Alistair watched with interest as Loghain sat down at his desk, a slender leather-bound volume in one hand. He set it down on the desk, carefully perching a pair of glasses on the end of his nose before opening it. He flipped through a few pages, then drew a sheet of parchment close and, referring to an entry in the book, which appeared to be an accounts ledger, wrote out a document, then made an entry on the page he'd been referring to. Then he took out a key from his belt, unlocked a desk drawer, and took out a metal box, out of which he counted several stacks of coins; not just silvers and coppers, but several gold ones as well.
"You have more than this due you, but this should be more than sufficient for your current needs," he said, then slid the paper across the desk to Alistair. "Let me know if you somehow find yourself needing more. Sign both halves; for my records and Mistress Woolsey's."
It was, Alistair saw, the same document written twice on the paper, on top and bottom halves. A receipt, acknowledging that he'd received... Maker, that much money!? And Loghain had said this wasn't even all of it. He signed, and signed again. Loghain signed as well, then carefully blotted the document before folding it in half and slitting it into two pieces with his belt-knife, putting one away in his desk with the coin box and sliding the other aside to where a stack of sealed letters lay, then pushed the stacks of coins across the desk to Alistair. "Try not to spend all of it in one day," he said, smiling slightly. "In fact I'd suggest you only take some of it along to the market with you, or you're just as likely to lose it to a cut-purse as spend it."
Alistair nodded as he filled his coin-purse. "I'll be careful," he said, then rose to go.
"Don't forget you're to meet Bann Oswyn for lunch at the Fishwife's Tale," Loghain called after him as he left.
Alistair grimaced, then sighed. "Yes, ser," he said before closing the door behind him.
It was nice to be out of the palace and on his own for once. He took his time walking, looking around at all the changes there'd been since the Blight Year. Even the alienage had been cleaned up some, he saw as he walked by the gateway into it on his way to the harbour bridge, many of the buildings replaced with newer construction, or at least refaced with less flammable materials. It almost looked nice, the huge green-leafed vhenadahl arching over top the neatly stuccoed buildings with their roofs of red tile and clay-coated thatch. It smelled a lot better too; judging by the resurfaced streets he glimpsed, the sewer project had already reached there, doubtless due in large part to its proximity to the noble quarter. Not to mention being upwind of same.
He paused on the harbour bridge, moving to the seaward side and leaning on the railing. He could see the docks from here, and all the ships along them. He thought of the money in his pocket. More than enough that to book passage elsewhere, and surely there must be at least one ship setting out within the next few hours. He could be well out to sea before he was ever even missed.
And then what? Back to drinking himself into a stupor every day?
He stayed there for a while, thinking of the Blight Year, of tramping back and forth across Ferelden in Solona's company, of their companions. Of how sure he'd been that what they were doing was the right thing; something good. Something of value. He inevitably thought, too, of a courting couple near Gwaren, only a couple of years younger than he and Solona had been. Of how few the Grey Wardens of Ferelden were, how thinly spread. After a while he sighed, and straightened up, and continued on to the market.
The Fishwife's Tale was easy to find, a large new building made of pale yellow sandstone, with a roof of green slate. The slates were almost the same blue-green shade as the scales on the sign that hung out front, of a woman half-human and half-fish, with coiling black hair supplying the necessary modesty for an otherwise nude body.
"May I help you?" a liveried servant asked almost as soon as he'd stepped through the door.
"I'm supposed to be meeting someone. Bann Oswyn."
The servant's eyebrows rose slightly, and he looked rather impressed, to Alistair's surprise. "Indeed. This way, ser," he said, and led the way across the floor, scattered with wide-spread tables of various sizes, and upstairs. There was a wide balcony there, with booths overlooking the floor below, many of which had a length of velvet-covered rope drawn across their door with a sign hanging from it; names, he saw, and recognized a few. Noble names mostly; reserved tables, he supposed.
To his surprise it wasn't at any of these that the servant stopped, but instead, after circling the U-shaped balcony to the far end, took him up yet another flight of stairs, and through a beautifully carved wooden door into a large room with a row of windows overlooking the entire restaurant, both the main floor far below and the balcony. Oswyn was there, seated at a small table near the windows, and smiled warmly at Alistair, rising to his feet to greet him. "Alistair. I'm so pleased you could make it," he said, and waved a well-manicured hand at the seat opposite his own. "Please, join me. Johann, let the cook know we're ready."
"Er... thank you," Alistair said nervously, and took the indicated seat, glancing around the room. It was beautifully decorated, with lovely tapestries hanging on the walls – all muted colours, and displaying fantastical underwater scenes – as well as a much larger table and a row of chairs along the far wall. Clearly it could be re-arranged to serve a much larger party than just the two of them.
"One of the benefits of being part-owner of the place; I can use the party room for private functions whenever it isn't booked for something else. It has much the best view in the place," Oswyn said, sounding amused, and nodded his head towards the nearby windows. "At least if you enjoy watching people."
"And you do?" Alistair asked.
"Yes. I don't much like mingling with people any more; if nothing else, it's damned annoying to try and navigate crowded places with a cane and a game leg. But I've come to quite enjoy watching, at least from a distance. This place is good for that; if I get tired of watching our patrons, the private office has an excellent view of the marketplace. Not, you understand, that I spend all that much time here doing either, having other things I need to do, but I quite enjoy doing so when I have the time."
"Ah," Alistair said, and was saved the necessity of having to try and come up with anything more intelligent to say by the arrival of servants with their first course, crisply toasted little rounds of dark bread topped with thin slices of smoked pink-fleshed fish, or heaps of black fish eggs, or dabs of soft white cheese. There were also vegetables, transformed from simple carrots, radishes and so forth into tiny fish, swans, roses, and other flowers. It looked almost too beautiful to eat.
Oswyn somehow managed to eat the food with his fingers while looking elegant, barely a crumb dropping to the table. It made Alistair feel very self-conscious, when he knew his own efforts were scattering bits everywhere, not just crumbs but the occasional fish egg or fragment of vegetable. Oswyn, thankfully, didn't seem to notice, and instead asked Alistair interested questions about the Blight Year, and his adventures with Solona. That got them through the salad course and the soup, a creamy chowder topped with golden globules of oil that proved deceptive, being highly spiced enough to have Alistair turning bright red and sweating as he worked his way through his serving of it.
"It's not too hot for you, is it?" Oswyn asked, looking concerned.
"No. I just wasn't expecting it to be so strong. It's delicious," Alistair managed to say. And it was, though the heat of it put him in mind of the time Zevran had been on cooking duty and used up most of a bunch of hot peppers in making some rough approximation of an Antivan dish he was feeling homesick for. Only he and Sten had eaten much of it, but between the two of them they'd eaten almost the entire pot full of the spicy concoction, everyone else managing only small servings of it.
The next course was, thankfully, considerably less highly spiced, being some mouth-meltingly tender pot roasted beef with onion gravy, new potatoes boiled in their jackets and mounds of buttered green peas. Even Alistair was beginning to feel rather well-fed by the end of that. He wondered how Oswyn was managing to eat so much, and only belatedly realized that his servings had all been considerably larger than the ones brought for the other man. Oswyn must have heard somewhere about how prodigious Grey Warden appetites were.
Only later did he decide that perhaps that, along with the spicy fish chowder and the restaurant's name, should have made him at least a little suspicious, and therefore somewhat less surprised when a discrete door at the far end of the room opened, and a familiar form stepped into the room. He could only stare open-mouthed as Zevran picked up one of the chairs along the wall, walked over, and set it down beside Oswyn's before joining them at the table.
"Good afternoon, Alistair," Zevran said, then grinned broadly. "Such a pleasure to see you again."
"Maker's tits... Zevran!? What are you doing here?"
Zevran's grin widened at Alistair's reaction; clearly he was pleased with the effect his sudden appearance had had. Oswyn was smiling as well, looking pleased with himself for his part in it. "Making a small fortune as co-owner of an extremely popular restaurant would be the most obvious answer, though not the one you're looking for," Zevran said, then shrugged and sat back in his seat. "Where else was I to go, afterwards? Back to Antiva, where the Crows would doubtless have made short work of me? Orlais, where I would have had the bards to fear as well? Short of travelling beyond Orlais into the far west or even further to the north, this is already the farthest I can get from Antiva."
He paused for a moment, then shrugged again. "I did actually consider it. But then I found myself wondering, why exchange life in one barbarian land for another, when this barbarian land I at least am familiar with now, and have friends in. And I had other reasons to stay by then," he added, and glanced sideways at Oswyn.
Oswyn smiled, his hand moving to cover Zevran's where it rested on the table, their fingers interlacing. Zevran looked at him again, a longer look this time, a warm smile lifting his lips, then squeezed Oswyn's hand before slipping his own free. "Might I have a little time alone with Alistair?" the assassin asked quietly.
"Of course," Oswyn said, rising to his feet. "I'll go talk to the cook about the menu for tomorrow."
"Thank you," Zevran said, then caught Oswyn's arm as he was stepping past Zevran's chair, and drew the young man down into a very heated kiss. Alistair found himself blushing. Nor was he the only one; Oswyn was looking rather red-faced as well when he straightened up again, equal parts self-conscious and pleased judging by the expression on his face. He nodded to Alistair, and hurried out of the room.
"You seem to be pretty comfortably settled in here," Alistair said quietly.
Zevran shrugged, smiled briefly. "Comfortable enough," he said, then a more serious expression crossed his face. "He means very much to me. And I, to him."
"How'd the two of you end up together?" Alistair asked curiously.
Zevran smiled again. "Bann Sighard had heard of Wynne's healing capabilities, and tithed heavily to the chantry so that they might allow her to visit Dragon's Peak, to do what she could to heal the injuries Oswyn had taken in Howe's dungeons. For whatever reason, she asked me to be part of her escort there. I had nothing better to do, so I went," he said, and then flashed a brief smile at Alistair. "Perhaps I was swayed a little by hopes of a closer acquaintance with her magnificent bosom. Regardless, we reached Dragon's Peak, and..." He fell silent for a moment, an odd expression on his face for a moment. "The expression in his eyes. One I knew; he no longer wished to live, after what had been done to him."
Zevran picked up the half-empty goblet sitting by Oswyn's plate, but rather than drinking from it, merely turned its stem in his fingers, gazing down into the wine it contained. "Perhaps I have a weakness for tortured young men. Wynne did what she could to heal his physical wounds. I... I remained, after she left, and healed what I could of the rest. Mostly as just a friend, at first; but there came a time when Oswyn was recovered enough to begin to worry if he could even function as a man any more. The scarring is... rather extensive. So I showed him that yes, he could, and we have been together ever since."
"And you didn't, err... have any problems because of..." Alistair trailed off.
"Because of our relationship? No. Bann Sighard decided he preferred a live and reasonably happy son to one who wished only to die. It helped that I made it very clear to him that I had no designs on... exclusivity, with Oswyn. He was married last fall; she is a quite charming woman, but far more interested in her paints and canvases and slabs of wood than in matters of the bed chamber. We live quite amicably together," he said, and then shrugged again, smiling. "The three of us are rather appallingly domestic, actually."
Alistair smiled back. "And you love it."
Zevran's smile widened. "I suppose I do. But enough of me... it was in order to speak to you that I asked Oswyn to arrange this little get-together. I was concerned when I heard you had been brought back by the Warden-Commander. How are you? Do you need my help?"
Alistair flushed, feeling pleased by Zevran's obvious concern.
"You know, if you'd asked me that a few weeks ago – even a few days ago, really – I probably would have said yes. But... no, I'm fine."
Zevran cocked his head to one side and gave Alistair a thoughtful look. "You are certain? You are happy where you are? Or at least content?"
Alistair frowned, then shrugged. "Not exactly happy, no. And, well, I suppose not quite content either. But willing to stick things out at least a little longer, yes. It's... I loved being a Grey Warden, you remember that. Partly because it was so much better than the only other alternative I seemed to have at the time, but mostly because it felt like something that needed doing, that made things at least a little better for people, even in between blights. I want that again, if I can find it. That feeling of being needed."
Zevran's answering smile lit up his whole face, a show of rare emotion for him. "I know how good that feels," he said. "All right. But if you should find, at some point, that you do need my help; let me know. Anything it is within my power to do, I will do."
Alistair swallowed. "Thank you," he said, moved by Zevran's obvious sincerity. "It's more than I deserve. We were hardly close friends before."
Zevran nodded. "Perhaps. But after all we went through together, we were certainly not enemies at the end either. And Solona would have wanted me to help you, and I owe her... everything."
Alistair looked away for a moment. "Were you... at the end, were you there?"
"Yes, to the bitter end. She left some of us to cover the gates – Oghren, Shale, Wynne and Sten – and Leliana and I fought through the city with her and Loghain. It was a nightmare; much of the city was overrun by the darkspawn, parts of it destroyed or in flames or both. We had to fight our way through to Fort Drakon, then up through it to the roof; Riordan had wounded the Archdemon before he died, torn its wing; it had gone to roost there, unable to fly away. Even with help from the armies you and Solona had recruited, it was a very long, hard fight just to get there," Zevran said, and then fell silent, eyes unfocused, fingers toying with the stem of the goblet again. He lifted it, and took a long sip of the wine within. When he continued, his voice was hoarse. "And then we fought it. It was a very difficult battle; it could not fly, not enough to escape the fort, but it could still take to the air enough to move easily between different parts of the roof. Waves of darkspawn came streaming up to defend it, summoned by it I suppose, so that we had to fight both it and the horde. Many, many people died, until finally Loghain brought it down, injuring it badly enough that it could no longer fight, no longer flee."
Alistair sat frozen, imagining the scene.
"Loghain and Solona spoke briefly. And then she turned and ran, caught up a fallen sword, and used it to cut the dragon's throat open from jaw to shoulder, before sinking the blade into its skull. There was... light. Blinding light; they say it could be seen from over half of Ferelden, a line of brightness rising into the clouds. And when the light faded, the Archdemon was dead, and so was Solona." He looked down at the goblet in his hands, then set it aside. "It did not end there, of course," he said, sounding tired, and sat back in his seat again. "The darkspawn did not, unfortunately, just melt away into thin air when the Archdemon died, though at least what little organization they'd had largely did. There were still many of them to be killed, and then the bodies to be dealt with, of both darkspawn and people. The city burned for days, afterwards. And then the pyres, and the mass graves... it was a terrible time."
Alistair swallowed thickly, dry eyed. "How did she die? Was it... was it injuries from the fight? Or did the Archdemon kill her when she slew it?"
Zevran gave him a faintly surprised look. "No. There was scarcely a mark on her body. It was the light."
"The light?" Alistair said, voice flat with incomprehension.
"Yes. Whatever that was, it was what killed her, I think," Zevran said. "It was..." He paused and shook his head. "I have nothing concrete to support that belief. It is just how it seemed to happen. She was fine beforehand; tired, as we all were, and very sad, but no more worse injured than any of us; scrapes, bruises, that sort of thing. She had done a very good job keeping us all alive and healed during the fight. And then afterwards... she looked as if she was just sleeping. But she was dead; the other mages there tried to rouse her, but she was gone, her spirit already fled they said."
Alistair swallowed thickly, his eyes filling with tears. He'd imagined her death so many times since hearing she was dead, tormenting himself with his own morbid imaginings about what had happened; about how she'd died, about who or what had killed her. He'd never imagined anything like this; light, and then death.
"It was, I think, a very peaceful death, in the end," Zevran said softly. "She was smiling."
That broke him, the tears finally spilling over. He covered his face, feeling ashamed to be seen crying.
Zevran's chair scraped back against the floor. There was a rattling sound of curtains being closed, and then Alistair felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder. "There is no shame in sorrow, my friend," the elf said quietly. "Especially when mourning one you loved."
He cried for some little time then, unable to speak, only vaguely aware of Zevran's hand on his shoulder, the comforting tone of whatever words the elf was quietly murmuring, though not their content. When the tears finally began to subside, Zevran stepped away, picking up and handing him a napkin. "Clean your face," he said, and resumed his seat, refilling his goblet, eyebrows lifting when he went to refill Alistair's as well and saw it was untouched. "You do not drink?"
"Loghain's forbidden it," Alistair said hoarsely. "Considering the condition I was in when he found me... well, I can't exactly blame him."
"Ah. Drinking yourself into a stupor?"
"Yes. Not that it helped. Much."
Zevran snorted, and smiled crookedly. "It never does."
Alistair sighed, and dropped the stained and crumpled napkin on the table. "I should have been there. I shouldn't have left... if I'd stayed, maybe she might still be alive."
"Perhaps," Zevran said, then leaned forward, looking at Alistair very seriously. "But you cannot change the past, no matter how much you might wish to. There is no going back. There is no changing what has been. What is. You must learn to go on; to live again, with the knowledge that she is dead, that you cannot change that, and that you must go on without her." He paused a moment, studying Alistair's face, then continued more quietly. "It is not something you can ever forget; nor something you may ever entirely forgive yourself for. But you must allow yourself to begin to live again. You may still wake every morning thinking 'she is dead, and I might have saved her', but you must also learn to say, 'but I am alive, and I must go on without her'. It is hard; it is very hard. But eventually there will come a time when you discover that you are happy to still be alive. That there are things, people, worth having stayed alive for."
"Voice of experience?" Alistair asked, forcing a smile.
"Yes. You are making a good beginning, I think, with deciding to stay where there is something that you feel is worth doing. It makes a difference, or at least it did for me. You and Solona, you gave me that – a job worth doing, a goal. Something outside myself to fight for, to wish to accomplish. It helped me to get past a point where I wished only to die. And now... life is much better now. I have things to do that interest me, I have someone I care for greatly. I still have my regrets, yes, but I have a life again too. And most days, I am very glad to still be alive."
Alistair nodded, his eyes prickling with tears for a moment. "I hope I can say the same, at some point. I'm... it's not as bad as it was. But I don't think I could say the same. Not yet."
Zevran nodded understandingly. "I will trust that some day you will be able to. And now, I think I should go find Oswyn and our dessert. I will be back soon," he said, then rose to his feet. He set his hand on Alistair's shoulder again and squeezed it as he stepped past him, heading to the door Oswyn had left by.
After he had left Alistair sniffled a few times, and wiped his face again, then thought about what Zevran had said; both about Solona's end, and everything else. He drew a few deep shuddering breaths, then purposefully turned his mind to other things. He was feeling much more composed when Zevran returned a short while later, Oswyn behind him, both of them smiling and carrying trays.
Dessert was nice, a variety of fresh fruits cut into bite-sized pieces, with nuts and various kinds of thin little savoury biscuits, and a cheese with a dry white rind and a meltingly soft centre. Zevran had brought spiced tea, and they sat and ate the dessert with their fingers and drank tea and talked, mostly Zevran and Alistair telling tales about the Blight year.
"What happened to everyone else?" Alistair asked after a while. "All the other companions. I know where Oghren ended up, but the rest?"
"Ah. Let me think... Wynne served as an adviser to Anora for a little while, but the chantry objected rather strongly so eventually she went back to the tower, and then last I heard went north into the Free Marches. Shale is with her; the two became friends. Sten returned to Seheron to report to his Arishok. Leliana went back to Orlais in search of that friend of hers, Marjolaine."
Alistair's eyebrows rose. "Strange kind of friendship."
Zevran shrugged. "I am still not sure if Leliana went after her in hopes of reconciling with her, or to kill her after all for what Marjolaine had done to her."
"And Morrigan?"
Zevran frowned. "I do not know. She left us, shortly after you did. Some days before the end, when we were at Redcliffe. I do not know why; I think she and Solona may have argued about something. Solona would not speak of it, she just looked angry and told us Morrigan would not be back."
"I wonder what happened," Alistair said, surprised. "They were such close friends."
Zevran shrugged. "I doubt we'll ever know."
They turned to other subjects after that, Oswyn and Zevran talking about how they'd come to open a restaurant together, and how Oswyn's wife had selected much of the decor. Alistair was feeling in a much better mood by the time the meal finally ended, and he said farewell to the two. He hugged Zevran impulsively, feeling very glad to have seen the elf again.
Zevran grinned. "You'll be giving Oswyn the wrong ideas about our friendship," he chided jokingly. Oswyn laughed. "I am glad to have seen you again, my friend... remember what I told you, yes? If there is anything I can do, even if it is just someone to talk to..."
"Yes. I promise, if I need help, I'll let you know."
"Good. Be well, Alistair."
"You too, Zevran," Alistair said, then bowed to Oswyn. "Bann Oswyn. Thank you. It's been a pleasure meeting you."
Oswyn smiled cheerfully. "And you," he said. "I hope we'll see more of you in future."
Alistair smiled back. "I'd like that," he said, and bowed to the two before he left.