There was, Zevran reflected, something intensely erotic about watching a beautiful woman wield an enormous sword. His lips curved into a predatory smile as he watched Elspeth's lovely body sway and bend to counterbalance the mighty broadsword in her hands. He was fortunate indeed that she had given him explicit permission to stare at her—he was not sure he would have been able to resist at the moment.

The Warden finished her last set of drills and strode back toward the campfire, bending to pick up her scabbard on the way and inadvertently giving Zevran a marvelous view of her cleavage as she did so. She carefully set the sheathed sword on the ground within easy reach, then flopped down comfortably next to the elf, arching a questioning eyebrow at his smirk. "Do I want to ask what you're thinking?"

He shrugged innocently, his grin broadening. "I was merely thinking how much I would love to see you dance, my dear."

Elspeth laughed. "No you wouldn't. I'm a terrible dancer. Poor old Ser Humphries swears I was the student who drove him to drink."

He looked at her thoughtfully. "So, this Ser Humphries… he was you dancing teacher, yes?" She nodded. "And what was he like?"

"Drunk, mostly," Her brow furrowed. "And rather unhappy… at least whenever I was around, but as I said, that may have been my fault. Why?"

"Ah," Zevran nodded sagely. "There is your problem. Dancing is not something you can just teach as you would train your dog to hunt rabbits. Dance, you must feel to understand. If you are taught by someone who makes you feel awkward and uncomfortable, how can you learn to feel the music? Come!" he sprang to his feet. "I will show you."

Elspeth blinked. "What?"

"I will teach you to dance properly," He beckoned her to stand up. "Come, I insist. Leliana, give us something we can dance to."

The bard, who had been staring into the fire and plucking occasional soft, dreamy notes from the strings of her lute, smiled and struck up a galliard.

Elspeth stood reluctantly, but she allowed Zevran to position her body against his. She moved woodenly in his arms, her eyes fixed on the ground, her lower lip clenched between her teeth in concentration. When Zevran stopped with a sigh, she only shook her head. "I told you I'm no good at this. I can never remember which foot goes where."

He released her hand for a moment to gently tilt her chin up until their eyes met. "Then forget about your feet. Look at me. Follow where I lead. Your feet will find their own way."

She frowned dubiously at this, but obeyed, and gradually he felt her relax into the rhythm he set. Smiling, Zevran allowed himself to relax a little too, enjoying the feel of her body next to his, the intriguing contrast of hard muscle and soft woman-flesh, the heat of her, warming him through the thin cotton tunic she had worn for her sword training, the faint lavender smell of her hair…

Suddenly one of Elspeth's forgotten feet caught on something, a rock or a tree root rising up out of the ground. With a loud yelp of surprise, she tumbled over backward, accidentally dragging Zevran with her in an awkward, but not entirely unpleasant tangle of arms and legs.

Alistair poked his head out of his tent. "Would you keep it dow—Oh!" he stopped, his ears turning bright red when he saw the position his fellow Warden was in. "Uh… never mind."

Elspeth rolled her eyes at her friend. "Zev was just teaching me to dance."

The former templar made a face. "I don't want to know what that's supposed to be a euphemism for," he declared, drawing back into his tent.

"It's not a…" Elspeth began, then sighed and turned back to Zevran. "Why does everyone insist on believing that I'm sleeping with you?"

The elf, who remained sprawled half on top of her, arched an eyebrow. "Is that such a terrible thought?"

Elspeth blushed. "Well… no," she admitted. "But it's not true."

He nodded. "And you worry what the others will think if you are believed to be… ah… consorting with an elf and a foreigner and an assassin," He had not believed she thought of him that way, but she was, he reminded himself, the daughter of a Teyrn, and must understand politics and the hazards of inappropriate affairs.

She frowned. "Of course not. I just wish people would believe me when I'm telling the truth."

Zevran rolled off of her and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "So… it is not the thought of making love to me that troubles you…"

There was that adorable blush again. "No."

"And it is not concern for your reputation…"

"I'm a Grey Warden. Everyone thinks I'm a traitor and a regicide anyway."

"It is merely that our companions believe something of you that is untrue."

"Exactly!"

He smiled dazzlingly. "Why then, I have the perfect solution!"

She sat up, eying him warily. "You know how to change the minds of everyone in this camp, without convincing Morrigan to use blood magic on them?"

"Ah, no," he shook his head. "I don't think that is possible, in fact."

"Then what…?"

"If it bothers you so much that everyone believes something that is untrue, then we make it true," he snapped his fingers. "Simple as that!"

He could tell the exact moment she realized what he was suggesting—her face abruptly went beet red and she started stammering helplessly, "Um… I… uh… I… you… um… Good night, Zev!" She scrambled to her feet, gathered her sword in her arms and retreated to her tent, turning at the last moment to add shyly, "Thank you… for the lesson."

He smirked. "And you will think on my… other offer?"

She opened her mouth as if to answer, closed it again, giggled nervously, and vanished into her tent.

It was not a yes… yet, but it was far from being a no, and it was almost enough for Zevran to content himself with—for now.