"I don't see why I'm the one that has to wear this dress," Iseult Cousland grumbled, tugging at the collar.

"Well I certainly couldn't wear it!" Alistair said, taking a step to the side as if he thought she might wrangle him to the dirt road and put the dress on him at that very moment.

"You are more than welcome to wear my robes, Iseult," Leliana's lilting voice came from behind her, "But what was it you said? You'd rather walk bare-ass naked through the streets of Denerim before you put on robes of the Chantry?"

Alistair snickered. The words did sound funny when repeated by the ever-graceful chantry sister.

"No. But someone could've worn them." She would've been happy with anyone, except for her. Damn stupid dress. How was one supposed to walk like this?

"Do not look at me like that, Warden. I am not the one who gave our last coin to beggars on the road, and then proceeded to misplace her armor while bathing." Morrigan eyes glanced coolly in her direction.

"I did not misplace it," Iseult growled, "It was stolen."

"Oh yes, it was stolen. By who, we do not know. They mysteriously left no tracks, nor any trail for us to follow." Iseult's mabari growled and barked, running a circle around Morrigan. "Off , dog!" she shooed at him.

"The witch is right," Sten's words were clipped, as if he already regretted agreeing with Morrigan, "The bank was muddy. There would've been tracks."

"You should've let me bathe with you," Leliana said. "It would've been fun." She sighed as her eyes went soft and dreamy. "Didn't you bathe together while you were at court? We had lovely bathing houses in Orlais."

"At least that old woman had a dress from her daughter," Alistair said. "And you do look much nicer in it than she..." he scowled at Morrigan and jerked his head in the witch's direction, "...would've looked." His face flushed as Iseult turned to look at him, and he coughed, stumbled over over a rock and quickly went on, his voice rising an octave, "Besides, you should be used to it – like Leliana said, you were at Court, and you are the Teyrn's daughter. I mean, were... The chatter of the group cut off, as everyone looked anywhere but at her. "I... Oh. Crows. I'm so sorry, Iseult. I shouldn't have said anything."

She had been the Teyrn's daughter. But there wasn't a Teyrn anymore. Her strides lengthened, each stomp raising a miniature dust cloud behind her. She would find Howe. She would find him, and he would pay for everything he'd done. She suddenly craved a battle. She wanted to knock someone's head in. She tripped over a stone, the skirt confining her leg movements.

"Maker blast it!" she beat at the skirt. "Maybe I was the Teyrn's daughter," she snapped, "But that doesn't mean I was a simpering noblewoman. I spent most my time on the training field, and you should all be glad of that!"

They walked in silence for a pace, the group keeping a wide distance from her. Whether that was a result of her temper, or the fact the sheaths to her swords were stolen along with her clothes, she didn't know. Alistair had found that fact strangely hilarious. Sten was the only one who seemed to understand her need to have her weapons in sight at all times.

She sighed. What she would give for some horses and a good pair of boots. Alistair had promised Arl Eamon would give them horses. She would believe it when it happened. The Arl had been on good terms with her father, but then, so had Rendon Howe. The blight-ridden bastard.

...

"There." Sten said, pointing down the road, "A woman."

"Oh goodie, just what we need," Morrigan's voice dripped with sarcasm, "Another troubled soul for you to help. At least when we lose the war, they'll be able to say how good and noble you were."

It was a woman, and she did indeed look in need of help. Iseult sighed, and followed her down the path. She couldn't turn down someone in need, no matter how much she would like to. But she wished it had been bandits, or someone to fight, instead of another group of poor refuges on the road.

Iseult got her wish. Battle was drawn nearly as soon as they rounded the corner.

She let out a bloodcurdling cry, pulling her swords and dodging an arrow simultaneously. "Archers on the rise!" she called out, and saw Morrigan quickly apprise the situation. Iseult nearly went down, the dress hampering her movements. With two quick slices, she neatly slit the skirt up to her thigh. There. Fixed.

...

The battle ended with no major wounds on their side, at least, nothing bandages and a few of Morrigan's potions couldn't heal. The witch supplied the potions readily enough, but would let no one tend her wounds. She seemed to blame them all that she'd been hurt in the first place.

Sten stood staunchly at attention, his face stoic as she broke the shaft from the arrow and slid it from his shoulder. It had gone clean through, which she was happy about. She'd dug out too many arrow heads lately. He waited patiently while she bound his shoulder. Leliana was patching up Alistair, after neatly securing their prisoner. No Sister knew knots as intricate as the ones she'd tied. There was something much more to the story than she was telling.

Iseult's mabari barked, running from the prone elf to her feet, and back again.

"I believe your prisoner is waking up," Morrigan said. "Do you wish me to knock him out again?"

"No," Iseult finished Sten's shoulder and strode across the small field where they'd been ambushed. "I want to talk to him." Her voice was dangerously low, and Morrigan smiled.

.~.~.~.~.

The first thing Zevran noticed when he regained consciousness (besides the pounding head and the fact he was tied with nearly as much skill as his own) was the beautiful woman standing across from him. She'd been tending the large… what was that, a Qunari? But upon seeing him wake she immediately came to his side. The dress clung flatteringly to her curves, accentuating the line of her body. Pity it was torn. Or maybe not, he thought, seeing the dress flutter in the wind to reveal two very shapely, strong legs. He knew this was one of the Grey Wardens he'd been sent to kill, but he couldn't believe the tales Howe had fed him. She wasn't a warrior, surely. She must be their healer. Zevran smiled up at her. She could heal him anytime.

She murmured something to another companion, this one a Chantry Sister, no less. There was something about her… she was very attractive, yes, but there was something else. He watched the expert way in which she divested his dead comrades of their weapons and armor, dividing it up into piles. Yes, there was something else there. The warden in front of him kicked his boots rudely.

"You're awake. Now talk." Her voice was much more menacing that he'd imagined, although still quite lovely in its own way.

"I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven't killed me yet." He looked from her to the large mabari skulking up to her side. Which one of them had growled?

"I thought maybe I should torture you first," she said, and now he noted the long deadly blades that hung at her hips.

They were beautifully clean and well-cared for, but she wore them unsheathed. So either she hadn't used them and didn't know to sheath them, or she was experienced enough to know how to care for her weapons and… what? She liked the way they looked in the sun? That could go either way for him.

He'd thought, back at the beginning of it all, that he truly didn't care what happened at this altercation. But suddenly he did, very much. Zevran gave her his best smile, and set out to win his life back.

.~.~.~.~.

The next morning Iseult felt much more herself as threw the blasted dress into the rag pile with relish. Let it become bandages. She had armor again. She was never wearing it again.

"Tsk, tsk," came a voice, "And you looked so lovely in it."

She turned to see the elf watching her from across the campfire. It was still dim, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, but Zevran looked as well-rested as she felt. Her mabari still trailed him. The dog would watch the assassin every moment until she gave the say so.

"I'm not the dress type," she said curtly.

"On the contrary, I think you're very much the dress type. And the way that one drew the eye to your… assets. It's a shame to throw it away."

Iseult flushed. She didn't even know why she'd spared his life. He should've died as soon as she'd heard who contracted him. He was an assassin, for Andraste's sake. Sent to kill them. But they did need every hand they could get in the upcoming days. Someone of his skills would be very useful. And it was not because he exuded sensuality, or she had a thing for dangerous men, no matter what Alistair had accused her of last night.

"You should be watching your own assets, Zevran," she nodded to her dog, who growled softly, his mouth very close to Zevran's groin.

"Ahh… I meant no offense, my dear Warden. Surely you wouldn't punish me for an innocent compliment to your beauty?"

"It's not my beauty you should be concerned with."

"I see. What is it then, that I should be concerned with?"

"I am your commander. You should be concerned with following my orders."

"And nothing else? I am sure your other companions share more concerns that that."

Sten walked into view, he was up every morning before the first light of dawn. Unlike Alistair and Leliana, who were still sitting dazed and foggy on their bedrolls, looking like they may pass back out at any moment. Sten carried a basket of greens he'd gathered from the countryside, and set it down with a grumbling glance towards his sleepy companions. His gathering skills never ceased to amaze her. Looking at him, she'd never guess he would know more types of mushrooms than her old cook did.

"If anything else," she said, glancing from Sten back to Zevran, "it should be my skill as a leader and warrior. But I think both were proven to you thoroughly to you yesterday."

"And your skill as a healer, no?"

"A healer?" Iseult exclaimed, "I am not a healer."

"But you cared for Sten, the Quanari. And you healed me quite nicely, last night. I don't think I've ever felt hands so tender."

Iseult's jaw clenched. "I am not a healer," she repeated stiffly. "No one else was willing to heal you. And I don't have tender hands!"

"My mistake," Zevran said, smiling and bowing slightly. "You have very deft, strong hands. Ones that could make a man shake, with the expert pressure you applied."

"This conversation is done." Iseult turned on her heel and began striding away from camp. She heard an amusing chuckle as Zevran ran to catch up.

"I see now, you thought I didn't approve of the armor you're wearing? It is not quite as lovely as the dress, but you still look quite fetching. It's very nice quality leather," he inhaled next to her, and sighed softly, "an unexpected find among those thugs I'd hired out with me."

"It'll do."

"And that mailed breastplate… that is quite appealing. Although you do now match your other Grey Warden, yes? Are you a… set?"

"Are we a what?"

"A set. A match. Do you tumble together in the night."

"That is none of your business!"

"Ah, I see that you do not."

"Zevran, you may want to get out of my way now." Iseult said, coming to a small clearing out of sight from the campfire. "I'm about to start my practice, and if you don't step away, you can be the dummy."

"You practice fighting?" his mouth quirked into an amused smile. "Ah yes, you are a warrior not a healer."

"Smirk away. You were the one trussed up like a bird yesterday. You saw me fight."

"Alas, I did not. That witch of yours did something to my senses. I'm afraid I only experienced the great might of your pet Qunari." He grimaced. "And your hound. But I trust your word. We Antivan's have no woman warriors, but I have heard many stories of the ferociousness of Ferelden's females."

"I… You…" Iseult sputtered. She couldn't line up her thoughts coherently. He was so infuriating! No one had doubted her fighting prowess in years. Even that clod Jory hadn't had the audacity to question her.

"I am sure you are an excellent fighter," he was saying now, "but perhaps I could train you in some of the more womanly arts? Have you tried your hand at poison? Or there are these quite wonderful little daggers Antivan women sometimes use, once you seduce your prey…"

"Seduce my prey? Womanly arts?" Iseult exploded. "I fight with skill and honor, and I'm deadlier than any back-handed sneak assassin." She slid her swords from her newly purloined sheaths and dropped into a fighter's stance, beckoning him forward.

Zevran smiled, drawing his daggers with the quick sound of steel, "I'm sure you are very deadly, my fair Warden. Just as are all of Ferelden's woman warriors." His voice dropped into amusement on the last two words, and they circled one another.

Iseult ignored his taunts now. This was her realm. This was when her blood sang. She made a few quick feints, testing his speed. Fast, but she was faster, and had longer reach. They crossed blades, the ringing sound of steel on steel echoing back through the small glen they'd camped in. Iseult's breath came faster, the blood surging in her veins. She smiled wickedly. Their weapons clashed, back and forth, as they danced around one another.

Zevran, for his part, was a little shocked at the blurring speed in which she parried him. When he'd taken this job, he'd assumed the senior Warden was the one to watch for, and the exaggerated tales of the woman were just that, exaggeration. Yet for the first time since sparring with Taliesin, he felt a keening sense of excitement. She was good. She was very good. She could beat him. The thought sent his heart racing faster than exertion she forced from him.

...

"She's decided to kill him now?" Alistair's voice came from somewhere behind them. "I call dibs on his bedroll. I don't see why he was allowed to keep it, anyway."

"Would you really want the elf's bedroll, Alistair? From what I saw, he sleeps without a stitch of clothing on. But then, I'm not surprised. All that time with the templars, and no women," Morrigan replied with a mock tone of sadness.

"I… no. I don't… I would wash it!"

"Mmmm," Morrigan answered, noncommittally. Iseult and Zevran wove together, blades dancing. The rising sun glinted off the sparkling steel, moving almost too fast to see. Exhilarated laughter rang out from Iseult, and Zevran gave a soft groan. First blood. Morrigan could smell it. She could also smell the pheromones rising from the pair of them. "Alistair…" she drawled, "I think you might want to leave."

"What? Why?"

"I want to watch." Leliana said, with a small, cat-like smile.

Alistair looked from one to the other, and then back to the pair who'd drawn apart only to come clashing together again, their blades and bodies weaving together with an orchestrated grace.

Morrigan left, sighing. She might as well cook the fish she'd caught for breakfast. They were obviously going to be hungry when they were finished.

...

Iseult parried another strike and their blades slid together, bringing them in close. Zevran's second blade came from below, but she caught that easily. For a moment they stood, blades locked, faces inches away. He was shorter than she was, and she had to look down into his face. It should've been disconcerting, but instead it sent a heat quickening through her. His eyes were large and sultry - bedroom eyes, her mother would've called them. Although she'd never heard them referred as such on a man before. His hair gleamed blonde in the sunlight. It had been braided yesterday, but now it was loose, falling around his shoulders. Her hair had come loose as well; she could feel strands of it tickling down her neck.

"I take it back," he murmured, "you are much more captivating like this."

She twisted the grip on her sword, breaking their contact. They made another flurry of strikes that sent them spinning about the small clearing, leaving them both breathless.

Slowly they paced around one another. They knew each other's movements now, were watching for the minute signs that would give a fresh attack away.

"You think so? You don't want to see me back in a dress?"

"No, no. This is much more… enticing," he smiled slightly, looking her up and down. "You are like a fierce ocean storm. Dangerous and intoxicating."

"An ocean storm, am I?" she made a feint to the right that he parried easily, then dodged her follow-up blow, but he missed the third strike, and she scored a long line down his leather armor.

"Beautiful and dazzling and deadly," he replied, his Antivan accent caressing the words. She smiled wickedly, feeling her body respond to the heat in his tone. She hadn't felt this alive in a long time. Not since Howe had ripped her family away from her, murdering every one of them down to her defenseless nephew. Even Fergus was dead by now, either by betrayal or darkspawn. Howe had to suffer for that. He had to suffer badly. His men had killed her lover in her own bed.

Anger boiled up inside her and she made a flashing series of blows, driving Zevran back with force. He barely dodged a strike that would've made much more than a score in his armor. Using every bit of skill he had, he wove in close to her, purposefully locking the hilts of their weapons together.

"There is another way to ease your anger," he said, lips inches from hers. She stared at him, eyes glittering dangerously. "One even more enjoyable than this."

She made a move to dislodge their swords, but Zevran moved with her and they slipped, sprawling into the grass. Their swords still interlocked, Iseult caught her breath as she found herself on top of him.

"You did that on purpose," she breathed.

"I did not, but I can not say I am sorry it happened," Zevran moved slightly under her, so one of his thighs pressed between hers. Iseult gave a small gasp and froze on top if him, her body rigid. She couldn't be considering this. This was the most foolhardy thing she'd done since… ever. This man tried to kill her yesterday, she reminded herself. She could not do this. But still, she didn't move. She stared down into his face. He was waiting, waiting for her to make the first move. He wouldn't kiss her, she realized.

"Let go of your daggers," she said softly. Zevran opened both hands, laying them by the side of his head. She threw their weapons to the side. "Do you have any more weapons on you? Poisons? A dagger in your boot?"

"I am defenseless against you," Zevran said, making that one simple sentence hold a world of meaning.

"If you do, you'll pay."

He smiled languidly, "Promises, promises."

Iseult slowly, breath by breath, moved her mouth closer to his. She watched his eyes as their faces drew close. He made no move to kiss her. This was so stupid, it was so incredibly stupid, but she didn't care. Softly, she pressed her lips to his. His hand came up to curl into her hair, and she turned her mouth on his, her lips parting as the kiss deepened. The first touch of his tongue against hers suffused her body with a hot need, one she hadn't felt in so long. She didn't know where the others were, or what they would think of this. She pushed the thoughts away, pressing herself closer, wanting the full contact of his body against hers.

"Iseult," Zevran gasped.

"Yes," she breathed out. Just hearing her name from his lips, that accent... She captured his mouth again, and he gave in, kissing her long and deep, both hands threading through her hair now. Slowly he parted their kiss, trying to turn them to the side.

"Iseult," he said again, making it a caress, and she groaned and pushed towards him, even as he held her apart. "I don't want to complain, but your armor…"

Color rushed to Iseult's face, as she realized her armor was pressing painfully against his skin. She pulled away quickly, but Zevran grasped her wrist.

"No, just… let me." His fingers expertly unlaced the sides of her chest piece, all the while pressing hot, quick kisses to her skin. She groaned as one of his hands found her free breast, under the loose linen shift.

"The others…" She glanced around them. She couldn't see anyone.

"They aren't here." He'd pulled the shift over her head now, and she groaned as his mouth found her nipple. "Do you want to stop?" he asked, brushing his lips over the hard point.

"No," the word was a gasp, as his hand slid down her taunt body. Fierce need coursed through her, and her fingers frantically helped Zevran free himself of his leathers. She'd had other lovers, but no one since Darrien. Who was dead, all because of the bastard. Anger mixed with desire, and she shoved Zevran back on the grass, straddling his thighs. She ground down into the hard length of him, pinning his shoulders to the ground. He laughed, a glorious, intoxicating sound.

"You surprise even me," he breathed, looking up at her. His hands traced the fullness of her breasts. Then he was inside her, and she forgot everything in their movement. The rocking, sliding, in and out connection of their bodies. She drove herself onto him, and then somehow he was on top of her, the rhythm of his body making her gasp as euphoric waves of pleasure crashed through her. She cried out, meeting every thrust, nails scraping down his back. Zevran cried out in pain or pleasure, or both, she couldn't tell. The world spun into a moment of pure exultation.

...

Zevran lay on the grass, looking up at the sun still barely rising into the morning sky. It seemed as if so much more time had gone by. A lifetime. A new life. He knew someday they would come for him, he would have to face what he'd left. But that wasn't today. He looked over to the fierce woman across from him. Every move she made was economical, but as graceful as a tiger. He wondered if she truly new how beautiful she was. Iseult. He rolled her name over on his tongue. Iseult. It matched her.

She was already dressing, strapping on her armor, tying up her hair. This was nothing, meant nothing, he reminded himself. He'd always taken pleasure where he found it, and afterward she'd affirmed her own belief in that sentiment. If she'd said it with a little regret in the tone of her voice, that too could be explained - what woman wouldn't regret dalliancing with a man who had tried to kill her the day before? It was only sensible. And he... well. She only captivated him because she exotic, a warrior unlike any woman he'd known before. There was nothing more to it. Oh, it may happen again, he was fairly sure it would. But it would mean nothing. He knew all too well about using pleasure to mask the pain, he found it a much healthier way of life. Or at least, a much more enjoyable one.

Zevran closed his eyes against the newborn sun, as its rays shot over the horizon. He still felt exalted as if he'd drunk too much unwatered wine. It felt like this everytime, as if he'd survived a small death - one that spun the world and made everything light again, more vibrant. It stripped the breath from your soul and then filled you, leaving you breathing again. At least for a time.

He opened his eyes at the sliding, scraping sound of metal on metal. She'd polished her swords, and now was sliding them into the sheaths she'd strapped back on. Her name may be Iseult, he reminded himself, but she was a Warrior and a Warden first. This was nothing, to either of them.

But when she met his eyes and smiled and the sun seemed to grow a little brighter. Zevran couldn't help but smile back. A little bit of fear there, niggling in the back of his mind. He pushed it far back, back into the depths with his past. He'd been following a dangerous road far too long to let a little thing like doubt stop him now. Or a little thing called Hope, he amended as she smiled again.