"My dear Warden Commander…" said a very familiar voice, breathily, just into the delicate shell of her right ear, "may I ask what you are doing here?" Along with the voice like fine brandy which made a warm, tense feeling coil in her gut, there was an icy cold touch of silverite at her throat.
Risa Aeducan was lying on her stomach on a Denerim rooftop overlooking the crowded main street up to the Chantry. Her infamous throwing daggers were at her side; her bow unslung and laid down beside her. The woman herself was watching across the street intently. There were far more people down there than she'd ever seen, and the city guard guiding people back, back out of the main road, back against the storefronts.
"Zevran, old friend," she murmured softly, taking care not to move toward her weapons, or even to think of doing so. "I am… lying on my stomach, as I am sure you've already observed." There was a hint of humor in her voice – her statement recalled the very literal Sten who'd accompanied them on their two year desperate journey to kill the archdemon.
"The question is, why here? Why now? And why with weapons arrayed beside you?"
Risa took a chance and slowly, hands still spread on the roof, looked over her shoulder. She had no illusions: she was not superhuman. She could still die, easily, of a cut throat.
Zevran knelt beside her, tense, his honey brown eyes staring intently into hers.
"I… I had to see him," she said very quietly. "And I wouldn't be welcome. Not on this day." She closed her eyes, and hung her head.
The knife came away from her throat, and Zev settled close beside her. "And the weapons?"
"Couldn't get comfortable with them on, and you know how it is – I'd've felt naked without."
A smile curved the lips of the Antivan. "Now that would have been quite the present for me to discover up here."
Risa smiled, but it was a sad, small smile. She looked so much older today – the set of her shoulders, the cast of her eyes and the crows feet at their corners, the furrow in her brow, even the perfection of her lips all spoke of a woman so much older than the four years that had actually passed.
"So you stayed." It wasn't a question, precisely, but the glance from the corner of her eye showed that she waited for an answer.
"So I was asked," he replied, and an arm stole around the dwarf's broad shoulders. "And you were right. He needed looking after. He was most upset when he realized what I was doing, you know? But the queen, she hired me on immediately. They've never had reason to regret it; there have been attempts, you know."
Risa nodded. Of course there were attempts. How different, really, were topsider politics from Dwarva?
"Querida, you need not be perched up here like a gargoyle. I am sure that had he known you were here…."
"No," Risa said sharply, then more gently a moment later, "No. It would only cause pain."
She could hear the procession coming down the block now, the cheering, the wheels of the royal carriage rattling along the cobbles. The arm around her shoulders tightened, and she found the warmth of the elf's lithe body beside her comforting. So many guards. So many people crowding around.
And then they were there – he first, stepping out of the carriage in that golden kingly armor, surrounded by the guard. Ser Cauthrien had trained them impeccably, and they were ranged around the carriage, keeping the people of Denerim back.
Then Anora, looking flushed and beautiful as she stepped down out of the carriage, her hand in Alistair's as he guided her safely down to the street. Her gown in Theirin red was exquisite.
Risa quivered, watching her.
And finally, the elf maid, Erlina, handing down into Alistair's strong, capable arms a small bundle wrapped in white. It squirmed, and let out a loud, imperious howl that set all the bystanders to murmuring "awwwww".
Risa's eyes fell shut, her brow furrowing. She swallowed hard. Couldn't look anymore. And so she only glimpsed from the corner of her eye when the proud parents and their entourage brought the infant into the Chantry to be affirmed before the eyes of the Maker.
"Risa."
It had been years since Zevran called her by name, and she could barely bear it now. She backed away from the edge of the roof, then pushed into a crouch, rummaging through her pack. She pulled a lumpy drawstring sack out of it, handing it to Zevran.
"For the nuglet," she said, her voice thick, her onyx eyes unable to meet his. "Look."
"Risa, you should give this present your…."
"I can't," she said, opening the bag. She pulled out a metal rod with a globe at one end – silverite, and studded with precious gems. She shook it gently, and soft, musical chimes pealed from within.
"A princely gift," he said quietly, taking it from her.
She nodded. "It was mine at that age," she said softly, "and my mother's before me." She didn't need to say anymore... Zevran knew that this rattle would never be played with by a little Aeducan, and why.
Risa pulled something large, and soft, and squishy from the bag next, and Zevran nearly laughed to see a stuffed nug doll. She smiled a little, though it did not reach her eyes. She let him inspect that as well before putting them both back into the bag, tying it shut, and handing it to him.
She got up, dusting herself off, and met Zevran's eyes once more. Her face was as stone as she picked up her weapons and fastened them securely to her armor… but her eyes, as always, her eyes sang a song they knew only too well, a song Zev had seen them singing now, louder and softer, for years. Loss. Pain.
Love.
"Watch over them all," she whispered harshly, turning away so that he wouldn't see the tears that threatened.
He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it, and her small hand came up, covered his, and squeezed back.
"His name is Duncan," Zev said softly. Risa nodded, and suddenly she was running, leaping between this rooftop and the next... and the next… disappearing into the distance.