The silhouette of the tiny backwater that was the Arling of South Reach was one of the most welcome sights Zevran had seen. Between leaving the Brecilian Forest and coming to said backwater, Morrigan– who was already snippy from departing without Aneirin in tow– had eventually become overwhelmingly irritated, snapping and goading as much as the day was long. Alistair was the primary target, of course, but Wynne wasn't short on a snide remark.
This led, quite predictably, to widespread discontent. Rhodri was a perennially exhausted peacekeeper, and on more than one occasion, an enraged Leliana initiated a fistfight with Morrigan, obliging the alarmed Grey Wardens to dive in and separate the two ladies before serious injury could be inflicted to either party.
The cause of the witch's anger, Zevran had suspected, was in large part due to the contents of that grimoire belonging to her mother. And when Rhodri put out a call for volunteers to make a brief detour to the Korcari Wilds the day after the third barely-averted catfight, that suspicion was all but confirmed.
Naturally Zevran, the saint among men that he was, had thrown in. Everyone had, in fact, except for Wynne and Shale. Even Sten, who was disgusted at the prospect of every action not directly related to the pursuit of the Archdemon, didn't complain.
And so it was that the abbreviated party of Rhodri, Zevran, Leliana, Alistair, Sten, and the dog (for magical safety reasons, Morrigan stayed behind), marched their way into the wilderness and murdered Morrigan's mother. Flemeth had put up a terrible fight, even going so far as to transform into a High Dragon to try and fight them off. Futilely, of course, but Zevran considered it a valiant attempt all the same.
Rhodri and Alistair, however, didn't seem too pleased about the whole affair. They were evidently not so displeased that they couldn't bring themselves to bump off the woman, though, and that had to count for something.
"Just seems so rude, doesn't it," Alistair had panted as they stood over the smoking, scaly remains of Morrigan's mother. "After she rescued us like that."
A handful of minutes passed as Alistair then explained to Leliana, Sten, and Zevran of Flemeth's daring rescue of the two Wardens from the clutches of the Darkspawn during the battle at Ostagar. Trapped at the top of the Tower of Ishal, Rhodri and Alistair had been overwhelmed by a sudden onslaught of Darkspawn. Little was recalled from that point– Alistair had attempted further explanation of actions pointing to sacrificial heroism on Rhodri's part, only to be silenced by a look from the latter. The main thing, she emphasised, was that both of them were incapacitated, and Flemeth had swept them out of there in the nick of time and nursed them back to health. Questions of injuries necessitating such nursing were answered for Alistair, and brushed aside for Rhodri. Naturally.
"Like it or not," Rhodri sighed and shook her head, "Flemeth saved us, and she threatened the daughter she sent with us. We were left with no choice."
"I know," Alistair scuffed a boot on the ground. "I just wish there'd been a way to soften it a bit, you know?"
Rhodri frowned and nodded. "... Maybe we should have shown up with a gift. My goodness, this hindsight wisdom really is– why are you all laughing?"
But now, with their matricidal days behind them, the party was in that blessed little ditch that was South Reach. It was a dramatic change of scene, and to Zevran's mind that was cause for hilarity. And indeed, he succumbed to the hilarity when they stepped into the tiny market square, and the small cluster of handmade buildings and peppering of people flooded his senses like a bustling metropolis. The cause of this sudden oversensitivity, Zevran decided, was easily pinpointed to the extensive period traipsing through that dense, utterly filthy forest.
It came as a relief when the party unanimously elected to spend two days in the town to replenish their supplies and prepare for the weeks-long trek to the Circle. Even Morrigan, verifiable urbanophobe that she was, seemed amenable to the idea, a phenomenon Zevran never imagined he would witness.
Their lodgings were the only inn in South Reach– and the best option by far, as the landlady advised them while taking their coin. What the other options were, Zevran didn't dare ponder, but he had a sneaky feeling that the side of the road was one of them.
While he was unpacking his things in his own room, the sound of an audible gasp followed by a crash into the wall issued from next door– the room Rhodri was occupying. Said noises brought Zevran running with two knives drawn and his heart in his throat.
The door to Rhodri's room was slightly ajar, and Rhodri was stepping out into the hallway– fully intact, he noted with relief as he pulled up in front of her. Her face was screwed up in disgust.
Zevran froze; Rhodri saw him and then she froze, too. Her eyes went down to his knives, and before he could excuse himself and put them away, she spoke.
"Ah," she said. "So it was in your room, too, was it?" She bent down until they were eye-level, watching him seriously. "Did you touch it?"
He squinted, powerless to do otherwise. "Did I…?"
"Touch it, yes."
"... What particular 'it' is this, my Warden?"
"I don't know what it is, precisely," she said in a low, dark rumble, "but it's appalling. Absolutely disgusting."
Zevran took a moment to mentally rifle through his room for anything that might identify the unnamed appalling, disgusting thing. Was it upsetting in the sense of being physically repulsive, or was this a moral issue? In his experience, stays in Fereldan accommodation, which he'd learned the hard way had a Thedas-wide reputation for lacking cleanliness, were far more likely to be the former of these. The first inn he had ever stayed in in Ferelden, a wretched dive on the outskirts of Denerim, was so filthy that he had suspected the bedbugs to be infested with fleas. A lower low, one would never find.
Perhaps, though, it had indeed been found. If so, it was localised entirely to Rhodri's room, because in Zevran's recollection, his room was perfectly clean. In fact, with its lack of mould, pleasantly homely patchwork blanket on the bed, and even a little bunch of grapes on the pillow, Zevran's current lodgings were some of the nicest he'd had so far.
Whatever the issue was, though, he couldn't imagine. Deciding it was best to ask, Zevran shrugged and shook his head.
"I am afraid I do not follow," he said, and gestured at her door. "Might I take a look at this thing?"
Rhodri nodded, stopping him as she took hold of the doorknob. "Whatever you do," she whispered, "don't touch it. Don't even get too close to it. It might be contagious."
Zevran nodded and said a quick prayer before Rhodri carefully opened the door, bracing himself for mould and rot and possibly excreta and finding…
Nothing.
In fact, it looked exactly the same as his room, from the furniture down to the complimentary grapes and the quilt– though Zevran's had been green; Rhodri's blanket was mostly red.
He frowned and stepped inside, looking about carefully. Nothing untoward to be seen.
"Where, ah…?" he glanced up at Rhodri, who was glaring daggers at the bed.
She gestured towards the head-end of the bed and hissed a small stream of Tevene– something to do with forcing Greagoir, and only Greagoir, to sleep in here.
"There," she snarled. "Look at it, growing out of the pillow. Sordidissimus!"
"Eh?" Zevran shook his head, "Truly, Rhodri, I do not see anything but the gr– oh, no." He clapped a hand to his mouth as a noise tried to escape. It would have been a loud sound had he permitted it; Zevran was sure of that. Whether the noise was a despairing wail or an outburst of wild, hysterical laughter, however, was less clear.
In his defence, who could have expected it? Surely it was not possible that a Tevinter had never seen grapes before. The country was famed for its wine. The sweet red suavi variety, for example, favoured by nobles from all corners of Thedas, was produced exclusively in the Val Dorma region and easily fetched four thousand andris a bottle. Had she never heard of it? … Maker, had she looked at a wine bottle and simply assumed that the beverage had come from within? It was not as impossible as Zevran feared.
At this point, however, Rhodri remained unaware of what the offending fruit was, and Zevran took a breath, and then one more to calm himself, and spoke.
"My Warden," he said with all the evenness he could muster, "the thing on your pillow is fruit. A bunch of grapes– ah, you know of grapes?" His heart lightened considerably as comprehension dawned on her face.
"I've heard of them," she mumbled with a nod, and– carefully– moved closer to the grapes. "Irving told me grapes make wine."
"They do," he nodded. "You have never tried grapes before? Tevinter is famous for its wine, you know." He gestured at the cheerful-looking green bunch, "These are not for wine. Uva de mesa, we call them in Antivan… ah… 'table grapes,' perhaps Common calls them."
"Mmm." Rhodri hummed and clasped her hands behind her back. "There were never any grapes in our house in Tevinter. None that I saw, anyway. Only bigger fruits, like pomegranates." She shrugged. "There were fruit bowls all over the place, and these things are a good size for small children to choke on. Perhaps it was for their sake."
"None in the Circle, either?"
She shook her head.
"Hmm! Well," Zevran smiled broadly and swanned over to her, "let me assure you that you are in for a treat, my Warden! They are lovely and sweet. Very refreshing on a hot day."
His remark was accepted with a thoughtful nod.
"Well," she said after a moment, "I think we should give it a try, then." Rhodri took the bunch by the top and held them out to him. "Please, go ahead and take as many as you like."
Zevran chuckled. "I have a bunch in my room as well. They were very good, too. Ah, but if you insist–" (she had not insisted in the slightest) "then I'll have one."
He plucked one off and tossed it into his mouth, chewing it up with relish. "Oh. Perfect, my Warden." He nodded at her encouragingly. "Your turn."
"What a shape for a food," Rhodri mumbled as she picked a grape. She held it with two fingers up against the light coming in through the window and inspected it with a squint.
It was a funny thing, Zevran thought. In his line of work, he had often witnessed, or introduced people to new firsts. Some had never been kissed, others had never had good sex before. And, of course, it was every mark's first time being murdered. But a first grape? That was a new one.
Rhodri let out a low, suspicious hum as she applied a little pressure to the chosen grape. "It's squashy."
Oh, Maker preserve him.
"... Yes," he said carefully. "I believe that is why the winemakers like to crush them under their feet, no? If they were hard, surely it– oh, you did not know wine was made through stomping?"
Rhodri, who had nearly dropped the grape after hearing that, cleared her throat and shook her head. "Foot wine," she uttered, her voice dripping with disgust. "I had no idea that was… urgh."
He snickered. "Well, they do wash their feet before the stomping. Mostly, anyway, but I think the Orlesians probably do not mind if they don't– ah, I joke, I joke!" He held up his hands as Rhodri's mouth fell open. "The feet are very clean before they do that, otherwise the wine would explode in the barrels while fermenting."
"Hm," Rhodri said after a moment, looking somewhat unconvinced. "It didn't seem so far-fetched. I have had Orlesian cheese before, and it was dreadful. Would have paired beautifully with unwashed foot-wine, I'm sure." She shook her head and sighed. "Well, here goes. Your very good health, Zev."
Rhodri put the grape in her mouth, chewed once, and fell still.
"Oh," she gagged softly. "Oh, no."
Zevran's mouth fell open. "I don't believe this. A Tevinter, hating grapes? It is impossible, surely."
And it should have been, too, but her eyes were watering and her shoulders were starting to heave. She shook her head apologetically and spat the unfortunate grape into her hand.
"Forgive me," she choked. "Oh. It was so… wet. And it popped like a blister."
It felt like his turn to shake his head, if turns could be taken for such things. With a sigh, Zevran picked another grape off the bunch and ate it with relish. He shot a wink at Rhodri as she winced at him.
"Have no fear," he purred. "I am not suffering, I promise."
Rhodri went to the window and lobbed her grape out of it, sending it sailing up and over the neighbouring roof, and on to Maker-knew-where after that. Giving a very relieved-sounding sigh, she washed her hands in the basin on the commode, then poured Zevran a glass of water, and one for herself.
"If you like grapes," Rhodri paused and downed half her water, "then please, take the whole bunch with my blessing. Truly, I don't know if it was worse as a food, or as a disease."
He snorted and availed himself of the grapes, holding them like the prize that they were. "Ah, well," he said with a grin. "They say it is an ill wind that blows nobody any good, no?"
Rhodri glared at the grapes, and then went to her bed and flipped her pillow over with a flourish. "You're certainly right about the ill part," she grumbled.
Zevran somehow managed to make his tongue give a sympathetic cluck despite the logistical difficulties his huge smile posed.
"Poor Warden," he crooned. "Shall we do something to take your mind off the wicked fruit? A walk down to the market? Perhaps they have peanuts there."
Rhodri's eyes darkened– briefly, but unmistakably– and to his astonishment, she shook her head.
"I… no, but thank you," she said with a small, warm smile. She took her satchel from the nightstand and slung it over her shoulders. "I have some errands to run, and I'd better get on with them while it's still light out."
"Oh?" his eyebrows rose. "No trouble, no trouble. If there is work to be done, you can count on Zevran to be the extra set of hands you never knew you needed!" He pointed his nose at the wall separating their two rooms. "Give me but one moment to collect my things, and I will be ready for action, sí?"
"Oh, there's no need for that," Rhodri quickly held up her hands, looking positively appalled at the prospect. "No, you should rest. You work so hard, and it's well to take respite when you can get it."
Of course, that was fair, wasn't it? An ex-Crow who had barely done a hand's turn since joining the party lounged while the Warden worked. And if he tried to point that discrepancy out, it would undoubtedly be met with that forbearing smile and a, 'that's not for you to worry about.'
Ah, but what was he thinking? That sort of blunt, no-nonsense style of debating was far more suited to the Fereldan interlocutor, wasn't it, and Zevran was most certainly not one of those. What Antivan was simply lay their unadorned points on the table, as cold and factual as an autopsy? What Northerner in general did, even? No, the passionate Northerners tugged on the heartstrings as a matter of course, whether the topic was as prosaic as the counting of shelled peas, or an impassioned declaration of longing. And Rhodri, herself a proud Northerner, would recognise and respond to that communication that lay deep in her roots, and in the roots of all the people from the top end of Thedas. She would know it.
With renewed direction, Zevran summoned his biggest, saddest Antivan eyes and clasped his hands– and the grapes they were holding– behind his back.
"Ah," he said with a nod. "I cannot come with you, I see. Bene. But then who will lounge with me and play Wicked Grace?"
Zevran really needed to find someone else to do his thinking for him, because evidently he wasn't cut out for the job. Had he given himself even a moment to think of a reason not to use dramatics on a person who took dramatics seriously, he wouldn't have done the fool thing.
But that was by the by at that point. Rhodri was already visibly bruised and mid-apology as she crossed the room to where he stood. She reached out to him, and before Zevran could stop himself, he nodded and found himself snatched into an embrace that just about crushed the air out of him.
"No-no-no," she hushed quickly. Her fingers stroked even lines over his back, and he found himself at imminent risk of melting under the attention. And combusting from mortification. Apparently, these events need not occur independently of one another.
"No trouble Zev, I'll stay," Rhodri whispered, nodding. "It's all right, I'll handle the errands later. Thank you for telling me what you need, pretiotus. Always do that, sic?"
"Ah," Zevran croaked, his stomach plummeting into his feet. "No, no, forgive me, I was being a dramatic Northerner. We do that often in Antiva."
"Not at all," she murmured. "It's not dramatic to want to avoid loneliness–"
"No, truly– I thought I might simply be playful and ask you away from your work so you could also rest, see?"
Rhodri loosened her grip on him and pulled back enough to watch him inquiringly. Under the pressure of her searching look, he gave in with a sigh.
"It… struck me as a little unfair that you do errands while I rest," he relented, and added quickly, "but I know, of course, that it is not for me to interfere with your duties. Forgive me, I should have just left you to it."
Rhodri chuckled and nodded, letting him go. "It's nothing you need to worry about, it's true." She smiled. "You remind me of my brother, Owen, when you talk like that."
Zevran could have keeled over with relief; she always spoke highly of her four siblings, but anyone who listened to her for more than a minute knew that Owen occupied a particularly treasured spot in the Warden's heart. He was referred to variously as 'the sweetest boy in Tevinter,' and 'my heart's delight,' often more than his own name was used. In fact, any association with the young man had to be complimentary, and Zevran elected to take it as such.
Unable to resist fishing a little, he watched her with interest. "Mmm?"
"Oh, yes," she laughed. "He was often angry at our father because he thought I was treated unfairly. Because I was the heir, I wasn't allowed to cry, wasn't allowed to have possessions of my own, had to work late into the night… those sorts of things. He was outraged about it."
Zevran took note of the unbothered tone in Rhodri's voice, and of the dispute that might follow if he outright agreed with her brother's verdict, and made a point of making his shrug a noncommittal one. "I suppose if your siblings were free to avoid those things, it would seem unfair to see that denied to you."
Rhodri gave a conceding head-wobble. "No question. But it's a child's understanding of morality. People do not have the same roles in life. I am a parefamilias, and it is for me to look after and provide for the House. It seems a lot to shoulder, I know, but what Owen has never fully come to terms with is that my father's rules, unfair as they seemed, gave me the shoulders for it." She shrugged. "And it goes both ways, certainly. I can't imagine what it would be like to be Owen, or anyone else who isn't a parefamilias, but everyone has their own set of rights and responsibilities. Of course it'd be better if we were all given equal rights and responsbilities, and I want that change to come, but some situations don't allow for that yet. For now, the truth is that we need work together to meet each other's needs, so that we all flourish."
"And so what must one do to meet your needs, then, Rhodri?" Zevran asked.
Her eyebrows rose. "You're already doing it. You're honest with me, and you come to me if there is something you want or need." Rhodri dipped her head down, watching him seriously now. "If you need me to stay with you for now, I will. I can handle these errands tonight once you're sleeping."
That was hardly an improvement. He shook his head hastily, "No, no. Please, go and do what you must." He paused and added, in a last-ditch attempt at bargaining, "but perhaps you might pause to come back for dinner?"
She smiled at Zevran. Broadly, warmly, with just a hint of resoluteness around the edges, more than enough to make his chest flare with a gentle heat of its own.
"I will," she guaranteed. "I'll come back and eat beside you, sic?"
He chewed on his lip for reasons unclear to him, and nodded. "I'll make sure there is a double portion waiting for you."
"You're good to me, Zev." She straightened up now, with an undeniable creep of colour in her cheeks. "Right. Well, I should go. You don't have to leave my room, if you don't want. Help yourself to anything in here, but do please close the door when you go."
"No need," he followed her to the door. "I think I shall take myself and my second set of grapes onto the roof."
Rhodri snorted. "Well don't you go pinging those at strangers' heads, Serah! I don't want to have to break you out of the guard's prison."
Zevran smirked as they stepped into the corridor. "Never! I will only throw them at people I know."
"Aeya…"
§
After quickly finding out that eating on the roof was more enjoyable with company, Zevran elected to pass the afternoon comfortably. Quite literally, in fact; it was the first time he would sleep in a bed since Denerim, and he wallowed on the feather mattress with relish for far longer than was probably recommended. And then, when the admonishments of his more puritanical side could no longer be ignored, he went downstairs to the common area and did much the same on one of the (admittedly lumpy) couches there. Leliana and Alistair, once they emerged from their lodgings, had even sat down with him for a time and played a few rounds of Wicked Grace.
Questions remained around Rhodri's solitary endeavours, and these percolated in Zevran's head between his turns in their game. The party, so far as he had understood it, was more than supported by the spoils from their kills. They had no debts and were not wanting for any necessities.
In fact, there was always money left over for their salaries. They fluctuated, but averaged out at two sovereigns per week– which, given that all other costs were covered, was a tidy profit in Zevran's eyes, and certainly more than he had ever heard of an Alienage elf earning.
But why did she need to work more, though, if their needs were more than adequately met? Had they incurred an undisclosed expense, and she was working overtime to plug the gap?
Perhaps it was nothing to do with money. Perhaps she hadn't taken Zevran along with her because she was doing something she didn't want him to see.
… Something to do with the Crows? Had she tired of him, and wanted to send him back? Perhaps remembering his favourite jam and all these other courtesies had been there to lull him into a false sense of security–
Oh, don't be ridiculous.
Miraculously agreeing with the voice in his head, he tsked and threw a card down. What a conclusion to reach! What a way to think of this person who had taken such care of him up to now. It was shameful, and he deserved the pang of guilt lancing through his guts. Had Rhodri not done other things in her spare time before? In Denerim, for example. Favours to that incompetent toff, Sergeant Kylon… visiting the brothel…
Ah. Now that was a plausible argument. After all, he had seen with his own eyes that Rhodri had certain needs– as so many did, of course, and there was no shame in it. In fact, when he thought on it, after that discussion in the Brecilian, it was hardly a wonder she hadn't elaborated on her plans, only offering to reschedule the deed for after he had gone to bed.
All in all, a trip to the brothel stood out as the most reasonable conclusion, and Zevran digested this with a sigh– and, of course, stern orders of cessation to excitable body parts who presumed a far more active role in Rhodri's endeavours than they actually had.
His suspicions were all but confirmed when dinner was being served, and Rhodri arrived at the table looking like she had been dragged backwards out of a bush. Substantial tendrils of hair had left the usual ponytail and were swept behind her ears, and her robe sat on her ever-so-slightly askew.
Alistair looked up from his plate of mutton and vegetables, and pointed at her as she sat down beside Zevran.
"Eh!" he said through a mouthful. "Where've you been, Rhod?"
"I had some things to do," Rhodri said simply, and turned to Zevran. She nodded at the plate in front of her, boasting the promised double-serve of dinner and two thick slices of brown bread. "Is this for me?"
Zevran smiled and refused, refused, refused to think of anything related to brothels or actions within such establishments that might be vigorous enough to make hair come loose from a ponytail. Never again! Maker, let him die a remade virgin at this point!
"Naturally," he said in a somewhat forced purr. "I had them pile your plate as high as they would go."
Rhodri gave him a crooked grin. "That's kind of you. Thank you." She fell on the food like a hungry wolf, eating at a speed just shy of impolite.
"You didn't answer my question, Rhod," Alistair said again after a little while. "About where you've been– ow!" he paused and rubbed the spot in his ribs where Leliana had elbowed him, and when he caught sight of the pointed look his lover was giving him, he nearly dropped his fork.
"Oh–" he stammered. "Oh. Oh… no, you know what? I don't want to know. Forget I asked."
Rhodri, not looking up from her dinner, shrugged and took another mouthful. "Well, what do we all think of South Reach?" The question came as an almost forced pause between mouthfuls. "Shall we take a holiday here after the Blight?"
Alistair and Wynne seemed to be the only ones reasonably content with the suggestion; everyone else was either noncommittal or firmly against it.
"Oh, what a delightful thought," Shale said scathingly. "Thirty years trapped in a tiny, insipid village only to seek leisure in another one. Marvellous."
"You never know, the fleshbags might be different here," Rhodri answered with a bright smile. "Could be a whole new experience."
Shale sighed loudly, and Zevran was sure that if a golem could roll its eyes, Shale would have at that moment. "I think I liked it better when its moist little mouth was too filled with food to speak."
A snort came out of the mage, and she responded with a quick 'noted' before chewing the last scrap of meat and getting to her feet again.
"Right, well, if you good people will excuse me, I have some things to attend to." She took her slices of bread and pocketed them.
"But you've been doing things all day!" protested an evidently forgetful Alistair, earning another elbow to the ribs for his trouble.
"I know, and now I have more," she said with a smile. "See you at breakfast!"
Leliana was looking at Zevran, and Zevran wasn't having any of it. He finished his food shortly after, and marched himself off to bed for the earliest night he could recall. Possibly the earliest night in the whole of Antivan history, even.