Title: It's Almost Easy

Rating: M

Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair

A/N: Thanks for Reading.

Chapter10

"So, what's this one from?" asked Hawke, pressing her fingers against the junction of Alistair's shoulder and collarbone where a silvery scar shone in the dim firelight. The water only made it more visible, and she puckered her lips to gently blow away the distorting drops.

He tensed a little. "I can't really remember," he said with an apology in his eyes. She shrugged and passed her fingers over it again, feeling the strange smoothness of the surface. "What about the one on the back of your wrist?"

With some confusion, Hawke stared at the sight in question and saw the overlapping puncture wounds. "Teeth," she explained. "A mabari bit me. Twice." She sank back against the side of the bath and took a deep breath. The heat of the room made it slightly difficult to breathe, the steam rising in thick waves to bake their bare skin pink. All the sweet night air was locked outside, behind walls of thick mahogany wood painted red and marble floors. She tilted her head back against an embroidered pillow and reached to take a drink of her wine.

It was her idea to come to the bathhouse, though Alistair's acquiescence was hard won at first. Like most people, he thought it an establishment of ill-repute and didn't think it wise to be seen in such a place, even with his wife. What he didn't understand was that the people in bathhouses were trained in discretion, and that gold could silence any wagging tongues. Besides, hiring a prostitute was not required upon visitation. Sometimes the bathhouse was a good place just to take a relaxing bath.

Then it was a matter of overriding his caution. Alistair didn't seem to mind stripping in front of her as he had done so without qualms on their wedding night and then again many nights after that to sleep. Of course, he'd always kept his loin cloth on, and that was allowed in the baths. But the last time they mixed drinking, hot water, and bubbles, the entire affair got a little out of hand.

So, with a warrior's honor, she promised not to molest him without due cause, and he'd agreed a little reluctantly.

"The scar on the back of your neck," she said suddenly, luminous eyes meeting his. "Where is that one from?"

He reached behind and felt. "Oh, I forgot about that."

"You don't remember?"

"No, I just forgot it was there," he explained. "You know the stories about Zevran, that he tried to assassinate us when we met him?"

"He was hired by Loghain, right?"

"Yeah, well, he nicked me there good on that day. Mahariel got him around the throat, though, and brought him down. I didn't think it would scar, because it was such a shallow cut. That was before he told us he'd poisoned the blades."

Hawke sucked in a breath. "What kind of poison was it?"

"'An old Antivan favorite,' Zevran said," Alistair mimicked his voice, "when he was cleaning the cut with some sort of antidote. It stung for a long time before he thought about it."

"Ow," she sympathized, rubbing her own neck. Poison was never something she used. It seemed cruel and unfair, but she supposed it would be useful to an assassin. "Varric liked to meddle with poisons. I never touched them." Mostly because she could never remember all the types and was too afraid that she'd knock over a vial with acidic properties.

"We used them a lot during the Blight," he sighed. "In the Deep Roads sometimes, when we were surrounded by them, a well-placed acid vial saved our lives." Darkness crept into his eyes, and he became lost in his memories.

"I've been into the Deep Roads," she confessed quietly. "They're awful."

"We spent weeks down there looking for Branka," he rubbed at his eyes. "It's a wonder that Zevran and Morrigan didn't get infected. By the time we found her, we were practically drowned with Darkspawn blood."

Hawke remembered what it was like. Blood and bile ran from the walls, congealing on the floor so that the caverns were wrapped in blankets of pulsating, bloated flesh. The stench was reason enough to turn back, the indescribable scent of decay and death, a foreboding pervading the air like a suffocating gas. Then there was the pure fear. She remembered sitting on watch late at night, flinching at shadows, running to the rescue of men who cried out in fear of noises. Rasping growls and distant screams echoed. She shivered and sank deeper into the hot water.

"Being a Grey Warden must be terrible," she said, echoing a sentiment she had conveyed to Anders multiple times.

"It's not easy," Alistair conceded lightly. "It comes at a high price."

"Thirty years," she said, and he glanced at her in surprise. "You have thirty years to live, right? Anders spilled some of your secrets. He was-we were close enough to talk about it."

The torches flickered lightly, and for a moment, the only noise was the bubbling of the hot bath. Then Alistair nodded. "Yeah," he said, "thirty years. I only have about twenty or so left. It's not exact, though. We never know when we're going to receive the…"

"The Calling," she supplied. Larius's jerky movements came to mind, the unsettling way in which he moved in the dark. "You're meant to die on that trip, right?"

"Usually," he stared at his hands, and she realized that this probably wasn't the best topic. Speaking of one's own death was never easy. "Some of us are lost. The Darkspawn can't kill us because we're too skilled. We twist and turn into one of them. Into ghouls. It happened to one of Mahariel's friends, once. That's why we always seek the horde, knowing that we can't fight them all off alone."

"Maker's breath," she exclaimed in terror. She couldn't imagine it, being stuck in those terrible halls, searching for the brunt of a horde of malformed monsters ready to tear her limb from limb. That they actually sought a group they had no chance of fighting off. "What happens if they don't kill the Warden? Do…do Darkspawn always kill you?"

He hesitated, and she bit her lower lip. "I won't tell anyone. I swear."

"It's not that," he gestured uselessly. "I'm not sure you really want to know."

A silence descended. After a moment she nudged him gently and asked, "Please?"

"The women are dragged away," he turned his head sharply as if not wanting to look at her. "That's why there aren't many female Wardens. The Darkspawn take them and do monstrous things to them: rape them, make them eat their own friends, fill them with the taint. Men are sometimes turned. Into shrieks or other Darkspawn. Sometimes ghouls."

"Damn," Hawke rubbed at her shoulder, suddenly cold despite the intense warmth of the pool. "I'm sorry I brought it up."

"No," he murmured sadly. "It's probably-it's good that you know now. That you…understand and know what to expect."

The set of his shoulders was anguished, his face covered in shadows and closed off to her. Anders had often fallen into melancholy when talking about it. She would, too, if she were resigned to such a fate. When stuck in a world where the only options were death or a life worse than death, how did one even function in society?

Hawke couldn't help it; she communicated with her touches. She slid up beside him and laced their fingers, laying her cheek on his shoulder. He started and turned to stare at her, golden eyes sparkling in the low torchlight. So warm and so close, she could feel the pulse of their hearts. Almost in sync.

"I really am sorry, Alistair," she sighed, closing her eyes. The heat and comfort of touching him was nearly overwhelming. Her skin sang where their thighs brushed beneath the water, so unbelievably close.

"The Blight comes with a price. I've elected to pay it," he said. "Hey, it beats growing old and fat, eh?"

There was an appeal in growing old and fat, she had always thought, but recognized that he was finished speaking about his certain death and wanted to move on. She didn't let go of his hand but opened her eyes and blinked at him with a false smile tugging on her lips. "Oh, I don't want you sticking around too long. I like my men pretty." As if to emphasize this, she dragged her nails lightly down his arm.

"Ha," he snickered. "I'm afraid you're off to a bad start."

"Oh, I don't know," she purred. "I think you look awfully attractive when wet."

In a gentlemanly show of interest, he peered down at her face, though her breasts were above the water and enticingly soaked. "Likewise," he said brightly.

"Aw," she smiled, standing up to wade into the middle of the pool. She toed carefully over the outer step and sank deeper until the water was up to her pretty neck and she was practically swimming in liquid heat.

So far away, his face was cast in shadows. The water was black with spots of lights rippling across the surface, the torches spitting sparks from the walls. Hawke wrapped her arms around her shoulders, bent her knees, and ducked below.

The sound of water in her ears reminded her of the rush of blood when she was fighting. All other noises cut out. She was suspended in space, limbs inert. The bubbles caressed her legs and slid up her arms, tickling sensitive skin. When she opened her eyes, it was only to feel the sting of soap and see nothing but a vast darkness.

Eventually hands gripped her and hauled her up. She coughed and wiped the water off her face. Alistair was concerned. "Are you all right?"

And Hawke slid her slippery arms around his neck and locked her legs around his waist, holding onto him. His height allowed him to stand unhindered. The pool only went up to his shoulders. "I was just getting my head wet," she replied, though she wasn't quite sure what she had been trying to accomplish. "My hero..."

Up close her eyes adjusted to the pale light, and she could see his face. There mysterious atmosphere was seductive, pulling her in, and she pressed her lips to his. The arm around her back tightened, and he urged her a little closer, the slickness of their bodies making it almost difficult to fit together. Feeling bold, she traced the shape of his mouth with her tongue, and he hefted her a little higher so that she was forced to clench her thighs around his upper waist. In this position, she was nearly a head higher, and he craned his neck to kiss her deeply.

Her head spun, the heat sweltering. The chemistry was simmering between them, two very compatible people clinging to one another. Scented soap filled her nose, the heady taste of him intoxicating. She squeezed her legs even tighter and heard a throaty moan. Her hand trailed down, past his collarbone and came to rest on his broad chest. A bolt of desire shot straight through her, and a dull ache was beginning between her bare thighs. Fingers tangled in her hair, the long strands falling quickly out of the messy bun she'd fixed earlier.

Just as she was about to gasp for breath, the door burst open, and Alistair nearly dropped her in sheer surprise.

"There you two are!" declared an annoyingly familiar voice, and Hawke felt herself being set down. "Look at you! Some royal pair you are, sneaking around in the dark of this very seedy establishment! Get out of there right now!"

A short, curvacious woman wearing a red dress was standing in the open doorway in absolute fury. "My Arl," she seethed, voice dripping with venom, "we have catered to the needs of the royal before, and this seedy establishment has the best reputation in Denerim."

Hawke felt a painful resentment bubbling up as she disentangled herself from her husband and swam to the edge of the pool. Water poured off her body and all over the ground. She covered her eyes in pain as the light spilled in from the open doorway. Eamon was still talking, and guards were flooding the room with their authority. One of young ladies helping draped a towel over the queen's shoulders. She felt Alistair climb out beside her.

"You should be ashamed of yourselves," Eamon ranted madly. "There's a war going on out there beneath these very streets, and you have the nerve to run out in the middle of the night for a pleasurable dip?"

"Oh, bite me, Eamon," snapped Hawke as she hastily dried off and reached for her trousers.

"Yes, very befitting of royalty," he snarled. "King Maric would turn in his grave."

Alistair gave a derisive snort and bumped his shoulder into Hawke's. "He'd likely be cheering from the sidelines," he whispered for her ears only. She had to hide a smile as she yanked a cotton blouse over her slick skin. What a sight they'd make walking back in the cold with their underclothes soaking through.

The woman in the red dress stormed to where they were getting ready and said, "I'm so sorry, your majesties. He just came right in."

"That's Eamon for you," replied Alistair cheerily.

"A discount," said the woman. "No, a lifetime discount if ever you wanted to come back."

Hawke shot a glance at the Arl, reckoning that he had only a few more months of living at the castle before Isolde came to fetch him. "We'll see," she said.

"Let's go!" the man barked.

"Andraste's sake, you'd think I was caught in the barn feeling up the neighbor's son," she frowned, already feeling shivery from the air creeping in. Wet hair hung about her face, and the tie she'd put it in was probably lost in the water somewhere.

They were herded outside, and Hawke nearly rolled her eyes when she saw the full compliment of guards that had followed. Patrons poked their heads out of their rooms to stare half-dressed at the reprimanded couple. Some girl with glossy lips was laughing so hard her counterpart had to smack a hand over her mouth.

Despite the degrading parade, Hawke didn't feel very sorry. How many times had Fenris come to fetch her at the bathhouse in Kirkwall? Too many. When she glanced at Alistair, she saw the amusement dancing in his eyes. They smiled at each other, and Hawke threaded their fingers.

Mahariel tugged on her tight trousers and laced her black boots, watching the persistent rise and fall of Isabela's naked body buried beneath thin, cheap blankets. It was a foolish moment of exhaustion that possessed her to sleep in the tavern after their tumble. Four bottles of wine sat empty on the table they'd pulled close to the bed in a stumbling, misguided desire to be organized. The fifth was by the door on its side where Mahariel had kicked it while trying to disentangle herself from the bed.

Outside the quiet bubbling of morning conversation drifted through the walls. Spices flavored the air, breakfast in the process of creation for those patrons idiotic enough to want it. Mahariel's head ached in a familiar way, her mouth dry, muscles sore. Cold nipped at her extremities, wind seeping through the cracks in the rotting old inn. She put a hand to the painful bite on her shoulder with some annoyance, careful to cover it with her coat and blouse. Zevran she did not mind seeing it, but Isabela did not need to witness her own handiwork. She was already the epitome of arrogant vanity.

The pirate lump on the bed moaned and rolled, and a dark limb fell over the side, fingers dangling. It was late for a morning, and Mahariel's heart beat in an anxious rhythm the more she thought about how much time had been lost. Were the mages safe? Had Teagan left? Was Zevran still at the castle or had he wandered off? Thousands of questions filtered through her mind as she calmly dressed and finally glanced in the mirror.

The elf was a gaunt thing with claw-like hands, ghostly eyes, and a pallid complexion that rivaled even the richest of noblewomen. There seemed to be a significant flush in her cheekbones, though, if she inspected herself closely enough. The taint was working its magic fast in her, that was for sure. Sometimes she would catch Zevran staring at her, real concern lurking beneath false smiles and petty assurances. He was thinking about her death in those moments, considering the time limit as her weight dropped below a hundred and twenty pounds and the shadows beneath her eyes threatened to swallow the fiery gems whole.

Why the taint was steadily creeping up on her she wasn't sure. Alistair was the elder Grey Warden, yet he appeared both plump with life and entirely healthy while she wasted away. Stress probably had something to do with it. Maybe it was that her infection was odd to begin with, the way she contracted the disease by touching that blasted mirror all those years ago. To drink Darkspawn blood on top of that; was a double dose twice as toxic? Was she just unlucky?

Nevertheless, whatever the reason, the Calling would come soon. Five or ten years, she guessed. Alistair had said she would have thirty, but living to fifty seemed like pushing the limit of what her body could take. She was worn out, exhausted, and almost ready to take the walk in the Deep Roads, to disappear and never come back.

Mahariel shook her head. She must go on. There was too much to do.

Fully dressed, she headed out the door without a glance at Isabela who was still snoring gently in the aftermath. Sex to her was like sex to Zevran. Enjoy it. Move on. Don't linger. Mahariel understood that, and she had work to do.

She shut the door softly and turned on the spot to leave the Gnawed Noble until the time came again when she would take her place by the door and wait for a contact to show. Instead of the graceful exit, she ran flush into a familiar Antivan with golden brown skin and honey eyes. "Ah, there you are, mi amore," he whispered with what sounded like relief in his voice, caging her with his strong arms.

"Zev?" she gasped in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Warm breath ghosted over her pointed ear as he laughed. Her back touched the door, and she could feel his heart beating through his shirt. The smell of leather and a faint trace of cologne filled her senses. "My lover, the important Hero of Ferelden, goes missing in the night on a simple meet-and-greet run?" His muscles contracted, arms squeezing her tight. "I was looking for you."

Mahariel was at a loss for what to say. "I'm sorry," she finally decided, stepping back. "I…I fell for a distraction, I suppose, and had to stay the night."

Curiosity played in his eyes. They went to the door and then back to her. "You and...Isabela?" Disbelief colored his tone; she didn't imagine it.

"Jealous?" she prodded, trying to play it off. Deep inside, a part of her thought he might actually be angry. The more logical part of her told her she was being ridiculous.

A flurry of emotions passed across his face, two of which seemed to be skepticism and then pure amusement at her expense. He stared at the door as if it were a court jester doing its finale. "I am a terrible influence. And Isabela..." he laughed, "the woman could charm the pants off the Divine."

"I actually don't appreciate that comparison," she shoved past him and headed for the door, her cheeks burning slightly. An unfamiliar feeling rose up, one she hadn't felt since she was a bumbling Dalish girl learning to use a bow for the first time: embarrassment. His chuckling followed her down the hall, and then he called after her and jogged at her side.

"Oh, mi amore, I'm not poking fun at you," he assured her jovially. "No, no, I'm simply shocked. Yes, that's it."

"Forget it," she muttered hotly as she stormed outside. He had the nerve to be a proper gentleman and open the door for her. Forceful wind tore at her too-long hair. Rain fell from the sky in a miserable drizzle. Zevran caught her arm before she could march too far away.

He kissed her, and his kisses tasted like peppermint. She cringed to think of the stale wine on her breath, the dried sweat and oil in her hair, and the musk of sex clinging to her clothes and unwashed skin. If he found her repulsive, he didn't show it, wrapping an arm around the small of her back and locking their hips together. Fingers massaged the base of her skull, his kiss alarmingly sweet, though she knew it was a gesture for silence and understanding: he wasn't angry. She shouldn't be either.

As it broke, she stared into his eyes and found no mockery there. "I was not laughing at you, Mahariel," he murmured. "Though if a simple joke makes you angry, perhaps it was a mistake, no?"

"No," she sighed, relaxing into his arms. "Not a mistake. I'm just...exhausted." It seemed a reasonable excuse. Fear flickered in his eyes for a brief moment. Fear of her death, that she was becoming slower, weaker, thinner, more like them. Then it was gone, and his playful mask was back in place.

"I'll bet you are," he smirked. "Well, let's head back to our cozy nook in the highest tower, and you can rest."

"I can't," she immediately replied. "I have responsibilities, Zevran, things to take care of."

"Well, then," he sniffed, peering past her shoulder, "let's get them finished quickly."

Bethany hated mornings.

She could always tell when they came, even living underground, because Nathaniel was allowed outside, and he followed a regular sleeping pattern. When he awoke and the rustling began in the storeroom where he made his bed, she knew that the sun was shining down on another bright day, and she was missing it. The mage sighed at the unfairness and began scrubbing the bloodied tools in earnest.

It was a few minutes before Nathaniel emerged, looking very scruffy but still more well-kept than she. Strands escaped his ponytail. Stubble grew along his jaw and upper lip, the beginnings of a mustache peeking through. In the haven, they had no slips of metal for shaving or soap that could be spared for such a task. So he did without, as all the men and women did.

"Good morning," he muttered gruffly, and Bethany hummed in response. There was blood on her hands from a surgery that morning. Benny, a ten-year-old boy, was suffering from gangrene. She'd had to remove three of his toes. After such an experience, 'good morning' wasn't very accurate.

Nathaniel peered at the ceiling where the sounds of scrapping tykes and arguing parents echoed in the caverns. "I'm going topside today," he announced.

"For what?"

"Mahariel," he said shortly, and she understood that he was not going to elaborate.

Finished cleaning the tools, she grabbed the bowl of water and bent down to poor the swirling pink liquid down one of the drains. "I'll be here," she said a little bitterly. When she got back to her feet, ignoring the dirt clinging to her dress, Nathaniel was staring at her with something like pity in his eyes. "What?" she asked.

"Are you...all right?"

Bethany stared in surprise. Nathaniel was a taciturn and unfriendly man with a cynical view of most, of not all, people. Their conversations usually hovered in the purely business area and rarely ventured outside anything but supplies and whether or not she would need him for the day. Even the night after Marian's wedding, when Bethany broke down, he did not ask after her state of being.

For him to do it now was not only extremely bizarre but incredibly suspicious.

"Why?"

"You are spending too much time down here," he glared at the walls. "She was right."

"What are you talking about?" Bethany demanded, slightly impatient.

"The reason I'm going up," he leaned forward, beckoning her closer as if about to reveal a very important secret, "is to ask Alistair and Hawke to allow you to stay in the castle."

"Allow...me?" Bethany felt hope rising in her chest and squashed it before it could do any permanent damage. To see the sun? Hadn't seen it for months. When she on the surface, it was always dark. Cold, creeping shadows closing in, hiding templars and twisted guardsmen. Mahariel was her sun, her light to follow in the dark. Could she change that for the real thing?

"To live out in the open again," said Nathaniel.

"With my sister?"

"Yes," he nodded.

Too good to be true. "But why?"

"You've become a moving piece of the puzzle, Bethany," he explained. "We can't win the war for mages without mages. You'll have to fight by Zevran and Mahariel's side, rescuing mages, putting down the cults."

She curled her fingers on the counter. "She said it was too dangerous."

"It's dangerous everywhere." Very true.

Bethany felt her heart fluttering in her chest, an unfamiliar sensation. "Thank you for telling me."

It would give her hope to face the day.

Zevran appeared like he usually did: at the edge of Alistair's vision, cloaked in shadows and completely soundless. When the king glanced up to rub the back of his neck, he nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise as the assassin stepped forward with an impish grin. "So sorry, your majesty," he bowed low and subserviently, but the mocking intent was clear.

"Shut up," Alistair frowned. "What are you doing in here?"

"Well, I suppose a visit is out of the question," the assassin quipped, taking a coin from his pocket and flipping it up in the air. The old habit almost lightened Alistair's heart. Once upon a time it had been a dagger that he tossed above, throwing it between his deft fingers. The coin, however, proved less threatening to guests and so they accepted it more readily.

"The last time you came in here to visit me, you told me you were going to Antiva to take over the Crows," Alistair started arranging his papers. "I didn't see you for two years." He didn't know why he threw in the last bit. Maybe it was a misguided attempt to make Zevran feel guilty. Then again, he never felt guilty about anything.

"Oh, such drama, Alistair," the elf wiggled his finger, taking care to perch on the arm of the plush chair in front of the desk. Maker forbid he ever sit in it. "Nothing quite so permanent, I assure you."

"Then what?"

Zevran's smile widened, and there was something like affection shining in his eyes. "You see, this is why I like you. None of this subtle beating around the bush. You dive right in. That is what makes you a good king."

"Stop trying to butter me up," Alistair growled, growing a little irritated. Documents from all over Ferelden sat on his desk, waiting to be reviewed and signed. The war was still very much on his mind and nettled him constantly. Hawke's lips from the night before kept ghosting over his own, leaving him dizzy and burning up. This distraction he could do without. "Just tell me what it is. Please."

"Mahariel is running the Underground, Alistair, and she does the very best that she can with what she has," Zevran caught the coin midair and schooled his countenance into one of serious business. "The problem is that there are hundreds of mages that need rescued, fed, sheltered, and protected. The haven can only hold half as much."

"So you're asking my permission to build another one?"

"No," the assassin moved forward and placed his palms on the edge of Alistair's desk. "I am asking you to provide protection for your people. Useful protection that will guard all of the citizens of Ferelden, including those that can wield magic."

Alistair groaned. "Might as well ask me to move the bloody moon. I can't find who it is that allows these vicious attacks. I'm doing the best I can. You have to admit that the attacks have dropped dramatically."

"Because the mages are living underground," replied the elf. "War is coming, Alistair. Once it begins in earnest, there will be an influx of mages from all over. Not the various few that we get everyday, but thousands of refugees, much like the flooding of Kirkwall after the Blight. These people are living like rats beneath the streets. They must see the light of day."

"So you have a plan, then?" Alistair demanded. "Because I don't have one. Mahariel doesn't have one. Hawke doesn't even know about the mages, as far as I know. So what's the solution, Zevran?"

A malicious glint came into Zevran's eyes. He lifted his chin and said, "Appoint me the leader of your guardsmen."

"What? Are you joking? Please, tell me you're joking."

"My jokes are never so poor, my dear king," Zevran grinned savagely, baring his sharp elven teeth. "I am completely serious."

Alistair got out of his chair and leaned against the windowsill. "Look, I know I'm not the sharpest man ever, but I have realized that elves are sort of second-class citizens, especially in Denerim. If I did that, do you know what kind of outrage there would be? People would probably riot, for Andraste's sake!"

Zevran scowled and gestured to the door. "The woman that the people look up to most in the world is an elf. The last man to give himself in honor of the Blight was an elf. You, the king, trust an elf over any human I've met to give you honest tactical advice and solid judgment."

"But that's different," Alistair argued. "You're talking about Grey Wardens, people who accept death the moment before they take the Joining. Race doesn't matter to the Wardens. It matters here."

"I can weed out the weak," Zevran snapped, the darkness glittering in his eyes. Rarely did he ever become visibly angry, but Alistair could see his control trembling at the edges. "I am the master of a league of extraordinary assassins, and if you do not give me the authority to remove the bastards that kill women and children in the gutters, I will do so by more unsavory means."

"Are you threatening me?" Alistair huffed.

"No, my liege," the elf gave a wicked smile. "I'm warning you of what will happen."

"Is this another scheme of Mahariel's? Does she know you're doing this?"

"Change must come, Alistair," Zevran said in a deceptively soft tone. "Racism and prejudice must end. That is what this entire war is about: changing the world for the better."

The fact that he did not answer the question didn't escape Alistair as he stared out the window. Often it bothered him that he was not aware of everything in his kingdom. He didn't know what life was like beneath the streets, but he figured it was not perfect. Incredibly lacking. Mahariel and Zevran played such power games with him, as if they were the puppeteers and he was just another marionette. Maybe he was.

He tried to think of a counter-argument but fell flat. Misconceptions and fear fueled racism. People once thought that women were not equals in battle, but they proved the rest wrong, didn't they? Some of the most resilient people he knew were women. Some of the strongest, cleverest people he knew were elves. No one deserved to die because of who they were. The nobles didn't revolt so much when Alistair made Mahariel his official advisor. They didn't put up a fight when she was declared Arlessa of Amaranthine. Perhaps this would be no different.

"Okay," he swallowed. "All right. I'll do it. Tomorrow, though, not today."

"As soon as possible," insisted Zevran. "So that the necessary changes can be made."

"Fine."

I've been watching Supernatural on Netflix, and I am in love. So I wandered away for a minute. Thanks for reading. Review for another chapter.