"… Rhod?" Alistair said her name with the cautiousness of someone waking a bear. "There's… something wedding-related I'm curious about now."

Rhodri smiled, her eyes gleaming. "Oh-h-h," her hands– momentarily, before she caught herself doing it– drummed against her thighs. "Have you and Leliana changed your mind about marrying? I know we only left the topic a few moments ago, but it's never too soon to–"

"No, no," he waved his hands like he was trying to flag a ship down, and Leliana got a worried look again. "Not us, not us!"

"Ah." She deflated, if only slightly. "Ah, well. I suppose there need not be a wedding to have cake, sic?"

"Erm… yeah, definitely." He blinked. "Anyway, that thing you said about marrying someone you don't like…"

"Mm? It's perfectly true," Rhodri said with a nod. "Affairs can only be so distracting, see? At some point or another, you need to see your spouse."

"... Right. So Tevinters are, erm… expected to marry someone they don't love, or even like?"

Rhodri shrugged. "It happens often enough."

"Will youhave to?"

Zevran decided, before the panic could decide for him, that he was listening as intently as he usually did to group conversations. If he was paying closer attention now, it was quite simply because he was paying attention to the fact that he was paying attention, which increased the rate of attention paid exponentially. It was inevitable.

Besides, if she ended up in a marriage to some contemptuous oaf, who was to say she couldn't have her affair with Zevran? Plenty of rich Tevinters had their way with handsome elves– behind closed doors, of course. And Zevran was a man who dwelled in the shadows. It was the perfect set-up. He would have to bring up the idea with Rhodri later.

Rhodri hummed thoughtfully. "I mustmarry, and fairly soon. That's non-negotiable if I want to be the heir, which I do. I'm happy enough to do it. But Tata has always said I can marry anyone I like, so long as it isn't a woman." She wobbled her head a little. "I never bothered looking, though, so I'll probably have him find me someone once I go back to Tevinter."

Alistair's eyes (and Leliana's now, too) were like dinner plates. "You… really don't mind if he puts you with someone you're not in love with?"

"It's not so unthinkable in Tevinter. The point of marriage for us is to merge two households, create new family connections, make children. Dozens of people are affected by it, so whether two people are romantically tied…" she shrugged. "It's not so relevant. No strong family is built on throbbing hearts. The one with similar values, who will work with you and not against you, that is the spouse who will bring you through life in one piece."

He blinked. "I… well, I s'pose it's good to be with someone like-minded, but forever's a long time to be stuck with someone you don't feel anything for." Alistair shook his head. "It just sounds like Tevinter parents don't give a damn how you feel, so long as the marriage suits everyone else."

Rhodri raised an eyebrow. "I didn't say that, did I? Most parents look for someone they know we'll get along with, and we're usually listened to if we veto their choice. Some parents choose the most politically advantageous person, certainly, but I think most are very considerate when matchmaking." She chuckled, "Do Fereldan parents let you marry someone who is patently bad for you and your household, just because you're in love with them?"

"Well– well it's their choice, isn't it?" Alistair blustered. "And what if it turns out they're wrong, and you're a perfect match?"

Rhodri shrugged. "What if it turns out your mother and father chose a good partner for you, despite your initial misgivings? No system is perfect, I don't think. Many Tevinters are in strong but romanceless marriages and pursue affairs to plug the gap. Many Fereldans go to pieces four years into the marriage because the passion has faded and the true incompatibility can no longer be ignored. Which sounds worse to you?"

"Both sound pretty awful to me, to be honest," Alistair winced a little. "I hope I don't end up in either one."

Rhodri gave a good-natured laugh. "Let's hope you marry someone perfect for you, then. For me, I'll be extremely pleased if my husband and I are friendly and we raise plenty of happy children together." She rubbed her hands together and grinned, adding, "Ideally in the not-too-distant future!"

"Maker's breath…" Alistair shook his head.

She laughed again. "Definitelydon't do it our way, amicus, if that's how you feel, but most of us are satisfied. Stick with your romance, sic?"

Alistair sighed. "You know what, I think I'd better…"

Zevran couldn't help but ponder the curious fact that, going by Rhodri's standards, he was a suitable marriage candidate. Her father's sole criterion was no women, and Zevran was a man– and that seemed unlikely to change. He and Rhodri got along well, the two of them, and there were certainly worse ways to spend life than rearing a cheerful brood of children in good company. After all, life did not begin and end with oneself, and it would be quite the shame not to pass good looks and charm of his level on to the next generation. Who would be able to resist a fat little infant– or a league of them, even, with a winning smile and bright grey eyes? No-one, that's who.

In all, it was arguable that if Rhodri hadn't accidentally omitted other requirements issued by herself or her father– no elves, no assassins (even if not actively trying to murder her in particular), no Crows, no people with no notable families… well, it meant they two could– in theory, of course– make a good fist of it together.

And that was really all there was to the thought. There was no need for panic to creep back in and accuse him of feeding some sort of hope that only led to danger for all concerned. His had been a perfectly sensible notion, and really, it was well to have considered it. Indeed, what might have occurred if Rhodri happened upon the idea herself later and brought it up? Had he not mulled it over himself, he would have been caught by surprise, and what then?

No, it was perfectly reasonable. A sensible marriage, unlikely as it was to occur. Were it to happen, though, Zevran would prove himself a capable father, and whatever needs Rhodri might have in the capacity of a spouse would no doubt be easily met. And marriage would bring the benefit of permanently securing a lifetime away from the Crows!

Which she has already guaranteed, without wanting marriage or children from you.

Zevran's fingertips went cold. Even if that were the case, idly pondering the concept of being legally bound and with offspring wasn't so dangerous, surely. Not when there wasn't any emotional attachment required– Rhodri explicitly said there wasn't. Any fool could see this was purely practical.

But why had he even entertained the thought?

He could have laughed as the answer hit him– he nearly did, in fact. It was so very obvious: why did anyone think of those sorts of things? Sex, of course. Encouraged in marriage, and a necessary step in procreation. A natural, healthy impulse if ever there was one, and after Maker-knew-how-many months without so much as a wet dream, it was no doubt a sign that that part of him was ready to be brought out of dormancy. Emotional attachment indeed! Why would there be any risk of that when Zevran was obviously incapable of it anyway?

He sighed with relief. All that fluster for nothing. This was why it was well not to lose one's head and read too much into flitting fancies, when it all invariably came back to the simple and the obvious.

Zevran smiled to himself and pondered the going rates in Denerim brothels.

§

There was something terribly, deeply filthy about forests. Perhaps it was the fact that the only thing separating the foot from a layer of dirt going all the way down to the core of the planet was grass. Hair scarcely separated skin from whatever was touching it; why would grass be any better?

The answer, of course, was that it wasn't any better, and that dirt in all its states– dust, silt, mud– would plague Zevran and his gear for the rest of his days.

And it wasn't as though Zevran was a snob. No, indeed, he had eked out an existence in some of the most squalid slums imaginable, but he took permanent solace in the fact that once the mould and bodily byproducts and other mysterious filth had been scrubbed away, the walls and floors beneath were perfectly sanitary. And they kept the worst of the elements away. The outdoors didn't have a leg to stand on in that regard.

"I do not suppose there is any way we could tempt the Dalish to come to us, is there?" he croaked miserably as he took in the endless, uninterrupted stretch of trees ahead. "Surely they would benefit from a brief stay on the outskirts of a town. I am beginning to forget what buildings look like."

"Zevran," Rhodri said gently, raising an eyebrow at him, "we passed a hamlet shortly after lunch, and we haven't gone more than twenty paces from the Imperial Highway– the heavily paved Imperial Highway," she added with a chuckle, "since leaving Denerim."

From behind him, Alistair scoffed and Leliana giggled, and Zevran was quite sure he had heard Morrigan and Wynne rolling their eyes. He heaved a sigh and kicked a nearby rock.

"Ah," Rhodri clucked her tongue sympathetically. "You are not enjoying the fresh air?"

"It smells like fresh dirt," he sulked. "And my boots, they are dusty."

He glanced up in time to see Rhodri's expression go suspiciously neutral. Glazed, even. A small vein was rapidly gaining prominence on one side of her head.

"Ah," she said again after a moment. "The ground is too dry, is it?"

"My boots speak for themselves," he lamented, kicking one shod foot up indicatively as he walked.

"Is Antiva not dusty, Zevran?" Leliana asked through a smile he could hear.

He sighed and turned around, walking backwards as he faced the party. "Not my Antiva City," he returned, permitting tenderness to creep into his voice. After all, there was no shame in loving one's country.

"Perhaps out there in the Drylands there is dust," he waved a hand dismissively in the direction he guessed the Drylands to lie. "And the sun burns hot in Antiva City, to be sure, and everything dries out quickly, but it almost always storms in the afternoon. Big, heavy rains that wash away all the dirt, and so the next day starts fresh." He kissed his fingers. "You could eat your breakfast off the ground, it is so clean."

Amid the doubtful looks from the Fereldans, a nostalgic-sounding sigh issued from Rhodri and, to Zevran's intense surprise, a hint of a smile flickered over Sten's face as well.

"You paint a very romantic picture, mon râleur, I must say," Leliana chuckled. "But I do not think all that water would be very welcome to the people who end up flooded with it."

Zevran beamed. "You flatter me, dear lady. If an Orlesian calls me a complainer, then I must be very good at it."

"Yes, you are," Rhodri chimed in cheerfully, and he, Leliana, and Alistair snorted in unison.

"It's true," Alistair added, somewhat less blithely than the Warden. "You could complain for Antiva."

"Oh, now the praise is going to my head," Zevran cackled. "You'll find I am nowhere near as talented as my countrymen in that regard, but I am a suitable enough representative in the South. We Northerners complain like we are getting paid to do it!"

"He isn't joking," Rhodri said over her shoulder when Alistair raised an eyebrow. "Tevinters, Antivans, and Orlesians are all born whiners. It's good for the health."

"Good for the–?"

"Oh, yes," Leliana linked arms with Alistair and smiled up at him. "If you let your troubles bottle up in you, you'll fall over dead at some point."

Alistair's eyes widened. "Is… is that true? I mean, really true, not some old wives' tale."

There was a clamour as the Orlesian, the Antivan, and the Tevinter all made to vigorously impart how many people they had seen or– and the numbers were far higher here– heard of expiring from an acute lack of complaints and the complications thereof.

Leliana declared that she had witnessed a handful of stiff-lipped Orlesian nobles die suddenly and violently as all their complaints consumed them at once, a harsh result from years of playing the Grand Game a little too well. And Zevran, well. How many times had he been given a mark who had made a point of not complaining to anyone, and then, in a moment of urgency, blurted the wrong details to the wrong person? Their deaths, after all, weren't really caused by Zevran; he was nothing more than the last sentence in the book, when it all boiled down to it. The true result in such deaths always lay a few chapters back.

"In fact," Rhodri announced after relaying her own anecdotal evidence, "some three years ago, my mother told me that there was research from the University of Orlais, warning of the dangers of not complaining enough!"

"Mmm!" Leliana nodded vehemently. "I think I heard about that from a friend. An especially big problem long-term, is it not?"

Rhodri nodded gravely. "It is. The constant discomfort imbalances the four humours, you see Alistair, and then over time places a great strain on the organs. Then one day," she snapped her fingers, "something gives out, and that's the end of you."

Zevran clenched a hand victoriously. "HA! I knew it!" he cried. "I said it to Taliesen often enough! 'Mark my words,' I would say to him, 'scholars will find it is bad for the humours!' Too much of the biles. He called me a fool, but who is the fool now, I ask you? Who?"

"Not you!" Rhodri said in a near-shout, grinning at him like the victory had been her own. Leliana and Alistair started to laugh, and everyone else rolled their eyes. Zevran's chest swelled until it was fit to burst.

He swivelled on his heel to face the front again, his long-forgotten dusty boots all the way down on the ground while his head was up and up and up, past the treetops and clipping through the clouds. His laughter rang like bells and his voice came from his chest, "Not me!"

Oh yes, him. Yes him, coming back to them again and again with his hands out like a dog begging for scraps. It was wrong and he knew it, and there was no escaping knowing it.

Zevran breathed through the stopper in his lungs, forced the air in until there was no chance of them collapsing. His fingertips were tingling.

Ah, but Leliana had asked him a question! Stale by now, but still unanswered. He seized it anyway.

"Ah, and about the flooding, Leliana," he waved a hand with all the nonchalance he could muster, "we have gutters. Big ones, deep, on the side of the paths and the paths are all angled just a little, so that the rain runs straight into these gutters. You should see how many people fall in those things and break something. Oh!" He chuckled. "Just dreadful."

The Chantry Sister took in this information with a hum, and made another when Rhodri vouched for a similar system in her own country.

"But where does it go then?" she asked after a moment. "Who gets flooded at the end of all that?"

"Oh, no-one." Zevran smirked. "All those gutters drain into an enormous reservoir, where we bottle the water up and sell it to the Orlesians."

Everything seemed to happen at once: Rhodri laughed so hard she sank to her knees; Leliana cursed Zevran; Alistair gave a surprised squeak. What the others did was beyond Zevran's notice or care, not least when several fat, icy drops of rain plummeted into his hair. Through deep, body-wracking guffaws, and as of a few moments later thick sheets of torrential rain, the Warden directed them into the canopy for the fastest camp set-up in existence.

§

"You really ought to get a move on, you know, Zevran."

Zevran looked up at Leliana over the potato he was peeling. While everyone else went about setting up camp amid the downpour, they were tasked with making the supper together, and it had to be said: Leliana wasn't making that much more headway with the carrots she'd been dicing.

He gave her a flourished inclination of the head anyway. "Ah, forgive me! I was overcome by your radiant beauty. Shall I move and sit in the rain so I am not distracted while I work?"

She snorted. "You know perfectly well I'm not talking about potatoes."

"Oh?" He waggled his brows, already dreading wherever this was headed. "You are being a little ambiguous, my dear. I suppose I will simply have to live my life at twice the speed to ensure you are not disappointed. Will that do?"

"Now, now," she smirked at him. "No need to be flippant. All I'm saying is Rhodri won't be on the market for much longer, and once she's taken, I don't think she'll have much time for the affairs she speaks of."

Zevran allowed himself a single, peevish sigh. "Are you still on about this, woman?"

Leliana chuckled. "And why not, hmm? You're still her shadow, still blushing up to your ears when she so much as smiles in your direction. And still not saying a word to her about it!"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he diced the potato and tossed it into the water.

"Of course you don't." Leliana threw him a shit-eating grin and ate a piece of carrot. "I didn't see you trip over your feet the other day to get over to Rhodri when she realised you weren't walking beside her. Not at all."

Zevran's stomach threatened to escape via his bellybutton; it took two goes before he had tensed it back into place. "There was a rock in the road."

"Mm-hmm. And I suppose there was another rock right after that when she said that it didn't feel right without you walking next to her, no?"

"It is possible, my dear lady, to trip for more than one step," he said brusquely, and snatched another potato from the bowl.

From his periphery, Leliana rolled her eyes. "I don't see why you don't just make a move. Even if she's not interested, she'll be flattered, and you can move on." She winked, "Of course, the best case scenario is much more likely, and then we'll have one each."

Zevran raised an eyebrow. "One what?"

"Oh, Zevran," Leliana lamented. "Keep up, darling. One Warden each! Think of it! We could compare notes, no?" She reached an elbow up and dug it into his ribs with another, much more lascivious wink.

He tsked and gave her a withering look. "Does your gentleman caller know you are encouraging 'The Assassin' to seduce the Warden? Amid her grief?"

"Pish tosh," she waved a hand airily. "Obviously you aren't about to kill her. If you were, you'd have done it already. And as for the grief, it's been two months now. Didn't she go to a brothel last month? Besides, if she doesn't want to, all she need do is decline. She'd take it as a compliment, even if she weren't interested."

"Hah. Well, I'm glad someone is being sensible, at least."

"Unlike you!" Leliana nudged him again. "Come on, I want to see if it's true what they say about Grey Wardens' endurance."

Zevran raised an eyebrow, privately pondering if said endurance reflected the number of prostitutes Rhodri took into that little room with her. "I am surprised you think it would be prudent to talk of such things given how private our dear Warden is."

"Hah. I know for a fact that Rhodri and Alistair talk to each other about just about anything going on between their legs." Leliana smirked as the potato in Zevran's hands slipped free, and he barely caught it before it landed in the mud. "Interested, are we?"

"My dear woman," he chuckled weakly, dicing the potato as quickly as he dared, "what on earth were you doing to pick up information like that?"

"Oh, nothing sinister. Just accidental overhearings. Why do you think those two insist on going to chop firewood together, hmm?"

Zevran silently cursed Leliana and the curiosity her remarks were imbuing. "... Ah. Not to exercise brute strength for the good of the party, then."

"That too, of course! But enough of that," she waved a hand. "My point is that they confide in each other about these things. I don't doubt Alistair will confide in her once we get around to that, as well. And what problem is it?"

"No problem," Zevran shook his head quickly. "It is good to have a third party opinion about these things, I think. I am surprised to see a Fereldan doing it, but well and good."

Leliana snorted. "And don't I deserve someone to confide in?"

"Naturally."

"There, see? And if you hurry up and get to business, she'll have Alistair, and you'll have me. Is that not a fair deal?"

"... I am astonished we are discussing this, but yes, I suppose it is."

She clucked her tongue. "Come on. Surely the Antivan seducer isn't a prude beneath all that salaciousness."

He gave a wan smile. "Perhaps you have gone where even I dare not follow."

"And where is it I've gone, hmm?" Leliana arched a brow at him. "Gentle encouragement to flirt with someone who'd suit you well? What a wicked, sinful place that is!"

"Hah. Never mind the other remarks, then?"

The good Sister smiled warmly. "Exactly. We need not talk about anything, if you don't like, but my original point still stands. She's fond of you, no? I think perhaps not quite aware how fond she is yet, but with the right kind of suggestion, I think she'll wake up to herself."

Leliana winked, apparently blissfully unaware that Zevran's life essence was haemorrhaging out of him, and added, "Take it from me, though: don't be subtle about it, otherwise you'll be in for a long wait– ah, here comes the firewood!"

Beaming now, Leliana rose to her feet and offered all manner of stomach-turning compliments to a sopping-wet Alistair, who grinned and reddened like a sunburnt child as he set his armful of wood on the ground. Rhodri, who was equally drenched (and Zevran was not looking at anything below her neck or even vaguely considering Leliana's suggestion of what she and Alistair might have been discussing while chopping the firewood), deposited her own load next to his and straightened up. She and Alistair shared a look, the latter suddenly becoming far more nervous than the former.

"Go," she nudged him. "I'll handle the firewood. Go on."

Alistair's face was purpling, but he took the instruction with a nod. "Right. Erm… Leli, are you free for a moment?"

The man making the request almost jumped as Leliana touched his forearm, and when she had declared that she was and carefully bent his arm so that her hand hung off it, Alistair took his cue and escorted her away. With his back to them, a single rose with signs of thumbing on some of the petals could be seen sticking out of his back pocket, bobbing a little with each step he took.

By the time Zevran had looked away, Rhodri was already industriously wicking the moisture out of each piece of wood, sending small clouds of moisture into the chilly night air. Not of a mind to interrupt her, or that fetching little frown of concentration she was sporting, he picked up another potato and returned to work. It wasn't as though there was any hurry for him to do this flirtation Leliana spoke of– indeed, it wasn't even compulsory. No, there was nothing to do for the moment but enjoy the silence and attend to the task at hand, and so he did.

Right up until Leliana's astonished yowl tore through the camp: "SO YOU'RE THE ONE WHO PICKED MY PROPHETIC ROSE!"

A deeply-absorbed Rhodri didn't notice the noise, even when Zevran– quite ungracefully– snorted. If Leliana's proposal today was anything to go by, no doubt he'd have all the dramatic details before the night's end, whether he wanted to or not.

And what sin was there in being content enough to know? Only fools wished to be unaware of the goings-on around them. Zevran could cope with the accusations of nosy fishwifery that came with being someone who knew things.

He took another potato.

§

In the heart of the forest, after dinner, Zevran sat by the lake with his poisons belt open and vials ready for re-filling. It was a simple enough task, but a damned fiddly one, and best carried out with close access to fresh water lest an errant drop find its way to him and require immediate washing-off.

From somewhere back and to his left, behind the enormous rock he was leaning against, Rhodri's voice carried. He glanced over his shoulder, but upon seeing no trace of her, he returned to work.

"We need to leave this until I can get a new staff, Wynne. Our progress is minimal in the current conditions."

"Hm," Wynne said. "If you are inclined to use your staves as a bludgeon, Warden Amell, I think it may be well for you to adjust to spellcasting without."

Rhodri scoffed . "There are few people so single-handedly responsible for the murder of my students and peers as the one I hit, and fewer still who would think it clever to insult my house on top of that."

Wynne gave an unimpressed-sounding little harrumph. "And what if you don't find another staff? The Wonders of Thedas had nothing free of lyrium. Will you simply give away the training altogether?"

"You seem not to have noticed, Madam," she said coldly, "but since leaving the Tower, I have only cast imperfectly during our training sessions. Is it so unthinkable that when you have me vividly picture my slaughtered children while unspent mana burns me from palms to fingertips, that I falter? The pain is excruciating! How much must I be expected to suffer in the name of nominal progress?"

Zevran paused, guts roiling. Evidently, this conversation was not for his ears, but the situation put him in a difficult position. Standing up and announcing his presence now would see him accused of eavesdropping, which he certainly was not doing. He had heard things, to be sure, but keen elven hearing was hardly a moral failing.

And he couldn't gather up all his things and run away, either, not when all of his things were carefully spread out on the ground. It would take longer than a round of Wicked Grace to clear up. Perhaps he could emerge from behind the rock, stab Wynne, and thus end all possibility of the conversation continuing. He would do his utmost to look remorseful if Rhodri scolded him for the act.

Oh, now he was being ridiculous. There was nothing to do but keep an ear out for the end of the conversation while he worked, and that was precisely what Zevran resolved to do.

"How much you should suffer is for you to decide," Wynne replied. "How keen are you to avoid a recurrence of what happened when we were fighting Uldred? That fireball could have killed someone."

"A recurrence is highly unlikely."

"You cannot be sure of that."

"I can, actually. Uldred and Greagoir are gone, and if I may be a little grim here, they saw to it that I have almost no children or peers left now. Any would-be mass killer will be terribly disappointed in Kinloch Hold's current offering."

"Your flippancy does you no credit, Warden. You know that isn't what I mean by a recurrence."

Rhodri groaned irritably. "What do you mean, then, Wynne? The circumstances are different here. My party consists of proficient adults, and I'm not two weeks away if they need my help."

"And suppose you were separated from them and they were incapacitated? Some of them killed? What then?" Zevran could practically hear Wynne standing with arms akimbo as she spoke.

Rhodri sighed. "I would give my very best efforts to protect them, as I always do."

"Well, to be truthful, Warden Amell, I think that as it stands, your best is insufficient, and you owe it to your party members to improve where you may. How you will stop a Blight when you cannot keep your temper enough to safely cast a fireball is beyond me. You cannot even resist the urge to rock and slap your legs like a lunatic, even when it obviously disturbs others. You are far, far too self-indulgent. In fact, if I may be blunt, I find myself wondering what persuaded Irving to apprentice you at all."

Silence fell. Zevran caught his fists clenching rather than adding the deathroot to vial number five, and relaxed them. And, because he was unable to resist, he threw a quick prayer heavenwards that the lack of noise was due to Rhodri having frozen Wynne to death, only to find his hopes dashed when the latter prompted the former with a 'Hmm?'

"If you consider yourself a better leader, Madam," Rhodri said stiffly, "you're more than welcome to say it to the rest of the party and take it to a vote. If you're chosen, I will stand down without trouble."

"I'm not interested in leading," Wynne replied plainly. "I want you to put this petulance behind you and act like the leader everyone thinks you are. Control your emotions. Cast spells properly. Adapt to your circumstances. Exercise a little discipline once in a while." The heel of a boot squeaked as it spun on the wet grass. "I think we should train in the mornings as well, ideally starting tomorrow. Good night to you, Warden Amell."

Only one set of footfalls reached his ears, and they didn't match Rhodri's gait. They went around behind him, looping back toward the camp. Zevran glanced behind him and caught sight of Wynne shaking her head as she marched back toward the tents. She reached her own and, as she turned and stepped inside, caught him watching her. Perhaps he had meant her to, perhaps not, but the flash of anger searing his guts upon meeting her eyes had been entirely unplanned. They stayed like that, him staring her down and her watching back haughtily for what felt like hours. When he finally remembered to, Zevran gave her a smile that no amount of self-flagellation could force to touch his eyes. Unease crept into Wynne's face, and it tasted sweeter than a swig of honey. She disappeared into her tent, and Zevran called it a victory.

From his right, Rhodri heaved a sigh and a thrill surged through his spine and out to his fingertips as her footfalls drew nearer. Zevran looked up as the Warden came into view around the rock and caught him sitting there with his hazardous things spread out in front of him like a Feastday arrangement.

Rhodri stopped dead. Zevran pinned on an ineffectual smile that faltered as soon as he caught the shame creeping into her own face. He rose to his feet, carefully and slowly as he could manage, but she still watched on like he was going to belt her.

Such displays were nothing new to him. There was always the odd mark who cottoned on earlier than expected, watched him for the first time with the appropriate level of fear given the circumstances they'd allowed themselves to be eased into. The difficulty, of course, was that he had always resolved their fear by making it come true– and thus expedited their journey to that next place, where such feelings were either nonexistent or, by that point, unnecessary.

Zevran racked his brains for a solution that didn't involve murder, only to pause as Rhodri spoke in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

"You heard all that," she rasped.

With a wince he didn't quite manage to stifle, he nodded once and half-wished he hadn't as Rhodri hung her head, her eyes fixed on the ground.

What was there to say to that? An apology? A distraction by means of a filthy poem? Offering a helpful, 'Do try not to be so ashamed of yourself?' What, for heaven's sake?

Nothing came to him, and when the silence grew suffocating, Zevran slipped off his gloves and reached a hand out toward her. A friendly pat to the arm, a more than suitable response, and far less intimate than other things he had once used to put his marks at ease. Rhodri's eyes went onto the hand as it edged closer, her body tensing, and when he caught her eye and smiled, comprehension of some sort appeared to strike. She almost stumbled over herself to take the proffered hand, her long, warm fingers (and never the thumb) slipping under his and gently guiding his hand toward her.

Zevran's mouth nearly fell open, heat creeping into his ears as Rhodri bowed her head all the way down to where she held the back of his hand, and kissed it.

"Parce," she said, and kissed it again. "Parce, non dignus."

Have mercy, I am unworthy. Zevran knew of the apology from a book he'd stolen years ago, some dramatic stuff and nonsense shipped straight out of Minrathous. The book hadn't mentioned how to reply, particularly when an apology of any sort was not called for. And certainly, he wasn't in a fit state to speak or do much of anything beyond trying to keep himself from keeling over.

He would have to say something, though. It didn't do to just gape and go weak-kneed at a time like this (or at any time, really.) Before he could so much as croak out an 'ah...' Rhodri had released his hand and was walking away, pulling the hood of her robe over her head as she went.

The urge to follow was strong. To say something, do something– though what, precisely, Zevran couldn't imagine. That, and the fact that his feet were rooted to the ground, held him in place, rendering him as utterly useless as ever. He conceded defeat with a sigh and sat back down.

Something would have to change. It didn't do to have his protector consistently injured and ashamed of herself, especially unnecessarily. Kisses were best given for pleasure, not apology, and Maker knew misery had no place in peak performance.

Perhaps Leliana had a point after all. Flirtation lightened the hearts of all sorts of people, eased their burdens and puffed up their egos a little. And Rhodri was a proud person, there was no doubt about it. Proud like a show horse. The right sort of remark could well lift her spirits like nothing else, restoring that crucial sense of self. Not to mention the ways one could reinflate that pride between the sheets if she accepted! A worthy task, and it was indisputable that Zevran, master seducer and verifiable satisfier of all and sundry, was just the man for that very job. Once a little time had passed and the harshest parts of that distress had eased, the action would really begin.

With a pleased nod to himself, he turned back to vial number five, and to the other fourteen vials awaiting attention.