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Chapter 9- Have Warden, Will Travel

My golly, this one’s a bit late coming! And it actually had nothing to do with the part of the timeline I’d intended to use for this chapter. Our heroes are still nowhere near Honnleath. It’s almost as if my tendency to rabbit on actively affects the timeline of my own story.

No content warnings except that the chapter is some 5700 words. Link to AO3 if desired is here, rest is under the cut. Hope you bunch are having a mighty fine day, and please keep up with your fluids! :D :D

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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, but rather the moments leading up to it. 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 as she healed the young lady’s half-dislocated shoulder, he had managed to insistently press the gift of 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, with no success, 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, 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 thus 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’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 good 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 any better than Antivan food, even if it burns twice.” He nudged Rhodri, who was already wheezing into her hand, and snorted at his own joke. “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 had as Tegrin had been 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 vellum fixture, 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, you two?” 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 in terms of behaviour that has sparked this concern of yours?”

“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 there is,” 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 him up by his toes for watching on later, if she wished, but there was no leaving now.

“You seem to be forgetting, you two, that I have been given the last word as far as this party’s affairs go,” she said eventually.

Alistair shrugged. “And? We’re equals. You say that often enough.”

Rhodri’s shoulders tightened. “I am surprised to hear this reasoning coming from someone who was raised by nobility,” she said coldly. “We’re of equal worth, but we do not have equal power. If we did, then nobody would have decision-making powers.”

“What, so we can’t check on you because you decide where we go?”

“Yes!” She said it with the exasperation of a teacher who had spent hours explaining a single concept. “Even if it’s not absolute power, and I always consider everyone’s opinions and preferences, I have larger authority over where the party goes and what it does than do other members. You’re at a disadvantage, and I compensate you for this by attending to your emotional and personal needs at the cost of my own.”

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 your power back in your hands. Refrain from forcing me to waste my finite resources 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 kind hearts and 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, and Zevran tracking 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, and 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 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. Remarks that falsely diminish your innocence are always unwarranted.”

“Innocence!” He chortled, not bothering to restrain it. “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 steadied his secret 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 sunlit ice as he smiled maliciously at him. At fifteen, 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 warm arm, heavy and hard as a sack of flour, hung off his shoulders, 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.”

#Have Warden Will Travel #HWWT #In which Zevvo tries his best and it bites him in the arse #but bites in the arse are LEARNING #poor sausage #Rhodri Amell #Who has very clear-cut ideas of equality and doesn't take opposition to it very well #Also featuring Old Tegrin #Never underestimate dwarven networking #Dragon Age: Origins

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