Leaving the tear in the Veil until the next day, in Zevran's opinion, had been a stellar idea. It took almost an hour to beat back the tide of demons enough for Rhodri and Morrigan to seal it– indeed, Rhodri, who was almost doubled over by that point from exertion, had used her bare hands to beat it into position for Morrigan to glue it shut. And even then, the two mages had warned the exhausted, terrified party that it would not hold for more than a few days.
Why the Veil did not respond as expected to conventional treatments was beyond Zevran. As they returned to camp Morrigan, at Zevran's request, had given a cursory explanation of the issue that was laden with jargon and refused point-blank to simplify any of it. Rhodri had taken over at that point and had begun to explain it, but she was staggering as she walked and gasped for breath between sentences, and Zevran's guilt couldn't permit her to get more than a fraction of the way in before he asked that they leave the topic for now and revisit it later.
Shale kept watch as the party slept that afternoon and evening. There was no lunch or dinner, no conversation, and in what was perhaps the most serious indicator of universal exhaustion: no sex.
The next day had started early, however, and all that had gone uneaten, unsaid, and unpleasured was rectified twice over. And so it was that after all needs had been more than sated, the happy party sauntered back into the room with the patched-over Veil tear and did the looting they would have done yesterday.
Zevran snickered to himself as he picked up yet another handful of coins left behind by the demons. Where were they getting all this money from? More to the point, what were they doing with it?
Morrigan, who was standing nearby and had noticed everything, raised an eyebrow.
"Demon tax collectors, perhaps?" she said drily and, taking a leaf out of Rhodri's book, laughed at her own remark. "My, but the Darkspawn will be envious."
For the sake of his own sanity, Zevran decided that accidental consumption of a hallucinogen was the cause of Morrigan's frankly baffling remark, and laughed quite simply because the woman was obviously out of her mind. Morrigan appeared satisfied at his mirth either way, and she laughed again as Rhodri, who had also been within earshot of the whole thing, watched them grimly and warned not to speak of this to Kester, lest the fellow's imagination be fuelled to the depths of absurdity.
A moment later, Alistair called out to Rhodri from the other end of the room.
"Staff over here, Rhod!" He waved around a long, pearl-white staff indicatively.
It was far nicer-looking than most of the staves Zevran had seen. Rhodri's previous staff looked a branch taken from the side of the road, and Morrigan's was much the same, only hers had an antler tied to the top with filthy string, and little trinkets and feathers had been affixed to the staff with badly hammered-in hobnails. There had been Wynne's, too, of course– that was a rather handsome one, with its carved dragonheads and the funny little orb said dragonheads were keeping in situ. This staff Alistair was gesticulating with wasn't embellished with draconic anything, but it was shapely and robust, with a head almost like an oversized screwdriver and a visible core that glowed white. Whatever it was made of looked terribly expensive, and a soft, translucent mist emanated from the staff– perhaps because of the material? It was hard to say.
Rhodri stared at the staff with unmistakable longing, her fingers wringing her robes like fury. The rest of her, however, stayed stock-still.
"Are you sure you want to come with me, Zev?" Rhodri peered at him worriedly. "It's very early. You could be sleeping."
Before Zevran could answer, their attention was snared as a long, loud moan reached the camp all the way from Morrigan's little outpost. A series of feverish exultations followed, sometimes from the witch herself, other times, Zevran suspected, from Aneirin.
Zevran turned back to Rhodri with his eyebrow quirked. She looked at him, then at Morrigan's camp, and then at him again.
"... Maybe not sleeping," she admitted after a moment. "But I could be gone for some hours. I have no idea how long it will take to find a suitable staff for Master Varathorn to sand down."
Zevran smiled and shrugged. "It will take as long as it takes. Besides, surely we are more likely to find something if we both go, no? Many eyes make light work, or so I am told."
Rhodri snorted. Before she could follow up with some flavour of protest or concern, Zevran linked arms with her and marched them away between the trees. The search for a staff had, predictably, taken less time than Rhodri had anticipated– which Zevran had taken great delight in getting her to concede. Not because it had been a better idea to take him specifically (though with his sharp eyes, he was an asset in any visual situation) but because it was efficient, and Rhodri liked efficiency. And because she liked efficiency and was getting it from him, Zevran maintained her good favour. Any enjoyable feelings were satisfaction from a job well done, and nothing more.
They had scuttled away to the Dalish camp with their prize in hand (carefully, of course, as silvan bark was covered in small thorns that hooked deep into the skin), and Varathorn had taken special care– long enough for the party camp to have mostly packed up– to sand it down at his nearby workbench. With a very pleasant shape to it, no less. No unsightly knots or odd bends; out of their branch he had made a long, barely-curving staff with grips and a tiny spiral embellishment at the top. When he had finished, Varathorn took a moment to regard it, hands on his hips and nodding with a resolute smile that Zevran couldn't help but smile at himself. Rhodri, who had been watching the entire process with wide eyes, was bouncing on her toes by this point.
And then–because why would life ever be easy?-as Varathorn was making his way to them with the finished product in hand, he tripped on a root and fell on the staff, snapping it and two of his ribs. Between Rhodri's healing spells, he apologised twice, and Rhodri, who was evidently unused to such gestures, looked so wounded that Zevran took it upon himself to stop Varathorn as the Master went to announce his regrets a third time. Rhodri assured him, as she had whenever he apologised, that the priority was his wellbeing. The staff did not matter at all, and that, she said, was the truth.
After they had patched Varathorn up and said their goodbyes, Rhodri didn't bring up the staff again. Any questions from the party about it were met with a simple, "I didn't get one," and were not elaborated on further.
Rhodri looked like she had to unstick her feet from the floor to approach Alistair, who by this point was beckoning to her impatiently.
"It's a nice one, isn't it?" he called out. "And that mist you can see is cold! Must be enchanted!"
Rhodri sighed and kept trudging over. "I very much doubt that an enchanted staff will be something I can use, amicus."
Zevran, who had been matching her pace the entire walk across the room, shot her his most encouraging smile. "Ah, but did I not hear you say once that the Grey Wardens are rather more relaxed about blood magic?"
"You did," she nodded heavily, "but even so, a blood magic-enchanted staff in Ferelden is unlikely."
"We will have to hope for the unlikely, then, hmm?" he crooned, and elected not to push the topic when Rhodri offered only a nod.
Alistair looked like he was going to die– of old age, Zevran was sure he would assert, from waiting so long for them, when they finally pulled up in front of him.
"Took you long enough," he groaned, and thrust the staff in Rhodri's direction. "Make sure it isn't the cold you're feeling when you reach out, all right? It's really chilly if you approach it at certain angles."
Rhodri, who looked so resigned that Alistair must have thought she was humouring him at this point, gave a weary nod and hovered her hand over the staff. Alistair and Zevran shared a wide-eyed glance when her hand didn't immediately fly off it. Her face pinched into a squint; her hand drew nearer, and then nearer again, and finally, tenuously, her fingers touched the shaft. Once, twice, edged closer again until she was able to fully grip the staff. Their mouths fell open.
"I don't believe it," she whispered, bringing the staff into her other hand and giving it an experimental spin. "No lyrium. It's– it's safe."
Rhodri somehow managed to both jump out of her skin and cower simultaneously as Alistair let out a loud whoop of delight. The Templar followed it up with an apology and a bone-breaking embrace administered both to her and Zevran, and he swung them around with consummate ease.
"Isn't it great?" he enthused as he set them down on the ground again. "We both get something nice out of this place, Rhod, eh?"
"The weight is good," she muttered. "Pure dragonbone, at a guess. Excellent balance throughout." She held the staff upright, and in an instant, the air around them grew unsettlingly still. The white core darkened to pink, and then to a deep, pulsing red; Rhodri's eyes widened.
"Are you–? Hey!" Alistair waved for her to stop. "Are you doing blood magic?"
Rhodri shook her head, not taking her gaze off the staff. "Technically not, since I don't know any spells to cast. But the blood magic enchantment in this staff is actively enhancing the mana I feed into it. I won't have to use nearly as much mana when casting if I use this!" She threw her head back and let out an overjoyed laugh, and jumped up and down on the spot with her fist pumping in the air. Her voice climbed to a bell-clear shout that rang through the room, "BRILLIANT!"
Zevran's grin threatened to break his face open. "Good thing we hoped for the unlikely, hmm?"
Still jumping, Rhodri shouted in the affirmative; Zevran, if he was honest with himself, bounced on his toes a little as well.
§
Levi Dryden was becoming increasingly despondent. The sins of his grandmother (and, it seemed to Zevran, of everyone else at the time) were frequently remarked upon by the youngest Dryden in defeated, thoroughly disappointed tones. No conversation about the Peak, magic, mages, demons, or the Grey Wardens in general went untouched by Levi's woebegone additions– which was unfortunate, given that those topics were the primary ones in circulation.
By the time they were setting out the next morning, Morrigan looked like she was going to poison Levi if a single word more came out of his mouth. Even Alistair, who himself was the master of harping on about things, was getting tired of it. Zevran had caught himself staring a little too longingly at a paralytic on his poisons belt during Levi's most recent self-indulgent jag, and in a bid to keep his hands as far away from trouble as possible, stuck both of them (and Rhodri's left hand, to which Zevran's right hand was attached) into the deep pockets of his cloak.
When her hand went into Zevran's pocket, her fingers happened upon his prayer beads. His stomach churned as she began to idly fiddle with them, sending the smooth, warm beads sliding over his own thumb in the process. When, he wondered guiltily, was the last time he had used them himself? Or rather, when was the last time he had been able to use them without wanting to either vomit from self-loathing or die?
Likely never, really, he supposed. Not if he was being completely candid with himself, anyway. Having the feelings back down to manageable levels again was daydream fodder.
Rhodri kept thumbing the beads, and on and on they passed over Zevran's own sacreligious flesh in an endless loop. It had to be said, though: the wretchedness wasn't nearly as bad when it wasn't him using the beads. He shrugged inwardly at that consideration; why wouldn't it feel better when someone inherently better did it? Gentle Rhodri, so careful and sweet with (almost) all living things. The preferred candidate for prayer bead use, and the connection with the Maker that followed, was obvious.
But the beads, soiled as they were by being in his proximity, still felt like an old friend. He knew those beads individually; muscle memory effortlessly counted how many left until the one with a slight chip. They had gone everywhere– to every assassination job, ironically enough, and then to every Chantry mass the subsequent day. Zevran's heart gave a warm, increasingly familiar squeeze- at them, at how welcome it was to have the beads slipping gracefully over his fingers again.
Somewhere from the back, the resident misery guts had started moping aloud again. Zevran sighed with a contentedness that surprised him and counted the beads; Levi's voice ebbed to an unintelligible hum.
§
Rhodri had started searching every bookshelf, desk, and chest very carefully. When asked why, she simply replied that she was looking for a very specific kind of book and didn't elaborate further, even when pressed. Why she was looking for more books when she was only partway through those papers filched from Sophia Dryden's desk, Zevran couldn't imagine.
§
Leliana and Alistair had been watching Zevran and Rhodri like hawks since the day Zevran had commenced magic lessons. Not out of any concern for their wellbeing, though Zevran was sure that Leliana and Alistair both would come to their aid at even the slightest mention of difficulty.
When he pondered it all a little more, Zevran decided that a hawk was an unsuitable metaphorical bird for those two. The noises he was making in bed, now that various spells had been introduced, had made Leliana and Alistair even more bent on getting the saucy details out of them. They kept a very close orbit around Zevran and Rhodri, forever watching and waiting, practically salivating at the prospect of new snippets about what spell was making whose toes curl. No, if Alistair and Leliana were birds, they were vultures. Absolutely incorrigible, persistently nosy people. Zevran, quite frankly, found it delightful.
§
It was around the time Morrigan, who had finally tired of Levi Dryden's woeful musings, had administered a signature kidney-jab that the party was exposed to more of those curious visions. Avernus, skeletally thin and markedly older-looking than in earlier dreams, kneeled and sobbed over the emaciated body of Sophia Dryden. The door behind him rattled and burst open; demons seized Sophia's body and Avernus, whose apparent attempts to summon magic immediately failed, ran.
In another room, an even older-looking Avernus walked down a hallway lined with cages, inside which languished the most pitiful creatures Zevran had ever seen. Not human or elven, so far as he could tell; their skin was mouldering, not a hair on their bodies. No ears or lips in sight, and eyes the colour of fresh bile. They crouched and cowered like dogs, pawed at the ground with their long, clawed fingers, and when their mouths opened to cry out, rows of long, sharp, teeth gleamed weakly in the light. In front of each cage was an enormous clay pot, notably just out of reach of the nearby creatures.
Avernus paused in the middle of the passageway and looked around him. Every pair of wide, predatory eyes in the room locked onto the mage. He raised his staff.
"I am sorry," he murmured, and said it again, rather more loudly this time. With a wave of his staff, a swell of agonised shrieks filled the air fit to bursting. The creatures in the cages fell to the floor and writhed as a black substance– their blood, Zevran presumed– coursed out of them and into the pots. They fell silent within seconds, and by the time the pots were full, they had shrunken away to half their size, their skin now a very light grey. Avernus steadied his shaking hands, wiped under his eyes, and left the room. The vision had repeated twice more, and the only things that changed were the creatures in the cages, and that Avernus looked a little older in successive instances. The rest was damn near identical.
The upshot of seeing such disturbing visions, Zevran mused to himself– and there always was an upshot when it came to these things– was that Levi Dryden didn't say another word about Sophia Dryden, or his now-ignominious family in general, for the rest of the day.
On the bad side, of course, because there was always one of those too, Leliana and Alistair were outraged. Blood magic, of course, was a sin in the eyes of the Maker, as Leliana asserted five times in the last hour. And of course, Alistair had added on each occasion, it was unsafe, and no wonder the demons were every-bloody-where. Morrigan was the only one who had watched on in unfettered delight. A few cursory glances throughout had shown Rhodri to have taken the whole thing much better. She had, admittedly, closed her eyes when Avernus had killed off the things in the cages, but beyond that, things were as normal as ever.
Which was to say, of course, that everything was in utter disarray, and if Zevran was candid with himself (which he always was), he didn't really mind it. Not with the company he had.
§
Growing up in the Crows was, in Zevran's opinion, an excellent preparation for learning magic. Of utmost importance in assassination was a deep and constant awareness of one's body. The precise location of all one's extremities and their direction of travel; pain or a lack thereof; one's outward appearance were just a few things– and then, of course, there was the awareness of everyone else's bodies, which was a task in and of itself.
Magic demanded far less spatial awareness– the hands, of course, were vital for spellcasting, but beyond that, the workload couldn't have been easier. Where it became far more taxing was internally. Becoming attuned to the flow of mana in the body was like forcing oneself to become aware of a new organ. One was obliged, for the sake of safety, to be aware of how much mana one had at any given time; to note where it dwelled, the state of the mana- was it calm and easy to manipulate? Or was it being excited by intense emotion, and building up like steam in a glass bottle? How much mana had been summoned into the hands to be shaped into a spell, and was it enough? If it was too little, more would have to be pulled through the body and up into the hands to join the rest. Conversely, too much mana obliged one to either cast a larger spell, or to measure out the amount one wanted to separate from the collected pool in the hands and dispatch it back up the arms and into the rest of the body. For a few moments, Zevran wondered how mages kept all that in their heads in addition to the actual spellcasting– and then, of course, he remembered how many times in his childhood he had wondered the same about more senior Crows.
Rhodri seemed suitably impressed with her sole student, who was now two lessons into the curriculum. She frequently praised his quickness to understand concepts and, so far as Zevran could tell, it was all genuine. That assumption, in particular, was helped by the one or two quick kisses to his hands she administered while delivering said remarks. Errors (of which there were many), she acknowledged gently, spoke of them as though Zevran had been perfectly reasonable to do what was often the exact opposite of what should have been done. The right answer, even if it had come after several wrong ones and had practically had to be handed to him, was celebrated unreservedly and never failed to bring a faint heat to his cheeks. What a strange thing it was, to be made to feel like a genius in the face of constant displays of ineptitude. Zevran almost– almost– caught himself wondering if he was too hard on himself.
And then, of course, when he bit his lip at the end of the lesson and coyly pulled a blushing Rhodri away to her tent, he had another kind of hardness– and prowess!- to consider and revel in.
§
A new theory, care of the two mages, had been circulating through the party since the most recent ghostly visions. Avernus, Rhodri and Morrigan were surmising, had been practicing a similar kind of blood magic to Flemeth. Namely, one that extended the lifespan at the expense of others, and thus quite likely one whose esoteric nature had created a Veil tear that was much more difficult for outsiders to patch up.
Zevran, now having sat through two magic lessons of his own, chewed on the idea over the next day. He didn't dare speak up with questions or thoughts about the topic at large; Maker knew nobody liked a self-appointed pundit. Oh, Rhodri would have been sweet about it, no doubt, and listened to him with that preternatural patience and encouragement of hers, but had Morrigan caught wind of him having thoughts, that would have been the end of him.
Even so, though, his head buzzed with the question he had been nursing the entire time: what if being a Warden blood mage had something to do with that complicated Veil tear? Rhodri didn't use blood magic, and Morrigan wasn't a Warden, so if Zevran's theory held any water (and of course, he maintained, it absolutely did not), it could mean that a Warden would have to use blood magic to fix it properly.
More than likely though, of course, he would be proven wrong when Rhodri or Morrigan picked up the correct book– perhaps Avernus' own grimoire!- and found a nifty set of instructions within on how to seal it. With diagrams, of course; mages did love their diagrams. It would be such a simple fix, too: an extra hand-wave at the end, or murmuring a little ancient Tevene passphrase while casting. Zevran could bring up his tomfool theory with Rhodri afterward, and they'd have a good laugh. Who said there wasn't always something to look forward to?
§
It was a funny thing, finally meeting a person one had indirectly interacted with many times. He should have known, Zevran supposed, that Avernus would not actually look like a spectre. Did know it. But when one had been introduced as many times as Avernus, and not a single occasion featured him looking like a flesh-and-blood life form, what was one to think?
Of equal surprise was the dismissiveness with which said flesh-and-blood mage greeted– no, acknowledged the party after they had left the main building and passed into the little watchhouse in which they had found him. Avernus had had his back to the party, stood bent over a table poring over a book, and didn't so much as turn around when they came in.
"I hear you," he called out in a low, brittle voice which, if Zevran's ears weren't deceiving him, had the mildest Tevinter accent. "Don't disrupt my concentration."
Alistair, whose face was contorted with fury, pointed a finger and roared at the man, "YOU! WE SAW WHAT YOU DID, YOU BLOODY MONSTER!"
Morrigan pulled up beside Rhodri, casually using her staff to scratch her back and then pointing it at Avernus. "'Twould seem we guessed well, Warden. Still he lives." She cupped a hand around her mouth and called to the mage in question, "Tell us, old man, how many Wardens did you slaughter to live as long as you have?"
Zevran's stomach dropped as he thought back to the creatures in the cages from the visions– those couldn't have been Wardens, could they? Surely they were experiments gone wrong. Mutated Darkspawn, perhaps. Perhaps Avernus had been attempting to strip them of their monstrous nature, make honest citizens out of them.
Leliana, who appeared to have been thinking along similar lines, let out a cry, the colour draining from her face.
"Those– in the cages– those were Wardens?" she choked.
"They were, and I killed twenty-eight of them," Avernus answered curtly, and then, as if realising the prospects of an undisturbed afternoon had dwindled to nothing, turned to face the party with a sigh. "But I did not kill them for the explicit purpose of living longer."
"'Course you did," Alistair snarled. "'Course you bloody did! You selfish prick!" His chin jutted out in a sneer now, "Too scared to go on your Calling, was that it? Bet you knew that anyone down in the Deep Roads who recognised you would've torn you a new one before the Darkspawn could so much as look at you! You– you utter snake!"
For once, it was Rhodri who was visibly appalled at something Alistair had said. The use of the word 'snake,' as an insult in this case, had her mouth falling open and a hand touching the snake on her ear.
"Mercy, Alistair," she murmured, "you can leave snakes out of this, thank you. And as for you," she looked at Avernus now, "if not for the purpose of extending your lifespan, why did you exsanguinate all the Wardens here?"
Avernus raised an eyebrow at her. "Why do you think, child?"
Rhodri curled her lip and answered in decidedly cold Tevene. Zevran was able to make out, 'Not here to… guessing game with you,' and a directive to answer her question immediately.
Avernus scoffed. "Enough of the Imperial Tongue, thank you. That died with my father, and there it can stay. I get enough of it in books." He strolled over to them, staff in hand. "Well, since you seem unable to guess for yourself, I suppose I shall have to tell you outright. I have dedicated the last two hundred and seven years of my life to tapping into the power of Warden blood to fight the Darkspawn and cure the Taint."
"Blood magic," Leliana said in a near-shout, "is a sin in the eyes of the Maker. And those poor wretches in the cages that you gutted like– like swine, to steal their blood for experiments, those were your friends? Your fellow Wardens?" She cut a hand through the air. "Disgusting. Alistair ought to cut your head off where you stand!"
"He will not, though," Avernus snapped, "because you cannot seal the Veil tear in the main tower without me!" (Oh, Zevran was right! He was right!) He glanced between Rhodri and Alistair and added, "I do not suppose either of you told this young woman," Avernus jabbed his staff in Leliana's direction, "what happens when the Taint starts to take hold?'
Alistair shook his head pleadingly. "No-no, don't–"
"They begin to hear the Archdemons," he spoke over Alistair, only to be cut off in turn by Rhodri.
"Stop, Avernus," she barked. "That knowledge is strictly for Wardens only–"
"Do not try to pull rank over me, little Magewarden!" Avernus shouted over her. "You are twenty years old at the most!" He turned back to Leliana with a grim smile that made Zevran's stomach lurch.
"It sounds like a song, the Archdemon's speech. Did they tell you? No? It's an irresistible sweet, dark song that pulls you in like a maelstrom and infuses you wholly, within and without." Avernus waved a hand, and a vision of one of the pitiful cage creatures came into view.
"Meanwhile the Taint takes over your body and pollutes you until you are the colour of gangrene. Your hair falls out, lips and external cartilage," he indicated his ears and nose, "rot off. Your teeth are pushed out by a longer, sharper set. Who you were is long gone. You are a ghoul, soon to be a darkspawn." He threw a hand in the direction of Rhodri and Alistair, "In a decade, these two will be completely gone."
A cold, sick sweat broke out over Zevran as thoughts of Rhodri, howling and languishing in a cage, shot into his mind. His stomach heaved violently, and it took biting down on his lips and swallowing hard to keep the rising contents from making a complete escape.
"You're lying!" Leliana shouted, her face shining with tears. She turned to Alistair, who had gone the colour of paper, and grabbed him by the arm. "He is lying, isn't he, cher? Cher?"
"Under normal circumstances," Avernus pushed on, "the Wardens take to the Deep Roads when they start to hear the song, to die with dignity while fighting Darkspawn down there. But nobody could get through the demons, and for better or worse, they turned here. But I suppose you would rather have ghouls roaming the countryside, would you, half-mad and suffering as they tried to find their way to Orzammar?" He shook his head, a little sadly now. "Here with me, they died quickly. Against their will, indisputably, and not in the manner befitting a Grey Warden, but most certainly not in vain."
How Avernus had managed to speak over Leliana's loud sobs was anyone's guess. How Zevran had even listened to him that entire time was equally mystifying. It occurred to him as a breath forced its way in, that he hadn't inhaled or exhaled the entire time. He was trembling like a leaf, and even as Rhodri spoke now, he couldn't bring himself to look at her for fear of seeing some sign of impending decay on her. A dark spot, a tuft of hair falling out, eyes yellowing. Maker help him, he couldn't.
But Rhodri's voice, despite whatever infirmity his head had conjured up for her, was strong and clear, and sharp as a knife.
"That was more than enough, Avernus," she said forcefully. "Your point is well and truly made now."
"I am sure of it," Avernus replied, smoothly. "Now, what do you intend to do with me?"
When Zevran could finally make himself look somewhere other than his toes, he saw Rhodri, tall and strong and entirely intact, folding her arms and watching the other mage with a deep frown.
And then, she shrugged with one shoulder.
"I intend to give you whatever you need to continue your research," she said simply, pausing to yelp in pain as Alistair roughly swatted her arm. "Alistair, enough. Avernus, how close are you to finding a cure?"
"RHODRI!" Alistair shouted angrily; the addressee ignored this, and Avernus did, too.
"Close," Avernus said. "Very close. But before I get into that, there is a tear in the Veil that we need to address."
"No," Rhodri insisted. "If you die in the process, your research is lost with you. Show me now."
Avernus snorted and gestured at the stacks of books behind him. "It is not, you damned fool. You think me one of the usual Fereldan illiterates who never thought to record any interesting events? Everything has been meticulously noted. Triumphs, dead ends, all of it. I had only just paused in today's notes when you barged in."
Rhodri marched past him, conducted a brief inspection of the literature on the desk, and then nodded to the party.
"Let's go, then," she announced. "The sooner this Veil is sealed, the better."
"Could we–" Leliana spoke up now in a stutter, wiping her eyes fruitlessly, "Could we take a moment to–?"
Rhodri watched Leliana with a puzzled frown for a moment. "To–? Oh! Yes, you're upset about the Taint." She hurried over to Leliana and gave her shoulders a friendly squeeze. "Forgive me, it didn't occur to me. But you mustn't worry, Leli, all right? A cure is almost here, and Avernus will have all the help he needs to find one in good time for us."
Leliana sniffled and nodded, and promptly buried her face into Alistair's broad chest. Alistair, who had since regained some colour in his face, gave Rhodri a short nod. She gave him a clap on the shoulder and, when her eyes landed on Zevran, her mouth fell open.
"Ah, dulcis!" she gasped, breaking into a run to rejoin him. A stab of self-consciousness prompted Zevran to check himself for the source of alarm, but no sign had made itself apparent before Rhodri screeched to a halt in front of him.
"Oh, Zev," she murmured pleadingly. "Forgive me, I should have checked earlier. Are you all right?"
Her hands sought his cheeks, and he leaned into the touch, watching her for far longer than he knew he ought. Zevran ran his eyes over her hairline, along the sharp ridge of her right cheek. Brows knitted in open concern, bright, solicitous eyes fixed on him. How had he ever looked at that face and seen anything but tenderness there?
An answer, albeit a weak and pathetic one, eked its way out of him: "Mmm."
His stomach dropped as Rhodri clucked her tongue sadly and wiped her thumbs under his eyes. Why had she done that? There wasn't anything there. Nothing wet, certainly– though, on the off-chance that his eyes had watered, it was extremely likely that that earlier bout of nausea was responsible. He had seen it many times in bars. The eyes were a mysterious part of the body.
As certain as he was now of his own wellbeing, Rhodri looked rather less convinced. "You're sure? There is nothing to worry about, but sometimes you can know something and still feel the opposite anyway. I'm sure it wasn't nice to hear about ghouls."
Zevran choked out an exasperated laugh and acknowledged the remark with a nod. "It is true, I do prefer hearing your stories about magical gravy boats and your mad little students, my dear." He straightened up and forced on a smile, not of a mind to give Rhodri's sympathy muscle any further opportunity to be exercised. "Tell me, my dear, when will you treat me to another tale, hmm?"
Rhodri smiled back, and Maker help him, why was she wiping under his bloody eyes again?
"I know what that means," she murmured. "When you change the subject like that, you don't want to talk about something." She nodded, chuckling a little as Zevran's eyes widened in spite of himself. "We'll leave it for now. But you'll tell me, won't you, if there is anything?"
Oh, death. Death! How was it that something as subtle as a drop of poison could enter the bloodstream undetected and make the body decide to asphyxiate itself, and something as utterly consuming as mortification did nothing but make the cheeks burn? It even had the word 'death' in the name! How, for fuck's sake, was it so damned survivable?
Zevran nodded, because it was all he could do, and Rhodri, looking satisfied, kissed both his cheeks and beckoned him a little closer. Zevran, privately dreading the oncoming wave of platitudes– if it was going to happen to Leliana, of course it would happen to him, too– refused to acknowledge his insides cringing and dutifully leaned in.
Rhodri addressed him in a conspiratorial whisper now, "Besides, if that Avernus fellow can make it past two hundred with a little blood magic, imagine how long I'll live!"
Zevran's mouth fell open. His breath swelled enough to press a soft cackle of disbelief out of him, and he pulled back enough to see Rhodri watching him with a self-assured smirk.
"And of course," she added, "I'll find out how to do it for people without the Taint, and you'll live just as long as me. How does that sound, hmm?"
"I need to kiss you now," Zevran blurted, surprising himself even more than Rhodri– who, with her reddening face and wide eyes, was plenty taken aback herself. Incredible, really, that dipping into highly illegal magic was a topic for the dinner table, but a simple kiss was grounds for intense flustering. The Tevinters were a deliciously odd bunch.
Rhodri looked around furtively, and when her eyes locked onto a door nearby, she pointed her nose at it.
"There," she rumbled, scooping Zevran up in her arms. "I might even get a few kisses in, myself."