When Zevran was woken up, the boat was approaching the ramshackle dock. The Warden was wearing another robe, Alistair was wearing his scowl, and the others fell to the wayside. It was hard to know how late it was in the evening; Zevran doubted it had gotten completely dark too long ago.

It took another hour to reach the camp, by which time Wynne was exhausted enough to fall asleep by the fire while Rhodri, Zevran, and Alistair worked to set up her tent. Greagoir was left to set up his tent alone (or, rather, the act of Rhodri staring at him as she worked appeared to inspire a burning need to work alone and at great distance from her). Sten, Shale, Morrigan, who had already eaten, had gone to their own parts of the camp by the time the party had arrived.

Another short while passed as Zevran watched on (mostly to monitor for imminent spellcasting exhaustion) as the Warden applied what seemed to be some sort of magically-summoned sealant and heat treatment to Wynne's tent. Insulation, he guessed. When Rhodri had finished the job and then taken the cowhide from her own tent into Wynne's, she called it ready, and Wynne was asleep in it not long after, even forgoing dinner.

The silence around the fire as the others ate was impressively loud. Alistair and Leliana had, for the most part, stared grimly into the distance as they spooned their stew into themselves. On occasion, one would sigh, which prompted the other to watch them worriedly. They were exhausting.

Greagoir was making a career of glaring at his dinner, and occasionally glaring at the Warden when the stew had, presumably, been sufficiently intimidated. Said Warden met his gaze without fail every time it happened, and her eyes stayed trained on the former Knight-Commander long after he inevitably gave in and looked away. Zevran knew that action. That incalculable, cold scrutiny as the beholder pondered what to do with the person. At a guess, Rhodri had brought Greagoir out of the Tower to kill him, and Zevran couldn't help hoping she would ask him for tips.

Greagoir was the first to retire, predictably enough. Leliana went up a nearby hill with the dog. Rhodri took the empty bowls and excused herself ("My Warden," Zevran said, making to take them from her. She held them away, shook her head, and made for the creek). That left Zevran and Alistair alone, and the glaring started anew.

Zevran affixed a smirk and waggled his eyebrows with absolutely no conviction. "You have been making eyes at me for quite some time now, Alistair," he purred. "I knew you couldn't resist me. Tell me, have you been dreaming about me?"

Alistair somehow managed to both stiffen and loosen up enough to rise to his feet. He strode over and bent down in front of Zevran.

"You listen to me," he said quietly. "I don't know what sort of angle you have with Rhodri, but I'm warning you: leave her alone. You shouldn't be trying to seduce her at all, but especially not now. D'you understand me?"

Zevran raised his eyebrows. "Seduce her?"

"Oh, as though anyone's missed you flirting with her." Alistair pointed a strong finger straight at Zevran's chest. "You might not have noticed– you might not even care , but she's grieving. There's no way anyone goes through what she did today and doesn't come out of it heartbroken. Don't you dare prey on that to get her into your bed."

Zevran didn't quite manage to stifle his offended snort. "It may surprise you to hear it, my friend, but I have no interest in exploiting our dear Grey Warden. In fact, I stopped flirting with her quite some time ago–"

"Bullshit! You think I didn't see the way you've been sneaking glances at her today? Making those faces at her while you fed her that potion?"

"I was looking with my normal face, let me assure you," he answered with forced smoothness. "I cannot help any allure I might have at rest."

Alistair's glower deepened. Zevran couldn't help but smirk a little as he added, "But when you put it so very forcefully, one cannot help but wonder if there isn't a little territorialism behind all that bravado, no? Have no fear, if you desire Rhodri, be assured I will not stand in your way."

"She is my best friend!" Alistair snarled. "She's called me her brother! Maker's bloody breath, is sex all you ever think about? Are you seriously incapable of feeling any sort of affection? Real, proper love?"

Zevran felt his face harden enough to shatter. He chanced raising an eyebrow anyway.

Alistair folded his arms and looked down on Zevran the way he inspected dying farm animals.

"I pity you, Zevran," he said after a moment. "But I don't pity you enough not to beat you into next week if you try your shit on Rhodri at a weak spot. Don't think I won't," he shook his head. "Don't think I won't."

The Templar walked away to Leliana's hill without a backwards glance, and Zevran was left to soak in his shame.

§

At some point or another, the Warden re-materialised by Morrigan's rag fortress. She offered something– it looked like the book she had requisitioned from the First Enchanter's office– to the witch, who snapped it up eagerly. Prize in hand, Morrigan plopped with uncharacteristic gracelessness back down onto the log she had occupied, and by the time she glanced up from the tome to speak, Rhodri was already walking away. Morrigan watched her leave, and if Zevran wasn't mistaken, the witch looked disappointed.

From the corner of Zevran's eye, Leliana was coming down from the hill, leaving Alistair and Jeppe sitting under the bleak moonlight. She was halfway down when Rhodri crossed her path and stopped her. At that distance, Zevran couldn't hear what was being said, and there was no real reason to even observe the interaction beyond the habitual monitoring of the Warden's whereabouts.

For the sake of ensuring his protector's safety, of course.

There was more touching than speaking, at least on Rhodri's part. Leliana looked like she was moments away from going to pieces entirely as she spoke, and the Warden's hands were on her shoulders, on her cheeks, wiping under her eyes. Nodding along. She took Leliana's hands in her own and kissed them, left-right-left-right, and Leliana threw her arms around the Warden. Zevran didn't know what to think of it, but Rhodri returned the embrace, which surely meant she , at least, wasn't endangered.

And then, the two parted ways and the Warden did the exact same thing to Alistair. Baffling. The templar grew teary, and there was a lot of burying of his face into his shoulder and clinging onto her back. Still, when all was said and done, and kisses were administered to his head and hands, they parted with the calmness of a wave leaving the shore.

There wasn't much to muse on, there. The Warden had friends, and she was doing whatever it was friends did. Real, proper love. Not for him, then.

Zevran's guts wrenched a little; he sighed bitterly and took up poking the fire. The night was patchy and bleak, with barely a star to its name, but sparks pirouetted up and out from the embers when Zevran prodded them hard enough, and made for decent substitutes when all was said and done. The tip of his poking stick glowed like rage and the new wood spat and hissed. It was all mysteriously gratifying.

A heavy, even footfall gave away Rhodri's approach. Zevran refused to give a moment's attention to the urge to see if it was for him. As though his turn for affection was coming. Stupid, heartsick Crow, always craving what was never meant for him. That weak, soft little heart drifting around with its hands out, begging and begging and begging–

"Zev?" Rhodri stood off to one side of him with her hands behind her back, watching him like she was half-expecting him to scramble to his feet and cave her skull in.

His body straightened him up, and Zevran added the smile himself. "You called?"

Her eyes darted up to his for a short moment, soft and grey and– well, the colour was unimportant. When had eye colour ever been relevant to the manner in which eye contact was conducted?

Never, was the answer. He looked at her nose instead.

"I… ah…" Rhodri paused, resting her fist over her mouth for a moment. She swallowed. "I need water."

Without another word, she quickly turned and left towards the creek, leaving Zevran to sit there on his log and watch after her. What else was there to do, after all? She wanted to speak to him, but thirst had overtaken. That was all right. Zevran knew thirst, and the way it could creep up on a person.

In fact, he was thirsty, too. Right there and then. Dreadful, terrible thirst, the kind that made the fingers itch and feet burn. Couldn't be ignored a moment longer.

He followed her.

Behind the hill obscuring the creek from the camp, the Warden kneeled by the bank, scooping the water up in her hands and plunging her face into it. She gulped it down loud enough to hear even from where Zevran stood a handful of paces away, scrubbing her face like fury, and once her mouth was unobstructed, Rhodri hissed a string of profanities and threw the rest of the water back into the creek. Another curse.

Zevran took a few steps forward, almost within stabbing distance of her, and how in the name of sanity was she still unaware of him? He made a point of crunching a leaf underfoot, and (at last) she spun around with her teeth bared and face dripping, a white-hot flame already crackling in the palm of her hand. The flame was hot enough to sting a little, even from his distance; Zevran took a step back with his hands up, and Rhodri–

Froze.

She gasped; the flame went out instantly.

"I'm sorry!" She looked at her hands and then at him, that pleading look all over her face again. Zevran stayed as he was.

Rhodri tucked her hands behind her back and shuffled a step away from him.

"You're afraid of me," she whispered, quickly adding, "I understand! I do. After the way I acted in front of you in the Fade, why wouldn't you be?"

This wasn't the right time for astonishment or bafflement, especially when expressions of such were easily confused for fear. Zevran's eyebrows rose nonetheless, and the Warden looked stricken about it. Her hands reappeared, thumbs wringing fingers half to death, and Zevran could have kicked himself for looking when Rhodri caught him and winced shamefully.

"I lost control of my magic," she said, almost entreatingly. "That's why I was so… brutal. Emotions disrupt the concentration needed for spellcasting, see, and when the unfocused mana escapes, it can damage everything around it. Like it did when we were fighting Uldred, and through the day." She paused and shook her head. "And–and when I saw you there on the rack, I just…"

"There… were control issues?" Zevran offered cautiously. "Ah, but surely there is no trouble. These things happen."

"It shouldn't have." Rhodri sighed, "But I had to protect you, and my fists were the last thing I had, see? And– and don't worry," she held up her hands quickly. "Wynne is here to help me train so it doesn't happen again but– but you need to know I'd never intentionally hurt you. I'd–I'd–" she shrugged despondently. "I'd rather wash my hands in lyrium than raise a finger to you, I promise."

Zevran couldn't help but chuckle nervously, doing his utmost to banish the memory of her lyrium-bloodied teeth from his head. "Not a single finger? I think I could forgive one or two, for you."

Why did he joke? Why, in the name of the beloved prophetess, did he do that? He fully deserved the firm, simple "No," she answered with.

He smiled anyway. "Well, my Warden, be assured I am not worried for my safety at your hands."

Rhodri's eyes widened. "Truly?" she breathed.

"Truly," he echoed with a nod.

The silence hung, not uncomfortably. She looked at him again, much calmer now.

"I came to you before because I wanted to thank you," she said after a moment.

Another nervous chuckle. Zevran shook his head. "Not necessary, my dear Warden."

"It is," she insisted softly. "If it weren't for you, those children, those other mages– Maker, I would have died today. You don't know how brave you are, how kind you are, to put yourself what you went through, and for people you've never even met. People whose power puts you ill at ease." She bent down until they were at eye level.

"You did that," Rhodri murmured. "I owe you everything I have for what you did today. You are…" she chewed her lip for a moment, "the most heroic person I've ever met."

A light, breathless laugh danced out of him, forced him to anchor his feet to the ground before a surge of energy could speed him away."Oh, no. No, no."

"Yes." She nodded, not smiling, and straightened up. "You deserve so much better than the life you've had. And I want to make it expressly clear that you won't be going back to the Crows. Ever. That life is over now. I know our deal was that I would protect you during the Blight, but I want to extend that."

Zevran's eyebrows rose. "Hmm?"

"Yes. I want to make it permanent. Lifetime protection."

He froze. His turn to go statuesque had had to come eventually.

Rhodri, of course, hadn't noticed. "Once the Blight is over, you can come back with me to Minrathous," she indicated herself with a clap of the hand to the chest, "and you will have the might and patronage of House Callistus at your back. That is a promise."

Another surge of Maker-knew-what sped from his gut all the way out until his fingers and toes prickled like fury. His hands trembled from the effort to keep them bolted to his sides.

"I won't test you, Zevran," she pressed on, almost dogged now. "I won't hurt you. No more of that, ever again. And– and if anyone– anyone gives you any trouble, or if you have any problem, you'll come straight to me," she drummed her hand against her chest again, "and I'll sort it out, yes?"

She kept talking, insisting, declaring, but something in him gave way, and the words never seemed to make it to his ears. The Warden would realise he had stopped listening, and the only thing to do was to end this entire, mad conversation.

At a loss for anything better to do, Zevran strode forward and pulled her into his arms, and before common sense could force him to release the poor creature, her hard, heavy arms looped around him and took him into the modest savour of fresh sea salt and a chest broad enough to pitch a tent on. Warm, damp cheekskin dipped down to his height and nestled near his ear.

Numbness washed over Zevran. When was the last time he had been in such close quarters to someone without either bedding them or fighting them off? Not since he was a small child, surely, and those moments had been rare as manners. Splayed hands wrapped around his shoulder, rubbed up and down his upper back like he was worth the trouble it took to do so. All gentleness, all firmness, and he couldn't for the life of him find anything false or ill-intentioned about it.

Zevran didn't lean into it. Did he? It was hard to tell, when they were pressed up against each other so closely. She probably pulled him closer.

But why were his fingers digging into her?

He released her far too rapidly for it to be considered a graceful tapering-off, and Rhodri, limbs and all, left him with impressive haste.

Rhodri showed her palms to him, eyes huge. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I made you uncomfortable–"

"No, no," Zevran shook his head with equal rapidness and refused point-blank to note the unpleasant coldness seeping into the parts of him that were now untouched again. He chuckled breathlessly. "Nothing to apologise for, my dear, let me assure you."

She watched him– his forehead, at the very least, for a moment, and nodded with renewed hollowness.

"Shall we go back to the fire?" Zevran gestured weakly behind him. "I would hate to leave it unattended for too long."

Another nod; they set off in a mindless shuffle.

§

Rhodri had gone to sleep in the very small hours of the morning outside, curled up against a tree trunk, and Zevran had kept watch from in his tent the entire time. He had quietly put on his leathers and kept his weapons close to hand, ready to shoot out at a moment's notice.

As it should be, of course, when one is part of a team required to do such things. Not that there needed to be a reason beyond the obvious benefits of keeping alive the one thing keeping the Crows from disembowelling him. What foolishness.

Now that the sun was coming up, though, and the Warden preferred to be the first one awake, watch was over. The time he had spent sleeping, Rhodri had dug a small grave for the bloodstained robe she had worn during their sweep of the Circle and carving a long list of names and numbers into the bark of the tree serving as a headstone. At some point, she had dressed her person for what Zevran presumed was Tevinter formal attire. Certainly, the exquisite black robes she had now, damascened with a gold thread diamond-chain pattern were not a pair he'd seen her don before this, and her head was shaved in a neat undercut. She wouldn't have looked out of place at an opulent party looking like that.

Zevran made a point of clearing his throat to rouse her as subtly as he could manage, but Rhodri didn't stir. He coughed, and then, when there was still no response, he coughed vigorously, then heartily, then, Maker help him, he coughed theatrically. No luck.

With a sigh, he got to his feet and left the tent. The morning was cold and crisp, and the vapour of his breath curled around him and hung in the air. In the last weeks, the birdsong had started to peter out, and it was growing quieter by the day. Even the dog hadn't stirred yet.

Rhodri was still asleep by the time he had approached her in a near-stomp, snoring softly. He couldn't get any closer than a few paces away before the repulsion glyph he had witnessed her magicking into existence pushed him backwards.

He bent down a little. "My Warden? …Rhodri?"

Her eyes flickered open, and Zevran almost wished he had left her be as she glanced around blearily.

"Mm?" Rhodri caught sight of him and smiled a little. "Zev, good morning. How did you sl– oh!" Her eyes were like saucers as she scrambled to her feet and dusted her robes off. "Forgive me, I–"

"No no," he quickly held up his hands. "There is no need to apologise, my Warden." Zevran tried to think of some clever, reassuring comment, but nothing came. He gestured at the tree. "You were busy last night."

Rhodri nodded and got to her feet. "In Tevinter it is tradition for a relative to stand guard over the newly deceased person for a time, until the end of the funeral rites." She sighed. "They didn't have one, and I wouldn't impose Tevinter funeral rituals on Fereldans. I haven't the resources anyway, but I could at least stay with them for a time." She swallowed and glanced down at the small, neat pile of fresh dirt. "Or something associated with them, at least."

Her blinking sped up; she turned away. "I'm taking Greagoir to Redcliffe today to dispatch him on his duties," she said quickly. "Borrowing Mr. Kester's boat again to row over there."

"Hmm? That is quite a long trip, my Grey Warden. It took weeks to get here on foot."

"A day or so of rowing I would say, perhaps a day-and-a-half." She shrugged. "It's quicker than walking, and time is of the essence."

"Ah," was all Zevran managed. He cleared his throat. "Perhaps you would like some company? An extra set of hands to row the boat? I happen to have excellent endurance."

Rhodri glanced at him and wrung her hands briefly. "You're always welcome to come, but I anticipate some tension with Greagoir on the journey over. Nothing that would come to blows for you, but if you don't care for tense silences, you might not enjoy yourself."

He chuckled. "A bad moment in your company? Surely not. I will be on my best boating behaviour the entire time, and if Greagoir is out of line, we can toss him in the water, no? Make him swim alongside us."

Rhodri opened her mouth and closed it. She opened it again. "That is… remarkably tempting," she mumbled.

"I'm sure it is," he purred. "Well, now that that is arranged, I suppose I had best prepare myself for the journey ahead, no? Pack a little food and such."

He went to excuse himself with a pleasant nod, only to hear her call his name when he had moved a grand total of two steps towards the firepit. His smile coming to him with suspicious ease, Zevran focused on his words instead: "Here I am."

Rhodri wrung her hands again. "I… wonder if I might ask how you're faring after yesterday. Especially after the… ah… nightmare."

"Me? Oh, I am quite fine, thank you." Zevran chuckled airily. "It was an old memory, nothing more."

She loosened a little at that. Emboldened, he added, "And this time, a Grey Warden with the most marvellous set of eyes came to my rescue! It seems I have landed on my feet yet again." He flicked his eyebrows once. "Let us hope my luck holds out, no?"

Rhodri stiffened. "You don't think this is luck, surely."

"Well, good luck, of course," Zevran attempted, faltering a little when her staring wasn't supplemented with any other response. "Excellent fortune? … Maximal serendipity?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "My mother was kidnapped," she said after a moment. "That was why she was missing."

The abrupt change of topic made Zevran's pre-prepared quip die in his throat.

"She was taken during a morning walk in Kirkwall, I was told," Rhodri continued, not missing a beat. "Her brother, my Uncle Damion, had accrued enormous debts to shady characters and told no-one about it."

"Ah," he said. "Unwise of them to take her."

"It was. They took my mother and not Damion because they know she married a rich Tevinter. My father paid the million-sov ransom, and then another half million when they demanded more. And when that wasn't enough and they demanded more again, he realised he would have to take her back himself.

"He tracked her down to a small village on the Nevarran border. The cartel had driven out the residents long ago and was using it as a hideout." Rhodri's upper lip bulged as her tongue passed over her teeth. "What do you think my father did when he found her?"

Zevran smiled thinly. "I imagine the kidnappers were struck off the Satinalia greeting card list, no?"

She gave a small, wry smile of her own, which quickly tightened into a frown. "For a start. My father turned all twenty-six of the thugs, kidnappers, what-have-you, into blood sacrifices to restore my mother's health, and then he razed the entire settlement to the ground."

Rhodri lowered her head to eye-level with him, pinning him with a stare he couldn't quite force himself to wish away.

"I would do this much, and more, for you," she said softly, fervently. "House Callistus fights for her people, Zev, there is no luck to it. You're one of us. Don't cheapen my devotion to you by calling it luck."

Zevran, ever the optimist, clung to the happy thought that despite the alarm tearing through him, he wasn't repeating his panicked theatrics from last night. His arms were down by his sides and, quite notably, not pinning Rhodri to him, and that was success enough.

He chuckled nervously. "Forgive me, my dear Warden, I had not meant to offend."

Rhodri's face softened. "You didn't offend me, pretiotus," she murmured. "I… am aware that the other party members haven't warmed up to you yet, and Ferelden is an easy place to be lonely."

She shook her head, voice tightening a little. "It's not fair, and it's not right, but I can't force them to be friends with you. But you aren't alone, and you never need to be. I'm here for you whenever you need, and whenever you feel ready for a friend, you know where to find me."

It was a curious thing, to have a body that was currently both entirely leaden and crawling with energy.

No, well. 'Curious' was a little too cheerful of a descriptor. 'Wildly strange and uncomfortable' seemed to be more on the money. And why? The Warden was constantly overflowing with discomfiting phrases and sentiments; had two months really not been enough to inure himself to them?

Zevran pretended what little saliva his drying mouth hadn't stripped was brandy and swallowed. He waggled his brows. "You spoil m– ah," he backpedalled as her mouth opened to make some sort of protest, "that is to say: good to know."

Rhodri calmed at that. "Right. Good. Well, I should change out of these robes and make the tea." She excused herself with a nod, and Zevran wandered to the creek to wet his mouth and wash off the flush of sweat he seemed to have acquired.

§

Redcliffe was a long way away by boat. Lake Calenhad, though small to look at straight on, stretched on forever lengthways. Barely a word was spoken between Rhodri, Greagoir, Zevran, and Alistair, who had insisted on coming for moral support, thought that was admitted while he made a decidedly hostile glance at Zevran.

It took the better part of an entire day-and-a-half to reach the familiar docks and fishstilted houses that had risked endearing themselves to Zevran with their rustic, provincial near-charm. With the bodies cleared away and the remaining people looking distinctly un-walking-corpse like, the place was really looking up. By the time the party had stepped off the boat, the sunset looked to be close to hand.

The first stop, so declared the Warden, was to the Chantry, and it was hard not to feel gratified about the welcome they received by the Revered Mother in her office.

"Mmm!" She put her pen down and left her chair to approach them at the doorway. "The heroes return– oh, and with the Knight-Commander, no less! Come in, come in…"

"No longer, Revered Mother," Greagoir said stiffly. The Revered Mother paused.

"...No?"

"No," Rhodri said. "Madam, I have come to inform you personally that the former Knight-Commander is now in the Grey Warden fold."

The woman stiffened. "You recruited the Knight-Commander?"

"I did. The Wardens have the privilege, and the obligation, to acquire more people power when it is lacking, and you cannot be in any doubt that there is need for more with a Blight now in full swing."

The Revered Mother's brow crinkled. "I… suppose not. After what happened in Lothering…" she shuddered. "Though was it necessary to recruit Greagoir, of all people?"

"It was, Madam. He had offered to pledge his Templars to my cause in exchange for us sweeping the…" she swallowed, "the Circle Tower, and I resolved to take only one after these troubled times. But the one I chose had to be the most powerful, and the most dedicated, and that was Greagoir."

"This… will not be taken well, you understand, Warden," she said cautiously. "Greagoir is a well-respected, high-ranking part of the Templar Order, and suddenly removing him like this is asking for yet more ill-repute for the Wardens."

Rhodri nodded once. "I am aware of that. But I am hoping to keep things cordial between us by doing you the courtesy of coming to you personally to explain the situation. Templar resources have been more than halved, and you would not have heard the news for quite some time. I realise the Wardens are not entirely welcome in Ferelden as it stands, but I intend to pave better relations by communicating openly with you and making compromises where possible."

"With all due respect, Warden," Greagoir said snidely, "perhaps you might recruit another younger, stronger member of the Order for your needs?"

The Revered Mother nodded quickly. "Now that's a thought."

Rhodri fixed him with that blank look again. "Youth isn't a prerequisite for the Templars, and it isn't for the Grey Wardens, either. We prize tenacity and the drive to achieve an overarching goal, whatever the cost, and in that regard you have more than proved yourself."

She turned to the Mother again. "As for the conscription, we cannot undo it, and there isn't the time to interview a better candidate. The Blight waits for no-one, and I know Greagoir personally very well. He will make his country extremely proud."

Rhodri dipped a hand into her pocket and retrieved an envelope. "This is a letter formally advising the Chantry of Greagoir's conscription. I also left signed copies with First Enchanter Irving and Greagoir's successor, Knight-Commander Bradley. Hopefully this will make it easier for you in the event of any administrative difficulties later on." She carefully slid the letter into the Revered Mother's fingers.

"A less than prudent decision overall, Warden," the Mother said with a sigh. "But the Wardens are not necessarily known for their judiciousness."

"Then I'm behoved, Madam, to do my utmost to ensure that Greagoir's recruitment was not in vain. Please be assured that I will do what I can." Rhodri inclined her head. "In any case, we will need to depart, as we are quite pressed for time at the moment. Unless you have any questions, of course?"

The Revered Mother shook her head stiffly. Rhodri nodded again.

"Then I will respectfully excuse myself and my party, Madam." She touched a hand to her heart. "I appreciate your time. Good day to you."

§

Up on the hills at the western edge of the town, Rhodri stopped the party.

"Now, Greagoir," she said crisply, producing two envelopes from her pocket and handing one to him. "Here is your job. I have written a letter to the most senior Grey Warden available, outlining the current situation in Ferelden and our urgent request for reinforcements following the incident at Ostagar."

Greagoir took the letter, turning it over in his hand with a suspicious squint.

"This one here," Rhodri held the second envelope out, "outlines my orders for your conscription. You will deliver these two letters to the Grey Warden headquarters in Weisshaupt-–"

"You have conscripted the head of the Fereldan Templar Order," Greagoir hissed over her, "to be your messenger boy?"

Rhodri raised an eyebrow. "There is no shame in bearing an important message." She touched a hand to her chest. "I, personally, find Ferelden to be one of the ugliest backwaters I've ever laid eyes on," (Zevran nearly burst something trying not to laugh as Alistair's mouth fell open) "but if your country has any sentimental value to you, you should be keen to help keep it from becoming a second iteration of the Anderfels."

Greagoir shook his head balefully. "I don't believe that for a moment, Amell. You always did weave an excellent lie." He looked at the other Warden now, and then at Zevran. "I didn't miss any of the looks Rhodri Amell gave me all through the years at Kinloch Hold. This is nothing but a debased hunger for vengeance! Typical Tevinter outrage that a Southern Circle did not pamper you and give you free rein to abuse magic as you saw fit!"

"Ha," Rhodri flashed a sharp canine as she curled her lip. "That's what it is, is it? You don't think it might be because you're not fit to be in a confined space with vulnerable people?"

"You see!" Greagoir threw a pointed finger at her. "I was conscripted on lies!"

"You were not," she said coldly. "Duncan was conscripted because he murdered a Warden. He conscripted me while under the impression I had aided and abetted the escape of a blood mage, and he also conscripted a highwayman. There are heroes among the Wardens to be sure," she gestured at a gob-smacked Alistair, "but most of us are highly undesirable, and you belong to that majority."

She rolled her shoulders back, a furrow etched into her brow. Her voice dropped low, "I taught sixty-three students over ten years, and at your hands, thirty-nine committed suicide. You slaughtered another fourteen, ten of them during Uldred's possession, forced seven into Tranquility. I'm yet to find out what happened to another three." She jabbed a finger into Greagoir's chest. "Ten of my students still live! To say nothing of what happened to my peers and colleagues!"

"You speak as though I rejoice over their deaths," Greagoir barked. "I did what was expected of me to keep the Fereldan people safe, and I most certainly did not drive anyone to suicide!"

"OH, YES YOU DID!" Rhodri roared, her face reddening from the effort. "I witnessed you allowing your underlings to do whatever they saw fit to my people, and the concerns I raised with you were always dismissed. Punished. You knew precisely what you were doing! Nothing ever changed!"

Her nose wrinkled in a snarl. "Children are as resilient as weeds. Do you have any idea how hard you have to try to make one want to die? DO YOU?" She jabbed him in the chest again. "Of course you do. Of course you fucking do! You know it thirty-nine times over! You have the blood of hundreds of my people on your hands!"

Greagoir let out a long, low groan. "Listen to yourself, the way you talk about them. ' Your people.' Still you carry that magocratic delusion that every person you choose becomes a member of the freakish Callistus dynasty–"

The reaction was coming from leagues away, and yet somehow Alistair had the gall to gasp when Rhodri's staff slammed into the Knight-Commander's elbow. The snap of the bone was barely distinguishable from the snap of the instrument, which lay now in two pieces on the ground.

Greagoir's agonised shout, however, stood out perfectly well. Zevran couldn't help but smile; injury looked so very becoming on the fellow.

Rhodri pointed a finger at him as he groaned and clutched his forearm, her lips curling enough to bare the edges of her teeth. "That," she said, "was for insulting my house."

The former Knight-Commander pulled a bright-red potion out of his pocket, uncorked it with a shaky thumb, and drank the entire thing down. A wave of colour came back into his paling cheeks, and brought with it a contemptuous smile.

"'For insulting your house,'" he echoed snidely. "I see. And yet I am accused of killing– how many of your apprentices did you think it was? Fifty-something? And I go unharmed for it." Greagoir scoffed. "Well, isn't that a grand summary of Rhodri Amell and her regard for 'her people'--"

"No-no-no– Rhodri, DON'T–!"

Alistair's encouragements of cessation had come, Zevran presumed, at least a decade too late. By that time, the Warden had already tackled Greagoir to the ground (in much the same way she had taken down Zevran's jailors, he noted with an unwanted jitter) and was two punches to the face in. Credit where it was due to Rhodri, Greagoir had not taken the attack lying down (so to speak); he had administered a knee to the gut that Rhodri had taken without so much as a wince, never mind lose any speed.

The scrabbling feeling in his belly persisted; Zevran decided to credit it as excitement for the first fisticuff he'd seen in a while and left it at that. Stifling a delighted snicker, he pulled Alistair back as the Templar made to separate the brawling pair. The temptation to intervene in some fashion was understandable; Maker knew Zevran was itching to deliver a swift kick to the kidney to Greagoir for that punch to Rhodri's mouth, but of course, it was not their place to do so.

"I wouldn't, my friend," Zevran said delicately. "I think this is necessary to clear the air."

Alistair wrenched Zevran's hands off him. "Bullshit! She's disfiguring him– RHODRI, DON'T HEAL HIM AND START UP AGAIN!"

Zevran, unable to resist himself, cackled loudly. "Ooh, you can get more punches in that way! A wise choice, my dear Grey Warden!" His laugh persisted even as Alistair shoved him hard enough to send him stumbling.

The (slightly) taller Grey Warden, now unencumbered by Zevran, took hold of Rhodri's arms and pulled her off Greagoir.

"Stop it– look at me!" he barked at her. "Stop it! You can't act like this. Either kill him, or make use of him as a recruit. Don't beat him nine-tenths dead and heal him enough to do it again! You pick one or the other, right now!"

Rhodri, now drenched in sweat and sporting a black eye and bleeding lip, straightened up and dusted her robes off. She turned to Alistair and smiled weakly.

"Thank you, amicus," she said with a nod. "You're right, of course. It doesn't do to forget one's duties, and I appreciate you reminding me."

With a wave of her hand, Greagoir was healed, and her lip curled again. "Get up, Warden-Recruit. Now."

Greagoir, who appeared to have very little to say for himself at this point beyond his decidedly malevolent-looking scowl, gingerly climbed to his feet.

"Now," she said again, "because I have a feeling that losing your title has dissuaded you from doing your job…" she wiped her thumb over the cut on her mouth, and smeared a streak of dark, viscous blood over Greagoir's cheek before he could knock her hand away.

She folded her arms. "Lesson one in Grey Warden affairs: Warden blood carries the Taint. If you contract the Taint, without aid you get Blight sickness and pose extreme danger to others. We haven't the resources to heal you, and I will not tell you if what I did has given you the Taint."

Greagoir's eyes widened. "Are you out of your mind?" he said in a near-shriek. "You might as well kill me now if I've been tainted! I could injure someone!"

"No need for concerns yet." Rhodri shook her head and pulled the map out of her satchel. "You can be saved, but you'll need to be put through the Joining. You'll have about two weeks before you're a danger to others. Not enough time to get to the Anderfels, but we can be flexible and send you to…" she traced her finger out to the north-west of the map. "Ah! Jader's Grey Warden facility is close. They can put you through the Joining there, and you'll continue to serve the Order under their instructions."

"You would banish me from my own country to serve the Orlesians?" Greagoir hissed through clenched teeth. "The humiliation never ends. I am nothing but a sacrificial pig to you!"

"I have already told you that the Grey Wardens are an apolitical organisation," Rhodri answered evenly. "Hence why you're no longer wearing Templar armour. Now, I understand there is a ferry to Jader leaving from Redcliffe today." She glanced over her shoulder, down the hill to where the ramshackle docks lined the water's edge and boats of all sizes floated like loose teeth. "In fact, that larger boat off to the right might well be the one we want…"

"I am aware of the Jader ferry–"

"Good." She nodded once. "Then clean off your face and let's get moving."

§

Tethered to the docks was a wooden ferry boat wide enough to choke off an estuary waited like a faithful dog. The line of people intending to board stretched triple the length of the dock, though it would have only been one length were the Fereldans not so imbued with the urge to put such distance between each other. They stood there in their own little microcosms pretending to be the only person in existence, clutching bags in one hand and their fare money in the other, and Zevran felt lonely enough to cringe just watching them.

The party joined the line. Rhodri, now showing no signs of the earlier fist-fight, stood at the front of the group with Greagoir (similarly unmarked but terribly dishevelled) to her right. Alistair and Zevran stuck close behind. It was hard to know if it was getting late or not; the sun was sinking, but that meant nothing these days. A sunset now might have been full early a month ago, but accepting the unevenness of the day-night cycle meant relinquishing the idea of normal, or even timekeeping. The sky was the colour of fresh apricots, and with all eyes on the thick, glowing light, the queue advanced in a gradual, staccato shuffle.

"I thought I told you to get rid of that," Rhodri's voice was low and seething.

Zevran's gaze alighted on a small wooden box in Greagoir's hand, no bigger than one of the boxes the nobles used to carry pens in. Greagoir frowned and held the box a little tighter.

"I need my philter, Amell," he hissed. "I cannot safely take my lyrium without it."

"Grey Wardens do not carry or bear the symbols of political organisations," she snapped. "I have told you this several times, and still you think you can flout our rules."

The line shuffled forward.

"And what of your earring, Warden?" Greagoir pointed at the snake in her ear. "I presume you consider yourself exempt from the rules owing to your nationality?"

"If you paid even a moment's attention to a culture other than your own," Rhodri replied haughtily, "you would know that the inauris drakonilla is a cultural symbol and only has political meaning when paired with at least one other visible item bearing the same animal. Any other items I possess cannot be seen." She put her hand out. "Give me the philter."

When Greagoir hesitated, Rhodri sighed and snatched the box out of his hand. A wince crossed her face; Greagoir smiled.

"Forgive me," he said silkily, "I thought you might not want to hold it when there is lyrium in the wood."

Rhodri held the box out so it hovered over the water. In an instant, the box was burned to ashes, and she let the remains fall into the lake, looking away as she healed her blistering hand.

Greagoir's nostrils flared. His hands bunched into fists, and there were small, ticking motions as his muscles drew him into the beginnings of a lunge.

Zevran's hand snatched Greagoir's collar before Alistair could finish 'Hey!'- ing, grip tightening until the bastard was half-garrotted. With a pull, Zevran forced the man to bend down until he was able to speak straight into Greagoir's ear.

"A most unwise move," he crooned gently. "I would reconsider, if I were you–"

"Zev?" Rhodri's voice was calm, and warm as praise as she turned back around. "Is Greagoir giving you any trouble?"

He smiled broadly. "Oh, I do not think he would be game to."

"Good. If you'll please release him for me, we need to put him on the boat– thank you." She nodded appreciatively, and once the man in front of them had hastened onto the ferry, she approached the captain, paid the fee, and put Greagoir onto the boat with hushed parting words that Zevran couldn't quite catch. Greagoir stalked away toward the bow without a backwards glance, and once the boat was unmoored and sailing away, the three of them shared a collective sigh.

"That was disturbing, Rhod," Alistair said eventually. "What happened today."

Rhodri took this with a nod. "I'm sure it was," she conceded. "Was it as disturbing as what Greagoir caused in the Tower, though?"

"Of course not. But it was still awful."

"Mmm." She sighed. "I'm not sure if this puts it into perspective or not, but nineteen punches and two weeks of fearing for your life was what luckier mages got for trying to stop a Templar from beating a Tranquil mage." Rhodri looked at him sadly. "Greagoir has allowed, and personally administered, far worse than any of what he got today."

Alistair winced. "... I've heard about things like that happening. Sorry, I…" he trailed off and shook his head. "It was just awful."

Silence settled as the three of them glanced at the lake, where the Circle Tower stood in the distance like a pin rising from a mirror. Plumes of smoke hung around the spires, reaching into the sky in heavy, thick fingers.

Rhodri sighed again. "It was awful," she agreed after a moment. "But I think it's even more awful that Greagoir did what he did and believed he was doing the right thing. His duty was to the Fereldan people, and to him, we were never people. Even my children were nothing but an irredeemable danger who weren't worth the effort to save from a violent death.

"I realised when you pulled me off Greagoir that there was nothing, no suffering I could put him through, that would force him to start comprehending the enormity of what he's done." Her jaw clenched briefly. "He'll think himself a hero to his dying breath, no doubt about it. And my people will go on finding their apprentices and peers hanging by their necks from the rail of their bunk beds until nobody remembers him or his underlings."

Alistair sniffled and swallowed. He reached out a hand to her and then appeared to think better of it, pulling back before Rhodri could pick up the movement in her periphery.

"It's… so sad, Rhod," he said quietly. "The Tower and everything."

"Yes." Rhodri nodded. "In Tevene, we call something like that 'perditus pernicium.'" Without offering any explanation as to what a perditus pernicium was, she looked away from the lake and gestured up the hill. "I can't row back today. I need to sleep. Can we please go to see Bella and ask for a room?"

Zevran was already nodding by the time Alistair had turned to him with a pre-prepared glare, and he almost smirked as it melted away.

Alistair quickly abandoned his surveillance of Zevran's behaviour to nod at Rhodri. He smiled weakly and nodded at the hill awaiting them. "Good idea. Let's go."