Somehow, the routine task of sorting through their inventory had fallen to Nathaniel. The Commander had not said a word about it—the elven mage, remarkably enough, rarely outright asked anyone for anything—but after Oghren had sold a few too many runes for ale money and Anders had allowed his wretched kitten to have its way with their leathers, the young Howe had volunteered for the job.
He pulled all the looted darkspawn weaponry from their packs first—there was little use for these crudely made blades other than as molten iron—the Commander helping in the task as he did when they were in the Keep. Neither man spoke as they passed weapons to be sold to each other, but Nathaniel enjoyed the companionable silence. The Commander was an easy man to like; his demeanor was stoic yet good-natured, every action both sensible and honorable.
It was still a bit surreal to think that only a month ago he had hated this man more than anything else in the world. What he felt now definitely wasn't hatred, but he would be hard-pressed to name the bond that tied him to the Commander more firmly than his Warden's oath. The man had spared his life, opened his eyes to the truth—even helped to find Delilah.
Before well, everything, he had heard how surprisingly charismatic the commander was, how he inspired almost devout loyalty among his followers. He had scoffed, sure that the so-called Hero of Ferelden was just as arrogant and petty as any of the nobles and former war heroes he had grown up among that hardly deserved the glorious reputations heaped upon them.
He had since learned better. Though he stood at least two heads taller than the elf, the smaller man had presence. Whether it was his fine-featured face or the fit of those Tevinter-styled robes or those sincere green eyes, something about the Commander got under Nathaniel's skin and he found himself filled with the same fiery loyalty that he saw reflected in the eyes of all who followed him. It terrified and thrilled him that he was willing to give his life for the Commander if need be.
"What're these?" Nathaniel peered at a pair of delicate leather gloves resting at the bottom of the finally mercifully clear pack. They were lined with soft rabbit fur and engraved with intricate swirling patterns, probably Dalish. He experimentally pulled one over his hand and flexed his fingers. Definitely Dalish, judging from the slim fit. The leather was pliant and buttery soft but probably not very protective. "Where did we pick these up? They don't seem very useful or valuable. I suppose we could sell them for a bit of coin."
Alim's eyes widened. "No, don't!"
This was the most emotion Nathaniel had ever seen from him. "What? Are they enchanted?" But he had not seen any lyrium inscriptions among the decorative whorls. He took off the glove and handed the pair to the Commander.
"No, they're just gloves." As he ran his slim fingers over the patterns, the firm set of his mouth softened. "I picked them up in the abandoned Dalish camp in Wending Woods. They remind me of… someone very dear to me."
Nathaniel's sharp eyes did not miss how the Warden-Commander's hand strayed to the single gold earring that hung from one of his pointed ears. He had heard rumors of an Antivan Crow that had traveled with Alim, perhaps even as a lover, if the saucier ones were to be believed. But he had seen no evidence of this assassin and was prepared to dismiss the rumors as mere sensationalism until now.
He coughed, awkwardly, curiosity gnawing at him but unwilling to pry. Alim was silent, lost in contemplation or thought.
"D' you," he cleared his throat, "mind telling me about this someone?"
Odd really, how something like anxiety had managed to worm its way into his gut.
Alim smiled, really smiled for once. "His name is Zevran," Nathaniel did not miss the slight pause before the condemning pronoun. He couldn't stop his mind from imagining his staid Commander passionate in the arms of another man, and stranger still, the thought irked him, though not in the way Alim no doubt expected it would have.
"Actually, we met because he was trying to kill me," Alim's eyes were lit with such earnestness at the memory that it made Nathaniel's heart ache, just a little bit. "He was an assassin, an Antivan Crow, but he left all that behind when he came with us to stop the Blight."
"Some of my best friends have wanted me dead? Isn't that what you said?" Nathaniel put on a cocky smirk, because he really wasn't sure what expression would have showed otherwise on his face. "I suppose you were referring to this Zevran. If you don't mind me asking, where is he now?"
Alim sighed and ran his hands along the smooth leather of the gloves. "In Antiva, finishing up business with the Crows. I suppose I miss him, terribly." He looked up and flashed a quick grin at Nathaniel. "But don't worry; I won't be dozing off in the middle of battle on account of pining or anything like that."
Nathaniel stood up, grinned back. "Don't worry, Commander. I'll be there to straighten you out if it comes to that."
And he meant it, too.