A/N: Originally published separately as "A Dish Served Cold", but I really wanted it to be part of the larger story.

Chapter 16: A Dish Served Cold

Zevran looked at Cat's pale drawn face. They were getting close now. If the servants hadn't lied - and why should they? - Arl Rendon Howe should be in one of the rooms at the end of the hallway.
Howe. The man who'd murdered her family, taken away everything from her, turned her into a homeless, friendless outlaw, so that she had had no choice but to become a Grey Warden. Ultimately the reason why he and Cat had met at all. Zevran winced at the irony. That had to be about the only positive thing that had ever come of that monster's misdeeds.

When Anora's maid had asked them to break into Howe's estate in order to free her mistress, they had initially suspected a trap. But there was simply no way Cat could let that chance go, even if it was a slim one. The chance for revenge, finally. After all those long months, the chance to face Howe, to lay the past to rest. Of course she would go.

At first it had almost been fun. Dressing up in the Howe uniforms, sneaking in through the side entrance - that had been thrilling, and he had even seen a brief smile play around her lips while she was serving drugged ale to the unsuspecting guards, playing the part of the serving wench with undeniable panache and conviction. The fighting had not been a problem either. With a little help from Morrigan's spells and Oghren's axe the two of them had made short work of the remaining guards.

But the dungeons... even Zevran shuddered at the memory. He had seen plenty of torture during his time with the Crows. The assassins included it as part of their training, and he still awoke at night sometimes, bathed in sweat, his muscles tense to the point of soreness, the memory of the agony burning on his skin, when he had relived a particularly bad episode in his dreams. He'd even taken part in torturing others occasionally, though it gave him no pleasure. But he had come to regard it as a necessity, one to be avoided if possible, to be sure, but a necessity nevertheless if important information needed to be gained.

What they'd seen down there, though, was a different story. One after the other they had freed the prisoners from their cells.

Riordan, a Grey Warden. Locked up down here when there was a Blight going on.

Rexel, the veteran - they'd been keeping an eye out for him for months, only to find him so broken that killing him had been the only merciful course of action.

Oswyn, the young nobleman. Zevran had seen Cat's face when they found him after following his cries of pain to the torture chamber, realized she must have known the boy in her former life. He had been a young warrior in the prime of his life before they got to him. Now he would never fight again.

And Irminric, the Templar, who'd gone half mad without his daily dose of lyrium.

Every one of them had been down there so long they'd given up all hope of ever seeing the light of day again. And every one of them had reported the same. Howe hadn't just taken them prisoner for political reasons. No, the man had actually been enjoying himself by making them suffer.

But the worst part for Zevran had been Soris' account of his capture. When they had found the young elf, he hadn't looked too bad, considering the amount of time he'd spent there. The story he told, however... Zevran had felt numb inside when Soris described how the sadistic Bann Vaughan had kidnapped and raped his bride and her friends. On their wedding day, no less. Oh, he knew well enough how those young human lords treated Elven women. While he'd been relatively privileged during his time with the Crows, his upbringing in the whorehouse had left him in little doubt as to the value most humans placed on Elven lives. A sudden flash of pain had crossed his features when he remembered...

Leana had been the youngest of the whores, only just turned sixteen, and when she'd come across the little six-year-old boy playing in the courtyard, she'd been only too happy to join him in his games. Zevran had adored her. She'd been funny and kind and pretty and she'd always had something for him: a sweet treat begged from the cook, a toy bought from a wandering merchant, or just a kiss and a hug when he was crying, lonely and lost at night. He used to hide outside her door when she was with a customer, sneaking in afterwards to cuddle with her, make her smile again... Until the day when the young lord and his friends had requested her as their toy for his stag party. Her screams could be heard all through the house. When the door opened again, the noble brat had casually tossed them a purse of gold. "I'm afraid we've broken her," he'd snarled, "but this should be more than enough to pay for the damage." Zev had watched from his hiding place as they carried her body out. He hadn't cried. He'd never cried any more after that night.

Soris had run off to the Alienage, and Zevran had taken Cat's hand for a second, squeezing it briefly in thanks. She'd looked at him then, noting his expression, but she hadn't said a word. When they had found Vaughan though, he'd seen her features harden. Morrigan had actually suggested letting him live in exchange for his support at the Landsmeet, but she had remembered. She'd just shaken her head, reaching for the daggers on her belt, when he'd intercepted her move.

"No, cara, leave this to me." It had been quick, his dagger pushed in under the man's ribcage in one quick stroke, far too good a death for this bastard. But it had felt good. She had seen him smile and her eyes had met his without flinching.

And now, Howe. He threw her a quick glance. "I'm ready, Zev," she whispered. "As ready as I can ever be." And they entered the room together.

Cat could hardly breathe when she heard that voice.

"Well, well. Bryce Cousland's little spitfire. All grown up and still playing the man." He looked the same as he always had, back then, when he was sitting at the table with her father, drinking their wine, laughing jovially, complimenting her mother on her evening dress. Her mother. Her mother who had died horribly at the hands of his men. For a moment she couldn't see clearly, blinded by rage and pain. She could feel the hate burning inside her stomach, eating at her, making her want to scream, to claw at him with her teeth and nails, to tear him apart.

Then she felt Zevran's hand on her arm, just for a split second, but it took her back to the present. This was her opportunity for revenge, but it was also so much more. It wasn't just about her and her family. She hardly heard his taunts, found them easy to ignore. Instead she focussed on what she'd seen in the dungeons, the pain, the suffering, all those lives broken forever by his actions.

"You are a pathetic excuse for a human being, Howe," she heard herself say. "I'm done talking."

He was a worthy opponent at least. No begging for his life, no trying to run away. When he finally lay at her feet, defeated, she realized with a shiver that there was no regret in his face, no guilt, no shame. With a swift move, she cut his throat. Zevran, who was looking at her face intently, saw the savage joy crossing her features as Howe died with a gurgle, a last curse dying on his bloody lips. She closed her eyes for a moment, her fists clenched, her body taut with tension. When she opened them again, she seemed to have grown before his eyes, her expression harder and more focussed than he'd ever seen her.

"Let's get out of here," he heard her say. "This place is making me sick."

It wasn't that easy, of course. But when Cauthrien and her men attacked them on the way out, Cat fought with a clear hard determination that made her almost unstoppable. Still, if it hadn't been for Morrigan who took out both the mage and half of the archers with her spells, they might well have ended up captured or dead.

When they returned to Arl Eamon's estate, Cat took Anora to the Arl's study, then excused herself and went back to her room, locking the door behind her. With a deep sigh she let her head fall back against the rough wooden boards. She felt bone-tired, empty inside, yet above all relieved.

"So, cara, is it true what the Chantry says? Would it have been better to forgive him?" She jumped at the sound of Zevran's voice.

"Zev, please, I need to be alone." He got up from her bed where he'd been waiting for her and walked over to her, taking her by the shoulders, his grip firm.

"No, you don't, my love." His eyes caught her gaze, refusing to let her look away. "You need me."

She shook her head, but she knew he was right, and she let him pull her closer, holding her, his lips brushing gently over her temples. He waited, his hand moving in slow circles on her back, until she relaxed against him, exhaling from the depth of her lungs.

"Maybe someone else could have forgiven him," she sighed. "Maybe killing him makes me little better than him. But Maker, it felt good to kill that bastard."

Zevran laughed softly, feeling closer to her than ever. With nimble fingers he began to unbuckle her armour, his fingers caressing her bare skin.

"I'm sure the world is a better place without him," he agreed as he planted kisses along her neck, making her shiver with anticipation. "Some people just need assassinating."