Almost two weeks of following her every move has allowed him to memorize her little quirks –like how the corner of her mouth twitches up ever-so-slightly when she is lying for example.
"Don't worry," she says to the elven lass by the Redcliffe chantry, "I'm sure your brother is alive – I will do what I can to find him."
"Oh, thank you, Grey Warden! You are most kind!" the elven girl says, relief overflowing her tone. "He is most probably still at our former home. Please – please find him. Take him back to me."
Filauria nods and adjusts her staff at her back. "I will."
"That is if he is not yet ripped to shreds by these 'walking dead'," Morrigan mutters under her breath as they walk out of the chantry to talk to Murdock.
"Could you be any more pessimistic!" Alistair snaps at the witch. Zevran thinks that the state of the village has pushed past his already thin patience for the woman.
Zevran steps close to Filauria. "You do not think we will find the boy, do you?" he asks. He notices her furrowed eyebrows and her frown, and he resists the urge to brush his thumb along her brows and her lips to erase the worry painted on her face.
"In truth, I don't know what to think," she answers him. "We've already enough problem regarding the darkspawn and now this?" She sweeps her right hand around her with one swift motion. "It leaves me asking if this is some kind of punishment the Maker has been bestowing on mankind."
"Truly, we do not know what the Maker's reasons are," Leliana comments nearby, having heard Filauria's confession. "But we should trust that he is doing this for the good of many."
Zevran trains his light brown eyes at the bard for a moment before looking back at Filauria. There is a certain tightness to her lips that signifies that she wishes to say something, but is debating on voicing it out. Zevran thinks it must be about Leliana's devoted belief.
Zevran isn't an unbeliever, but he can't say that he is a believer either. Maker or none, the life he lives is his own. Filauria, on the other hand, believes in the higher power – but being a mage under the constant surveillance of the Templars has made her wary of Andrasteism, and how it is being governed.
Filauria is an odd thing, he decides. She is the opposite of herself. She is both trusting and untrusting, sure and unsure, kind and… deadly.
There is a kind of victory in her eyes as she casts her final blow towards her opponents, but her eyes clouds with guilt as she watches their corpses litter the ground. Like she revels on the fact that she has great amount of power – but is unsure about what it says about her. He supposes this is why she had bought that spirit healing manual at Denerim after she'd recruited him.
While she is not nearly as good as Wynne, Filauria's hands are gentle when she heals, but her primal spells are powerful, even more so than Morrigan's – she is able to summon a blizzard with a blink of an eye.
He watches as she speaks to the people of Redcliffe with carefully-chosen words, weaving them into a web of strategy that only she is able to create. He watches as her dark hair flies around her as she summons a tempest. He watches as her amber-gold eyes lights aflame as she conjures her spells and falls her enemies.
Filauria is like a force of nature, Zevran thinks. Unpredictable, powerful and… strangely addicting.
A/N: Hello, it's me again. Thank you for the follows, guys! I am so happy that some are taking interest in this fanfiction of mine. :)
Oh, and I forgot to put this on the last chapter but: I am sure you're all surprised, but I don't actually own Dragon Age.
Do tell me what you think about this one. (winks)