Chapter 25: An Assassin Within Revanloch?

Alistair leaned forward to unfasten the rusting window catch, standing back as the frame swung inwards with a creak. The elf, lithe as a cat, slithered his way onto the bench, his face hidden by a low hood. The formfitting leathers he wore gleamed oddly in the candlelight, leaving dark smears wherever they touched the wood.

"Greetings, mis amores," he purred, weariness running through the words. "I am very glad to see you both. And I am seeing quite a lot of you, mi florita."

The elf drew back his hood, winking leisurely at Flora in a way that did not quite hide the deep lines of tiredness scored beneath his eyes.

Flora absent-mindedly tightened the laces of her tunic, brow creasing as she stared at her Crow companion more closely. Reaching out, she pressed a finger to the oily patch on the elf's leathers; when she withdrew it, the tip came away a brownish-red.

Alistair came to the same realisation moments later, inhaling sharply in dismay.

"Zev," he breathed, alarmed. "Are you injured?"

The elf shook his head, fatigue ingrained deep in the angular crevasses of his face. His olive skin appeared a shade paler than usual, the tattooed marks standing out as though freshly inked.

"No, mi rey. It is not my blood."

Alistair barked for a servant; one came scuttling into the room with head bowed. The king proceeded to deliver a set of terse instructions: for a bath to be brought up and the lay sister Leliana to be located.

Meanwhile Flora was gazing anxiously at the elf, her eyes dropping to the blades at his hips. They were still caked in dried blood, and it was this that alarmed her more than anything, since the Crow took meticulous pride in the care of his weapons.

"Zevran," she whispered, alarmed. "Wha- "

"You are looking radiant, mi sirenita," he interjected, skilfully avoiding her concern. "Fecundity suits you, my ripening little peach."

Flora frowned at him, unswayed by his diversionary tactics. The elf continued, determinedly.

"Anyway, I have news of your assassin. I shall update you both on the situation; appraise you of what I have learnt- "

"Not before you bathe, and sit down properly," Flora interrupted, with Herring bluntness. "And have something to eat."

A muscle in Alistair's jaw flickered – he was keen for any news on the one who had attempted to kill his beloved and best friend – but acquiesced to Flora's solemn declaration.

Zevran eyed her for a moment, and then sighed, leaning his white-blond head back against the glass. Flora surreptitiously looked him up and down, noting a bloodied smear of crimson on the pointed length of his ear. Licking her thumb, she reached out, and wiped it away.

It was a kind and oddly maternal gesture; the elf exhaled slightly unsteadily, anchoring his fingers in the folds of his leathers to stop himself from touching her.

"You must be hungry if you've been travelling," Flora said, glancing around. "Hm, what would you like?"

Unfortunately, the only food present was that which satisfied her own strange cravings – bundles of tree bark, a basket of earth-covered turnips and a pot of mint sauce.

"I'll have some fare brought up," Alistair called from across the room, shoving the poker into the hearth to perk up the flames. "I can hear your stomach rumbling from over here."

Flora knelt up and refastened the window, pulling the curtains closed once again. When she turned around, the elf had his eyes closed; in his stillness, the violet shadows etched around the sockets stood out all the more starkly.

Unsure whether or not he was dozing, Flora reached out and touched her finger to his cheek, tracing the faded pattern tattooed against the rich, stewed-tea skin.

Zevran opened a dark, inscrutable eye and watched her, a myriad of indescribable emotions swirling in the depths of his pupil.

"You look tired, carina," he murmured, seeing the remnants of similar shadows beneath Flora's own eyes. "Is it the babe keeping you awake, or has our king been exercising his royal prerogative at every available opportunity? Have the Templars been amenable to granting you some privacy, hm?"

Flora had no idea what a prerogative was, and so merely smiled enigmatically in response.

The elf realised that she had no idea what he was asking, and let out a weary chuckle. Reaching out, he mirrored her gesture; letting his thumb trace the high angle of her cheekbone.

"Congratulations on your retirement, Warden-Commander. I heard about the visit from the Orlesians. Did they smell of sugared violets and political intrigue?"

Flora pulled a little face at him, slumping down against the wall and resting an absent-minded hand on her belly.

"I think they tried to take over the Fereldan Wardens," she replied, somewhat uncertainly. "But Loghain Mac Tir is in charge now, along with one of their lieutenants."

"They'll watch each other like hawks," called Alistair from across the room, batting out a spark that had landed on his knee. "Loghain won't have time to get up to anything devious; he'll be too busy making sure there's no foul play from the Orlesian woman."

Despite his weariness, Zevran managed to summon a wry chuckle, dark eyes flashing.

"You're making Loghain work with an Orlesian? How deliciously twisted of you, Alistair. Perhaps they'll hate each other so much that they'll fall into bed."

"Maker's Breath!"

"Aaah!"

Neither Flora nor Alistair were much grateful for this mental image being inserted into their heads.

Soon afterwards the bath arrived, alongside a fleet-footed Leliana. The bard elbowed her way impatiently past the servants, going to greet Zevran with a smile.

"Mon chèr," she murmured, kissing the elf's tattooed cheek as he winked at her. "You must tell me the results of your investigations later."

He inclined his head, tucking away a strand of platinum hair that had escaped its tight braid.

Alistair directed the bath to be placed beside the hearth, as Flora went to intercept a servant carrying a tray.

"Thank you," she said, casting an appraising eye over the contents. There was a pot of freshly brewed tea, and an odourless vegetable stew accompanied by several slices of thick, grainy bread.

Zevran lifted a spoonful of stew to his mouth, just about managing to disguise the faint curl of his lip that accompanied any Fereldan cuisine.

"Tell me, nena.Has this country ever heard of using spices to flavour its food?" he begged after a moment, wide eyed. "If not, I know several Antivan merchant princes who are always looking to expand their trade networks."

Flora smiled at him, patting her stomach as the little creature nudged against her kidneys.

The servants soon departed, leaving the bath steaming before the fire. Zevran – like Flora – had never been self-conscious about disrobing before others. Discarding his bloodied leathers and similarly-coated blades, he strode across the room, tan and feline.

Alistair coughed, hastily directing his attention to the hearth. Leliana, who appreciated both aesthetically-pleasing male and female forms in equal measure, eyed the elf surreptitiously. Flora, who had a healer's ambivalence to the naked body, dutifully followed in the elf's wake with the congealing, tasteless stew.

"Ayuadame, its following me," breathed the elf, glimpsing the hated bowl from the corner of his eye. "The stuff of nightmares. I will stick to the marginally less offensive bread, I think, mi florita."

Flora nodded, perching carefully on the stool beside the bath as the elf lowered himself into the water.

"Alistair," murmured Leliana, drifting across the room like some ethereal spirit in her flimsy Chantry robes. "I have also been making some enquiries about our three remaining Howes."

Alistair's head snapped up from the hearth, his stare tautening as it met the duck-egg blue gaze of the bard. Reaching out, he took Leliana's arm and drew her to one side; lowering his voice as he glanced back at his seated mistress.

"Tell me, Lel."

Meanwhile, Flora rested her arm on the side of the bathtub and prodded at the floating foam with wary suspicion. Fortunately, there was no offensive flowery aroma rising from the water – Revanloch soap was made from plain, unscented animal fat.

Zevran exhaled unsteadily, closing his eyes and gripping the edge of the bathtub. Flora eyed his slender fingers, the nails of which were caked with something dark and sticky. Her gaze travelled over his faintly discoloured knuckles, which appeared to have recently made contact with something organic and yielding.

The elf watched her from beneath pale, half-lowered eyelashes, hair plastered to his shoulders.

"Do not judge them too harshly, mi sirenita," he murmured wryly, watching the soapy residue congeal atop the tepid water. "They are not the large, honest hands of your former brother-warden, strong and sword-calloused. They are the hands of a killer."

"I like your hands," Flora retorted, gazing enviously at the elf's graceful fingers. "They're very elegant."

"And they have done many gruesome things, carina," the elf said, watching the water roll down his forearm. "Things which would give you nightmares, if you were still capable of having them."

Flora held up her own smaller, far less elegant hand, with the fingernails bitten and the strange, moon-colour marking seared across the palm.

"Well, I once broke a man's head into pieces with this hand," she replied, recalling a rain-soaked balcony and the flash of sheer terror in Rendon Howe's eyes as he realised that Flora was not Tranquil after all. "And I still like it well enough."

Zevran smiled back at Flora, the bone-white of his teeth in gleaming contrast to the rich lustre of his tattooed skin. He reached out with wet fingers and gripped her wrist, bringing her hand close to his face and eyeing it, solemnly.

"This is the hand of the Hero of Ferelden. The hand which slew the Archdemon and ended the Blight. I'm surprised the Landsmeet haven't wanted to preserve it."

Flora looked alarmed. "Cut it off?!"

"Cara, no! I mean immortalising your fingerprints in plaster."

"Oh."

Later, after the elf had deliberately lingered over dressing to make Knight-Captain Gannorn distinctly uncomfortable; king, Cousland, bard and assassin sat down together as Zevran prepared to share his findings.

Flora leaned back against the cushions, incongruously hoping that she could push right through them and disappear into the depths of the bed. She had quite happily been in denial for the past fortnight – Howes, assassins and poisoned blades had been lodged firmly in the back of her mind – and was not looking forward to Zevran's revelations.

Alistair, conversely, was sitting bolt upright. One hand was resting protectively on Flora's bare calf, palm sliding up and down the skin. The fingers of his other hand lingered near the hilt of his nearby sword; as though ready to take it up immediately against any offending parties.

"So I have questioned Delilah Howe," Zevran began, wet hair hanging dark and wet around his bare shoulders as he paced about the bed. "She has married a commoner, and no longer considers herself a Howe. I have it confirmed by three sources that Rendon Howe disowned her six months ago, due to her lowly choice in partners. She is with child – much further along than you, carina- "

"Hence the marriage," whispered Leliana, surreptitiously.

" – and when I questioned her, there was no lie in her face. She is fully cognisant of what an animal her father was; of his betrayal at Highever, the kidnap of Florence Cousland and subsequent plan to illegally Tranquilise her."

Flora cringed, as she always did whenever the hated man was mentioned. Alistair felt her flinch as though struck, and a quick flash of Theirin anger passed across his face like an ill wind. Muttering a curse under his breath, he reached out and drew her beneath his arm.

"The elder brother is still in the Marches," continued the elf, quietly. "And although it would not be impossible for him to orchestrate some scheme from there, my little birds suggest otherwise. No, it is the younger brother, Thomas, whom I believe is behind this plot."

"Thomas," Flora said in disbelief, remembering the sallow-faced youth who had sat opposite her at Howe's dinner table. "I said sorry to him for killing his father. He said that he didn't even like him!"

"Where is he?" the king demanded in sudden rage, releasing his mistress and reaching for his sword. "I swear to the Maker, I'll go there tonight, I'll get some men- "

"Hold, Alistair," Zevran replied, reaching to place slender fingers on the fuming man's elbow. "I have not finished. I have made enquiries amongst the various assassin guilds – the Denerim Avengers, the Beards, the Loyalists, amongst others – and nobody knows of a contract on mi florita's life. Indeed, they were near-incredulous at the prospect. Unsurprisingly, nobody wants to go after the Hero of Ferelden."

Alistair, whose eyebrows had risen into his coppery hairline at the sheer number of assassin guilds apparently operating within Ferelden, ground his teeth.

"So, what are you saying?" he asked, bluntly.

Zevran turned to Flora, who was anxiously rubbing the heel of her hand across her stomach.

"Nena, I believe that it was not an assassin who made the clumsy attempt on your life in the Chantry," he said, quietly. "I believe it was Thomas Howe himself. Furthermore, I believe that he has located himself nearby."

"How do you know that?" demanded Leliana, her eyes at once both shrewd and surprised.

Zevran slipped a hand into the pocket of his trousers, withdrawing a small vial filled with a blackish-green ichor.

"I distilled the poison used onto the assassin's blade into its various essences," he murmured. "The core component was the crimson lily-wort, a flower only found along this particular stretch of coastline. I believe that Thomas Howe is nearby, possibly very nearby."

"Within Denerim?" Leliana asked, softly. "Hidden in one of the caves along the coastline?"

"Or even closer still," replied Zevran in low tones, the surface humour that usually danced across his words entirely absent. "Perhaps within the monastery itself."

There was a silence, during which Alistair gaped in horror; loosing his grip on the sword hilt and tucking his lover beneath his arm once more. Flora swallowed, feeling the little creature nudge against the base of her spine.

"There are three hundred initiates here," murmured Leliana, glancing around as though her pale blue gaze could penetrate Revanloch's stone walls. "How old is Thomas Howe, two decades? He could easily blend in amongst them."

"I'll have the recruits numbered and interviewed tomorrow," Knight-Captain Gannorn interrupted from beside the door. "If this Howe is hiding within Revanloch, we will find him."

Alistair was already on his feet, sword at his side, looking ready to lead an immediate charge into the initiate dormitories. Leliana reached up to put placating fingers on his elbow, shaking her head.

"Alistair, brute force is not the way to bring this vile creature to the light," she breathed, as the king put a despairing hand to his head. "We must proceed carefully, or else we will drive the Howe back underground. We know that he can be stealthy – after all, he slipped from Eamon's estate without notice."

Alistair groaned, turning to Zevran with a raw plea in his eyes.

"Zev- "

"Give me a day," replied the elf, quietly. "One more. I believe I am close."

Alistair stared down at the former Crow, who raised cunning dark eyes to meet his own.

"But, if he is here, Lo is in danger," he said, a clear note of despair ringing through his words. "If anything happens to her- "

"I will not allow it," said Zevran throatily, a harsh, ragged edge to his reply. "You know I would not permit a hair on her head to be harmed. Or for any misfortune to come to your little babe. The thought is… anatema."

Alistair glanced once towards the door, paused, then nodded wordlessly. Letting the sword drop to the floorboards with a clatter, he strode to the sideboard and poured himself a flagon of ale with a trembling hand.

Flora, her own alarm sufficiently assuaged by Zevran's reassurance, shifted position amidst the furs until she could put her arm about his neck. The elf reached up to touch her fingers as she pressed her lips affectionately against his cheek; his eyes half-closing.

Alistair threw back the flagon in a single, quick gulp, barely noticing its stale tepidness.

"Right," he said, low and determined as he turned back towards them. "What do you need me to do?"

"Return to the city tonight, as normal," replied Zevran, steadily. "Host tomorrow's meeting with the Fereldan merchants, as planned. Basically, do not act as though you are suspicious. If our treacherous halla catches the scent of a wolf, then it will flee."

"Does that make you the wolf?" Flora asked, resting her chin on his shoulder.

"Sí," breathed the elf, and there was a dark menace in his smile. "My claws have been sharpened, and my belly hungers for foul traitor-meat."

"Oh! Are you going to eat him?"

"Qué?!"

OOC Author Note: Ooohhh, so the treacherous Howe is within Revanloch! Now we'll just have to draw him out of hiding….. Nathaniel Howe is going to make an appearance later on; I can just do more headcanon stuff with Thomas, since there's no lore on him. At least, not that I can find, anyway!

Hurray, Zevran is back! He's one of my favourite characters, and I really adore the closeness between him and Flo. I do feel sorry for him – I bet Ferelden cuisine is super bland, if it is meant to be based off Medieval England, lol.

I'm going back to Wales for a few days, so I'll probably be able to update next on Wednesday or Thursday! Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!