XXX
3
XXX

AN: I don't like Zathrian, he is way to skeezy and so I'm departing from the game here on many details if not outcomes of this part of the quest.
Elven and Spanish translations at the bottom. Got the elvish though from the DragonWiki and the Spanish from FreeTranslation.
Also – Arian if there's a phrase in here that I need some help with, and even though you say you're English is not all that great, if you want to help with this, I would welcome the assist, a second set of eyes always helps find things that may not be well put.
As for the phrase, there is a section down here that is meant to say something along the lines of "If you ever do that again, we will be eating roast dog for dinner". Now the online translator thingy says "Haga eso otra vez, y nosotros comeremos perro de asado para cenar" but that does not seem quite right, seems too big and too formal.
The awesomeness that is Amku beta'd this. But as I did go back over it and fiddle with it, there may be some fubars again. Which are entirely my fault, not Amkus.

XXX

"Surely there must be some secret to it," Morrigan prodded.

Zevran debated what sort of deflection he should use. "If there were such a secret, it would only remain so if it were not bandied about like a half eaten turkey leg at a festival, my dear."

The witch walked beside him, the forest trail passing beneath their feet comfortably. "If your Guild of carrion eaters truly rules then it is because the foolish population allows it."

Shrugging, Zevran scanned the trees, knowing that they had been watched by unseen eyes for the last few days. Ahead Lahar strode in Sten's shadow, using her staff to keep her balance on the rough ground. Antivans all knew who really controlled the decisions that went on in their country, but why fight it? Antiva, as small as it was, was the most prosperous nation in Thedas. Most didn't bother questioning it, there was no reason to. Why bite the hand that feeds, even if it requires a few sacrifices now and again?

But Morrigan wouldn't give it up. "So tell me, what is it that makes the sheep wish to be guarded by the very wolves who would eat them for their meals?"

"Maybe it is because the wolf is best suited to dispose of other wolves," Lahar interjected, proving that she had been paying attention to the conversation. "Who best to fend off danger than that which is already dangerous?"

Zevran gave her an approving smile. "That is exactly it, pequeña."

"Seems an inefficient way to control a population," Morrigan huffed.

Chuckling, Zevran countered, "My, my, and I thought you would approve of ruling with fear."

Sten interrupted their conversation, his tone demanding their attention, "We are being watched."

Zevran held his own counsel, for he had been more than aware of it. He was only waiting for the Dalish to show themselves. Suspecting that Sten had only spoken so as to silence the conversation, Zevran checked the bolts that swung at his hip. The crossbow was far from a favored weapon, but he was proficient enough to do damage to any who attacked before he would have to switch to close range weapons. There was a fifty-fifty chance that the Dalish would attack, the group's chances only marginally improved by the fact of his being clearly of the elvhen. Otherwise Zevran would estimate that the band simply being slaughtered with no warning as the most likely outcome. Dalish elves defended their camps with a ferocity that was unrivaled, and with good reason. Loosening the straps of his helmet, Zevran removed it casually, ears twitching once free of the confines. Protection from blows to the head was mitigated by his desire to increase their chance of being identified as 'friendlies' rather than 'enemies'. Killing the scouts would be frowned upon, and would make it that much more difficult to have those treaties honored, he thought, but even so he readied himself for a fight.

"Halt! Come no further!" As they rounded a bend, slender forms detached from the shadows of trees, others rising up from their positions on the ground.

Zevran reached out, preventing Sten from whipping his greatsword out, giving a subtle shake of his head.

"Anath ara." Spreading her arms as she bowed, Lahar waited showing some basic knowledge of their people's tongue.

The elf stared at them, suspicion on her countenance. "You are not of the Dalish. Explain yourself, shemlin. Why have you come here?"

At least they haven't attacked, Zevran thought. Noting that none of the scouts had relaxed, he amended, yet.

Revealing nothing of her nature and not giving a response to the derogatory – and incorrectly applied – term, Lahar continued, "I come in peace, and with a request for aid."

One of the scouts snickered, whispering so softly that none but another elf could catch it, "And I'm a flat ear. Hmph."

"We have no aid for, shemlin," the scout hissed, cutting the air with a hand.

"Abelas," Zevran adressed the group himself, "but we are not all shems."

Distaste was evident the lead scout, her tattoos making her even more fierce. "And what does that matter? You are no child, but bear no vallasin."

"I was taken from my clan by slavers before I could go through the ritual, lethallan, and it is hard to speak on it," he lied without flinching.

She frowned deeply in return, but waved it off. "You are near our camp, leave now and do not return, or we shall kill you."

"We have no wish to fight, but I am a Grey Warden." Zevran caught the curious glance Lahar gave him even as she stepped forward. "I must speak with your Keeper."

The scout growled in resignation, "Then come with me, shemlin, and you," she she jabbed a finger at Zevran's direction, "as well. The rest will stay under guard. I will not pollute the camp with more filth than I must."

"Morrigan, go inform the others to come and not be alarmed." The witch nodded before backtracking, and Lahar looked to the hostile elf leader. "We will make no trouble. I only wish for the others to catch up. This is acceptable...?"

"I am Merrill, and I allow it," she replied in grudging agreement. "Come now."

XXX

Zevran did not like these Ferelden elvhen. The stench of despair and bigotry filled the air like an open sewer. What did it matter that they had reason to be so hard? Rather than seeking a way to solve their problems, they only compounded them. Staying closed off from the world, living as they did this clan brought themselves more hardship, earning the ire and fear of the shemlin which only served to make things worse. Antivan elvhen, even of the Dalish variety, traded freely with the cities and towns, and were left mostly to their own devices.

Wynne was off with the healer seeking to offer some sort of assistance, even though Zathrian protested that there was nothing that simple healing could do against the curse, further evidence of things being out of place. A Keeper should welcome help from anyone so skilled in the healer's craft, shemlin or no.

A curse that they probably brought down on themselves somehow, the Antivan thought sardonically as he watched the camp, noting the undercurrent of fatigue in everyone. They're all ready to give up. Something had poisoned these Dalish more than the simple curse. Frowning, Zevran identified what it was. Children, there were only a handful. No more than six or seven scattered around the camp, and not enough halla to pull the aravels. Guessing that the clan had worse problems than just werewolf attacks, Zevran listened with half an ear as Zathrian droned on.

Glad when the contrived speech was over, Zevran tugged Lahar aside. "I don't like this."

"Me neither," she agreed, bending her head close to his chest. "Something doesn't add up."

"Be cautious, guapa. Men like this Zathrian are motivated by more than the good of their people," he warned, leaning down and tucking hair behind her ear to make it visible to those who were watching. Copying her movements, offering any protection he could – ensuring that the Dalish took them for a pair, Zevran rested his forehead against hers. "Take a good look at the camp. Even taking into account the werewolf attack thinning their numbers, there are too few people here."

"What do you suspect?" she asked, her breath smelling of mint.

"I'm not sure," he paused, thinking it more than possible that some sort of blood magic may be involved. So few children bothered Zevran to no end. "But I suspect we will find out, mi dulce, and soon."

Elves may not breed as often as humans, but in a camp there were always more children evident than adults. This was not the case here. Disturbed, Zevran left Lahar to scout around on his own. She would be safe enough now that their companions had been allowed to enter the encampment.

Digging out a piece of honeycomb from a hive they had found the day before, Zevran made himself comfortable near one of the children. Pretending to be unaware of the attention gained by this action, Zevran broke a bite off, popping the waxy treat into his mouth and sucking on it until the honey itself was gone and chewing the remaining wax before spitting it out.

"Andaran atish'an," the child had clearly struggled to pluck up the courage to speak, but the sweet Zevran held must have been too tempting to resist.

Which was the whole point.

"Anath ara, da'len," Zevran replied, smiling, "would you like some?" He held out the parchment in one hand, the fist sized honeycomb oozing its golden prize. "There is more than enough to share."

Large, forest green eyes stared up at him. The sexless child could have been no more than five or six. "May I?"

"If you like," he said with infinite patience.

The child climbed atop the boulder Zevran had taken for his seat and settled in. Once the child was happily gorging himself- or herself- on the treat, the wariness was soon forgotten and Zevran began asking questions. It was unsurprising that the little boy, named Atathis, was an orphan. And it was also unsurprising that all of the children had been 'rescued' by the clan to replace the increasing number of children that had been lost over the years.

"So are there are currently no pairs, da'len?" he inquired.

Atathis shook his head, "No, lethallin, the big wolf people went for the paired hunters."

Nodding, Zevran gave a reassuring smile, "Well, do not worry, da'len. The problem will be solved soon."

"You'll fix it then?" the hopefulness in the little one's voice was enough to make Zevran wince.

Ruffling the child's hair, he replied, "Of course, da'len. My compatriots and I will make sure of it." A twinge of guilt assailed the assassin as he spoke, praying that he was not lying.

Leaving the boy to his own devices, Zevran continued through the camp. it was an odd choice of location, in some ways resembling a village more than the mobile rest stops that the Dalish favored. There were no permanent structures, but the ground looked as if it had been flattened by repeated crossings, bespeaking a certain amount of permanence that was far from the Dalish nomadic lifestyle. Another detail besides that quickly presented itself, and it was as equally disturbing as the lack of children.

He stopped a likely hunter, his voice tentative, "Anath ara, lethallin. A moment if I may?"

"I have things I must be about, there's game to be dressed and portioned out," the taller, thinner hunter replied, annoyed with the interruption.

Zevran cleared his throat under the elf's glower. "It has not been so long since I lived amongst the clans. I am able to assist." He continued, giving a helpful and disarming smile, "I have questions to ask about your clan. In exchange, I would be pleased to give back what I can, lethallin, for such hospitality."

The hunter was clearly uncomfortable but nodded acceptance, "Ma nuvenin."
Following to where several large deer were still hanging from branches, throats slit so that the blood would drain into the buckets below, he settled in to do his part. They worked in silence, stripping skin from muscle, and muscle from bone – the Dalish wasted nothing. Even the intestines had been pulled out for later use in tanning.

"The asha who leads, she is very young," the statement was one Zevran had been waiting for.

"She is my asha, and young she may be," he returned, wiping at his cheek and leaving a smear of blood behind, "but being a Grey Warden and a mage leaves one older than any simple number of years would imply." He added, "I have been blessed that she accepted me as hers." He made certain to add a hint of pride to his tone.

"You are recently paired then?"

He nodded. "Quite. She has only been free of the Circle for a short time." Offering a question of his own – one Zevran knew the answer of already- he paused in his work and turned to the hunter, "And what of you, cousin? Are you blessed with a partner?"

A muscle jumped in the other elf's jaw, accompanied by a too hard slash to the deerskin, tearing it. "No. There are not many available for a young scout like me."

Soothingly, Zevran played the sympathetic and understanding role. "Next Gathering I am sure you will find one to alleviate your loneliness. A strong and skilled hunter is always valuable to a woman. You must only be patient, and then you will find a suitable partner."

The glare he received was far from unexpected. "How many times have you paired? You are not young."

It was an open implication that Zevran was older than would be desirable for a fresh match. The Dalish didn't show outward age the way humans did, and the vain part of Zevran hissed in agitation even while giving no outward indication of his ire. He well knew the fact that his being half Dalish didn't mix well with whatever his sire was. In all likelihood his father was a City Elf, who's lives went almost as quickly as a humans, their elven blood only affording them a handful more years than the average shemlin. And so Zevran showed his age more than a full Dalish would, This pendejo thinks I'm the same age as Wynne probably. Not virile enough to handle a young woman? Braska but I could show everyone here a thing or two if I had a mind to. I hate this stupid cabron, and I hate these Ferelden Dalish. It was clear that the hunter thought Zevran was fully Dalish and the implications attached to the idea only furthered the blows to his bruised ego.

"Only the once." It was his turn to be curt. "That is all it takes though, hmm? It makes thoughts of spending a sleepless night quite appetizing, even for one of my advanced years."

That put the unnamed hunter in his place. And made it clear that Zevran was willing to demonstrate the bond between he and Lahar. Never mind that it is far from true, he thought, returning to the work at hand, with so few females, so few children – it would be unlikely that they would willingly pass up the chance to add another woman to the group. And a mage at that. They had stepped into a very delicate situation, and Lahar's wish to gain aid against the archdemon by using the treaties was in peril of failure simply by whatever was truly ailing this clan. Initially Zevran had implied the pairing so that Lahar's status would be boosted by his obvious Dalish blood. Now it was all that kept her from being stolen, the rest of the group killed as trespassers, and the mission on track. Fate is a fickle whore who has decided to give me crabs in return for playing her game. Puta. But Zevran was grateful that guest laws and hospitality were so deeply ingrained into Dalish culture, at least when the guest was 'Dalish' themselves.

"You should speak to Lanaya so that an aravel can be set aside for you and your mate," the hunter said, openly hostile now and obviously angry at Zevran's strong claim on the elven woman, "The shems can share the guest tent."

"A wonderful suggestion lethallin!" he exclaimed with sickeningly false gratitude.

XXX

Picking his way to where a scout had said Lahar would be, Zevran couldn't help the unease he felt from the information he had gleaned. It was as if the clan were held under some spell that had absolutely nothing to do with Witherfang's curse. Each elf he had spoken with painted a picture of a slowly dying group, no one was reproducing, and what few had bonded had been unable to conceive. That meant that this band had been stealing children, possibly from alienages, or towns that had some sort of elven community. Possibly even other clans.

Why would Zathrian allow this anyway?

In Antiva it was true that there were no homeless children – they were all pressed into service of some sort. Orphans went to the Chantry or to the Crows, each to be molded for some purpose rather than left to clutter the streets. If what Zevran suspected was true and the handful of children that were in this clan were all kidnapped... Such was his disquiet over this that Zevran didn't notice the sound of water on stone or splashing.

Head whipping up, Zevran's breath caught in surprise.

Hair slicked back, water sluicing the long curve of back and buttocks, Lahar resembled nothing so much as a water nymph. Licking his lips, Zevran forgot for a moment what his train of thought had been. Her mage robes hid much, as did the mens clothes Lahar wore during their lessons. This was the first time Zevran had actually seen more than a glimpse of what was beneath all that fabric. The deep curve of her spine had long, twisting strands of hair clutching the skin as though ropevine grew from the flesh. Gone was the ice sculpture, sunlight giving Lahar a diffuse glow and color to what had been virtually colorless before. Shedding his own garments, Zevran decided to join her as it seemed the only logical thing to do.

The rustle-clank from his armor hitting the ground must have alerted her to his presence, not that Zevran planned on hiding it anyway. "Zev?"

"Hmmm?" He yanked his tunic over his head, and kicked his boots from his feet.

"What are you... doing?" she asked timidly, her hands covering her eyes as his leggings followed the way of the rest of his clothes.

Rather than answer with words Zevran measured the depth of the spring stepping closer before arching into a smooth shallow dive. He resurfaced farther out in the deeper area of the spring, shaking strands of his own wet hair from his face while treading water. One handed, Zevran loosened the braids that held the locks back and then moved forward in lazy strokes to the shallow area that Lahar was in. Feeling for the bottom of the pond – it was wonderfully free of debris, perhaps the Dalish dredged this site often? - and gaining a secure footing, Zevran moved to stand over the Warden.

"I had asked for some privacy for this," she said, nose crinkling as she poked the center of his chest. "Do you make it a habit to barge in on someone when they're bathing?"

Zevran winked in reply, "If given sufficient cause, ciertamente. And in -"

Forestalling him with another poke, "I sense another 'in Antiva' comment coming."

"Actually," he paused, nonplussed, "I was going to say that... well." He frowned. Zevran felt his ears going flat against his will, something that he had learned at some point to stop doing – an elf's ears, particularly a Dalish's, could give away much of their mood, which was why elven Crows were taught to control them. "Braska. Fine, I was going to say 'in Antiva'."

"-In Antiva," Lahar chimed, shaking her head. "Predictable assassin."

Grousing, "If you do not wish to hear of Antiva, then I will stay silent when next you inquire. Happy now, mi dulce?"

Zevran scowled, presenting her with his back before ducking under the water enough to search for some soap root. Fingers questing in the water bed, until alighting on the coarse plant. Ripping up a handful Zevran reentered the land of air, pushing his blond hair back once more. That was the irritating thing about long hair, it was constantly in the way but at least it wasn't as long as it once had been. Irritation was one of the only emotions that Zevran could truly feel anymore, a familiar companion that never seemed to leave. Time may have restored a modicum of real emotion and more recently feelings had resurfaced, but it was all rooted in his persona, while irritation...

It was a sensation he was feeling most keenly at the moment.

"Zev, are you... are you angry?" There was hesitation in her voice.

He replied with nothing more than a grunted, "What?" while snapping the thin roots to reveal their pale yellow insides and lathering himself up.

"I didn't mean to make you angry," she said, touching the small of his back and stilling his frenetic scrubbing. "It's just sort of funny sometimes, the way you constantly say how things are in Antiva versus here. So often you look at something and say 'in Antiva it is not this way – we do not do that there'. You're in another country, in a place that is thousands of leagues distant from your birthplace, so it would be logical for certain things to be very strange to you. Different weather, different landscapes, different culture, different language."

He stared down at the clear water, seeing his feet partially buried in the rocks and silt. "Some are exactly the same, pequeña." Sighing, he continued, "It is difficult to acclimate to the strangeness for it is startling and curious when so much is just like Antiva."

"Sometimes I look at the sky and wonder how it is I lived without it so long while in the Tower." Water sloshed as Lahar came close enough for Zevran to feel the ever present chill of her body near his. "It makes me feel small and lost. Just think, some mages don't remember anything about the outside world because they were taken by the Templars so young. A girl I knew, Yanli, was brought to the Tower when she was three. How foreign would free flowing water, open sky, dirt, even a tavern appear to her? How would she cope?"

He replied, shrugging, "Poorly, she would be terrified by the simplest things."

"There are no strangers in the Tower. Anyone new loses their polish no matter how bright or shiny within hours, days perhaps," she agreed. "Everything would be a new country, worse than a new language. She would have no common ground with this outside place. You, you're an adult at least, you speak the language, you can take care of yourself. You can catch food, bargain for goods, fight if need be."

"How long did you stay in the Tower, Lahar?" he asked for the second time, "How old were you when you were forced to leave the man who raised you?"

Her answer was short, "Too long and too young."

Zevran turned to face her. "How old are you now, bonita?"

"Old enough," she replied, sidestepping, "to know that the world is far larger than the prison I was kept in. Young enough to want to explore it for myself." The young Warden must have known she was being aggravating, so Zevran was relieved when she answered fully, "I turned eighteen two weeks ago or there abouts. Birthdays in the Tower aren't celebrated, and it has been so long since..." she faltered as a faraway look entered her eyes, "since anyone cared when it was that it has become just another day on the calendar." False brightness pinched her cheeks. "Besides, in the grand scheme – everything passes eventually and loses all meaning in the end."

The overwhelming urge to cup Lahar's cheek came to Zevran. Fighting it down, his thoughts prodded him, So I am old enough to be her father. I really am a dirty bastard. He had bedded whores younger than her, this he could not deny, but they had been aware of the score and tended not to live long anyway. The average lifespan for a prostitute was mid to late thirties, so being eighteen would mean they were already halfway through their life and had probably started working at fourteen. A mage on the other hand could live for... much longer. Indefinitely if the story of one of the Guild's blood mages was to be believed.

He must have been still for too long. "And you, how old are you? I won't tell anyone if you promise not to tell the others how old I am." She whispered, leaning in and holding a hand to one side of her face, "Alistair is twenty-six and a virgin; Leliana is twenty-seven and definitely not a virgin. Wynne is in her sixties... And I have no idea how old Morrigan or Sten are."

The assassin winced. "I'm probably closest to Sten's age." Zevran answered, leaving out a 'and much, much older than you'. "So I just have to ensure that I don't tell anyone that the youngest, least experienced person is the one in charge, or there may be a revolt amongst the peasants, si, guapa?"

A shocked laugh bubbled from her lips, "Jowan always said that the peasants are always revolting. It's only real trouble when they start rebelling, my dear Zevran!"

Seeing an honest smile, laughter even, on Lahar's face chipped at Zevran's resolve to leave her alone until the elf made an opening for him. Mitigating circumstances call for drastic tactical revisions, he thought, and really the lothario in him insisted on action. Who was he to fight against the draw? Moistening his lips with a flick of tongue, Zevran closed the small distance that separated them. Lahar's smiles were degenerating into giggles and just as he was taking her chin between thumb and fingers, there was a commotion from the bank of the spring accompanied by much woofing.

Ser Prize bounded into the water, tongue lolling, water splashing all over the place, and promptly bowled Zevran over with one massive shoulder. Sputtering and cursing 'meddling canines' in Antivan, Zevran flailed with graceless anger. And Lahar's laughter grew even as she scolded the beast.

"That's not very nice, Ser Prize. Not very knightly of you, knocking people over. What did I say about that sort of thing?" she asked, referencing the frequency of people left in a wake of playful destruction whenever seeking out Lahar to beg for attention.

Zevran glared, leveling a finger at the hound, "Haga eso otra vez, y nosotros comeremos perro de asado para cenar." Spitting out in Ferelden for good measure, "Flaming dog!"

Wading to the bank, growling fit to outdo the Mabari, he thought, I should just kill the damn thing. Giving himself a shake and wiping off droplets from his skin then bending to grab his tunic, Zevran ignored the happy barking as Ser Prize leaped around his mistress. It was when he was mostly dry that Zevran remembered the reason for seeking out Lahar earlier. He made a face as he thought sourly, Damn me and my oaths, damn all women, and damn all dogs to the Pit. He glanced over his shoulder. No help for it. I must inform her that we have a role to play and find a way to explain why.

Dressing in his clothes and leaving off the armor, Zevran sat down to wait.

XXX

"Wait, what?" Alistair's mouth was hanging open as they all stood off to the side in a secluded area of the camp. "No, no no no no nooo. This- this is a bad idea," he said vehemently, shaking his head and hands back and forth. The Templar was white-faced in shock. "This is a very bad idea. This is so bad that I... I don't have words for it. Tell them, tell them it's a bad idea, Wynne, Leliana." No one spoke up as Alistair searched frantically for support, "Somebody? Anybody?"

Beside Zevran, Lahar sighed, "I don't see as there's any choice, Alistair. We need help, and these... these people need help here, too. If we help them, then -"

"As we say in Antiva, I scratch your back, you scratch mine," Zevran interjected, having already convinced Lahar that this charade was the only remotely safe course of action. Now it was time to get everyone else on board. "If you would like to go against an entire clan of very desperate elves, be my guest, dear Alistair. Mark my words, that is what will happen if we do not play by certain rules. And we are working with a very large handicap – being that you are human and all."

Wynne was suspicious, and her tone said it for all the world to hear, "You have yet to tell anyone as to why you know those rules yourself, Zevran. Or to say what benefit you gain from this ruse."

He bowed deeply at the waist, playing his part to the hilt, "Dearest Wynne, my lovely Warden's desires are my own. I have vowed to follow her until such a time as she releases me. I serve her whims and fancies and do all that I may." He added, waggling his eyebrows up and down, "And some things that I may not, as well."

"Zev knows the Dalish better than any of us, and so far it has kept us from having too many problems here." Lahar crossed her arms, staring at each member of the party coolly, "He's right. To get out of this we have to play by their book. I'm an elf, I'm a mage, and I'm a Grey Warden, but that doesn't automatically afford me the respect that one would think it should. Not with these folk, at least." Zevran relaxed as Lahar explained the logic in ways each could understand, "The code of conduct is only being held in place because crossing a fellow Dalish who is clearly strong is nigh unthinkable, and has nothing to do with how well armed we are, or my status as a Warden. Zev being Dalish -"

"But he's a Crow! " Alistair protested, jabbing a finger in the half-Dalish's direction.

"My mother was Dalish, and I lived amongst them long enough to learn their laws, and pick up a few things." Overriding Alistair was a chore. The young man wouldn't or couldn't accept another male being near Lahar, at least not one who gained any bit of her time. That brought another idea to Zevran's mind, "And Alistair, a warning: do not look at Lahar as you have. Not where the Dalish might see it. Any man who is a threat to my claim on Lahar, in their eyes, is someone to be... handled. True, I would not mind handling you or anyone else for that matter -" gesticulating, Zevran had to throw in something to pick at Alistair's prudishness, not that the oaf would be observant enough to pick up on it, "in a purely two- or more consenting adults fashion, that is not what they would require of me, if need be. But the Dalish live by different rules than I do. If I did not defend my territory as they believe a man should, then I forfeit my claim."

Morrigan came to the rescue, which was somewhat unexpected, "It does not matter much at all what must be done, so long as we are able to quit this place with the goal achieved. Never mind these piddling details, Alistair. If you give anything they perceive to be a challenge, and Zevran doesn't kill you outright or if you kill him instead, we loose any buffer and respect we may have had. And then I will laugh as the Dalish do what they do best to human interlopers – and I shall take my leave."

Zevran had his doubts that Morrigan would just leave without Lahar at least if that were to happen, the two were as close as sisters. Then again, some of the sisters I've known have gladly stabbed each other in the back over nothing more important than a pair of shoes...

"And then the archdemon is still alive, a darkspawn horde bears down upon Ferelden, and all that we've accomplished so far is pointless." Zevran added with a smirk, "Is that simple enough for you, my dear Alistair?"

Sounding very put upon and throwing his arms in the air, Alistair replied, "Ugh, fine. Have it your way. But when this all explodes in our faces, don't say that I didn't warn you."

XXX

Tossing his pack into the aravel, Zevran motioned for Lahar to remain where she was. "Stay by the door, if you please, guapa. I must play my part correctly, yes?"

Mostly empty, the aravel had seen better days, the overhanging silk roof showing thin patches. Climbing atop one of the built in, folding tables – after checking it for strength – Zevran ran the tips of his fingers along the seams that held the canopy to the wall. One of the bolts was loose, but unless a sirocco were to suddenly appear out of nowhere, their ceiling would be sufficient. Falling to a squat Zevran left no nook or cranny overlooked.

Satisfied and smacking the dust from his hands, Zevran turned to his companion, "In disrepair, but sturdy so long as no one expects this to last another decade before being overhauled."

"Zev, how do you know so much about the Dalish? You mentioned before that your mother was of the free peoples, but..." The pretense of the fearless leader dropped from her face, only to be replaced with open curiosity.

It is frightening to realize that she is so young. So strange to be able to tell the differences in her now, to be able to separate her outward appearances and expressions with what is actually going on in that head. Or it may be because Lahar knew that Zevran expected nothing of her, unlike the others, and could simply act as she willed without worry for criticism on his part. Of course, Zevran never expected anything of anyone other than for them to do whatever they felt was in their best interests.

Finding the bed-cupboard Zevran flipped it outwards, setting the anchoring supports in place, "When I had finished my apprenticeship as a Crow and entered the intermediate ranks I decided to leave to find my mother's people. Go back to my roots and possibly to make a connection to who and what my mother had been. I know not why I did it, only that I did." Deciding that the bed would take his weight and Lahar's, he patted it, the motion creating a puff of dust. "They must not have moved in a very long time for this aravel to be so underused. Mm."

"You're right. This place... I didn't think that in some cases our people truly were..."

"Primitive," he supplied, nodding agreement. "Primitive, yes. Simple – not at all. Their entire existence is focused on holding onto the past, not moving forward. Of course they are primitive in many things, barbaric even. But they are," he paused, thinking about a kind face, soft blue eyes and silver streaked red hair that belonged to the woman who took him in as a son, "... many of them are more giving in nature than a Chantry charity pretends to be. I was taken in, and given a name, a home, a family."

It felt as if the memories should still pain him, but they didn't. Not at all. There was only a sadness in him for the old huntress Arainai when he gutted her. That still gave Zevran a strange sensation that not even the Culminacion had been able to erase. Foolish woman, she should not have tried to stop me from leaving. She forced my hand... If I had not done it, Taliesin would have. The thought brought no comfort. He had been all set to simply leave with his friend and mentor without a fight in hopes that the Crows would not punish the clan of hunters and gatherers for Zevran's stupidity. But Arainai had to follow, had to try and 'reason' with Zevran, to tell him that he had a home and a place as a son. A whoreson who had never known family, safety, and value – who had never slept a full night without having to worry of attack – was forced to kill one of the very people who had so willingly given him those gifts.

"What was your name before?" Lahar was seated now, their shoulders touching in a companionable way, free of any sexual tension – a rare occurrence in Zevran's life.

"Hmm?" he replied, drawn from the memory, "Oh. My name has always been Zevran, but like any whorehouse boy I did not have a second name, a family name. Arainai was a mother to me, teaching me how to use a bow, to hunt in the woods, to find water in a desert, to call allies to battle when I had need. I learnt of the Vir Tanadahl while sitting at the fires. There I was just another person, not a Crow, not a whoreson, just a simple youth." Why am I telling her this? Yet the words spilled out of their own accord, "Until then I thought because I was an elf that I was not as good as a human, no matter that I held more promise as an assassin than any other I knew. When I returned to Antivan society I had a new outlook – I was simply Antivan. My race is a secondary thing, not something to fight against, nor something to be overly proud of. Tell me, do you think Alistair is proud to be human? These Dalish, they are too proud of themselves. They work too hard to be like they were rather than what they could be now. They forget that they are alive, and should fight for their own futures instead of running and clinging to their pasts."

"Maybe, just maybe they just think they're staying neutral and true to who they are."

"I lived amongst them for two years, mi dulce. They think that they are resisting. What they are doing is dying out," he said, waving a hand to take in the clan that was outside the aravel. "Look at them. This aravel has not moved in years, I wager. There are less than two hands of children out there, and perhaps only another hand of women. They die at the hands of their own pride, at their need to be elvhen and not just people."

Lahar rose, changing the subject rather than giving further debate, "It's been a stressful day, and we need some sleep. So," she paused, making a motion at his clothes, "off with the shirt so I can check how you're recovering and pour some more mana into you."

Zevran did as she said, speaking with a smirk, "If you want to see me without anything on, mi dulce, you need only ask rather than rely on this chicanery."

"I've seen plenty of people nude, Zev," she replied, rummaging through her pack and retrieving a few potions and a large injury kit. "I don't see what the fuss is about – it's just skin. Everyone has it. Why does anyone find it enticing?"

"Hmm, why indeed? But perhaps you should take in the entire picture rather than view everyone with such a clinical eye," he said, unlacing his trews. "Beauty is everywhere to be seen, guapa. You only need look." He ran the back of his hand down Lahar's cheek, now bare to her gaze.

"There's ugliness everywhere too, and pretty shells hide ugly centers." The hardened edge in Lahar's voice struck Zevran all wrong, making him wonder if she meant someone else – or maybe him?

When she was done and Zevran had goosepimples all over, bones aching from the healing spells, she set out their bedrolls on the mattress. Rubbing his hands on his chest and stomach, Zevran worked the blood back to the surface until the cold was gone. A small shiver wracked him one last time as he thought of the casual way Lahar could wield power. It is no different from me, he thought, recalling the way she tracked his movements when practicing baile de muerte with him. Death comes just as surely from my hands as hers. Except... his thoughts faltered as he fingered the scar tissue that marred the muscled perfection of his right side, Life comes from here hands as well. I have no such gift to offer anyone.

Seeking distraction from his train of thought, he turned to her. "You're wearing that to bed? Lahar, bonita, you have me at such a disadvantage, here I leave myself open for perusal, and you – you wear so much. How can it be comfortable?"

"Don't pretend like you didn't get a good look today," she replied, loosening her hair. She pulled a brush from her pack and began to ease the tangles from the strands, but Zevran neared and took the paddle from her hands. He stroked the brush through her hair, lifting a patch so he could work through a knot while Lahar made a sound of contentment, "Oh, that's no fair. You're always so warm and now you're doing this, and oh, you're really good at that."

Smirking, Zevran leaned down to blow on her ear, causing the mage to shiver, "I'm 'really good' at many things, mi dulce."

"Mph, fine. You get cooking duty next, because I think Alistair is trying to kill me with his 'stew'," Zevran thought the Warden might be joking, but he couldn't be sure, "and try not to add any deathroot, it gives Ser Prize gas so bad it would kill anyone in five leagues."

Choking while continuing to brush the Warden's hair, "Surely you jest?"

"What? I mean it! He got into a batch this one time right after I got him and it was so horrible that it was a relief whenever we encountered darkspawn. They smelled less." Seeing that she was completely serious, Zevran could only stare in shock as she went on, "At first I thought it was just Alistair being a stinky shem or something, but when he kept trying to get ahead of Ser Prize I figured it out that it wasn't him at all. Well, that and Ser Prize's constant gorging on any of the plants we could find."

"I shall... keep that in mind. If I am to poison the pot as it were, then I will have to utilize something that does not result in – such unpleasant odors," he replied, deadpanning. "After all, my sense of smell is delicate, I would not relish such an affront nor wish one upon you either."

Now Lahar did laugh, tipping her head back. "Good," she said with a jaw cracking yawn. "Sleep now I think." Another yawn. "Mm yes, sleep is a good idea."

"Are you quite sure, bonita?" he asked, setting the brush aside to free his hands so that he could braid her hair. It was settling into an easy familiarity.

"Very. I'm completely done in, Zev. I just want to get warm and close my eyes, not think about anything, and hope that the nightmares don't come tonight," she replied, uncurling from the bed and plucking at her robes, which Zevran helped her remove. He was unsure as to what her intentions were until she picked up the shirt he had worn that day. She noticed his quizzical stare and supplied, "I think it's because you smell nice, like spices and leather, and I feel warm sleeping beside you." She paused, pulling the fabric over her head, "Ever since I was little I was always cold, and now, for once, I'm warm. It's... nice." She must have caught his odd look, and fingered the hem of the shirt, still only partly on. "You- you won't mind if I wear this, will you? You get all tense if I get too close when you sleep, so maybe if I wear this I won't need to crowd you so much."

A part of Zevran was inordinately pleased with the thought of Lahar wanting to be enveloped in his scent, while another warned him to back away quickly. She has no nightmares with me near, he thought, muscles twitching. Zevran covered the lapse of facial control by pulling the hem of the shirt down to cover her. Need. I fulfill a requirement she has. It is a weakness I can exploit to my own ends. In fact, it was exactly what Zevran had been looking for since he swore that oath of service to the Warden. An easy way to gain the upper hand, to strengthen his position as more than a prisoner and slave.

Joining her on the bed, sliding under the blanket of his bedroll, "Crowd as much as you wish, it is no burden for me, mi encatadora. It would please me to no end."

'S' after a word is for Spanish, 'E' is for elvish
pequeña, S – little one
Anath ara, E – greetings, informal
Abelas, E – sorry
guapa, S – good looking
Andaran atish'an, E – greetings, formal
da'len, E – little one
lethallin/lethallan, E– kinsman, brother/sister
ma nuvenin, E – as you wish
asha, E - woman
pendejo, S - idiot
cabron, S - asshole
puta, S - bitch/whore
ciertamente, S - certainly
mi dulce, S – my sweet
bonita, S - beautiful
Vir Tanadhal, E – elvish practice, translates into 'three trees'
encantadora, S - enchanting
Haga eso otra vez, y nosotros comeremos perro de asado para cenar = Do that ever again, and we will be eating roast dog for dinner.

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