AFTER RINNA
The glass was full and tall, and covered with ice. In his years of drinking ale, Zevran had never understood this. In the heat of summer how did they do it? Perhaps they kept a very busy mage in the back. He had never bothered to find out. Now he never would. No matter.
Of all the things that didn't matter, surely this was one of the least. Ariani you are growing maudlin. He took a deep breath, and pressed his hand against the glass. He looked at the ghost marks of his splayed fingers. My mark upon the world. Ha. He watched the unnatural cold of the glass fill in the marks again. Amounting to nothing.
Zevran was not drunk. Of course not. He never indulged to that point. He was merely-- snozzled. He could feel the tingle in his wrists and ear edges, where it always took him. It did not stop him from being aware of the room. He could feel who came and went by the door, and he was aware of the moods and the intent of those nearby. He was never so far gone as to loose awareness of that. It was not a choice anymore. Not even now, when he, in his misery, wished to die. Deserved to die –hard.
No matter. None of it mattered. This man, this Loughain, would accomplish it for him. Now, at last the courier slid to a stool next to his. Here was a packet of papers sealed in red wax. Zevran covered it with his hand. Offer accepted, and orders received. Done.
The stairs of the inn were narrow and twisting. They creaked. He kept to the wall, to see furthest and reduce noise. He met no one. The door to his room was shut tight. All appeared in order. Still he paused, his hand set flat to the wood. His eyes were slitted, his feet set, breath light. He pushed the door suddenly, hard and loud. All was well, nothing distubed. Didn't matter. Reflex only. Still, the quiet empty room was preferable tonight to company.
Zevran stripped quickly, and crossed the room to open the window. With his daggers beneath his pillow, he settled to rest. Sleep had come so hard lately. Since Rinna, he feared his dreams.
Tonight the city outside his window was quiet. Zevran could smell the spring mud, and somewhere someone was frying onions. A dog barked. He could hear, far away the strong beat of that song about spilled sugar. Ah, Ferelden... He let the heavy sleep wash over him, and take him down. In the dim light, blue shadows crept over the walls, and in his rented bed, Zevran slept.
The Fade was kind, at first. He ran through honey fields with Rinna. The Crows were miles behind them, the day was open, and shining all around. He was simply Zev, and hers. Her mouth was sweet and her words were kind.
And then Rinna stopped running ahead of him, and turned to face him. "Zev," She said "Stop, stop now, I love you." He opened his mouth to answer, happy and foolish, and time stretched awfully, as it does in our worst dreams. Zevran would have answered. His mouth was open after all. But Rinna was kneeling in front of him now, and reaching out for him, and her neck was wrong, and her blood was sheeting down, and he knew that she was dead. And he was tipping over backward, falling helpless and dirty, alone and small. He was falling into a dark closet, where he was hungry and only beatings ever came.
He woke, feeling the fear sweat sticking to him, under his arms, behind his knees. The night was spoiled. And, in truth, (Yes, let us have truth Ariani,) he was afraid to sleep.
He poured himself tea from the kettle over the fire. It was not the same brew as in Antiva, it was not floral, but bitter. Still it would do. He folded himself onto the windowsill, with the grace of the boy he no longer was. He rested his head back against the casement. He drank his tea, and tried not to think. The wet Fereldon wind blew. The air still smelled of wet dogs. The night paled, and after a while, as usual, the sun rose.