The concept of a lover's quarrel was nothing new to Zevran. There had been enough in the brothel, albeit rather one-sided ones, started by clients stupid enough to mistake a prostitute's professionalism for genuine interest. Why anyone would think to look for love in a brothel was a constant source of mystery to Zevran in his older years. More puzzling to him still was the way these same clients, when their advances were inevitably turned down, believed that shows of violent force might somehow turn the prostitute's heart to them. Somehow, though, they were wholly convinced of its effectiveness, and were always game to give it a try when their initial, more friendly overtures failed to land.
Whenever such outbursts arose, Zevran and the other children would quickly be herded into a single room while a gaggle of younger, stronger brothel employees, armed with solid hardwood poles, chased the offender off the premises. Provided Cristofania or one of the stricter prostitutes was not in there with them, the children would be permitted to crowd around the only window and watch the villain flee the brothel and into the street– and, if they had been very good or the supervising prostitute had an especial dislike of that particular client, they were allowed to cheer at the end.
In the Crows, of course, romantic disputes were few and far between. People paired up often enough, or even formed small groups, as Zevran himself had with Rinna and Taliesen, but these were clandestine partnerships, entirely unknown to anyone not actively participating. So well concealed were these relationships that even within the Crows, being found to have engaged in so much as a one-night stand was enough to spark rumours. Predictably enough, any contretemps occurred behind closed, triple-locked doors, and the presumed lovers would always emerge looking and treating each other the same, whether they were still together or not. The forced stoicism that secretiveness imposed, Zevran often mused to himself wryly, made utter devotion and bitter acrimony look almost identical.
Out among the civilians, however, was a world unto itself. The Fereldans, Zevran noted, were less apt to air their grievances publicly, romantic or otherwise. Whether this was due to culture or circumstance, Zevran couldn't decide, though he couldn't help suspecting the terrible weather had a hand in it. After all, who would want to fight outside in a country whose weather discouraged one from being outdoors for more than five minutes a year?
On the other end of the spectrum was Antiva. With its year-round sunshine and warmth, Zevran's beloved mother country was a pleasure to be outside in at all times of the day and night. In fact, it was common knowledge that there was no finer place to situate oneself, for arguments or anything else, than outside under the shade of a mango tree, where the breeze was generous and the people-watching opportunities abounded. Even so, though, it never failed to astonish Zevran that warring lovers willingly took their arguments into public places, where they shrieked and howled at each other like fishwives in front of everyone. Where was the fear of some unscrupulous person hearing about those juicy little details and memorising them to exploit at a later time? Did they really think that in a country ruled by an assassin's guild, they could shout about infidelity and debts and unexpected children without someone taking a mercenary interest in that? Folly, was what it was. Total folly.
Being so far from the prying eyes of others was possibly the only good thing about being at Soldier's Peak, Zevran mused as he lounged in Rhodri's lap by the fire. It had been– how many days now? Three? Possibly four, after that long, frenetic afternoon and evening in Rhodri's tent?- since the party had arrived at the Peak. And for that entire third-or-fourth day, Leliana and Alistair had been in one of two modes: actively arguing; or putting distance between themselves to lick their wounds once said arguing had sufficiently exhausted them. If they had slept, eaten, or even scratched themselves during that time, it had been while Zevran was asleep or otherwise indisposed.
And now, the same two people had ended their woeful ceasefire upon Leliana bringing Alistair a cup of tea, their briefly-staunched outrage now flowing anew.
"I just don't see why we can't talk about this civilly, cher," Leliana rubbed her brow.
Alistair set the cup down and pursed his lips. "Really?" he asked flatly. "You don't think it's something to do with you calling me a crazy man every time I try to explain why I don't want to be a vessel for blood magic?"
Zevran sighed and looked up. Directly above him was Rhodri, who up to now had been idly stroking his forehead while she finished making tea for Morrigan, who sat to her right. The prepared drink sat in Rhodri's hand, and went unseen while the witch's attention was glued to the squabble across the room. Morrigan's entire face shone, her mouth opening in a gleeful smile, and it struck Zevran at that moment that before now, he had never seen Morrigan smile with her teeth. She was undeniably beautiful, and perhaps someone who didn't know her from a bar of soap might have even found themselves lovestruck at the sight. Zevran, however, felt he could say he knew Morrigan at least reasonably well– better than anyone outside of the Wardens' party, certainly, and the only emotion that huge grin elicited in him was astonishment. And, of course, deep amusement, because it was nothing if not funny that the only known thing to occasion such joy was Alistair and Leliana's misery.
Rhodri, however, was less amused at all this. Zevran watched Rhodri, perfectly straight-faced, side-eye Morrigan, whose delight was rapidly progressing to a barely-restrained laugh.
"Your tea is ready," Rhodri said to her calmly, holding the cup up a little.
Morrigan's lips quivered; the tea went ignored. "'Tis more refreshing than a twelve-plexus stamina spell, watching this," she said, before a snort tore out of her. Her shoulders shook a little; the threat of a laugh bursting out was imminent.
Rhodri sighed and set down the cup, and with a rather complicated-looking handwave, a two-metre long wall of ice erected itself nearby, obscuring Leliana and Alistair. A small pause ensued between the arguing pair before the accusations started up again.
At all this, Morrigan's grin evaporated, her mouth twitching in an infinitesimal frown. She turned to Rhodri.
"I can still hear them, Warden," she said coolly.
"I'm aware," Rhodri nodded. "But now it's time for Zevran's lesson, and I would like you to help me."
Morrigan raised an eyebrow. "Do you think me a fool?" she asked pointedly. "I am aware that you are asking this of me to keep me from watching the spectacle over there."
"I never said I wasn't," Rhodri shrugged. "I'd still like you to help with Zevran's lesson today, as a favour to me. Are you willing?"
Morrigan looked at the ice wall, and then at Rhodri, and then at the cup of tea by her feet. After giving the Tevinter the eyeroll to end all eyerolls, she nodded.
"Oh, very well," she relented, and turned to Zevran.
"Very exciting," Zevran said as he shifted out of Rhodri's lap and picked up his notes and pen. "A guest lecturer!"
Morrigan rolled her eyes and waved the remark away. "Now, what Templar-approved Circle nonsense have you picked up from her thus far?" Zevran opened his mouth to protest, only for Morrigan to cut him off with a shake of her head. "Never mind. Has she–?" She paused again and squinted at the sheet of paper in his hand. "Where is your grimoire?"
"My–?"
"Grimoire," Morrigan repeated, far too slowly and clearly to have meant it politely, and shot a glare at Rhodri. "You have not started him on lessons without one, surely."
To Zevran's surprise, Rhodri's shoulders slumped. She rubbed her neck and looked down at the floor.
"He has one," she said, "but it's not ready yet–"
Zevran's eyebrows shot up in spite of himself. "I have a grimoire?"
Rhodri's neck-rubbing intensified, her voice dropping to a mumble. "You do, dulcis, yes. It's the book I was looking for here in the Peak–"
"Have you put on the protective spells?" Morrigan asked sharply.
"Of course," she replied. "It's fully enchanted, but it's not fully– you know, decorated."
"Oh, for pity's sake, go and get it, you fool!" Morrigan clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "He needs the paper more than he needs the embellishments!"
With a sigh, a red-faced Rhodri got to her feet and walked back to her tent, returning to the campfire with an emerald green leather-bound book held close to her body. She sat down and extracted, almost wrenched the thing from her own grasp, and held it out. Pyrographed into the borders of the book was a simple geometric pattern that Zevran had seen etched into the doorways of many Antivan buildings (had Rhodri been to Antiva herself? Or was the Antivan architecture style popular in Tevinter, too ?), and the lower third of the front cover sported hundreds of little sticks with buds– a wheat field, Zevran presumed, his heart giving a fond squeeze as Cristofania came to mind. At the top and side, handsome runes spelled out the same quote that had been etched into his amulet. A smile came to him unbidden– when she had found the time to decorate the grimoire (his grimoire!) was anyone's guess– and he cooed delightedly in spite of any and all voices in his head insisting he do and feel otherwise.
"Apologies, dulcis," Rhodri said to him quietly. "I'll buy you an excellent one in Minrathous–"
"No, no," Zevran said quickly, and reached out for it with a proud smile. "I do not want another. This is the one for me."
"Oh, shut up," Morrigan snapped, and swiped the book out of Rhodri's hands before Zevran could take it himself. She inspected it from all angles; attempted, and failed, to open the book (this merited an approving nod from the witch); drew a finger over the runes on the front cover– nothing happened, which earned another nod. The inspection concluded with a satisfied hum from Morrigan after she plucked a hobnail out of her staff and used it to slice into the cover, moments after which said cover stitched itself back together before their eyes.
"Maker's mercy," Zevran gasped. "I didn't know books could do that."
"They can if enchanted correctly," Morrigan said shortly, and tossed the book into his lap. "It will do. Now, has the Warden taught you yet about the potency extraction process for wispweed and elfroot?"
He blinked. "Not as yet. We have been working on centring mana."
"Children's lessons. I shall leave such instruction to her, and from me you shall have something useful." The witch pointed at the book in his lap. "Open this to a fresh page– leave the dedication before I vomit on it," she turned the page for him as he caught sight of a small paragraph on the first page of the book and paused, "and draw a table that is seven spaces long and three spaces wide."
With an obedient nod and a quick, apologetic glance to Rhodri, Zevran flattened the page out and traced the outline of a table. As he was filling the columns in, the steady bickering from Alistair and Leliana swelled to near-shouts. The three of them looked to the ice wall, Morrigan's eyes in particular on stalks.
"Your stubbornness is costing you everything, Alistair!" came Leliana's impassioned cry. "The blood is there, whether you want it to be or not. It's– it's churlish not to take it. Letting all that talent and goodness go to waste! And for what? So the blood can be used by another instead?"
"How many times have you stood by me and told me you love me for my morals, Lel?" Alistair snapped. "I make one choice about my own body that doesn't suit you, and this is what happens. Know what that feels like to me? Hmm? Like you only love my morals when they suit you!"
Morrigan, whose mouth was open in a grin, let out a wheeze at that. Rhodri sighed and looked at her with gentle reproach; the witch went silent, though her grin was no less diminished.
Leliana's voice grew quiet, dangerous. "How dare you– how dare you! That is not true at all! You know I love you for you!"
"... I'm not so sure I do know that now," Alistair said after a moment.
"W-what?"
"I was never cut out to be a Templar, I know, but I still don't believe that blood magic is good or proper, even if it gives me a benefit. That's important to me. And if this is the support I can expect when I make a decision that you don't approve of, maybe we–" a pause as Alistair gulped, his voice trembling a little now, "maybe we shouldn't be together."
Morrigan now sported several prominent veins near both temples. Her shoulders hunched over, trembling occasionally as a tiny snort tore out of her.
"Don't," Rhodri warned tiredly. Her admonishment had less of an effect than previous iterations, but to give credit where it was due, Morrigan did attempt to distract herself by picking up her tea and sipping on it.
Leliana, having made a few false starts, finally managed to speak again: "You– you want to end things over this? You would rather die and break my heart than put your health first?"
"Don't– don't say it like that," Alistair insisted. "I shouldn't have to choose. You don't get it, you still don't get it." He sighed, "I've had enough of this. We're done, Leli."
Zevran stole another glance at Morrigan, whose face was now the colour of a plum. Her eyes were screwed shut, and she had two fingers resting over what appeared to be a rather full mouth. Sensibility compelled Zevran to move his grimoire– which, he decided in that instant, was the finest grimoire anywhere– out of the firing line.
And just in time, too, because as Alistair's footsteps grew quieter and a door, obscured by the ice wall, opened and closed, Leliana howled the man's name and Morrigan, no longer able to contain herself, sprayed tea everywhere and dissolved into the loudest belly-laugh Zevran had ever heard. It was incredible; where someone as thin as Morrigan stored such a loud, forceful laugh was beyond all understanding, but there she was, belting it out with a report that sent the dog fleeing into the next room. Even Sten was gaping at her.
Rhodri, predictably enough, was terribly displeased. Enough so that she shuffled over until she and Morrigan were almost touching, and spoke to her in a low murmur that Zevran had to strain to overhear.
"I didn't allow Alistair or Leliana to give you any grief over Aneirin, Morrigan," she said, throwing in a meaningful look as the addressee fell silent long enough to glare at her. "I will not allow you to do the same to them now." Rhodri gestured toward the door behind them, "React however you want, but have the decency to do it where they're out of earshot."
To Zevran's continued surprise, instead of leaving, rolling her eyes, or biting back with some suitably acidic retort, Morrigan watched Rhodri with a squint. And then, as if nothing had happened, she turned back to Zevran, tapping his grimoire with an impatient finger.
"Open this," she said to him briefly. "Why is it shut? Have you drawn that table yet?"
§
The two weeks that followed saw two exponential increases. And one departure; namely Levi Dryden. The Peak having been secured, Levi took his leave, assuring the party that he was merely going to fetch his brother, Mikhael, and would return with said brother forthwith. That had occurred on the first day of the fortnight that came, and he was yet to return by the end.
Where the increases were concerned: the first was in tears. Namely, Alistair and Leliana's. Maker have mercy, but those two were a couple of wellsprings. Alistair being inclined to weepiness was no secret; even now, the man averaged a good sob at least twice a week over Duncan. Leliana, however, had been a rather more unexpected contender. Oh, she had cried at a few emotionally fraught moments, but never for so long, or so often. Zevran did what he could to assuage them both, such as his efforts were, but the majority of the comforting fell to Rhodri. In fact, such was her involvement in soothing the two that Rhodri's robes were perpetually soiled with their tears and snot. Having faithfully promised not to breathe a word of it to anyone else (the criers in particular), Zevran would watch in the evenings as Rhodri studied the book she bought from Old Tegrin– which, as luck would have it, contained an instant cleaning and laundering spell.
The second increase was in magical knowledge. Morrigan, for one, having found Zevran to be a suitably quick study, had taken it upon herself to teach him about the process of preparing ingredients for potions. These were, notably, the ones she tended to brew herself, and Zevran was in no doubt that the witch fully intended to make him take over at least some of her herbalism duties.
That was hardly an issue, though. In truth, Zevran appreciated having more work to do. Rhodri had always insisted that he have as little work as possible, as she did with everyone in her charge, and though it had been beneficial in the earlier days of settling into life in the Warden's party, Zevran considered himself well and truly established now, and more than ready to busy his hands a little more.
And, if he was honest with himself, it was nice to finally have an occasion to speak with Morrigan beyond a passing few sentences. For all her spikiness, she was wonderfully intelligent and insightful, and had a scathing sense of humour that was hard not to appreciate. She never wasted a word and got to the heart of any matter like nobody else, and the thought of gossiping with her was tempting beyond belief. But so distanced was she from the rest of the group- by design, no doubt– that it was impossible to get to know her any better than superficially. But now, to Zevran's delight, that opportunity had finally come.
As a teacher, Morrigan was excellent. She suffered no foolishness whatsoever, and though mistakes were met with some degree of belittling, she always corrected them. Concepts were explained in simple, concise terms, and a few expository questions from Zevran invariably uncovered that said concepts were, in fact, highly complex, but had nonetheless been summarised beautifully. She was rather more like the kinder teachers that Zevran had had in the Crows, which in itself was a comfort. Rhodri's warmth and kindness, a balm though it was, was deeply unfamiliar, and though Zevran was loath to admit it, disabusing oneself of the prospect of unexpected hostility was a very tiring process. A little venom was therapeutic, and Morrigan– whether intentionally or not– offered that.
Morrigan herself, and Rhodri, too, had also had their own breakthroughs. Lessons with Avernus had commenced the day after Alistair and Leliana's relationship-ending quibble, and in the two weeks that had followed, both mages had acquired a handful of blood magic spells each. Zevran and Leliana, who was typically at a loose end now, spent the days watching on as Avernus instructed Rhodri and Morrigan. He, too, was an impressive teacher, not least because he often appeared to be teaching two different lessons at once. Morrigan, as it turned out, already had quite some exposure to blood magic, and unabashedly exhibited said knowledge throughout.
Of particular interest to Zevran during the lessons was the way in which individual magic styles became apparent. In the heat of battle, when Rhodri and Morrigan were most often using magic, these nuances were lost on all and sundry, but now they were plain as day.
Morrigan distinguished herself as having a far greater repertoire than Rhodri– as befitting a daughter of Flemeth, Zevran supposed– and she was inclined to augment a spell with other, smaller spells. To watch her cast was to watch an artist at work, indulging the whims of her desires while (mostly) observing the rules of what was physically possible. She so immersed herself in her craft that she practically spirited herself away. Her face was alive with passion. Strain. Concentration. Overwhelm. Delight. So many of the things that she refused to let others see. Her eyes gleamed when she got a spell right, and her lip curled when she failed. Morrigan's casting was, quite simply, poetry in motion.
With the sheer amount of time they spent together, Rhodri's style was more known to Zevran. Her razor-sharp concentration, her meticulous attention to technique, and her boundless stamina were all familiar things, but to stand her beside Morrigan made those distinctions all the clearer. Where Morrigan cast with just enough escaping mana to give her spells a little flourish, Rhodri, who had never had the luxury of enchanted items, cast invisibly. In terms of stamina, she ran rings around Morrigan and Avernus both, often casting for twice as long before acquiescing and taking a break. Movements were precise and tightly curated, as though there was not a single inch of space to spare, but they were quick, sharp, and powerful, with every impression that there was plenty more power to spare.
What was Zevran's magical style like, he wondered. Or rather, what would it become when– if– he ever learned to cast anything? He was a rather flourished sort of person, when all was said and done, and not any more focused on the details of things than he had to be. Fabulous, dazzling, deadly. Perhaps even a little seductive. Could one cast seductively? He supposed it was possible, especially if one were to make lewd gesticulations with their staff. How one would find the time amid actually executing the necessary movements for the spell, however, was another matter entirely.
Still chewing on the thought, he turned to Leliana.
"What sort of a mage do you think I would be, Leli?" he asked offhandedly.
Leliana, who up to now had been observing the blood magic lesson, turned and looked at Zevran with a pensive frown.
"What sort?" she echoed. "Probably one of the court mages the wealthy Orlesians keep to trot out at parties."
"Oh?" he fluttered his lashes, "Because I am too good-looking to hide, even if I am wearing an Orlesian robe?"
"Those robes are very nice, thank you. And no, not because of that, though I think more than a few nobles would be swayed. No, you're… swishy."
"... 'Swishy.'"
"Yes, you know. Lots of flourishes, lots of dancing and showing off." She smirked. "You're like a peacock. And those court mages are all about flashiness and intrigue."
Zevran took this with a nod. It wasn't what he'd meant when it came to typology, and somehow, even though he couldn't say the answer was inaccurate in any way– if anything, it was flattering and entirely true– it wasn't quite what he'd hoped for. Not entirely.
In the later evening, long after the lesson and dinner had concluded, Zevran posed the question to Rhodri while she was fiddling with a cleaning spell.
"What sort of a mage would I be, Rhodri?" he asked.
Rhodri frowned at the soiled shirt she was attempting to magick into cleanliness, and put it down.
"What do you mean when you say 'sort?'" she asked. "Do you mean what branch of magic I think you would excel in, or something else?"
Zevran shifted on his bottom. "I… don't know. What I would be like, as a mage, I suppose I meant."
"Oh. Hmm…" Rhodri tipped her head from side to side thoughtfully. "Exhausted, probably, more than anything else."
"Ah, because my mana pool is so tiny? Let us assume it is not, for the sake of curiosity."
"I already did assume that," she nodded. "You'd be exhausted even with the biggest mana pool on record."
A bemused laugh tumbled out of him. "And why is that?"
Rhodri frowned. "... Isn't it obvious?"
"Not to me, I'm afraid."
"Well, I mean, look at you," she opened her hands toward him slowly, proudly. "You're always helping people. Whenever it's time for dinner, you're the first one to start peeling the potatoes, even when it's someone else's turn. And remember when Alistair's tent started leaking during the rain, and you were out there with me helping to patch it up? Or that time you made the insect bite paste for Sten when the–"
Zevran, now somewhat red-cheeked, stopped her there with a polite, if awkward chuckle. "My goodness, mi sol, you keep listing moments when I behaved myself and my head will be too big to fit into the tent tonight! What do they have to do with being a mage, anyway?"
Rhodri raised an eyebrow. "Well, the way I see it, you help people even without magic, and there are plenty of problems that are fixed with magic far quicker than by hand." She shrugged. "I just don't see how you'd be able to resist using it to help every person you saw. The mana would drain accordingly, and you'd be, as I said, exhausted."
Before Zevran could so much as begin to process her answer, Rhodri shot him a warm, gleaming smile and turned back to the shirt. He frowned into his lap; he wasn't that helpful, was he? Oh, he didn't mind doing a good turn for someone else now and then– it was a pleasure that being in the Crows had often denied, but always? If Rhodri wasn't exaggerating, that suggested a rather dramatic change in character since joining the Wardens' party. And that, in turn, was something Zevran didn't dare consider. All of a sudden, Leliana's answer had a renewed appeal to it.
As Zevran heaved a sigh, Rhodri let out a triumphant laugh that dragged his attention back to the present.
"Hmm?" he asked.
Rhodri held up the shirt. "It worked! Totally clean, see?"
Zevran cooed in interest, taking the shirt in one hand and giving it an experimental scrunch. "As good as laundered. Leliana's tears and snot are completely gone!"
At that moment, as if organised by the Maker himself, an indistinct sobbing came from outside. Rhodri and Zevran shared a look and a sigh.
"Just in time, I would say," Zevran offered with a laugh.
"I think so." Rhodri got to her feet. "Sounded like Alistair. I'd better go to him."
"I'll distract Leliana before she hears him and starts up, herself."
Rhodri smiled and, when Zevran had consented with a nod, pressed three, four, five kisses into his crown.
"You're so kind, Zev," she murmured. "A true marvel."
With that, she was gone, and Zevran was left to wind his way to Leliana. And, of course, because things weren't unhinged enough as they were, she had already started to sob.