The Names We're Given

Chapter 8: Interesting Choices II

by Dreamer In Silico

Road to North Calenhad

Of all the situations Zevran had expected to be in since leaving Antiva… well, this certainly hadn't been one of them. It was clear that the group would be wary of him for some time – he would expect no less – but after the elven Warden had accepted his oath and unbound him, she had had the witch see to his injuries immediately. The concern left him bemused – he could walk and was not bleeding out, and was unaccustomed to any resources being expended by others for matters of his comfort.

Still, the knock with the human warrior's shield that had laid him out had promised a persistent headache, and once that was gone he could not be other than grateful. The witch herself had not displayed any patience for his gratitude, her bird-of-prey eyes sharp and forbidding at his grin of thanks. Probably best not to provoke that one more than rarely.

And now, a day later, he walked among them, even his daggers returned to him. They watched him, of course, but his benefactor had dismissed the templar's concerns about him bearing arms, pointing out that if he planned to turn on them, it would be just as easy for him to wait the short time before they'd be fighting again – better to have him prepared to fight now than to have to worry about arming him during another ambush. Setting aside the fact that the odds were abysmal, her unwillingness to seek a false sense of security spoke well of their chances of surviving the Blight. Zevran approved.

The party as a whole was as disparate a motley as anyone might hope to find in Thedas, and he looked forward to having the opportunity to ask questions about its genesis – the Orlesian woman seemed like a good bet to ask, though he rather doubted she would reveal much truth about herself in the process. He had little idea what a bard would be doing traipsing around with a pair of Grey Wardens (who apparently accepted her stated background as a minstrel, but he knew better), and uncovering that information would most likely take time and a delicate touch. Alistair was the most openly hostile toward him, but that hostility was not a concern despite the man's apparent status in the group. The human complained and protested as one who is unused to being heeded – no threat to Zevran, and the petulance of that distrust could actually work in his favor, if the harassment brought him sympathy from the others. The assassin assumed that the qunari traveled with them to acquit himself of some sort of debt, as there wasn't much other reason Zevran could think of that would place such a warrior into a position to be taking orders from a mage – or a woman, or an elf, for that matter! Morrigan's purposes were the most opaque, as she lacked any apparent ties of loyalty, duty or even intrigue that would account for her involvement; she certainly wasn't the type to do this sort of thing for heroism alone. She would bear watching as well as some caution, for Mei displayed more comfort and respect for her than for any other member of the group.

The Warden herself… ahh, how Fate must laugh at him.

When she had first rounded the bend and come into view, his heartbeat had hung suspended for a single moment that hit him like a kick to the diaphragm. Elf mage, female, dark hair, was all his employer had said. What the odious human lord had not mentioned was the confidence of one used to being deadly, or the weapon-trained grace with which she moved. For that one heartbeat, he was almost certain She had come back to take her revenge. When he had engaged her, the resemblance had dimmed – while this woman was skilled with the blades she wielded, she had clearly not been raised with them in her hands, instead making up for whatever experience she lacked with an edge of savage fury that leant extra strength to her blows.

Toe-to-toe and with weapons alone, Zevran could have bested her, but the knowledge of her magic had made him cautious. Which made little sense in itself, of course, considering why he'd taken the contract in the first place, but apparently his self-preservation instincts hadn't quite given up yet. He supposed he was grateful for that, as his life had certainly taken an interesting turn… and while interesting did not necessarily coincide with pleasant, the two were the same for him more often than not.

Presently, however, he could quite do without the templar's regard boring a hole in the back of his head as they walked, for that was neither pleasant nor interesting.

"It is said, ser templar, that if one maintains such a fearsome glare long enough, one's eyes will stick that way," he suggested mildly over his shoulder.

"I'll take the risk, I think, and how do you know I'm glaring, anyway? I could be looking at the flowers," the human shot back.

Zevran grinned to himself, the expression coloring his voice with playful lasciviousness. "Ahh, but even setting aside the lack of flowers to look at, the heat of your gaze is like a brand upon my skin. How could I not know? I can hardly blame you for being so fascinated with my backside, of course, but – "

"What? Oh Maker, I'm not – I wasn't – " Alistair stuttered, and the assassin was rewarded with the sound of a stifled giggle from Leliana to his right. "This is ridiculous. It's bad enough that we've got an assassin along for the ride; you have to be a smartass, too?"

"I think you're just sore because he's better at it than you are, Alistair," Mei's dry words came unexpectedly from the front of the group, and Zevran barely suppressed a pleased chortle. If neither the Warden nor the bard were taken aback by his banter, well. Things might even manage to be fun once in a while.

Alistair let out a disgusted snort. "The three of you are awful. I'd almost rather talk to Morrigan."

"I would prefer you did not," the witch in question said sharply, her yellow eyes flicking disdainfully skyward.

"Yes, well, I did say 'almost,'" he muttered. "No need to get excited."

Zevran held his tongue for a time before venturing another question. He had gotten a sketched explanation of their task and the probable route they would take shortly after the party had set off from the site of his ill-fated ambush. The night had passed quietly, with no one having much spare energy for chatter, and he'd thought it prudent to hold the large part of his curiosity in check. It would not do to be spared as an assassin only to fall under suspicion of being some sort of spy. When he did finally ask, he pitched his voice for Mei as she walked in front of him, but kept his focus broad enough that any could answer.

"So we go to call upon this treaty with the Circle of Magi. This particular part of the journey is simple, yes? Or is trouble to be anticipated?" he ventured.

The set of the Warden's shoulders stiffened almost immediately. "I doubt very much that it will be 'simple,'" she replied, her voice suddenly chilled and brittle. "The welcome is unlikely to be enthusiastic."

"You hail from there, then?"

"I grew up there," she affirmed shortly.

"I still doubt the usefulness of mages who have never seen battle, or even the outside world," Morrigan interjected. "I see little to gain by dealing with them, or their templar keepers."

The slight elf let out a hissing breath, and she spoke as tensely as she walked. "I've no desire to go back – less than none – but some of them can help us. I studied battle magic with Senior Enchanter Uldred, and he has trained many others. There will be a few who can hold their own in a real fight." She finished in a whisper, "If we can get past the templars."

"What the devil has you so jumpy about the Circle?" Alistair put in, sounding exasperated. Zevran could almost smell the danger in the air as it crackled around Mei, but the warrior kept talking. "I mean, yes, I know you're an apostate and they don't like those very much, but you're a Grey Warden now and we've all got bigger problems. Smelly, foul-tempered, marauding problems. Oh, and a dragon! Don't forget the dragon."

The tension drew almost to a breaking point before suddenly easing, as Mei responded with weary sarcasm rather than the fury her posture suggested. "Just like Loghain has 'bigger problems' than Orlais, then?" she asked. Zevran did not fail to notice the misdirection, though Alistair accepted it readily enough.

"…Right. I seem to keep forgetting that everyone is stark, raving mad except for us, and I'm not really that sure about us either, come to think of it."

It was plain that the lady Warden did, in fact, expect trouble, and likely beyond the automatic hostility her apostasy would garner. While Zevran had never spent much time dealing with either mages or their templar watchdogs, it did not take an expert to note that if Mei had been a member of this Circle and had left it prior to her induction into the Grey Wardens, her exit was likely a violent one. Escaped mages seldom held their freedom for long.

Whatever happened, it would provide chances to win at least a measure of trust and favor; of that much he was certain. There was a good chance that the conflict simmering between the mage and the templar would come boiling to the surface, and at that point, the necessity – and opportunity – to commit himself to the alliance of one or the other could easily arise. Alistair was the less competent of the two, but if Zevran wished to sow conflict amongst the group, there would be no better way than to support him – right now, his dissent seemed largely ignored, but leant some backing, he would push his own preferences much harder. The distraction of internal conflict would give him leeway to complete his contract or simply disappear. On the other hand, if he expected to stay with the party in the longer term, it would be far better to align himself with Mei, as she was both competent and thoroughly in charge at present. Her unhindered leadership would be a safer environment to exist in… and his gut told him that she would be a far more dangerous enemy to make than the templar.

She was much more fun, anyway, half-suppressed anger aside.

The evening saw them camped in a clearing well off the road. The arrangement of tents was nearly identical to the previous night's, the very image of compromise between defensibility and two of the party members' preference for isolation. Morrigan even went so far as to build her own fire, though in short order she had banked it to a tiny pile of embers more suitable for drying herbs – which she was indeed doing – than any sort of warmth or comfort.

The Warden spent perhaps a half hour after the stew was served in some kind of consultation with the dwarven merchant who had pulled his wagon alongside their camp, then promptly retired to her tent, which precluded Zevran's thoughts of trying to talk to her that evening. The bard, however, had the first watch, and had settled comfortably near the fire while her qunari partner wore grooves into the dirt on the other end of camp. She produced a small, sturdy knife and an elongated chunk of pale wood that was partially rounded at the edges, and set to whittling at it contentedly. He would take this opportunity to engage her – if it went well, he stood to gain information, and Leliana seemed his most likely ally among the non-Wardens by far, so it would pay to give her the sense that she was getting to know him. Her eyes flicked upward to him as he approached, and he took her slight nod for an invitation and sat down nearby.

"Such a quiet camp," he observed lazily. "Is this typical? I did not get the impression that I was joining a company of hermits... not least because the very idea is a contradiction in terms." He had a fair guess that the evident tension over the visit to the Circle was putting a dampener on things, but it was as good a way to start a conversation as any.

Leliana chuckled and blew fine shavings off her piece of wood before answering. A few of them flew upward to catch in her flame-colored hair and she grimaced as she combed them out with her fingers. "Sometimes Mei and Alistair argue. Give it another few weeks, and it will have become a proper spectator sport, I think."

Zevran laughed. "Somehow, that is not surprising."

"It can be livelier, but there has been little peace or chance to rest since we arrived in Redcliffe. I do not fault the others for preferring solitude. Morrigan is always that way, and Sten just doesn't talk much, but the other two – well, you saw a little on the road."

Yes, he had. The Warden – why he thought of her as 'the' Warden and Alistair simply as Alistair, he didn't know – was heavily preoccupied, but every so-often she seemed to surface and look around before sinking back into her thoughts once more. Alistair was exceptionally prickly; perhaps when he got over whatever had happened before Zevran joined the party, he would at least be more pleasant company.

"That I did! It leaves me to wonder what commander thought it wise to pair the two of them. In the Crows, there is a saying, 'Do not invite in trouble that you did not bring with you.' Their master Grey Warden surely has not heard it."

The woman snorted, her hands still patiently busy. "No, I should think not. But as Alistair told it, they were thrown together by virtue of being the newest recruits, nothing more. It was fortunate that the King insisted on sending them to do the task they did – they were to light a signal tower, and the location spared them the worst of the rout. Had they died with the rest..."

"The situation in Ferelden would be only slightly more dire, the impressive prowess of our leader aside," he finished dryly.

"In numbers, perhaps." Leliana shook her head and looked up for a moment, blue eyes intent and serious. "But surely you know that not every hand that wields power is equal. Could any mage have been Andraste, or any elf, Shartan?"

Ah, so this one was the romantic sort. Interesting. It could be an act easily enough, but if it was, why let as much of her training show as she did? It was possible that all the others bought into her story that she was only a simple minstrel, but Zevran did not think that was likely, either.

"Of course not. Am I to take it that you think them so exceptional?" he asked, curious.

Leliana pursed full lips, and he wondered idly how many courtiers had been beguiled by them, when she had had courtiers to charm. "I think I would prefer to think that than not to have Grey Wardens in Ferelden at all. The Maker led me to their aid, and if they succeed, I will witness the birth of a legend. It does me no good to doubt, when my path is set."

She paused, and Zevran had to fight to restrain his surprise to only an arched eyebrow. She was not just a romantic; she was a religious romantic. That was a first for a bard, in his experience. "But more directly, yes… I think they could be," she finished softly.

"Then I shall take heart in the confidence of a beautiful woman and prepare for our ascension as heroes of legend, hmm?" he said with a grin. "…That is probably the last thing I would have expected to do with my life just after being crowned Queen of Antiva, but I will adapt, I am certain."

The bard favored him with a masterpiece of a half-exaggerated glare. "You're mocking me."

"Ah, no, never, my dear," he protested, softening the grin to a winning smile. "I merely envy your conviction. As you say, it is a useful way of looking at things when one's lot is already cast." His wasn't, of course; there were options aplenty, but it could do him nothing but good to give the impression that he had truly forsaken them.

Somewhat mollified, she muttered, "I don't see what being beautiful has to do with anything, either."

The statement was probably not meant to elicit a response, but he gave one anyway, voice as bright as his hair in the firelight. "A very strange sentiment, coming from a teller of tales! It has everything to do with a great many things. In this case, it means you have many ways to acquire a far easier life than this one. Yet you choose to follow the Wardens, which speaks more strongly of your confidence in their cause than the same choice would from someone who could not do otherwise."

She cocked her head. "I… It's rather more complicated than that, as I'm sure you know. Do your own looks give you your choice of what you do?"

Zevran barked a laugh. "No, they do not. But they often give me my choice of who I do, and alas, I must content myself with that."

"I can only imagine," Leliana mused.

"Not true! You could do much more than imagine, if you but wished it." The lascivious grin he gave was more habit than offer – not that he would renege if she accepted! But a tendency toward starry-eyed romanticism did not usually mix well with Zevran's pragmatic hedonism, and so he was not surprised at her response.

"Fortunately for my watch duty and the ears of our comrades, I do not, thank you kindly."

"Tch. Ah well." He let the talk lapse for some minutes as he fished out a whetstone and rag to make sure of the edge on his daggers, and was pleased to see that Leliana did not immediately look at him when he drew one of them out. She was comfortable enough with his presence, then. Good. Her strange piety nonwithstanding, there was no chance at all that any trust she displayed for him was fully unstudied. It made a pleasant contrast to the templar's constant suspicion, which was already becoming tiresome. He would not have faulted Alistair for the attitude if it had actually produced some kind of effective deterrent to treachery, of course, but thus far it had produced only irritation and some small bit of amusement.

At length, he asked, "What is it that you carve? I admit I would not have taken you for a woodworker."

She smiled. "Oh, I'm not, not really, but I amused myself as a girl by making odd little instruments when I tired of practicing the lute or harp, and since I have neither of those things right now, I am improvising un petit instrument à vent.* It will be small and crude, but hopefully have a sweet voice."

"Ahh. With your lips upon it, my dear, I am certain it will sing quite sweetly indeed."

"Oh, very much so. I am not experienced enough to make a truly fine instrument, so it's as much to entertain myself as any others, of course." She flashed a quick grin that held a spark of mischief. "Our lady Warden let slip that she knows the flute, though, so I am also hoping I can convince her to play with me."

"Sweet music loves company, it is true," Zevran observed sagely. "I think I would like to see the Warden at such a task. It would certainly be more pleasant for all involved than an argument with Alistair, no?"

When Zevran put away his whetstone and bade Leliana good night a short time later, he went to his tent well-pleased. It had been a productive evening.

*A small pipe

A/N: I was always surprised at how often Leliana gets flustered in the innuendo-filled banter in the game. Zevran is the master of innuendo, to be sure, but she can certainly hold her own, as far as I'm concerned!