He crouched in the clearing, running a pair of fingers through the dirt. Serah had gone up the path some time ago, crying of beasts or bandits or darkspawn – he couldn't be sure. But it did not matter now. The Wardens were coming.

The others were hidden out of sight beneath the wreckage of the wagons, the archers lying prone on the ridge above. For the moment, he was alone.

Shielding his eyes against the sinking sun, he looked toward the old tree perched above the path. Half-fallen, long dead and still it lingered, waiting only to do its part. Funny, he had imagined this moment so many times – how could he not? – but never would he have thought to…

At the sound of footsteps, he straightened. Serah rounded the bend at a run, slowing with a smirking nod. The others were not far behind.

The man came first, wide-eyed and clearly taken off guard, the woman at his side slowing with a knowing glower. Behind them loomed a Qunari of all things, stiff and proud and heavily armed. Zevran chuckled. The Grey Wardens, it seemed, would take anyone.

But the big man made no move to attack, looking instead to the woman slipping round from behind. Deferring. To an elf. Slight, pale and dark-haired, she was already scanning the ridges above, eyes narrowing as they roamed from side to side.

The hair was too short – functional instead of feminine – the close-fitting leathers stained and filthy… Why then did he hesitate? Why did his fingers twitch, nails biting into his palms? Those lips pursed as she debated, angular features twisting into a wicked scowl.

He met it there, raising his eyes with a widening smirk. At a wave of his hand the others stood, archers taking their positions. Someone struck the charge, the hills above shaking as the tree came crashing down. They scattered, the elven woman rolling aside, drawing a pair of daggers as she came to her knees.

Grace, yes. Beauty, certainly. But her commands were snarled through gritted teeth, the eyes that snapped to his a brilliant, blazing green.

A stranger. A mark. Nothing more.

Laughing now, Zevran drew his blades. "The Grey Warden dies here!"

"Then here you shall die." The merchant leaned close, breath hot against Zevran's cheek. Stepping back he, smiled. "Do we have a deal?"

Still he stood stiff, staring straight ahead, refusing to meet the man's eyes. There were at least a dozen that he could count, watching from the shadows of the colonnade. But the thugs had been cocky, ill-trained, no match for the three of them. He shifted, feeling the slickness of the cobblestones beneath his feet, the thick wet seeping round his boots. Two now. Only two.

Taliesin had opened his mouth to speak, but Zevran shook his head. "We will report the contract fulfilled, as you ask." His eyes snapped up. "Once have buried my blade in your neck."

"Zev! Don't—!" One of the men stepped forward, fist connecting with Taliesin's middle.

"Would that you were as wise as your friend. I have always found guilt and valiance to be decidedly… impractical." He chuckled. "And unexpected in a Crow. But I cannot say that I am displeased."

With a wave of his hand, more of the men stepped forward. "Disarm them." He sneered. "Your heads, I think, I shall return to your masters. To let them know that I am not so easily bested."

Rough hands trailed cross Zevran's back, relieving him of his pouches and poisons, finding the blade tucked beneath his belt. Still others roamed low, finding the pair in his boots. One even tangled in his hair, finding the tiny shortblade resting against his spine. The grip on his shoulder twisted, forcing him to his knees. It pooled there, warm, thick; already he could feel the wetness seeping through his leathers.

Taliesin sank beside him, eyes wide above his glare. "They got everything. You have a plan, though, I assume?"

The eyes that turned to his were flat, the smile bitter. "No, my friend. I do not."

He sank back on his heels, watching the merchant pace, watching him gloat. His leg bumped against something solid and stiff, his fingers brushing against the soft folds of sodden skirts. They flinched instinctively away, her skin still soft, still smooth, still warm. But he felt it then, the supple kiss of leather, the sheath wrapped high around her thigh. Eyes locked to the merchant, his hands worked quickly now, moving higher, sliding the blade free in one final, lingering caress. Zevran folded his hands, concealing it between his palms.

He blinked up at the man with a lazy smile. "They will not fear you. Others will come… until it is done." He chuckled. "We are rather known for our persistence."

Striding closer, the merchant glowered.

"But if it is a message you wish to send… perhaps you should do the deed yourself, yes? If not fear, at least let them taste your… satisfaction."

The man snorted, smiling beneath narrowed eyes. But he clucked his tongue, nodding to the thug standing Zevran's side. He hesitated only a moment before dropping the blade into his master's palm.

"Ahh, and with my own blade. Truly, you are a master of the poetic."

He loomed before him now, smirking as he brushed aside a strand of Zevran's hair. The irony of the position, it seemed, had not gone unnoticed. "And such a pretty one you are. If I were not such a busy man…" He smirked, pressing the blade against his throat.

Zevran only pursed his lips, arching a brow as the merchant's grin widened. His hands moved quick, Rinna's blade spinning between his fingers, driving upward between them. It seemed a long moment before the merchant staggered, eyes snapping wide as Zevran twisted. The thrust had been precise, taking him between the legs. And still Zevran pressed, slicing upward as he rose smoothly to his feet. The merchant had been a rather large man, his belly heaving as its contents spilled. Ah, such filth. But he had made a promise, had he not? Wrenching the blade free, Zevran buried it in the side of the man's neck.

One thick arm swung wide even as the merchant sank, taking Zevran in the side of the head. Hard he fell, feet tangling in the forgotten skirts, cursing as the pain shot through his shoulder. Rinna was there then, face only a hairsbreadth from his own, eyes wide and staring still. He blinked, limbs seeming to stiffen, the ring of drawn steel, the crush of rushing feet falling away.

"Dammit, Zev!"

There were hands at his back, Taliesin pulling him bodily to his feet. But his eyes remained locked to hers, fingers curling reflexively, wrapping round the second dagger tucked at her belt.

Taliesin had recovered his own weapons, it seemed, two of the merchant's men already lying dead at his feet. It took only a moment. Eight remained: four archers, three with blades and one with a large and battered maul. Taliesin was already moving for the columns, taking the bowmen first. Zevran rolled aside as one of them loosed, bending to the merchant to retrieve the second blade. He crouched there a moment, weighing them, sensing the balance. They had been made for other hands but… He grinned.

The man with the maul came first, his swings wide and overbalanced. Simple enough to take a knee, let the momentum drive the blade up and into his middle. Two of the bladesmen next, one jumping wide as Zevran spun, the other's back opening as the blade slashed home. Its mate came round, a twin cut blooming cross his chest as the other man attempted to take him from behind. A simple backward thrust, the second dagger slicing cross his throat as Zevran turned again. He was near the columns now, the archer caught unawares as he suddenly changed direction. Hard the man was pinned, the tip of Zevran's blade scraping stone as it pierced his throat.

Of the third bladesman there was no sign. A wise choice.

Zevran paused, sheathing the blades behind his shoulders as he straightened. His own dagger had fallen just beyond the merchant's outstretched hand, the other kicked away across the cobblestones as he was disarmed. Fingering the hilts at his back, he chuckled. Turning away, he let them lie.

Still the shadows hung heavy amongst the columns, but there was nothing stirring there now, no weight of watching eyes. In the distance the sounds of the festival seemed to rise, rushing to fill the sudden silence. There would be light there, music, spinning even now, even here. Diadala. Reconciliation.

At the hand on his shoulder, he spun. Taliesin.

There was something of a smile there, one hand moving to wipe the spray of filth from his chin, but there was a stillness, a question in his eyes. Ah, yes. This would be the time for backslapping, perhaps a play-by-play. The man did enjoy his work.

"That was nice, with the—"

Their task had been completed, the job done and done well. But Zevran barely spared a glance for the merchant as he turned, moving instead to the wall at the water's edge. It was stained still, the first attacker's blade having left a deep gouge cross the reliefs carved there. He crouched. The face was strange, but there was no mistaking that expression. His finger traced the gash from shoulder to thigh. A forgotten goddess, nameless and marred.

"Uh… Zev? A little help?" Taliesin struggled toward him, arms beneath the shoulders of one of the fallen men.

True, none would doubt what had happened here and there was little enough that they could do about the blood, but their work was not yet over. He straightened, moving to the man's feet. They had had little choice, but this was not the way he would have preferred it. Do not leave a mess unless it is specifically requested. The Crows had a reputation to maintain. At Taliesin's nod, they swung the man up and over the wall. There was no need to weight them, not here. The currents of the Rialto did their work well.

Moving cross the pier, Taliesin bent to the pockets of the next man. The Crows were not thieves, but there was no profit in sending full purses to the bottom of the bay. It came easy now, the familiar work, the coin divided, heavy limbs lifted and properly seen away. The merchant himself went last, a groan escaping even Zevran's lips as they heaved his bulk over the side.

Again he crouched, resting forehead against his arm as he leaned a hand against the wall.

"Zev."

His eyes pinched shut.

"Zevran."

It was slowly that he straightened, slowly that he turned.

Taliesin knelt on the stones beyond, one hand outstretched, fingers again curling hesitant as they fell against her hair. He seemed to stiffen, both hands moving, but those waves were heavy now, the pool in which they lay already thickening. Jaw tensing, he gathered it neatly to one side, smoothing the last few strands from her forehead.

Zevran crouched opposite him, resting elbows on his knees.

"What?" Taliesin's eyes were wide as the locked to his, the growl almost… defensive.

"It is… nothing." And yet surprising. His eyes narrowed. "Did you know?"

"Know what?"

"Did you know?" The words came flat, whispered. "You were quite willing to believe she would betray us, my friend."

Finally, his hands fell away. Something loosed in Zevran's shoulders.

"Weren't you? You saw what I saw."

"I saw your eagerness to be rid of her."

"Rid of—?" His arms tensed, fists curling at his sides. For a moment, he seemed to swell; his size, the blood still wet upon his hands, all coalescing in the firm set of his shadowed jaw. But he subsided then, sagging visibly. "I didn't… trust her. Couldn't understand why you did." He raised his eyes knowing, holding there. "But I didn't want this."

After a moment, Zevran sighed. "I believe you, my friend."

His lips twisted into something of a crooked smile. "Maker knows I don't even trust you half the time."

"Nor I you."

"Right, see? It's no good to let your—"

"—Enough."

Her eyes were open still, staring skyward. Had he truly been looking into them this entire time? Perhaps he had. Leaning low, Zevran ran a pair of gentle fingers to smooth them closed.

Taliesin had come to his feet, watching with a suddenly somber expression. "Zev…" His eyes strayed to the wall, to the bay beyond.

Realizing his intention at last, he rose quick, stalking away. "No."

Taliesin moved beside him, following his gaze as he stared out across the waters. Already the waves below were still, all sign of the night's new dead borne swiftly out to sea.

"We'll go back… make something up."

Still Zevran remained silent, staring.

"It was a mistake, yeah. But no one has to know."

He shook his head. "She deserved… more. Better… than this."

Taliesin lay a hand on his arm, turning him from the waters. "You really think that? You really think any of us do?"

The chuckle was bitter, Zevran's eyes flickering back across the pier. Their work was done, yes; only this small matter remained. But Taliesin's hands were there then, one cupping his cheek, tilting his chin upward as the other brushed aside a fallen strand of hair. His kisses fell against Zevran's forehead, his nose, his cheeks, soft beneath the scraping roughness of new-grown beard. When at last he brushed his lips, Taliesin seemed to shudder, breath escaping as his shoulders hunched. Desperate, pleading... but through it all afraid.

Zevran stepped away. "Let us be done with it then."

He bent to her shoulders, the movements familiar, unthinking. Just one final piece, one final end to be tied. They paused at the water's edge, her knees draped cross Taliesin's arms, skirts billowing there. Suspended between them once again. Zevran could not tell if the thought was shared, could not bring his eyes from those ever-flowing ripples. And so the sea goes on.

Already he was moving away across the pier, turning before the splash could echo. It hung there, lingering amongst the columns, between the waiting shadows. But soon enough all things fade.

Zevran crouched, beginning to gather the contents of the spilled purse, the Rivainian coins still glinting accusing in the flickering lamps of the colonnade.

"Leave it."

"I would not think you one to turn your nose at coin, my friend."

Taliesin stepped round, blinking down at him. "Drop it over the side, then. I have no use for it."

Straightening, Zevran tsked. "Ahh, but I do." He turned without a word, slipping between the columns, sparing not a glance for the empty pier, for the stilling waters beyond.

They were close enough to the docks proper, the short walk silent despite the heavy fall of Taliesin's trailing footsteps. It took only a moment to find what he was seeking. The ship was smaller than most, but sleek and slim and swift. It was only as he slipped the purse from his sleeve, bending close with the eager captain, that Taliesin seemed to realize his intent. He stiffened, but kept his silence.

Their cabin was cramped, stale with the stench of old wet, the single cot sagging and stained. Zevran curled there, draping an arm cross his knee as he leaned back against the pitted wood. At the close of the door, he felt the sting of those eyes, but still the silence held.

"Don't."

He might have counted the breaths. "You do not fancy our… accommodations? You are the one who wanted to ride in style, were you not?"

"You know what I mean." The cot shifted as Taliesin sat.

Slowly, Zevran opened his eyes. "There is no sense in delay."

"Delay what? There's nothing to delay!"

"Oh? Our dear departed merchant had a point, my friend. There will be… recriminations… punishment."

"Which would do neither of us any good."

Zevran sighed, letting his head loll back against the wall. "I will leave you out of it, if that is your wish."

He hesitated only a moment. "…Yes. But there's no reason not to leave yourself out as well."

"Is there not?"

"It's…" He grunted, turning away with a disgusted snort. "It's pointless. Stupid."

"I am glad to see you think so highly of me."

"What in the name of Andraste's tits did she do to you, huh? I mean, I'll admit she was fit enough, wild little thing on the—"

The kick took him in the shoulder, sending him dropping to a knee beside the cot. But as Zevran moved to curl his leg beneath him, Taliesin's hand shot out, grabbing his knee. He slid closer, hand lingering there.

Zevran quirked a brow at that. "You would beg now?"

"Don't flatter yourself." Taliesin glared up at him, chuckling beneath his breath. "You're not the self-sacrificing type. Don't pretend that you've suddenly gone all noble. That's not who you are."

"Oh? And who am I?"

Hands sliding higher, Taliesin straightened, raising his face to his. There was a smirk there, calm, wicked, hungry. As Zevran bent to meet him, he laughed.

But his fingers tangled behind Taliesin's neck, twisting in the short growth of hair, pulling him wincing to his feet. A kick to the knee sent his legs buckling, face crashing hard against the wall as Zevran pressed behind him. One arm pressed against his neck, the other in the small of his back, Zevran leaned close, breath coming hot against his ear. "You would see what I am?"

Taliesin only snorted, his struggles half-hearted, testing. Grabbing him by the collar, Zevran flung him cross the narrow space to fall hard against the side of the bed. Still he laughed as he was pulled to his knees, face pressed low against the frayed and filthy mattress.

Zevran paused there, bending to trail fingers along his spine. "I will not speak of your part, you have my oath."

Taliesin twisted to peer up at him, shaking his head with a bemused smile. His fingers curled against Zevran's chest, tangling in the laces to pull him low.

The ship was indeed fast; their journey took no more than a week. It was the rains that had caused delay, the captain assured them, the deluge slowing work and keeping them confined to the cramped and musty cabin. Long hours, those.

Even in the port he could feel the watching eyes. Their arrival would be marked, their steps counted as they slipped along the streets. At the guildhouse gate they seemed to redouble, unseen glances from the balconies above, shadows moving through the night-draped courtyards. But let them see. Let them know. If they did not read it in his eyes, they would know soon enough.

As the halls turned, Taliesin lay a hand on his arm. Their chambers to the left, the Masters' quarters away and to the right. But the hours of that waiting week had been long indeed. The same words, the same grasp of pleading hands. Zevran only shook his head.

Visarius' door was cracked, the long and shadowed hall dimly lit. He waited, just beyond the threshold. The Master would know, would have been informed, would sense him there. But first he would be made to wait.

Forty-three breaths before he heard the cough, a summons unworthy of wasted words. Zevran pushed aside the door.

The man waited with his back to him, desk and high-backed chair holding close to the nearest wall. It was beside him that Zevran moved, beside him that he knelt. Visarius chuckled, turning in his chair.

The kick took him in the cheek, just beneath the eye. Tasting blood, Zevran ran the back of a hand across his broken lip. But lower still he bent, steepling his fingers against the cold marble of the floor. Let them see your hands and they will know you cowed.

"The contract is fulfilled. And yet still you would disturb me."

He could feel the twist of his lips, the bitter sting of the words. "I am sorry."

Another kick, to the shoulder this time. "You seek to anger me."

"I am sorry, Master."

"Ah. So now comes the grand sacrifice. A final great and noble act." His chuckle was rasping.

Zevran raised his eyes at that, earning him a kick to the knee. He staggered, but held still to that gaze.

"You and Taliesin arrived alone. The reason was not difficult to surmise."

"I am afraid you do not know—"

"—Why you now seek punishment? Do not think me a fool." He leaned low, hand tangling in Zevran's hair to drag him close. His breath was hot, hissing, stirring wincing memory. "I do not care why it was done. I do not care which of you held the blade."

With a wave of his hand, he flung Zevran aside. He landed palms to the floor, raising his eyes from beneath fallen hair. The string on his tongue thickened, teeth digging hard against his lip.

Visarius settled back into his chair. "I have lost nothing that cannot be replaced. And this punishment that you so eagerly seek…" He snorted. "I have not the time."

Zevran opened his mouth to speak, but the old man made as if to kick again, laughing when he flinched aside.

"Go."

He did not move.

"Go! Take your guilt and pity elsewhere."

The Master turned away as he rose slowly to his feet, stirring not for the glare, not for the obvious display of his unguarded back. Unconcerned, unflinching.

Pushing through the door, Zevran slipped along the hallway, turning a corner to sag against the stone.

"Zevran."

She moved like a stalking thing, swaying as she walked, trailing an idle finger along the tiles of the wall. Selena grinned to see him there, the lines of her eyes deepening at the redness of his face. But still she smiled, trailing a finger along his cheek, pressing hard against the blooming bruise. "Ah, Visarius does have a… tender touch." Coming to his broken lip, she leaned close, sucking deep of the wound.

He hid his hiss beneath a whispered chuckle, pressed there between the cold stone, the heat of her roaming caress. No, they would not care. Everything could be replaced. But his own hands were moving now, tearing at the laces climbing her back, bringing a triumphant gasp as she flinched in pain.

Selena pulled away, meeting his eyes with a hungry grin as her fingers curled forcefully round his collar. "Come. Let us get you cleaned up."

The path was familiar, the steps an echo through muffled air. Familiar games, familiar places… and yet he found that his grin had faltered, recovering quick as she turned to him.

Selena did not seem to notice, her own smirk twisting wicked. "You have not heard."

It was unlike her to make idle conversation. "Heard?"

"A contract, out of Ferelden… one that none will touch."

"Ferelden?"

He must have sneered, for she laughed. "A land of rough men and braying dogs, to be sure. But that is not what intrigues." She stepped close. "The marks. A pair of Grey Wardens, so they say."

"Grey Wardens?"

"Have you ever heard of such a thing? Scandalous. But the contract stands. None have so much as placed a bid."

He quirked a brow. "And this intrigues you, does it? Shall I say my farewells now? See you off to your dogs?"

Selena only snorted.

Ah. Practicality, self-preservation… surely these were the marks of a good assassin. The Grey Wardens were warriors of renown, said to be gifted with the strength of demons and darkspawn themselves. They had slain dragons, ended Blights… He idly wondered at the fool who would want to see them dead, wondered more at the fool who would…

Pulling her close, Zevran grinned, chuckling for her startled gasp. His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling loose the careful pins. It fell in faded gold, his touch against her chin stirring the thick and dusty powders painted there. She smiled at that, warming beneath his gaze but his eyes were distant, drawn miles and months from here.

Grey Wardens.

He could remember the cries, the whistle of arrows, the sudden snap of cold. But through it all she had come to him, dark and smooth and wicked, the ring of her blades sending shivers down his arms. None had been able to touch them, the dance theirs and theirs alone.

"Mmm?"

"I think you hit him too hard." The man's voice came from somewhere distant and above, cold but with something of a wavering chuckle.

A boot then, to his stomach, more insistent than angered, rolling him onto his side.

"I say we kill him and be done with it." A woman's voice now, the sneer evident behind her words.

"No." One whispered word, yes, but there was authority there. He blinked, something of the fog clearing.

She crouched, peering down at him, head tilted to one side. The hair was too short, the eyes too pale, but he remembered now… the whirl of blades, the eager smile. Stained and panting and cut but still she flushed, quivering beneath the filth, tense and smooth and skilled. The Warden. And she had bested him, it seemed. He did not know her face, but there was something… striking there.

Zevran shifted, raising his eyes, chuckling as her hand strayed to her blade. Ah, yes. He had but to say the word at it would be over. At last. This was a vision of mercy.

But so too was there strength here, beauty… life. And still she held his eyes, weighing, wondering. "I am Reikha."

The laugh was thick, cough threatening as his back heaved. And then he began to speak.