'Normal' wasn't so much a word these days as it was another proof of the Maker's sense of humour. Since leaving Crestwood, Zevran had often mused on what it must be like to be the Maker. To have a world filled with the works of one's own hands, each creation's character known intimately to oneself. To give them the little tendency– a foible, really– that made them accept something as normal when it was seen often enough– and then to exercise the power to upend that by changing it in some way. To try and impart the lesson of impermanence only to have these silly little creatures cling onto the change instead.
Zevran presumed the Maker had a sense of humour, anyway. It was something one would have to be able to laugh at, he decided, because the only other option was to scream. Not that he would have held it against the Maker if He did scream, but it just didn't fit the Chantry's description of Him as patient and ever-beneficent.
Whichever way things went above, life below had not changed. Well, it had changed, and thus it hadn't. Normal had, once again, been shaken up. For the best, Zevran would have argued, given that Rhodri was no longer absent, and of course there was Alistair's abrupt temperament shift. Once suspicious around Zevran, now Alistair shy; left to his own devices, Alistair's level of talkativeness would not have changed, but Zevran found he could be coaxed out of his reticence with warmth and a few jokes. Or, failing that, any question about Fereldan life. The man had taken it upon himself to be something of a cultural ambassador for Zevran's benefit, which was… well, something. What, exactly, Zevran wasn't sure, but definitely notable.
"Lamb stew," Alistair explained over dinner the night after leaving Crestwood, "is meant to be grey like this, Zev. D'you know why?"
Zevran shook his head sadly– he had meant to do this as a gesture of disbelief rather than an effort to engage in the conversation, but Alistair had taken it as a reply anyway.
"Well, the thing is, you're supposed to cook down the meat. If it's still got any red in it, you can't see if someone's snuck poison into your food."
"Or spices," Leliana lamented.
Alistair shrugged. "Well, spices are a type of poison, aren't they?"
Zevran and Rhodri slowly looked up from their food in a synchrony that could forgivably have been mistaken for pantomime, and stared at Alistair.
"Oh, cher–" Leliana shook her head urgently. "Please, let's not–"
"But it's true, Lels," he insisted. "Think about it– no, really, think about it. If spices weren't a poison, they wouldn't react in your mouth, would they?"
"... 'React in your mouth…'"
"Yeah! Like pepper, for example. It makes your mouth burn. It's a poison, it's burning you." He turned to Zevran and held up a finger, "Now, Zev, before you complain, I just want to say: they're obviously fine in very low doses. Bit of salt and pepper, sure. But technically, they're still a poison… Zev?" Alistair frowned. "Don't tell me you didn't know. The Crows would've told you about this when they taught you poisons, wouldn't they?"
Zevran plastered on a smile. "All clear, my friend," he purred. "That was… very enlightening, thank you. It is always a pleasure to learn more about my current country of residence."
Alistair took this with a grin and turned back to Leliana, who had a distinctly haunted look to her, and Zevran leaned over to Rhodri and gestured at the pepper box beside her that lay just out of his reach.
"Could you pass the poison, please?" he mumbled to her. Rhodri screamed with laughter and sent her mouthful of stew spraying into the fire; Zevran somehow considered the evening meal a success despite it all.
§
The stretch of the Imperial Highway from Crestwood to Denerim had far more creature comforts– which was to say, towns and whatever they offered within (usually little, but invariably more than the grassy knolls they usually camped around. Crestwood was often known as the last stop along the Highway before Lake Calenhad, which meant that coming along the road in the opposite direction was, for all intents and purposes, something of a re-entry into civilisation. In fact, much of the stretch between Crestwood and Denerim appeared to be populated by outcrops of the middling-wealthy who could afford to live a short way from the filthy sprawl of the metropolis.
And, in keeping with the new normal, it also meant that Rhodri's disappearing act recommenced once they arrived in these little satellite townships. With each stop, and each block of time where she left and returned hours later, Zevran's misgivings grew. If she would just divulge a little of what she was doing whilst away, there wouldn't be any such issue– but she never did, and Zevran would watch on helplessly as she departed with a wave, not trusting himself to go to sleep until he had heard her come up the stairs and fall into bed, if she stayed out that late.
There wasn't much to do about it. She was an adult, and had the right to go anywhere and do as she pleased. There were plenty of things that a Grey Warden did that Zevran wasn't privy to no doubt, and pleasures– and offers thereof– surely abounded for her. Her affairs weren't his concern, and that she had come back tired but unharmed spoke to the hysterical foolishness that he had in such replete amounts. It was none of his damned business what she did; she had said as much, and he knew it well enough himself. And so she went out alone, and came back alone, and Zevran was alone nursing his bastarding concerns in the interim, and he waited for her, because if he didn't wait, he would be out looking for her. That was all he could do, and it was what he did to the fullest.
§
Zevran had heard about frost and snow– though not much, of course. Antiva was, for the most part, a flat country, but possessed a modest chain of oversized hills in the north, close to Brynnlaw. Up there, near the summit, the residents regularly reported icy grass in the middle of winter. That it was free of charge had always been the part Zevran marvelled at the most; the Antiva City ice mages earned their Circle exorbitant amounts of money for keeping nobles' ice houses well-stocked.
And now, he mused wryly as he sat shivering at his vantage point, mid-watch shift in the midway valley between two towns, he was experiencing it for himself. Frost crystals were forming and clinging to the long, thin shafts of grass, and no doubt if he were stupid enough to take his shirt off and lift his arms up, the hair under his arms would undergo much the same process. Dreadful. Wasn't there a law somewhere preventing this sort of weather outside of mountain ranges? If so, someone needed to inform Ferelden, because this was frankly unacceptable. What was a person to do in these conditions?
An alarmed yelp of his name tore Zevran from his chilled musings; he knew who it was, of course, but he turned around anyway.
Rhodri, awake for unknown reasons, jogged up the hill to him, watching him with wide eyes. She sat down and conjured a small flame in her hand, holding it out in front of him and pointing at it with her nose.
"I could hear your teeth chattering from down there," she murmured. "Go on, warm your hands before they fall off."
He chuckled and obliged her– and himself, if the truth was known. The side of him facing the fire was already warming, and his hands lost their shiver as soon as he held them up to the heat. There was no water running off his hands, so far as he could see, but something was melting away, he could feel it. Did blood freeze? Was the blood in his chilled fingertips actually thawing? Maker, what a thought that was.
"You should've said something, Zev," Rhodri admonished him gently. "Wake me up next time. I don't want you sitting in the cold when I can fix it so easily."
He chuckled as he rubbed his hands, relishing the sudden infusion of warmth the fire, and only the fire, brought. "Surely at the ripe old age of twenty-six, I am old enough to manage simple weather events."
Rhodri raised an eyebrow. "You consider shivering and letting icicles grow off your nose to be 'managing' simple weather events?"
Zevran shook his head in amusement. "You have me there, I'm afraid. The winter is a little colder than I was expecting."
His belly dropped as she winced sympathetically.
"Oh, no," he uttered softly. "Do not tell me winter still has not started." Zevran pointed his nose at the ground. "Look, the grass is chilled and everything!"
"Mmm… still a while away yet, I'm afraid. Tonight is a little bit colder than usual, though."
"Brasca," he cursed softly.
Rhodri laughed. "Go and sleep. You'll be nice and warm in your tent. Go on, I'll take over your shift for you."
"Ah, but…" he barely had time to wonder at his own pause before the obvious reason for his protest occurred to him, "I must learn to adjust, no? If it will only grow colder from here, it is important to acclimate."
"Perhaps," she raised an eyebrow. "But that means having the equipment to do that." Rhodri pointed her nose at him. "What you're wearing is nowhere near warm enough. You don't have anything warmer?"
He shook his head.
"All right. Stay here a minute while I collect something warm for you, then." In one motion, she had extinguished the flame and was up and jogging back to her tent. She returned shortly after with her cowhide (finally reclaimed after Wynne's deposition) and a set of thick, woollen robes.
"Stand up for me, please?"
Zevran complied immediately, watching her fold the cowhide into thirds and place it on the ground.
"Half the trick to staying warm in this place," she explained as she directed him to sit down on the hide, "is having something that separates you from the cold ground so you don't leach out all that warmth through your hindquarters, and then having something that keeps the heat in around the rest of you." She unbuckled the fasteners on the robes and opened them out, draping them over his shoulders.
Having something to sit on made a surprising difference, and the heavy cloak was nothing to sneeze at, either. "Well, let it never be said that Fereldans don't know how to cope with the cold."
Rhodri elbowed him lightly. "Ah. And what about Tevinter Free Marchers, hmm?"
He laughed, watching his breath condense in the freezing air. "I apologise. And Tevinter Free Marchers."
"That's more like it." She plonked down beside him. "Better now?"
"Much, thank you." Zevran raised an eyebrow at her, now that he wasn't too frozen to do it. "And what wicked thing keeps you from sleeping, then, hmm? Are you hungry?"
"I did wake up to eat, actually." Rhodri chuckled. "I'm that predictable, am I?"
"You and Alistair both," Zevran assured her through a smirk. "If you bring the food bag and a pan, I can make a frittata."
Rhodri's eyes grew starry. "Oh-h-h," she breathed. "I– I mean, that is to say, no need for that," she shook her head and her heart looked nowhere near in it. "I can– I'll just make some sandwiches or something." She smiled, and that looked far more genuine: "Thank you, though."
He shrugged. "Perhaps I would like some frittata as well. I haven't the room for a whole one, not after Leliana's casserole, but I have room for at least some." Zevran couldn't help but smile as he nudged a three-quarters convinced Rhodri and winked at her. "Go on, get the pan."
She didn't need to be told twice.
§
Master Claudio loved to say, 'Better the Crow you know than the Crow you don't,' and Zevran understood why without too much trouble. In the interest of competition, Crows were expected to conceal the summit of their abilities from each other, but when there were eighteen recruits jammed into one room, pushed to their limits under the expectant, threatening eye of a well-armed teacher, a pecking order was easily established that led to plenty of strategic pickings-off among themselves.
Denerim, however, was not a commodified child being threatened with death if it failed to make itself sufficiently valuable. It wasn't even a developing town with the incentive of extra funds if it endeavoured to be a reasonably pleasant version of itself. It was, quite simply, as unappealing of a dump now as it had been when Zevran last visited– with the added misery of being even colder now that winter (Zevran had given up trying to guess the correct season and had settled for calling all four of Ferelden's seasons winter) was here.
And frankly, with all that in mind, Zevran wasn't convinced that being in familiar, woeful Denerim was better than striking out and trying a new place. How much lower could rock bottom go, after all? At some point he was sure he had witnessed the Darkspawn making a detour around Denerim in much the same way ants gave a wide berth to any traces of Alistair's stew that had found their way to the earth. Well, either he had seen it or dreamed it- but if he had dreamed it, it had been a very vivid dream, and still counted for statistical purposes. Going somewhere, anywhere else had to be worth the gamble, surely.
His opinion was echoed by no-one else. Not even Rhodri or Leliana looked displeased to be in Denerim. Leliana had been caught locking eyes with several shoe and ribbon shops during the brief walk from the city limits to the house of Brother Genitivi. In fact, so lascivious and longing were some of her looks that Alistair had, in a fit of insecurity, begun to obviously preen in front of her. Baby blue silk to her right, and her Templar lover's quivering, over-flexed buttocks to her left. Some people didn't know how good they had it.
What Rhodri was so pleased about was harder to gauge, but she had had a steely grin on her face for the last few days that needed very little effort to keep in place. Old favourites in the Pearl, perhaps? Something else?
Something else. Two frustrating, dangerous words. They opened the door for more nights of staying up late and watching out the window and making the descent from a confident, dangerous man into a fretful little child, and Zevran didn't like it one bit. It was getting harder and harder to stamp out. It was all a bloody disaster, and something would have to be done. What, he couldn't bring himself to ponder without embarrassment taking him in a stranglehold, but he'd have to think of it soon.
For now, though, Genitivi's house stood in front of them, and Leliana had become smooth and dangerous. Shoes forgotten, buttocks ignored. Now, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ears and glided up beside Zevran, her eyes not leaving the door as Rhodri knocked on it.
The diffident fellow he had witnessed the Wardens speaking to last time, Weylon, answered the door again. Barely; he caught the look on Leliana's face, and made to shut it again, but both Leliana and Zevran had wedged their foot in the crack and forced the door open. Weylon stumbled back, and the party poured inside with Rhodri's shield billowing up around them.
Weylon was quick to arrange himself into the defensive. His palms crackled with purple lightning, and before he could do anything with it, Alistair had smote the ground with his sword and extinguished the spell. With a wave of Rhodri's hand, Weylon was trapped up to his neck in ice.
The two Wardens, and their accompanying rogues, drew up around the scowling, struggling little man. His breathing was erratic and panicked, and punctuated with little growls that showed flashes of teeth.
Rhodri raised an eyebrow and tapped the toe of her boot against the ice. "Well, now," she said silkily. "I think you have some explaining to do, Ser, so you'd better get talking. Where's Genitivi?"
A wild-eyed Weylon turned his head and spat into Rhodri's face. Rhodri let out a revolted shout and stumbled back, clawing at her eyes. Alistair was quick to shout his admonishments and lean in to belt the man, but Zevran was faster. He threaded his fingers into Weylon's short hair and pulled back roughly, exposing the man's neck against which the blades of both Zevran's and Leliana's knives were now resting.
"You will not live to do that twice," Zevran said to him softly. "Were I you, I would answer the Warden's question."
Weylon eschewed a verbal answer, and instead summoned a demon to possess him. Zevran, recognising the signs of impending demon-related disaster, sliced Weylon's head off before the transformation could finish, and that was the end of that.
Rhodri, who had only just finished getting the man's saliva off her face and out of her eyes, now took her robe sleeve and wiped her face again, this time to take off the spray of blood that his beheading had brought.
"You're at the top of your game today, Zev," she said with a chuckle. "Maker's tits, but that was disgusting."
"Rude, too," Alistair grumbled. "What do we do now?"
"We should check the house," she waved her hand in a circle. "The Bann said Genitivi was a scholar, so with any luck, at least some of his research will be in here."
The Brother's house was a small but pleasant one, which made the hunt most enjoyable. The interior was, in fact, the first clean one Zevran had seen in a Fereldan residential property, and for a short but worrying moment, Zevran had the impression that one could live semi-comfortably in Ferelden, provided that the interior was of a similar quality to this. The walls of the building were thick, lined with stone and panelled wood, and with the fire going, it was a pleasantly toasty temperature. Provided the doors and windows stayed shut, one could go all day without having any inkling of the wretched cold outside.
That meant, however, that one had to do most of one's living indoors, which did oblige one to make the inside as pleasant as possible. The Brother appeared to have understood this, and had furnished the house with handsome artisanal chairs and tables, and his large four-poster bed had room enough for six of Zevran, at the very least. And, as Zevran sat on the bed with a handful of papers taken from a nearby chest and felt the mattress sink pleasantly under his weight, he decided that six of him would have been delighted to avail themselves of it.
He rifled through the papers, caught sight of the word 'Ashes,' and called to the Wardens. They were quick to join him in the bedroom, and perched either side of him on the mattress. Leliana took her place on Alistair's lap, and Morrigan and Sten rolled their eyes from their standing positions nearby. There was no personal space to speak of, and the surge of alarm that usually followed such closeness never came.
"Mmm," Rhodri said after a period of silent group reading. "I'm seeing a lot of research about Haven. Anyone heard of it before?"
The query was met with unanimous 'no's. Even Leliana, who usually had a story or two about wherever they were, came up empty-handed. Rhodri sighed.
"Hopefully there will be something in here," she tapped the ream of paper in Zevran's lap indicatively. "I think we should take all this with us, though, and go and get our accommodation sorted now. Denerim is looking a little busier this visit, don't you think, and I'd hate to be stuck for a place to stay."
There were nods and shufflings of papers galore as the party prepared itself to leave the house. Estimates of necessary research time filled the air, as well as musings from Leliana that speaking to Chantry researchers in the city could also yield helpful pointers. By the time the party was walking out the door, it had been agreed that they would stay in Denerim for a minimum of eight days, ideally within the familiar comforts of the Gnawed Noble Inn.
On the periphery of said Inn, a flaxen-haired knight in full regalia leaned on the side of the building, squinting at the approaching party. He pointed at Rhodri.
"You were at Ostagar," he murmured. "You're Duncan's apprentice."
Rhodri smiled and nodded, stepping a little closer. "That's me, yes. How do you do? I am Sev–"
"You killed my friend and good King Cailan!" the man snarled, cutting her off mid-sentence. "I demand satisfaction, ser!"
Zevran's daggers were already drawn before Rhodri's mouth could finish falling open. After a moment of stunned silence had passed, the scarlet-faced Warden drew herself up to her full height.
"HOW RUDE," she shouted at the man. "Not a shred of modesty to you! Coming up to me in the middle of the marketplace to proposition– no, demand that I have sex with you! For something I never even did, no less!"
Rhodri stomped her foot, and as the astonished man started spluttering out a protest, she yelled over the top of him.
"You people think Tevinters will sleep with anyone, I suppose! Well, you won't know any part of this Tevinter's body except the back of my hand!" She lifted her right hand threateningly. "Upon my word, if I knew your family I would go to their house this instant to tell them what a lecherous beast they've let loose in civil society!"
With half the market downing bags and tools to watch the spectacle, the blockaded other half formed a glut at the edges of the standstill (and was complaining about it loudly, too). A town guard, who had been observing the exchange from her station by the Alienage gate, trudged over now. She tsked and eyed the Warden and the man with inured disinterest.
"Do you really need to air your grievances in the middle of the market square like this?" the guard asked tiredly. "It's causing a pile-up."
"There is a need if one is going about one's business only to have a filthy swine catcall them!" Rhodri asserted, pointing at the knight.
"I challenged her to a DUEL," the accused roared, his face now brick-red. Whether it was from embarrassment or the strain of the shouting was unclear, but Zevran fancied it could have been both.
"INDEED!" Rhodri bawled back. "WITH THAT SWORD YOU KEEP IN YOUR SMALLCLOTHES, IS IT? Come near me or my people again and I'll send you home to your mother with your 'sword' in a box!"
With a loud harrumph, she turned to the party.
"We should go inside, my friends," Rhodri said calmly. "Apparently this is what Denerim is like these days." She threw a dismissive hand at the man again. "Filled with grots! I shudder to picture it after nightfall!"
Zevran caught the apoplectic knight's eye, smirked, and twirled his blades demonstratively as he followed Rhodri inside the inn.
§
For once, Rhodri didn't leave again as soon as they got indoors. After they had all received the keys to their rooms and opted to meet again for dinner, she had stayed awhile talking at the desk with the innkeeper. Not flirtatiously, Zevran had noted in his brief glance, and not worriedly, but definitely enquiringly. The innkeeper was drawing something on paper– a map, perhaps– by the time Zevran was climbing the stairs, and his observations were forced to end there.
When Rhodri's own footfalls could be heard coming up the steps, a mysterious force propelled Zevran off his bed and into the doorway. An urge, he decided once he had caught Rhodri's eye, to socialise. After all, Crows were hedons at the best of times.
"Excellent timing," he said to her with a wave. "I have a lucky feeling, and was going to round up Alistair and Leliana to play Diamondback. Do you play?"
Rhodri smiled and lingered in front of him. "I do," she replied with a nod and gestured at her room next door, "but I have to get ready."
Zevran's curious sound was out before he could think to curate it, and it prompted a mortifying scramble to cover it up.
"Ah," he raised his eyebrows. "Will there be dancing tonight? I shall have to prepare as well, if there is."
Rhodri shrugged. "If there is, I didn't hear about it. I'm going out before dinner, though, and I need to look very good."
"My dear Warden!" Zevran held his arms out at her and chuckled. "You are positively dazzling as you are. How does one improve on this?"
She looked down at herself. "I have nice robes. You saw them, the gold ones in Imperial vestment cotton. I'll need to get clean, re-do my head shave, and then dress and go."
"... Ah," he chuckled again, rather more weakly this time, and tensed his legs a little. "And… ah… you are going alone?" He glanced out the window. "That man could be out there, waiting to give you trouble when you next go out. Perhaps we might go together? Safety in numbers, no?"
Rhodri smiled and shook her head. "No trouble, Zev, I'm not worried about him. I will be looking very beautiful, it's true, but I am perfectly willing to make good on my threats if he tries anything."
Zevran opened his mouth and closed it again. Rhodri was watching him warmly– and firmly, too, which didn't invite negotiations on his part
He cleared his throat anyway. "... You are quite sure? I could stay a distance behind you for privacy, and if there is any secret, it will be safe with me." Zevran touched a hand to his heart, "You have my word, Rhodri."
Rhodri reached a hand out. "May I–? Thank you." She patted his shoulder, and then gave it a squeeze. "If you're concerned, I will wear a shield the entire time I'm out, but I do not anticipate any bother."
"... You absolutely must go?"
"I absolutely must," she nodded. "Nothing for you to worry about, pretiotus. Truly." Rhodri smiled and bounced a little on her feet. "In fact, when I get back, I hope to have some news for you. We will see, sic?"
"News?" he echoed softly.
"Sic!" she grinned. "But first, I must get ready and go out. Excuse me, Zev. I'll see you later."
With a final, affectionate squeeze to his shoulder, Rhodri was gone, and Zevran made the executive decision to silence the alarmed voice in his head. He slipped downstairs and out of the inn, where the Knight stood, still arguing with the guard.
"I did not demand her to lie with me," he roared. "I challenged her to a duel!"
The guard rolled her eyes. "You say that as if that's any better. Duelling's not allowed in the square, mate. What d'you think this is, bloody Orlais? You think you're challenging that Warden for some young lady's hand or summat?" She shook her heads and beckoned to the other nearby guards. "C'mon, let's take him back to the cell overnight."
A kerfuffle ensued as the enraged Knight sought to escape the grasp of the others, and Zevran seized upon the opportunity. How long had it been since he had slipped into stealth? Too long, really, but there was no time like the present.
Unseen, Zevran slunk over with an ankle-knife at the ready. He had only yesterday coated it in a strong paralytic– enough to disable someone of the man's size for at least two days, that took effect in minutes. He made a small, careful slice in the crease of the Knight's knee, where the armour failed to protect. The fellow jumped a little, but his reaction ended there; Zevran darted back inside, and watched the man sink to the ground through the window of the common room. No-one else had come to the man's aid, nobody watching had reacted with any true purpose; he was alone– and now being hauled off to the jail cells, no less.
With a happy sigh, Zevran ordered a brandy and stayed at the window until Rhodri had left and come back– looking blessedly uninjured, but decidedly on edge. All resolute frowns and wrung robes and deep, hard breaths. Zevran hastened over to her, just in time for the dinner bell to ring. She greeted him with a thin, careful smile, and accepted his suggestion to move to the dining room with alacrity.
