His gaze travelled from the door to the book and back again. Sandor couldn't settle to either but remained unwilling to give up one for the other. The volume was one on Orlesian history; rather, a highly romanticized recount of the rule of Emperor Kordilius Drakon and his love affair with Area Montlaures, the woman who later became his Empress. He found its accuracy questionable and even after several days' perusal, still dreaded that a turn of the page might lead to a paragraph of the heaving bosom variety. It wasn't so much the actual content; his unease stemmed from the ridicule he'd receive (playful but still present) if Zevran caught him reading it. He could picture his partner, whisking the tome away to study the provocative (but thus far nonexistent) passage.

"Oh ho, and what do we have here? Dark hair pooled around her shoulders? Her eyelashes fluttered as she clasped a hand to her… I believe I am quite scandalized over your choice of reading material, my friend." This would be an exaggeration of monumental proportions, since the assassin had gifted him with a Chantry-banned book detailing sexual practices. It contained illustrations explicit enough to make a courtesan blush. "If you desire the company of such a woman, mago, we must seek her out!"

Sandor smiled as he imagined it then realized he stared at the door without really seeing who entered or exited. He re-addressed himself to the book, certain he'd read over the same passage five times already:

She was not the fairest of ladies, nor the most elegant or charming, but Area could shoot the wings off a bumblebee at one hundred paces. By all accounts, when the prince witnessed that particular feat, Drakon - who was not noted for his charm or elegance, and rather better known for his sword and shield - was instantly smitten.

There was a split second's worth of warning – the hint of an unseen presence behind him – and a hand closed around his throat. The pressure remained light, constricting just enough to enable his assailant to feel his pulse quicken upon contact while a voice murmured in his ear, "You have made little progress. Is it the topic you find tedious? Or did you anticipate another form of diversion this evening, one that makes the thought of reading this…" a hand reached out and closed the book, "an onerous task."

Sandor shut his eyes and inhaled the scent of the man behind him. Leather, of course, but he didn't know enough herbalism to recognize everything he smelled. His identification of anything beyond that – lavender, sage, sandalwood all in some degree, and more besides – was tentative. Whatever the combination, it enabled him to sense his lover's presence on an instinctual level and permitted Zevran to take liberties when anyone else would encounter the elven Warden's defenses. Their greeting had evolved into a ritual; a nonverbal signal of the trust they placed in one another.

Zevran released him and came around to the side of the chair, where he bumped against Sandor's hip with his own; the goal being to appropriate the other elf's current seat. Sandor shifted over to the chair on the left with an exasperated grunt. "All is prepared for departure tomorrow, assuming your wishes remain unchanged." Zevran re-opened the book. He kept his eyes fastened on the pages as he flipped through them, "Amaranthine has much to recommend her. You could stay and make a life for yourself; the people here revere the Wardens and their Commander. Those who do not are in the minority and present no great danger."

Used to Zevran's inability to discuss his feelings, Sandor noticed the deliberate use of 'you' versus 'we.' Apart for months – not by choice but forced by circumstance – it was Zevran's subtle way of letting him know that if his ardor had been tempered by their separation, the Antivan would not hold it against him.

"I suppose we could," Sandor was careful to stress the plural, "if you've grown fond of the locals' fish stew."

Zevran's expression, moments ago a study in neutrality transformed into open delight. "No no, I am overjoyed we return to the palace and I expect Alistair's reception will be nothing less than heartfelt enthusiasm."

"You're certain?" Sandor rested his elbows on the table, determined to get some of his own back for being made to relinquish his seat by the smug assassin. "My rooms at the Keep are comfortable and I'm sure our new recruits would benefit from the expertise of the most infamous Antivan Crow ever to step foot on Fereldan soil." Zevran preened at the praise, until, "Nathaniel can supervise the training regimen and assist you with demonstrations."

"Denerim at dawn, as you say," the other elf responded dryly and Sandor laughed.

Zevran called Sorcha over and started issuing instructions for their supper, so Sandor let the subject drop. He didn't understand the enmity between the disgraced nobleman and the Antivan. The look in Zevran's eye when the man was mentioned made him reluctant to pursue the question in earnest rather than as a jest. His lover's ability to charm everyone he encountered was the stuff of legend – yet Nathaniel Howe's strenuous dislike of the elf was the reason the two vacated Vigil's Keep and now resided at the Crown and Lion. The animosity seemed to stem from a misunderstanding when the two initially met; one an apology didn't rectify. Sandor didn't fear for Zevran's safety but the human would wind up dead over this ill-conceived vendetta if he persisted.

Sandor watched Zevran as he continued to detail their order to the serving woman. Sorcha kept glancing at him and when Sandor smiled at her, her cheeks blossomed with red and she looked away. The elven Warden wasn't going to be able to participate in the conversation so instead concentrated on the open book; angling it so he could see the script on the page. Her reaction mirrored those of everyone he met now and was why he couldn't stay, even if he wanted to. He wasn't a person to Amaranthine's citizens anymore. Sandor was unsure which was worse – the months of scorn he endured prior or the blind adulation he now received. No one dared speak to the Warden Commander; it was blushes, gasps, bows and effluent thanks all done without meeting his eyes.

Finished, Zevran scooted his chair back so it was flush against the recessed wall. He motioned Sandor to do likewise while he dragged the table back; the two elves were now screened by the shadowy alcove's depth. "You ordered this?" He picked the bottle up off the table and examined the label.

Sandor shook his head. "A gift from Haytham; I couldn't refuse because Sorcha set it down and didn't come back until you joined me."

"Warre's and we shall not waste it – but after our meal." Zevran replaced the bottle. The assassin folded his arms behind his head. "The catch of the day is angler fish, mussels and spiny lobster. If the broth includes both onion and pepper I shall be satisfied. I thought my days of tasteless stews were behind me when Alistair was crowned king; little did I know the men of Highever learned their culinary skills from our dear templar."

"Am I ever going to get a full telling of what happened?"

"The tale will be meted out as we make our way back to Denerim; it will help pass the time and give you something to compare against when the minstrels make their way east with the ballads. Their stories will not be so grand as mine, of course – as I experienced the deeds firsthand and they only learned the details by virtue of secondary sources." Zevran gave him a broad wink, "The entire account will be in no way embellished, as the only improvement possible would be to place you at my side, amante."

Sandor twisted in his seat and looped his right arm through the back of his chair. "You're not that charming, you know."

"And you are a terrible liar. We all have our shortcomings."

When the meal arrived, the dish was pronounced edible, high praise from the Antivan when it came to Fereldan cooking. "Have you heard the rumor," Sandor commented as they ate, "that Arl Eamon may cede Redcliffe to Teagan and take up residence in the capital?"

Zevran raised an eyebrow. "The Teryn intimated as much, but I am surprised the news filtered through Amaranthine." The assassin extracted a large chunk of fish from the soup with his fingers and popped it in his mouth. His lips formed an 'O' as he inhaled to cool it. "Fortunate we planned a change of scenery," he mumbled through the mouthful. "I suspect Denerim may soon prove… inhospitable."

"Mmm." The noise the elven Warden made was noncommittal. He didn't intend to remain in Ferelden any longer than necessary but this encroachment by the Arl of Redcliffe bothered him. Sandor sensed scheming and likened it to the presage before he encountered darkspawn. Alistair would listen to Eamon; the older nobleman might not have wanted the throne for himself but wasn't averse to being the power behind it. How long before two elves became an inconvenient nuisance to the man's machinations? Not to mention having to tolerate his shrieking harpy of a wife at every palace affair. A thought occurred to him. "Did Fergus tell–" Zevran interrupted him, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

"Our entertainment has arrived." They were on a dais overlooking the common room – a seating area reserved for guests, not patrons. In another hour, the inn would be full but now it was easy to see who Zevran referred to. The human was tall with black hair and an equally dark tattoo on his face.

The Antivan began to provide particulars. "You recall I mentioned the three mages from the Circle who arrived at Vigil's Keep a few days previous. I was fortunate enough to encounter each on a separate occasion and I believe tonight will result in a convergence so you may see them for yourself." Sorcha threaded between tables to greet the man and direct him to a table near the stairs. Zevran hissed through his teeth and leaned back, pulling on Sandor's arm so the other elf matched his movement. "I instructed… yes, excellent." She ushered him over but prevented the human from taking the seat that faced outward by absconding with the empty chair and moving it to another occupied table. The man sat down with his back to the two elves; the assassin exhaled and repositioned his chair closer to Sandor's.

Zevran kept his voice low. "His name is Dominic. If his display for me was any indication, he comes from the 'Kill it with Fire' school of magecraft. He is prodigious in his consumption of alcohol; Otkell claimed to have personally served him five pints of Koelschip Oerbier – and he called it weak. It is a wonder our dwarven barkeep did not challenge him for the statement alone; destroying the glass it was served in only added insult to injury." The assassin's hand glided up Sandor's arm and came to rest at the back of his neck. "As far as his other tastes… His two companions are elven and drinking is not the only thing Dominic does to excess."

'He can't mean what I think he means.' Sandor tried to keep his expression blank. "And you say Dominic is tonight's… entertainment?" To his own ears, he sounded strangled and high pitched. 'I assumed…' but the mage knew what people said about assumptions. He studied Dominic; tried to focus on his features (which weren't unattractive) in an effort to quell his queasy stomach. He mentally chided himself for having misgivings – if Zevran wanted to introduce the human into their relationship, there must be a reason, some aspect he wasn't fulfilling. He'd have to try harder, he'd…

"Truly, if your runaway thoughts were any louder, mago, I would be able to hear the hoof beats." Sandor glanced sideways at his partner. Aware of his attentive audience, the Antivan's fingers wound their way into Sandor's hair, tightened and pulled him closer still. The kiss they shared averred the assassin's whispered question, when the elven Warden could only nod.

They broke apart; Zevran continued his narrative. "Now, where was I? Ah yes, the trio. They share a bond but are perhaps unaware of its intensity and require a reminder not to take their relationship for granted. Of the three, I think only one appreciates the treasure which he has found." He relaxed back into his chair. "So now, we wait to discover if my speculation was correct."

The two elves returned to the remainder of their meal, eaten in silence as they watched Dominic from across the room. The human, clearly unhappy with the seating arrangement, took his agitation out on Sorcha and Otkell. He sent back two glasses of ale before the bartender brought out a small copper-finished brew kettle and slammed it down on the table. The dwarf squinted at the man and yelled, "Is é an t-ól a dhéanfaidh a chabhóg! Enjoy!" then stomped back behind the bar.

Zevran reached over and scooped out a mussel from Sandor's bowl. "Something about drink and dying, I believe – certainly a threat. Dominic would do well to drink whatever is in that carafe. Even if the concoction proves fatal, it will be no worse than what Otkell will do to him, if he sends back a third drink – and poison might prove the less painful option. May I…?" The elven Warden pushed the half-empty dish toward Zevran; he knew he'd have no peace until the Antivan plucked out the pieces he wanted. Sandor watched as seafood was ladled out and he was left with a few pieces of onion afloat in beige liquid. Zevran regarded the bowl then restored a single crayfish before sliding it back. "Alim."

Sandor's attention returned to the door. An elf, his hair in a single brown braid down his back entered and moved over to one of the communal benches, where he wedged himself into a corner between two farmers who didn't even move to give the elf a decent amount of space. He wore a long, green tunic; the shirt was several sizes too large on Alim's slim frame, so made him look even smaller. Sandor made a mental note to send a letter over to Vigil's Keep before they left in the morning, instructing Varel to find the dark-haired elf some clothing that fit. 'He won't wear it, but he'll have it. Old habits, some you never outgrow.'

The elven Warden prepared to reapply himself to his dinner until he saw it had again been reduced to onion and broth. Zevran was studiously avoiding his gaze. Since food was no longer a consideration, Sandor went back to his observation of the two mages. "What school of magic does Alim ascribe to?"

"I am uncertain of his school, but he is a shapeshifter or so Master Voldrik assures me. I suspected; his posture reminds me of an animal poised between fight and flight. I believe he would choose to flee or yield which makes him the most dangerous of the three, as he will be unpredictable if roused. I do not know what criteria one must meet for your Grey Warden ritual," the assassin knew as much about the Joining as Sandor could tell him, "but if any are to perish, I hope it not be him. What reaction he would have if Eldric is found lacking I cannot speculate."

"So, why not sit together, if they're waiting on Eldric?" Sandor picked up his spoon and stirred the soup, poked at an onion to submerge it. Dominic was either enjoying what Otkell brought him or putting on a show for the dwarf's benefit because he wished to live. Alim had ordered… something but kept the bottle in his lap between his legs.

"Ah, no, they are not - not exactly. I am quite full, would you like to sample–"

The Anitvan's rejoinder was less than artful. "Zevran…"

"In my defense," Zevran protested, "I neither said nor did anything that would imply I was – in any way – interested. What they inferred from our conversations is entirely of their own devising. Not that one could blame them. How many nights did you lay awake–"

Sandor dipped a finger in the bowl and flicked some of the meal's leftover broth at his lover; a few drops landed on Zevran's cheek. "Haytham has a vacancy – the room next to ours. Unless you want an encore presentation to listen to, I'd suggest telling me what it was – exactly – you said."

Zevran wiped away the droplets. "I am faultless in this, my friend. I spoke only of sausages, my appetite, sex cults," he paused, thinking. "I also recall…" Then the Antivan grabbed his arm and said quietly, "Eldric."

The blond elf walked in with an air of entitlement. He reminded Sandor of some of the young noblemen and women from Denerim and their blind belief that they were immortal and untouchable.

"Blood mage, newly initiated and willing to subject those he loves to the power, in order to test his limitations. I think tragedy will be his best tutor," Zevran said in a hushed voice. "The knife I purchased in the market was the one he had been eyeing. I charged Varel with its delivery and took the liberty of signing your name. There are no secrets from the Commander of the Grey."

Eldric strode to the counter where Haytham stood polishing glasses. "I'm looking for an elf; blond, with tattoos on his face." The room grew quiet as many customers craned to see who spoke, because Eldric had – unwittingly, in his search for Zevran – also described the Warden Commander, although he was unaware Sandor was still in Amaranthine.

The two elves on the platform couldn't see Eldric or the innkeeper – their vantage didn't allow it – but they heard his reply. "Only elf in here is you and that one near the door."

Alim was slinking toward the exit. His position was the only one that allowed him a view of the whole room – Dominic went unnoticed because his back was to the door – and the dark-haired elf moved as soon as Eldric walked past. Not quickly enough to avoid notice however; he froze when Eldric must have spun about.

Eldric advanced to meet Alim, enough so Sandor and Zevran could see him – the blood mage stood in the middle of the room. Cowed, the dark-haired elf came to stand in front of him of his own accord. "You little shysi. You came to meet him, didn't you." Alim started to speak but Eldric cut him off. "Don't lie to me. I'll know."

Dominic moved while Eldric's attention was on Alim; he didn't stand between them but close enough to intercede. "Eldric, enough."

It was hard to tell if Eldric actually looked at Dominic but his next remark was addressed to him. "You too, Dom? But then, maybe I should have guessed you'd be here."

The entire bar was riveted by the unfolding melodrama. "And why are you here, Eldric?" the human countered. "You asked for a blond elf. I know you're in love with yourself but really – did you need to come all the way into town for a mirror?"

Sandor had only an instant to react. If Eldric's next action was to employ magic, the elven Warden needed to prevent it at all costs. He lunged out of his seat, conjuring a rune to nullify spellcasting. The careless rush resulted in his shin slamming against the bench in front of the railing. Zevran was at his side swiftly, ready to support him if he was unable to stand but Sandor waved him off.

The scene below had erupted into chaos. Thwarted and unable to use magic, Eldric switched tactics. Prepared to physically confront Dominic, Alim had tripped Eldric, who ended sprawled on the floor. The blond mage levered himself up, grabbed a mug sitting on the nearest table and tossed the contents at Alim. The dark-haired elf was too quick and ducked out of the way; beer splattered into the face of one of the performers – the group's singer. Musicians entered the fray and the three mages suddenly became united against a common foe. Fists and objects began to fly as the inn's patrons were drawn into the fracas.

"Such fun." Chuckling, Zevran stood behind Sandor and enfolded the elven Warden in his arms, resting his chin on the other's shoulder. "Lovely Sorcha has fled the premises; no doubt to fetch Constable Aidan. He will, in turn, be forced to send for Garevel and I wonder if it would not be judicious for us to be elsewhere. I suggest our room – engaged in activities which clearly should not be interrupted except under the direst of circumstance."

"I should…" Sandor began. There would be damages to pay, apologies to make; bruises and cuts to mend.

"You should," Zevran affirmed, as he pulled the elven Warden from the rail, his tongue at work on the lobe of his lover's ear.

With only the briefest show of reluctance, the elven Warden drew back; his concern over the scene below melted away under Zevran's solicitude. The pair retreated to their room, the Antivan hastily retracing his steps to seize the forgotten wine. Sandor bolted and barricaded the door (just in case) but it didn't matter – Aidan and Garevel possessed better sense.


Sandor is my character, and Eldric, Alim and Dominic belong to their respective owners. Feedback is welcome and encouraged (a critique is just as valued as praise).

I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).