He awoke to the sound of a waterfall; its roaring shush muted his thoughts and made it hard to think through the noise. As Sandor opened his eyes, the rushing waters receded, until he identified the steady trickle of rainwater running into the barrel outside his window. Perro, upon hearing him stir, sprang onto the bed and wriggled forward; the mabari forced his master's hand past his muzzle and onto his head, until the elf obliged him with a brief scratch between his cropped ears.

Even if the rain hadn't given it away, Sandor didn't need to turn his head to the in order to confirm there'd be no travelling today. Prior to their arrival in Seacrest, brighter spring hues intermittently accompanied the sunrise; now, the dreary dawn light possessed a grayish cast instead, leeching the color from the floorboards and furniture so the wood looked sun-bleached.

Sandor stretched and, with difficulty, resisted the urge to roll over and go back to sleep. He didn't allow himself that luxury anymore; his dreams were no longer the refuge they'd been in the Tower. However, after the tension-inducing incidents of yesterday, coupled with Alistair's reluctance to continue on to Redcliffe, the thought of an entire week in an actual bed was an attractive one. He doubted he'd have a hard time convincing the others, except perhaps Sten who seemed largely indifferent to any change in their circumstance. He privately believed the qunari never availed himself to beds when they were available and instead slept on the floor, but had yet to ask him, because he was certain of the enigmatic answer he'd receive – which would be no answer at all.

Scooting backwards, enough so his shoulders rested against the crudely carved headboard, the mage gave a sharp snap of his fingers. "Practice, practice!" Alerted by the combination of sound and command, the hound raised his head, ears pricked attentively. "Ready?" Eagerly, the mabari stood. One paw sank further into the saggy straw mattress; the unexpectedly uneven footing made Perro shift nervously before hopping sideways where he landed heavily on Sandor's legs. The elf struggled to sit up and free himself from the pressing weight of his dog, but the sheets and homespun blanket – already twined and tangled about his ankles from his restless tossing and turning in the night – impeded his progress. The bed's aged timbers creaked ominously and man and beast froze, anticipating a collapse that – fortunately – did not happen.

Carefully, Sandor drew his legs out from under the animal; Perro remained motionless until the elf sat, cross-legged, in front of him. Then, tentatively, the mabari raised a foot and placed on the mage's knee. "I think we'll wait until later - or at least until we're outside." With an agreeable whuff that showered Sandor's face in a fine mist of mucus and drool, the beast slobbered affection on his master, until the elf wrapped his arms around the dog's thickly muscled neck and wrestled him out of bed, the two rolling onto the floor with a dull whump.

Oghren's lusty snores greeted the elven Warden as he descended into the common room, jumping off the last step of the staircase onto the rush-covered floor. Absent from last night's supper, Sandor had then supposed the dwarf returned to the bypassed brothel and tersely vetoed the proposed search for him once the group finished eating. Apparently, Oghren made it back to their lodgings in one piece – probably poorer for it – but wasn't up to the task of finding his room in the dark. Their landlady stood over him, busily prodding the banked coals back to life with a poker and Sandor's relief over his return was short-lived when he saw him furtively crack one eye open to ogle the view above. 'Being a Grey Warden won't kill me. I'll have died from the stress long before then.'

Luckily, Perro solved his problem: the mabari immediately padded over and – taking the side closest to the fireplace – flopped down next to the dwarf. The dog stretched out and then rolled over, pushing the man sideways and effectively obstructing his view. Unable to shove Perro without giving himself away – and thusly risking the woman's wrath and potentially the iron rod in her hand – Oghren closed his eyes and soon the snores began in earnest. The animal yawned widely enough that Sandor could have stuck his head between the mabari's jaws; it was the closest thing Perro had to a laugh.

Unaware of the dwarf's voyeurism, the inn's proprietor thrust a log on top of the glowing coals; a few wayward sparks flew onto the stained, threadbare rug in front of the hearth. Her acknowledgement of his arrival did not offer any recognition of his status as a Grey Warden. "Won't be nothin' to offend the Prince at this meal – unless he objects to the way I fix my kedgeree. If'n he does, he's stuck with porridge, eggs, sausages, bacon, toast, tomatoes and sweet buns. Which don't cook themselves, I might add, so you'll do me the favor of fetching water from the well out back. It needs to be boiling in the cauldron yonder – and get the kettle ready for when I say."

'Maker, there'll be no end to it if he hears her call him that.' Hers was an order, not a request but Sandor wasn't inclined to argue and ducked his head in a show of polite servility; lugging a few buckets back and forth was a modest penance for the antics at last night's supper.

The two elves were late getting back, but not so late as to miss dinner – just long enough so the inn cleared of any regular customers. Alistair looked predictably relieved when they returned and while Zevran relaxed onto one of the wormy driftwood benches and launched into the tale of their experience with the blacksmith, Sandor had collapsed next to Perro whose ebullient greeting further buoyed his mood.

"And then," the Antivan pouted, "he left me there with no means to communicate! It was cruelly done, mago – had I been obliged to resort to crudely stamping my foot like a sos vylia, I might never have forgiven you."

Engaged in mock combat with his mabari on the floor, Sandor halted it with a murmured word and extricated his arm from Perro's mouth. After a cursory inspection of his sleeve's fabric – damp but otherwise intact – he tilted his head back until he could see Zevran – upside down from his point of view – reclining easily against the table. The assassin obviously expected his comment to draw the mage's attention and gave him a good-humored wink.

"Does anyone else find it ironic he's talking… about not talking? Just me then?"

"Alistair," Zevran replied silkily, "how did you occupy your hours today?" His inquiry was deceptively innocent but Sandor recognized the waggish lilt; it foreshadowed payback for the human Warden's sarcasm. "Were you yet successful in returning Morrigan's undergarments to her pack? As I have said before, if she has not noticed their absence by now, it will do no one any harm for you to keep them."

The Templar's pre-pubescent, octave-skipping yelp, "What?" nearly matched the apostate's outraged screech. "I don't have her…" Red-faced, his indignant denial, "I don't have your…" didn't placate her and she stomped upstairs. The angry thud of her footsteps echoed hollowly above them.

Poised to follow Morrigan upstairs, likely in an attempt to prove himself innocent of Zevran's claim, the arrival of a serving woman laden down with dishes and utensils spared Alistair further embarrassment – and Zevran from any reprisals. The human Warden took a seat as far from the assassin as he could manage; Wynne chose a spot next to Alistair and shot Zevran a reproachful look as she sat down. Leliana's intervention – posing a pointed question to the older mage regarding her interpretation of a specific verse in the Chant of Light – didn't prevent the Antivan from blowing Wynne a kiss and his cheeky grin announced he was up to the challenge of fielding Wynne's glares all night, if need be. However, Alistair proved the lesser of two evils when Zevran realized he would be sitting next to Morrigan if and when she returned, so, hauling on Sandor's arm, he moved them down so Sten would be between them.

Out came trays of boiled new potatoes, several loaves of crusty bread and a large, cast-iron pot of olive green soup (which to Sandor resembled nothing more than mushy peas). Anticipation had Zevran squirming in his seat; he caught the elven Warden's eye, leaned in and whispered, "Eels," with such longing that Sandor shivered.

The innkeeper brought out the final plate; she dropped it unceremoniously onto the table and stood back with her hands on her hips, as if she expected them to fall upon her food like a pack of winter-starved wolves.

"What is that?" It was difficult to imagine a way in which the assassin might sound more disgusted; his lip curled in repugnance as he gazed at the platter.

Sten stated the obvious for them all. "Fish."

It was fish, or at least appeared to be fish in a form Sandor recognized – not that he was in disagreement with Zevran's unspoken sentiment about its appeal. His appetite since becoming a Grey Warden was unpredictable – he could eat oatmeal at every meal for three days straight and wake up the next morning to find the texture and smell revolting. Erratic cravings aside, he'd never been partial to fried fish in the Tower. Pounded into rough squares, the thickly battered fillets were piled up unappetizingly on the heavy stoneware plate; their presentation didn't deter Alistair who reached out to spear one with his fork.

Zevran rapped him on the knuckles with his spoon and the Templar withdrew his hand. "Tell me, my friend," Zevran said, dangling one of the pieces between thumb and forefinger, "what sort of fish would this be? I am not so widely travelled about Ferelden and so do not know all of your land's native species."

Irritably, still rubbing the spot where the Antivan struck him, Alistair answered, "I don't know… the swimming kind?"

Banter between the two men was a familiar fixture but the curt edge in Zevran's voice belied his expression; there was nothing good-natured about the smile now.

"Ah, the swimming kind, of course. They are unique to Ferelden, these swimming kinds of fishes? Their shingle shape is quite unique, with oily scales the color of earwax." He wiggled it back and forth, as if the creature might swim through air. "Tell me, my lovely woman," he addressed his next question to the inn's proprietor, "what gives them such a… savory aroma?"

"Lard," she replied flatly.

"Lard. Yes. Indeed, your description makes the mouth water."

Leliana interjected. "Zevran, I'm sure it will be fine." she assured him.

"My dear, fine is a word one uses to describe things which are superior or of the best quality." The assassin picked up the platter as he rose from his seat. "Fine is grilled swordfish with caper sauce. Fine is stuffed mussels. Fine is bacalhau – for which there are as many recipes as the year is long." Holding it aloft, he stepped backwards, off the bench and walked towards the inn's entrance. "I have tolerated many things since coming to Ferelden: the freezing temperatures, the ceaseless rain, the lack of amenities – a bed, a warm b-… bath." Supporting the tray on one shoulder, Zevran used his now free hand to open the door. "I do not think it too much to ask that my fish smells and appears as if it actually came from the sea!" and, grasping the tray, he heaved them, like he was emptying a chamber pot, out into the street.

No one said a word when he stormed back to the table and slammed the plate down with a snarl. Muttering fiercely in a steady stream of unintelligible Antivan, Zevran mimicked Morrigan's earlier departure up the stairway. Sandor winced when he heard a door slam.

The innkeeper's eyebrows formed an annoyed 'v' and – given how the day had progressed – the mage blurted out the first thing that popped into his head to serve as an explanation for why dinner just sailed out the door. "Please forgive his Highness. He's just arrived from Antiva and isn't familiar with Fereldan cooking." Sandor didn't need to look at his companions to know their reactions to his lie; he could only gaze at the old woman and hope his own expression was earnest enough to make it believable.

"Well…" His sincere, doe-eyed stare had the desired effect – they would not need to seek out new accommodations tonight. Sandor blinked and sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker. Either Zevran's behavior reconciled with her concept of how royalty behaved or her own practicality recognized an opportunity and made her willing to forgive the dishonesty. "I don't go holdin' with these foreign ways. An elf prince – I've never heard the like. If there's to be special fare, no one made mention of it to me – and no payment neither. I'll have extra for it or he eats like everyone else. Or doesn't eat – makes no never mind to me." She turned on her heel and re-entered the kitchen; the door banged shut behind her.

Leliana picked up a loaf of bread. Cutting it into slices, she passed them around the table in silence, and then ladled out the soup. Zevran's earlier words, 'Would you be so cruel as to deprive me of my dreams?' repeated themselves over and over in the mage's head, until Sten accidentally jostled his elbow. Sandor found he wasn't hungry, but when the tray of potatoes came his way, he forced himself to scoop several onto his plate. He split their ruddy skins with a quick press of his fork and dragged the utensil back and forth through the pale furrows its tines left behind, resigning himself to an uncomfortable meal punctuated with awkward pauses as the rest of the group tried to fill the void Zevran left behind.

"You shouldn't make excuses for his behavior, Warden – especially if it requires you to be untruthful." Sandor looked up sharply. In between prim sips of her soup, Wynne's lips were fixed in a tight moue of disapproval. "There's also no reason to indulge his every whim. He should be grateful for what he's given."

His own temper flared. "He's homesick! It was all he could talk about today – that we were having fish for dinner." Metal clinked against clay as he stabbed furiously at the food on his plate. 'She'd understand him, if only she bothered to try.'

"We miss the Tower, but we don't act out and throw tantrums like petulant, spoiled children."

'You might miss the Tower… but I never want to go back.'

'Besides,' he thought, as he opened the door to a gust of brisk sea air (the pot, not unlike breakfast, wouldn't take care of itself), 'I'm not certain it was a lie.'

Normally, the assassin expounded at length when asked about his exploits; even if the stories weren't wholly true, he was a consummate storyteller and he'd found an avid listener in Sandor. However, Zevran's suspiciously abridged version of the large-scale attack on Prince Azrin - his part made to sound inconsequential with falling out a window into the river, and then later rescued (and stripped) by urchins – set off warning bells in the mage's head. "It almost ended up putting a Crow on the throne, a commoner... but that is a whole different story." One Zevran never ended up telling him and perhaps this was why the remark stuck with the elven Warden, apparently enough for it to re-surface when under pressure.

Too early for seriously contemplating the outlandish idea of Zevran as royalty, he allowed his mind to wander. 'I wonder what kedgeree is.' Eventually, he dredged up a chantey they'd heard yesterday down at the wharf and began to hum as he worked; his memory refused to supply either intricate rhymes or accurate lyrics so he settled for what he could remember of the melody. It took several tries for him to gauge how much he could carry; the water slopped over the sides and he spilled the first bucket entirely, only barely managing to keep it from soaking him to the skin. The damp, salt-encrusted rope kept slipping through his fingers – he had the burns to show for it – and although the rain abated to a light drizzle, the wind whipped at his clothing so he was soon more wet than dry.

Once he completed the chore, it was time to re-negotiate the terms for the rest of their extended stay. It was more money than they could technically afford – the charge now included heated bathwater and an additional allowance for fresh seafood with the stipulation none of it was to be fried – but Sandor supposed he could find something to sell to help defray the extra expense. 'Maybe the necklace we found in the Tower?' Hung on a chain of silver filigree, the ivory tooth was covered in delicate carvings of a ship weathering a storm at sea – just the sort of lucky sailor's charm a ship's captain or mate might covet. He wasn't given further time to ponder it; their dealings served only as a brief respite before the woman put him back to work, sitting by the fire and tending the oatmeal. The task tried his clothing out, but his arm began to ache from the repetitive motion of stirring and his bare skin felt scorched.

Eventually, other members of the company made their way downstairs. Without fail, everyone inquired about what he was doing and came over to inspect the cauldron's contents. No one mentioned yesterday's incidents. Alistair was alive; either Morrigan accounted for her smallclothes and believed the Templar innocent or else demonstrated remarkable largess in allowing him to keep them. Zevran seemed in his usual high spirits, whispering an invitation to a stroll after breakfast, "Foul weather, fair company, mago. You will join me?" Knowing how much the Antivan disliked the rain, Sandor knew this was the other elf's version of an apology and accepted with a nod.

Kedgeree, as it turned out, was an egg, fish and rice dish. Fortunately, the assassin did not object to its appearance and deemed it edible after sampling it. The smell of food roused Oghren out of his stupor and he joined them at the table. As the dwarf gulped down the food, he informed them of his whereabouts the night before – the whorehouse as the elven Warden had guessed – and his intention to return once he finished eating.

Pouring himself some tea, Sandor sighed quietly to himself when he realized their service lacked a milk pitcher. In the Tower, he habitually over-steeped his tea; absorbed in a particular passage or chapter in his book, by the time he remembered to strain the leaves, the liquid was as black as the kettle's bottom. Consequently, he'd gotten into the habit of taking milk and now couldn't drink it without, even if the brew was weak.

Meanwhile, Sten commandeered the plate of sweet rolls, and only Leliana managed to wheedle one from him, which Zevran whisked off her plate the moment she turned her head to respond to a question Alistair put to her.

"Zevran! Give that back!"

The Antivan held the roll just out of Leliana's reach when she leaned over to grab it. "My dear, your strategy proves ineffective. If I possess something desired by another, this is how I encourage them." He began licking the top of the roll; his tongue slowly followed the cinnamon sugar swirls in the pastry.

Sandor stifled a moan with a hurried mouthful of oatmeal, followed by a burnt piece of bacon he chewed without tasting as he watched Zevran out of the corner of his eye. He shifted in his seat, trying vainly to adjust himself without being obvious. 'Breakfast, concentrate on breakfast.' Impossible to do, because he kept imaging Zevran's tongue…

Alistair took a slice of bread and slathered it with butter. "Discourage. Is what you mean." At the end of the table, Morrigan gave a short bark of laughter.

"Is it? My intent was clear at least, no? Your language holds so many nuances, Alistair, I hardly know aural from oral."

Oghren snorted. "Don't let him fool you, boy. The elf knows exactly–"

Wynne's exasperated, "Please!" spurred Sandor to make his announcement – they'd remain in Seacrest the rest of the week. It had the anticipated effect on morale: Alistair's relief, Sten's glower, Oghren's muttered plea to relocate to The Nugging House.

When he mentioned the baths, Zevran asked if he could take two. "We might share the second, amante," he said with a leer, "so as to be more economical."

Before Sandor could respond – or not, as those types of blatantly flirtatious remarks usually left him momentarily at a loss for words while his mind traitorously explored the possibilities – the assassin left his seat and made his way down to the other end of the table, where he appropriated a sausage off Morrigan's plate. He bit into it before she could snatch it back. "You had such a sinful look when you placed this in your mouth, my dear, I had to sample it for myself – but I notice nothing special about the taste. Perhaps the shape is what attracted you, yes?"

"I must admit, I have come to expect better from you, Zevran – tis hardly worthy of your wit to make such an obvious jest."

Glad that things seemed to be returning to what might loosely be classified as normal, Sandor grinned then glanced down at Zevran's plate. It was virtually untouched. The Antivan was jealously protective of the food on it, but rarely did he ever eat more than a mouthful or two from it. Instead, everyone fell victim to his grazing; the mage more so than the others because he didn't tend to object strenuously and a smile bargained Zevran out of any genuine displeasure on his part. 'I wonder if he even realizes he does it.' Sandor suspected that while it might once have been a purely conscious choice on the other elf's part, the behavior was now so ingrained it had been integrated into part of the assassin's façade.

He picked up another piece of bacon and, surreptitiously sticking his hand under the table, fed it to Perro. The mabari greedily devoured it and for good measure, gnawed gently on the elven Warden's fingers before lapping off the grease. The dog's ingratiating whine won him another piece before he finally got around to trying the kedgeree and found it surprisingly good.

A light touch on his shoulder, the caress lasting a few seconds more than necessary to alert him to Zevran's presence and the Antivan climbed back beside him. He placed something near the edge of Sandor's plate, indicating it with a nod of his head. "For your…"

It was the missing milk pitcher. Sandor picked it up and dribbled a few drops into the now tepid tea; he watched as it plumed up in the liquid, turning it a creamy caramel color. Zevran had already turned his attention to Alistair, claiming to have taken his piece of bread because it wasn't buttered correctly, "…and there must be jam, Alistair. Was the Chantry so remiss in your education they did not explain this to you? Bread and butter, but also most assuredly, jam. Here, I will show you."

Hidden behind the mug as he lifted it to his lips, Sandor's smile shamed the storm's end rainbow.


Author's Note: I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).

Feedback is welcome and encouraged (criticism is just as valued as praise), and thank you Angry Girl, for your kind words about my last chapter.