The best thing about Rinna was her mouth. It spoke sharp cleverness, belted out frightfully contagious laughter, and was replete with tender filth that made the blood sing in Zevran's ears. That mouth drank him in, always drinking, always thirsty, and it felt good to be drunk.
And it would have been nice, Zevran thought bitterly as he tore his hand out from beneath his smallclothes, if that thought hadn't come at such an urgent moment. But it had, and that quickly and efficiently killed the mood for another night. That would make the third month in a row, now (presumably, at least; it might have been longer, but the last four months in Antiva had been something of a blur).
With a sigh, he re-tied his sleeping pants, threw on a shirt, and stepped out of his tent. The change in temperature was almost refreshing. It was another unnaturally warm night– at least by the standards of the two Wardens, who had once again opted to sleep outside. Alistair's snores could be heard even from where he lay under the branches of a sprawling tree at the other end of the campsite, and Rhodri was…?
Ah, she was awake, too.
He almost hadn't recognised her with her hair loose. It always looked so very short in that tuft she pulled it into. But there she stood, surveying the dead firepit with a mop of stick-straight hair going down past her shoulders, and Zevran chuckled without knowing why.
Said hair flew like it was trying to flee her scalp as her head snapped around toward him. The rest of her body followed, revealing one hand clutching a sandwich with bread slices thick enough to choke a horse.
Zevran returned her instant smile with a puckish grin of his own. "Well, well! What have we here, hmm?"
Rhodri's expression went blank. "Oh, just a… person? The usual, you know." She looked down at her snack. "Or did you mean–? Ah! Sorry, I didn't even think to offer–" she held it out to him. "Please, go ahead and finish this one while I make you a proper sandwich."
"No, no," he held up his hands. "I am not hungry, thank you. My greeting was perhaps an odd one."
"I'm sure it's normal somewhere," she said thoughtfully, rubbing her chin with her free hand. "Circle dialect was rather limited, so I'm not the person to comment on standard Common." She indicated the road leading back to Honnleath. "I was about to go for a walk to see the dock Alistair mentioned. Would you like to come along?"
The real offer, of course, was to have his teeth repeatedly set on edge as pleasant, easy conversation was jolted by painfully awkward remarks or gestures. Seeing the acclaimed dock of Honnleath was an added bonus.
He could have declined with thanks, announce a plan to take some water and try sleeping again. It wasn't like she'd kill him for it. If anything, she'd wish him more genuine luck in the endeavour than anyone else ever had.
"Do you know, I…" His gaze trailed over to his tent, dark and empty and promising a different, decidedly worse kind of pain altogether when he next entered it. Not that his comfort was any reason to choose one way or the other, but in any case, had he not agreed to do his part to keep his fellow party members safe? No, the way forward was clear.
He stifled the dread (of what? Her words, or the tent's silence?) with a plastered-on smile and gazed up at the Warden. "I think that would be an excellent idea."
Rhodri beamed, bouncing on her toes as though the prospect of his company was something to be delighted over. At a loss, he gave a flourished wave in the direction of the town. "Shall we, my Warden? Our landmark awaits us."
Her mouth sealed into a resolved smile, and she nodded once. "Right!"
When the Warden had collected her satchel and staff, they took to the road. In the absence of any conversation on Zevran's part, her gleaming grin fell back into the usual frown. Funny, how the transition scarcely fazed him now. No clenched muscles, no plummeting belly. If anything, the frown was enjoyable because it required no work to maintain and was always genuine. A smile took effort, and it was an effort often taken when addressing him.
But why was she taking that effort? Mercy, why had she been sharing her food with him, and making him tea, and asking his opinion on things, and making a shield out of herself, and being so embarrassingly gallant about every-bloody-thing?
More to the point, what did she want from him in return for it all? Things that changed hands, favours, courtesies, all had a material value that would be recouped in kind in some way or another. Certainly it wouldn't be though the offer of a personal assassin, or a servant. Not money (ha!), or a punching bag. And going by her admonishments after that boy's possession, evidently not a listening ear of any kind.
What, then?
His startle came in the form of a hand dropping to his hip-dagger as the Warden let out a 'ha!"
She indicated ahead with both hands. "That," she declared, "is a magnificent view! Don't you think, Zev?"
"Hmm–? Oh, my."
Weak as the moonlight was, the last of the night-time cloud cover was peeling away, and the rash of stars shamed the darkness. A thin film of mist clung to the cattails lining the water's edge, and the aged wooden dock cut through it all into the centre of the flat silverplate lake. Quiet as the grave, and entirely deserted.
They strode– or rather, Rhodri strode, and he hastened to keep up, to the very end of the dock. Without any fanfare, she dropped down on the edge, pulled her boots and socks off, and dangled her feet into the water.
Zevran chuckled as he sat down nearby. "I used to take walks down to the Pleasure Pier in Antiva City some nights to watch the moons on the ocean." He leaned back on his hands. "This water is a little smaller, I must admit, but quite pleasant all the same."
She hummed approvingly. "Were you able to see the lights of Rivain from there?"
A swell of homesickness snuck up on him as memories flashed through his head of lazy twin harvest moons and seawater as warm as a drawn bath. Stolen glances with Rinna and Taliesen, all wicked smiles and impoverished victory.
Zevran sighed with relish and faced his audience. "Oh, my Warden! Let me tell you." He shuffled closer to her, putting a hand on her shoulder.
"Out on the left," Zevran threw a hand out, "was the bustling port of Afsaana. Dairsmuid was right behind it, with its Circle Tower– that had green lights, so it always stood out. And on a clear night," he leaned toward her and swept to the right, "I could even see the great lighthouse of Llomerryn-– ah…?"
The Warden was looking at him— right at him, straight in the eye, brows raised and saying nothing.
He pulled away. "Forgive me, I have made you uncomfortable."
Rhodri's eyes widened, and her hair flopped unceremoniously as she shook her head.
"Not at all!" She broke into a broad smile. "I was–- no, it's good! You're comfortable enough to touch me!" Her height wavered ever so slightly, Zevran surmised, from the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of leg muscles. "Please, go ahead. My goodness, you can even sit on me-– ah! Only if you like, of course!"
Zevran could have laughed. What a damned fool he was. She wanted to be touched! How had he missed it? The tea, the courtliness, the gentle tone of voice– Maker's mercy, was she trying to seduce him, even?
That was a question well worth exploring. Sex with the Warden was hardly a bad prospect, especially if it did more to cement his protection from both the Crows and any disgruntled party members. At a guess, she was a virgin and would require some coaching, but she seemed a quick study. And how polite of her to wait until he was comfortable! Those good manners of hers would likely turn up in bed as well, which would be an interesting novelty. Really, it could be a very enjoyable venture for all concerned.
Testing his theory out was the first step– slowly and cautiously, of course. Northern-born as the Warden was, the poor creature had been held hostage in the South during a critical time in life. Coming on with all the heat and passion of their home region could easily scupper everything.
Zevran gave thanks to the Maker for the timeliness of this stroke of genius, and looked up to find Rhodri peering at him with a worried expression.
"I promise it's all right, Zev," she said quickly. "Goodness knows Alistair and Leliana treat me like furniture." She laughed breathlessly.
He snorted, recalling the way Alistair had plonked himself into the Warden's lap during breakfast that morning. Leliana had then perched atop Alistair, and the grinning human tower had attracted many an eyeroll from Morrigan and Sten.
"That is certainly an accurate way of putting it," Zevran replied. He smirked and raised an eyebrow. "So you like to have people sprawling all over you, my Grey Warden, do you?"
She smiled. "So long as they want to, I do. You know, I think Alistair and Leliana actually have a bet on how much sprawling they can get away with before I evict them off my person– oh!" Rhodri threw up one hand. "Speaking of bets, I believe I lost one to you and am now in arrears of a story. I can't believe I forgot!"
"Ah, yes!" He rubbed his hands together. "Lovely! And what riveting tale is coming my way, then?"
"Hah, well, suffice it to say I'm not short on stories." She waggled her eyebrows. "I'm sure I've got a few that could knock your socks off."
He gave her a crooked smile. "Oh, no doubt at all there."
Her hands pattered against her kneecaps. "Is there anything in particular you'd like to hear about? Any specific category, that is?"
Zevran chewed his lip and blessed the Maker again for making this all fall into his lap. An avenue in, and a way to gauge how much damage Ferelden had done to the intimate life of this poor Northerner? Luck, it seemed, was clinging to him like stink clung to the dog.
"Tell me about something delicious, my dear Warden," he drawled slowly. "Something saucy."
Rhodri frowned a little. "Hmm. Saucy, is it?"
"Only if it pleases you, of course."
"Oh yes, it's quite fine. I wasn't expecting to be asked about– not that I'm unwilling, I just don't really think I have any… saucy stories– ah! No, that's not true. I have one." She held up a finger. "Shall I tell it?"
"I hope you will," Zevran nodded encouragingly. "I am a captive audience."
"Right. Well, I…" she laughed and shook her head. A blush was creeping in and staining her face bright red. "Honestly, it's rather… my word, you're going to think I'm out of my mind after this."
"Oh, have no fears there," he crooned, briefly touching her forearm. "I find being in one's mind is overrated. It certainly never worked for me. Tell me everything, my Warden. Don't spare the details."
She chortled. "Bene. Well, I should preface this by saying, though I'm sure you've already realised, that I've lived a rather… sheltered life. In Minrathous, I had no idea how the average person lives, because we paid people to do most everything for us."
He blinked a moment, mind reeling. "Surely not everything?"
"I'm struggling to think of something that people wouldn't hire another to do, so take that as you will. Even though I was a child back then, I think I still knew less about how the real world works than most of my agemates." She shrugged, almost apologetically. "And Circles here have no interest in self-sufficient mages, so after I was taken there, there was still a disconnect from normal life. A bigger one, even. Southern Circle Mages don't cook, don't have families, don't go outside or buy things, nothing."
"Hmm?" Zevran frowned. "You didn't go outside? Not even a little?"
"No," she said, "not unless we were sent for military service or to work for nobility. That was rare, though, and the chaperone Templars watched those people even more closely."
He shook his head. "Locked away in a tower all day and all night… no, I do not care for the sounds of that."
Rhodri chuckled, her smile not quite touching her eyes. "Anyway, with all my ignorance in mind, the story takes place four months ago at an after-dinner meeting with the other Enchanters. And it had been a lovely dinner, too. Baked creature–"
"Baked creature?" Zevran didn't hide his uneasy grimace at the prospect of yet another anonymous beastie lusting after fresh elven gizzards.
"Mmm? We didn't often know what animal it was."
He laughed wryly. "Ah, so that is what you call your mystery meats. Very quaint. Forgive me, my Warden, I thought there was another ferocious thing I needed to watch out for. Do go on. You'd had a lovely dinner…?"
She nodded. "I had, yes. Baked creature and overcooked vegetables in the Fereldan style, and the gravy was perfect. It was rich, had a gorgeous consistency that hid the vegetables beautifully…" Rhodri paused and, with fingers a-wiggle, gave a positively exultant sigh. "Just lovely. Anyway, the meeting came to a close, and the conversation turned to personal topics."
Zevran's ears pricked up. He shuffled a little closer. "Oh, yes?"
"Yes. The question went around: what was our favourite magical contribution to society?"
He chewed his lip. Rumours had abounded among the Crow cohorts of a mage in House Nero who had won favour with his superiors for his liberal use of toe-curling electricity spells during his so-called 'performance reviews'. Was magic really used thusly? Or did the Warden know of something even better? Oh! Or perhaps this was the prelude to her learning about one of these magical delights? Filth with a plot, the thinking man's smut.
Zevran swallowed thickly. "And what was yours, my Grey Warden, hmm? Don't keep me in suspense now."
She cleared her throat. "I… said I loved the Circle Tower's gravy boats."
His eyes widened. "The...?"
"Gravy boats, yes. Ah…" she trailed off, wringing her hands.
The temptation to wring his own hands was overwhelming. Her face was turning scarlet now. That Tower was an entirely new level of freakish if it was doing erotic things with gravy boats, and the pictures Zevran's imagination supplied were as intriguing as they were alarming. Were things really that desperate when one was locked away for years on end?
He cleared his throat cautiously. "You need not divulge any more if you do not wish, my Warden. I've no desire to make you uncomfortable."
A laugh burst out of her, and she waved a hand. "Oh no, no, it's nothing so serious. Besides, we've come this far, haven't we? Bene. So anyway, the entire table turns to look at me. Irving, the First Enchanter watches me like this," she squinted and let her mouth fall open a little, "and says, 'I am sure I misheard you, Rhodri. Say it again, if you please.'
"'Gravy boats,' I say again. 'They're marvellous! Not only do they make exceptionally good gravy, they somehow make the flavour match the baked creature, no matter the meat, every time without fail. It's positively remarkable,' I said. 'Truly intelligent magic.'"
Something inside Zevran was beginning to die. Right there, right then, stone dead.
The Warden sighed and scrubbed her winy cheeks. "I've never heard them laugh like it. One Enchanter burst a blood vessel in her eye. Anyway, I learned recently that gravy is made by the cooks, and the boat itself is merely a receptacle. Apparently even the other Circle mages knew that." She shook her head. "I have no idea why I thought gravy was made that way, but I did. But yes, that concludes the story. Gravy is a sauce, isn't it, so I think that counts."
Zevran fixed his gaze on her neck, not trusting his shocknumbed state to persist if he caught sight of her face now. "And, ah… that is your saucy story," he uttered weakly.
Rhodri leaned in conspiratorially and echoed in a whisper, "That's my saucy story. My delicious, saucy story."
Was it better to laugh, or weep? Neither were ideal, but something would have to win out. The utter failure to gauge any level of flirtatiousness was a storm in a teacup compared to whatever ignorance the Warden was suffering from. A gravy boat that made gravy? Had she believed, prior to leaving the Circle, that hot dinners simply fell out of the sky? That fresh bread appeared every morning under a cloth left on the counter overnight? What was there even to say to her at this point?
He nibbled his cheek for a moment. "Well, my Warden, I can safely say that not only have my socks been knocked off, they have blown away entirely. I am… completely sockless."
She chuckled and touched her elbow to his. "I tend to have that effect on people. On the bright side, though, I do know how to make tea." After a moment's rummaging in her satchel, she produced two wooden cups and the tea bag. "Would you like a cup?"
Zevran nodded hollowly. "Most kind of you. Make mine a strong one, if you please."
§
Zevran wasn't afraid to accept responsibility for the failed flirtation of the night prior. There had been a language problem somewhere along the line. There had to be. If the Warden's degree of obliviousness to cheeky overtures was representative of her host country, the population of Ferelden were lucky they had managed to make even one child between them. Did those who wished to reproduce even know what to put where for the desired result? Absurd.
Perhaps Fereldans laid eggs instead; the winters certainly sounded long and harsh enough to allow a substantial brooding period. The thought of Alistair carefully balancing his enormous bulk atop a large egg had been almost enough to make Zevran choke on his lunch.
But no. There had to have been a mistake on his end, because the rest of the time on the dock had gone down as easily as a spoonful of oil. Rhodri had treated him with precisely the same painful chivalry as usual, and that meant continued interest. Misguided and painfully indirect as it was, Zevran knew desire when he saw it, and the only thing to do was stay the course and up the ante. Certainly nothing involving the word 'sauce' or variants thereof this time around.
No, this would require a more genteel approach. If Rhodri was a noble, she was probably proud. The Tevinters were especially notorious for their hubris, outdone only by the positively delusional Orlesians. And where there was pride, there was seduction via ego-stroking.
Zevran strode out of his tent that morning with a crooked smile and an arched brow, which the Warden was subjected to like the earth to daylight.
"Zev, good morning!" She grinned at him and patted the spot on the log beside her. "How was your night?"
He gave a low chuckle as he joined her. "Good morning, my Warden," he purred. "Mmm! You are looking radiantly beautiful today. Do you mind my saying so?"
She shook her head with a decidedly graver look than the circumstances required. "No, it's perfectly true," she said solemnly. "I know what I look like. Did you sleep well?"
Zevran barely managed to pass off his astonished stutter as another chuckle. Even so, Rhodri squinted at him as though he had temporarily taken leave of his senses.
"... Perhaps not," she murmured, and rubbed her chin. "Unfortunately, the others will be awake soon, so there's not much time to send you back to bed, otherwise I would. Ah! But if you need a nap while we walk, I can carry you." She nodded, brightening now. "I think I could carry you for at least an hour. Would that be long enough?"
"Hm-hmm!" he bit his lip a little. "A siesta in the arms of a ravishing Grey Warden? What a delightful thought!"
Said Grey Warden nodded, looking very pleased with herself. "That settles it, then. You just tell me when you need a pause, and if we can't all stop for a break at that time, I'll take over for you."
Zevran gave her arm a careful squeeze and, in the absence of any objection from its owner, left it there. "You spoil me, my dear. Tell me, how might I spoil you back, hmm?"
Rhodri shook her head with a warm, playful grin. "Spoil you? Oh, now that's just not true! There's no spoiling here, no ser! It'll be my pleasure to help any way I can, no reciprocation needed." She chuckled and added, "Besides, this was inevitable, don't you think?"
He arched one brow, and before he could finish opening his mouth to agree that it certainly was, she pushed on again.
"It's the natural progression of things, really. Started with holding Alistair's hand when he was lonely, then he and Leliana both wanted to be held, and, well!" She threw her head back and let out a hearty laugh. "Yesterday I was their armchair! The next step was obviously going to be a stretcher, or a palanquin! Hah! You see if the two of them don't try to scramble onto me along with you, sic?"
Zevran snorted, not in a position physically or socially to do anything else, and when the offer of tea was extended, he took it extra strong again.
§
The golem, Shale, spent the next days peppering the entire party with questions: about themselves, about why their bodies were squashy and weak, about potential affinities with birds.
Oh, Maker, the birds. How Shale had tailed Zevran after overhearing him tell Rhodri an anecdote of life with the Crows.
"It was raised by crows?" Shale demanded. Had anyone else said it, Zevran would have been appreciative for the appalled tone of voice. As it was someone who neither knew nor cared about the Guild, with solid granite everything and who could have murdered him by poking him too hard, though, Zevran gave thanks for the fact that he had put on brown pants that morning.
He chuckled nervously. "Well, first by prostitutes, but the Crows came after that, yes." He quickly added, as Shale made a gravely displeased sound, "Ah, but have no fear, my sturdy friend! They are not the kind you are thinking of."
"Hmph. It is if it also assaults helpless statuary with its faeces. Does it do that?"
"If given sufficient cause, perhaps."
"Ugh, outrageous!" The decidedly less-than-helpless statue shuddered disgustedly. "Then still it is possible. The painted elf will stay away from me, or else!"
Zevran laughed hollowly. "I get a lot of that."
To his right, the Warden rubbed her brow and gave a harassed-sounding sigh.
"You know what?" she said after a moment, loudly enough that everyone could hear. "I really hadn't counted on saying this today, but I would like to both assure and remind the party that there will be no flinging of poo. Ever."
Alistair chortled. "What, not even at the darkspawn?" He turned to Leliana and sighed dramatically. "That's my Thursday ruined."
Amid the playful shove from the Chantry Sister, Rhodri fixed Alistair with a soft, withering glare.
"I'm hoping against hope you're joking–"
"You'll never know!" His cackle grew loud and wild.
"Aeya-a-a. Well frankly, whether you are or aren't is immaterial. Anyone at the stage of a darkspawn fight where they're casting turds at it is beyond saving." Rhodri shrugged off-handedly. "Not least because the darkspawn already smell more offensive than any excreta. They might even appreciate the gesture."
Shale, who had been silent the entire time (their booming footsteps aside) let out a queasy groan. "These creatures with their foul exudates and flesh-related functions. I think I'm going to be sick…"
Alistair let out a fascinated gasp and jogged up to Shale's other side. "Ooh, golem vomit! This, I have to see!" He gazed at their mouth. "Does it come out like precious stones? Gravel? … Are there ever any carrots?"
Another moan from the golem issued as Alistair reeled off a wishlist of precious stones for them to vomit up. The Warden shook her head. In the background, Leliana giggled, the dog barked joyfully, and Morrigan whispered something to Sten. Without any better reason than the sudden urge to do something of his own, Zevran nudged Rhodri in the arm and waggled his brows at her.
Rhodri glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and– gently, gently– elbowed him back. He did it again; she reciprocated, and their foolish game played on longer than he would have admitted even at knifepoint.
By the time the party had set up camp for the evening, Zevran had decided that if his after-dinner planned sauciness– oh Maker no, not that word– didn't yield at least some idea of the Warden's openness to seduction, he would have to step back and make a proper plan. Tonight's impromptu attempt was… well, he was hesitant to call anything lucky now, after his most recent track record, but Bodahn and Sandal were (presumably, at least) making things much easier for him.
The Wardens had fixed Mr. Feddic's wagon after the unceremonious breakage of one of the wheels on one of the roughshod parts of the Imperial Highway, and the man and his son had surprised the party with a basket of ripe plums in return. Rhodri had insisted the party take one each only, and the rest were to be returned to Bodahn and particularly Sandal, who proved very fond of them.
Zevran's idea couldn't have been more brilliant. Food from their home region, to be eaten right in front of the Warden with every ounce of Northerner allure he had in him, interspersed with gently naughty remarks that would be dialled up to an average flirtation at the most. Anything more outrageous would have to wait until they were alone again. Oh, it was genius. Zevran was so pleased with himself he barely finished his dinner.
But finish he did, and the time for dessert was finally starting. The plum Zevran had taken for himself sent sweet, fragrant juice trickling down the sides of his mouth with each bite. A horrible mess, all told, but there was no better prop for titillating overtures than the juice of perfectly ripe fruit.
To his right was Rhodri (where else would she be?), her own one still untouched while she watched the crackling fire. She looked around at Zevran when he let out a sigh of relish. He smiled winsomely at her and held up his one-third eaten plum.
"These," he purred, "are magnificent. Almost as good as the plums back home, no?"
"Oh!" The Warden raised her eyebrows. "These are plums? Goodness, I thought they were apples. They're that sort of shape, you know?"
This person was going to kill him by means of a ruptured diaphragm. Had the mages been kept in lockboxes, fed solely on bread and cheese? Or was she so poor with herbalism that she couldn't even identify normal fruit and vegetables? No wonder her teacher took to her with the book.
Zevran shook his head with as much sweetness as his aghast state permitted. "No, no. Plums, these are. Apples have firmer flesh." He took another bite and let his head tip back to emphasise the juice trail it had created. "Mmm. And they are so very ripe and succulent! Oh. Mmm!"
The Warden watched on with a small, warm smile as he dragged one finger up to his mouth and sucked the juice off it. He peered up at her through his lashes and took his lip between his teeth.
"Gorgeous," he crooned softly.
Rhodri's smile broadened. Though she was making no effort at salaciousness herself, she was certainly making no attempt to stop his display. In fact, she looked positively thrilled when he slid along the log to sit closer to her. His leg was almost touching her– well, it was hard to know what precisely of hers was under her robe there; there was still no visual proof that she possessed anything beyond extremities, but he was definitely in the vicinity of her lower half. Emboldened by her now-grin, he took the last bite of his plum and let out a low, smooth groan as he chewed it up.
The Warden's feet rocked. "You like the plum. Excellent!" She nodded. "It's good that your appetite is holding up well."
Zevran flicked his eyebrows at her. "Oh, I have… enormous appetites, my lovely Grey Warden. You cannot imagine." He parted his legs a little and made a show of palpating the knot of muscle over his kneecap in long, easy strokes.
She was out-and-out beaming now, her free hand drumming hard on the log. "Ah, perbonus! No more of this 'running on the smell of food for a month' business, then, is it? Good riddance, I say! Not healthy at all."
Zevran considered asking Morrigan to open the ground for him so he could jump into it. It was either illegal or impossible to be this dense, if not both. He had made bedroom noises while eating that plum. Tipped his head back. Rubbed his leg! Andraste's grace, he'd shown his neck to her! That alone was an invitation– a request, even– for kisses and bites to the area. He was lucky, Zevran supposed, that she hadn't simply paid him a genial compliment on the veins there. Had anyone ever flirted with this individual? Ever?
Not that he was without a backup plan this time around, but before he could get a syllable out of a more provocative flirtation, the Warden had reached out and pushed her plum into his hand.
"Here," she said. "You enjoyed yours, so you should have this one, too."
He blinked. Chuckled, if weakly. "Oh, I couldn't–"
"You don't have to eat it now," she urged gently. "But it's important to have something you really like when you can get it. This, what we're doing, it's hard work, and Mr. Bodahn said the plum season is almost over. Go on."
She turned to face him, and a strange urge to check her earring got the better of him. Zevran glanced up, and the black snake with its gleaming grey eyes was completely still on her ear. Her head moved a fraction, and the light rippled across it– nothing.
Absurd.
He shifted his gaze to her face. Her eyes were trained on his cheek, and that ridiculous, hopeful look she got every time she tried to pass him some of her food was there again.
He took the plum (what else could he do?) and the Warden gave him a pleased nod. With barely another word, she had excused herself to make her way into the field, staff in hand, undoubtedly to begin the night's training.
Relatively alone now, Zevran stared down at the fruit. On paper he had obviously failed, but all the same, his third foray into intensive flirtations with the Warden had given an excellent yield. Never had he received good food for his trouble.
The plum was even bigger and juicier-looking than Zevran's own had been– by design; he had chosen the worst of the bunch to ensure the one keeping him alive didn't get it– and it was such a rich shade of purple, too. No doubt the Warden could afford a whole wardrobe in that colour, if her allusion to her family's finances was to be believed. She might not even notice if such a sum were spent.
Which meant, in practice, that this fruit was worth absolutely nothing to her, and there was no reason to be staring at it like the Warden had given him one of her kidneys.
He ate the plum and had no idea how it tasted.