He corners her by the lake while she is filling up the water bottles by a stream not too far from camp. She jumps in surprise and drops the flasks to the ground. Zevran looks down at her in amusement.
"Really? You had to come up behind me like some blighted shade?" Filauria comments dryly, hastily picking up the flasks. She notices the dirt dusting the opening of one and she scowls. "Great, now I have to clean these up."
"Well, my warden, you must understand I am pretty desperate," Zevran says lightly, taking two of the flasks from her arms and dipping them into the stream. "After all, you have eluded me for three weeks now, and I am really in need of an audience with you."
"Couldn't you at least do it at camp," she mutters weakly, although she already knows his answer to that.
Zevran chuckles darkly. "Yes, because that had worked so well before."
He'd attempted to talk to her once in Orzammar, the morning after the… incident. She'd turned away and pretended to listen intently to the dwarven lady who'd been looking for her son. He'd attempted that same night, too, but she'd brushed him off saying she was tired from the long day of chasing Carta members.
The next time he'd tried was the first night they set camp after leaving Orzammar – that was about a week ago, also to no avail.
Somehow, Filauria understood Zevrans sneaky, albeit underhanded, tactic.
"Okay, so talk," the elven mage says refusing to look him straight in the eye.
"You and I kissed. Now what?"
Filauria flinched. That was straight to the point.
"I didn't realize that mattered," Filauria says, keeping her voice as detached as possible. "We go back to the way we were before, I guess."
Zevran turns to her with a stony expression. "So that's what you've been doing?" he asks, with an edge of sharpness in his tone. "'Going back to the way we were before'?"
Filauria gives him the hardest glare she can muster before she moves to gather the already-filled flasks beneath her feet.
Zevran is immediately on his feet, arms crossed at his chest and blocking her path back to the campsite. "I am not inexperienced, Filauria. And not blind, either," Zevran tells her. "I know when a woman wants me."
Filauria scoffs. "You think I want you?"
Zevran raises an eyebrow. "You think you do not?"
The elven mage scowls. "No." Is it just her or did that sound pathetic?
He stares her down for a few moments before he sighs. He rubs his right thumb and forefinger against his temples. "Look, I apologize if you do not wish to talk about this, but I am only doing this to find common ground," the assassin says, in a softer tone. "Our companions have already started asking, have they not? If you wish me to act like it never happened, then tell me. I would accept whatever decision you make."
Filauria presses her lips tightly together. What does she want? Truly, she did not know. It would be a lie to say that the kiss had meant nothing to her. Even now, when she thinks about it – Filauria conceals a shudder.
But no. This was wrong. There was a blight to defeat.
And, really? With Zevran? He infuriated her! How could they possibly go past what they are now?
She sighs. "Alright," Filauria says in a clipped tone. "I acknowledge it happened – but it shouldn't have. What happened that night at Orzammar – it was a mistake."
She watches as Zevran pulls a perfectly stoic mask across his aristocratic features. She does not know what to make of it. His posture had not changed, but there is certain… emotion in his eyes that she cannot read.
Scorn? Fury?
…Sadness?
And suddenly, the emotionless masks turn into a wide grin. All traces of the seriousness of their previous conversation have completely disappeared from his face.
"Well then, my warden," Zevran says lightly, picking up the remaining flasks from the ground. "Shall we go back?"
Filauria blinks as she watches Zevran walk silently back to camp.
She'd expected fury, questions, a request for an explanation – but not that. She'd certainly not expected that.
She takes a step after him, and another, wondering if she'd made the right decision.