I suddenly became very interested in the goings-on of my dungeon. The jailer was surprised with my direct orders; King Alistair almost always sent word by someone else these days, but now he's prancing around the dungeon like a child at a zoo. No one could figure out just why I was so fervently concerned about the elf, even given his crime. I came twice a day to see if he had asked for another audience. Of course, he did not.

I wasn't going to bow under pressure. "Friend" or not, he was the one who was between a rock and a hard place, not me. He would have to speak first.

His public execution is in two hours. I can hardly sit, I'm so damned anxious.

For the past few days, Anora has been nagging at me. Not that it isn't a regular occurrence, mind you, but she's noticed a particular swing in my mood and she's been honing in on it like a wasp on a stinging rampage. "A proper king would keep his head about him." "A true leader never lets his wits weaken and his guard slacken." "The husband I've known for the past ten years would not mope about like a stricken child." Blah blah blah. Like she's never had a bad day in the last decade.

I feel like my distress should stem from letting an old ally die, but it's really because the only lead I have on her is about to slip through my fingers. But this is important, right? Justice served and all that? I could find other leads. I could. I could find her on my own.

"It's time, Your Majesty," says Teagan.

Nug nuts.

I stand up from the drawing table and follow my adviser out the door. The halls seem to grow longer and narrower as we traverse them. My head spins. I have to think of a way out of this, have to decide what I really want. All right, if he tells us where the sword is, I'll wave the execution and give him a sentence. If he tells me where the Warden-Commander is, I'll grant his freedom, time served. If he chooses to say nothing... well, the gallows for him. Yup. Yes. Done.

Oh, balls, but this crowd is huge. Half of Denerim decided today was a good day to go to a public execution, apparently. I swallow and avoid looking at the crowd as I cross the stage to my seat. Anora usually comes with me to these things, but today she has an audience with the Orlesian ambassador, and can't be bothered to attend the execution of a petty thief. I don't know why I suddenly want her nearby. Maybe because now I'm the only royal to focus on. As I sit, I feel a lot of eyes on me, and Maker, are they heavy. For a few minutes I feel like I'm at a ridiculously large and awkward dinner party with a lot of guests; no one says anything until Zevran is carted on stage, a bag over his head.

The crowd swoops up in an outrage. They spit and snarl and shout their objections to this foul injustice. All of the sudden there are a lot more elves in the crowd than I first realized. Obviously I failed to receive the memo that this would actually cause a stir. Why did the people love the Crow so much? Do they all remember him from the Blight? Is it just because he's an elf? Or is it because the people feel they haven't had something substantial to complain about for a long time?

Zevran's bag is torn from his head. He looks twice as dead in sunlight as he did underground. The people howl even louder.

I groan inwardly as I get to my feet. I'm used to saying these words, but never like this. "By the laws of the crown and in the eyes of the Maker, I hereby sentence Zevran Arainai—" The crowd drowns out the rest of my Prisoner's Eulogy, as I like to call it. I say the rest of the words, subtly flicking my fingers as if I'm conducting an orchestra. It helps me slip into this numb state, almost like sinking into a hot bath, and suddenly I'm not concerned about what might happen in the next five minutes like I've been fretting about for weeks.

"Do you have any last words?" I ask the prisoner. Gosh, this is like floating on thin air. He may as well be Andraste's killer or my long lost cousin—I could care less either way.

But that deflates easily once he turns his eyes on me. The crowd goes silent at just the opportune moment, so everyone in the city hears him say, "The item I sought to give you—only I know where the key is that unlocks its box."

Oh... drake dung.

By some fault I've given the go ahead to the executioner. He guides Zevran under the noose, tightens it around his neck, then heads down the steps to go kick out the prop under the trap door that will ultimately snuff out the wisp of a man. The louder the crowd shouts, the quieter my world gets. I watch Zevran closely, my eyes boring into his hunched back as I will him to just say something more.

When the executioner kicks the prop once, I jolt; someone in the crowd shrieks. It stays in place, just barely holding the door closed. Zevran stands there limply like an old dog waiting patiently; his shoulders sag and his head droops like he's tired. The executioner kicks a second time—the prop shifts by a foot and the door gives way by a few inches, causing Zevran to sway on the spot. I realize that I'm clenching my fists and holding each muscle in my body taught. Will not fold, will not fold, will not fold... The third kick is posed—

"Stop!" I shout before I know what I'm doing.

Half the crowd up front stops shouting to look at me expectantly; the executioner stumbles back onto both feet. Great. This doesn't look foolish, does it? I've never been in this situation before. What do I do now?

Instead of waiting for the executioner to come untie Zevran from the gallows, I tromp forward to the platform and unleash him myself. The tone of the crowd changes, though it's not exactly cheering—I can't tell what they think about this. Not much room to think on it, however; Zevran watches me as I fumble with the knot, and as soon as it's untied, I lead him away from the noose and usher him quickly to the doors. He says nothing, which I'm glad of—I'm imagining him say hundreds of things and I certainly don't need him saying any of them out loud.

When my spine reverted back to jelly, I'm not sure. I hope I don't regret this.

Not one hour later, the whole of Denerim is squabbling as I treat the man who had been sentenced to death to some cakes and tea in my personal chambers. Anora came by at one point, pounding on my door, but I ignored her varied threats and insults. "She has managed to keep her fire alive after all these years, no?" Zevran asked.

"Unfortunately."

I want desperately to ask him questions I've been forming carefully over the past few weeks. Many an hour had been spent mulling it over—I knew Zevran wasn't the most clever of us, but he certainly was far more clever than I back then, and probably still is, so I had to steel myself properly. I would get the information I wanted from him this time. This time, for sure. He wouldn't trick me out of it. No.

Anyway, the conversation was constantly put off—first I ordered new clothes to be brought in for him, but once he was changed he only dirtied them, so I sent for a bath to be made. The bath took forever. Once he was cleaned and dressed, I made to start my interrogation, but his stomach grumbled louder than an enraged ogre, so I had food brought to the room. He had the guile to make requests. Despite wanting to show him his place... he got what he asked for.

I glare at him menacingly as he licks the frosting off his fingers. There's this smug, satisfied grin on his face and I want to swipe it off badly. He must get some sort of vibe from me, for finally he turns his eyes in my direction and says, "I knew you would bow under pressure."

"Not a good start to a thank you," I quip.

"What you seek is still in the dungeons," he says as if he hadn't heard me. I stop mid-glower and perk up. Right, that's why I didn't have him killed. When I don't offer a reply, Zevran looks at me expectantly and says, "Shall I send for it, or...?"

"I want to talk first."

"Certainly, Your Majesty."

"Don't call me that."

"As you wish."

I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. "How long have you been in Ferelden? Exactly?"

"Exactly? I would have to say... sixty-three days or so. The dungeon is quite... disjointing from time above."

"How did you get here?"

"I walked."

I balk. "Oh—uh—really?"

"Of course not. How else did you think I got here?"

"I don't know. That's why I asked."

"What does it matter?" Zevran asks, not sounding the least bit impatient.

"It doesn't," I say, but it matters to me entirely. I store away the information for later. I clear my throat, thinking the hardest part was done and over with. "Who wanted to steal the sword?"

He seems to weigh his words before he speaks. "An old friend, appointed by the Crows," he supplies.

"Really? What would the Crows want with a sword? And why would a Crow ask a former one for help?" The questions are flowing like he's turned on my tap.

"I cannot answer everything in plain truth, but what I can, I will offer you."

"Need I remind you that I saved you from your hanging?" I say, folding my arms across my chest.

He smiles, just a bit. "How do you know I wanted you to?"

"Because you pretended to steal a sword to talk to me!"

"True. But I did not cajole you into untying me from my fate, as it were."

"Didn't you?" I say, mimicking him poorly: "Oh, by the way, there's a key to the item I meant to give you, so if you kill me, you'll never get anything..."

He just stares at me. I give a great huff like a petulant child. "Fine. Speak."

"It is quite the chain, really. The Crows have no interest in the sword, but the money of their employer. Therefore, someone hired the Crows, who in turn appointed an old comrade of mine, who I then sought out secretly. If it is known that she conspired with me, she will die. Which is why I made the theft look like I was trying to steal it from her, sort of frame myself. I then caused the distraction to allow her to escape."

I have to chew the words before I can process them. "It didn't bother you at all that you were stealing her sword for someone else?"

"Quite the opposite, really."

"Why?"

"Because she wanted it to happen."

Every time he mentions her thoughts or feelings directly, I freeze up as if she'd said them aloud to me in the same room. I sit back in my chair. "Did she ask you to come to me?"

His grin slides off his face. "Yes."

"Why didn't she come herself?"

Zevran stalls, picking at the crumbs on the plate in front of him and nibbling at them halfheartedly. "I think she'd rather you did not see her."

Why does it still sting? It's been years. For some reason I've been clinging to the hope that I would see her again in the future. I'm still clinging to it desperately, even now, when Zevran tells me pointblank she'd rather it never happened.

"So. Where's the sword?"

"I cannot tell you."

Didn't think he would answer that. I'll have to deal with that later. "Where's the key to this box?"

"Nearby. Send for the box, and I will show you."

I ask Jia—my assistant, as I like to call her—to go get the box from the jailer. There's a few minutes of uncomfortable, tense silence between me and the Antivan before she returns with the package. It's small, wooden, scratched up to the nines and insignificant-looking. But I've never seen a finer treasure.

I beckon her to put the box on the table after realizing I've been staring at it a bit longer than seemed appropriate. She goes to stand by the door again. "Well?" I say. "Now will you show me where this key is?"

Zevran gingerly picks up the box, turns it over, and slides his finger down the middle. He then traces across the invisible line like a cross, and a piece of wood shifts and clicks into place.

"Really? The key is on the box? You had me spare your life for that?"

"I had you do nothing. Besides, Alistair, I hardly believe you would have figured out how to open it in the first place."

"Yes I would," I say defensively.

"Truly?"

"I'd just smash it open."

There's something in his face that changes, and I find myself wanting to take him seriously for the first time ever. He looks pained. "I believe you would have regretted that," he says, then lays the box on the table in front of me, lid wide open.

A dried-up rose lies inside, withered and wilted like it wishes it had died long ago.