyes, at Rhodri’s hard, shuttered-off expression, and because he still hadn't looked away, he witnessed it harden further still as Aneirin took Wynne’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

Zevran could do that, in theory. He had a hand, and Rhodri had a hand– in fact, they both had two hands each, and he could have taken both of hers into both of his. There was no reason to do it– when was there ever a reason to do something so mindless as non-strategic touching? But there was an unshakeable confidence brewing that had Zevran mimicked Aneirin’s action, Rhodri’s face would soften. What would happen after that was anyone’s guess, though, and it didn’t bear thinking about. None of it had warranted consideration to begin with. Zevran clasped his hands and sandwiched them between his knees. 

Aneirin sat there for Maker-knew-how-long, comforting his distraught former taskmistress that aside from his brutal skewering at the hands of the Templars, and the crushing loneliness that living alone in the forest had brought, he was without a doubt on the right path now. Here, in the forest, amid the perennially wet greenery and murderous co-habitants, Aneirin enjoyed contact now and then with the Dalish, and otherwise had learned to enjoy his own company. Zevran presumed this meant he had begun talking to himself unironically, and had found in himself a complimentary audience.

Morrigan, however, remained fascinated through it all. If she had ever regarded anyone with such interest, Zevran was yet to see it. Rhodri’s expression was frozen in a mask of impassivity (and hand touching was off the table); Alistair and Leliana switched between reaching for each other and reaching for Wynne, and it was exhausting. 

At some point, the soothings from Aneirin and warm encouragements from Wynne that this poor man return to the Circle (Morrigan looked ready to murder Wynne for it, which was most delightful) had reached their natural conclusion, and the matter turned to what must have been the most obvious question for Aneirin: why, in the name of the Maker and his cherished bride, were Wynne “and her friends” out in the Brecilian Forest?

Zevran smiled thinly, unable to keep himself from uttering, “I ask myself that question every morning I wake up here.” Rhodri snorted at that, and Zevran blessed the Maker for his brief lapse in inhibition. She took it upon herself, as a good leader ought, to explain the situation, which Aneirin took in with enough nods to dislocate something.

“Quite a task you have ahead of you, there,” he said after a moment. “Zathrian told me he had been constantly keeping the werewolves away from the clan for hundreds of years–”

“Sorry, hundreds?” Alistair squinted at him. “I didn’t hear that right, did I?”

“You did,” Aneirin confirmed. “Many say that Zathrian is the first of the Dalish to become immortal again, and he certainly looks well for several hundred years old.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “Well, if you’re out to pursue the werewolves, you should know that you’re off course.”

“Oh?” Rhodri said. “Do you know where they usually live?”

He pointed back in the direction they had come. “Down that way and further out to the right, there are ruins. That is where I have seen them retreat. I can take you nearby, if you wish, but I would rather not confront the werewolves myself.”

Wynne accepted the offer with thanks before Rhodri could say anything, and to Zevran’s astonishment, Morrigan had looked to be a close contender to get her approval in as well. And, once the others had all agreed, the Grey Warden who was nominated to make those decisions added her appreciation to the chorus. 

At the request of the Senior Enchanter, the party elected to set up in Aneirin’s camp for the rapidly-approaching evening, with plans to leave tomorrow morning. Zevran could have sworn he saw Morrigan smile. 

§

A squeaky kissing sound from behind had Zevran looking over his shoulder from his watch station that evening.

“... Ah.”

Leliana snorted at Zevran and gave him a playfully pointed look as she marched up and plopped down on the ground beside him. “That’s a lovely way to greet a friend. I’m happy to see you, too.”

He touched a hand to his chest. “Dear lady, did I say I was disappointed?”

“You look a bit put out.”

“Hah. Perhaps I simply have an uninviting expression at rest, hmm?”

Leliana smirked. “I see you’re taking a leaf out of Rhodri’s book. Speaking of which–”

“My dear Leliana,” Zevran chuckled hollowly, “surely there is nothing of interest in that topic now.”

“Listen, Zevran,” Leliana sighed and rested a hand on his shoulder. “My friend. Mon râleur. It cannot go on like this. It is agonising!” 

“Go on like what? Like it always has?” He raised an eyebrow. “You did not seem so troubled by it when I first joined the party.”

“If you felt the same way then as you do now, you hid it much better. I didn’t know you were interested in her until Honnleath.” She tapped his shoulder impatiently, completely oblivious to the fact that Zevran’s stomach had just passed through all natural barriers and left his body for the wide open spaces of the Brecilian Forest, never to be seen again. “But that isn’t the point! The point is that now is the time to do something about it!”

Zevran rubbed his brow. “Leliana…”

“No-no-no,” she nudged him in the ribs. “No putting it off. It is my duty to keep you on track, as the only other member of the Warden Lovers Club I just made up.”

“You are the sole member,” he replied tiredly.

“I am with that attitude,” she retorted. “What is it that’s holding you back? Should I speak to Rhodri for you? I can tell her, if you’re nervous.”

At this point, there was no real wisdom in attempting to obfuscate any longer. Leliana had tried uncountable times to cajole information out of him already, and now that she was getting the taste for intrigue, it seemed even more unlikely that she would back down now.

“You say that as though she has not already been informed.”

“I– what?”

Zevran pursed his lips and gave her a withering look. The copper dropped; Leliana's face exploded into a mortifying, infuriating blend of shock and pity, discomfiting enough to make his frown scrunch his brow. 

“I’m sorry Zevran,” she whispered. The hand on his shoulder shifted until her arm was fully around him, and Zevran didn’t quite have it in him to push her away.

 “Oh, I had no idea. I was so sure she had such a tender spot for you.”

Zevran’s stomach lurched violently enough to surprise him. He stitched on a smile and winked at Leliana. 

“Not to worry, my dear,” he purred. “Maker knows with all of these beasts, neither of us have the time for such things. But do not hesitate to tell me all of the juicy details of your escapades with that handsome Fereldan man you keep taking into your tent of an evening!” He waggled his eyebrows. “You have attracted the attention of quite a few bears in recent nights, you two.”

Credit where it was due, as jarringly saccharine as Leliana could be, she certainly knew how to play along when needed. That mildly bruised look to her was gone in a flash, replaced with a saucy smile he was sure he had only recently employed himself. His stomach settled.

Leliana flickered her eyebrows and gave his shoulder a conspiratorial squeeze. “It’s funny, you know. I noticed that every time we get ambushed by bears, it’s always been around the time I do this one thing with my tongue…”

§

To everyone’s astonishment, and no doubt her own, Morrigan was the first one awake before dawn the next morning. Zevran’s usual position of second riser (after relentless early-bird Rhodri) had now been bumped down to third, and for such a small change in the circumstances, it was remarkably irritating. 

Not because such an event cut out the handful of minutes in the day where they were alone together. It was some other reason– a very obvious one, to be sure– that Zevran didn’t have available at that moment. 

Morrigan, however, appeared in fine form. She and Aneirin were sitting there in front of the firepit, nursing a cup of tea and a sandwich each. Morrigan dissected him with her eyes whenever he spoke, and she visibly (to Zevran, at least) struggled to maintain a cool, sphinxlike facade when her turn to speak came. Her eyes snapped onto Zevran as he made his way from his tent over to where they sat, visibly narrowing with every step he took.

And Zevran, forever blessed with detailed memories of Morrigan’s spider form chewing the neck out of a live wolf last week, decided at that moment that breakfast was unnecessary. With a polite wave to the two of them, he made a beeline for the edge of the clearing, where Rhodri would be finishing the second watch shift. 

He cleared his throat as he approached. “Well, my Grey Warden,” he called out to her, “it seems the forest has not changed since I handed watch duty over to you.”

In the space of that sentence, Rhodri had looked over her shoulder, beamed and made a delighted little ‘Mmm!’ at him, and, just as Zevran’s stomach had started to jitter, she dove into her satchel and pulled out two cups (two? Had she been expecting him? ) and a bag.

“Zev, good morning! How was your night?” She paused as she went to open the bag. “Ah, I nearly didn’t ask– tea for you?”

He didn’t dare indulge the curiosity by asking about the cup; Zevran nodded appreciatively. “Please.”

She nodded, patted the spot beside her, and set to work on the tea. “Come and sit, come and sit. So you slept well? For what little time you had, anyway.”

“Oh, no trouble there at all.” He plonked himself down cross-legged and accepted the steaming cup she offered with thanks. “I see Morrigan is enjoying herself with this Aneirin fellow.”

“Mmm,” Rhodri nodded. “I haven’t heard her so happy since she was harvesting organs from that bat with the three kidneys. Remember that?”

“Ah,” Zevran smiled. “She almost forgot to frown at Alistair the whole day.”

“She did!”

“Mmm.”

“Mm.” 

The silence was comfortable. A handful of topics that could be broached floated on the periphery of Zevran’s mind: expectations of the day; thoughts on Witherfang; checking on the progress of Rhodri’s latest magical experimentation (a long-lastinger frost-free freezing spell). And, as the sound of Aneirin’s gentle laugh breezed through the quiet, Zevran’s mind looped back to thoughts of that damned book. And, it had to be said, of Flemeth turning up without warning, in the form of a house-sized spider, and sucking the juices out of every last one of them with her fangs.

“Tell me, Rhodri,” he said before he could stop himself and question the wisdom of the enquiry, “that book Aneirin had read– the grimoire, I think it was called. Do you suppose it could have been the book you found in the Circle?”

Rhodri sighed heavily enough that he was tempted to backtrack and apologise. And then she… chuckled?

“You’re a smart man, Zev,” she said. “Yes, it was Flemeth’s grimoire. The Circle has no books like that. Officially, it doesn’t even believe in shapeshifters. All the cultures that practise it have an oral tradition, which the Circle dismisses as hearsay.”

Zevran took a moment to picture a mass bowel evacuation among the Templars as they witnessed Morrigan dissolving into a swarm of bees. How effervescent. “Someone like our lovely witch would give them a shock,” he mused, half to himself and half to his company. 

Rhodri shrugged with a half-smile. “Perhaps she would. But then, if the Circle doesn't believe in shapeshifters, they’d never know it was her. They could well encounter shapeshifters all the time, but they just squash or shoo them like they would any other animal.”

He snorted. “My goodness, what a thought.”

“In any case,” Rhodri pushed on gravely, “Morrigan and I have already spoken about it. When she feels the danger can no longer be ignored, we will take action.”

“‘Take… action.’” Zevran chuckled weakly. “That sounds rather dangerous.”

“It’s very dangerous,” Rhodri nodded. “In the same way taking action against the Crows would be if they tried to take you away. But Morrigan is one of us, and we mustn’t fail her.”

Don't swoon, just get on with it.

“Just so, my dear Warden,” he conceded, adding, “though if this Flemeth woman turns me into a toad, I expect Morrigan to do her utmost to change me back.”

Rhodri laughed. “She will. And if she doesn’t manage to do it, I’ll catch flies for you and carry you around in a little tub of water until we find someone who can. I’ll even keep the water warm. Does that sound fair?”

The mention of liquid finally reminded Zevran that he had a cup of tea in his hand that would need warming if he put off drinking it any longer. He smiled and took a sip of the lukewarm stuff. “A better deal than most toads can expect,” he said. “I humbly accept.”

§

Aneirin, by his own account, was one of two permanently- settled residents in this part of the Brecilian forest. The ramshackle bridges and other infrastructure in various states of decrepitude were all remnants of long-bygone eras, when the Forest had been a well-populated gateway to the port city of Gwaren in one direction, and to the rest of Ferelden in the other. Its excellent location (Aneirin’s words, Zevran reminded himself, not his own) and abundance of natural resources (also not Zevran’s words) had apparently made itself a very desirable place to everyone.

When Zevran gave into the urge and enquired who, precisely, ‘everyone’ was, Aneirin gave a detailed history of the clashes between the invading Tevinters and peaceful Dalish, and the occasional Barbarians who were passing by and opted to throw in on the chaos. The ongoing fights eventually led to the Veil being torn open, and all manner of horrid spirits and creatures eloped from the Fade to plague the forest (and thus Zevran, for as long as he was there) to the present day.

“The only part I am having trouble believing is the idea that any Northerner willingly left the warm, sparkling beaches to come to the icy forests of the South,” Zevran mused aloud.

To his right, Rhodri nodded emphatically and mumbled a stream of Tevene. Zevran caught the words ‘complete truth’, and smiled to himself. 

Aneirin raised an eyebrow at the two of them. “I am sure many would want to come and enjoy the fresh air here–”

“See?” Alistair bumped his shoulder into Rhodri’s. “I told you the air’s better here.”

Rhodri snorted. “If the forest air is so wonderful, why does the fog keep blocking us at every turn?” She threw a hand in the direction of the path ahead, where a curtain of fog was creeping over the path and blocking the view of everything beyond. “Never had this problem on the Plaia Familias.”  

Aneirin squinted, his voice dropping to a growl. “Oh, by the Gods, not this again.”

Wynne watched him worriedly. “Aneirin?”

He replied by way of rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “This has been going on for years. One of these days I’m going to feed him to the trees, I swear on his head…” He pointed to a rather-less-worn path off to the right that veered out of the path of the fog. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Ah… go where, exactly?” Rhodri asked cautiously. “Will we need to be prepared to fight?”

“Eh? Oh!” Aneirin shook his head again. “No, no, you won’t need to do anything. I just need to pay a quick visit to someone to confirm my suspicions.”

“Which are…?”

“You’ll see in a moment. Just over this hill, and– yes, here he is…”

Zevran couldn’t help wondering if he was simply a dull sort of fellow for not immediately realising who this ‘he’ was. There were no animals nearby, and no other people to speak of either. It was just them, and the trees–

Oh, the bloody trees.

Sure enough, one particularly large tree, with bronze leaves and a large enough space in its ribcage to serve as a city penitentiary, was turning around to look at them. Its mouth– if a gap in the wood could be called as much, pulled up in a smile.

Its voice boomed in a slow drawl as it addressed them, “Greetings to thee once again. Thou knowst about my acorn, then?”

Rhodri’s face went blank. She put an arm around Leliana and pulled her closer. 

“Leli, darling,” she said calmly, “that mushroom omelette you cooked this morning–”

“I did not drug us, Rhodri, if that is what you are about to ask,” Leliana cut her off, laughing.\.

“Are you quite sure?”

“I am quite sure.”

Aneirin had been good enough to pause and let the rest of the party marvel over the tree, not taking his eyes off Morrigan as she mused aloud, “‘Tis a rhyming tree. One can only imagine what sort of spirit is involved here.”

“Perhaps a poet’s soul’s in me. Does that make me a poet-tree?” The tree laughed at its own little ditty; whether the laughs of Rhodri, Wynne, and Alistair were equally as genuine remained to be seen– Zevran guessed they were– but it appeared to appreciate the reception nonetheless. At the very least, the tree didn’t seem to mark Morrigan’s eyeroll. Apparently there was a point where nature could cease to amaze the witch, and that point, it seemed, was when nature started to behave like Alistair.

Aneirin was quick to step in again. “So the Hermit took your acorn again, Grand Oak, I take it?”

The Grand Oak let out a dolorous groan. “That is the thief, the one I seek. It is he who made my future bleak!”

“Right,” he sighed. “I don’t know why he’s always going after your nuts. Well, time to pay the neighbour a visit. See you in a little while, Grand Oak.”

“Go, please, reclaim it from that man. I shall await, do what thou can.”

“I will, I will.” Aneirin beckoned them down yet another winding path. “Come on, the Hermit lives this way.”

Once they were out of earshot from the tree (presumably; how well did they hear?), Aneirin spoke again. “This happens every single month. The Hermit comes and steals the Grand Oak’s acorn, and he panics and floods the forest with mist until I bring it back to him.”

Morrigan tsked . “An obsession with his own seed. Truly, ‘tis the same for all males.”

“Not only the males,” Rhodri protested, dropping a protective hand to the lower part of her belly. “I wouldn’t want anyone taking my things, either.”

“You do not make seed, Warden.”

“I don’t need to make seed,” Rhodri replied simply. “I have the other half of the equation, and I wouldn’t want some neighbour regularly pilfering it.”

Alistair laughed. “But occasionally pilfering? What about that?”

“No pilfering,” she shook her head firmly. “How rude, thinking nothing of stealing a person’s bits and pieces. The shamelessness of it. And if you’re going to split hairs, Serah, let me pre-empt you by saying that I wouldn’t want a non-neighbour to steal them either!”

The conversation was funny. It was funny. It was an absurd banter about the casual theft of reproductive organs, and there was no need for Zevran’s brain to make his own reproductive organs keenly aware that Rhodri was talking about hers. He was not thinking about that. No blood whatsoever was rushing to any strategic areas of his. The conversation was funny and oh, Maker take him he was about to die he was about to die–

Rhodri leapt a foot in the air as a shriek of laughter burst out of Zevran. He ascribed it mostly to the fact that he had, at long last, lost what was left of his mind. Though it had to be said, it was also partly because there was something funny about picturing a petty thief filching a critical body part like someone taking a pie left to cool on the window sill. 

Mortified, he slapped a hand over his mouth to at least physically contain the noise and prayed for the Maker to smile on him and have the ground swallow him up. Take him in his prime, at his prettiest and most useful so someone might remember him fondly despite his proclivity to make an utter fool of himself.

With the noise dampened, Rhodri gave her head a triumphant little wobble and smiled at the unimpressed-looking witch. 

“You see, Morrigan?” she said. “Zevran thinks I’m funny.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “So does Alistair. The indictments get more and more damning.”

Rhodri’s mouth was already shaping the first syllable of her protest when Aneirin called for attention again.

He held up a hand. “If you’d all kindly wait here a moment, I’ll go and speak to my… neighbour.”

A shield, summoned by Rhodri, rose up over the party as Aneirin continued down into a small clearing around the corner, and Zevran had never been more grateful for the fact that said shields did nothing to repel sound as an impassioned kerfuffle started up. 

“It’s you!” came a reedy man’s voice. “Bloody robber, back again! Get away with you–”

“You stole the Grand Oak’s acorn! Again! I can’t go anywhere without walking into mist– give me that thing–”

“Not the beard! Ow! Ow, not fair! Not fair! ”

“Stop stealing nuts– give me that damned acorn– every month you take that nut–”

“You’re supposed to ask a question– this is completely against the rules!”

“Aht aht! Don’t you try that illusion malarkey on me! You think you’re the only apostate living in this forest?”

“Oh-h-h, POOH TO YOU! Take it, then, and leave me in peace!”

There was a rustle and a disgusted noise from Aneirin. “Urgh. What do you keep in this thing?”

“That was my sandwich! Don’t crush it!”

“It’s soggy!”

“Well, bread doesn’t stay dry forever, you know!”

“Oh, you grot. You bloody grot. I suppose I’ll see you next month to do all this again.”

“Mayhap you will, mayhap you won’t...”

One set of footfalls sounded, crushing the fallen leaves in heavy stomps as they drew closer. Aneirin came back into view holding a single acorn, and his fingertips were green and dripping.

“I need to find a stream to wash my hands in,” he said through gritted teeth. “That sandwich was even older than I thought.”

§

Things were looking a whole lot brighter– and, more importantly, a whole lot clearer– once the Grand Oak’s acorn was returned to him. The party moved unobstructed and untroubled. No wolves, no bears, nothing but people. Just the way Zevran liked it.

At some point, Zevran wasn’t sure of the time, Aneirin drew to a stop, and the rest of the party followed suit. He gestured at a rather well-trodden path hugging the edge of an exposed slope that disappeared around a corner into Maker-knew-what.

“Following this path along will take you the last little way to the ruins where I suspect the werewolves dwell,” he said to them. “I am not one for fighting, if I may be honest, and would rather leave you to it from here.”

Unable to resist himself, Zevran stole a glance in Morrigan’s direction, just in time to see disappointment flash over her face. He looked away again before she could catch him and murder him with her eyes. 

Wynne nodded. “I understand, Aneirin. Then we part ways, I suppose.”

“We do,” he nodded, and reached around to the back of his neck, unhooking something. “But first, I have something for you, Wynne.” He held out a piece of amber-coloured material (resin, perhaps? Sap?) hanging off a long piece of leather strap, took Wynne’s hand, and pressed it into her palm. 

“Here,” he said gently. “This is the hardened sap of a tree native to this forest. I found it on the ground the day the Templars skewered me, and have always kept it as a sort of lucky charm. Take it. Hopefully it will serve you as well as it’s served for me all these years.”

Wynne accepted the necklace with a smile whose warmth Zevran had seen previously reserved for Alistair and Leliana, and slipped it over her head. With free hands now, she clasped his hands in hers and squeezed them tightly. 

“I am grateful, Aneirin,” she said affectionately. “I am… so pleased to have made your acquaintance. Not being able to apologise for failing you has been my greatest regret in life, and it is…” she sighed. “Wonderful to see you doing so well.”

Aneirin smiled and nodded. “You know, my years in the Circle were not a complete waste. I learned more than I let on. You did teach me, Wynne, even if you didn’t know it.”

They shared a silence between them, and the rest of the group held its breath as if to keep the unspoken spell from breaking before it was due to. Mercifully, they kept it brief, and with another nod to each other, Aneirin departed– giving Morrigan a rather hungry look as he went, no less. It could never be said the party kept company with dull people, in any case.

Rhodri gave a satisfied-sounding sigh as she stood at the front of the group again (had she been so bothered that Aneirin went first?). 

“Well,” she said, “on we go, then, sic?”

Zevran grinned as he took his place to her left. “On we go,” he echoed with an eyebrow waggle.

And on they went. 

Well, until they made it down to the corner and turned it. Naturally, one could only go on for a short way uninterrupted when one had a job to do, and in this case, the interruption was one sole werewolf, who was limping towards them. Around its neck sat a colourful scarf, which Zevran guessed to be of Dalish make.

Ah, and of course, behind the approaching werewolf the lair was now visible in the background. Was it a trap? Sending out the one with a gammy leg and a familiar article of clothing to court sympathy seemed a bit of an unwise tactic given the Warden’s attitude during the last encounter, but if one was out of options, one was out of options. 

The werewolf spoke in a pained growl, “P-please… wait. I am… not the mindless beast you think…”

Rhodri was quick to replace her pitying look with a raised brow. 

“No,” she said evenly. “I am aware that you’re a werewolf.”

“I am, though I was not always,” it gasped. “The watch-wolves, they said Zathrian sent you. You… seek Witherfang.”

“I do. You have seen him?”

“Yes. But…” the werewolf clutched at its chest and gave an agonised groan. “It is not as you think. I have no time to explain. Please… do something for me.”

Rhodri summoned a shield over herself and the party, and drew a little closer. “What would you ask of me?”

The werewolf pulled the scarf off its neck and lay it at Rhodri’s feet. “Pass on a message from me to my husband. His name is Athras. Tell him–”

“Athras?” Rhodri repeated, her eyes wide now. “Are you Danyla?”

“Yes. Tell Athras I love him, and that I am dead and with the gods. I beg you…”

“No, no,” Rhodri shook her head. “There will be no death for you. Your husband and daughter are waiting for you in the camp.”

“It is too late,” the werewolf cried. “The curse is too far gone… the pain is too much… please, end it for me…”

“No,” Rhodri slashed a hand through the air. “No, we are about to find a cure. You will hold on a little longer, for them.” With a flick of her wrist, the werewolf collapsed before it could begin to object. She stuffed a hand in her satchel and pulled out another set of robes. 

“Someone help me, please,” she requested, bending down and picking up the floppy wolf. “I’ll tie her to me and carry her, and once we find this cure we can give it to her first and take her home.”

Zevran stepped forward with a grin and received the robe. At this point, making a body sling for injured individuals was becoming something of a new skill of his. He would have to brush up on his knots at this rate. If only Isabela were travelling with them!

When Danyla was secured in place, Rhodri nodded appreciatively to Zevran, and then gestured at the ruins. “On we go.”

“On we go,” Zevran echoed. “I hope.”

Chapter Text

The exterior of the ruins brought several things to mind. Dilapidation was the obvious first, and after a life in and around both the Rialto and Antiva City Alienages, Zevran was no stranger to a little decrepitude.

In Rialto and Antiva City, however, nothing and no-one attempted to claim the remains. The edifices– homes, shops, amenities– overworked as they were, crumbled in the absence of sufficient resources to revive them, and once decay rendered them totally unusable, they were abandoned. 

Something entirely different was at play here. The forest had a greed that reminded Zevran of clients who had hired him for the express purpose of expediting access to an inheritance. Unable to wait for the ruins to fully dissolve, the wilderness simply advanced, with its roots and moss and vines, through every opening available (and some seemingly unavailable ones) to resorb the building before it could finish dying. 

Perhaps the strangest thing the ruins brought to mind was the notion of intermingled elven and Tevinter designs. Was it even possible for the two to coexist? Zevran had heard plenty of stories of the mighty Tevinter Imperium indiscriminately laying waste to every elven thing it could reach, until nothing remained but rubble and people brought to their knees. 

Zevran might have said that the impossible had indeed happened: that here, the two styles had been successfully married in the one building without trouble. But then, of course, the building had fallen to pieces and nobody– aside from the werewolves, he supposed, could have been tempted to live in it. Hardly the kind of marriage one spoke of proudly.

So.

The sheer size of the building was Tevinter alone; the elves were known to be economical with building space, even in Alienages, so as to not needlessly encroach on the surrounding nature. The grand windows and points in the gables were also reflective of the Imperial penchant for forbidding aspects that showed off wealth. What was the reason for that, he wondered. Was it a basic urge, as compelling as the need to breathe and eat and sleep? … Were the Tevinters at risk of dying from insufficient flaunting of their ill-gotten gains?

The dome on the top was elven. The pantheon of statues– each of the elven gods– lining the path inside like a boulevarde: elven. And the building material… that was harder to say, when Zevran thought about it. The Tevinters, he knew, preferred sandstone and marble, owing to their luxurious mottling, and they regularly imported it if it wasn’t immediately available. The elves, though, were known to use locally-sourced materials, and the miserable grey rock this huge thing was made of was every-bloody-where in Ferelden. Had the elves and Tevinters designed this together? Taken turns annexing it and adding personal touches in a prolonged back-and-forth game of property ownership?

Interrupting Zevran’s musings was a handful of werewolves who appeared from nearby bushes. Rhodri summoned a shield over the party.

The werewolf at the front of the pack snarled and rose to its hind legs, glaring at them with eyes as yellow as harvest moons.

“We are invaded!” it shouted to the others. “Intruders have deceived their way into the forest’s heart! Fall back! Protect the Lady!”

Under those orders, the entire group of them turned tail and bolted into the ruin. Zevran couldn’t help but feel a little dramatic now that he knew he had called so much of the forest ‘the heart’ since entering. He decided it best not to mention the mistake to anyone; it was one thing to be open about being ill-suited to the forest, but another entirely to out oneself as ignorant about it.

Rhodri stared after the departing werewolves and hummed. “The Lady,” she murmured. “The werewolves didn’t mention protecting Witherfang here, and that was the one they were all watching out for. I think this Lady and Witherfang might be one and the same.”

“Wasn’t Witherfang a he?” Alistair asked, frowning. 

“That Swiftrunner character said so last time we met, but it’s been a few days. Perhaps she’s having lady days for the time being.” She sighed, “Oh, dear. I do hope I don’t call her the wrong thing when we harvest her heart.”

“I… feel she might have bigger problems on her hands at that point,” the Templar said carefully.

“I suppose so.” Rhodri looked down at Danyla and patted her back absently. “We should get going.”

§

The inside of the ruin wasn’t so very different from the exterior, except that it was darker and revoltingly unhygienic. How it was this dim despite the size and number of windows baffled Zevran. But then again, given the abundance of mould and various filth and shit on the floor and walls, it was possible that they had actually managed to find a place that even light wasn’t willing to enter. Zevran was heavily considering slipping his new gloves off while in the building to pre-empt any impregnating stink, which would have marked the first time he had removed them since receiving them. 

His internal debate on the matter had proved a welcome distraction from the foetid stench of the place, the efforts of which were promptly scuttled when Alistair started to gag from behind him. Zevran, for whom the memory of scrubbing Alistair’s dried vomit from his boots was still unpleasantly fresh, stepped to Rhodri’s other side, out of the firing line.

Rhodri, however, turned toward the action with a familiar jar of green ointment to hand. She unscrewed the lid and patted Alistair’s cheek.

“Breathe through your mouth a moment, frate,” she murmured gently, dipping her finger into the salve and smothering a little under his nose. “This will help.”

“Is that… burn salve?” he croaked. His watery eyes crossed as he watched her work.

Rhodri nodded. “Heat balm is the proper name, but yes. We used it in the hospital wing when cleaning infected wounds. The herbs have a fresh sort of smell, and the coolness revitalises the constitution… maybe we’ll put a little around the nostrils, too… there. Try breathing through your nose again.”

The Templar took an audible sniff and sighed. “Better,” he nodded. “Lots better. It still reeks, but I can breathe without wanting to toss my lunch.”

“Mmm,” Zevran chuckled wryly. “I think that is about as good as we can hope for right now.” He took the balm when it was offered and applied a little to his own nose. 

Rhodri looked around the vast interior with a frown. “I don’t understand how it can smell like someone died in here, and yet there are no bodies to be seen. Am I missing something? … Do stink glyphs exist?”

Zevran took it upon himself to indicate one of the many substantial piles of werewolf droppings littered around the interior. “I am not sure if you could call this a glyph, but for a non-magical object, it is very effective.”

Rhodri looked where he was gesturing and froze. Her face took on a distinctly haunted expression. 

“... Well,” she said with a laboured matter-of-factness, “if any of you have ever wanted to lie to me without consequence, your opportunity’s come.” Rhodri gestured at the droppings and turned to the party. “Someone, anyone, please tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”

One of two things was happening to Zevran in the middle of the Tevinter Warden’s descent into horror. Either he had indeed lost his mind yesterday and was continuing to float through life without a shred of sanity to his name, or his gut instinct was correct and he could be an irritating little shit to Rhodri sans consequence. 

Which of these it was was impossible to say, and Zevran couldn’t help feeling the matter was better left unanalysed as he leaned toward Rhodri with a stupid grin and gestured around the large room with a sweeping motion that drew the eye to many similar dung-heaps lying about. 

“I’m afraid you mean ‘what you think those are,’” he teased, “and I regret to inform you that they absolutely are what you think they are.”

From behind, Morrigan groaned impatiently. “Yes, ‘tis faeces, Warden. Steel yourself and let us move on!”

Rhodri shook her head hollowly, but fell into a walk all the same. 

“I just don’t understand,” she mumbled. “They live in a forest. The whole world is their toilet, and yet they shit indoors… Maker’s tits, they don’t even clean it up afterward…” 

She glanced down at Danyla, still unconscious and dribbling saliva down Rhodri’s front. “I hope shit doesn’t stick to your fur, Madam,” she said, her voice down to a whisper now. “Otherwise once you’re awake and healed, you will be the one laundering this robe."

§

Some people just didn't know how lucky they had it. To think, Alistair had had the nerve to gag in the upper parts of the ruins, which was nothing but windows! Ventilation aplenty! The ruins only went down (had the dwarves had some input into the architecture, too?). Down meant fewer windows, and less sunlight and fresh air, and it was unimaginably bad. As bad as the Circle, but without the terrifying urgency to distract them from the environment, and by the Maker, Zevran wanted to complain to his nearest politician about the injustice of being born with a nose. 

Rhodri led them through the rooms and down toward what must have been both the figurative and literal bowels of the place with her nose wrinkled and her eyes in a permanent, contemptuous squint. If she said anything, it was either battle orders for the occasional confrontational beasties that showed up, or low streams of deeply disapproving Tevene. 

“No lighting fires in here, anyone,” she said to the group solemnly as they cleared the third flight of stairs. “I’ve read stories about exploding latrines because of an errant spark, and this place is as close as it comes to a toilet without actually bearing the name.”

Alistair frowned. “Does that sort of thing really happen? Like, really happen?” He threw his hands outwards. “With a big boom and everything?”

“Oh, my word it does,” Zevran chuckled. “When the gong farmers striked in Antiva City a few years ago, nobody was attending to the outhouses for weeks at a time.” He snorted in spite of himself. “There was quite the wave of injuries and property damage from secret elfroot smokers slipping into the outhouses and exploding the things when they lit a little flame.”

“You can’t be serious,” Alistair glared at him suspiciously. “A little light blowing up a whole outhouse? That doesn’t happen.”

He grinned back. “You should have been there, seen it for yourself. Or heard it.”

Rhodri snickered. “What a thought. Lying in bed at night, dozing off as you listen to the calming waves and the nocturnal animals, and then bang! Your neighbour’s toilet explodes.”

“You laugh, but it has happened many a time.” Zevran chortled. “I can see I shall have to find a witness to corroborate my evidence.”

She smiled. “No need. I trust you.”

Zevran attempted a laugh, but it came out as a breathless, near-giddy ‘hah.’  And why was that? Why was he breathless when she was acting the way she always had? Nothing had changed since she gave him those gloves, for better or for worse. It didn’t make sense.

In fact, when he thought on it a little more, Rhodri really hadn’t shown any sign of their talk having impacted her. Not a hint of any suppression of her own wants. No fingers brushing over his own by accident, no lingering gaze for even a moment. In her defence, Zevran hadn't done those things either, but it had taken work to quash the urges. And there, she was making it look effortless! He was so sure he had caught her out that night. Her face had gone so red, and then Leliana’s remarks about how she had taken that hideously embarrassing dream of his…

Perhaps she didn’t appear to be struggling, quite simply because she wasn’t struggling. She could take him or leave him. 

As she should, really. How very sensible. He was, as he had always been, a friend she had treated courteously. Kept him at arm’s length a little more than the others, wrapped him in cotton wool, simply because he was who he was (though she had said as much kindly, rather than with disgust). Zevran ought to take a leaf out of her book.

And so he would, too. As though there was anything else to do. After all, he was a product of the Crows, not one of these bleeding-heart creatures like Alistair or Leliana. Let them drink their fill of her with all those embraces and nudges and tender fingers applying ointments and spells. Zevran had precisely what he needed, and what he needed was nothing. 

§

The sorts of things living in the lower floors were adapted to the environment. So Zevran presumed, anyway. Spiders were the most common creatures they encountered, and Maker knew they didn’t have a sense of smell. They must have been content to sit there in their house-sized webs for hours at a time, waiting for unwitting prey to stumble their way. It worked well enough; those webs weren’t short on neat, dark gossamer bundles as big as the dog’s head, hanging there like hams in a shop window. The whole thing made Zevran queasy when he thought too much about it. 

Morrigan seemed the most at home out of any of them. She hummed with interest every now and again, especially with the spiders, and would mumble to herself about harvesting various parts of their anatomy, time permitting. But there was a (somewhat) unexpected contestant in Leliana, who would occasionally break the silence with the sort of remarks one would expect from a professional storyteller. Perhaps she was nervous.

“They say the Veil is thin here in the Brecilian,” Leliana said at one point, entirely unprompted. There was no call for the commentary; they had simply passed along one of the corridors and were taking yet another flight of stairs down. “Things, spirits, pass through the weakened barrier and inhabit everything. Perhaps that explains the undead in here, or what inhabited that tree.”

“You fool woman,” Morrigan sniped wearily. “I said that upon meeting the tree.”

“You only wondered what sort of spirit was living in it!” Leliana protested. “You did not say anything about the Veil.”

“I said nothing about the Veil because nothing need be said about it,” she snapped. “‘Tis perfectly obvious that the Veil is thin here. Do you suppose trees and undead attack everywhere?”

“Well, no, but–”

“Truly, ‘tis a wonder the Warden thought to bring you out of Lothering, least of all this far–”

“Hey–” Alistair snarled.

“Ah, Morrigan,” Rhodri held up a hand firmly, cutting them both off. “Be a little gentle, if you please, remembering that Leliana is not a mage.”

“Warden,” Morrigan insisted, pointing at Leliana. “Having magic would not save her in the least. She makes insipid comments–”

“No, she doesn’t–”

“And the way she stares at that simpleton Templar–”

“Please don’t call Alistair a simpleton–”

“It is nauseating,” the witch continued. “Anyone would think she had never seen a man before.”

Rhodri snorted. “Now you’re being absurd. They have men in Orlais.”

Leliana shared a glance with Alistair, and then with Zevran, and then turned back to Rhodri. 

“They… had men in the Chantry, too, Rhodri,” Leliana pointed out carefully, looking a little more emboldened as Zevran and Alistair (and Wynne, presumably, though Zevran didn’t care to look at her) nodded along.

Her eyes widened. “My stars, did they really? Men in the Southern Chantries? My goodness. What a time to be alive.”

“They’ve… always been in the Chantry,” Leliana confirmed, not quite able to suppress her astonishment at this level of ignorance. 

Rhodri, however, seemed not to notice this surprise, evidently too absorbed in her own shock. She uttered a soft ‘goodness me’ under her breath, and led them over to a large, wooden door. The door, though slightly ajar, didn’t cooperate and fully open upon Rhodri giving it a kick.

“Stuck, huh?” Alistair stepped forward and pointed at the anaesthetised werewolf hanging off Rhodri’s front. “Here, let’s get Danyla off you. You shove the door down low, and I’ll get it up top…”

It was an amusing sight, watching the two Wardens crouch and arch strategically to avoid each other while repurposing themselves as battering rams. By the third go, the door broke in half, and stepping inside brought a bottle-thick tree root into view that had come up through the tiles and dedicated its life, it seemed, to being a doorstop.

The room they stepped into was colossal. High, vaulted ceilings stretched on forever, their sole supports now being the network of room-sized tree trunks that had found their way in from outside and spread their roots through everything. Even the wide columns, which lay in pieces on the ground, looked positively spindly beside them, and the piles of bones– no doubt belonging to people once–- were so small they might as well have been ant legs. 

Alistair nodded approvingly as they stepped over said bone piles– and the rest of the same filth strewn everywhere.

“You know what?” he said, seemingly to no-one in particular. “I shouldn’t like this place, but have you noticed it stinks less in here?”

Zevran sniffed deeply and nodded. “It’s true. Ancient wet dog, I can smell that. But the worst of the latrine smell is gone here.”

“Mmm…” Rhodri frowned. “The lighting and ventilation is no better down here than it was on the first floor. And it’s certainly no cleaner…”

And that was the trouble with mystery, wasn’t it? There was always something that came and gave it away, and rarely was it in the form of a friend whose clever prank had successfully confused them. They had barely gone more than twenty paces into the huge room when a dragon all but fell down from the ceiling onto the floor, and without missing a beat, breathed a substantial amount of fire in their direction.

Said fire, happily, was absorbed by a shield summoned by Rhodri, but even so. Was there any real need for this sort of a turn in the adventure? The spiders and various waves of undead had been more than enough, as far as Zevran was concerned. 

“You know,” she shouted over her shoulder as they attacked the beast, “I’d really rather we didn’t kill it. Can we lock it in the upper rooms so it can blast the stink out– oh, bugger, we can't because we broke the bloody door!”

And that was the end of that. The dragon died at their only mildly reluctant hands after a brief but heated battle (so to speak), and the party elected to help itself to the bounty said dragon possessed on the way back– to be evenly split with the Dalish of course, Rhodri added quickly. 

Further down brought more undead (why were there always undead?); underground caves with nary a hint of sunlight; and the occasional rumbling growl that echoed through the corridors loud enough to make the skin vibrate. That had to be caused by one of two things, Zevran supposed. Either they had magic for amplifying sound that would change open-air concerts forever were the knowledge to be made public, or Witherfang was, in fact, a wolf that was roughly the size of a dragon, if not two or three. Good sense and frazzled optimism allowed him to focus only on the former of those options.

Even lower in the ruins, and the werewolves started to come out. Packs of five or six, and the occasional bonus wolf that appeared out of nowhere. Had some of them learned magic? Perhaps taken a Crow hostage and forced them to teach these beasts the art of stealth? It was hard to say. The only certainty Zevran counted on was the feeling of relief when the werewolves died, and praise the Maker, they did plenty of that.

Lower still, and they were met with a set of werewolves that didn’t spring to action, if only because the foremost of them called for it. 

“Stop, my brothers and sisters!” it held up a paw to them, and then pointed at Rhodri. “We do not wish any more of our people hurt. I ask you this now, outsider: are you willing to parley?”

Rhodri scoffed. “How gracious of you to offer,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “As though I did not offer the chance to parley long ago. You make us clamber through this oversized chamber pot and then pass it off as your idea? The gall of you."

The werewolf snarled. “It is not my idea. I am sent on behalf of the Lady. She believes you may not be aware of everything you should be, and she is willing to parley, provided your willingness to parley in peace is true.”

“Hm,” she turned to the party. “I have little faith in their words, but what do the rest of you think? Would you be willing to speak with them down here?”

All but Morrigan expressed the wish to at least attempt a dialogue with the Lady, whoever she might be. Rhodri took the loss with good sportsmanship, and looked back at the werewolves.

“My party has spoken,” she said to it curtly. “Bring your Lady to us, then.”

“We will not,” the leader growled. “We will bring you to the Lady. She is in safety where she is, and we will not risk her coming to harm at your hands.”

Rhodri drew in a long breath and let it out, and after receiving a gentle, prompting nudge from Alistair, she nodded.

“Take us, then,” she said, “and if you touch a hair on any of my people’s heads, I will flay your hides from your back with my bare hands.”

The werewolf dismissed her words with a reluctant grunt. “You have no need to throw threats around. We do not wish to anger you further.”

Morrigan laughed richly. “At last, a little sense around here.”

“Follow me,” it beckoned them toward a door. “And trust that if you break your promise and harm her, I will return from the Fade itself to see you pay.”

Rhodri waved the warning away. “I never break a promise. Now, move it.”

§

For all the talk about being escorted to this revered Lady, the walk down to what appeared to be the lowest and final room of the ruins was a short one. One corridor and one flight of stairs. They could have gotten there themselves in less time than it took to bandy words with the hairy security staff. Always the way, really.

A host of wolves lined the way into the middle of the room, forming a miasmic, toothy guard of (dis)honour that snapped and swiped at the air as they passed. Wet hound odour and death threats galore: just the welcome a person dreams of. Even dog-loving Alistair grimaced.

From somewhere off to the right, a woman appeared, as if out of nowhere. A… green woman, in fact, likely a spirit (unless, Zevran supposed, the Forest naturally spawned colonies of green people. Or the consequences of infrequent washing were being made plain). She had black eyes, and was entirely naked with the exception of a handful of roots and a head of long, black hair to cover strategic parts. Alistair stammered incoherently at the sight of her and dropped his gaze to the floor, which delighted Leliana to no end. 

“I bid you welcome, mortals,” she said to them in a velvety voice. “I am the Lady of the Forest.”

Rhodri, who had been watching her with a raised eyebrow, took the salutation with a nod. “Greetings, Madam,” she said. “I must say, you look awfully clean for someone who lives in a toilet.”

Zevran and Morrigan snorted, only to be interrupted as a shield erupted into place to keep one of the werewolves– a rather familiar-looking one, actually, from lunging forward to crush her head between its jaws.

“You will not speak to the Lady in this manner!” it snapped at her.

The Lady’s root-covered fingers draped themselves over the beast’s shoulder; it fell still immediately. 

“Hush, Swiftrunner,” she said gently. “Your urge for battle has brought nothing but death to those you are trying to save. Is that what you want?”

Swiftrunner looked up at her sorrowfully and shook his head. “No, my Lady,” it murmured. “Anything but that.”

“Then we must set aside our rage and speak to the outsider.” She turned back to Rhodri. “I apologise on Swiftrunner’s behalf. His nature is a curse forced upon him, and he struggles with it. I am told you come looking for a cure, and there is one, but there are things you do not know about Zathrian.”

“Of course there are,” Rhodri said irritably. “I barely know the man.”

“Indeed,” the Lady said with a nod. “For centuries, we have sent word to Zathrian’s landships as they passed this way, asking him to come to us and end the curse, but he ignored us every time.”

Rhodri frowned. “He would not let the curse kill his own people. He seeks to end it.”

“Zathrian made the curse, mortal.”

Surprise registered on everyone’s face but Morrigan’s. Even Zevran, who wasn’t shocked, per se– a little taken aback, certainly– had the good grace to raise both eyebrows. 

“Can you substantiate this claim, Madam?” Rhodri asked after a moment. “I find it a little odd that a Dalish Keeper would allow a curse to persist that has cost him a good third of his clan.”

“The proof you seek stands before you,” the Lady gestured at the werewolves. “These are the descendants of a human tribe who lived close to the forest centuries ago. When the Dalish came, they tried to drive them away. Zathrian was a young man then, with a son and a daughter. The humans captured them while out hunting.”

Swiftrunner let out a low, rumbling murmur and nodded, evoking a mixture of horror and disgust from the party when he elaborated on what became of Zathrian’s children at the hands of the humans. As soon as he reached the word ‘torture,’ Zevran, who was all too familiar with what happened to elves in the hands of unscrupulous humans, was doing his utmost to block the rest out. 

A white-faced Rhodri kissed her teeth and let out a sigh. “Oh, those poor children,” she uttered softly. “And this curse Zathrian is purported to have invented, where does that come into the story?”

“He did invent it,” Swiftrunner growled at his own feet. “He came to this ruin and summoned a terrible spirit, bound it to the body of a great wolf. So Witherfang came to be. And then he sent it to hunt the humans. He killed many, but a few survived their injuries and caught the curse through his blood. They became mindless, pitiful animals, driven into the forest.” He looked over at the Lady, his face softening. “And then you found me, my Lady, and gave me peace.”

The Lady gave the party what struck Zevran as a rather simpering smile. He had seen that look on patronising, do-gooder humans who would waltz into Alienages with the hope of spreading ‘good habits’ to the residents, and it made Zevran’s skin crawl. 

According to the Lady, Swiftrunner found her, and she was something of a balm for his ‘bestial nature’, as she called it. Taught him, and then the others he spread the good word to, better behaviour, showed him a newer, happier way to be. As far as Zevran was concerned, the only thing she had neglected to tell them was the manner of snake oil or hen’s teeth she was having them sell to unsuspecting forest visitors, or what the startup fee was for joining her scheme. 

That information never came, but it was incredibly vindicating to see Rhodri cringe a little at that.

“... Right,” She finally said after a moment. “How, ah… kind of you, Madam. In any case, you said there is a cure. Please, if you would tell me about that, I would appreciate it.” She touched a hand onto the sleeping Danyla’s side indicatively. “This lady needs urgent attention. She is unwell.”

The Lady shot her another simpering look, this time laced with sympathy, but there was a hardness underneath it that Zevran didn’t care for. 

“Zathrian is the one who can end the curse, mortal,” she said gently. “You need Witherfang, and I can summon him. I have that power. And I also have the power to ensure that Witherfang is never found.” She smiled with unconcealed flintiness now. “Tell Zathrian to come here and end the curse, otherwise I will make sure he never finds Witherfang, and his people will never recover.”

The eyes of the room went onto Morrigan, whose bored groan had sufficient oomph to force her head back.

“The spirit has promised us to summon another spirit?” She threw a hand at the Lady, tsk ing loudly. “You must think us complete fools. ‘Tis perfectly obvious that you are Witherfang!”

The Lady stared at her. “You seem very sure of that, mortal.”

Rhodri gave an awkward, hunched little shrug. “Well, to be fair, Madam, we’re all quite confident you are. We’d presumed as much for quite some time.” She turned to the rest of the party. “You all knew, didn’t you?”

The party nodded, with various murmurs ranging from “Certainly,” to “Well, I had a hunch.” Rhodri shrugged at the Lady again. “So with that in mind, it would be very helpful if you could be a little more forthcoming with advice on how to end the curse.”

The Lady looked particularly unimpressed now. “Then I will make myself plain, mortal. A cure is possible with effort from Witherfang and Zathrian both, and I will not assume Witherfang’s form until Zathrian is brought here. Those are the conditions for your cure.”

“I see,” Rhodri murmured. “And I don’t suppose you would be willing to accompany us back to the Dalish camp for these negotia–” she stopped midway as widespread outrage flared among the werewolves and held up her hands exasperatedly, “All right, all right, he comes to you! Bene! Maker, but you people like to make things difficult!”

Zevran couldn’t help but be a little taken aback by the uncharacteristic lack of sympathy the Warden afforded the werewolves. The situation was, by all accounts, a terrible set of crimes done on both sides, but there had been no such displays of frustration toward the Dalish. From a cursory glance, even the others appeared to have noticed the bias, watching on with varying degrees of bemusement.

If the Lady was bothered, however, she didn’t show it. Her face remained as passive as ever.

“There is a passage outside this chamber,” she pointed off to the right, “which will take you straight to the surface. You may use this to exit. Bring Zathrian as soon as you can.”

“How kind of you,” Rhodri scoffed, “to extend the illusion of courtesy.” She gestured at the indicated exit, addressing the party with a weary sigh. “Come, then. Let’s get Zathrian. Perhaps once a cure is supplied, the residents of this squalid pit might magically become housebroken.”

Alistair clucked his tongue as they fell into a walk. “Rhod. That’s not very nice.”

“No,” Rhodri agreed simply, and jerked her thumb over her shoulder, where the werewolves remained. “And neither are they.”

§

“I don’t understand how Zathrian could do that,” Alistair mumbled as they climbed the passageway out. “Just decide that sending a third of his clan to their death is worth it, you know?”

Leliana sighed and glanced over at Danyla. “I hope this poor lady cannot hear any of this while she sleeps.”

Rhodri, whose jaw looked clenched enough to crack teeth, grunted and shook her head, but said nothing more. 

At the top of the passage, Zathrian stood with his head turned to the approaching party, unmoved by the surprised noises issuing from Alistair, Leliana, and Wynne.

“You!” Rhodri shouted furiously, pointing at him and flipping her hand up to beckon him with the same finger. Zevran had to hold in a snort as Zathrian’s expression, already looking somewhat miffed at the sight of the werewolf strapped to her body, now advanced into deep displeasure.

Morrigan chuckled as Zathrian approached. “‘Tis no surprise to see him here. He wishes to see if we did his work for him. Is that not why you have come, Sorcerer?”

Zathrian gritted his teeth. “Do not call me that, witch–”

“You will mind your tone when you speak to Morrigan,” Rhodri barked. “I will not tolerate further offence!”

The Keeper gave a soft, contemptuous little laugh, and held up his hands. “As you wish. I suppose I should take the werewolf hanging off your body to mean that you did not acquire the heart?”

“‘The werewolf’,” she growled, “is Danyla. And I am quite sure you already know I cannot harvest the heart without your assistance.” 

“Ah, so you spoke to the spirit, then?”

“I hope the werewolves were lying to me when they told me that you,” she poked him in the chest with a finger, “cursed the perpetrators, and then refused calls for help when it spread to innocents.” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “Because that would mean that it is your fault that the Dalish camp was attacked, and that you willingly sacrificed, what, a third of your clan to save face and keep this ridiculous vendetta going?”

Zathrian’s face flushed straight to purple, and he shoved her away from him. “How dare you,” he spat. “I have sworn to protect my people, and so I shall–”

“What is left of them,” Rhodri said coldly, drawing herself up to her full height and looking down at him. “You deceived me. How dare you put my people at risk! How dare you put your surviving clan members at risk of the Blight by willingly offering up the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden to this absurd–”

"Enough!" Zathrian hissed, cutting her off. "How would you punish me for doing what I must, then, Warden? Would you have me go and speak to these beasts like some sort of shemlen diplomat? They are the same savages their long-dead forefathers were. They deserve to be wiped out, and not defended."

“These werewolves tried many times before to meet peacefully, Keeper,” Leliana pleaded. “What would you have done if you were in their position?”

The air fell still as Zathrian looked over at the Chantry Sister, his eyes narrowed to pinpricks.

“What would I have done?” he echoed softly. “You have no idea, shemlen, do you, how it feels to hold your own daughter’s lifeless body in your arms.” 

“Well, no–”

“How it feels,” Zathrian’s voice started to shake, “to take the length of a song to recognise the mangled body in front of you as your son’s? Do you know?”

“No, I–”

“Then do not attempt to force me into their position,” he snarled. “I know what they did.”

“Zathrian,” Wynne spoke up gently now, “you are not the only person who has lost children. Inflicting the curse on the ones who did it is understandable, but surely you know that the moment it spread to innocents and you did nothing, you lost all credibility. And now it has spread to your clan. Who is being punished now?”

“And you wish for me to go down there and absolve these loathsome creatures of their sins?” Zathrian threw a finger in the direction of the passage. “Is that would you would ask of me?”

Rhodri let out a long, loud groan. “Oh, you complete and utter thorn in my arse! I want you to make the cure, like you should have done centuries ago. Punish the werewolves for attacking your clan if you must!” She shugged with enough exaggeration to make Zevran snort inwardly. “I don’t give a damn! They’re a thorn in my arse, too! But I’ll be watching to make sure you do the same thing to yourself eight times over first.” 

Zathrian, who had been listening to all this with a distinctly unimpressed squint, gave Rhodri an eyeroll that no doubt thrilled Morrigan, turned on his heel, and stalked away toward the passage. 

Zevran couldn’t help but notice that his Tevene was improving upon hearing Rhodri’s stream of insulting remarks as she followed after Zathrian. Once upon a time, he'd only understood words that sounded exactly like their Antivan counterparts. Now, though, he was able to put an entire sentence together in his head– albeit after she had said it: ‘Had your mother only complained of a headache for one night. We might’ve been spared a headache living among us for hundreds of years, then.’ It was hastily reconstructed, and nowhere near as succinctly put, but understanding was understanding. Was it a common phrase in Tevene? It sounded common. 

He grinned to himself, not caring who saw him, and all but skipped away to reclaim his spot on her left.

§

Oh, weren’t these squabbles all the bloody same? Someone wrongs someone else. The someone elses wrong them back. Then the someones wrong the someone elses yet again. And then the someone elses bring in a third party to wrong the someones one final time and in doing so, end it. 

Usually by death, in Zevran’s experience of being said third party. How galling, then, that Zathrian wasn’t even offering to pay him and the rest of the Warden’s party for their services. 

Zevran probably should have paid more attention to the proceedings. Zathrian addressed the spirit through gritted teeth, evidently unmoved to either attraction or bemusement at her barely-encumbered state. Had he forgotten what time of the year it was? It wasn’t so warm down here that one could simply divest themselves of all their gear without regretting it shortly after. 

And yes, the werewolves were snapping at him. Notably, however, not crushing his shiny bald head in their jaws– one could only presume that was at the behest of the Lady of the Forest. 

On second thought, he definitely should have paid attention, if only to have an idea as to why a brief scuffle between Zathrian and everyone else in the lair had suddenly ensued. It had only taken a handful of moves from the mages (and the spirit, Zevran presumed) before the fellow was subdued. Well, lying on the filthy floor, wheezing heavily. Close enough. 

The Keeper held up a trembling hand and shook his head. 

“No,” he croaked, “no more. I… I cannot… cannot defeat you…”

Rhodri tsked quietly. “Well, obviously.”

That Swiftrunner fellow looked positively overjoyed. He sprang around on his back legs like someone was dangling an entire roast pig above his head. 

“Finish it!” he shouted. “Kill him now!”

Leliana, being the peacekeeping sort that she was, stood between him and Zathrian, only to have Alistair and Rhodri each grab at one of her arms and pull her back from the firing line.

“No– get off me, you two–” she looked at the spirit entreatingly. “Lady, please, stop him!”

The Lady, no doubt pleased to have another opportunity to silence the ‘bestial nature’ of the werewolves and impress some precept of enlightened peace on them, obliged the Good Sister.

“No, Swiftrunner,” she held out a hand (was it a hand? Or a root network? It was hard to know what to call it.) “We will not kill him. If there is no room in our hearts for mercy, how may we expect there to be room in his?”

“I cannot do as you ask, Spirit,” Zathrian said (do what, Zevran wondered in the middle of kicking himself for once again not paying attention when he should have). “I am too old to know mercy. All I see are the faces of my children, of my people… I– I cannot do it.”

(Do what?)

Rhodri shook her head. “You wouldn’t truly let this go on at the cost of your clan, Zathrian. Surely not.”

“Have I lived for too long?” he wheezed, possibly to himself. “Perhaps I have. This hatred in me is like an ancient, gnarled root.” Zathrian gestured at the Lady of the Forest, who had been kind enough to keep the werewolves quiet during his musings. “What of you, then, Spirit? You are bound to the curse just as I am. Do you not fear your end?”

(Bound to the–??)

The Lady of the Forest squatted down beside the Keeper. “You are my maker, Zathrian. You created me from the roots and the soil and gave me consciousness where there was none. I have seen and known so much, but more than anything, I desire an end to it all.”

Naturally, it was only when Zevran started to listen properly that the conversation took a turn for the banal. There were goodbyes aplenty, bows, meaningful eye contact… oh, it was sad in its own right, Zevran supposed, but truly, wasn’t this all the trappings of a peaceful departure? Certainly done more voluntarily and calmly than the deaths he had been tasked with bringing about– though he did maintain that as far as unwanted deaths went, he didn’t know anyone who did them more gently and painlessly than himself. 

And Zathrian and the Lady of the Forest died. They went as easily and unpretentiously as the ebbing tide, and in so doing, caused a cluster of humans– and one elf– to moult a hundredweight of hair as they turned into… well, themselves, really. With the exception of the unnaturally bright yellow eyes their transition had overlooked, they could have been mistaken for any other grossly unwashed, unkempt individuals one found around the Denerim Market Square.

On the plus side, of course, striking eyes could earn one a fortune at the brothel. And Zevran probably would have mentioned it, but the humans scarpered (with thanks, Alistair was pleased to note) almost instantly. 

Danyla, unlike her human counterparts, remained unconscious post-transformation despite various magical interventions. Morrigan, who had tried a few spells of her own, frowned and used a thumb to hitch Danyla’s eye open. The white– or rather, the would-be white had taken on a mottled, bluish hue. Zevran, who recognised the sign immediately, let out a hum that coincided with Morrigan’s own murmur. 

“A Vimmark adder bite?” he looked at Morrigan with interest. “I did not know they lived this far south.”

Morrigan shrugged. “‘Tis cold enough for them to survive here. And they have more food.” She walked around Rhodri, who was lifting the still-attached Danyla’s arms and inspecting them. She pointed at a mark on Danyla’s left inner-thigh, a small pair of violet puncture wounds. “There.”

Rhodri glanced at the bite mark, and then between them. “Oh, my. No wonder she was in pain. Do either of you have something for it? Perhaps something to draw the venom out?”

“I do not,” Morrigan said.

All eyes went on Zevran (including Rhodri's, but that was what all meant, and could Zevran not, for one moment, turn his attention to where it was needed?), and he shook his head. “I am afraid not. It is not a favoured poison among the Crows."

He stepped forward to do his own assessment of her. Unconscious, silent, slightly discoloured skin. "It would seem the venom has spread quite far, but she is still breathing without trouble. If we hurry back to the camp, her clan may well be able to give her the antivenom in time.”

“Right,” Rhodri nodded, giving a gentle pat to Danyla’s back. “Let’s move, then. We have some running ahead of us.”

Chapter Text

It had been agreed upon, before the party had ventured far, that they would first seek out Aneirin, whose camp was closer to the ruins than the clan’s. 

Morrigan, of course, was the one who had suggested meeting with the young man. And by suggested, of course, it was widely understood by the party that the meeting would be happening as a matter of course. The notion of speaking against this appeared not to have occurred to anyone, which as far as Zevran was concerned indicated that nobody currently had a death wish.

It was also decided that Alistair would piggyback Wynne when she tired, much to the displeasure of the latter. In all fairness, though, Wynne, who had clearly not anticipated the chance of having to sprint for extended periods, was flagging by the time the party had reached the spot where they had found Danyla. Running the rest of the way back would undoubtedly have meant they arrived at the Dalish camp with an extra near-dead person in tow– and granted, Wynne was a deeply repellent sort of person, but when it came down to it, death wasn't quite the punishment Zevran would have imposed on her, given the choice.

Of course with that said, had Rhodri asked him to off her, Zevran would have hopped to it without question, but that was by the by until the moment actually came. As it stood for the time being, Wynne was alive and well, and grumbling silently from her perch on Alistair’s enormous back.

And then, when the party reached Aneirin's camp to find it abandoned and the fire pit long dead, Morrigan made grumblings of her own that compelled Zevran and Leliana to share a very meaningful look while catching their breath. 

"'Tis possible he has not travelled far from here," she said eventually, and without another word, left her satchel with Rhodri, became a bird, and took flight. 

"Don't go for too long, Morrigan," Rhodri called after her. She glanced down at Danyla worriedly and brushed an errant lock of hair off the woman's face. "If she doesn't find him, we'll just have to push through until we reach the camp."

Zevran wasn't sure what pushed him to produce a poultice and apply it to Danyla's bite wound. He knew that Vimmark adder venom, which evaded the drawing effects of poultices, would only respond to antivenom. And Rhodri did, too, because Zevran had said as much, and he felt oddly exposed as she watched him with mild confusion while he worked.

When the weight of her attention grew too heavy, he caught her eye and shrugged uneasily, despite not having been asked to explain himself. 

"I do not think it will help," he said. "But perhaps it is well to try it anyway, no? There is not so very much to lose at this point."

Rhodri dipped her head down and caught his eye, and nodded fervently.

"It's good to try," she replied in a soft tone that was insistent around the edges. "We will do our very best for her, pretiotus, sic?"

He nodded. What else could he do?

Rhodri caught his eye again and shuffled closer, addressing him in a whisper. 

"Do you need anything? Are you all right?"

Puzzled, Zevran couldn't help but smile a little. "No complaints from me, my dear. Especially since I am not the one with the snake bite."

"No, but–" she paused and shook her head when Zevran's bafflement betrayed him. "No, never mind. If you're fine, that's what counts. But you know, of course, if you need anything…" 

"Well, now that you mention it, someone to feed me peanuts and magick a warm sea breeze into my face would be very welcome." Zevran gave her one of her barely-there nudges and waggled his eyebrows, and the bemused look she was fixing him with exploded into conspiratorial amusement. She snorted and looked ahead again, rocking a little on her feet as she did. 

"Of course, you know I'd oblige–ah," she fell still and glanced in Wynne's direction. Wynne, who was darning one of Alistair’s socks, appeared not to have noticed the non-issue; Rhodri sighed with relief and turned back to Zevran with a crooked smile. "I'd oblige anyway, even if it was a joke. Why leave the bit in the realms of theory, sic?"

Zevran smiled and pondered the doability of finding a hedgehog and strapping it to Alistair’s back spiny-side up before Wynne climbed on there again. Deciding it was not, he opened his mouth, witty remark about manufactured summer breezes in icy Ferelden at the ready, when Morrigan appeared in the middle of the clearing. Frowning, no less. She shook her head before Rhodri could finish saying, "No luck?" and that was the end of it. 

Rhodri sighed and gently patted Danyla's back. "Then we had better get going. We should cover as much ground as we can before nightfall."

§

Zevran had always believed there were many ways to be sure of the Maker's existence. The uncountable ants that peppered the ground, for one. They marched in their droves, unnoticed by Zevran (and, realistically, everything else that was bigger than them) until they invariably sniffed out whatever small treat Zevran had acquired for himself and placed in the grass as he sat down, and began to crawl over it in an attempt to requisition it as their own property. 

No person would have thought to make such fiddly, odd creatures. The average two-legged individual had enough trouble finding their own shoes of a morning. No, as far as Zevran was concerned, ants had to be a god's doing. 

What, precisely, had moved the Maker to give life to guilds of insects that devoted themselves to appropriating a man's weekly cupcake was beyond Zevran. A sense of humour, if he had to guess. If he was honest with himself (as he always was, of course), Zevran wouldn't have put it past himself to do the same, had he been in the Maker's position. In fact, if he thought on it a little more, doing simple, odd things for a laugh actually seemed a very reasonable sort of justification.

And with that theory firmly established, it was hard not to wonder what made the cut for humour in the Maker's eyes. Zevran didn't suppose it descended into the depraved, but when it came to sizeable inconveniences, such as running into not one, but two ogres when the party was barely a half-hour's run from Aneirin's camp, well. It had to be said that if the encounter passed with the usual smooth sequence of deaths, it was possible that the Maker considered it His own sort of practical joke. 

It was either that, or in his attempt to understand the workings of the Maker's mind, Zevran had dived head first into the realms of serious blasphemy and was now liable for dire divine punishment in consequence. 

If it turned out to be the latter, and the rapidly approaching (and thoroughly enraged) ogres crushed Zevran into a fine paste, he would at least know the reason it had happened, and that was a comfort in itself. Uncertainty was best avoided in such matters.

In the interim between the present and his sticky end, whenever that would be, Rhodri was making good use of him in the interim. 

"Quickly, Zev," she turned her back to him. "Untie Danyla, please, and leave her by the tree where we can see her."

Alistair was already running past them, distracting the ogres by drawing them in the other direction, where yet another ruin lay, while Zevran set to work. Leliana, of course, wasn't far behind, hitting the creatures time after time with well-aimed shots to the head and neck, and Wynne and Morrigan brought up the rear with spells whose nature he didn't dare speculate over. 

When Danyla was free, Rhodri was off like a shot, with her distracted thanks disappearing into the air behind her. Zevran took care to partly cover Danyla with a few leaves to make her a little less conspicuous before taking off himself, and by the time he had joined the fight, some eight or nine darkspawn had joined the proceedings. 

Zevran launched himself forward as the nearest hurlock to Rhodri's back, knives and a loud laugh at the ready. There were many ways to kill a hurlock in one go, as it happened; their anatomy was much like any regular person's– though granted, much more hazardous to come into contact with. For that reason, attacking from the back was best. A simple knife through the back and into the heart was all it took to drop the bastards, and that was precisely what Zevran did to the one in front of him.

The hurlock crumpled most satisfyingly, and that was that. A quick check of the surroundings revealed that things were playing out equally well for the other party members. The second (and final, praise the Maker) ogre had perished in a thrilling blow landed by Alistair, and had landed with a crash that shook the ground. Eight hurlocks became six became the final two that were in the process of freezing to death at Rhodri's clever hands. 

And then, of course, the corpses emerged. There always seemed to be a stash of them lying around whenever things got interesting. Like ants, or tax collectors.

The air went unusually still as they approached, which was both terribly unnerving and, now that the breeze couldn’t waft the rot away, absolutely putrid. Another bad day to have a nose.

Off to one side, Morrigan cursed loudly at Leliana for some unknown crime. Was it she who had made the forest air stifling? Whatever she'd done, Leliana, who appeared cognizant of her misdeed, oscillated between profuse apology and firing a rapid sequence of arrows at the waves of undead. 

The Wardens, however, were the most disturbed by the sudden change, and their shouts of alarm rang through the clearing. The two of them made for one particular figure: a large, heavily-armoured thing with a notable lack of a face and a sword that more than covered the deficit. 

That explained the stifle in the air, at least. And the yelling on the part of the Wardens didn't look to be unwarranted,  either. Not when the creature– a Revenant, Zevran thought he’d heard Rhodri call it– all but shrugged off a freezing spell said Warden threw at it.

There wasn’t the time to dwell on concerns of the Revenant’s abilities, though. It was eminently possible that the creature was responsible for the consistent waves of undead scuttling into the fray, and if that was the case, it was best to ensure none of them reached the only two people who knew enough about the Revenant to identify it. 

Zevran accepted his instructions to himself with a nod, and turned until he was back-to-back with Rhodri. He swiped to the right and took the head off an enraged corpse. His left hand drove the knife up the jaw of another and popped the skull off like a champagne cork. In front of him, Leliana was sending arrows in every direction, and Morrigan was off on the edge of his periphery, buffeting the creatures with undoubtedly illegal magics.

Simplicity reigned, and Zevran slipped into the motions of murder as easily as breathing. Step-deflect-swipe; down went a corpse. Step-step-turn-duck-double stab; that dropped two more of them (duck-stab)-- correction: three more.

And it was going well. More corpses were coming, and Maker knew how many more were expected to turn up, but Zevran could hear Rhodri moving, and he himself was still moving, too, and killing with his usual efficient aplomb. Leliana and the others, they were pushing on as well. In all, the party was, to his mind, indisputably winning. 

A blinding flash of blue-white light bounced through Zevran's field of vision, followed shortly after by the sound of quite a number of bodies hitting the ground. The whole thing happened rapidly enough that, once Zevran's eyesight had returned and thus ruled out the possibility of the Maker mass-summoning them all into the afterlife, he second-guessed himself having seen any flash at all. 

But then Alistair shouted Wynne's name, and that made it all eminently clear. There had indeed been something: obviously she, a known mage, had summoned lightning. That explained the spate of thudding bodies on the earth). And Alistair had yelled because said lightning had somehow disturbed him. Perhaps it had caught him off guard and startled him, or arced in an unexpected direction and zapped his backside. How Leliana would delight upon seeing a sizable hole burned into the back of Alistair’s trews, where his bare bottom would shine in the vivid light of the setting sun. Zevran couldn’t help but smirk as he pictured the smug, lascivious smile he had come to see so often where such parts of Alistair were concerned.

Leliana, however, did not issue any noise of delight. Nor was there enjoyment, or even mild approval. No, instead there was a revolting scrape, of metal tearing open metal, and Leliana screamed like she was being eaten alive. 

Zevran spun around as quickly as he dared, and the air caught in his throat. Amid a cluster of corpses– slain ones– Wynne lay motionless on the ground, and Alistair stood between her and the Revenant. With his abdomen opened, no less. How the metal armour covering Alistair’s torso had failed him, Zevran couldn’t imagine, but it and the skin beneath it were sliced almost from end to end, gaping like a mouth, and Alistair’s intestines were making a hasty escape through the manufactured orifice. The Templar gave a shallow gasp and sank to his knees, his hands diving down to catch the eloping organs. 

Rhodri had closed in on the Revenant from behind and pinned its arms to its side as she snatched it up in a bear hug. Which, it had to be said, worsened an already pressing inability to breathe on Zevran’s part– considerably, in fact, and more than ought to be allowed. Airlessness notwithstanding, his legs carried him in the same direction, and before Rhodri could finish verbally redirecting him, Zevran had wrenched the sword out of the Revenant’s hand and snapped the blade in two with a well directed kick.

Evidently unimpressed by its recent imprisonment (and, Zevran liked to think, the requisition and destruction of its only weapon), the Revenant shrieked indignantly, thrashing and struggling as much as the ironclad confines of the Warden’s arms permitted. The display was met with some unseen action that made the creature convulse violently for a moment, and then again, and then again. What had happened, Zevran couldn’t imagine. Typically, such movements came when injury was incurred to sensitive areas like the kidneys or the eyes. But Rhodri’s hands were in plain sight, laid flat over Revenant’s chest. Was it magic, then? What else could it possibly have been?

“Don’t let Leliana touch Alistair,” Rhodri gasped to Zevran when he readied his knives to deliver a stab to a gap in the Revenant’s neck armour. Her face was bright red and pouring with sweat, and she dragged herself and the beast a step to the left. “If she gets Blight sickness, she will die.”

Madness, Zevran thought to himself. Martyrdom. The other beasts were dead, and she wanted to take on this thing by herself? Had it been anyone else, he might have simply left them to it, but not her. No, there had to be a point where a person was so wrong that they weren’t to be taken seriously. Why was no-one else helping?

Zevran copied her side-step. “One quick stab,” he soothed gently, angling his hands to administer the blow. “This creature, it is too–”

“No,” Rhodri insisted, taking another step to the side and looking out behind him. “Go, now. Stop her. Don’t argue with me.”

Morrigan’s angry, surprisingly resonant voice sounded from behind Zevran.

“Blast and damn you, you burdensome man,” she said in a near– shout, and in a few quick steps, her foot met the more tender of his hips in a hard kick that knocked him and his knives to the right. “‘Twould be simpler to kill you. Give me room to cast!”

Rhodri admonished her exhaustedly, but the mortification had already set in. Zevran scrambled to his feet, and though the embarrassment persisted as strongly as ever while he ran to Leliana, he forbade himself from considering the cause in any level of detail. The good Sister was on her knees, cradling Alistair’s head in her lap and praying over him feverishly. The man had gone a shade of colourless and clammy Zevran had seen on Taliesen in those worrying middle-periods between receiving a serious injury and being given medical attention. Thick, black blood was pooling in the injury site and then spilling over the edge of the open flesh and onto the ground like a tributary, causing whatever it touched to wilt and die. With the angle of the ground they were on, the blood was carving a path that would meet Leliana’s knees in short order.

“Leliana,” Zevran urged softly, taking her arm and tugging it. “Come, we must give him a little room. Just a little, so his blood does not touch you.”

Leliana shook her head hard and dug her knees into the ground a little, her stream of prayer continuing unbroken. Her voice, however, had begun to crack, and her skin, already pale, was approaching transparency. 

“Go, Lel,” Alistair creaked to her. “Don’t get sick. Stay over there a bit.”

The good Sister continued to shake her head and choke out her prayers, and resisted Zevran’s attempts to relocate her with increasingly vigorous slaps to his person. By the time Zevran pardoned himself and dragged her back, Rhodri was stumbling to Alistair’s side with Morrigan in hot pursuit. Leliana was screaming and, with decidedly impressive skill, throwing punches that Zevran often barely missed. Orlesian bards, it seemed, were very well-trained. Zevran decided that if she ever forgave him for pulling her away, he would have to enquire about her training regimen. 

“Zev, Leli, I want you two to check on Wynne,” Rhodri gasped from her spot beside Alistair. “If she is already dead, there’s little we can do, but please help her if you can.”

It took a little cajoling, and plenty of apology on Zevran’s part, with assurances that Leliana could hate him to her heart’s content afterward, before the Sister joined him and they inspected Wynne. 

“Her heartbeat is slow but steady,” Zevran said after touching his fingers to her neck. “Perhaps a little too much spellcasting?” He tapped Wynne’s cheek, and there was a little wince to the affected side. Somewhat conscious, then.

Leliana said nothing, her lips bitten together as she stared over at the Templar. Zevran stole a glance; nothing appeared to be happening. Morrigan was standing over Rhodri with one palm hanging over her head, and Rhodri was allowing it. Alistair, of course, lay still and sucked in shallow breaths, as the dreadfully injured were so wont to do.

Not of a mind to relive the mortification of doing the wrong thing, Zevran took the initiative and rummaged through the Senior Enchanter’s satchel. Flasks of Maker-knew-what were extracted; Zevran recognised the red ones, and the blue surely had to be lyrium, but what the tubes of shimmery purple liquid did remained to be seen. Zevran took one of the red potions and, when Leliana appeared not to hear his request to rest Wynne’s head on her lap (she had only just done it for Alistair! Truly, good help was impossible to find these days!) Zevran heaved a sigh and did it himself. 

It was a simple matter, really; while keeping the head reasonably upright, tip a little– half a spoonful, maybe– of the potion onto the tongue, and that would stimulate the swallow reflex, assuming she was awake enough to do so. Zevran had administered a toothful of the stuff onto Wynne’s tongue when Rhodri’s horrible, purling lyrium-cough from the Circle Tower started up.

His stomach heaved; he wouldn’t look up. He wouldn’t. Morrigan was there; she had been there even when Zevran thought she wasn't, and he was not needed in any capacity. He didn’t need to think about it, and he didn’t need to see it. He needed to do as he was bloody told.

Wynne swallowed and stirred with a decidedly hungover look about her as the coughing escalated, and Zevran’s eyes darted up before he could stop himself. And what sort of scene was he expecting to see? A burning stick of elfroot in the possession of Rhodri the inexperienced smoker? Her hands frantically flapping away a cloud of potent dog fart? What, for the love of sanity?

Apparently he wasn’t expecting to see the most obvious thing it would have been, which was Rhodri’s face screwed up in an agonised grimace, her mouth and chin entirely covered with the same dark, viscous blood seeping out of Alistair. An empty flask fell out of her trembling hand, and she picked up a second one, filled to the brim with sparkling blue lyrium. Morrigan’s lips were pursed as she watched the Warden bring the other flask to her lips, and Zevran was able to stomach Rhodri swallowing one mouthful before he looked away again.

The coughing and choking started up again; Zevran glared down at Wynne. 

“You are awake, I see,” he said smoothly. 

Wynne groaned in the affirmative, but did nothing more. Zevran resigned himself to drip-feeding the Senior Enchanter more of that potion until he could get more of a response out of her. By the time Wynne’s eyes finally opened, Rhodri had resituated Alistair’s innards, and had almost finished resealing their escape route. Her hands were trembling, and the deep breaths she took made her head nod with the effort.

“Well, that was… draining,” Wynne mumbled. Her gaze darted up to Leliana, and then over to the two Wardens. Leliana, who up to now appeared to have been fighting the urge to be sick, glanced down at Wynne, patted her shoulder absently, and wandered away to the two Wardens.

Zevran curled his lip a little and raised an eyebrow at Wynne.

“So,” he said. 

Wynne’s eyes flitted up to Zevran’s, and then returned to the surgical scene over there. “What happened to him?”

Zevran shook his head. “I do not know. I seem to recall him calling your name, and then some sort of attack came, I presume.” He resisted the urge to devolve into crude manners and indicate the Templar by pointing at him, if only because Rhodri was in the same direction; he gestured at them with a flat palm. 

“Oh dear,” The Senior Enchanter shook her head sorrowfully. “I called on the spirit inside me to lend us aid, but I had not anticipated it would take quite so much out of us both.”

Zevran stiffened. “A spirit, you say? Inside you? I am told there is a word for that.”

“I think I know the one,” she replied with a chuckle, “The word ‘abomination’-- is that the one you were thinking of? That one isn’t so very wrong, but what lives in me is a spirit, not a demon.”

“Mm. We will see what the Grey Warden has to say about that.”

“I’m quite sure she will be displeased,” Wynne sighed. “I'm not proud of the effects of my gamble, myself.”

Zevran glanced up at Rhodri, and at the scene around and beneath her. Leliana and Morrigan watched on in silence as the conscious Grey Warden sealed up the abdomen of the unconscious one. When the job was done, she flicked her hand away from her chest. Another swish of the hand, and Alistair was finally stirring. Leliana burst into tears.

“Help me up, please, Zevran,” Wynne requested after a moment. “I owe that young man an apology.”

He snorted, but got the Senior Enchanter on her feet all the same. 

“I am sure you owe one to more than just him,” he murmured.

“Perhaps I do.”

Alistair croaked out the name of the Senior Enchanter when they drew near; Rhodri’s eyes snapped onto Wynne. She pointed a shaking finger at her.

“Explain yourself,” Rhodri snarled.

“Let me check Alistair first,” Wynne held up a hand and lowered herself onto a nearby rock.

“He has been healed without issue–”

“You are not a spirit healer, Rhodri,” Wynne said sharply. 

“Correct. Spirits are not an integral part of the healing sciences, and there is less risk of possession when using normal chirurgical magic.”

The Senior Enchanter glanced at the younger Enchanter, and it appeared that she had plenty to say in reply to the statement. But Wynne said nothing, and inspected Alistair’s operation site in silence. At some point, she gave a nod, and left it at that.

Rhodri, however, had not forgotten her earlier request, and snapped her fingers impatiently at the other Circle mage.

“I allowed you inspection time,” she snapped. “Now explain yourself. What spirit lives in you?”

It was something of a relief to hear that the nature of the thing possessing Wynne had not come into question. That had to be good, surely. What sort of things would a person possessed by a good spirit get up to? Mass rescuing of cats stuck in trees? A powerful spell that fixed every squeaky hinge in a ten-mile radius? 

Morrigan spoke up now, her mouth curving into the beginnings of a wicked smile: “‘Tis clearly not a Spirit of Prudence or Pleasantness.”

Rhodri made no move to reprimand Morrigan, which Zevran believed said enough.

“I believe it was a Faith Spirit,” Wynne said after a moment. “They have never been seen before, but something tells me I am right. It has been watching me for a long time, and looked out for me many times when I was in need. And now it simply lives in me.”

Rhodri spoke up again, “And when did the Spirit enter you?” 

“During the revolts in the Tower. Shortly before you came, in fact.”

Her brief explanation met with silence and expecting looks, Wynne elaborated and advised that while protecting the children in the Tower, she had over-extended herself and died.

… Died.  

Zevran was no stranger to exaggeration. Overdoing a response was a national sport in Antiva, and Tevinter and Orlais were undoubtedly much the same. How else did one interpret complaints from fellow Northerners where the speaker asserted they were passing away because their orange juice contained too little pulp? What of the people who bemoaned the sudden disappearance of their favourite underwear and the abrupt nosedive in quality of life that came with it? Was the apocalypse truly nearing when such things happened? Were Northerners really dying en masse from lesser-pulped juice? 

And then, with all that in mind, had Wynne actually passed away from over-exertion? Her expression was serious. Rhodri’s was as well, but Maker bless her richly, she met a great many lighthearted things with a grave face. But then, had she not cast excessively before? Unable to move, gasping and panting for breath? Had Wynne’s display today been the result of carrying spellcasting an extra step too far?

Zevran’s belly plummeted.

“It is a Spirit of Faith,” Wynne asserted again, as though to make clear the division between being possessed by a good spirit as opposed to an evil one. “There is no need to fear it. In fact, it is the only thing sustaining me.” She gave a wan chuckle and added, “I don’t suppose I did it any favours by summoning it, though. It is weaker now. Perhaps not a trick I should use to entertain children at parties.”

Alistair and Leliana were the only ones to offer a gentle laugh at the remark. Morrigan, quite predictably, rolled her eyes and strode away to loot the bodies. And Rhodri, who said nothing but watched Wynne intently, earned an irritated, “Yes, Rhodri?” from the latter when this had dragged on for a goodly time. 

Rhodri dropped a kiss onto Alistair's forehead and slowly, unsteadily, got to her feet. “We will set up camp nearby, away from the bodies,” she announced loudly. “I will wash off and check on Danyla, then set up your tents for you, Alistair and Wynne. Stay resting, if you please.”

§

The remainder of the journey back to camp was hideously tense. Somewhat protracted, too, given that there was decidedly less running than Rhodri had promised at the outset. Alistair and Wynne barely managed a regular walk between them, and that required plenty of breaks. At some points, when Rhodri’s patience waned, she would haul Wynne onto her back and walk like that, with Danyla still strapped to the front. A particularly awkward thing, given that Rhodri barely spoke a word to Wynne otherwise, but had warm praise and courteous check-ins aplenty for everyone else.

Zevran made himself useful by carrying Alistair’s tent and gear for him. Alistair had protested in a red-faced bluster, but when Zevran bypassed it and slung his pack onto his back, the Templar watched him guiltily, and said nothing more. It was one of the most oddly satisfying feelings Zevran could recall experiencing. 

Danyla weakened by the day, the mottled colouring in her skin growing increasingly vivid; the bite mark was almost black now. A faint wheeze had developed on the exhale that had become distractingly loud by the time the Dalish camp came into view one evening. Rhodri abruptly shrugged Wynne off her shoulders by that point and bolted the last little way with Danyla, announcing their arrival with a shout that brought Mithra and the other guardians running. 

And what a situation arose. There was, of course, a fuss about Danyla, with plenty of noisy weeping from Athras and their young daughter, and a scramble to check the stocks of the necessary antivenom. Danyla was taken to a sickbed and was attended to with no noticeable change to her condition.

More pressing for the rest of the clan, though, was Zathrian’s whereabouts. Why had he not returned with them? What had he needed to do to reverse the curse? And what of the werewolves? Had the werewolves eaten him, asked one child. Another child, before the young ones were ushered away to the halla pen, asked with wide eyes if the werewolves had become elves, and the elves had eaten Zathrian. 

Rhodri managed to assuage the children that she had not witnessed Zathrian being consumed by anything or anyone before they were escorted away. To the remaining adults, she explained what Zevran had largely missed in those moments of inattention. The curse, so said Rhodri, was invented by Zathrian upon binding a spirit to a wolf– that much he knew already, but it was news to him that a part of Zathrian had also become bound to the creature in casting said spell, and that connection was the source of his unusually long life. More guff with spirits extending lives; first Flemeth, then Zathrian, and now Wynne! Could these mages never simply embrace the cyclic nature of life and let themselves die at the appropriate time?

And it was always the ones people were getting sick of. Had it been a more appealing mage– one who was good company and pleasant to be around, he wouldn’t have minded so much. Take Rhodri, for example, whose manifold virtues would take an eternity to list. Or Morrigan! Unfriendly in the extreme though she was, the woman was undeniably good value in the humour department. But no, it was always the insufferable ones that lived forever, and never the Rhodri-like ones. Perhaps that was another of the Maker’s jokes. If it was, Zevran didn’t find it especially funny.

It was when the clan nodded and Lanaya called for the retrieval of Zathrian’s body that Zevran realised that he had, once again, mentally departed from the proceedings. What, in the name of all good things, was seizing his consciousness and removing him from current affairs was beyond him, but it was going to have to stop. It simply wouldn’t do to–

“Zev?” 

Zevran snapped-to and turned to look at the speaker– Rhodri, in this case. He shot her a broad, wicked grin. “You called?”

She gestured around them. The elves and humans both were departing from the cluster they had made, and were returning to their respective areas (Wynne, Zevran noticed from the corner of his eye, glanced over her shoulder at Rhodri as she returned to the camp with Alistair and Leliana). “Everyone is going to begin preparations for tomorrow night’s gathering. Would you like some time alone, or shall we walk back to the camp together?”

A gathering. No doubt the celebration of life that came with funerals and births; had he really missed these details? Absurd, was what it was. Entirely absurd. 

“Oh, I think it might be nice to relax by the fire back at the camp. A well-earned rest, no?”

A tiny but unmistakable smile came to Rhodri’s face, and she nodded once. She clasped her hands behind her back, and the two of them fell into a gentle stroll.

“Do you need anything, Zev?” she asked, not entirely unexpectedly. It was, after all, far from the first time she had enquired since coming into the forest. “Some, ah… water, perhaps?”

He smiled. “I have my waterskin, but thank you.”

“Ah. Yes, of course.” She wrung her hands. “Something else, maybe? Sandwiches, or a game– or no games at all, if– if you’d prefer that.”

Zevran chuckled and shook his head. “Oh, you do spoil me. No need for–”

Oh, Maker’s mercy, why was he not out of the habit of saying that yet? Rhodri was watching him with those big eyes, and the only thing Zevran could think to do was brace himself for impact.

“No, no,” she shook her head fervently. “No spoiling. This whole thing must be so difficult for you. These fucking werewolves, and then Zathrian doing what he did. I can’t imagine how hard that must be for you. I– no, I owe you an apology, really.”

Zevran raised his eyebrows. “Ah… do you? I do not think that you do.”

“I do,” she nodded. “It’s– this is my fault.”

“... I’m sorry, what is?”

She gestured at the Dalish camp helplessly. “Danyla. I– I shouldn’t have let Wynne come with us. It’s like you said, isn’t it, anyone here could be your family. Danyla, she could be your aunt, or a cousin, and–- and you deserve to feel sure that I would look out for your family like they were my own.” 

Rhodri shook her head, “But– but I let Wynne come, and she held us up, and perhaps that cost us the time needed to save Danyla.”

Zevran, finding himself at a loss for words, simply managed an, “Ah.”

“I’m so sorry, Zev,” she shook her head again. “You and Danyla deserved better than that. Believe it, anything I can do to help her, or you, or anyone else in the clan, I will gladly do it.”

“Oh,” he blinked. “Thank you, of course, but there is no need for concern. These things happen, no? We do our best in the conditions we are given.”

Rhodri’s face softened. She briefly met his eyes and, relentlessly and no doubt unknowingly, made his belly leap into his throat in consequence.

“You are full of grace and compassion,” she murmured, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Zevran was trying in equal measures to button a hysterical laugh in, and to keep his knees from giving out under him. 

“You showed so much mercy to those werewolves,” she said. “More than anyone could reasonably have asked of you, and more than anyone else in the party was showing, myself included.” A small, tremulous smile was pulling at the corners of her mouth. “What a remarkable person you are, Zev. I aspire to be more like you in the future.”

Were Zevran’s cheeks and ears burning? They were hot. Hot. More to the point, was it apparent to Rhodri that this internal combustion was happening? Zevran decided the answer was no, to both of those things. There was nothing to get hot-faced over, in much the same way that there was nothing for his knees to go weak over. And Rhodri was not looking at his face, so even if there were some heat in his face (and there absolutely was not) , she wouldn’t have noticed. 

Zevran chuckled– a little more nervously than he would have liked– and sighed. Rhodri smiled.

“I’ve run out of words,” she said after a moment. “But I suppose it’s better that way. We’re back at the camp now, anyway,” Rhodri gestured at the row of tents and the crackling fire in the middle of it all, “which means it’s time to speak with Wynne.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow. “Oh? About the incident with the Revenant?”

“Mmm. Excuse me, please.” She wandered over to where Wynne sat by the fire drinking tea with Alistair and Leliana. The three of them looked either weary (in the case of Wynne and Alistair), or nauseated (as Leliana had since Alistair’s accident). 

“Wynne, I need to speak with you privately, if you please.” 

Wynne looked up at Rhodri over the rim of her cup. “Ah, I see you have stopped avoiding me, Rhodri. Or do you wish to sling me onto your back again?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rhodri snapped. “I put you on my back so we could move to the camp in a timely manner. I am asking you to come with me because I consider it improper to criticise my own people in front of others, and I haven’t had the time or inclination to seek you out yet.”

“Mm. I would be lying if I said your intentions surprised me.” Wynne gave a resigned shrug. “Well, I have nothing to hide. You can do it here. Criticise away.”

Alistair and Leliana shared a glance but said nothing. Sten, Shale, and Morrigan, who were all a little further away, paused and turned their heads toward the action. Morrigan, in particular, looked like Satinalia had come early. Zevran, attempting to exercise a little decorum while adhering to the time-honoured Antivan ideal of keeping up-to-date with dramatic events, made himself a sandwich and pretended to be fascinated with it.

Rhodri folded her arms. “I don’t care to be lied to, Wynne. I asked you twice in the Tower if you were fit for high-paced and demanding activities. Once when we were about to leave the children and go further in, and then again when you said you wanted to come with us. Both times you said you were.”

Wynne sighed. “Oh, dear…”

“I don’t understand why you kept the spirit and your death from me. I am accommodating, and I always have been. You have seen me teach and care for those children–”

“You coddled those children–”

“I cared for them,” Rhodri cut over her firmly. “I made provisions for their needs, and they flourished with me.”

“And then they died, at the hands of the Templars, or at their own hands when you left.”

“Do not pretend those children would have thrived if I neglected them, Wynne. They died at their own hands when I was there, too. There have always been four beds in the mage dorms and eighty-eight in the apprentice dorms." Rhodri clenched her fist in her robe ans sighed. "Perhaps the only difference I made, was that they died with the knowledge that someone’s heart would break over it, but they did not go unloved.”

Wynne raised her eyebrows. “You think the students went unloved, simply because the Enchanters maintained a professional distance? As though I died protecting them for anything less than love and duty?”

“You Fereldan Circle teachers are not parents.”

“You were not a parent.”

“I was as good as!” Rhodri shouted. “They needed to be nurtured!”

“They developed a need to be nurtured because you instilled it in them, Warden. Nothing more.”

Zevran watched Cristofania in the armchair by the window, bouncing Galindo on her knee. He was an older boy than Zevran– eight, at least; a huge number beside Zevran’s modest five years. 

It made no sense. How many times had he gone to her, or Teresa, or any of the other whores asking for something like that? Enough to know that the answer never changed: Zevran was too old for that sort of thing.

But Galindo was eight. 

And he was a greedy boy, who always had the affection he wanted from her. And now here he was, wriggling and squirming as though he had tired of her, and Cristofania set him on the ground with a chuckle. Galindo ran off. 

Cristofania stayed in her armchair, and Zevran wandered over to her with his most winning smile affixed.

“‘Stofania?” He kept the smile in place until she looked over at him.

“Hmm?”

“Will you let me go on your knee, too?”

Cristofania shook her head. “You are too old for that, amorcito.”

Zevran gulped, but stayed where he was. “Galindo is eight,” he said carefully.

“Yes, he is. But Galindo is my son.”

“O-oh.”

“Mmm.”

“My mother is dead,” he said after a moment.

She nodded. “Yes, she is.”

“Do boys with mothers get to sit on the knee for longer?”

“Mmm.”

Zevran took this in with a nod, and then stepped as close to Cristofania as he dared. “Will you be my mother instead? Please?”

He watched closely, ready to scuttle back if it looked like a smack was coming, but Cristofania’s hands didn’t leave the armrests. She sighed and shook her head.

“You only have one mother, and she is with the Maker,” she gestured at the sky outside, up where Zevran’s mother and all the other dead mothers were said to be. Zevran swallowed, feeling a stab of guilt for forgetting a woman he had never met, and who would no doubt still be here if he hadn't come along.

“But I would like to sit on your knee, too,” he said softly. “And then you bounce me. That's all.”

Cristofania rose to her feet; Zevran leapt away, giving her plenty of room as she walked over to the door. She paused and looked at him over her shoulder.