Zevran was smart enough to know he was a fool, and that was just the way he liked it. A person only needed enough smarts to survive their stupidity– and he certainly had enough stupidity to him to make the clever moments stand out.
It all worked out for the best like that, really. If nothing else, it had long imparted the revelation to him, brilliant fool that he was, the secret to life. Simple and unlikely: surviving life in all its exquisite dreadfulness required optimism, and the secret ingredient to optimism was pessimism.
The Warden, that frighteningly odd individual, had practically spent the night with Zevan strapped to her back like an infant. There wasn't a single kill to his name, and still she openly gushed about him, in front of the entire party and half of Redcliffe.
It was perfectly reasonable to assume that her standards for excellence were so low that a compliment was a thinly-veiled insult. Or that the wholly undeserved praise was a more calculated move to make the others resent him. To keep him out of conflict so that his reflexes dulled for lack of practice. To lull him into a false sense of security, even, only to take him (somewhat) by surprise when she and the dog murdered him in the dead of night and feasted on his innards.
And as far as Zevran was concerned, such thoughts only made the good things stand out more. He had survived a battle without a scratch. The leader of the party had given praise, and there was no taking back what had already been spoken, undeserved as the words might have been. His own tent was in the works. Even the sunrise had a peachy glow to it that was hard not to admire. No, this was more than enough for now.
At the top of the hill, the camp was finally in view. It was as higgledy-piggledy as they had left it; no more, no less. The tents sat in their usual semi-circle. Rhodri's small, neat one with the blue glow and the black burnspot; Alistair's huge, stained disaster; Leliana's, yellowish and draped with a fur; and Sten's sombre, nondescript affair sat at the tail-end. At the perimeter, Morrigan's rag fort and the dwarves' cart hovered like moons. There was something to be said for familiarity. Precisely what, Zevran didn't know, but definitely something.
At some point, his own tent would need to go somewhere, but the Warden's audible panting snapped his attention out of hypotheticals.
He turned and grinned broadly at her. She didn't notice; it didn't trouble him one bit.
"Ah… hah…" she huffed between breaths. "Looks like we haven't been robbed by bandits or corpses. Mr. Bodahn and Sandal will be pleased to see their wagon is safe."
"Who knew the undead had moral limits, no?" he quipped, allowing half a snort of his own as the Warden laughed appreciatively.
"Oh, you're good! Now, since you wish to clean your leathers off, would you like to take the first bath?" She smiled and rubbed her fingers. "I can wait."
Perhaps it wasn't a lie, but it was only a truth in the same way that people drawing their dying breath were technically not dead.
He shook his head a little too hard. "A kind offer, my Grey Warden, but unnecessary. What if you took the first bath and I used the time to make us the finest Antivan frittata this side of the border?"
She smiled and shook her head. "I'll have some cold leftover stew, but thank you. Please make whatever you want for yourself, of course."
"Mm? You do not like frittata?" He whiffled a hand. "It is no bother, I can make anything your heart desires. Though perhaps with some local variations, given our ingredients."
Rhodri shrugged. "Oh, I like frittata a lot. Especially with those small red onions. Mm. What are they called? Salliculae… ah…" The Warden trailed off, talking to herself in slow but intelligible Tevene, 'How did I forget the Common name when I speak the language all day…?'
Zevran smiled and answered in clear, smooth Antivan, 'The red onions of Salle? The little sweet ones, yes? Esalota, we call it. I do not know the name in Common, unfortunately, but I understand the vegetable you mean.'
Rhodri let out a delighted squeak. 'Ah, you understand me!' Her pace picked up to a near-babble, 'Didn't know… Antivan is… intellig–... with Tevene… … … you?'
He chuckled. "Ah, forgive me. I got lost at the end, there."
"Oh!" Her grin went lopsided. "Talked too fast, I think. I did understand you, though. And you understood me a little, yes?"
"Mmm, I believe Antivans can understand much Tevene if it is spoken slowly enough. Or very loudly," he added with a smirk. "So no frittata without the esalota? That can be arranged, given that we have none."
Rhodri scuffed her foot on the grass. "Oh, I like it with or without, but my plan for the next day or two is to eat the leftovers for dinner until they run out, see."
Out of the corner of his eye, Zevran saw one of her hands wringing itself, and he absently touched the handwritten schedule in his pocket.
"Ah, but of course!" He kept his smile and nod generous. "It is well to keep to a schedule where one can, is it not? Not having to constantly plan ahead frees up the mind for more important things, no?"
The Warden gaped at him like he'd bought her a house.
"I… well, yes! Yes! Ha-ha! Yes, exactly!" She bounced on her toes, fixing his cheek with a gleaming smile. "Good to– yes, it's good for a leader to be efficient, it's true. Helps in the long run. Hah. Right. Yes. Ah…"
She pointed her nose toward the campfire. "Would you like some help with cooking? I can… mmm, what can I do… ah!" Her chest puffed out again, and her shoulders… if he wasn't mistaken, they just shimmied a little. "I can break the eggs. Leliana showed me how to do that just before you joined us."
Oh, she would have starved in Antiva.
She down looked at her hands. "Oh. I need to wash first, though. And change. But I can get back to you as soon as I can to…" she squinted. "Hum… Cracking eggs isn't actually that helpful, is it?"
He smiled, half from relief she'd reached that conclusion on her own, and half for a reason he couldn't put his finger on.
"You are good to me, my Grey Warden," he purred, "but a frittata is the work of a moment. Do not let me keep you from washing. In fact, by the time you're back, it should almost be ready."
Rhodri acknowledged this with a low hum. "You're quite right, of course. It was an impractical suggestion."
Untroubled though she looked as she rubbed her chin ( "Now what would be more useful…?" he heard her murmur), the remark twanged a previously unnoticed nerve all the same.
"Ah, but think," he trilled quickly. "That means we can eat together, no?"
Her eyes widened a little. "Mmm, very true! I suppose I'd better get to it, then."
"If I could perhaps ask a favour before you go, though?"
"Mm? Anything you like."
"The fire has long gone out," he gestured at the heap of char in the middle of the camp. "I wonder if I could borrow a little of that delightful magic to help me get it going again? I believe I lost my striker back in Lothering."
She nodded, went to the firepit and threw a few logs in. He watched after her and waited for the flick of the hand to summon the bright, full-bodied flames that had cooked their food all week.
Any moment now.
… Or?
The Warden bent down, propping herself up with a hand on one knee, and held the other out by one of the logs. Her fingers started to tremble.
"Ah… hah…" her shoulders rose and sank like a bellows in time with her breaths.
Zevran strode over to her. "My Warden? You are well? If it is too strenuous…"
Rhodri didn't answer. A wisp of smoke curled out of the cracked log bark and crept skywards. Her fingers moved with shaky… encouragement, he would have called it, if it didn't sound so embarrassing. Who encouraged a flame?
She did, apparently. And when a bright orange tonguelet slipped out and licked at the bark, she certainly smiled like she was proud of it.
Through heavy pants, as it happened.
Zevran tried again. "... My Grey Warden?"
"Hah… a-hah… forgive me, I was… hah… concentrating." She braced herself with both hands now.
His insides crawled with embarrassment. "Shall I bring you a restorative of some sort? Something to chew on, perhaps?"
Rhodri shook her head. "Thank you, no. I need to wash." She straightened up slowly and gave him a crimson-cheeked smile. "Nothing for you to worry about, my friend. I'll be back shortly. May I take my clothes from your tent?"
Zevran smirked. "Your tent now, my dear." And what a relief that was.
"Yours until this other tent arrives," she chuckled breathlessly. "I won't declare it mine again without proof you have yours first."
She didn't wait for a reply before leaving, and that was a mercy in itself. The fact that she wasn't actually staggering toward the tent was another.
Even so, Zevran listened out as he cracked the eggs, legs half-tensed in case the Warden fell unconscious mid-bath and he had to rush to fish her out of the water. He shouldn't have let her go without a small rest– shouldn't have asked a tired mage to do more magic in the first place– but of course, he never was one for keeping important things in mind.
Nagale. If she drowned, that was the end of him. If he burst in on her bathing, that was the end of him, too.
Why were his plans always so horrid?
Luckily, Rhodri had left the tent warbling a tune Zevran remembered a prostitute singing in the mornings as she dressed her hair.
He kept cooking. Rhodri kept singing. It was a hair's breadth away from pleasant.
§
When the Warden re-joined him, dripping and looking incredibly pleased, the frittata was almost ready. He had taken the hot pan off the fire to let the heat in the iron cook it the rest of the way through.
She plonked herself down beside him and started filling her bowl with leftover stew.
"Something smells nice," she said, giving him a wink that would have been visible from the other end of the country.
He waggled his eyebrows. "Almost ready, too. I happened to overcook, so if you change your mind, there is a goodly portion that is yours for the taking."
Rhodri beamed as she tore a loaf of bread in half. "Spoken like a true Northerner! I don't remember the last time I heard someone say they made too much food." Her eyes drifted over to the frittata and rested there. And with its golden exterior and halfway runny inside, who wouldn't gaze like that? It was a triumph. Even a Fereldan would fall in love with it.
"Hmm?" Zevran nodded down at the pan. "You look tempted there, my dear."
She chuckled. "Oh, I am. I should eat the leftovers first, but it's been a good twelve years since I saw a frittata made the proper way…"
Pleased, Zevran acknowledged the remark with a grin.
"I used twelve eggs in this," he declared. "The most I have ever eaten in one sitting is six. If you want to know if it tastes as good as it looks…" He took a bite and made a noise bordering on inappropriate as he chewed and swallowed it down. "Mmm! Let me assure you it does. And your half is waiting in the pan for you."
Rhodri's gaze was firmly on the frittata on his plate. Not a hint of a blush. No bitten lip. He was of a good mind to ask her if her preferences departed from the usual humans, elves, dwarves, to food.
She turned back to the stew and took a bite, and the urge to ask that question disintegrated. Alistair had looked tickled pink with himself yesterday mid-morning, serving up bowlfuls of the grainy, tombstone-grey concoction with all the delighted benevolence of a man who was handing out gold bullions.
Credit where it was due, though: the Warden was as good as her word– or her plan, at the very least. She slogged her way through it valiantly. The only sign of it being the stuff of nightmares was the gusto with which she attacked the bread between mouthfuls.
When the bowl was empty, he smiled at her. "Are you ready for a palate cleanser?"
He should have waited for an answer; why he didn't was anyone's guess. He also should have known better than to firmly grab the side of a hot cast-iron pan wearing a leather glove that bordered on threadbare in parts.
If nothing else, he should have concealed the discomfort better. Zevran hastily pulled his hand away and created a breeze by wiggling his fingers.
Rhodri almost leapt a foot in the air. From her seated position, no less.
"Oh, Zev! Did you burn yourself?" She zipped over until their thighs were almost touching and held out her hands to him like she was receiving a gift. "Will you show me? I promise not to do anything without your permission."
Zevran smirked and bit his lip at her. "Oh-ho! Will you kiss it better for me, my Grey Warden? Luck is very much on my side today."
Oh, for the love of sanity, why?
The Warden blinked at him like he had thrown sand in her eyes.
"I'm… ah, sorry, but kisses haven't been proven to heal wounds. You'll just end up with my spit on you, and I think we've established that would be unwise." She smiled encouragingly. "But we can work out something that will help."
The whole thing seemed hugely unwise. Ten minutes ago, it was a distinct possibility that casting a fire spell would send her to the Maker's side. Or drowning from exhaustion thereafter. But who was he, Zevran the equal, to tell her to watch herself?
Oh, it was too much altogether.
"Perhaps," he edged his hand out toward her, "we could simply examine it, for now? No need for treatment as yet, I do not think. It does not hurt so very much."
Rhodri nodded fervently. "Of course, of course. Whatever you're comfortable with. Would you be amenable to me taking the glove off so we can look closer–? Ah, thank you."
It was a curious thing, the way four of her fingers cradled the underside of his wrist with featherlight gentleness. Her thumb, as if disgusted by it all, was stretched as far away from him as it seemed possible.
"Is this all right, my friend?" she indicated their point of contact with her nose. "Just to hold your hand steady. I promise not to make a full grip on you with my thumb."
Zevran realised he had been staring, and when his fool blank look resisted being trained into something more sultry, he simply nodded.
Rhodri nodded back kindly. "All right. Nice and easy, here we go… tell me if you need me to stop and I'll let go straight away…"
The glove was cajoled off delicately. Zevran couldn't help but smile upon seeing that the unencumbered top half of his finger, though angry and rapidly swelling, was neither bleeding nor blistering.
"Mmm, look at that!" He swallowed a relieved laugh. "Barely a trace of my carelessness."
Rhodri frowned. "Eh? It looks like you're smuggling a cherry under your fingertip!"
He gave a casual wave with his free hand. "Ah, but that goes away on its own fast enough, no? No need to trouble yourself over it."
Rhodri took her fingers away from his arm one by one until he was supporting the extremity on his own. She gave him a suspiciously patient-looking smile.
"It's all right if the magic still unnerves you, amicus. I don't expect that sort of thing to go away overnight. And I'm afraid even if you did ask me for magic, I couldn't help right now." She shrugged apologetically. "No mana left, I'm sorry. But I have some lovely heat balm to take the pain and swelling out, if you like? It's in my satchel here…"
It was hard to know if there actually was a satchel that was situated to her right, or if that was simply what she called the great void her robes created. Whichever one she rummaged in ended up supplying her with a small jar of greenish ointment that she held up indicatively.
"What do you think? Shall we try it? You'll only need a little, I think."
Zevran's mind faltered halfway through an attempt to jump to the worst possible conclusion. Topical poisons were common. The Warden, however, seemed an increasingly unlikely candidate for murdering him subtly. Or murdering him outright, when it came to that.
His finger throbbed. Pointedly. He affixed a smile.
"If you're sure you don't mind, my Warden–"
She shook her head so fervently that he stopped talking.
"Not at all," she insisted. "Not at all. Here, let's get some on you…"
He chuckled weakly as she set to work. "You are clever, Rhodri, making all these balms and such."
Rhodri looked up and let out a wild laugh.
"Oh! I didn't make this, Morrigan did. I never paid attention in herbalism, because it always bored me to tears. In fact, I said to my friend Stella, 'So long as I can differentiate the vegetables on my plate, I'm proficient enough in plant matters.'"
She gave him a sheepish grin and rocked her feet from heel to toe. "My herbalism teacher heard that. She smacked me in the back of my head with my book for my trouble."
Was it too much to laugh? She'd grinned, and a grin was three-quarters of the way to a laugh. It wasn't kind to hit students with books, Zevran knew it in his heart of hearts, but what a tame punishment, all told.
He covered his mouth with his free hand and settled for watching her with a smile kept solely to the top half of his face. She glanced up at him– at him , in his eyes, not on his cheek– and once his digestive tract had stopped trying to escape via his mouth, he decided that there were worse things than eye-to-eye contact with her, odd and prolonged as it was.
Rhodri returned his balmed hand to him by carefully setting it down on his knee. The pain was already starting to ebb, and if his eyes weren't deceiving him, the swelling was also subsiding.
"It takes about five minutes to work, so just sit easy while you wait. And while I think of it…" the Warden pointed down at his gloves with her nose. "These need to be replaced, my friend."
Of course, he could never have been permitted to feel too settled with her, could he?
Zevran smirked and refused point-blank to consider the awkward lightness of his money-bag as he did so.
"Oh, I don't know about that," he challenged weakly, giving a wicked laugh. "I think I could get a little more service out of them."
She raised her eyebrows at him, and he was a fool for feeling surprised about it.
"Frankly, Zevran, I think the only service they can offer you now is not dissolving entirely, and even then it's looking grim." She put her hands together and opened them like a book. "How about this. We'll go to Mr. Bodahn and pick you out a nice new pair. What do you think?" Rhodri gestured at his shabby set and smiled warmly. "You can still keep these if you're fond of them. They can be your leisure gloves."
Zevran pulled his fingers away from his money-or lack thereof- and used them to stroke his chin.
"I… am not sure what Mr. Bodahn's prices are like, truthfully."
Rhodri waved a hand. "Oh don't worry about that. We'll get a good deal with him. He promised us a hefty discount, and we have plenty of money stashed away in the common fund for times like this."
"Ah," was all he said.
Her eyes widened. "Oh, I– Did you think you would have to pay for your own gear with your own money? Goodness, how thoughtless of me. I owe you an– no, wait! I owe you two apologies, in fact."
He blinked. And then forced himself not to. "Two? I am sure you do not even owe me one, my dear Warden."
"No, I do," Rhodri shook her head hard. "I absolutely do. First of all, I'm sorry for not telling you that our common fund always covers work and basic living expenses. Armour, weapons, food, and shelter are all paid for by that. Your income is for you to save or spend on things you want. Now, secondly…"
She turned again to reach into the Robe Void and/or her satchel. Buckling turned to rustling, which became the jingle of coins, and when she faced him again, she deposited three sovereigns and six silvers into his unexpecting, balm-free hand.
"I should have given you your pay in advance the day you joined us," she said solemnly, "but it didn't occur to me. Please allow me to offer my apology for this oversight by paying interest– hence the six silvers. That was my mistake and it won't happen again."
Zevran stared down at the money, hating the three sovereigns that made his first pay packet and that he wanted to pocket them and the interest both.
"Most kind of you, my Warden," he offered uneasily. "There is no need for the interest, though, I'm sure–"
Rhodri held up her hands. "There absolutely is. You are working with us,"
Working? Hah! Dancing, perhaps.
"And you are to be paid for it. Late pay means you accrue interest. I'm not taking that money back. It's yours and none of my business now."
Without a word, he stuffed the coins into his money bag and could have wept with relief that the struggle was over once he had. There was no gloating, no smiles, no hands going onto his body to take something back. If anything, the Warden looked as relieved as he felt that he had simply yielded to her request. Her fingers drummed on her knees, feet rocking too rapidly for it to be comfortable.
"... You know, my Warden, there is a very lonely frittata sitting between us," Zevran offered tentatively. "Perhaps you might help me with it?"
Rhodri frowned. "Lonel–? Oh!" She looked at the frittata and up at him. "Have you eaten enough? You should have as much of it as you can. It's a long time since we last ate, and eggs are good for the health."
"I could not eat a bite more," he said earnestly, giving his belly a (careful) pat. "Getting through half of it was a challenge in itself. I'm afraid between the two of us, you will have to be the one to give it a good home."
She swallowed audibly and eyed that damned frittata like she was going to make love to it.
"... You're quite sure?" she asked hoarsely.
Zevran grinned. "Oh, yes." He pointed his nose at it. "Go on, dear Warden. Enjoy it while it is still warm."
After another loud gulp the Warden nodded and, fork in hand, reached down and speared a bite out of the pan. Zevran bit his lip, unable to resist watching on as she brought it to her mouth.
She chewed it slowly, eyes fluttering shut. Sighed, grinned, blushed– Maker's breath, she might as well have taken the pan back to her tent at the rate she was going.
He couldn't help but smile. "I take it you are enjoying it?"
It took a moment before she swallowed and turned to him, and he wondered if she had been prolonging the inevitable parting with her mouthful.
"Yes I am," Rhodri said softly. "It's exactly how they made it at home in Kirkwall when there were no esalota." She gestured at the pan. "This is beautiful food, Zev. The best thing I've eaten in twelve years."
A pang of some sort registered in Zevran's chest that he studiously ignored in favour of the jubilation of winning the Warden's favour via simple cooking. He didn't make bad food as a rule, but this had not even been one of his best. He bobbed his head with a flourish to point his nose at the remaining half (minus one bite) of the apparent masterpiece frittata.
"I shall have to keep that in mind," he purred as he scoured his mind for the exact proportions of herbs and seasonings he had used in the mix and committed them to memory. "Do please go ahead and eat to your heart's content."
The Warden shifted a little. "Maybe you should keep it for your lunch. I can reheat it for you."
He shook his head. "I prefer to eat it fresh, but thank you."
She glanced out toward the hill they'd scaled to reach the camp. "Then perhaps the others will want it."
Zevran laughed and didn't bother trying to stop it. "They will have had all the best foods Bann Teagan can supply. I am quite sure they will not have room for more. And truly," he added with a thin smile, "if they do not trust me, they will not want to eat something I have prepared."
The Warden appeared to consider this for a moment. Then with a nod, she took another bite, and another, and then another.
"Mercy, this was good," she mumbled as she downed the last mouthful. "Absolutely perfect." She sighed and gave him an awfully soft smile for someone who tended to bustle and loudly declare awkward things. "Thank you for sharing your food with me. You're so kind, Zev."
Zevran chuckled before he knew what he was doing. "Practically a saint among men, no? I thought I was the only one who believed it."
Rhodri grinned at him with that joyful shark mouth and waved a hand between them. "We know the truth, you and I, don't we–"
A loud "Oi!" silenced her. They glanced over their shoulders and saw Alistair traipsing heavily toward them bearing a cumbersome-looking canvas bundle. The rest of the party strolled behind him, save for Leliana who walked by his side.
"Ah!" Rhodri got to her feet. "Alistair brought your tent up after all! Come, he looks tired. We'll take it off him and set it up, yes?"
Zevran didn't need to be asked twice.
§
Rhodri beamed at Zevran as he left her tent with his armful of possessions. She bent down by the entrance to his (his!) decidedly spacious yellow canvas tent, and opened the tent flap for him with a small flourish.
"Welcome home, my friend," she said grandly. "Once I've had a little sleep, I'll be able to insulate your tent for you, if you're happy to do it."
Rhodri wrinkled her nose as she glanced skyward. The sun was high enough to start warming the air properly, and there wasn't a hint of a cloud to delay proceedings.
"It's going to get hot soon," she mused, "so it's probably for the best that it isn't already done."
Zevran smiled and set his belongings inside the tent without stepping in. The rest of the party were shambling into their own lodgings, and after a week of nobody murdering him in his sleep, it seemed reasonable enough to guess that it was unlikely to happen today.
"Mmm," he chuckled. "I haven't met a hot day in Ferelden I didn't like. In fact, I haven't met a hot day in Ferelden at all."
The Warden snorted. "See how you go. There's a nice breeze, at least, so if today's the day you encounter warmth, you can tie your tent flap open.
"Anyway, I'll excuse myself now." She passed his tent flap to him and gave him a pleasant wave. "Sleep well, Zev."
There was no reason to watch her step over to her tent next door and disappear into it.
Well, no, there was. It paid to keep an eye on her movements for any number of reasons an experienced assassin could reel off. And what need was there to list said reasons when he was his own audience? No, it was foolish.
Satisfied, he pulled off his boots, climbed into his tent and cursed as he flopped down and met hard ground instead of his bedroll. Winded, he looked to his left and saw the absentee mattress, still rolled up and looking as smug about it as an inanimate object could.
You're lucky that's all that happened while you weren't paying attention.
Zevran agreed with himself by way of a sigh, hauled himself up, and made his bed. He lowered himself down onto it gingerly.
Oh, and it was marvellous. Only a thin thing, and he hadn't even opened it out to lie under the blanket. Tired bones sank into the meagre padding like quicksand, and Zevran stared up at the canvas ceiling with the sunlight prickling through the weave and let himself enjoy this little moment in his little makeshift house supplied by this strange little group. Just once.
§
The sound of his neighbour groaning woke Zevran up.
He raised an eyebrow. There had been sounds issuing from Rhodri's tent as he was falling asleep as well: quiet, heavy breaths people made when attending to certain personal needs, but were doing their utmost to be subtle about it.
Such noises– and far louder ones– had been part of the background noise more nights in Zevran's life than not, as normal as rustling leaves or the creaks of kissing floorboards underfoot. He almost hadn't noticed Rhodri's, and when he did, ignoring it was the easiest thing in the world.
This groaning of hers, though, this was something else. Certainly not the sound of enjoyment, though he had managed to nod off despite unhappy sounds often enough, too.
He listened out. There was movement. Tossing, turning, some hushed remarks.
'Argh, no. Too much. It is too much, I cannot!'
There came a slap of canvas on canvas, and footsteps as the walker strode out and away.
Knife in hand, Zevran had reached over to peel back his tent flap just a little, but stopped upon hearing Alistair chuckling.
"Too hot for you as well, eh?"
Rhodri sighed. "You have the right idea sleeping out here in the shade, amicus."
Alistair laughed again. "Not just a pretty face, am I? You know, Rhodders, you'd be a lot cooler if you just took your robe off."
"Mmm? I'd be a lot less modest, too."
"Nobody cares about that in Ferelden, though. You can roll your sleeves up or strip down to a shirt and breeches without any problems, I promise you."
Rhodri gave a disagreeing hum. " Icare about it. I'm still a Tevinter who is out in public, and I would be in a state of undress even if nobody noticed or minded."
The Templar chortled good-naturedly. " Well, can't argue with that. Maybe you could magick a little breeze up your sleeves to cool you off."
She laughed. "You're splendid you know, Alistair. A real treat. I'm glad to have a friend like you."
Zevran chewed his lip to button in a hysterical laugh. So she did this to everyone, did she? Unable to resist, he cracked the tent flap open just wide enough to observe Alistair's suffering.
His eyes widened in spite of himself: the Templar's face had the most ridiculous grin on it, and the giggle that came out was twice as bad.
Alistair pulled his shirt off and sprawled gracelessly on his bedroll under the tree.
"Back at you, Rhod," he sighed.
The Magewarden, dressed in the usual colossal robe, was somehow both rocking on her feet and unfurling her own bedroll under the neighbouring tree, beaming all the while.
Zevran forced himself to shrug. Alistair's had been an odd reaction perhaps, but despite the agony of the whole awkward scene, it was very reassuring to not be the only one being subjected to the Warden's nerve-jangling remarks.
Oh, but Alistair didn't think they were nerve-jangling, did he? He looked so pleased with himself and his company, drinking in the affection–and it evidently was affection– like he was made for it. Or was, at the very least, whole enough to appreciate it.
Chest aching, Zevran let the tent flap fall back down. He re-sheathed the knife, rolled over so his back faced the scene outside, and scrunched his eyes shut.
Author's note: Listen. LISTEN. Please notice what I did for shallots here. Shallot is a name derived from the Canaanite city of Ashkelon, which is where the Greeks thought it came from. In Spanish, eschalota. To make it plausible in etymology, I chose a place with a similar climate in Antiva (Salle) and renamed it 'esalota.' I am more smug about this than I should be but I simply cannot help it.
Cultural notes
In Tevinter, Antiva, and Rivain, it is considered very offensive- and often threatening- to point at something with the index finger. Instead, people will point with their nose (which Zevran often does), or if they wish to be specific, they will gesture with an open hand (à la Rhodri). For informality or playfulness, they will jerk their head or nod at the thing in question.
In Tevinter, it is common to press the hands together and open them like a book when making a proposal. It tends to emphasise a peaceful approach and willing cooperation.
The Tevinter concept of modesty originates in the ancient practice of Magisters covering up to hide the light armour they wore underneath. This meant that any weak spots in their armour were not visible, and made assaults less likely. Nowadays, modesty is a key virtue, particularly among the Altus. Tevinters who dress revealingly imply that they are unworthy of guarding (which is part of the reason slaves are often forced to be scantily clad), and is considered improper and embarrassing in most settings.