Disclaimer: BioWare owns Dragon Age: Origins and related characters/settings. Some of the dialogue was taken directly from the game and modified to fit the scene.

Why the Caged Bird Sings

"In Antiva, being a Crow gets you respect… But that does mean doing what is expected of you, always. And it means being expendable. It's a cage, if a gilded one." Wynne's efforts pay off after a confession from Zevran reveals why the caged bird sings.

A brisk chill permeated the air as evening fell over Ferelden. Having tended to everyone's wounds as they ate the colourless and flavourless, but sadly not odourless, gruel Alistair had cooked, Wynne turned her thoughts to sewing.

A cursory glance as she walked to her tent showed that the fire had been stoked and a pile of firewood placed nearby, the water skins had been refilled, and the dishes washed and Wynne sighed contentedly at the idea of a pleasant evening spent mending Alistair's shirt. Just as she was about to retrieve the necessary gear from her pack, however, her reverie was interrupted by the sound of her name.

"Wynne?"

The accented voice was uncharacteristically hesitant.

Frowning, Wynne set aside thoughts of darning and looked up at the speaker. A clearly uncomfortable Zevran was peering down at her, fidgeting with the buckles on his armour. His body position radiated uncertainty, turned half towards her, half towards the campfire. Squinting, Wynne examined his face, but the patterns of light and shadow dancing across his features made discerning his expression difficult. Had she really seen something akin to remorse flit across his visage before being swallowed by the firelight? Dare she hope—?

"You have not asked after the thoughts that dwell deep within my bosom for quite some time."

Wynne groaned inwardly. Of course it was too much to hope for. She berated herself yet again for initiating that conversation about his conscience, about whether he regretted his past. He hadn't taken it seriously, had deflected the question with his customary licentious humour. She had asked too soon, pushed too hard, and the resulting dialogue had quickly descended into glib comments about her "magical" bosom. She'd tried again later, to no avail, and she should have known better than to expect any sort of confession or admission of conscience now.

"No, I have not. Nor do I intend to. You may keep your bosom, as I keep mine."

"Of course. I apologize, I should not have disturbed you," he said, the familiar mask of indifference stealing over his features.

Guilt immediately flooded Wynne's heart as Zevran averted his gaze and walked slowly towards his tent. With a grimace, she noticed the conspicuous absence of the assassin's trademark swagger. Had she just effectively ruined any possibility of Zevran speaking of his past?

"Zevran, wait!"

He stopped, but did not turn to face her. Only a slight inclination of his head indicated he was listening.

"I—I am sorry," she said, stepping towards him. "I should not have been so quick to dismiss you."

Zevran turned to look at her, then, appraising her, perhaps sizing her up. She got the distinct impression that he was holding back some sort of smart rejoinder, likely about her bosom, and she fixed him with the full force of her not inconsiderable grandmotherly glare.

"Ah, Wynne," he finally acquiesced with the hint of a smile, "I imagine my grandmother would be much like you, were she not a whore. Or Antivan. Or dead."

The elderly mage suspected there was more truth to his words than his easy demeanour implied, so she merely smiled and said, "Well, perhaps you'll indulge an old woman and let me pretend."

To her surprise, Zevran gave a curt nod before folding himself into a sitting position by the fire. "I would… appreciate that," he said, watching as she seated herself on the large log Sten had carried in from the surrounding forest to serve as the camp's only piece of furniture.

He was silent for several moments, then, and Wynne took the opportunity to observe him. He looked childish sitting as he was, cross-legged at her feet, staring into the fire, and she felt the beginnings of a grandmotherly affection stir in her chest as she continued to rest her gaze on him: the contrast of blonde hair, tied in its customary half ponytail, against tanned skin, the premature lines around eyes that often shone with mirth, the strong jaw, currently set in what she assumed to be determination…

Zevran had changed since they'd first encountered him on their trek to Denerim. It was only now, however, sitting beside him, that Wynne began to realize just how much. His expression was somewhat less guarded; still difficult to discern, but the frown lines above his brows had softened and she was certain she'd heard a note of sincerity in his voice of late. She knew he had no family, or happy childhood, to speak of—he'd let slip as much as he regaled them with tales of his exploits as a conscript of the Antivan Crows, an elite guild of assassins—and she suspected the Warden's offer of trust and, later, friendship was foreign to him.

Smiling, Wynne placed an encouraging hand on the assassin's shoulder. Perhaps the walls he'd built around his heart were finally beginning to crack.

After a pause, Zevran began to speak.

"Before I left Antiva, my bid for an incredibly difficult mark was accepted: a wealthy merchant with many guards. It took all my cunning to formulate a plan of assassination. Taliesen—you remember the Crow from Denerim, yes?—agreed to be part of my team, along with an elven lass named Rinna. He was doing some last minute reconnaissance while I waited with her."

Zevran plucked at the grass in front of him. His dexterous fingers made quick work of knotting the blades before tossing them aside.

"I'd been raised to never mix business with pleasure. I'd been taught that love was an illusion, one that could be used to manipulate people. But Rinna was… a marvel. Tough, smooth, wicked. She was everything I thought I desired and I had thought—ah, but I was young and naïve then."

Wynne felt an ache of trepidation settle over her heart as she watched Zevran run a frustrated hand through his hair before continuing.

"Taliesen came back on a tear, flushed with anger and screaming about betrayal. Somehow the merchant had learned of our plan and Taliesen swore Rinna had sold us out. He demanded her death, for such is the way of the Crows, and forced her to her knees."

Zevran's fist slammed down onto his knee, causing Wynne's grip on his shoulder to tighten.

"She begged us not to kill her, tears streaming down her pretty face," he said, voice laced with self-loathing. "She told me she loved me, that she had not betrayed us and I—I spit in her face. I told her that, even if it was true, I didn't care. I let Taliesen cut her throat, watched as her blood spilled down her neck and pooled on the ground… and I laughed."

"Oh, Zevran," Wynne breathed, slipping off the log to kneel beside the assassin. She hesitated, studying his face, before asking gently, "But that wasn't true, was it?"

"No," he sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "When Taliesen and I finally assassinated the merchant we found the true source of his information. Rinna had not betrayed us after all. I wanted to tell the Crows of our mistake, but they already knew what we had done… and they didn't care. She was nothing to them. I was nothing.

"When I heard of the contract on the Grey Warden," he continued, "I jumped on the… opportunity. I was the sole bidder, for the Wardens are known for their skill and prowess with a blade. I was counting on that prowess when I set up the ambush. Instead, I met with their mercy."

"You wanted to die."

Zevran looked up at her with a shrug.

"There was nothing left for me. I did not second guess my decision until I was staring down the length of the Warden's sword. At that point, I merely wished to avoid death and an alliance with the Grey Wardens seemed most practical. The Crows would think twice before crossing blades with such an elite and respected order."

"And now?" she asked.

"Now? Now my salvation lies with those pretty eyes, with ending the Blight."

"What changed?"

"What didn't?" he scoffed, gesturing around them. His gaze swept over the camp, resting on each of their companions.

Wynne smiled as his eyes lingered on their leader.

"We all make mistakes, Zevran," she said, "We all have regrets. And it is these very mistakes that allow us to grow, to learn."

"You are a good man," she continued, "Try as you might to hide it. Do you truly think yourself undeserving of trust and affection?"

He held her gaze for a moment before sighing and looking away.

"Zevran."

His fist clenched again, but he forced himself to look at her.

"I assure you that you most certainly are. I—as loathe as I may be to admit this—I value your company. I imagine my grandson would have been something like you. Except for the elven heritage, of course. And perhaps the licentiousness," she added with a chuckle.

"The point is," she continued, pulling the young assassin into a hug, "that your past does not have to define you. Your regrets can help you shape a different future, and I am honoured that you chose to share those regrets with me."

After a moment, Zevran relaxed into her embrace, forcefully exhaling the pain and tension to which he'd been clinging. They stayed that way for some time, he leaning against her as she stroked his back, encompassed by the warm glow of the fire and the soft melody of Leliana's lute floating on the breeze.

After a long while, Zevran shifted slightly and said in a muffled voice, "Thank you, Wynne," causing a fond smile to spread across her face.

"I often imagined how it would feel to rest against your bosom and, I must say, the reality far exceeds—"

"Egad!" Wynne cried, pushing him away and burying her face in her hands. "You're impossible!"

But the teasing grin on Zevran's face, coupled with the sincere appreciation shining in his eyes, was more than enough to melt away her exasperation and Wynne chuckled as she took her leave.

"Good night, Zevran," she laughed, ignoring the protests of her old bones as she rose.

"Sleep well, my dear Wynne," he said with a smile. "May sweet dreams fill that magical bosom of yours."

Chapter title, "Why the Caged Bird Sings" is a reference to Maya Angelou's poem, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.