Zevran had been prone to nightmares all his life. When Theron had asked him (in one of those moments of a little too much sweetness for Zevran to accept gracefully) whether there'd been any joy at all in his life, he'd deflected the question. The answer, in its simplest form, was of course, "No." There had never been enough power in his little pleasures to overtake the misery. Songs from a bard down the street as a child, rare outings with the other young Crows in his youth, soft lips and hard floors rather too early all hadn't stood a chance of making it into his dreams.

The worst of them had abated since he'd joined the incomprehensibly kind Grey Warden, and even more since Theron had begun to share his bedroll. He'd attributed that more to escaping the Crows than his acquisition of a sarcastic redhead. Before he'd joined Theron's very motley crew, constant visions of Rinna's death had dogged him, interspersed with old images of maimed bodies or beautiful, mocking corpses, of cold nights spent ill and alone, rough hands and pain and frightening commands. With only the depths of Zevran's mind to draw from, his dreams could hardly be happy.

Rinna, at least, had retreated with his death wish into the gray, seldom-seen realms of his memory since he'd directed his energy against the Blight, but Zevran hadn't slept quietly by anyone else's standards, and tonight, his mind seemed determined to punish him.

When he saw Rinna, when he ran for her, she looked on him with the dark, cold gaze of the Wildcat, her bright hazel eyes hauntingly themselves and the madgirl's at once as blood began to stream freely from every orifice. When he turned to flee, he was greeted by Taliesin, completely himself but for the putrefying wound Alistair's blade had left in his chest, maggots crawling through the pus and over his lacerated armor. Closing his eyes didn't seem to work, and Zevran found himself rooted to the spot as the stink of death surrounded him. The ghoulish apparition spoke with the voice of the Crow who'd bought Zevran from the brothel. He had never quite convinced himself that monster was dead. High ranking Crows had a way of just fading away and reappearing without fanfare. It was quite natural in dream logic to hear that grainy, affected noble accent from Taliesin, Memories of his dear friend were already long sullied, but at least he'd bedded Tali willingly, and this new confluence of memory was a horror he didn't know how to process. The dream didn't let him scream or run or fall on the sword his hand refused to reach, didn't allow any release. There was nowhere the swell of disgust and fear within him could go, and his heart felt about to burst with it.

He felt a soft hand against his forehead and for a moment was gripped with abject horror, thinking it was Rinna, but Zevran suddenly found himself blinking into perfect darkness. The fog of sleep and panic not quite gone, his mind didn't settle, though he knew that the cool fingers meant something, now tracing down the side of his face, now retreating, now slipping through his sweat-dampened hair. The smell of a man twined through with both wild, clear air and palace perfumery placed him quite outside that awful dream. He fastened on finally to a soft whisper of, "Nera, Lathallin."

Lathallin. His ear barely distinguished it, but that was "my love," not the easy lethallin for "friend," and apparently the term was quite strong, given the way Theron blushed when he (rarely) said it. Nera he didn't recall, but Zevran hardly cared. He was safely snuggled into his Theron's arms, not trapped on a filthy street between ghosts and guilt. He rolled over so sharply he wound himself up in the sheets and wrapped himself around Theron, burying his face in the other elf's shoulder. In a moment, he'd pull away, find some way to laugh this off, and spend the rest of the night staring at the ceiling. Well, in another moment.

"Oh, Zev." Theron never shortened his name. He'd never been sure why, but it made the familiarity striking.

There were those soft fingers in his hair again. Waking curled up with his lover to soft caresses should be lovely, and even now the gesture sent a muted shiver down his spine. Theron kissed his forehead. "It must have been bad. You don't usually wake up."

"Usually?" Zevran pulled back. He hated being afraid, and the easiest way to stop was to be angry instead. And Theron was conveniently… there, and sleepy enough to be rather tactless. And Zevran couldn't see a thing. Theron had actually closed their curtains, it seemed. It was so much simpler to vent his temper into an invisible void. "Usually. Is this a habit of yours? Letting me…" He couldn't finish. He wasn't telling Theron a thing about that dream, and without context, his tantrum couldn't go anywhere. He wasn't quite sleep-addled and irrational enough.

"Well, I used to try to wake you and pretend it was an accident, but if I did that every time you started up, you'd never have gotten any sleep." Theron sounded a bit hurt, but Zevran wasn't quite ready to be sorry for snapping. He didn't like this. Even to the man who'd helped to shoulder the burdens of all his crimes and miseries, Zevran didn't show weakness. He hadn't told Theron the details, hadn't passed along every little secret. There was nothing to gain by airing all that. He and Theron would take nothing of value from discussing how Rinna had only finally shared his bed three days before her murder. That one beautiful morning he'd met one of the boys he'd grown up with in the brothel, consumptive, syphilitic, and a revolting kind of drunk, and that those eyes had stayed with him in his dreams, long after blood and screams had ceased to matter. That at twelve he'd spent days wandering the streets, delirious and freezing, as he'd been expected to die from some horrid fever and abandoned by the Crows, accepted back without a word once he'd pulled through, unsure to the present what on earth might have happened to that half-mad, scared child he'd been, the memories merely a few blurs and cold tears.

He sat bolt upright, feeling a little dizzy from the abrupt change. "So you let me go on… What, tossing and turning and blathering in a foreign tongue? I suppose I sob into your bosom and whisper secrets." None of that had better be true. He wasn't so demonstrative in his nightmares, or he'd never have heard the end of it from the other Crows. And would probably have woken to a knife in his ribs. An assassin who spoke in his sleep was an obvious liability.

Perhaps peaceful sleep beside his lover and protector let him relax enough to… Zevran's eyes hardened, and his brows drew in. He was very glad of the dark. He didn't show anger if he could help it, no more than any other flimsy, fleeting feeling that meant surrendering power.

"I've never known you to cry," Theron said simply. Zevran felt a knot of panic begin to melt away. "One would have to know you to see. You breathe faster, your jaw clenches, you… Little things." Theron's hand covered Zevran's. Maker only knew how he found it in the dark.

"And now I suppose you expect some foolish heartfelt confession, and tears, and then everything will be healed and done with!" Zevran wasn't even snapping at Theron, anymore, just at a world where the cruelties he'd known and perpetrated flourished, where Chantry priests and Rinna and comfortable noblewomen thought all the filthy darkness would retreat from light even as they were all swallowed up, thought simply talking about the past could give you power over old tragedies. "Consider yourself informed. I've no wish to discuss it."

"Why would you want to?" The bed shifted as Theron sat up and entwined Zevran in his slim, strong arms, pulling him close. "As though that solves anything. Who do I look like, Alistair?"

Zevran's anger finally lost its bite and he managed a very small smile. "You don't look like anything at all. You may have noticed it is far too dark to see."

"Is it? I see you just fine. Your hair's taken on a mind of its own, by the way." Slow, measured, and deep, Theron's voice managed his accustomed teasing, but it took on another layer in the cool darkness.

Zevran leaned back against him, wanting to be enveloped in his lover's gentle affection. He was no less a wreck of a criminal here, no less guilty and damaged and ugly, but despite that, he was almost… content. "Just fine, is it? Another Warden trick?"

"I think it's a my-eyes-are-much-lighter-than-yours trick." Theron rested his chin on Zevran's shoulder and one hand in his hair. "Back to sleep?"

"So, it's really that easy? No admonishments or explanations needed?" Theron could be so bloody nosy. This was hard to believe.

"Well, one tiny piece of advice."

"I knew it."

"You goaded me into it." Theron breathed in and out deeply. "Mourn her properly."

Zevran bit back another snarl. "And how does she come into this?"

"Well, alright, but this is the first time you've talked in your sleep. Ow." Zevran had punched his shoulder. Theron sighed. "I mean it, though. I don't think you've done anything to say goodbye. There's a reason everyone has these traditions. You had to run, and then you shipped yourself to Ferelden."

"True. But no Crow expects a decent burial. It is not something I have ever considered." When assassins had done their time (and it was a rare, rare Crow who made it to gray hair and cold days bundled by the fire), they were tossed in the nearest ditch and seldom spoken of again. There was nothing as strict as a taboo. The Crows were always a pragmatic organization. It was simply bad form to bring up the dead when nothing unexpected had happened and when the same fate might well await the nostalgic speaker around the next door.

"Because you're so careful of their other rules." Theron slipped one arm around Zevran's waist loosely. "Have an Antivan style ceremony, maybe? Sister Justine owes me a favor, and if any Ferelden sister would know foreign rituals…"

"A funeral requires a body."

"I'd be happy to show you the Dalish mourning rites." He sounded a little hesitant.

Despite his grim mood, Zevran recognized that the offer had been hard on Theron. He was so protective of Dalish particulars, and to offer whatever the sacred rituals were for an Alienage woman he'd never seen was a most magnanimous gesture. It seemed crass not to accept, and he had to assume that Dalish deaths involved gentle songs and possibly leaves in some way. Zevran didn't think Rinna would really appreciate such a memorial, but he would. And maybe something soft and reverent would let the manic, wild she-devil rest.

"I… would like that," Zevran said quietly. He turned and pressed his lips to the curved line where Theron's neck met his shoulder. A favorite place to nibble, but for once, Zevran kept the kiss delicate and undemanding. Normally, sex was an excellent remedy for a bad mood, but between the memories his nightmare had stirred and the oddly solemn moment, possible only in the dark with sleep stinging at his eyes, he wanted intimacy, not passion.

"Good." Theron moved away a little, though he didn't let go. "Back to sleep?"

"Yes, I think so." Zevran lay down, smiling slightly as Theron cuddled close, his nose pressed into Zevran's hair. "Goodnight then, big spoon."

"It's an hour until dawn and you're taller than I am."

"What is my rule about making prescient observations?"

"Only Zevran gets to do that." Theron yawned. "Go to sleep, Lathallin."

He smiled as he closed his eyes, but as soon as he began to drift off, he felt those horrid visions press again at the edge of his mind. Zevran sighed and shifted a bit. This would be a long, sleepless night. And the least he could do was share the irritation. "Well, you owe me a secret now."

Theron grunted, apparently well on his way back to dreamland. "…How do you figure?"

"You have apparently been aware of my night terrors since we began fitting two to a bedroll. I feel this is unfair." Zevran rolled over so his face was an inch from Theron's. "So as I see it, I should have a secret of yours in return."

"What secrets?"

Zevran wished he could see Theron's face. He was so good at keeping his voice even that there was nothing to read. He smiled a little anyway. There was no reason to think it wasn't true. For such a good liar, Theron was oddly honest. "You are entirely too apt to neglect concealment. Why, not even a thought to hiding from the populace that the Hero of Ferelden takes the filthy, foreign whoreson to bed." He heard a sharp intake of breath. Zevran found it sweet that Theron objected to his self-deprecation, and he'd taken up doing it a little more often as a result. And there was no avoiding that punchlines at his own expense were funny.

"I do have one, actually." His voice fell to an odd whisper, still unreadable.

"Oh, I am aquiver." What would a secret of Theron's be? Zevran ignored a slight trepidation, the knowledge that information was usually kept hidden for good cause. Theron had lived in the woods and galloped about hunting up until only a very little time before he and Zevran had met, and Zevran had been there for the terrible decisions he'd had to make along the way.

There was a long pause in the dark, long enough for Zevran to begin to regret asking. "I slept with Morrigan." The sentence was blurted like the confession of a guilty brat quizzed about missing cookies.

Zevran's impulse was to laugh, but first he had to find a way to ignore a sudden, tight knot in his stomach, a rush of heat to his cheeks that he refused to make sense of. "Really? And what a lovely catch that was. I am impressed. And a little offended that you did not ask me to join." He believed Theron about being a virgin when they'd first fallen into the furs together, so it must have been since then. "Though I thought you didn't like women."

He felt Theron shudder slightly. "I don't."

"Then she must make really excellent use of her feminine wiles." Why did he feel so much like slapping someone? He'd been enjoying his sole claim to Theron's bed, and he couldn't pretend he felt anything but love for the other elf, but that didn't give him reason to resent a roll in the hay when he'd told Theron repeatedly they were only having fun. "When did you manage that?" His own voice sounded a little high and thin.

"The night before we marched on Denerim."

"What?" Zevran forgot to tell himself he didn't care, half sitting up with sudden rage in his eyes. "…Wait. You were with me that night." And it had been fantastic. Zevran was very fond of disaster sex, as it happened. And equally fond, lately, of snuggling until dawn.

"…Wet and perfumed, if you recall. Can I go back to the beginning?" Zevran hmmphed sharply, but didn't stop him. "Heard any of the muttering about how I'm supposed to be dead?"

"Theron, you should be dead twelve times over with the things you attempt."

"Fair, but… Really, that time. It's supposed to destroy a Grey Warden to kill an archdemon."

"And yet you remain intriguingly alive. Yes, I see the trouble here, but I repeat that you survive events you ought not at least twice a week." The first rush of hot anger over with, Zevran lay back down, paying no mind to the itchiness behind his eyes, the tightness in his stomach. He was so unused to raw distress and jealousy he could barely recognize the physical aftereffects, let alone the actual emotion. "And I do not see the connection."

"A ritual. Something only a loony apostate witch could pull off. The details escape me… The child of a Grey Warden somehow can accept that which usually destroys the Warden that kills the archdemon. It was complicated. Essentially, she offered a way for me to live when I shouldn't have."

"Oh." Zevran couldn't for a moment entertain any idea that he'd rather have Theron dead and faithful, but the sick, ugly rush of resentment didn't recede. "And with what result?"

"I have a child. Or I will soon. And I'll never see it. That was her price. It'll have some sort of power of older gods…" Theron sounded perfectly unconcerned, which bothered Zevran in a distant part of his mind. Perhaps worshipping broken statues with names like dreams gave one a casual view of reawakening ancient, slumbering powers? "And the, er, immediate result was me fleeing the room after about five minutes, dunking myself in the Arl's baths, and, well, I sort of jumped you."

"And I was very flattered at the time. When I imagined you'd escaped some stern, Wardenly war counsel." Zevran was gradually calming down, finding comfort in Theron's obvious distaste. It was hard to be offended when he pictured Theron turning his face away or fleeing the room, and his idea of the look on the proud witch's face was too precious. But then Zevran was struck by an image of the act. In itself, not at all unappealing, but knowing Theron must have bedded the woman with his earring on… He wasn't done being angry yet.

"I wanted to live." Theron leaned in close and kissed Zevran's forehead. "It's not just death the archdemon brings. It's oblivion, never to walk with Falon'Din, to meet my ancestors in the Beyond…" Suddenly Zevran was pressed painfully tightly to Theron's chest. "And never to see you again."

Funny thing to get his head around. I slept with a beautiful, wicked woman for you. And Zevran still wasn't reconciled to jealousy, as angry with himself as with Theron. If he'd had his own room, he might even have slept alone tonight. But Theron sounded (and it was very disquieting) almost on the edge of tears. So Zevran hugged him back. Begrudgingly.

"I'm sorry."

"Good." Zevran felt low for that, somehow sure despite the darkness that Theron looked like he'd just been slapped. He settled back in beside Theron, not cuddled so close this time.

"I love you."

He softened and moved a little nearer. "Yes, I know." It wouldn't be a comfortable night full of snuggles, but at least the nightmares had retreated. Zevran closed his eyes, aware of Theron's gaze on him in the dark. Through his anger, he was touched despite himself, and found that intense look endearing. He didn't doubt for a moment that Theron loved him, something he'd never really let himself bask in and relish.

Zevran dreamed through the rest of the night of a gossamer-thin child with dark hair and thundercloud-gray eyes, ears coming to a sort of abbreviated point as seemed proper for an impossible hybrid. He knew so little of children that even a dream couldn't elaborate, couldn't show him what to make of Theron's get, but the image remained as he blinked awake.

The light belonged to mid-morning and he was alone, both rather confusing and unfamiliar states in this bed. He sat up, rubbing at his eyes, and smelled warm biscuits and honey. A plate was waiting on the bedside table with a mug of cool, sweet tea beside, and a tiny crystal vase with a sprig of amaranth within stood by. Leaving flowers wasn't at all like Theron, but throwing an irrational fit in the darkness before dawn and demanding that his lover break his heart wasn't like Zevran. He stared at the tiny, crimson petals for a long moment before he tucked into is waiting breakfast, dressed carefully, and headed out in search of Theron.

The dratted elf had taken the dog with him. Zevran was quite attached to the hulking animal, who'd happily track an errant lover as well as chase a stick for hours on end while Zevran needed to think. He hoped Theron hadn't gone off again. Surely someone would think the king and the hero under close guard after yesterday's attack?

Zevran rounded a corner and almost walked into Wynne. The woman was carefully examining a mirror hung in the hall. To Zevran it appeared unremarkable, smooth glass over mercury and set into a finely carved frame of pale wood. The mage was seeing something he was not, and curiosity had always been his greatest vice.

"You do retain a transfixing, unique beauty, lady. What a vision gazes back upon you, eh?" He beamed innocently as she turned to frown at him. Zevran felt it was a fond frown. She barely tolerated him, true, and only for Theron's sake, but she was probably the dearest creature ever to grudgingly acknowledge his existence.

"Oh, good, it's you." Such an excellent deadpan. "I wasn't feeling plagued and dirty enough this morning. If you're looking for your lover, he's volunteered to wrangle the king's assorted young relatives."

"The intelligence is appreciated." Zevran bowed, low and courtly, his forehead almost meeting the ground. "And I willingly concede I owe you a boon. Now tell me, what in the mirror had you so very entranced?"

"Mirrors are doors to the Fade. Not useful doors to humans. …Or elves." Wynne did always try to be inclusive, probably thanks to that apprentice of hers. "But they allow glances into dream. Most mages cannot harness this trick with any reliability at all. A snatch of vision from the corner of one's eye is the most to reasonably expect."

"But your tone suggests that is not the situation for you, dear lady?" Zevran was sincerely interested, and as such trying to behave.

"No doubt as a result of my specific condition." She shrugged. "I'm only marginally better than any other mage at seeing through to the Fade in this way, but I'm able to hold a vision for a few seconds at least. Perhaps my companion is checking in on things at home." She smiled. Zevran supposed she did seem like a grandmother, though it was a concept he was only dimly familiar with. "Usually the experience is comfortable enough. My spirit belongs to the gentler parts of its world. Of late, however, those brief moments of insight are dark."

She looked grave, certainly, and Zevran trusted her knowledge of this rather esoteric subject. "Which means?"

"If I could tell you, I would. I feel as though what's happening is a disruption, an invasion of sorts into the parts of the Fade which correspond roughly to the castle. It's far from a physical correlation, of course, put together from the minds of those living here now, memories of past misery and delight, the crossroads of so much power… Well, I can see your attention is wandering."

Zevran was startled. His attention, as it happened, was firmly tethered. Perhaps she was just assuming from precedent. This news upset him and he wasn't sure why. "As a matter of fact, and I could see why you might not believe me, I was in fact rapt."

"Were you? I apologize, then." Wynne was nothing if not fair. "You're difficult to read. Well, I don't claim to understand what's going on, but it's unsettling."

"I agree." Zevran turned his eyes down for a moment, then recovered his usual wicked glee. "Shifting malevolence in the realms beyond. Sounds like the beginning of another grand adventure for us all."

"Away with you, now. Though I don't know if it's in my best conscience to send you in the direction of children."

"Oh, now, I love children. I was one myself for many years." Zevran strode off before he realized that, though he knew who Theron was with, he still didn't know where. If he had to send a parcel of annoying brats and a short-tempered elf somewhere in a castle, where might he choose? Too esoteric a question. He settled on asking a maid, which he ought to have done in the first place.

Theron was in a small sitting room, side chamber to an unused guest suite. It seemed even smaller than usual as what looked like about two dozen assorted-sized urchins swarmed back and forth. As his eyes became accustomed to the fray, Zevran reduced that count to five, two of which were currently climbing on Theron. Three boys, one girl, and an infant whose gender wasn't apparent. Not one of them looked particularly like the others and they ranged from (at his uneducated guess) two to twelve. They were dressed in little more than rags, skinny and bruised, and altogether looked as though they should be as miserable as their sour mother.

But they weren't. The ginger-haired girl, a head taller than any of the others, was dictating the terms of an impressive battle waged between her two brothers, all of them grinning and giggling, while a wide-eyed, tow-headed moppet had successfully demanded a piggy-back ride from Theron and was looking quite triumphant. The smallest one was admiring a flower, probably deciding whether to eat it or pull it to bits. The room overall practically oozed contentment.

In the center of it all, Theron was unmoved by the fray. He seemed not to so much as notice the tugging at his hair, gently bouncing the baby whenever it looked like it might decide to be distressed. He intervened with a firm, short word whenever the dueling boys might do one another real damage. Zevran couldn't help pausing to watch for a moment. A side to Theron he hadn't seen, and one that made him think back to his dreams of the night before.

Resolutely, Zevran crossed the room, caught Theron's eye, and kissed him. A very soft, chaste kiss, the sort that didn't come very naturally to him, but which felt necessary to get his point across. The previous night was forgiven. Not forgotten, perhaps. Zevran was sure he'd stew irrationally over the whole thing a time or two more. But he'd never been the kind to hold a grudge, except against himself.

Theron blinked, surprised, but understood him. Or he seemed to. Zevran often wondered when they communicated wordlessly whether he ever understood what his lover meant, and vice versa. They seemed to get along alright, so it wasn't worth too much debate. "Morning to you, too," Theron said quietly, resting his forehead against Zevran's for just a moment before straightening.

"Ew! Yuck, kissy stuff." Theron's shoulder child jumped down to go fight with his brothers.

"How did you wind up in charge of these?" Zevran raised a curious eyebrow.

"It's a bit convoluted." Theron wrinkled his nose. "The current idea seems to be that Alistair and I should stay apart, since we're both targets. Split the enemy forces."

"It's as legitimate a strategy as any. One might just as readily say it is best to keep you two together, that you might be guarded more efficiently." Zevran sighed. Without knowing more of the goals of the assassins at work, their skill, or what numbers and power they could muster, he didn't know how to make that decision. He'd just stick like glue to Theron henceforth. Probably his best plan, and an enjoyable one. "But I don't quite see how it results in you watching over the… throng."

"I'm a bodyguard of sorts. Keep in mind, one of these is the closest thing Ferelden has to an heir right now." He gestured to the mass of children. There really did seem to be about a dozen. Zevran wondered how they did that. It'd be rather a handy trick. "Until we find someone Alistair will consent to marry, and he wrings a little princeling out of her, his half-sister's crop will have to do."

"Nothing wrong with royal bastards." Zevran was surprised when the nearest two looked at him with wide eyes and then fell to whispering. "…What did I do there?"

"Cursed in front of children?"

"Oh." He supposed he had. Funny, that. What would it have been like to grow up in a world determined to protect his innocence rather than destroy it? He was even more curious about the noisy little things now. He didn't resent them, exactly, nor did he want one, by any means. But they had a certain fascination. "Oops."

"I have trouble with that, too." Theron shrugged. "But they're good little imps." He'd know better than Zevran, certainly. How would one judge one child's worth over another? Cuteness seemed a decent criterion, but they all were about equal in that. Cleverness? Durability? He didn't think he should ask in front of them.

The child that had just jumped down tugged on Theron's sleeve. "Ser Dalish? Does your kissing friend bear the sign of the Keeper of Secrets, too?"

Before Zevran had a chance to express his consternation with any number of things in that statement, Theron crouched down a little. "No, Zevran wasn't born among my people, so he hasn't undergone the rite of Vallaslin. You'll have to ask him what his tattoos mean."

Zevran had to cut in. "Ser Dalish?"

"Only the oldest one can pronounce Mahariel, they've been convinced they'll have their hides tanned if they call an adult by a first name, and I prefer it to their first idea."

"Ser Knife-ears, was it?"

"Yup." Theron looked strained. "So what do those markings mean?"

"They tell the harrowing tale of how Zevran was very easy to get drunk at the age of nineteen and extremely prone to taking dares at the time." He ran his fingers idly down the ocher lines. The facial tattoos were a bad idea, making far too easy to identify and very difficult to disguise. Still, he liked them. He'd been told during his brief time among the Dalish that they could be incorporated into a design like Theron wore. A thought, but not one he was perfectly comfortable with.

When he looked back down, the child had run off to rejoin his brothers. Zevran rolled his eyes. Attention span of a squirrel. "Kissing friend?"

"I'm fairly sure their mother switches out her paramours rather often." Theron shrugged without judgment. Zevran had always liked that about him. Unless they were discussing something explicitly human or distinctly ill-considered, he was opinionated but fair. "Whatever they want to say about having, I would guess, five different fathers between them is fine with me."

"Reasonable." Zevran nodded. "So, I can't help but notice you educating the potential heirs and members of the makeshift royal family in Dalish lore."

"Oh, hardly lore. Simply... awareness." He smiled slightly. "If they happen to come away thinking elves are wise, powerful, and valuable friends and allies, what's the harm?"

"You're brilliantly insidious is what you are." Zevran gave Theron's hair a little tug and went to settle into one of the chairs, all of them rather large and cushy. He chose the least appealing, which seemed unlikely to attract small leaping missiles in child form.

He wondered where Cou'ghi might be. With Alistair, maybe? No matter how calm the beast, one wouldn't expose a wardog to five misbehaving children. The end of his patience would come eventually and violently with that many tugs on his tail and ears, and it would be counted his fault, not the brat's. Zevran knew very well what the world made of an abused animal fighting back.

Withdrawing from the thick of the chaos, Zevran watched Theron through slitted eyes, trying to get the measure of this peculiar new facet of his lover.

He let them wear themselves down to near silence with their manic energy, then began to speak to them in a gentle, sonorous voice of bits and pieces of elvish stories. Not the important ones, the tales of gods he was loath to share even with Zevran, but simple tales of a Halla who nursed a bear back to health or clever twin brothers who outwitted a wolf. He was no master of the art, but Theron had a perfectly competent manner of telling stories. Zevran was happy enough to listen to the fables himself, not much different from the stories he'd occasionally begged from the whores when he was that size.

He found Theron's tales fascinating nonetheless. Zevran had been raised to the Andrastian religion like any Antivan child. He'd dutifully entered the Chantry after each bout with sin. When he was very small, he'd begged forgiveness for stealing from the brothel's customers, first out of hunger and then from greed and to show off to the other children. As he'd grown older, there'd been no end to the murders, deceptions, ill-considered trysts, thefts, and wanton acts of destruction he'd offered up to the silent god in hopes of reconciliation. It had become a chore in the past few years when he stopped hoping for any response. The priests spoke true. The Maker had no interest in answering anyone's calls.

At least the strange gods of Theron's people had an excuse for their absence. The Creators had tried and failed to serve their own, from what Zevran could make out, which he found more admirable than a distant deity declaring his creation a mistake a turning away in a snit. He would rather revere such gods as meant well. He simply couldn't convince himself of their reality. Not by daylight, at least. Lying beside his lover and tracing the symbols of Dirthamen written in black over Theron's bone-pale skin, he could almost believe in the dreamy figures the Dalish adored so.

Zevran had had no sleep of any quality until the very end of the night, and despite the noise, the scene around him was so safe and comfortable as to be unreal. Zevran had often spent hours crouched alone and without stimulus, waiting for a mark to pass, but all that nervous, constrained energy had left him. He drifted off, not knowing when his quiet ruminations on Theron's gods became actual dreams.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when Theron gently shook his shoulder. "Come on, lunch."

"Wouldn't want to miss that. My first meal as a poison taster." He was almost looking forward to it. Someone really should have woken him for breakfast, but it was just as well they hadn't. He might have bitten someone's head off had he been dragged out of bed.

"What does poison taste like?" the girl asked, chewing on the very blond end of her braid.

"Like wholesome vegetables." Zevran congratulated himself on keeping a straight face, especially in the face of Theron's barely restrained snickering. He followed the other elf's lead. "Who are all of these, by the way? I assume they have names, and not just numbers?"

"Oh, um..." Theron considered for a moment and then hurried through the five names so smoothly it was clear he'd only learned them as a set. "Judi, Mihai, Trayl, Olim, and Milara. In order of age."

Zevran was sure of the oldest and youngest, at least, but not willing to bank on any of the boys in the middle, and Theron's gestures had been vague. He decided not to bother. Ingratiating himself with the country's very tentative heirs might not be a bad idea, even if children had the attention spans of squirrels. "So, Miss Judi, are you enjoying palace life thus far?"

"It's fancy." She was a dark-haired, spindly thing, all pointy joints and mild scrapes, her eyes shifty and active and her movements a spider's. She'd have made it, he guessed, in the lot fate had handed Zevran, and he was oddly compelled to make sure it never found her. "Also, the food's real good."

"For Ferelden cuisine, perhaps, which is like saying being shot in the arm is excellent. One might be shot in the face, but the arrow is no pleasanter."

"Huh?"

"Fereldens cannot cook."

"Oh." She nodded. "...Was you in the fight with the big dragon, too?"

"Well, for a given value of... in the fight. I mostly tried not to be set on fire and took potshots at its head with a ballista."

"Ooh, a ballista?" She grinned with a wild bloodthirstiness that almost made him laugh. "But it was him who killed it." She pointed at Theron's back.

"If you want to know, it was mostly Alistair who wounded it. With some help from our Orlesian bardess. Intense, skilled combat in close quarters. Your uncle is excellent at such things. Theron grabbed a sword from a fallen soldier and just barely managed to smash it through the dragon's neck once the king had brought it down. Inelegance and being in the right place at strange times is what your Ser Dalish is good at."

"Thank you Zevran. You flatter me."

"You love it."

"Can't argue." Theron winked at him and ushered the children into the kitchen. Zevran glanced down the hall, toward the big chambers where Theron usually ate with esteemed guests. He raised an eyebrow in question.

"Ah, did you hear the best part of my spending time apart from His Majesty? We won't be appearing at the same functions unless absolutely necessary." Theron grinned wickedly.

Zevran made an exaggerated bow. "To your unequaled mastery, Ser Dalish."

His smile faded a bit as he set the children to spaces around the usual servants' table. "You're not letting that drop, are you?"

"It's far too amusing. Have you made a decision yet about your coat of arms? Perhaps a pointy ear and a leaf?" Zevran wasn't sure how much he was pushing it. He was wending toward one of Theron's sore spots, and while his paramour wasn't known for flares of temper, Zevran didn't really enjoy his disapproval.

He realized his teasing was petty revenge for the night before and stopped. Rather abruptly, he turned to a boy who smelled of woodsmoke and garlic. "Well, I'm to be testing the king's meal. I hope the plate hasn't been readied. It is best if I observe."

The drudge he'd chosen to question looked confused, but the cook swooped down and ushered him over to the day's selection. She seemed offended by the idea that any of her cooking might be unwholesome. At least she'd taken Zevran's instructions to heart. The meat was well cooked, which destroyed at least some of the efficacy of many poisons. Rather than the sort of heavy, dull gravy Fereldens seemed to pour on everything, salty enough to hide the taste of just about any venomous component, the roast was simply salted and dusted with herbs. The dollop of limp green stuff was less promising, but Zevran had a hard time imagining someone poisoning the spinach. How undignified. And of course, wine.

His compliments to her forethought didn't seem to hold much weight, and Zevran still felt the cook's glare on the back of his neck as he sampled from the king's own plate. He took a moment to enjoy the experience. Gold-filigreed Orlesian porcelain, a crystal wine glass, the choicest cut from the cow... Ah, luxury. Pointless, fleeting luxury not much pleasanter than ordinary life, really, but the principle of the thing was to enjoy the lavish moment.

He smelled carefully first, took very small bites, and chewed for a long time, searching for any grit or telltale shifts in texture. Everything seemed in order, though the cook sniffed at him when he said so. He had to work his way into that woman's good books. How else would he take over his kitchen when the mood took him?

Zevran headed back to the table with the others, where Theron was barely keeping order. It seemed the troops had decided they were hungry, and the three oldest had taken up a chant to that effect. Theron's calm was beginning to look a bit ruffled, but Zevran had no idea how to throw in support other than to try and flag down someone to indicate which platter was meant to serve the king's assorted little relatives.

Once they'd been served, Judi directed her brothers in a squeaky little rendition of some snippet or other of the Chant of Life. Rather a show of piety for a bunch of hungry children, but Zevran recognized the technique. Food long awaited, with time to smell and savor, was more filling, and anything to keep hungry little mouths from wolfing it all down at once would seem to stretch strained supplies. There'd been a prayer and a pledge to the king when he was a child, replaced by a recitation of Crow law after his purchase.

Half listening, Zevran was suddenly aware of the slightest little shift in his balance. The assassin survived through awareness and a perfectly attuned body, and Zevran knew every vein and nerve of himself. The moment the balance shifted, he knew.

It came on fast from there, but Zevran was faster. He slapped the spoon from Judi's hand, ignoring the spots fast forming around his vision. "No one touch it. One of you, run and tell your uncle not to eat. That goes for everyone." His tongue felt thick in his mouth and he was losing motor control.

Zevran was faintly aware of his head hitting the table, and after that, nothing until his eyes fluttered open to a cool breeze and his accustomed view of the night sky from Theron's bed. His head was resting on his lover's lap and the elf's hands were in his hair. It would have been a lovely place to be if he'd had any idea how he'd gotten there. And if his mouth hadn't been as dry as a desert with every muscle aching if he tried to move it.

Theron pressed a damp handkerchief to Zevran's lips. "Good to see you awake."

"Is it? I doubt I look my best." He winced, hearing his voice grind like he'd been inhaling smoke for a week.

"Mm, you look a bit worse than Alistair. Being so pale doesn't suit you." Theron bent down at a very odd angle and kissed his forehead. "But you saved the king and about half his court."

"It was all poisoned?"

"Every bite. It's been a hungry evening in the castle." Theron sighed. "No one's dead, though a few more are sick. At least no one's allowed to eat before the king does, so there were only a few nibbles at the sides of plates. Apparently it was very dramatic with Mihai bursting in and ducking under a guard's shield to yell, I believe, 'Nuncle, don't eat that! It killed the ballista elf!"

"...It beats Ser Dalish."

"The child is four." Theron smiled. Zevran's eyes were adjusting to the dim light in the room, a gibbous moon and a warm lantern-glow from under the door meeting in the middle to ghostly effect. Theron looked a bit strained and pale, too. He'd been worried.

Zevran closed his eyes. He didn't think anyone had ever worried for him before, and it was surprisingly pleasant in a very quiet way. Like sunlight on his face after a long night underground.

And now he was being silly. He opened his eyes again.

"It wasn't much of a rescue, was it? I didn't catch it in time. Had it not been for the delay that comes with a state meal..."

"What was it?" Theron spoke a bit too quickly. Trying to cut him off. Zevran supposed he'd given his lover reason to fret. Zevran Arainai wasn't one to forgive himself easily.

But Theron had chosen the wrong question to take his mind off his failure. "No idea. That's the worst of it." He knew every poison in Thedas, and they'd still beaten him. It was something very exotic, a new combination of components... Or maybe he just wasn't as good as he thought he was. Even the symptoms didn't really match anything in his experience. Pain, weakness, severe dehydration... He'd have to watch himself and take more careful note. He was still too groggy.

"And they were willing to kill most of the castle. ...Eager, I'd bet." Theron sighed. "You should try and drink something." Zevran quietly resented his temporary helplessness as Theron helped him sit up and steadied the water for him. He downed three full glasses and leaned back against Theron with a sigh.

"They've already tried to burn a royal carriage in the middle of a crowded street. They like bold, ridiculous displays. This cannot go on. You and I need to find out the source and the cause." There was no one else he'd trust. Oh, for Leliana right now, but of course, she had to be off in Orlais.

"Mmm, yes, two tattooed elves with accents. We'll be a perfect investigation team."

Zevran flicked the tip of his nose. "And who else?"

"It's the lesser of available evils. But for tonight, sleep, Lathallin."