"You are going to get yourself killed," Alistair deadpanned.
Zevran glances at him with a raised eyebrow as he straps his leather armor on. "It will not be the first time I go to battle, little bastard prince. I think I will be able to manage myself just fine," he answers. And then adds as an afterthought, "I appreciate the concern, however. I did not realize you cared."
Alistair growls. "That wasn't what I was talking about," the Templar says, crossing his arms. "Really, it's hard not to see why Filauria finds you so hateable."
Zevran reaches down to tighten the laces on his leather boots. "Ah, then I am most curious as to what your reason for being here is," he replies.
The Templar glares at him for a moment before he sighs and rubs his temples. "I was talking about Filauria," Alistair says.
The elven assassin straightens to his feet and looks at him with an amused glint to his light brown eyes. "I do not think 'hate' is the word to describe how she feels for me, no?"
Alistair's eyes narrow. "No, but that certainly is what I feel about you."
Zevran throws him a sinister smirk. "The feeling is mutual, then," he replies.
He sees the grey warden straighten his posture and clench his jaw. Alistair is taller than he is, but he is quicker, more agile. He can divert Alistair's built against himself, if need be. It would not take long to bring him down, he thinks.
They stare at each other for a long while before the Templar sighs. Zevran smirks again. Ah, so he is not here to battle after all. Pity.
"As I was saying," Alistair begins again. "It wouldn't be wise to keep provoking Filauria like that. It is hard for mages to control their magic when their emotions are at high. Filauria is good at what she does because she is adept at keeping her emotions at bay. It wouldn't do well for you to keep on angering her."
Zevran gives him a feral grin. "Ah, the cowardly way out, I see." He keeps his tone light, but he feels his fingers twitch in irritation. To another person, it would look like he is completely calm, but in truth he is fighting the strong urge to draw his blade and slash this man's throat. It would only take five seconds for him to do it.
"Filauria needs feel in order to learn to control her magic," the elf says. "Your way is a pathetic method that limits her potential. You are attempting to stop the blight and kill an archdemon, no? And what of when she is suddenly overcome by her emotions during that battle, loses control and kills both of you in the process? No more grey wardens, and no more chance of survival for your beloved country."
"Filauria won't lose control," Alistair says through gritted teeth. "Not if you're not there to anger her."
"Anger is not the only emotion in the book, little prince," Zevran say with a sharp edge to his voice. "There is sadness, grief. There is sorrow accompanied by death."
"Nobody is going to die –"
"No? You know you lie. And you know I am right," the elf interrupts. He feels a sense of superiority when he sees Alistair's posture slacken. "Filauria needs to feel. She is not an object. She is alive and she must be allowed to live."
Zevran studies Alistair's conflicted expression for a moment before he turns and walks away.