"You have something on your mind, my Grey Warden," Zevran said to Rhodri during their watch shift. "You have had a soulful look on your face all day today. Even now, you have it."

"Mm," Rhodri offered noncommittally, and when it looked like she wasn't going to say anything more about it, Zevran decided to let the matter lie.

But then Rhodri opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"To be truthful," she said slowly, "I would appreciate a little outside perspective."

Zevran, unable to resist himself, shuffled a little closer. "Oh? You have me intrigued. Go ahead, do."

Rhodri looked over her shoulder furtively at the row of tents down the hill. It was almost impossible to see them in the pitch-black, especially with the firepit well and truly dead, but that was sign enough that the entire party had long since taken to their bedrolls. She surveyed the scene for a moment, as if to ensure that nobody was about to suddenly declare wakefulness, and when a point of satisfaction had been reached, slowly turned back to Zevran.

"Well, it's Wynne, you see," she said quietly. "She's been giving Alistair all sorts of advice lately. Have you heard it?"

Zevran let his thoughts drift to the spectacle that was Wynne when doling out her mawkish wisdom on romantic (and, on occasion, sexual) pursuits. With the volume at which she divulged said wisdom, Zevran thought to himself ruefully, it was hard not to have heard it, even when it had in practice only been intended for Alistair. If only hearing could be selectively suppressed! But now was not the time for such wishes; Zevran answered, very simply, that he had indeed heard it.

"Mm," Rhodri nodded heavily. "Do you find her advice to be bizarre?"

Zevran tipped his head thoughtfully. "Mmm… 'bizarre' is not the word that comes to mind for me. More… sickly sweet and florid."

Rhodri nodded again, decidedly emphatic now. "Florid, yes! In fact, there has been mention of flowers, remember? When she told Alistair to treat Leliana like a flower." She clucked her tongue, "Kaffas absurditum. What a thing to say to a person."

Try as he might, Zevran couldn't see an issue with such a suggestion. It was, perhaps, a little too syrupy– even for Zevran, who had a higher tolerance for it than most. And it clearly wasn't too awful for the Circle if Wynne had liked it. Was this a Tevinter objection? Or was it simply a Rhodri objection? Whichever it was, he supposed, was immaterial. Keen to egg her on (it was Wynne's fault, after all), he nodded with similar fervence.

"'Treat her like a flower, Alistair,'" Rhodri said, gaining steam now. "What does that even mean? Water Leliana daily? Move her into partial shade when the sun gets too hot? Put shit on her so she'll grow?" She grinned as Zevran wheezed behind his wrist, and held up her hands. "No, no, I know it doesn't mean those things. Well, at least, I hope not."

"It doesn't," he choked, and wiped the tears out of his eyes.

"Well, that's comforting. Maker, what a world… I know where she's getting them from, too, you know. That filthy book she was reading–"

"'The Rose of Orlais?'" Zevran smirked. "Yes, it was quite… enlightening. Truly, I have no idea why you read it to the end when you hated it so."

"Ah, I was at a loose end, book-wise. I'd finished all my– my–" she stuttered to a halt, cheeks reddening.

Well, now. The deadline to make his intentions known to Rhodri was still several days out, but if she was inches away from revealing her secret smut stash, Zevran couldn't see the harm in bringing the event forward.

With a wicked grin, he blessed the Maker for dropping the opportunity in his lap, and shuffled closer to Rhodri.

"Oh?" he pressed gently. "Your what, Rhodri, hmm? You can tell Zevran. I am not one to judge."

Her fingers tangled in her robe. "... No, I know you're not. It's just… embarrassing, I suppose."

"It does not have to be," he crooned. "Perhaps we like the same thing, no? You never know."

Nervous eyes darted onto him and softened, softening him in the process. He put a hand on her shoulder despite this, and gave her an inviting little nod.

Rhodri's voice dropped to a hush, "They're… adventure stories. You know, the ones of heroes braving unlikely literary odds and saving the world."

Zevran, having (excitedly) readied himself for a laundry list of filthy interests, only to receive a single, decidedly wholesome one, froze a little. Marks bashfully divulging proclivities they didn't dare tell others was common enough; witnessing someone let their guard down enough to make a vulnerable disclosure was, in a sense, a very intimate thing to do. But sexual vulnerabilities were a category all their own. Sex was, through revealing body parts and interacting with them in a way that suppressed inhibitions and good sense, a compromising act for mark and assassin both. Of course, Zevran was always— almost always— in control of the situation, and the murder would, with the exception of Beatris Rafaelo, go through at the end.

But the point was that sexual vulnerabilities were often fixed by being directly indulged. Nothing cured an admission of loving to tie people up like saying, "What a coincidence. I happen to love being tied up! Shall we?" Such a disclosure was the solution Zevran had presumed to be needed here, and it was what he had been (excitedly) preparing to supply. But there was Rhodri, having confessed to liking heroic figures like it was a dark secret, and Maker help him, what was he supposed to do with that?

As if sensing his hesitation, Rhodri stiffened a little under his hand, and Zevran could have kicked himself for not soothing her sooner as she wrapped her arms around her crossed knees, drawing them tightly to her chest.

"I know I'm too old for it," she said softly, "but heroes are… well, they're special to me."

Oh, you bastard. Fix it.

With what, Zevran asked his brain urgently. Sex? What did one say to that? 'Oh, you like heroic figures? I happen to enjoy making love to them!'

Oh, wait.

A grin came to him, partly born of admiration of his own genius and partly intended to assuage the mortified Warden. Zevran kneaded her shoulder with his fingers.

"I don't think you can ever be too old for that," he purred.

"... You don't?" Her arms loosened around her knees.

"Oh, no," he shook his head. "In fact, I am very fond of a hero, myself."

Rhodri's eyes widened. "Ah, Zev!" she lamented, "if only I'd known, I'd have given you the books!"

Flirtation: missed. Again. By several country miles, it appeared, because Rhodri (who did not give even the slightest indication of having noticed, even belatedly) added now, "I gave them to Isabela back in Denerim."

Isabela. Of course it was Isabela. If she was charming enough to whisk the Warden off to her quarters– which she very nearly had– of course she was charming enough to make off with Rhodri's books.

"Not to worry, my dear Warden," he crooned. "I am sure there are plenty of other," (he had made sure to put particular oomph into 'other', which of course had as much effect as the last attempt) , " heroes around for me to admire, no?"

Rhodri smiled gently. "Yes, I think so. Heroes are everywhere. You might start by looking in the mirror, sic?"

A breath lodged itself in Zevran's windpipe, swelling and swelling and swelling, risking to blow his throat to smithereens if it kept up like this. He forced it back down by dragging in a breath as quietly as he could manage, and then let out a chattery little laugh.

"In any case," he said quickly, "I would not worry too much about Wynne's pointers. Alistair seems to enjoy the poetry of it, and he and Leliana are getting on well enough, would you not say?"

"Mmm," Rhodri murmured. "Yes, you're probably right. Perhaps he would have enjoyed that shitty book."

Zevran laughed. "I would not be surprised. Leliana knew of it, and it was very popular in Orlais. I am sure I saw it selling like hot cakes in Antiva, too."

Her eyes widened. "Really? It must be cultural, then, because nobody in Tevinter would read that and take it seriously."

Opportunity number two! OPPORTUNITY NUMBER TWO! Askaskaskaksask–

"Oh, I see," he purred. "What Tevinter courting advice would you give our Templar friend, then, my lovely Grey Warden?"

Rhodri shook her head, "Nothing. A Magister's heir and parefamilias has a totally different set of rules and expectations. It'd be like giving flying lessons to a house."

"Mmm?" Zevran bit his lip obviously and put a little more heat into his voice, "And so what should a Magister's heir and parefamilias expect?"

"Hah! I expect nothing," Rhodri snorted. "Courting falls entirely to me. The only thing the other party needs to do is accept it, if they're of a mind to."

When nothing more was offered, Zevran prompted her gently, "Tell me more, do."

Rhodri sat back on her hands and scrunched her brow thoughtfully. "Well, when I court someone, I have to show I have manners, money, and power, and that I'm willing to use them for their benefit. So, plenty of gifts and attention, mostly."

"Oh, yes?" Zevran chuckled, a little madly, as he pondered Rhodri beaming as she skipped out of a pile of gold, flinging handfuls of money into the air as she went. "What sort of things, then?"

"Mmm… a decent gift might be commissioning a love song about the person, I suppose. Earlier this year, my brother Evander had my father pay an Orlesian bard– Zither, I think his name was, very popular among Tevinter teenagers– thirty thousand gold to write a song about the young lady he was interested in." Rhodri shrugged, "I would have to choose a bigger name than Zither, of course, and I would easily pay double the price for the privilege, but it should at least keep the person's interest for a while."

Zevran, who had been rendered somewhat hard of speaking, managed to cajole his mouth into service enough to say, "... Ah."

Rhodri chuckled. "A lot of money, isn't it? But everyone believes in doing it. Even poorer Tevinters spend what they can on others. You know, we pride ourselves on our generosity and hospitality."

It wasn't fair to laugh. Not at Rhodri; Maker knew she worked herself to the bone to afford the party every possible comfort. At the concept of Tevinters as a whole being only too pleased to share what they had, however, a little giggle– or so Zevran believed– was more than justified. For the sake of the one truly generous Tevinter sitting in front of him, though, Zevran held his tongue and nodded. At this, Rhodri gave a wry little smile.

"Our trouble is," she added, "we're too selective about who benefits from that, or who we're willing to walk over to confer those benefits, and that's why we're known for being such arseholes," She sighed, "My word, though, I'd love to be able to show you and the others proper Tevinter hospitalitas. Beautiful tropical fruits, a grand home, fine clothes and gifts, but, well." Rhodri gestured fruitlessly at the Brecilian Forest surrounding them, "Utterly impossible here."

Zevran hummed and gave her shoulder another squeeze, noting with a small flutter the way the Warden's body relaxed under his hand this time.

"Oh, I think you have made us welcome enough at our little camp, no?" he murmured. "There is nothing like good company and a warm, dry tent after a rainy day. And who knows, perhaps the Dwarves live in finery and you can host us there, sí?"

Rhodri's eyebrows shot up. "Maybe!" She nodded excitedly. "Ooh, maybe! And, well, if the opportunity doesn't arise until after we've offed the Archdemon, at least you'll see it for yourself in Tevinter." She winked and shot him a wide, sharkmouthed grin, "I've already got a few things in mind for you, pretiotus. Once the circumstances allow it, you'll be living very well."

He astonished himself as he gave a shy little chuckle. "Here I was thinking I lived rather well as it is."

"You wait until you're in Tevinter," Rhodri said. She reached a hand out, and when Zevran nodded, she put it around his shoulder in a genial half-embrace, mercifully oblivious to the simmering heat in his face and ears. "You'll see then."

"Yes," he mumbled into his knees. "I am sure I will."

§

The day of departure from Soldier's Peak, if Zevran had counted correctly, came sixteen days after arrival. Everybody, with the exception of Morrigan, considered themselves ready to leave. For a time, Alistair had been quite the opposite. In his post-separation misery, the Templar had thrown himself into tidying the Peak, and it had to be said, the place was substantially more appealing for it. Garbage had been dragged outside and burned; furniture was repaired as much as Alistair's time, tools, and expertise permitted; cobwebs, and the spiders inhabiting them, were removed from any and all shelves; and, of course, once Alistair had found a broom in a small annexe off the main hall, there had been no stopping him as regarded sweeping.

But Alistair was more than aware of Leliana's similarly tortured state– he couldn't not be: the woman's eyes watered when she so much as looked at him– and this, despite his enormous renovations and the estimable results thereof, progressively put him off the place. Or, perhaps, it put him off Avernus. Whichever it was, Alistair gave every impression of readiness to leave when the day had finally rolled around.

Whether Zevran was ready to depart was a matter of intense personal debate. On the one hand, he was terribly tired of living with the entire party in a single room with excellent acoustics. If it wasn't Alistair's frequent crywanking reverberating through the hall, it was Leliana's endless litany of sad music, or one of the many cabin fever-induced squabbles between Morrigan and any living, breathing entity in sniping distance. And, in fairness, Zevran was no paragon of neighbourly silence himself! It was likely that everyone within a country mile of the Peak could hear him during urgent moments in Rhodri's tent. But there was little else to do in the Peak, particularly when the weather outside was as awful as it was. In fact, the date of departure was settled on simply because there had been a break in the unending snowstorm.

But there was still some temptation to stay, despite it all. Questions of mages and magic had continued to float around in Zevran's head the entire fortnight, and in a moment of intense curiosity, he had pulled Avernus aside after the final lesson with Rhodri and Morrigan. And, of course, after Leliana had had her turn unsuccessfully beseeching the mage to transfuse her now-ex lover with a century's worth of ill-gotten life force. Avernus refused to do any such thing without the participant's consent, but when the Sister began to noisily weep, the mage floundered, only managing to quiet Leliana by assuring her that the moment Alistair became amenable to it, Avernus would put off any task, even his daily bath, to administer the infusion. Leliana had but to convince Alistair.

As the tear-streaked Chantry Sister accepted the offer and departed with choked thanks, Zevran seized his opportunity to sidle up to the now-available Avernus.

"A question for you, my good man," he requested politely. "If I may."

Avernus frowned at him, watching him with dark, sunken eyes. "I'll save you three minutes and give you your answer right now, young man," he croaked. "I do not have any advice on blood magic of an erotic nature."

Zevran blinked. "Wh–?"

"Your… friend over there," he waved a hand at Rhodri, who was magicking dried blood out of her robes, "has already asked."

"... Ah," Zevran said after a moment. "My lover, yes. Ahem. Thank you, but I had a rather different question in mind, as a matter of fact."

"Hm. Well, go on, then, I suppose."

Zevran gave a nod of thanks. "I wonder, do you suppose a non-mage could perform blood magic?"

Avernus raised an eyebrow. "A non-mage?" he echoed.

"Since the mana pool has much less to say about the spells themselves–"

"Yes, yes," the Magewarden waved a hand, "I understand your reasoning." A moment passed as Avernus sized Zevran up, and then he offered a shrug. "If I were to make a conjecture, I believe it could be possible with assistance and the proper training."

Zevran's eyebrows shot up. "Assistance, you say? To cast the initial spell to transform the blood?"

"Hah," Avernus gave a lopsided smile. "You have been paying attention to their lessons, have you? Exactly right. The difficulty is that that spell can be very demanding, but if you were properly trained, I suppose in theory it could be doable. I have never heard of a non-mage trying, though, and you'd do well to remember that all through history, Tevinter non-mages have tried most every trick in the book to acquire magic."

"But it could be possible?" Zevran pressed hopefully.

"Didn't I say it could be? Severin has enough know-how to teach you a little herself, I would say. You might ask her to try."

"Perhaps I will." Zevran chuckled, and because he couldn't resist himself, added, "You know, you are the only person I have met who she asked to use that other name."

Avernus scoffed. "I'm probably the only person you've met who can pronounce it correctly. You think there's only one way to say your name until you come to Ferelden, and then every man, woman, and child in earshot tells you a new one."

Ah. That did explain it, actually. Zevran sped through the mental laundry list of names he had acquired during his short time in the country, and gave a sad, understanding little nod.

"Mmm," he eventually said, by which time Avernus was already shaking his head and walking away, muttering about 'Avvernus,' 'Ay-vernus,' and 'Avvar-noose' under his breath as he went. Zevran took that as a goodbye, and couldn't help feeling that he got off lightly when Rhodri, true to her upbringing as a well-mannered noble, attempted to say her farewells to Avernus in what must have been the traditional Tevinter manner.

"Oh, get up, you fool," Avernus shuffled backwards from Rhodri as she dipped her head low and placed a hand over her heart. "And don't even think of trying to kiss my hand or any of that kaffas patritiorum nonsense!"

Rhodri, wide-eyed, straightened up immediately. "Forgive me, teacher," she said quickly. "I meant to show you respect."

"Ugh," Avernus rolled his eyes. "You nobles are all the same with your flowery words. If you want to respect me, wave goodbye from a great distance, and send resources as soon as may be."

"I was going to send resources anyway," she mumbled, looking terribly hurt now. "I always keep my promises."

Avernus raised an eyebrow, and when he caught sight of the glare Zevran was directing at him, he groaned.

"Yes, I'm sure you do," he relented. "Well… do come again some day. For a day visit, perhaps. And as we discussed earlier, I shall keep you abreast of any further advances in my research."

Rhodri beamed. "I will visit, yes. And my father will send the equipment within the month. Weather permitting, it'll be here in two months."

"... We'll see. Anyway," he gestured at the door, "I'll be taking my lunch now. Goodbye to you."

§

As the party was leaving the main hall of the Peak, a familiar voice called out to them.

"'Ello, Warden!" Levi Dryden grinned and waved to the party. Beside him was an absolutely enormous man, approaching Alistair's height and weight, who was holding a sledgehammer like it was made of feathers. He had a crop of thick, dark hair, cut in the same style as Levi's, with a similarly lush beard to match.

"Ah, Levi!" Rhodri smiled and strode over to the two men. "Is this the brother you were talking about."

"That's me," the man rumbled. "How do, Warden. Mikhael Dryden's the name." His eyes glazed over partway through Rhodri's usual introduction, after which Levi stepped in again.

"Mikhael is one of the best blacksmiths in the country," he declared proudly. "'Im and I are gonna set up here, bring the family up. Give you a nice discount for any smithing that wants doing, an' we'll even keep a good eye on anything you store up 'ere, if you like."

A keen agreement was made between the Wardens and the Drydens, the outcome of which was access to the facilities for the Drydens in exchange for the offer Levi had already put forth– and an additional guarantee from Mikhael Dryden to undertake a thorough review of the armour in the Peak and make repairs as necessary. When it had been shaken upon, the party left the Drydens with best wishes, and climbed through the snow to the tunnels.

Or, rather, most of the party climbed through the snow to the tunnels. Zevran, of course, was being transported in Rhodri's arms– for warmth, of course, and no other reason besides.

§

The difficulties of life in the Soldier's Peak tunnels was something Zevran had conveniently forgotten until now.

No more, though. The reminders were everywhere: Morrigan and Sten were even more miserable than before. Lessons with the witch stopped as soon as they had set foot in the tunnels. It was hard to know if Morrigan would have agreed to continue them had Zevran asked her outright. A distraction was a boon at such times.

But nervous, stressed people were dangerous people, and often awful with it. Morrigan and Sten, in particular, were not to be trifled with, and offers of distractions were one of those things that could unexpectedly flare a temper. And Morrigan had so far not hesitated to drive the pointy end of her staff into people's kidneys for offences as small as her tea coming too late (Rhodri), a sneeze (Alistair), or an attempt at friendly conversation (Rhodri again). And so it was eminently possible that if Zevran survived the attempt at offering Morrigan a distraction, it would have benefited the witch enormously. However, due to the sudden uptick of energy required not to kill Morrigan when she was jabbing his lover in the flank, and a desire to mete out punishment how he could, Zevran withheld his generous offer.

And then, of course, there was the grieving former couple. Leliana was regularly warbling songs of sorrow and eternal isolation and barely speaking more than a few words a day besides, and Alistair's frequent habit of noisily sobbing while pleasuring himself was far worse in the enclosed stone tunnel than Zevran could possibly have imagined. How, Zevran wondered one night during his watch shift, had it not occurred to him that things might have been worse here than in the Peak itself? The bright side, he supposed, because there had to be one in the face of those wretched noises Alistair was making, was that watch shift was blissfully easy: stare down a tunnel, and attack if anything lurked.

And then, of course, there was the even brighter side that while Zevran kept watch on one end of the tunnel, his hale and hearty lover was sitting back-to-back with him, watching the other end. Every now and again when their conversation dwindled, Rhodri's head would tip back onto his shoulder. When he had given the requisite nod, her hand would cradle his chin and a number of kisses would be supplied to his cheek and jaw (and, on occasion, a sneaky one might find its way to the corner of his mouth!). Naturally, Zevran, who had been the first of them to initiate this bendy kissing, was regularly reciprocating (though Rhodri, being substantially taller, would first have to be given the cue to slouch enough that Zevran could do such a thing). If there was a better way to spend an evening under the present circumstances, he didn't know it.

Said kissing, of course, had stopped once the renewed sounds of Alistair's griefwanking had reached their ears. With a sigh, Rhodri's head left Zevran's shoulders, and as he folded his arms, he felt her shoulders shift against his upper back in much the same way.

"How many times," Zevran asked her quietly, "can he do that before that part of him simply falls off? It has happened so many times I have lost count."

"You managed fifteen hours with me," Rhodri whispered back with a laugh, "and so far as I could see, yours was looking as well as ever."

He snorted. "True enough. How much further do we have to go before we reach the outside? I have lost track of the days, now."

"Two more days."

"Two?"

"Mm. I'm thinking of suggesting a shorter route, though."

"Oh? You certainly have my vote," Zevran jerked his head in the direction of Alistair's tent. "I am not sure how much more of this I can stand before I start stuffing bread in my ears."

"I understand." Rhodri reached a hand back and indicated in the direction of the tunnel he was supervising. "Not far from here is a fork. We came from the left, but I remember from Levi's map that the path to the right is much shorter, only half a day's walking. It takes us out near Crestwood, though."

"At this point, I would be willing to crawl to Orzammar from Denerim if it saved me a day of Alistair's antics."

Rhodri giggled. "I can imagine. Better for you and everyone else, I think. Morrigan and Sten are not doing well in here either, and it's not a good idea for you, or Leliana or Alistair to be away from the sunlight right now." She reached around and patted Zevran's hand, "I'll mention it at breakfast, then."

§

The suggestion of taking the quickest route out of the tunnels had been met with widespread enthusiasm from all and sundry, and the party was out in the dim, snowy light not a few hours after breakfast– which, of course, was during the so-called blue hour, a time the Fereldans waxed lyrical about when the sun had set but darkness had not yet come. In the blue hour, the sky was indeed blue, but not the vivid shade that came during the day: instead, it was almost purple, and without the direct sunlight to delineate the border between the earth and the heavens, it was so soft and vague as to almost descend to the ground like mist. It was nice enough, Zevran supposed, if one was intensely fond of the colour blue and nothing else, but he preferred the full spectrum of colour that the daylight provided, and the remarks of relish from blue hour-fanciers such as Alistair and Wynne, when she had been here, did nothing to sway Zevran to it. And now that they were witnessing it again, Zevran shrugged it off and joined Rhodri in setting up their- her!- tent.

Morrigan, it seemed, had not forgotten their tenuous agreement of lessons. As soon as the party had made camp (and once she had taken a moment for herself), she marched over to him. With her arms folded, Morrigan announced that the break was over, and that Zevran, if he knew what was good for him, would retrieve his grimoire and writing implements and make his way to her encampment posthaste.

"Sit," she said by way of a greeting as Zevran pulled up in front of her, armed with the requisite gear. "Tonight I wish to meld all of our lessons thus far to make a simple stamina potion."

"Ooh, an entire potion!" Zevran chuckled delightedly as he sat down. "My word, aren't I doing well for myself!"

Ignoring his remarks, Morrigan produced her herb pouch and deposited it by his feet in the snow. "We will prepare the elfroot from scratch. I want a root prepared to a third-strength, and you would do well to remember that the cuts shall be made left-diagonally to the direction of the fibres. Forget it this lesson and I shall curse your dreams with it in the eve."

Zevran smiled and extracted a whole elfroot. "Why, yes, Ma'am!"

He set to work, taking a scalpel and carefully marking thirds between the veins of each leaf. It was a simple enough, if terribly meticulous process, but remained markedly different from the usual poison and antidote crafting techniques taught by the Crows. The focus there had been more about precision of quantity and adequate blending of ingredients. Colour, consistency, and smell, learned through years of making the same things multiple times a day, had informed the readiness of a poison or antidote.

Potions were another matter altogether, largely because measuring physical properties of a substance was often abandoned in favour of gauging its magical properties. Shimmer, song, and reactivity became Zevran's new metrics, all influenced far more by time, preparation of raw ingredients, and the addition of rare distillation agents that activated the magical properties of the ingredients. A single mistake in the preparation– the direction in which a plant was cut, Zevran had learned, chiefest among them– could hinder the distillation from being properly absorbed, and thus render the potion as useless as a cup of cold tea. There had been a few such potions prepared by Zevran in the earlier days, much to Morrigan's chagrin, but credit where it was due, the witch had not given up on him once. She had griped a little, to be sure, but an explanation of the error in question came without him having to beg for it, and opportunities to redeem himself with a redo were always presented. Her patience (and as far as Morrigan's short temper went, tolerating mistakes of any kind was nothing less than extraordinary forbearance) had quickly engendered a keenness in Zevran to perform to the very best of his ability, and a little beyond where possible. A failure, he had noticed some few lessons in, felt somehow like he was letting Morrigan down, and brought with it a pang of wretchedness at the thought.

And so, armed with that same determination to prepare the potion precisely as instructed, Zevran took the elfroot, now marked in thirds in both leaves and stem, and carefully lay it in the bowl. Morrigan nodded approvingly and handed him a small flask of ice-blue distillation agent.

"Submerge the root and leaves completely," she said. "Not one part of this plant must touch the air, is that underst–? Well, well!"

Zevran paused as he thumbed the cork out of the flask and followed where the witch's gaze had alighted. Up in a nearby tree, a patchy-looking raven sat in the snowy branches, peering down at them.

"Is something the matter?" he asked.

Morrigan chuckled. "Hardly." She pointed at the bird, "'Tis a shapechanger. Unlikely to be a foe. They shall present themselves in time."

"How do you know? That that is a shapechanger, that is."

"One recognises another, often enough. Particularly if," she raised her voice a little now, "one has not learned an animal's ways well enough!"

The bird ruffled its feathers– almost indignantly, Zevran might have said.

"Do you know who this shapeshifter is?" he asked after a moment.

Morrigan gave a sly smile. "I may indeed. But errors," she gestured at the bird (it fluffed its feathers quite standoffishly now), "are common, and not unique to the shifter by any means. 'Twould be foolish to say I am certain of who it is."

At that moment, the bird took flight, sending snow flying as it swooped down over Morrigan's head ("Blast and damnation, you wretched woman, keep away from my hair!") to land a small distance from her campfire. It shifted its weight from foot to foot, stretching its wings. A moment later, its form grew, feathers and beak and wings melting away until a short, voluptuous human stood before them. She had a pleasant round face; green eyes and candy apple red lips; a head of short, wavy brown hair (the latter of these was partially obscured by the curious fanged hat she wore); and she donned a set of crimson robes. Zevran tried and failed to place where he might have seen the woman– surely there weren't that many places in Ferelden one might run into an unfamiliar mage– but nothing came to mind.

Morrigan, however, shot the woman a nod and a friendly smirk (as friendly a smirk as one could expect, at least), and beckoned her over.

"As I suspected," she said. "What news, Stella?"

The woman named Stella gave a rich, hearty laugh as she strode over and sat down on the log beside Morrigan.

"I might ask the same of you, darling!" she replied. "Giving handsome men potions lessons among the seductive arts, now, is it?" Stella winked at Zevran, "Nothing like whipping up an aphrodisiac to set the mood, eh?"

"I see your potions skills are no better than our last meeting," Morrigan said witheringly. "Have you ever had an aphrodisiac with elfroot in it?"

"No, but it's a damn good idea. Get a little energy in you to get ready for round two!"

"If you say so. And before you make another attempt at humour, he," the witch pointed at Zevran with a curled lip, "is my pupil, a friend at best." (a friend, Zevran beamed to himself inwardly. A friend!) "His lover is over in the clearing, chopping firewood with her fellow Grey Warden."

Stella's eyebrows shot up. "Ooh. You're leading Grey Wardens around, now, are you?"

"In a manner of speaking," Morrigan said matter-of-factly. "They would hardly do well on their own. Between them, they have hardly spent more than a week out of doors in the last decade."

"Maker, the pickings must be slim if the Wardens are recruiting shut-ins. Circle mages, are they?"

"One is. The other is a Templar, and he is of little use to anyone or anything."

"Templar, eh? Hmph. Definitely scraping the bottom of the barrel, then. And who's the mage? Anyone I know?"

"You may well. Her name is Rhodri– ah, you know her, I see."

Stella cooed and nodded. "Oh, Rhodri!" she sang, adding with a saucy wink, "yes, I know her very well." She let out a loud laugh as Morrigan's face screwed up in disgust, and gave Zevran a convivial little elbow. "She's with you, is she? Good, good. I introduced Rhod to the carnal arts, you know, back in the day. Lovely with her mouth, isn't she?"

Zevran agreed most heartily that Rhodri was, which was met with an appreciative nod.

"That little nibble she does to the collarbone?" The woman pointed her two thumbs at herself, "That's ol' Stella's work. You can thank me later."

"Ooh, so she learned from a master, no?" Zevran chortled delightedly. "Well, dear lady, be assured that if you wish to see for yourself how good she is now, I will not be jealous in the slightest if she agrees to it."

"Oh no, no, darling," Stella waved a hand. "Our interlude's old news now. We both decided early on we were better as friends. For my part, I like 'em more womanly." She looked over her shoulder, "Speaking of, how about it, Morri, once your friend here's finished his sexy little brew? I still haven't forgotten the last time!"

Morrigan's face was scarlet. Or, at least, that was how it appeared in the fraction of a second Zevran's gaze was on it. Morrigan, having found herself under his scrutiny, shot Zevran a look that implied– no, guaranteed his imminent death if he didn't direct his eyes elsewhere, and because Zevran was nowhere near ready to go to his reward, he quickly turned his attentions onto his footwear.

Stella, who seemed to laugh in response to most everything, gave another hearty chuckle and slapped the speechless witch on the back.

"Perhaps not, eh? Not to worry, I'll go and see little Rhodder-Dodders." She rose to her feet and gave Zevran a wave with her fingers, "Nice to have met you, darling. I do hope I'll catch you later."

Freezing as it was outside, the airspace between Morrigan and Zevran became stifling the moment Stella left for the clearing. Biting his lips to button in the hundreds of thousands of questions begging to be asked, Zevran returned to the elfroot solution. As it happened though, Morrigan, in what Zevran could only assume was an effort to distract him from what he had just heard, spoke up now. She launched (rather hastily, it had to be said) into Stella's membership in the Mages' Collective.

The Mages' Collective, according to Morrigan, was the name of a group of mages, Circle and apostate alike, whose goal it was to do all manner of magical things: deals; supplies; favours; spellcasting, both illicit and not, away from the long arm of the Chantry. Said affairs had to be conducted in the strictest of confidence, of course, and even among the Circle mages, very few knew of the Collective's existence, let alone make any guesses as to who might number among the members. The Collective was well known to Flemeth and Morrigan, Zevran was advised, because of the favours Flemeth would solicit from them in times when scarcity prevailed in the Wilds, and the temptation of convenience won out. What, precisely, Flemeth offered in exchange, Morrigan was less sure of, and Zevran believed her. She was equally uncertain as to the purpose of Stella's visit, but conjectures on Zevran's part were brushed aside.

The name of the visitor and a loud, thrilled, decidedly Rhodri-like laugh rang out like a bell, piercing the silence of the falling snow and Morrigan's conversation. And then came a yelp from Zevran, more of surprise than pain, as Morrigan swatted him on the arm– for what, he couldn't imagine. He turned to her with a raised eyebrow.

"My dear Morrigan," he shook his head at her and smoothed his cloak out, "if you take pleasure from hitting, I am afraid you will have to pay first, from now on."

This remark was met with a puzzled squint from the witch, and as Zevran wondered, with no small astonishment, if Morrigan was truly as experienced in seduction as she claimed (and it certainly did no favours for Stella's so-called reputation as an educator in carnal matters), said witch waved his comment away.

"Enough," she said. "'Tis nauseating to see you make eyes even in the Warden's direction. Are you aware you have been smiling for hours now, even in that blasted tunnel, and I have had to witness it all through this blasted lesson and Stella's visit?"

Zevran frowned, the motion of which released a wave of exhaustion in his cheeks, the sweet collapse of overworked muscles when permitted, finally, to rest a moment. He jabbed a finger into the hinge of his jaw and massaged it roughly, acceding Morrigan's remark with a grunt.

"Yes, well," he cleared his throat and said nothing more. Morrigan's disgust softened into a smirk at this. No doubt, Zevran mused ruefully, she was overjoyed to no longer consider herself at risk of speculations into her own romantic life. And, of course, it was very much Morrigan's wont to put the slipper in whenever the opportunity arose. Kicking someone when they were down was like breathing air to that woman, and when the target wasn't Zevran, it was terribly amusing to witness. But now, he supposed, his turn had come– and why shouldn't it? Alistair and Leliana couldn't be present at all hours of the day, could they? Some days one was the boot, and other days one was the arse.

"Indeed," the witch pushed on smugly. "Since you and the Warden last swapped glances, 'twould appear." Morrigan shrugged, "Truly, I was surprised you made a pair at all. I had not expected your charms to breach her obliviousness, but you have succeeded all the same."

Before Zevran (who was, it had to be said, gaping a little now) could splutter a word of reply, Morrigan rolled her eyes.

"There is no need for your lovesickness to permeate the lessons, however," she said, evidently not caring that Zevran was a hair's breadth away from swallowing his tongue at such accusations of emotion.

"I–!" he choked, only to fall silent as Morrigan impatiently tapped his grimoire with her finger.

"Write here that the entire potion is to be completed within five minutes," she said smartly. "Once exposed to the air, Tarrow bulb loses its distillation properties. Go and fetch one of the conical flasks so that I can heat it to dry it out, and we will start again from the beginning."

Zevran, as relieved of the distraction as he was horrified to need it, almost fell over himself as he jumped to his feet, all hopes of a fortifying, witty snipe about Stella and Morrigan's intimate life now gone. He bustled away to Morrigan's supply trunk, her single, sharp laugh ringing out behind him.

§

Stella was a fascinating woman. She exuded warmth and vigour, and a delightfully shameless flirtatious presence radiated off her that reminded Zevran fondly of Isabela in the more recent years of their friendship. Isabela, who had initially been a somewhat aloof character, had opened like a new leaf when, with her lech of a husband off her back, she finally felt free to show her more playful, uncensored self. Even now, to see that same twinkle in Stella's eye brought a glow of happy familiarity to Zevran's heart.

Unlike Isabela, however, Stella was not inclined to show off much with anything– particularly her magic, even when the situation might have called for it. This, according to Stella (and Morrigan, when it came to it; Rhodri was notably silent on the matter), was not due to any modesty on the woman's part, but rather came down to a true lack of talent. In fact, Stella was open from the beginning about it, and didn't so much as bat an eyelid when Morrigan had criticised her shapeshifted form.

"'Twould seem that you are no nearer to effecting a better plumage," Morrigan remarked to her at dinner.

"Don't be so mean," Alistair reproached her, almost automatically, only to fall silent as Stella laughed it off with a nod.

"Yep," she said, and twiddled her spoon philosophically. "No surprises there, really. I never was much of a mage. I'm still surprised I even survived the Circle as long as I did. Prob'ly only made it to nineteen because Rhoddles here," Stella nudged Rhodri and took a bite of bread, "was tutoring me every hour the Maker sent. I must've been your oldest student, eh, Rhod?"

"You weren't my student," Rhodri said simply, not looking up from her stew. "I tutored you after I'd finished my classes for the day. You were just my friend. And you were very good at many things besides the academics! Technical drawing and magical design in particular."

"True enough, though Irving didn't care too much about that. But you were good to me, sweet pea, weren't you?" Stella grinned at Rhodri and pulled gently on the scruff of the Tevinter's neck (Zevran noted the relaxed smile that came to Rhodri as Stella did so, and elected to try the move himself at a later time).

"I didn't want you to die," Rhodri replied with a sigh and shot her a brief, forlorn look. "I thought you had, you know, when you disappeared. Others were saying you'd been shipped off to Kirkwall. I couldn't decide which was worse."

Stella hummed sadly. "Sorry, Rhod. I wanted to say goodbye, but I knew if the pigs thought you might know something, they'd– well, you know."

"Mmm, I do."

"Anyway, the main thing is I'm well, eh?" Stella said, a renewed jauntiness to her voice. "Got out without a hitch, and Flem and Morri here," she waved a hand at Morrigan, who rolled her eyes at the nickname, "even showed me a bit about shapeshifting to cover my arse." She laughed and slapped a thigh indicatively, "Pretty important when you think of the size of my arse. Can't hide behind the trees in human form when you're wide as a doorway, eh? Ha-ha!"

Rhodri and Alistair, who were both easily wider than Stella, nodded at that. "Ain't that the truth," Alistair said, before rubbing his chin and adding, "unless the trees are enormous, anyway."

"Hah! Good luck finding many of those around. Anyway, it's lucky I found you pair," Stella pointed at Morrigan, and then Rhodri. "I just finished my posting at Redcliffe, and the Collective was chuffing me out to Crestwood for my next job. Reckon I might not even need to bother going there, though, if you two want to help a girl out."

A joint response came from Rhodri and Morrigan, the former of these advising that help would be given as much as was possible, and Morrigan putting out a tentative, "Oh?"

"Yep," Stella nodded. "Wasn't sure what to expect when I heard you've got a Templar in your party, but happily, it seems you're both still very solid sorts. Anyway, one of the other Collective mages is in a bit of a bind. Nice bloke, actually– Aneirin, his name is."

As Stella began to launch into Aneirin's woes, Zevran watched the colour flare in Morrigan's face for the second time that evening. The witch, however, either didn't notice his shameless stickybeaking, or didn't care; whichever it was, her eyes were trained on Stella as if to pick up any information on Aneirin the woman was unable to divulge verbally. By the end of Stella's exposition on the job at hand (all of which Zevran had missed while gauging Morrigan's own lovesickness–not that he had any himself, despite Morrigan's baseless accusations of such!), Morrigan's vague registration of interest in assisting Stella had strengthened into a firm, assured 'Tis a simple enough task. We will do it.'

"Ah, good on you, lovey! That's that, then." Stella beamed, cut a slice of bread with a flourish, and put it into Rhodri's hand. Neither Rhodri's hand, nor any other part of her, had asked for it, but there it was put, and she smiled placidly and followed the implicit instruction Stella's gesture had made, eating it in two bites. Morrigan, who had eyed the gesture with a squint, got up without a word and disappeared to her little satellite camp, her unfinished dinner in hand. Stella cupped a hand to her mouth and called out after the witch, "You're next, miss! Don't think I haven't noticed how thin you still are!"

Morrigan's groan could be heard all the way from her tent; the rest of the party chuckled. Zevran, finding himself very much warming to Stella, turned to her now.

"Were you the one responsible for keeping our mages fed in times gone by?" he asked with a grin.

"Oh, my word I was," Stella replied, and gestured at Rhodri, and then at Morrigan. "I mean, look at these creatures. I know Rhod's the size of a house now, but she wasn't back in the day, I can assure you. Even now, there's no padding on her!" As if to demonstrate, Stella gently thumped Rhodri in several places on her upper back. "See? Sounds like a drum. It's all muscle. Not good for you in this weather. And Morri, well!" she shook her head. "A good breeze'll whisk that woman off to the Anderfels! Madness!"

"Very true," Sten spoke up now, to the astonishment of most everyone. He regarded the collective shock with a raised eyebrow, and shrugged defensively. "Why are you staring?"

"Hard job being right, isn't it, sweet cheeks?" Stella nodded, ignoring Sten's frown and his subsequent inquisitive poking of his cheeks, and clapped her hands together once. "Now, Aneirin's due to find me tomorrow morning. I've painted a spot on my tent that he'll see when he flies over, so I s'pose once he's arrived, we can all set out tomorrow to take care of his pursuers, yeah?"

Rhodri smiled with a nod. "Perfect."

"Lovely-jubbly. In which case," Stella rose to her feet, taking another piece of bread, "I'll make myself scarce. I've got a sneaking suspicion our Morri's got her eye on Aneirin, and I want the juicy details from her." She waved at the campfire attendees, "Nice to have met you all! Oh, and Rhodri?"

"Sic?"

Stella moved an approving finger between her and Zevran, "You two make a cute pair. I'm grilling Morrigan tonight because if I'm right about her and 'Neirin, I won't get a word out of her when he comes in the morning. But when breakfast rolls around: you're next."

Rhodri blinked at the woman. "That… cannot mean what I think it does. You don't plan to actually cook anyone, do you?"

"Get the full story, grilling means," Stella assured her with a wink. "No cooking or eating unless you ask for it." She turned away with a wave, shouting over her shoulder, "Enjoy the quiet while it lasts, sweet cheeks! I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning."

With that, Stella marched off through the snow to Morrigan's encampment, and the rest of the party was left to sit at the campfire and exchange somewhat awkward glances. Had Stella only come a few weeks ago, Zevran mused glumly, Alistair and Leliana would have still been together, and thus more than ready now to fix him and Rhodri with smug, wicked smiles and joke about the upcoming interview with Stella, possibly prepare for one of their own. As it was, they both stared hollowly into their bowls and said, did, nothing more. Sten and Shale, of course, glared, as was their wont, and Zevran paid no mind to them.

Upon finally turning back to Rhodri, Zevran found her eyes were already on him, soft and tender and quietly smouldering. Her fingers slowly, rhythmically slid back and forth along the lip of her bowl, and as Zevran imagined those same fingers tracing lazy lines up and down his bare back, thoughts of the other party members, and of anything that wasn't directly related to the person watching him, melted away. It was enough.

Language notes

Tevene:

- Kaffas patritiorum: 'fucking upper-class' is the closest approximationbr /
- Kaffas absurditum: 'Fucking absurd'

Cultural notes

The Tevinters place enormous value on the virtue of 'hospitalitas,' or hospitality. Receiving a guest with warmth, goodwill, and offering them the best of what is available to the host is considered a cornerstone of being a good Tevinter. This custom is a holdover from the earliest period of the Neromenian human tribes invading Tevinter. After displacing the elves already living there, small human colonies spread through Tevinter (and, subsequently, Thedas) and there were often great distances between their settlements. As a result, the earliest humans in Tevinter would often travel a long way through hot, sometimes unforgiving territory to trade or visit family in other settlements. By the end of the journey, or even before it, vital resources might run out, and it quickly became an unwritten rule that one was to open one's home to anyone who knocked and supply them with enough good food and drink to either complete their journey or make it to the next settlement.

In the modern day, following many Ages of decadence, population booms, and advances in infrastructure and other technology, travelling strangers are an increasing rarity, and the concept of 'hospitalitas' has expanded accordingly. Now, the focus is ensuring that a guest is celebrated in the home, with lavish gifts and opulent parties thrown in their honour the expected way to communicate the guest's welcomeness. In even the poorest classes, special parts of the house are reserved for guests. Friends and entire families, even distant relations or acquaintances, will commonly visit someone on a social call for months or more at a time (some even stay permanently, if they so choose), and these visits are often a source of delight to all involved, as a means to catch up on news in the social circle and an excuse for a party.

As a result, stinginess, uninterest, and a lack of effort in supplying gifts that are thoughtful (or expensive, depending on one's class) are considered enormous insults. In fact, such is the focus on ensuring that the guest feels adequately welcome (and to showcase that one has the means to more than meet the guest's needs) that a Tevinter host will never ask their visitor how long they intend to stay. If the guest is considerate, they will give advance notice of their visit and the length of their stay.

This, aside from her being fabulously wealthy, is why Rhodri was so easily able to guarantee Zevran's permanent place in her family home in Minrathous.