Zevran walked alone at the back of the group, thinking and frowning at the ground at his feet instead of keeping his usual wary eye on their surroundings. He'd been feeling unsettled ever since they'd left Redcliffe three days ago. No, that wasn't true – from before they'd left Redcliffe, from the moment he'd woken up the morning of that day, in Owen's arms, and found himself thinking of the last time he'd awoken in someone's arms.
Rinna. That last morning, that final assignment. They'd both been so happy. And then... betrayal, and death. Hers. Not by her, but of her. All the real betrayal had been on Taliesin's part – and his. So very much his.
He thought he'd finally managed to put it behind him, that he'd finally begun to recover from her death – her murder – after all these long months of travel with Arren and his other companions. And yet here she was, haunting him again, his grief and despair almost as strong now, each time his thoughts turned to her, as they had been when he'd fled Antiva for Ferelden. As strong as when he'd heard about the job to slay the two Grey Wardens – a job none of the Crows here in this benighted country were foolish enough to attempt – and decided it was as good a way as any in which to die.
He'd hired a band of small-time thugs, local bravos, to help him with the ambush, knowing he needed to have enough numbers to make the ambush seem real. Not that Crows usually made as obvious an ambush as that had been, not unless they had a point to prove. No, if he'd really meant to kill the Wardens, they'd have died without ever laying eyes on him, and it would have taken no one but himself to accomplish. He'd meant the ambush to go wrong, lethally wrong.
He remembered how relieved he'd felt as Arren's sword swept in a flat arc toward his head, relief that his life was about to end. But the elf must have turned the blade, struck with the flat, pulled his stroke; it had not been his end. He'd woken, with a truly skull-shattering headache, to find himself bound on the ground at Arren's feet. At first he'd expected torturous questioning and then death – hopefully a merciful one, but given he'd just tried to kill the man, he'd had his doubts. Then, belatedly, as the elf calmly questioned him, he'd come to realize that he didn't want to die. And begged – diplomatically of course – for his life.
He was still, even after all these months, astonished that the warrior had accepted his surrender and granted him his life. No Crow would have been as merciful. He'd seen Arren be pragmatically ruthless enough times since that day to know the warrior would have easily killed him, had he so chosen, without a second thought. And yet he hadn't. Why, Zevran had never quite dared to question, merely accepted the benefit of that decision, the gift of his life, and given Arren the loyal service he'd sworn to. He'd begun a new life, then, as Zevran the ex-Antivan Crow, no longer answerable to anyone but Arren for his actions and decisions. And for a while, he'd at least been... content.
He glanced up for a moment, eyes seeking out Owen, up toward the front of the group, then dropped back to the ground at his feet. He'd enjoyed pursuing the man, even as exasperating as it had been until he'd realized what the man wanted from him; it had been an intriguing challenge, and apart from the occasional difficult battle he'd had few enough challenges in his life of late. And he'd enjoyed their time together, at Redcliffe, very much so, had felt a brief happiness in the man's pleasurable company that he'd only rarely found even back in Antiva.
Yet now every time he looked at Owen, he felt... uneasy. Torn between wanting to get close with him again, and... not wanting to. Not frightened of him, no, he told himself, just... unsettled.
Owen glanced across to where Zevran was sitting against a nearby tree, supposedly eating his dinner, though he seemed to be pushing the food around on his plate more than actually eating it. The elf had been avoiding him since Redcliffe.
He'd not thought much of it their first day of travel, it had just seemed to fall out that they didn't have any time together. There'd been the chaos of leaving Redcliffe and their first few hours of travel – the Arl had forgotten that Arren and his companions weren't mounted, and there had been some confusion about how to proceed until Arren finally suggested in mid-afternoon that the Arl's party continue on ahead to Denerim, and the Warden's group would follow on at their own pace. Zevran had walked along in his usual position within their party with Alistair and Briar, some distance behind Owen and Mara, so there'd been no opportunity to talk to him on the move. Then the elf had disappeared off hunting before the meal, and not returned until after everyone else had eaten – granted, with a sizable brace of cleaned game to contribute to their stock of food. And then he'd claimed tiredness, vanished into his tent, and not re-emerged until morning.
By the end of the second day, his excuses for staying away from Owen had become increasingly transparent. By then it was obvious to more than just Owen that something had gone wrong between himself and Zevran. Mara had been extra-clingy that evening, and he'd been glad of her company as he watched Zevran disappear off again – scouting, this time – and not re-appear before Owen had given up waiting and gone to bed.
Today even more of their group had become aware of the strained tension between the two. He'd tried to approach Zevran at lunch, only to have the elf scramble away, making some thin excuse about feeling like hunting some more as he abandoned his food half-eaten and vanished off into the trees. Owen had felt everyone's eyes on him as he turned and walked back over to Mara. She'd hung off his arm the rest of the afternoon, silently offering what little comfort she could.
He didn't understand it. Everything had seemed fine between them – wonderful, in fact – right up until that last morning. He'd woken first, and just lain there in bed, enjoying the contact with the sleeping elf curled up beside him, the luxury of waking with a lover in his arms. A pleasure he'd only rarely been able to enjoy back in the tower, where for years most of his encounters had been brief trysts with still-armoured templars in shadowed corners at night, fast and furtive. Even when he'd moved on to seducing mages as well, the lack of privacy in the tower had meant that most liaisons were brief, and only rarely involved sleeping in one another's beds. Desks in private studies, secluded corners of rarely-used hallways, classroom floors, storage closets, darkened corners of the library, the bathing chamber – those had all been more usual spots. Not beds.
He glanced over to where Zevran had been, and found him vanished again, his plate of food sitting abandoned on the ground by the tree. It didn't look like he'd eaten more than a few bites of food. As he watched, Alistair walked over and picked it up, and turned to look at Jowan.
He wasn't surprised when Jowan sought him out a little while later, and drew him aside to talk privately. About Zevran, of course.
"Look, what happened between you two?" Jowan asked. "It's obvious that something must have. What did you do?"
"I don't know," Owen said unhappily. "One minute things were fine, and the next... not. I don't even know what I did wrong."
"You didn't... hurt him, or anything?" Jowan asked uneasily.
"No! Nothing like that. As far as I know we both enjoyed ourselves that evening, after you'd all left. He was even rather complimentary about it all, afterwards, and he certainly appeared to be in a good mood – he was relaxed, even joking." Owen admitted. "He seemed fine, right up until the next morning, and then... complete change. If I did do something wrong, I wish to the Void I knew what it was... I'd be trying to fix it, to apologize or make it up to him, but you saw how he is, I can't even get close enough to him to talk before he's running away again."
Jowan frowned. "I'll let Alistair know. Zevran's our friend, you know – Alistair and I owe him a lot. If you did do something, neither of us is going to be particularly happy about it."
"I swear, Jowan, on anything you wish me to – as far as I know, I didn't do anything that he didn't want or like. And if I did, and I'm just not realizing it, I will do whatever it takes to make it up to him." He looked away for a moment, then continued quietly. "I... really like him. I was looking forward to spending more time with him."
After a moment Jowan reached out and touched his arm. "I believe you," he said softly. "Maybe Alistair and I can pry something out of him. I'll let you know."
Owen nodded. He retired to his own tent early that night, in no mood to have his usual sparring match with Alistair or speak with the others.