Zevran (and, he suspected, the other recruits he shared the room with) woke in the sweltering darkness to the sound of approaching footsteps. Hard, heavy boots stomped the life out of the floorboards, and a second set of much lighter steps– barefoot, accompanied them.

There was a clamour as the children lying in front of the door scrambled to their feet and moved back from it and the anaemic draught that occasionally came underneath. The door flew open a moment later; Zevran forced his eyes to stay open, despite the blinding brightness the dim light brought to the otherwise pitch-black, windowless room.

At the doorway stood the woman Zevran recognised as having taken him here from the whorehouse. Her hand was wrapped around the arm of a bronze-skinned human boy with dark hair and empty eyes. He couldn't have been much older than Zevran, and as she threw him into the room with a spat curse, Zevran couldn't help but wonder if this is what his introduction must have looked like to the other recruits.

The door closed behind the boy, and Zevran kept still as the scramble began. The right thing to do would have been to stand up for the boy and not let the other children lay into him. After all, the Maker was pleased with children who were a friend to everyone, and what friend allowed nasty boys and girls to punch and kick and steal from other children?

But then again, would intervening help here? There must have been at least ten boys and girls going for the new recruit now, and two against ten was nothing. Two weeks on from coming through that door himself, and he still had bruises from his own roughing-up.

Zevran forced stillness and listened to the boy screaming with watering eyes and a guilty heart.

And then, when the scuffle died away and he couldn't keep himself in bed any longer, he crept over to the boy and dragged him back to his bed with him. The boy groaned and weakly tried to twist his leg and arm out of Zevran's grip, but he was off the ground and on Zevran's bed before he could do anything more.

"Shh," Zevran insisted in as loud of a whisper as he dared. "I will not hit you. You can stay here with me." He took the boy's hand in his, holding it even as the boy tried to pull away, and only let it go again once he had relaxed.

The boy mumbled something that Zevran didn't understand a word of. He told the boy as much, slowly and clearly, and got a reply– several replies in a row, in fact, that were equally incomprehensible. Zevran was of a mind to hush the boy again and pretend to be asleep, when the hand, after a moment's searching in the blackness, took his and pulled it to his shoulder.

"Tal-yessen," he whispered, and pointed Zevran's fingers into his collarbone. "Ego Tal-yessen."

Zevran squinted– was the boy introducing himself?- and tapped the boy's shoulder.

"Tal-yessen?" he echoed.

"Sic. Tal-yessen."

Zevran took this with a nod and used the boy's fingers to indicate himself now. "Zevran. My name is Zevran."

"Zevran?"

"Yes."

Silence fell again until the boy– Tal-yessen– mumbled something else that Zevran didn't catch. Resigning himself to not catching another word of what Tal-yessen would say, Zevran settled down on the pillow. His hand was still firmly snatched up in Tal-yessen's, and he supposed that, in the interest of being a good boy in the eyes of the Maker and a friend (if a little belatedly), he would have to sleep that way. Even in the heat.

He closed his eyes and dreamt of a breeze.

§

There was something wrong with this party, Zevran mused on the second day of journeying through the tunnels to Soldier's Peak. Everyone, in some way or another, appeared to be slipping into a baser form of themselves, and it had come on within hours of stepping into the long, dark underground thoroughfares.

Morrigan and, to everyone's surprise, Sten, revealed themselves to be deeply claustrophobic. Between them, there was guaranteed to be a twitch, flinch, or admonishment every few minutes, whether there was an obvious reason for it or not. Loud noises were cursed to the Void and back, despite a frazzled Levi Dryden's constant reassurance that the tunnels were as securely-built as they came. That much was proved, even, when Sten occasionally was startled into a leap that sent his head crunching into the stone above.

On the opposite end of the spectrum was Alistair. He was already infamous within the party (and, Zevran suspected, in surrounding postal districts) for his alarmingly loud belches and farts. Here, though, the stonewall acoustics took the volume to a new level entirely, and Alistair wasn't wasting a moment of it. The frequent thunderous reports tangled with his hysterical laughter to echo Maker-knew-how-far along the tunnel; Leliana alternated between toothless death threats and fervently praying that there was no large, hostile beast at the end of the road whose slumber was regularly being disturbed by her lover repurposing either end of his alimentary tract as a sound cannon. How she hadn't already murdered him for safety's sake, or the sake of her own sanity, Zevran didn't know.

A particularly sonorous belch from the Templar in question had caused Sten to jump and Morrigan, whose temper had now sufficiently frayed, to whack the back of Alistair's head with her staff. Leliana, who was notably not attempting to kill Morrigan for the assault, calmly declared that the tunnel was turning everyone into the basest version of themselves.

Zevran touched a hand to his chest, fixing Leliana with a wounded look while Rhodri, in the background, scrambled to divert Morrigan's staff from another meeting with the Templar's skull.

"My darling Leliana," Zevran purred to the good Sister, "I do hate to split hairs, but I have been nothing but well-behaved while we have been–"

"Ah-ah!" Leliana interjected, waving a finger in his face and withdrawing it again as Zevran playfully made to bite it. "Don't you try that on me. You're the worst of anyone here! I have never heard so many rude tunnel jokes in all my life!"

Zevran cackled with delight. "Ooh, thank you, my dear. I do try to keep my material fresh!"

She folded her arms and shook her head. "You, Ser, are a grotty little man."

"I? Grotty? I do hope you mean that in the context of, 'naughty but clever.'"

"You know I don't."

At that moment, Rhodri, having separated the templar and the witch, reappeared behind Zevran. She leaned down, hands hovering by his shoulders, and gave a small, enquiring 'Hm?', almost a chirp. Whatever she wanted, Zevran couldn't guess; he smiled and nodded anyway. Rhodri's arms went around him, pulling him tight against her. Her hands splayed over his chest, and her cheek dipped down to rub against his. In the blur of his periphery, she appeared to be fixing Leliana with a gently reproachful look.

"He is not grotty," Rhodri insisted, and planted several kisses into Zevran's temple as if to supply evidence of this. "He is wonderful."

Zevran's breath stalled. Leliana, who looked to be fighting the urge to grin terribly hard, pointed a finger at Rhodri.

"Don't you start," she warned. "You encourage him by laughing at every one of those filthy remarks!"

Rhodri made a suspiciously Alistair-like giggle. "Well, they are very good, Leli," she mumbled, and turned to Zevran with a gleaming smile. "The ditty you made up about the fist and the long, dark hole was the funniest song I've ever heard."

There was no time for Zevran to acknowledge the praise, either modestly or immodestly, owing to the fact that Morrigan suddenly jabbed Rhodri in the kidney hard enough to make her yelp. Rhodri released Zevran (and, admittedly, pulled him back as he made to smite Morrigan dead) and fixed the witch with a disappointed look. That was punishment enough, Zevran decided, as his insides withered upon attempting to picture himself as the recipient of said look.

"We'll go, Morrigan," Rhodri soothed, sweeping a hand over her flank with a sigh. She jerked her head in the direction of the dark and fell into a walk.

Zevran couldn't help but notice, as he and the rest of the party followed, that Rhodri's left hand was hanging with her thumb in line to her thigh. It was an unusual sort of position for a hand to be in, and would have to be intentionally done. Perhaps to receive something? An item, perhaps, or another hand?

Unlikely to be for Zevran, of course. In fact, why would he even wonder that? Sheer presumptuousness, was what it was. She had held his hand a day or two ago, but that was simply because… how had that happened? It was hard to recall. At one point they were simply holding onto each other, and it had stayed that way.

Zevran kept his gaze on the hand as he drew up to her side, and when they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, the hand turned inward again, slightly away from her thigh. After a few moments more, it relaxed altogether.

A flick to the back of the head forced Zevran to look over his shoulder. Alistair and Leliana were pinning him with identical withering glares. Alistair held up his hand, which was linked with Leliana's, and gave it a pointed little shake.

Leliana added, in rather pleading, whispered Orlesian, 'She has been doing that for days.'

Deciding to pay no more regard to Leliana, Alistair, or the myriad organs that were now attempting to evacuate via his mouth, Zevran faced forward and let his hand flop by his side. His fingers, quite by accident of course, brushed over Rhodri's knuckles.

"Ah!" Rhodri pulled away, holding her hands up apologetically. "Forgive me, I– ah, my hand must have been too– too close–"

Mortification crept in as Leliana and Alistair– quietly– groaned behind them. Zevran, whose voice appeared to have departed for lands unknown, shook his head instead, and took Rhodri's left hand in his right one. He kept his eyes fixed on the blackness in front, announcing to the screams of alarm in his head that the matter was resolved and most definitely not up for discussion or analysis.

And somehow, amid all the admonishments and discipline, he still managed to catch a soft little, 'Oh,' as her face went pink.

Which could have been anything. Probably a side-effect of the healing magic after Morrigan (the bitch!) took to her kidney.

He spared a single, proper glance at Rhodri– purely to check that she was healthy and fully recovered. A shy little smile and a sudden bounciness to her walk was all he caught before turning back, sufficiently reassured.

Somewhere in the middle of the party, Levi Dryden cleared his throat awkwardly and said nothing more.

§

Zevran was astonished how much of a blur time passed in with the sun gone. At least in the oubliette, there was a glimpse of daylight through the bars. Here, it was permanent darkness, and there was nothing to be done about it. That was made even worse, he was sure, by the fact that the party had had to turn around twice after Levi had misread his own map (unfortunate sogginess in the document, he asserted, had caused the issue) at two crossroads and sent them in the wrong direction.

By the time there was a non-magical light at the end of the tunnel, Morrigan and Sten were practically climbing over the rest of the party to get out. In fact, Levi Dryden was trampled by Morrigan when the end was in running distance. She let out a shriek that had Rhodri and Levi cowering, and ran straight over the man's back as she sprinted toward the opening.

"Shit," Rhodri hissed, and bolted (with the rest of the party in hot pursuit) after Morrigan. With the usual instruction to stay behind her, of course. Any and all attempts to call the witch back were ignored by the woman in question, and were given up on entirely when the first sounds of offensive spellcasting could be heard.

The objects of Morrigan's attacks were, as it happened, reanimated armed skeletons– in quite substantial numbers, no less. A brief glance suggested at least fifty. They were swinging swords and shooting arrows galore. And, if Zevran wasn't mistaken, they were gargling out commands and threatening insults as well. How they were managing this without the requisite fleshy equipment was anyone's guess.

Fifty was halved, and then halved again in very short order. Sten, who had always been a force of nature in battle, was attacking with a particular ruthlessness now (a consequence, Zevran supposed, of the relief of exiting the tunnel). Wild, frantic swipes with no regard for control or safety shattered skulls and sent entire ribcages flying into trees, where they crumbled on impact, and Sten seemed not to tire at any point. The entire party appeared to have understood the danger at a glance and had given him a particularly wide berth as he continued his assault. If Sten felt any particular way about it, or the display in general, he gave no indication of it.

When the last skeleton had been turned to ash by Rhodri, Levi shambled over to her left side. He was white as a sheet and trembling enough that his voice shook as he spoke.

"W-well, ah…" he paused and cleared his throat as Rhodri, frowning deeply, moved to the right of him. Said frown, Zevran noted with delight, didn't entirely relax until he, the lover and sole designated left-hand-side-stander, was occupying the spot.

After a brief smile to Zevran, Rhodri lay a hand on Levi's shoulder and nodded encouragingly.

"Are you all right, my friend?" she asked gently. "I know what just happened must have given you a fright."

'A fright' was quite the understatement, Zevran mused wryly. Throughout the fight, Levi had been cowering beside a heap of snow, and had barely looked up from his boots the whole time. If that man hadn't come within a hair's breadth of soiling himself, then Zevran was losing his ability to read people.

To his credit, however, Levi was quick to save face. With a loud gulp, he pinned on a smile and nodded, and gestured at the path ahead.

"I s'pose we might keep going?" he suggested. "Once we get past the trees 'ere, I reckon we'll get a great view of the Peak."

It was amazing, how such an enormous building as Soldier's Peak turned out to be, had been so thoroughly obscured by the enormous fir trees around it. Being covered in snow as everything was now, Zervan supposed it would have been harder to hide in summer, but even so! The turrets were high enough that the tips disappeared into the cloud cover. Grand archways and wide, stained-glass windows decorated the granite facade, and much as Zevran loathed to pay any credit to Fereldan edifices, this one was indisputably impressive. Even if they'd had to wade through hip-deep snow to get there.

Well, more accurately: even if Rhodri had had to wade through hip-deep snow; Zevran, being the endearing and terribly handsome man that he was had (without even needing to show her his saddest Antivan eyes first!) been tenderly scooped up in Rhodri's arms to be carried hence. Not even the heel of his boot was allowed to touch the spindrift.

"Maker's breath," Alistair gasped, pointing a huge finger at the tallest of the towers. "It's as big as Redcliffe Castle!"

"Ain't she a beauty?" Levi, who looked to be bursting with pride turned to Rhodri, "Told you the map would get us through the tunnels, didn' I, Warden?" He elbowed her with a conspiratorial grin, "Eh! Bet you're reconsidering that offer to get married 'ere now! You won't find much that's bigger or nicer than this!"

Rhodri watched Levi blankly for a moment, her fingers thrumming on Zevran's arm and leg like creatures possessed.

"I'm still going to marry in Minrathous," she said slowly. "The Cathedral of the Argent Spire is as big as this, if not bigger, and it's made of marble and silver." Levi's smile faltered a little at that; Rhodri quickly added, "But this is also a wonderful building! Your ancestor making this is something to be very proud of! I would be delighted if my family had made something like this! Perhaps— ah… perhaps I can return the favour by showing you the Cathedral of the Argent Spire one day, if it pleases you?"

Levi Dryden gave a half-hearted nod and accepted the invitation with a sore little, "I'd like that. Anyway, this place has the stench of death to it, so if you go on ahead, I'll follow from behind."

As Levi shuffled away to the back of the group, Rhodri's shoulders slumped– not a great deal, Zevran noted, but enough that he knew. Without thinking, he placed a flourished kiss on Rhodri's jaw and grinned up at her.

"Lead on, mi sol," he crooned. "Adventure awaits, no?" He gave his head a cheeky wobble, "And I must admit, it is very nice to be able to admire you in full sunlight again! Ooh, you are simply irresistible! What am I to do with you when you are like this, hmm?"

Rhodri's mouth quirked in a warm, if bemused smile. She rubbed her cheek against his forehead and fell into a walk.

"I'm always good-looking," she murmured to him. "We both know this. What do you usually do when I'm 'like this'?"

Zevran gave a low, wicked laugh; from behind them, Leliana and Alistair were silent, and being very loud about it. He snuggled a little closer to Rhodri; if those two busybodies wanted juicy snippets, they would have to work for them.

"Well now," he said in a murmur, "my usual solution to you being irresistible is something along the lines of what we got up to in your tent this morning, no? It never completely calms me down, but I do think it lets the beast sleep for a little while, at least." He bit his lip, "Do let me know when you are free, my lovely Grey Warden, won't you?"

Rhodri's eyes darkened. She glanced around furtively (Alistiar and Leliana put on straight faces in the exact nick of time), and nodded at Zevran. She dipped her head down and, when Zevran had brought his own head the last little way to her mouth, kissed his temple once, twice, three times.

"I'll tell you as soon as I know," she murmured. "Whatever your heart desires, dulcis. Dulcissimus. We must keep looking around the fortress for now, though, sic? Give us somewhere safe to make camp."

Zevran grinned and didn't consider the terms 'my sweet one' or 'my sweetest one' in any detail whatsoever. It was all pillow talk, in the end, and there was work to be done. Instead, he did the obvious thing: nestled into her neck and crooned that she should lead on. Simple.

§

In the hundred and twenty or so steps it took to reach the front door to the Keep, the party had witnessed no fewer than two ghostly, seemingly historical scenes; taken out another horde of hostile skeletons hanging around the entrance; and fielded roughly seven hundred and forty remarks from Alistair on the state of the fortress. Zevran considered himself ready for a tea break from that point on.

Levi, however, and to a lesser extent the Wardens, were more energised than ever. Apparently, a hot, strong cup of tea amid dramatic scenery was easily outdone by seeing ghostly re-enactments of King Arland's forces besieging the Keep, and of Sophia Dryden conversing with a young mage named Avernus and giving a rallying speech to an emaciated troop of Grey Wardens. Some people had no idea of a good time at all.

Levi's eyes were shining like diamonds as he waxed lyrical about the gumption, leadership, and all-round wonderfulness of his ancestor. And of course, the Dryden family was famed for its lionheartedness, and valour, and a hundred thousand other things besides that Zevran was entirely too bored to listen to this man list off. Apparently discretion was not considered the better part of valour in this country, and what a damned shame that was.

Desperate for a diversion, Zevran stepped away from the group to prowl the perimeter of the foyer. Everything was untouched. Suits of armour lined the walls; books and metal urns sat on windowsills; spiked palisades flanked the doors, weighed down by colossal sandbags. Beyond the spiderwebs, there was no sign of recent life in the place.

A poster stuck to the door jamb caught Zevran's eye along the way, and he paused to read it.

'STATEMENT OF DEFIANCE: On these grounds, virtuous men (but what about that Dryden woman, Zevran wondered. Or was she also a man for the purposes of saving ink?) stood against a tyrant. They stood defiant and stood for freedom. And they died.'

Below it followed a list of names, and not a one was regular. If anything, the signatories were in on the same joke– or subject to the same unflattering naming convention, depending on the circumstances.

"Look at these names!" Zevran said, tapping the list. "'Mad Dog Smeadows,' 'Lucky Lacuna,' 'Om the Stretched…' Maker, I would love to know the stories behind some of these…"

He glanced back at Rhodri and Alistair, who shared a smirk and, excusing themselves from Levi, strode over.

"Sounds about right," Alistair murmured as he read through the list. "Every Warden gets a nickname… ooh, well." He pointed at one name, "Except 'Ser Derek of Orlais,' I s'pose."

Rhodri snorted. "Maybe the 'Orlais' was part of the joke."

"Hey, true enough! Must've known how to hold a knife and fork or something fancy like that."

Leliana, who had sauntered over moments before to read the list over Zevran's shoulder, shot the Wardens a lip-bitten grin.

"You never told us your Warden names," she reproached with a playful shove to Alistair.

Alistair grinned slyly. "You never asked."

"I am asking now!"

"Mmm!" Zevran took Rhodri's arm and squeezed it. "You have been holding out on me, mi sol! Did they call you 'Rhodri with the Piercing Eyes?'"

Rhodri smiled at him gently. "You've heard Alistair's, I know, because I called him that in front of you."

Alistair indicated himself with a flourish. "I'm Ser Princess Alistair," he declared, giving a smug little wobble of the head as Leliana 'ooh-ed' (and as Morrigan, in the distance, rolled her eyes).

"I lost a staring contest one night," Alistair elaborated without any prompting. "Had to put on a dress and dance the Remigold." He sighed happily, "It was a nice dress, actually. Very airy. Anyway, I thought I looked fabulous and wanted something on my head to top it off, and– well, you know. Princesses with their crowns... I wanted to be Ser Queen, but Ser Princess sounded better."

"Don't forget they also picked Ser Princess because you lived like a pig," Rhodri added, snickering as Alistair pursed his lips and mumbled about cleanliness being overrated. Zevran, who had seen the interior of Alistair's tent only a week ago and doubted aloud that burning it would fully eradicate the filth, felt his guts twist. After all, Rhodri had said 'lived,' not 'live.' How wretchedly slovenly must he have been in Ostagar? A quick glance at Leliana, who had gone slightly green, suggested they were of the same mind there– and the good Sister looked so relieved when Rhodri changed the subject again.

"Ah, but speaking of dresses, amicus, we should get you another before summer, hmm? Something cooler to wear once the weather warms up."

"Ooh," Alistair's eyes shone. "If we can find anything to fit my shoulders…"

Leliana, whose face was returning to a more normal hue now, nodded. "We can make it happen, cher," she crooned. "I am not bad at sewing. If we can find the materials, I can even make you one myself, no?"

Alistair squeaked with delight and planted a series of noisy kisses onto Leliana's forehead. With the matter appearing settled, Zevran gave Rhodri a nudge.

"What about your name, mi sol, hmm?" He stroked a finger over her cheek, grin broadening in spite of himself as Rhodri visibly softened under the touch. "We are dying to know."

She gave him a small, crooked smile. "I was Callistus the Bull, believe it or not."

"The Bull?" Leliana echoed.

"Mmm. The Joining makes the muscles grow, sometimes unevenly at first." Rhodri drew a finger over her waistline, "I was very thin when I left the Circle, and for the first week after the Joining, I only put on muscle from here up. Tiny legs, enormous upper body. Like a bull, you know?"

Alistair, who looked like he had been waiting for the opportunity to do so all year, elbowed Rhodri and peered over his nose at her with a shit-eating smile. "And because you're a horny bastard!"

Leliana clapped a hand over her mouth and shrieked into it. Zevran couldn't immediately decide if it was a barely-contained laugh or mortification.

Rhodri, looking neither amused nor unamused, accepted Alistair's decree with a philosophical nod. Alistair, who appeared to have been expecting some blowback or, at the very least, more shock value than the present reaction, quickly added, "In the two weeks you spent with the Wardens in Ostagar, how many people did you say you'd slept with? Was it ten?"

"Not ten, no. It was…" Rhodri pursed her lips and started counting off on her fingers, mouthing names as she went, "... eight. Including Sweetheart Garvey, who gave me the nickname."

Alistair's mouth fell open. "Sweetheart Garvey? She was fifty-eight!"

Zevran gave an intrigued cackle (and Leliana, who was now brick-red, choked out a similar sound) as Rhodri nodded with an uncharacteristically coy smile. The good Sister then outed herself as a Tevene speaker, gasping and wheezing as Rhodri advised in said language– so far as a delighted Zevran could make out– that older ships best taught the art of sailing. Why didn't Antivan have a phrase like that?

"Ooh, Rhodri," Zevran murmured. "I always knew you had good taste, mi sol."

He nibbled the inside of his lip as she watched him with a tiny smile that glowed around the edges.

"I do," Rhodri nodded. "My lover is the very best of anyone."

While Zevran was attempting not to either pass out or die, Alistair saved the day with a frown and an interjected, "Hey, you know I don't speak Tev–" only to be cut off as Leliana, who was now cackling hysterically, manually shut his mouth with her hand.

Rhodri snorted and pointed her nose at Leliana. "You might ask Leli, Alistair. I think a bard would translate it better than me, sic?" And then, without any indication that the discussion had come to an end, Rhodri chuckled and (with Zevran beside her) made for the door that went further into the Keep– and, less directly of course, she made for Morrigan, who had been standing at the same door glaring daggers into the four of them through the entire conversation.

§

Several rooms in, another ghostly scene played out in which Sophia Dryden, in the middle of King Arland's onslaught, encouraged the mage Avernus to summon demons. Levi Dryden, whose thrilled monologuing about reclaimed family honour had gone on uninterrupted throughout, now looked like his soul was leaving his body. Zevran forced himself to look for something in his pack until the hysterical urge to laugh subsided.

Morrigan did away with niceties and cackled openly, and Zevran envied her terribly.