Reconciliation

by Sresla

"There's power in stories, though. That's all history is: the best tales. The ones that last," Varric quipped to the pacing Nevarran Seeker. She wanted the truth of it, but the book she held was all the honesty he had to give her.

I saw the elf out of the corner of my eye. Dressed in leathers like a Dalish but clearly not one of them – too good-looking by half, for one, and while I wouldn't call elven craftsmanship crude, their weapons are clearly designed for different purposes whereas his looked exceptionally… sharp. Even at this distance, everything about him reeked of city living: his posture, his bemused half-smile, the unconcerned way he watched us fight for our lives. Experienced, seasoned, worldly-wise, call it whatever you want, it all boils down to the same thing – trouble. We were doing nothing more than providing him with entertainment, the same way a cheated strumpet's shrieks or a tavern brawl does – assuming you're an innocent bystander.

Now, I know you might say my claim that I never miss with Bianca is an empty boast. And, I'll give you that after a night of drinking at The Hanged Man, she can be temperamental but it's only because my Bianca's a lady and doesn't go in for rough handling, but I've never lost a bet with her when I've been sober. I'll swear to you on whatever god you respect that my aim was true when I swung her around and fired off a bolt at him. We'd drag his carcass back with us, collect the bounty and be home before supper - except I lost my appetite when the bolt clattered against the gray stone of the cave's wall.

Bastard didn't look like he'd moved, which made him good – better than good. That fellow Nuncio used the word assassin, but I think we took that to mean murderer, another word the Antivan bantered around – some two bit criminal who'd made an enemy of the wrong man and gotten lucky finding some sympathetic Dalish clan to shelter him. No, this was something else entirely; I knew it when the man tipped his head, saluting the shot but made no move towards us. A face full of bug spit convinced me I'd better concentrate on the overgrown spider, rather than the smiling elf. After all, I'd be just as dead if I stood there while the Varterral quaked the ceiling down on top of me as I would be to a knife in the back if the stranger was inclined to take my shot personally.

Zevran exhaled softly as he ended the sentence with a flourish of his pen. The lone candle – their room's only, meager light source – flickered unsteadily under his breathy gale, sending a few droplets of beige wax spattering onto the loose parchment strewn across the desk. Cursing his own carelessness, he sorted through the damaged sheaves and noted with relief none of them were pages he'd set aside to dry. He transferred what he dared onto the paint-flecked nightstand – its whitewash peeled and flakey, exposing the bare wood beneath – working quietly even though the room's other occupant was unlikely to notice the noise.

The ruined papers he set aside. As necessary, he could carefully scrape them clean in order to finish tonight. Delay much longer and he wouldn't be able to hide this little endeavor from Sandor, and he knew his lover wouldn't approve. Defacing a book was tantamount to any other crime he might name in his partner's eyes – more so now that they could no longer afford the encumbrance – even were he to agree with its necessity. The few tomes they'd left Denerim with were long lost to unexpectedly hasty departures from wherever the two elves chose to call home on a given day or week.

He glanced over at the bed, before looking away guiltily. 'Forgive me, mago.' The other elf's sleep has never been particularly restful, although Zevran believed his presence soothed away many of the nightmares that plagued his partner. Regardless, it had not stopped him from drugging Sandor's food with papavero resin these past few nights while he worked in secret. His lover's sluggishly slow breathing pricked his conscience during the silences when he ceased pressing quill to parchment – the scratching helped mask the assassin's growing dread. He risked dire consequences, trapping a mage in the Fade, but his options were few and the other scenarios worse.

'Varric Tethras, você deve speranza noi non si incontri mai otra vez.'

"Zevran! Is it really you? By the Maker, you haven't aged a day!"

"In the flesh. Anders, my friend, you are looking…" The elf stared intently at Blondie, and finished his sentence, "it is good to see you again. Nathaniel, he is not with you? Such a shame he and I cannot renew our acquaintance – I have missed his affable disposition."

It must have been some shared joke between the two, because they both started laughing. It was good to see him laugh – Anders, that is. He'd stopped coming to the bar for drinks – and I didn't think it was because his alter-ego objected to the alcohol. It was lucky he'd taken over the conversation because that's when it hit me, what he'd said.

Oh shit.

In my business, you're not always dealing with cream of the proverbial crop, Aveline being the one upstanding exception. All this means is, dealing with groups like the Coterie – the local thieves guild – is something I'm used to.

By comparison, though, the Coterie are small fry, with no reputation to speak of outside Kirkwall. No, notoriety of that level belongs to organizations like the Crimson Court, who earned their name through the brutal treatment of their victims, or the Shadow of the Empire, said to be directly answerable only to Empress Celene of Orlais. By and large, the most famous is the House of Crows of Antiva. It's said that no general would be mad enough to lead an attack on the Antivan borders, for while they would succeed due to the fact Antiva has no standing army, the general would likely be assassinated by the Crows. As the most feared guild of assassins, spies and thieves ever to offer their services to the rich and powerful, they thrive as much on their infamy as their efficiency in always getting the job done – that is, until Zevran Arainai was sent to kill the two surviving Grey Wardens in Ferelden.

You've heard the stories – he was the deadliest assassin the Crows ever produced. However, instead of killing his marks, he pledged himself to their cause (or to the elven Warden, as some of the tales go), helped defeat the Blight and then remained in Denerim for a time. After that, the rumors surrounding him get wilder and wilder. I know one woman who swears she saw him in a stage performance of Le Corsaire et l'Empereur in Orlais – and it isn't the strangest claim I've heard about Zevran Arainai. There doesn't even seem to be any consensus on whether or not he and the Hero of Ferelden were lovers, although the two disappeared at about the same time.

Now you understand why my legs turned to jelly when I realized who he was. I'm certainly braver than the next man – by virtue of being a dwarf – but you've got to understand: Zevran Arainai is an eidolon to those in Thedas' underworld, like Red Jenny or the Black Fox. The bounty the Crows have on him would be enough for me to buy my way back into Orzammar, if I decided I never wanted to see sky again. That assumes I'm fool enough to try and collect it.

All of this, I suppose I could have asked Blondie about over these last… what, five years? I'm not sure now why I never did. Never occurred to me, I guess. I had my head stuck up my ass, too busy with my own personal problems or being dragged into whatever madness Hawke got involved with to sort out truth from a fireside yarn whose principals I never thought I'd meet. Anders' history was no secret; he would have known Sandor Surana personally. I guess it's strange, now I come to think on it. He had plenty to say about the Wardens – a mixed bag of curse and blessing, for the most part – but never once did he mention the elven mage. I took it as a sign of respect – that he'd be willing to keep his friend's secrets – if his apparent relationship with the former Crow was any indication.

And Hawke, well… Hawke stood there gaping. I doubt he expected to find a living Fereldan legend in some dank cave. It was probably one of the odder things that ever happened to him – which might be saying something.

The upheaval sparked by the incidents in Kirkwall ended up effecting Cumberland very little; most of the city's industry revolved around the collegium and any change that disrupted trade was an unwelcome one. The Templars in service broke from the Chantry and pledged themselves to the Circle; they now served as a peacekeeping force and helped regulate new entrants to the city. As one of the largest ports in Thedas, the difficulty lay not in blending in with Cumberland's elven population, but rather the temptation it represented in the form of the College of Magi and their vast collection of books.

Aware of Sandor's weakness – knowing his lover was unable to resist the lure of a library even if their stay was brief while they sought passage north – Zevran had time to prepare documentation for the elven Warden days before they reached the west gate entrance. An overworked guard hurriedly motioned them out of the general flow of carts, animals and people over to a podium where a bored, heavily armored man wearing the Circle's tabard instead of the Templars stylized sunburst gave the elven mage's papers a cursory glance.

He rattled off, "A two week pass will cost you ten royals – longer, and you'll need a sponsor to remain in the city. You must have your pass on you at all times and if you lose it, you'll have to pay a second fee, and that's triple." He looked the elven Warden up and down; Sandor stoically endured his snobbish scrutiny. While Zevran's leathers were in good repair, his partner hadn't worn a robe publicly in many years and was forced to make do with what they found secondhand at a fripperer's in Val Marseillaise. The garment suffered, as much from moths and disuse as from Sandor's well-meant but inexpert intentions with a needle, so that now the robe resembled a novice's quilt, its mismatched patches sewn on with large, careful stitches. "If you're unable to pay, you will be given the choice of indentureship or expulsion." Dubiously, the templar accepted the mage's coins – after scraping one's rim with his blunt fingernail – dribbled colored wax onto the parchment, affixed the official seal, and waved them through.

The room they rented, opulent for no other reason than it afforded privacy due to its small size, had little else to recommend it. It held a single bed and several pieces of furniture – a rickety writing desk, chair and ancient nightstand – all clustered so closely there was barely room to stand. Zevran ignored the other minor but obvious drawbacks – a musty, straw-stuffed mattress and ticking that boasted unidentifiable stains – in favor of the one benefit the room did have: the chimney from the fireplace below taking up one wall. The heated bricks warmed the room, in his opinion, to tolerable temperatures, despite Sandor's complaint he was too hot. "You are welcome to strip off all your clothing – I will not object," Zevran countered cheekily, once the innkeeper left; the assassin readily agreed with the man's asking price and now the assassin pressed his back to the stones with a contented sigh. 'Too hot' was foreign to him – since leaving Antiva, in his experience, there was only 'too cold' and, very rarely, 'just right'.

He received a silent, eye-rolling response and grinned broadly. "Shall I find us something to eat, while you complete the necessary precautions?"

Sandor distractedly waved his assent, already intently at work on the chalk drawings he sketched prior to erecting the magical barrier he insisted upon, whenever they took up a new residence. The archaic symbols on the far wall formed an abstract work of art, giving off a faint blue-white glow as the mage's power imbued them. "Cuidate molto, asesino."

"When I return, we might explore the concept of incalescence, yes? Muoio di desejo, mago. I will not be long." Zevran waited the few minutes he knew it would take his lover to register the phrase and slowly translate it in his head. His reward was watching the straight line Sandor was trying to draw wobble into an unrecognizable scribble before he slipped out the door.

Still chuckling when he reached the market, a few inquiries pointed him to some street vendors plying their wares at the other end of the square. Given how strident the stalls' owners were in their recommendations, he suspected more than a little collusion between suppliers and the skewer, pie and sausage peddlers. Certain all the options were equally terrible, he faced the illusion of choice – if for no other reason than the questionable source of meat used in all three. He mulled over the decision of the main dish until he decided with a grin to purchase a sweet wine instead.

He turned about but before he'd gone more than a few paces, a dwarf fell into step beside him. "Not hungry, elf?"

The Antivan glanced over and noted the dark brands, like castle crenellations, running across the man's forehead. 'Some arm of the Carta then.' It might be this man's job to drum up business for these merchants, if their own milder sales tactics failed. However, Zevran was in no mood to be generous with his coin, when he had decided to spend it elsewhere. They would not be in Cumberland long enough to need work, so the two elves needn't worry over the repercussions for any rejection – assuming the dwarf lived through this encounter to report it to his superiors. "I am sorry, but I am not–"

The man continued to dog his heels as he rounded a corner. "It's Audran you want to see. He'll have exactly what you want."

'Ah…' Solicitation of a different kind; it served only to remind him what awaited him on his return home. "Apologies, but I am quite–"

Zevran's dagger pressed against the dwarf's throat before he could do more than grab his arm; the assassin felt cartilage slide past the knife's edge as the man swallowed. Carefully, the dwarf let go, and held up his arms in a gesture of surrender. "No problem, Salroka – no problem – just a younger brother's recommendation, is all."

If the honorific hadn't given him pause – calling him 'friend' might placate him, but saying it in dwarfish either assumed he knew what it meant (and it wasn't a word the now-surface dwarves threw around lightly) or was a panicky overreaction – the explanation of the man's adamant persistence did. 'Bhelen.'

Bhelen Aeducan proved himself an ally – if a desultory one – over the years since Sandor handed him Caridin's crown. Several times a year, the elven Warden received messages much like this one; often, they were offers of employment, although the occasional timely warning wormed its way into the usual missives. On some level, Zevran knew he should be bothered by how easily Bhelen was able to locate them, considering the effort the pair put forth trying to stay, if not hidden, at least unobtrusive. On the other hand, the people looking for them were mostly human with no understanding of the vast network the dwarves had built – in some cases, quite literally – right under their noses.

However, this was the first time a message had been delivered to him. That either made the information vitally imperative or… he did not know what. He disliked the idea of having to leave so soon after their arrival. They had been taken completely unawares only once – he still mourned the loss of his Vigilance resulting from the narrow escape – and grown considerably more careful in the intervening years.

He sheathed his blade. "You have convinced me, my friend. Where do I find this Audran?"

The other man wasted no time in putting several yards worth of distance between himself and the assassin, as if that might save him if Zevran changed his mind. "He's four streets over, on Halver's Row. Look for the sign with the nug. The humans," he turned and spat, "think it's a rat. Their loss." The man grinned; the left half of his mouth was toothless. "Dekhar. You tell him Dekhar sent you," before he scuttled off.

Alerted first by the overripe, coppery scent, the dusty street's nooks and crannies were alive with the movement of dozens of feral cats – a clear indication of at least one slaughterhouse nearby. One particularly bold tortoiseshell kitten scampered up and strolled along with him until he reached the door with painted nug sign and attempted to squirm past his foot when he tried to block the entrance. "I can appreciate your determination, gattino, but there is no guarantee you will be treated as a customer, not a commodity. Best to wait outside."

He tried to nudge the animal out of the way; it took a swipe at him with an overlarge paw then retreated to the pile of tumbled crates across the street. Zevran checked the boot, gratified he had been quick enough to wrench his ankle out of the cat's reach and prevent its tiny claws from scoring the supple brown leather.

Glimpsed through the front window, the store's stock was limited; the remainder probably culls rejected by servants and wives as inferior: too little meat, too stringy, too gamey. Strung from the rafters were a few carcasses – he assumed nug and rabbit although some of the bodies looked suspiciously small – the humans might have a reason to think 'rat' beyond prejudice. There were also several unplucked chickens with dark blue-green feathers and a lone duck.

There'd been no bell or chime to announce his arrival but Zevran wasn't forced to wait very long before an older dwarf tromped in from the back room. His gloves and apron were stained maroon, and he had flecks of flesh and gristle caught in his gray-streaked beard.

"You would be Audran, yes?"

"Audran Josniel, of Cumberland and formerly Orzammar," he answered with a dip of his head. "What can I do for you, ser?"

'At least it is not some alleyway ambush.' He knew the man must recognize him on sight, by his tattoos alone if nothing else, as the other dwarf had done. Disliking this pretense on principle, he knew Audran was using this ill-conceived posturing to size him up as if he could tell by looking if all the rumors about him were true. It wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last, but that made it no less tiresome. Hoping to hasten the proceedings, he played along, "I was informed your selection was beyond compare, and you are second to none in the city when it comes to handling a cleaver. Yet I see no bull's tail and this," he drew his dagger and poked at one of the hanging corpses with its tip, "does not appear to be lamb. Such mediocre offerings are not what I was led to expect." Coda os touro and arrosticini – food he hadn't tasted in so long it didn't bear thinking about. Even if this old villain sold the ingredients, neither he nor his partner were very good cooks although with as often as they suffered through terrible meals at inns and taverns, there was certainly the incentive to improve. 'Ah well.'

"Someone's been running his mouth then, to mislead you so. Mine's a humble establishment, but the meat's fresh and the prices are fair. Who was it telling you these lies?"

"He named himself Dekhar."

Audran shook his head sadly, and sighed. "My sister's son. He's a bad seed, shaped by the company he keeps."

'Being close kin to the Carta's local leader helped in that regard, no doubt.' He allowed his voice to be audibly terse when he replied, "It is also no concern of mine. He – and you – have wasted my time if this is the best you can offer. Recompense is in order, no? I am a busy man. I may have been on my way to an assassination."

For the first time, Audran's act faltered, a muscle in his cheek twitching nervously. "Ser means assignation, surely."

It took only a small amount of extra pressure to sink the knife he'd been using to prod the meat up to its hilt. "If you like, certainly." He extricated his dagger, wiped it on his bracer, making a mental note to give it a thorough cleaning when he returned home.

"Yes, well…" Zevran steadily met the man's gaze until the dwarf circumspectly averted his eyes and shuffled back the way he came. "I have… Excuse me a moment."

As there was no merchandise to browse, the assassin simply stood, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, and waited, keeping himself ready on the off chance Audran decided to barrel out from his storeroom with war cry and a battleax. The other man wasn't gone long and returned with a covered basket. He thrust it clumsily towards Zevran, and then mopped his brow with a sweat-stained handkerchief. "With my compliments and apology for the inconvenience. I don't want any trouble," which was followed by a muttered, barely audible, "leastwise, not from you."

The basket was heavier than Zevran expected – too weighty to account for just a piece of paper. He hoped it didn't contain some grisly token he'd be hard pressed to explain having in his possession if he was stopped by a guard for any reason. There didn't seem to be anything more to say to Audran so with a stiff, short bow, he turned and left the shop.

He crossed the main thoroughfare then chose an apparently deserted side street, turning down the lane with calculated nonchalance. Zevran stopped halfway and after discreetly checking to ensure the alley was as empty as it appeared, he peeked under the basket's cloth. It wasn't weighted with – as he had feared – a severed head or something equally gruesome, but instead held a whole roast chicken.

Zevran settled himself into a patch of shade. As unexpected as the bird was, he doubted Bhelen's instructions to Audran were as altruistic as 'Give them a good meal.' Pulling the linen free and setting it on his lap, he lifted the chicken with one hand and then felt along the edges, then bottom, of the basket but found nothing. He upended it and shook vigorously; no concealed packet dropped into his lap. 'Perhaps it is written–'

A slight movement caught his eye. Approaching him with all the stealth it could manage, the scrawny kitten slunk forwards, its wormy, distended belly dragging in the dirt. The Antivan was about to shoo it away, then slowly – so as not to startle the small animal – put the basket down and placed the chicken back inside. He dug out a chunk and then gently tossed the portion – skin and all – to the cat, which skittered backwards apprehensively but didn't run away. Likely, the savory aroma overrode its instincts; hunger was a powerful motivator.

"Better you than I, little one," as the kitten worked up the courage and pounced, then began to eat with a low, growling hurr deep in its throat as it hastily bolted down the meat. Zevran would regret the cat's death if the food were poisoned but comforted himself with the thought that it would not go unavenged. The trick would be keeping the animal around long enough to see if the food had any effect. Meanwhile he examined the cloth; it was clean, or as clean as it could be, outside the greasy spots where it had been tucked around the chicken.

Before long though, the scraps attracted more than the lone kitten and soon a half-dozen strays were vying for the meager portions. A tabby queen missing part of her left ear sauntered up and roughly cuffed the youngster aside, commandeering his piece; once the kitten recovered from its daze, it arched its back and did an odd, skittering dance – a show of advances and withdrawls that the older cat completely ignored.

"She teaches you a valuable lesson, gattino," he lectured, as the kitten sat down and gave a piteous meow. "In this life, you must be prepared to fight," a yowling broke out as two toms scuffled and clawed ferociously at one another, "and even die to protect what is important to you." His fingers brushed bone – he'd stripped off enough meat to reach the bird's ribcage and the empty cavity beneath – and when he glanced down, he saw a slip of parchment nestled where the heart would be.

He peeled off his glove and extracted the note from its hiding place. Damp from the meat's juices, he unfolded the parchment; one end tore along its crease but the writing was legible if a bit blurry:

The Staid Stave

Third Quarter

Zevran tried to remember last night's moon, recalling it was no more than a milky crescent in the sky. 'Two nights and a day.' However, there was neither a time nor a target; whatever reason the dwarven king had for directing them there should be obvious on the date in question – he hoped. Absently, he tore off a piece of chicken and stuck it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

He fattened Cumberland's strays through half a chicken and his shade shrank to a sliver. 'I need not trouble him over this.' The message had been delivered to him. Despite no obvious indication that Sandor needed to remain ignorant, surely Bhelen's intention was for Zevran to be at the meeting place alone. The Antivan had no desire to deprive his partner of this rare luxury: to avail himself to College's collection of books and resources, these few days to research and perfect his own intricate arcane incantations without being reduced to primitive trial and error. He'd only be underfoot if he accompanied Sandor; his own boredom driving them both to distraction and accomplishing nothing for all the trouble they took gaining the mage admittance to the library.

He heaved the rest of the carcass into the street. Swarming over it like a hive of queenless drones, the cats set to work devouring the remains while Zevran tidily dusted himself off then went in search of a wineseller.

It's difficult to eavesdrop when you're one of three people not included in a conversation; any move you make is going to seem like a blatant invasion of privacy. Rather than what you'd expect, the smooth cavern walls weren't a good conductor for sound, bouncing back garbled bits and pieces of what Blondie was saying, when they raised their voices loud enough. You can learn a bit by watching, but all of us were staring holes into them as they talked, for different reasons.

"… sooner, but circumstances prevented us…"

That was Zevran. Hawke, eyes riveted on the two men and their subdued discussion, lightly nudged Fenris' shoulder. He grinned widely at the implication; Fenris scowled and rubbed his shoulder, as if his friend's easy jab bruised him. Or his ego – one of the two; it's hard to tell.

I could picture the wheels in Fenris' mind turning. I have no idea how much he paid attention to songs or storytellers; since his escape from his master happened roughly parallel to Ferelden's Blight, I doubt any of it had time to wend its way to Tevinter to become a tavern staple although it sounded as if Danarius kept him on a tight leash – literally. Since then, though… it was one of Hawke's favorites so he at least must know the Hero. I guess it's possible, given how loosely linked Sandor Surana and Zevran Arainai are, he might not have made the connection. Or maybe he just didn't bother listening; I don't think our elf had much time for what he labeled fairytales, verity aside. All he saw was a man – our bounty – chatting amiably with Anders and Hawke making no move to intercede. That he was known to Blondie, and on good terms with him, was enough to damn the elf in Fenris' eyes, I'm certain – the two men openly loathed one another. Yet Hawke kept bringing them together, like pounding two rocks to see the spark.

"… don't have any choice! …"

Anders again. You know how many times in my life I've been able to say someone's 'gesticulating wildly'? Don't worry, it's a quick calculation – add one to never. The more agitated Anders got, the more controlled Zevran's movements were. His gestures were brisk and sliced through the air – hand signs or I've been asleep during my dealings with the Coterie, but I don't think Anders recognized them as such. It's not inconceivable I was imaging things, because there was enough variation from the ones I knew to make it mostly educated guesswork, but if I'd heard "No, no! Terrible!" in that silky Antivan accent, I wouldn't have been a bit surprised.

They reached a verbal impasse; Anders crossed his arms with obstinate finality and Zevran placed a hand on the mage's shoulder, smiling in a way that was both conciliatory and charming. He turned slightly; acknowledged us with another of those cordial half-bows, then took a few steps towards us. It forced Anders to follow him. "You have been remiss in your duties, my friend. Will you not introduce me to your companions? I think I should very much like to know with whom I am dealing."

He knew who we were; this was a civilized formality. "I know who you are," Hawke said, eagerly stepping forwards. He stuck out his hand; when Zevran gazed down politely but made no move to clasp hands with him, ran his fingers through his hair then rubbed the back of his neck – and here I thought Fenris was the only one with nervous ticks. He didn't let it deter him for long. "Is the Hero… I mean… is Sandor… is he here?"

Zevran looked around with mild surprise, as if seeing his surroundings for the first time: the giant corpse oozing sap, blood or whatever Varterrals have, the filthy cave floor and the grey-green lichen-covered stalagmites. "Here?" He chuckled warmly, obviously amused. "No, no, I am afraid not. I saw little reason to force him to endure these squalid conditions just to aid me against a few of my former brethren. I expected to be here no more than a day or two; the Crows are of little consequence and easily dealt with. Had I but known I was to encounter the Champion of Kirkwall..." It was tactfully done; the implied compliment sidestepped the need to confess he'd watched us fight – and could have easily killed us all. "However, it would have required me to be most persuasive – he does not have an overwhelming fondness for spiders." I didn't need an explicit description from Rivaini to help me understand what Zevran's broad wink meant.

"But tell me – who has sent you? The Crows rarely hire outsiders; it is a point of pride with them, you see."

Fenris spoke for the first time. "He called himself Nuncio."

"Ah Nuncio." Zevran sighed. "Poor, stupid Nuncio. What did he tell you – that he is a lawman from Antiva, hunting a wanted criminal, yes? Surprisingly, what he says is true enough; Nuncio is not a Crow. My being a criminal is of course open to debate, but I am hoping my present company does not consider me such."

Nuncio, the assassin explained, was a common export from his homeland – one of the idle rich. "It is why he always introduces himself as Nuncio Caldera Lanos – in Antiva his surname has meaning to those familiar with the endless power machinations of my country. He fancies himself as an investigator although I cannot say why this might be – perhaps he located his grandmother's lost kha-nyo-lee-no when he was a boy and she praised him overly for the deed. He purchased himself a commission and," Zevran spread his arms with a shrug, "has been chasing me ever since. He suits our purpose admirably for he has just the right mixture of witless tenacity. We have," he confided, "a whole collection of stories about Nuncio. Do you know that once," Zevran began to laugh, "once, he hired me to help track… me? Much of the credit goes to my disguise but I find my accent is nearly impossible to conceal so I did not even try. He was so relieved to find someone who could speak Antivan..."

Zevran breathlessly wiped away a tear, "Ah, forgive me. Later this year we planned to allow him to catch me – after which, of course, I would make a daring escape and so evade him once more. It must sound strange to you, but in a way, we have grown fond of Nuncio. He follows where we lead him and so has served us well as a decoy on more than one occasion. Which is why it is a shame – if he chooses now to ally himself with the Crows – that I will have to kill him."

He lounged lazily in bed as Sandor got ready early the next morning, sending him on his way with a strict reminder not to touch his face. They paid a fortune for Madame Jamard's stage make-up recipe to conceal their tattoos; Zevran's experiments with it successfully removed the rotten egg stench but as yet he hadn't found a way to remove its itchiness.

The warning caught the mage with a hand inches away from his face. "What will you do all day?"

"I?" Zevran stretched languidly then rolled over. "I shall go back to sleep."

Zevran counted to one hundred once Sandor left, then added a second hundred for safety's sake before getting out of bed. He washed and dressed hurriedly; his companion's street clothing served as his disguise and after the liberal application of the same the same mixture the other elf used, he was ready to scout The Staid Stave. His target would be at or inside the establishment at some point, so he needed to find the best vantage point to observe from, as well as familiarize himself with the general layout of the city – and he only had a single day to do it.

To that end, the assassin spent all morning walking the streets. He passed the building – a tavern, as it turned out, its sign emblazoned with a rude cane resting horizontally on the arms of a chair – a dozen times but simply knowing its location was insufficient. Zevran retraced his steps and began memorizing landmarks to aid him with rough orientation. The college was further east, the slums to the southwest, docks to the south and the affluent section of the city directly north. He kept an eye on the skyline; following a mark on a busy street in the middle of the day was one thing, at night when it was deserted, entirely another. Thatched roofs weren't uncommon and he tried to spot areas that looked rodent or bird-damaged, planning routes to avoid those buildings altogether.

With a dozen paths in every direction secured in his memory, he returned to the tavern and examined it slowly from every angle. The foot traffic was his first concern; no elves entered or exited the building, which narrowed his options considerably. Given time – which he didn't have – he might be able to integrate himself as a member of the staff, but only if the proprietor hired elves for the drudgework, which didn't appear to be the case. Thanks to Sandor, Zevran knew as much about magic as a layman could, and his knowledge likely rivaled any of the Circle's novices but to join a Senior Enchanter for drinks or a meal required more than passing familiarity. 'Surely with a school nearby, the students find time for a little recreation?' but theirs was probably a different alehouse – seedier and moderately less expensive. As a lone elven customer, any uncommon event with him present was bound to mark him in the bar patrons' recollections.

'In Antiva City, there would be no issues such as these.' A fleeting, frustrated thought, but true – the Crows acted as the great equalisers in his homeland. Who dared prohibit anyone's entrance, when the person turned away might be an assassin?

The structure was his next obstacle. It looked to be a converted byre and had only one window, near the building's high gambrel roof, replacing the door that allowed access to the mow; he'd be astounded if it had been opened in the last fifteen years. What used to be the milkhouse was now the residence and tavern's kitchen. Two chimneys – one was squat and narrow, unable to accommodate more than the width of his forearm and the other, well… He didn't climb up to confirm it because crawling down several stories worth of flue coated in creosote, seemed not only messy but pointless. If he meant to kill the owner, it would be the most expedient route in, as he could leave immediately afterwards and the sooty footprints the least of his troubles. However, were he expected to wait for several hours, as Bhelen's note implied, that method of entrance trapped him inside until the tavern closed. It also required him to dispatch his mark before he or she departed, or he risked losing them when they left.

Zevran circled the tavern three more times before he concluded his surveillance tomorrow needed to be from the outside. It was by far the bigger gamble, as it relied entirely on visual verification – he was making the assumption the person Bhelen sent him after was someone he would recognize. If the person was instead known only to Sandor or if the dwarven king wanted information not assassination, his day could be wasted by a fruitless search for familiarity.

His final problem was the two guardsmen. They passed by twice since he'd been standing here; the first time, a servile glance up then back at the ground served to disguise his loitering, the second time he ducked out of sight. The men looked bored and their eyes never left the road in front of them, 'Above rather than below then, I think.'

He waited until sunset, glad to see a man from the tavern come out and light the small lamp hanging under the sign. Then he set off to collect Sandor. He knew precisely what his partner's reaction would be when he arrived: joy upon seeing him (the mage never failed to smile, even when they'd been apart for only a few hours and the anticipation of the reception quickened the assassin's steps) which turned to dismay at being called away from his studies so soon. 'Ah, amante, I apologize. I should have realized. Of course tomorrow I will give you more time. I worry only that you will become so absorbed, you will forget all about me.' After a moment of alleyway amor, which reinforced his lover's devotion and banished Zevran's professed doubt, they continued on, to seek suitable refreshment. Then if he was late the next day, a slyly contrite, 'Well, mago, you did say…' was his absolution.

Easier for him to acquiesce than argue, Zevran allowed us to accompany him to Nuncio's agreed upon meeting point – a smuggler's strand on the Wounded Coast – with the tacit understanding that none but us were to leave alive. The trip took the better part of the day, but the Antivan made for a genial companion, filling the hours – at Hawke's request – with anecdotes of his travels with the elven Warden.

Fenris, ousted from his customary place at Hawke's side, underscored the Zevran's stories with sullen mutters. While not loud enough to be heard by the Fereldans in front of us, it was as constant as the crunch of our footsteps across the gravel-strewn coastline, shifting to sibilance when we crossed sand. My Arcanum is weak, and most of what I know I learned from playing cards with the elf once a week at the Hanged Man – he's a decent player but his temper interferes with his game and he's usually into me for several sovereigns as a result. During one story – where the assassin described how he affected Sandor's rescue from Fort Drakon, claiming it cost him a gold bar's worth of luck – I heard Fenris mumble, 'ee-hahd-neeahs' several times. I have an idea as to its meaning and given his expression, I doubted any of what he said was complimentary.

With untold hours left in his vigil, Zevran perched behind the gable and rubbed his thighs, trying to stimulate his circulation. Also called corbie-steps, the omen pleased him and had the side benefit – provided he kept low enough – of hiding him completely from passersby below. It did not shield him from the sun however, and with a sigh, he took another sip from his flask, swished the tepid water around in his mouth, then spat it out. Trickling more water into his cupped palm, he spread it over his exposed skin, letting its evaporation cool him.

Several hours ago, the same man who lit the lantern the night before propped open the front door of the Stave and commenced sweeping out the debris from last night's revelries. Small shards of broken glass shone like silver; a few times the barkeeper bent down, plucked something from the pile and pocketed it – it wasn't all the glitter of false promise.

He counted two hundred sixty eight people of which forty-two entered the tavern, and twelve of them looked to be mages. The guards changed once. Eventually, he compartmentalized his thoughts; while his eyes roved the street below, his mind measured out the components in his latest poison experiment. It was a mental exercise, nothing more – what amount of dragon's-wort, when added to erabu venom, would allow him to identify it in the dark by its scent? He knew it was impractical – an aromatic poison could easily give him away – but he liked the smell of anise and the snake's toxin was challenging to work with.

Briefly lamenting his abandoned workshop back in Denerim, 'I suppose they have by now bricked up our rooms in the castle,' it was a moment before Zevran realized what he'd been staring steadily at for the last minute. Three men came down the lane – one of whom was a dwarf he recognized with a slight frown, 'Varric Tethras.'

Sent after the last surviving Harrowmont, the two elves arrived in Kirkwall and discovered their quarry had already fled, aided in his escape by the man now known as the Champion of Kirkwall. To actively thwart King Aeducan's ambitions at best made Hawke naïve and at worst abysmally stupid, but it wasn't their vendetta to pursue – or hadn't been, at the time. Luckily, Renvil Harrowmont believed himself safe once he was outside the city – as if untrained thugs were the extent of the king's resources – which was where Zevran and Sandor caught up to him.

'And now here we are.' Bhelen's memory and reach were long and Varric apparently owed a debt on borrowed time. It surprised him, to some extent; Zevran sensed shrewdness underneath the dwarf's easy-going exterior, which should have warned him crossing Orzammar's king was a poor decision and counseled his friend accordingly.

Of the two men the self-styled merchant prince was with, only one walked abreast of him. Zevran saw that even from a distance the other man's worry lines etched his brow like a newly tilled field as they spoke – Varric, on the other hand, grinned widely. 'The smile of a man who is ignoring very good advice because he believes he knows better.' The third man was shorter and heavier, back bent from the weight of a sea chest slung over his shoulder. No, not a plain wooden trunk, built for the practical and compact storage of a sailor's precious few possessions, but ornamented with detailing too intricate for Zevran to make out the design from a distance; its polished brass handles glinted in the sunlight. 'Treasure.'

Zevran liked this idea immensely; Varric's ill-fated expedition to the Deep Roads unearthed a rare lyrium artifact – why not some other prize the youngest Tethras was reluctant to part with until now? The chest wasn't very long – the length from his elbow to fingertips, no more – and half as tall, but big enough it might contain all manner of objects.

The two men were deep in conversation as all three entered the tavern, and the Antivan occupied the time with pleasant speculation of the chest's contents. He entertained the brief notion of something outlandish – Enasalin's lost dagger or the Eye of the Bearded Dragon rattling around in the overlarge container – before he settled onto the precious metals. 'Enough gold that we might stay in Neromenian or Tamorine for a time; a rented estate and a fictitious master for whom we bow and scrape, while behind the high, ivy-covered walls we drink toasts with honeyed Setian mulsum and make love under the stars.'

Thirty minutes went by, an hour – and then two. Too well disciplined to fidget, Zevran inched his way down the stone slates to the edge of the roof where he began his descent – a laboriously slow process as he kept himself flattened against the side of the building in order to avoid detection. Finally, releasing his grip on the raised wedge, he dropped to the ground and froze; listening for any cry of surprise at his sudden appearance, but the loudest sound was the hollow clink of large jars as they rattled against one another in the milkfloat passing through the mostly deserted street.

If he meant to take possession of the chest's contents, he could hardly cut down the dwarf and spirit the box away as if it were weightless. Taking on all three men was only realistic if they for some reason chose a secluded place to stop and take their ease, although after several hours in a bar, if they weren't feeling its effect on their bladders, they soon would be.

A few minutes later, when a tall man the Antivan marked earlier as a mage – his ultramarine robe styled more like a dressing gown, opening in the front with larger, belled sleeves – stepped through the door, followed by the porter who carried the chest. With a wordless grumble about unusable plans, the true dilemma of choice didn't delay the assassin long and he chided himself only lightly as he ghosted after the two men. The mysterious chest's contents called to that covetous part of him – Zevran's compulsion, not unlike a cat's yowled urgency to be on the opposite side of a closed door, proved stronger than Bhelen Aeducan and his agenda.

It wasn't difficult to keep in sight of their retreating forms; the way wasn't crowded and both men seemed oblivious to the fact that anyone might be following them. In general, they headed northeast, but not directly towards the college – a relief since Zevran did not particularly relish the idea of magical traps or wards after seeing the way Sandor employed them. While the scenery improved – cobbled roadways and wider storefronts with lavish displays – the Antivan's chance of detection grew as well. He walked purposefully and his clothes weren't rags but it would only take one conscientious guardsman to detain him long enough to lose the men on unfamiliar streets. With an abrupt gesture, the taller man halted the shorter then held open a door ushered him inside; his impatient air told Zevran he would be glad to be rid of the lackey Varric saddled him with. His own passage in front of the building with only a quick glance to the side told him nothing. Several scribes sat at desks working industriously; the signage – a book on a field semé of guttae – might mean a wealthy merchant or solicitor. Somewhere close by, he heard what sounded like the rattle and slap of looms, the clack of wood against wood. Zevran made note of his location then headed back to their room. He'd need his lock picks – he would not be coming back as an invited guest.

Third quarter was no friend to thieves. The half-moon lit the lane – too well, in Zevran's opinion. A quick but thorough circuit told him his entry needed to be through the exposed front door. All the tightly shuttered windows and the double doors in the back – hinged to open outwards – bolted from the inside; the gaps between the slats too narrow to try to lever the draw bar.

The Antivan noticed a distinctive odor emanating from the building; it reminded him the acrid bite of a smoldering fire fuelled by unseasoned wood and was powerful enough to cause him to step back and scan the sky for a telltale pillar of smoke. 'My luck will have completely abandoned me if the building chose this moment to spontaneously ignite and erupt into flame,' but he saw nothing, not even a delicately coiling wisp being dispersed by the slight breeze. Kneeling back down, and with the wan glow of moonlight on his back, he examined the lock and with a satisfied smirk, plucked several skeleton keys from his case. The first didn't fit the grooves in the keyway, but the second – which had all but the last two teeth filed away – slid in smoothly and with a few careful turns to align the profile properly, unlocked the door.

Inside, the scent persisted as he crossed the first room, wending his way between the tall, slant-top desks. Several of these had small drawers on their undersides, which Zevran opened and inspected, but the contents were disappointing: quills, talc, dressing knives, small bottles, shallow bowls rimmed with ash, a waxy hard cheese rind and a single copper penny he left for its hapless owner. Although he knew his chest must be through the other closed door in the room, he deemed the open archway in the back right corner worth investigating, if only to determine what sort of business he had broken into and if there was anything else worth stealing.

The scant moonlight wasn't enough to illuminate anything but the slimmest crescent past the arch, so, feeling his way around the corner, he reached into his pouch for his tinderbox. Not a quick process in pitch darkness, he finally managed the transference of spark to char-cloth to sulfur-match to light his stubby tallow candle. The scent mixed with the odor of the building, further fouling the air; carefully he breathed through his mouth as he directed the light with his cupped hand to expose portions of the room. What he saw made him choke back a laugh, 'I have stumbled into a modern day incunabula. Perhaps Bhelen's message was meant for my Warden after all.'

Arrayed in a line across the room, the four presses were responsible for the noise he heard earlier – the sound of the windlass moving up and down – and the ink the source of the terebinthine smell. Zevran moved towards the closest. They reminded him of the devices the chantries in Antiva used in their wine making – logical, as the concept was the same, he supposed. He spent several minutes toying with the partitioned box of moveable type, locating the letter 'Z' after some searching, as the tiny engravings were not arranged alphabetically, nor were the capital and lower case together. There was only one, 'A letter as unique as I am,' which he tucked away in his pouch.

He had already re-evaluated his opinion of the chest's contents, 'A storybook about the Rascal perhaps – an oblique mention of Master Coinheart's work on his scale suit renders it unimportant to a surface dwarf but essential to the Shaperate and their maintenance of the Memories.' His secrecy confessed and forgiven, he and Sandor could take turns reading it aloud – assuming it wasn't in reality an extensive genealogy, or abstruse instructions on how to reinforce mining tunnels – before they turned it over to Bhelen's agent. 'If it is a book of dwarven folk songs, I will plead for a rendition of 'The Happy Fungus Farmer, Returning from Work'. While not his favorite, it has such a jolly–'

The chest, held open by its hinges on a stained wooden trestle table set up between the furthest two printing presses on his left. It swallowed the Antivan's hopes into its black bottomlessness shrouded in shadow: the brass handles with a patina of tarnish, the carvings on its lid done with no particular skill.

The coffer wasn't empty, as he feared but neither did it contain the riches he wished for or even an ancient tome to assuage his qualms. A short stack of upside down pages sat outside the box, while inside, loose sheaves – the ink black instead of a darker brown on ivory – remained in a compact and orderly bundle. He picked up the topmost and sat down, settling the candle on its end and quickly scanned the first few paragraphs before standing to pick up the next. It was more of the same, but halfway through the second page, in response to a particular passage, he raised an eyebrow in faint surprise. 'And yet I am not.' After Morrigan, nothing should shock him about her mother; Flemeth's ability to transform herself into a dragon was almost expected. ''Witch, witch, why do you lie? Naught lies, but a secret between you and I. Witch, witch, why do you cheat? Such is my nature, full of deceit. Witch, witch, why won't you tell? If you knew all the answers, you'd not need my spell.' Too much truth in a nursery rhyme, likely written by the old woman herself to taunt those whose lives she meddles with and sung to Morrigan in her swaddling clothes so as to pass on her legacy.'

It resembled a biography – about the so-called Hero of Kirkwall, colored by Tethras' involvement with him. 'Our beloved Eamon might give him a lesson.' The former Arl wasted no time once Zevran and Sandor left Denerim ensuring history recorded the story Eamon Guerrin wanted told: a noble continuation of the Calenhad line through the heroic deeds of Maric's youngest son and the defeat of the Archdemon under Alistair's leadership. 'He granted my Warden not so much as a footnote. Hmm. Perhaps Bhelen seeks something similar.' A page stolen, to omit the king's complicity in Renvil's murder or a few sentences added to intimate the last Harrowmont survived, to flush out any remaining supporters. Reasonable suppositions, but the assassin felt he was missing a piece of the puzzle. 'Why should a man who ordered the execution of his archrival the same day he was crowned, a man who dissolved the Assembly and is labeled despot and progressive in the same breath worry over how he is perceived?' Varric surely recorded the encounter with the fleeing nobleman; he was pedantic, including even minor deliveries in his account: a bottle of Scar Exalted to a local vintner, bilge hoops to a cooper…

'No. No, he would not have done.' Zevran's mind raced as he rapidly rummaged through the pages in the dim light, trying to deduce when in the narrative his meeting with Hawke took place. 'Five years ago.' The Qunari uprising, Isabela's betrayal – too early. Another delving into the Deep Roads – he might be here until daybreak, looking for what didn't exist except as fictitious fuel for his paranoia.

"Ah, the Champion of Kirkwall. Your reputation precedes you. Forgive me. I should introduce myself properly."

The assassin's hand clenched, crumpling the paper where he held it, before he viciously tore it in two.

The fight itself was over quickly. In the end, when Nuncio lay on the ground, the clumsy blow from Fenris bleeding him slowly, he begged us to spare his life. Zevran, whose dagger was poised to make a quicker end of it, crisply snapped his fingers, summoning Anders to his side. "Your wound is not especially grievous; my friend can heal you and I will permit him to do so, as you request – but will Otón Lanos be proud to hear of your comportment? Ah, better to be whole, no? Yes, surely your sah-la-dee will succor you." Then he reached out and slapped Nuncio savagely across his cheek. "It is not our way, this cowardly sniveling. Do you truly believe the silvery songs of my koh-rhone-naswill not have reached your grandfather's ears? He will know the truth before you have even thought of a plausible lie to tell him." His voice was a low, menacing growl, "You may not be in the capital on your family's estate, enjoying the comfort and pleasures afforded to your rank, but you are still Antivan, about to face death at the hands of a Crow. Behave as if you are worthy of such an honor."

It takes a powerful will to convince a man to give up his life when he'd rather go on living. I'm not Antivan and can't claim an understanding of their societal rules, but I'd bargain with the spirit of Dumat himself to stave off my time when it comes, and to the blazes with dignity or some ancestor-cursed code. I glanced over to see what Hawke thought of all this; he and Fenris were systematically looting the camp, keeping the proscribed several feet worth of distance between one another. I could almost feel the frustration rolling off Fenris as he surreptitiously watched Hawke who was focused on the assassin and his interplay with the wounded man. Fenris moved a few feet further away and Hawke turned and trailed after him, tugged by the invisible tether that existed between the two of them.

I looked back and it was over; Nuncio was dead. A grim smile played about Zevran's lips, reflecting his satisfaction at the outcome. Anders wandered away, and Zevran – after passing a hand over Nuncio's face to close his eyes – searched the corpse. From one of the dead man's pockets he extracted a dark leather pouch, which he held up to his nose and inhaled deeply before stowing it in a bag of his own. He rose to his feet. "Our business is finished and so I must take my leave of you. My Warden and I have been too long apart – I find absence sharpens and presence strengthens," dusting off the traces of grit from his bare knees. His pronouncement our signal, and we gathered – even Fenris, whose overt reluctance conveyed his wish to moodily stalk off in the opposite direction.

This time, when Hawke extended his hand, the Antivan took it. "Can't you stay? He could use his influence to–" Zevran cut off that line of questioning with a swift shake of his head. "Isn't there anything he… you… can do? Please," he implored. About Kirkwall, he meant – the volatile city tenuously peaceful in the tumultuous eye of the storm.

Hands clasped, Zevran's regret seemed genuine. "We have already stayed longer than I believe prudent, and we linger in no small part due to my Warden's concern over the situation here. However, for him to become more openly involved would be… unwise. Besides, a fine brave fellow such as yourself? The Champion of Kirkwall?" The assassin clapped him on the shoulder, but Hawke's sickly smile betrayed his anxiety.

"Toh-dohs lahs pay-cor-reh nyeh me-ehl-lee pah-stor-reh." It seemed Fenris wasn't the only one whose patience was wearing thin, if the assassin's lapse into Antivan meant the same thing. His cheerfulness gone now, he regarded Hawke solemnly. "Your Knight-Commander is quite mad." Blondie's triumphant whoop became a strangled squawk as Zevran cut him off with a stern glare. "As your Grand Cleric seems content to let events play out to their inevitable conclusion, you must be prepared to confront her. Look to her second for support – he is a good man, hardened by his experiences, but not callous. He will stand with you, when the time comes, although he believes her dementia is related to the strain of her position."

Anders' cowed silence was short-lived. "After how she's treated the mages of Kirkwall?" he shouted angrily. "If Sandor thinks–"

"He thinks when you do not!" Zevran bluntly snapped, turning on his old friend. "You are not – cannot be – objective and he tries to understand this, but your thirst for vengeance blinds you to the truth!" A deep sigh had him speaking more calmly. "The First Enchanter is not blameless. Are you not curious as to why your city teems with blood mages? There is no dark cabal, independent of the Circle, teaching these men and women. Was it academic curiosity, a senseless experiment or a variation on your Harrowing to make his charges stronger before undergoing the test administered by the Templars? His motivations are not known to us, but putting such power into the hands of novices without the proper training can corrupt–"

Fenris interrupted, his voice thick with loathing, "Mages are evil. Blood magic is just an excuse."

"Oh, Maker, here we go again," Anders threw up his hands in disgust. "I was a slave; mages ruined my life." He glanced at Hawke, "Can I make a placard for him to hang around his neck, so I don't have to listen to him whine about it for the thousandth time?"

"Bas-tant-tays! Enough! I have no time for this." Zevran bowed curtly from the waist, "Champion, I have told you what I know. I can do no more and it is up to you to make of the information what you will. I advise you not to trust Orsino; my Warden mislikes even being in the same city with the man. Either way, your choice may not even matter; it is the Chantry's will which holds sway here, as you have already seen." He looked over at Anders, "My friend, we have Warden business to discuss before our departure. You will be at your clinic tonight, yes? Expect a message on where you may meet us."

Zevran was several yards away by the time Hawke opened his mouth to say something; he raised his hand as if prepared to hail the assassin, to call him back and plead with him a second time, when Fenris placed a hand on his shoulder. "Let him go, Hawke. There's nothing special about him or his Warden." He scoffed derisively, "It wasn't a Blight."

Hawke wheeled and faced him. "Fenris!"

None of us had the heart to tell Hawke about Fenris and Isabela – not even Blondie, who would have happily sold the elf out for a copper or a kitten. If he'd ever found out though, I imagine the look on his face might have matched the expression Hawke wore now: a mixture of confusion, anger and sorrow. I can only guess at the excuses the elf fed him the night everything between them changed, but after three years of stilted propriety, they were no closer to reconciling whatever differences drove them apart in the first place. "My sister died and the town I lived in – my home – was completely destroyed by darkspawn! It was a Blight! Sandor Surana–"

"–helped put a bastard on the throne, all because some discontented noblemen didn't like the idea of being ruled by a commoner." The stubborn jut of his chin underscored his words. I'm not sure which was worse – that Fenris believed what he said or that he said it aloud to Hawke. Me? I've heard the tavern talk, and I'm not saying it doesn't seem convenient that just after King Cailan was killed, the man's uncle produced Maric's illegitimate son, but it's politics in Ferelden which is far enough away from here that the only time I think about it is when Hawke starts making noises about going back. "The Grey Wardens are an obsolete institution scrabbling for power like a whore grasps at purse strings and used the excuse of a darkspawn threat to gain a foothold in a nation that barred them for two hundred years. Your 'Hero' probably willingly serviced every…" I hadn't noticed Zevran's return, but he stood in front of Fenris now, who snarled, "What–?"

The Anivan's palm heel strike landed squarely on Fenris' nose with a sickening crunch of cartilage. The blow broke his balance and Zevran wasted no time, stepping in and throwing him to the ground. Tattoos flaring to life, Fenris' incoherent roar of fury as he started to scramble back to his feet didn't drown out the assassin's icily grave command, "You will stay down or you will die. These others will be obliged to defend or avenge you, and as certain as your death will be, I promise theirs to be excruciatingly painful if you move while I am speaking. Even now, your dwarven friend reaches for his fine crossbow and your Champion vacillates over his belief in my resolve to do as I have threatened." I stopped; he hadn't even looked at me and yet he knew. I also noticed he didn't mention Anders, which meant he was certain of the mage's support. I didn't know if that made Blondie a traitor, or simply smarter than I was.

Then Zevran did something I've never seen another man do – any who'd seen Fenris fight, that is. He leaned over – easily within the other elf's grasp – gripped his shoulder and shoved him back down, hissing, "I do not fear your lyrium-imbued parlor tricks. The Crows purchased me when I was but a boy of seven and raised me to know nothing but murder and death. If you doubt my skill outstrips yours, attack me. I will keep you alive long enough so that you may hear your Hawke's agonized screams as he curses ever having met you."

And Fenris, whose eyes watered from the blow to his nose, blood dripping down his lips and chin, remained where he was; his blue-white markings dulled into quiescence.

Zevran straightened. "It fell to my Warden to bear the mantle of leadership, for all but one of his brothers fell at Ostagar. He is responsible for the Dalish's loss of their oldest living keeper; no matter that it redressed a wrong and ended a curse spanning hundreds of years. How much knowledge was sacrificed with Zathrian's passing? Weigh the survival of the dwarven people against the harm the fabled Anvil of the Void will do if misused. The golem army that might have won back their lost thaigs and help rebuild their vast underground empire will never march, for it was he who sundered Caridin's greatest creation, though he did it with the paragon's blessing. Terrible choices he was forced to make, and all the while, my Warden endured the sibilant and seductive whispers of the Archdemon, which nearly drove him mad."

He scuffed his foot in the sand, sending a shower of tiny grains towards the other elf, "When it was over, he might have made any request of Alistair – a landed title, an honored position at court, wealth enough to sate even the most avaricious of merchants and live in comfort until the end of his days. He asked for none of these things. Instead, he requested the mages of the Fereldan Circle be freed to govern themselves." His eyes narrowed as he glared venomously at Fenris. "A crime unforgivable to you, I see. Prior to his recruitment into the Grey Warden ranks, it was almost twenty years since he had been outside. His only glimpse of open sky was through a window so high above he could not even climb up to look out of it. Were you to spend even a minute in his company – watch him scramble excitedly up a tree, witness his upturned face in a rainstorm or the sheer delight he takes laying in a spring-green meadow, plotting imaginary shapes in the clouds – you would understand his choice and even a little of the person he has been shaped into."

There was a moment, when he spoke about Sandor Surana, which felt voyeuristic – the brief, passionate description provided an intimate glimpse of their relationship, one I don't think he'd have otherwise felt compelled to share.

Abruptly, Zevran turned towards Hawke, "You ask why he cannot speak to your Grand Cleric and implore her to action. He is the reason," he said, pointing an unwavering finger at the other elf, "as is every ignorant man and woman who spews these lies. The Chantry seeds these fields and you hear what bitter harvest is borne. They wish to unmake him as a hero, so he can be reshaped into what they need – a dangerous blood mage who used his magic to warp the minds of those around him and influence them to do his bidding."

Anders cried out, outraged, "But–"

"They have a witness – or rather, a woman who will provide a secondhand account as proof." Zevran's voice dripped contempt, "She is a trusted confidant of the Divine, known to Dorothea before her ascension, which makes her above reproach; you will find none within the Chantry willing to dispute her claim and risk disfavor. The Seekers already hunt him and if he is captured, they will force from him a confession, undermining all that he is – an elf, a mage, a Grey Warden – to serve as rallying points to help re-solidify the Chantry's power and influence."

"The mages would never stand for it. They owe him too much." Anders spoke with confidence but Zevran's frosty demeanor seemed to suck the air from his lungs, until his voice trailed off.

"The mages of Ferelden perhaps, but what of the mages to whom you spoke about your encounter with the Architect?" the Antivan demanded sharply. "The ones who expressed an interest in having Sandor remain in their keeping indefinitely? They also count Orsino among their number, no? Or are these the mages who kept your comrade as a slave – the mages of Tevinter – that would be welcoming an elf into their ranks with open arms, taking up his guardianship?"

Fenris' hatred of his former master apparently ran deeper than his dislike of the assassin. "There are no elven Magisters." he croaked, until Zevran's head snapped back towards him; his barely perceptible flinch likely put the two closer to equal footing.

"The Wardens. The Grey Wardens. We can tell my brother; they can protect him."

Zevran's scornful laugh echoed off the mottled, sea-smoothed rocks. "Indeed. I can well imagine the many safeguards at Weisshaupt. They consist of a tiny square room, numerous locks, thick oaken doors and tunnels so recessed into the mountainside that the light of day never penetrates and fresh air is a thing dreamed of or remembered." The dusky light of sunset played tricks with my eyes; I thought I saw the Antivan's hand tremble. "The First Warden's fondest wish is to speak to him at length, to discuss all which has transpired since his recruitment."

"You don't just mean talk, do you." Hawke's words came haltingly. "It's what Anders meant, before they took Carver." He looked at Blondie who nodded his affirmation, "What you warned us about."

"From my Warden, they demand answers he cannot give – and once Sandor is in their custody, he will not be released. The Wardens have been stationed in the Anderfels for a very long time, Champion. Their stability, not the country's weak monarchy, holds the nation together. Now, with Alistair's ascension to Ferelden's throne, they gain an unprecedented opportunity to increase their influence across Thedas. There is but one problem: the First Warden is no longer a young man. Sandor, he believes, hold the key to extending his life long enough to see his political ambitions achieved." He tilted his head; I could see him studying Hawke's face intently. "You do not comprehend. Has no one told you? No, of course not. Suffice it to say Sandor's experiences have altered him – physically – and it is these changes the Wardens of Weisshaupt wish to understand and re-create within themselves. It is not their only concern, but it is the foremost and their envoys – like the Chantry's Seekers – harry us like hunting hounds. A room sunlight never touches is the kindest of what the Grey Wardens have in store for him."

I wasn't exactly keen on speaking, but something Zevran said jogged my memory. "Hawke, didn't Junior say something about a mission, one he couldn't talk about? More important than the qunari, at least to the Wardens."

"Only the Darkspawn are of higher priority, but as the Blight did not devastate their numbers as might normally be the case, they have men to spare for this task. Ah, but yes, I had forgotten." Again, the Antivan faced Fenris. "The Archdemon was a figment of my imagination and all aspects of my Warden's deeds and importance outlandishly exaggerated to disguise the maneuvering of the Fereldan nobility."

Zevran crouched on Fenris' right side, left palm flat against the ground. He maintained his balance perfectly in that position; I wondered if it was to keep his hand occupied in order to prevent himself from crushing Fenris' windpipe. The undercurrent of animosity hadn't lessened as he spoke, "You tell yourself that I – that he – are cowards because we run. You want to believe yourself to be superior, because you flaunt your presence in your former master's mansion, enjoying what remains of his wealth and living in relative comfort. How sad for you, little sec-kahl, to have all these marvelous things and still be envious of me."

He tempted fate, being so close to Fenris, whose gauntleted hand dug into the earth as if seeking his own anchor – our elf wasn't known for his iron-clad self-control.

The ambient sounds – the lap of the low-tide waves against stone, a gull's shrieked cry and the rustle of a light breeze through the scrubby stands of scurvy grass – faded and their absence amplified Zevran's voice. "As you wander through the cool, dark wine cellars in your basement, do you think to find a vintage that will appease your palate, slake your thirst, provide pleasant, drunken euphoria – or will it be one to serve as an accompaniment to your nightly lament over squandered opportunities?" His low, melodic tone held the intimacy of a whisper, "So much jealous rage, it gnaws at your insides, all because I am not afraid to love."

The assassin struck with frightening speed; the knife jutted out from Fenris' wrist before I registered more than the vague impression of movement. The blade had to be about five inches long, because enough of it protruded to see it was double-edged; pressure to either side would sever his hand.

Fenris stared fixedly at the dagger, his fingers splayed in the dirt; his complexion rapidly drained of color as the slow, spreading stain beneath his wrist matched the crimson token tied around his forearm. The lyrium tattoos don't make the elf invulnerable and you're never prepared for the pain, no matter how brave or tough you think you are. He breathed harshly through his broken nose, the inhalation ragged and wet while we stood frozen, Zevran's knuckles like purbeck marble around the dagger's wrapped hilt.

I've found there are four universal motivators. One is greed: Bartrand is living (if you can call it that) proof. If he'd been smarter, he would have killed us – used explosives to bring the roof down on our heads. I doubt he lost a wink of sleep over selling his own brother out, all so he wouldn't have to split the profits from our expedition. When word filtered through the kalnas I was alive and looking for him, he used his money and connections to hide but it wouldn't have worked indefinitely, which leads us to the another, familiar, driving force: fear.

It chilled me to the bone to realize – in light of his startlingly candid confession spurred by Fenris' misplaced resentment - Zevran Arainai was afraid. Not of Fenris, or anything Hawke or I might do; these were welcome, mundane distractions. Not even the Crows worried him, although they probably scared me enough for the both of us. He faced inexorable forces with the knowledge that despite every precaution he took, no man's luck lasted forever and his failure meant something I don't expect he'd be able to live with – or without – when it was all over.

"You will leave him the scar, Anders." The sound Fenris made as the assassin released his grip on the knife was more animal than human and it broke the spell that had locked us in place as motionless witnesses. Zevran stood and stepped back; Hawke knelt and offered his arm as a brace to aid Fenris in standing, but the elf rebuffed him, shying away from the benign gesture. Hawke retreated; his lips tightened into a thin, narrow line before he grunted, turned around and grabbed Fenris under his armpits and hauled him to his feet.

At this point, it was probably a mercy Fenris fainted; Hawke hadn't been gentle but the elf hadn't been kind. His boneless slump forward allowed Hawke to duck and reposition his weight, lifting him onto his shoulders. Anders bent over, examining the knife still embedded in Fenris' wrist, a malicious gleam in his eye. If the elf had any dexterity in his hand after the mage finished, he should thank the Maker for a miracle.

When I looked around again, Zevran was halfway across the wash, his umber leathers and tanned skin natural camouflage in the burgeoning twilight. As if my gaze on his back was a cue, he paused, glancing casually over his shoulder; an easy, charismatic smile lit his face when his eyes met mine. In spite of everything, I felt myself begin to grin in return, and spat a soundless curse to prevent it, which the Antivan must have read from my expression or on my lips because his smile only widened to a feral flash of teeth, before he continued on, the watery rush of the tide masking the crunch of his footsteps.

For the second time in the assassin's presence, I reached for Bianca – reached, but didn't draw. His back was to me – I'd never have a better shot. But my mind returned the gap between Fenris' gauntlet and bracer; hardly larger than the blade's width, yet the blow had been calculated and unerringly accurate. I never make a promise to her I can't keep, so I caressed her butt and let my hand drop to my side.

Because I didn't want to think about what would happen if I missed.

He almost set the stationer's on fire. With the materials at hand – paper, wood and barrels reeking of turpentine – the building would be in cinders before help arrived. If Varric lodged in the city, it made dealing with him that much quicker and if not, a detour to Kirkwall...

'No.' His stomach in a tightly coiled knot, he methodically gathered the pages containing the excerpt he read and folded them carefully into his waist pouch. Taking up his candle, its melted wax dribbled down the taper and onto his fingers but Zevran ignored it as a minor discomfort. Logically, the book's production would be in stages – a certain number of pages a day, depending on how many copies had been commissioned. If he assumed the short stack he skimmed constituted tomorrow's workload, 'A week.'

He banked his white-hot anger; he procured parchment, read and re-read the stolen chapter and altered his schedule to begin practicing Varric's hand. Too worried Sandor might return home unexpectedly, he slept during the day but every evening when he awoke felt as if he'd lain down only scant minutes before.

Every stroke of Zevran's pen sickened him. His outburst had been senseless; stupid beyond words to have allowed himself to be goaded by the one they called Fenris but seeing it written down, the assassin recalled how the other elf's words drove his reaction, merciless as a slaver's whip. Himself, he wrote as a caricature, licentiously propositioning a complete stranger – congruous characterization based on the rampant rumors of his past behavior – but it was sordid, and no amount of warm, soapy water would remove the unclean feeling crawling over his skin. Worse was the complicit erasure of Sandor as if he never existed.

He believed the changes to the songs and tales – from 'Surana' to 'Hero' – meant freedom. 'After all my Warden has done, it is only right he be relieved of his burden for a time,' but realized his mistake too late. He had tried to shield Sandor from it all: Leliana's betrayal, the Grey Wardens' pursuit and the Chantry's seekers. If the elven mage discovered the truth, he would insist they face it – a futile confrontation with a foregone conclusion, which Zevran knew in his heart he could not bear.

Distrustful of the Crows, when they contacted him, Zevran killed Boldizsár's first envoy. 'The council actively opposes you, Arainai. Iohannes' voice is the loudest, for you have made a fool of him and he would see you dead. Your defiance damns you to the others, but my Lady believes you represent an unprecedented opportunity that she might capitalize upon. Although it goes against tradition, she will continue to allow you to operate independently; I am instructed to offer you the House's allegiance with the following provisos…'

He accepted. 'I do this to keep him safe.' A single lie of omission became a dozen, then too many to count. Poised now to take over the Crows if he wished, after years of adroit politicking and tactical assassinations, it was his recourse of last resort, because it would be as much a prison for them as what the Wardens or the Chantry planned.

He reconciled history. He would see to it one of his corones delivered Varric's copy, so when the Seekers came it was Zevran's verses the dwarf sang – hidden a while longer, their trail obscured by Varric's believable lies.

'Il Inebriati' Taliesin named Zevran the day he died – spat it at him as a curse for his betrayal of the Crows – but the assassin knew better now what he was, after ten years with Sandor as his lover: 'Il Possessore,' dark and selfish. 'I will never let them take you, amante,' he thought fiercely, staring at the words on the page in front of him, while the candle played tricks with the shadows on the walls and its pungent fumes brought tears to his eyes:

I am not afraid to love.

He was just afraid of losing it.

---

Author's Note: So, I'm just going to walk away from this now because I think I've been working on it too long and my eyes are beginning to cross. I'm not sure if I should thank Corker and Zinoodle for the inspiration in the Zevran adoration thread on the Bioware Social site, because it did get away from me, but I just wish "getting away from me" didn't equal "three months of writing" (or is it more? I'm not going to check). I guess I should also credit Dragon Age 2 for being so bug ridden that the romance flags don't import correctly - because that's what prompted C&Z's prompts.

Hopefully the way I've written this isn't too confusing. There are some obvious spoilers to one of my other stories lurking in here, but I don't think they're too terrible (omg Sandor survives the Archdemon, happy endings for all). I've also had to do some serious screwing with the timeline to make everything fit how I wanted it so this is debatable canon for Zevran and Sandor. I guess it depends on how happy I am with it a year from now (or something like that). I also need to credit Blooddrop Clothing & Fineries for providing me with Il Inebriati and Il Possessore - I've had the bottles on my desk for months, purchased because I felt very strongly regarding the descriptions and how they related to S&Z's relationship. I'm sure there are things I'm forgetting to mention but once again - months, middle of the night, crossed eyes, stepping away from keyboard...

S, Z and I thank you for taking the time to read this chapter. If you're so inclined, feel free to review (a critique is just as valued as praise). I've had some new reviews since I last posted to PoB, but unfortunately I am dead tired, so just know that I've read them and appreciate them, and will thank you in the next (misplaced) chapter.

I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).