It was a terribly strange thing, waking up in a field during heavy snowfall. It shouldn't have been so different, Zevran supposed, from waking up in the Peak while the snow piled up outside, but it was.

For a start, the Peak was a proper structure, risen a fair way off the ground, and the effects of the falling snow were minimal– unless, of course, one was camped out in the corner where Alistair's tent was; the Templar, who was something of a fresh-air fanatic, had the habit of 'accidentally' leaving the window above his tent open. Then, of course, the snow found its way indoors, and one could expect to wake up to a large pile of the stuff (or, when it was sufficiently warm indoors, an even bigger puddle of water), sitting right beside Alistair's tent.

Then, of course, there was the noise. Zevran, if he was honest with himself, didn't mind a little commotion. One could not grow up in Antiva and keep one's sanity if one hated the hustle and bustle of close quarters. In all but the most isolated parts of the country, houses and apartments were all close together, and surrounded the perpetually-busy markets. There was always some noise: the calls of the fishmongers in the early morning; the clacking of wooden heels on the cobblestones as people entered and left the markets; the grind of wheels as supplies were freighted through the town; quiet whispers (and loud speculations) from strolling gossipers passing under the window; the screech of the parrots, particularly at dusk when they clustered in their hundreds in trees for the night; the familiar tones of neighbours shouting news to each other from their windows and through holes in the fences; the constant rustling of palm and mango leaves in the sea breeze; and, of course, there was the collective groan of frustrated launderers that rippled through the town when unexpected rainshowers rolled in. One could, in fact, tell precisely which direction the rain was moving in if one listened hard enough, and many people did just that, beetling over to the window to listen out for where the objections were loudest, as a means of calculating the likelihood of it reaching them– and, in busier folk, how much time they had to pause another task to scuttle out to the line and bring the washing in before the rain could spoil the morning's work.

All of this and more made up the background noise of Antiva, the very soundtrack of life itself unfolding around him, that Zevran had treasured– though he hadn't realised how much until now, as he lay in bed beside Rhodri, taking in the sound of absolutely nothing. It was still dark in the tent, aside from the lyrium flasks glowing in the corner, and so far as he could hear, the snow had stopped falling. But there was nothing. No birdsong, no people, no rustling leaves or creaking windows– no more audible wanking from Alistair or woebegone singing from Leliana, either, which was a definite upgrade– but even so. Nothing.

No, wait, that wasn't true: his ears were ringing a little. Marvellous. Just the thing for ultimate relaxation. Were all Fereldan winters like this? How did people not lose their sanity over the extended lack of noise?

And now, with all of this ricocheting through his head, Zevran acknowledged just how terribly awake he was feeling. Fighting-fit and ready to go, when it was still dark outside. What a world. In times gone by, when he awoke too early in Antiva City, Zevran would take a stroll through the narrow streets, sit on the seawall and watch the fishing boats putter into the bay. Eventually he would be able to coax himself into readiness for a nap, and take himself back home to bed. But Zevran was damned if he was going to step out into the freezing outside here– especially when there was no seawall to sit on or fishing boats to watch as consolation for the awful weather.

So Zevran lay on his back awhile longer, pondering the inherent unliveability of a silent world that had no beach in the vicinity, and when he had finally convinced himself to simply close his eyes and pretend to sleep, Rhodri stirred beside him. Grinning at the sudden reprieve (after all, there was every chance that Rhodri had been awoken by the need for pleasure, and two could happily play at that game!), he propped his head up on his elbow and watched her come-to.

"Mmm…" she blinked at him a few times, a crooked grin tugging at one side of her mouth. "You're awake, dulcis. Not sleeping well?

"Oh, I have slept well enough. I do not seem able to sleep any more, though." He waggled his brows and, in a moment of wanton abandon, reached around and gave Rhodri's behind a quick squeeze. "I have plenty of energy now."

It took a moment for Rhodri's eyes to darken, but when they did, the effect was plain to see. Positively delicious, too.

"Ah," she rumbled softly. And then, just as she went to speak, her stomach gave a rumble of its own, at twice the volume no less. She glanced down at her torso and raised an eyebrow. "... Well."

Zevran chuckled. "Perhaps something to eat first, then? You'll need plenty of energy for what I have in mind."

Rhodri bit her lip, nodded, and after getting to her feet, threw on a robe. "I'll bring you some tea and toast. What would you–" she paused, frowning as she pulled the tent flap open to reveal a wall of white.

"Maker's– are we snowed in?" Zevran shuffled forward, craning his neck in the search for a fraction of the visible outdoors and finding nothing but snow.

"We are." Rhodri grinned at him, "In winter in the Circle, the Templars coming inside from overnight watch shift would grumble about the snow blocking the door, and they'd have to shovel it clear to get in. Ferelden gets a lot of snow in the colder months." She copied his pose and looked toward the outside, "Mmm… the entire tent must've been covered overnight. I don't think we've been buried alive, but we certainly need a path out. Stay in bed, dulcis, and I'll shift the snow, sic? I can even bring you some breakfast in bed!"

Zevran knew it would have been better, both in terms of general politeness and the insistent urge of his own principles (and certainly nothing more), to do the exact opposite of what Rhodri was asking him to. His muscles tightened, ready to steer his lover back down onto the bedroll, insist that he would gladly move the wretched, evil, freezing-cold snow himself, and assure her that she had but to wait in comfort before he would return with a clear path out, a hot drink, and a sandwich the size of a door for her.

A rare moment of good sense came to him, though, and he stayed where he was. Bringing her breakfast in bed, for heaven's sake. It was something taken out of an Antivan gossip's story about their romantic weekend. What an absurd thought. Certainly one that was better left untouched, and so hadn't he better stay in bed?

And let her bring you breakfast in bed instead?

Zevran's belly dropped a little, and was then swiftly replaced when he sternly reminded himself that Rhodri, a diehard adherent to her father's rules (and, as she on occasion alluded to, to proper Tevinter morality), placed great value on acts of gallantry and hospitality– provided she was the one to perform them, of course.

And that was likely the reason he was staying in bed, wasn't it? To insist that the roles be reversed would cause a terrible loss of face for the proud Tevinter, and proved, once again, that Zevran was reading into all this far too much. She was doing what she felt she ought, and Zevran would do well to let it happen.

And as for this urge to reciprocate, well. Surely such an urge was the greatest evidence of successful Crow training! Failing to meet the needs of another, in any context, was a recipe for disaster. Everything in life, if one looked at it coldly enough, was transactional. Helping to peel the vegetables was part of a communal effort that ensured one's meal at the end; patting the dog built rapport and increased the likelihood of him turning up from time to time with a treasure he had found on patrol (though it was more often a wet stick, or a tattered pair of Morrigan's underclothes). It all added up.

A part of Zevran argued that this was most certainly not the reason for the urges– and it had to be said, its voice had been getting steadily more voluble over the weeks and would need a proper quashing at some point in the future. It was a distressing little bastard of a thing that made his guts twist every time it opened its wretched little mouth, but killing it stone dead was not for now. No, now was the time to plan out a gesture of mutuality that would not offend Rhodri's Tevinter sensibilities.

Well, now was almost the time. At this exact moment there remained a defeat to concede, because there would be no gesture of mutuality from Zevran at this moment. Rhodri had won fair and square. And as he eyed the dreaded, freezing bastarding wall of snow one last time, Zevran found that conceding this particular defeat came with remarkable ease and enjoyment. Not of a mind to lose with anything less than consummate graciousness, he got out of bed and crawled over to Rhodri. Zevran reached out and took her hands, pressing a warm kiss into each of the palms (never the backs of the hands, he reminded himself, after an incident some days prior where the region in question was kissed by him. A horrified Rhodri had, much to his consternation at the time, recoiled from him and advised that such a gesture indicated deference, which Zevran was strictly forbidden from showing to her in any way).

With his attentions given to the more appropriate part of her this time, Rhodri hummed, low and warm; encouraged, Zevran moved to her face. A kiss on the left cheek, a kiss on the right cheek, one on each temple, and finally, a long, slow one on the sensitive part of the cheek just by the nostril– a recently disclosed favourite– that had her huge, warm body turning to him, arms drawing and folding him into her. A featherlight hand cradled his head; Zevran's arms found their way around Rhodri's waist, and they stayed like that, him and her, as silent and still as the snow outside. It was possible, Zevran supposed, to sleep like this, on his knees though he was. He could surrender the last shreds of structure to his bodily form, melt into her completely, and let warmth and salt and sundried linen whisk him into the deepest unconsciousness. It was, in theory at least, so easy.

The opportunity to apply it in practice didn't come, though: Rhodri released him. Ignoring the little ache in his chest at the sudden absence of everything (and then the wave of panic that followed), Zevran shot her a wink and a grin, which she returned.

"See you shortly," she assured him. "Very shortly."

And she was off, ploughing through the snow and bringing the light of the dim sunrise into view. Zevran lay back down on the bedroll and insisted to himself he felt nothing at all, physically or otherwise. And then, when he had pulled himself from that rut and a stroke of genius fell into his lap, he grinned to himself and pondered the possibility of reciprocating gallantry by means of peanuts.

§

"Ooh, you bastard, Aneirin!"

From the corner of Zevran's eye, Leliana and Alistair, appearing to have forgotten that they were not speaking to each other, glanced at each other with the bright-eyed, unmistakable delight of gossips whose curiosity had been piqued. And then, of course, their memories seemed to return, and they looked away sadly. Morrigan, with a far less benign look to her, was already marching over to the campfire.

Stella, either not noticing any of this or not caring, stared at the newly-arrived man with her hands on her hips. Aneirin, having just completed the transformation from raven to elf, watched her back with a smug grin, saying nothing.

She pointed at her tent, "I know a bird's got needs, but I'm pretty sure you didn't have to shit on my tent."

Zevran swallowed a laugh as Rhodri paused mid-mouthful of marmalade toast, eyes like dinner plates as her gaze drifted over to Stella's tent. The structure had an enormous red dot on it, in the centre of which lay a tiny white splatter.

Aneirin dissolved into laughter hard enough that he had to lean on his staff to stay upright.

"That'll teach you to crap on my boots, Stella," he gasped between guffaws. "You brought that on yourself!"

"That was one time! I didn't know birds shit when they startled, did I?"

Alistair and Leliana clapped their hands over their mouths in near-synchrony; Zevran bit his cheek as hard as he dared, lest he give himself away.

In the middle of it all, Morrigan arrived, took Aneirin by the arm and amid his issues of delight, she whisked him away to her camp, warning Stella loudly of uncountable evils befalling her if the woman decided to follow them. Stella cackled at this, waved after the pair, and plonked herself down on the log beside Rhodri.

"Just so you all know," Rhodri warned now, "if any of you, in bird form or otherwise, crap on myself or my things, I'll put you in the lavatory pan where you belong."

Alistair cackled. "No you wo-o-on't," he replied in a sing-song voice, "'cause I'll never fit in there! Too big, see?"

"I'll make you fit," she growled. Alistair frowned a little, looking unsure if she meant it or not, and appearing to err on the side of caution, he fell silent.

"All right, all right," Stella clapped her hands gently now, "focus, Rhod. It's grilling time."

Rhodri turned to the woman with a raised eyebrow. "I'm aware that this is to distract me from the matter at hand. We'll return to this later, but Zev will decide if it's grilling time."

Zevran's stomach dropped as all eyes, even Rhodri's, went onto him. Why said stomach was now in his feet was a mystery. Asking questions about couples was a benign pastime– presumably, anyway. Non-Crows could be heard doing it all the time, divulging such information as how the pair met and rating the quality of the sex. Often, they didn't even have to be asked to do so.

And perhaps this was the line of questioning Rhodri was expecting, too. But then again, perhaps it wasn't. Was Stella, like her Tevinter counterpart, inclined to casually ask about dangerous things such as upcoming nuptials, or long-term intentions? Or, Maker forbid, affection? It was a possibility, Zevran supposed, particularly if Wynne had been anything to go by, and the thought of that alone was enough to turn his guts to ice.

Apparently, even thinking this much had been enough to tip Rhodri off. She ducked her head down near his, peering at him worriedly.

"We don't have to answer anything, dulcis," she murmured. "If you are uncomfortable, we will stop it here."

"Oh, I– ah…" he cleared his throat. "Well, if the truth is known, I was never brilliant at… ah… grillings." He smiled up at Rhodri, "Perhaps you would answer the lovely lady's questions, mi sol? I would hate not to do them justice."

Rhodri frowned deeply. "That's not like you," she said softly. "You usually brag about what we get up to. No, I think we should leave it for the moment." She looked over at Stella now, "No grilling for the time being, please, Stella. Whatever you can reasonably observe with us will have to do for now."

A small, uncharacteristically tender smile came to Stella, who took the request with a nod and, once she took her eyes off Rhodri, a brief scrutinising glance at Zevran.

"You haven't changed a bit, Rhod," she said warmly. "I s'pose I'll save that for later, but!" Stella clapped her hands again, "I want all the news about the family! Get that mouth moving, Rhodders, starting with Mumma Rev!"

As a beaming Rhodri launched into the happy news of her mother's recovery, Zevran (inwardly, at least) heaved a sigh of– what was it? Relief? Guilt? Awkwardness? Or was it awkwardness for the sake of averting even worse awkwardness? He could feel Leliana and Alistair's eyes glued to him, and he couldn't bear to glance up and see what sort of expressions they might be wearing. It was all too… too something for words.

He numbly took Rhodri's half-eaten piece of toast and finished it, with vague plans to make her a fresh piece as an apology.

§

The Crestwood branch of the tunnels to Soldier's Peak lay half a day's journey from the Imperial Highway which, when followed for another twenty miles, took one to Crestwood village proper. On the shoulder of said Highway, a substantial patch of wilderness known as the Wode stretched some ten miles along– this, Zevran belatedly learned, was where the three adventurers responsible for Aneirin's woes were currently camping, and it was where the party would flush said adventurers out. Once that was handled, the plan had been to replenish supplies in nearby Wysbeche, and then make for Orzammar.

The hamlet of Wysbeche was a fascinating, gobsmackingly wealthy little place that sat snugly and perfectly alone in a shrinking forest halfway between the Wode and Crestwood. The party had passed through Wysbeche several times travelling to and from Denerim, stopping only to restock; due to the exorbitant cost of accommodation there, they never stayed.

The village's sole source of income came from logging in its ever-receding forest, which was famed for the exceptional quality of its timber. Once felled, the Wysbechers (of which there were twelve total) would float the logs upriver to Crestwood, where it was sold at eye-watering prices. It was with this income that the residents were able to fund what was most important to them, which was to say that the town's sole infrastructure was three ostentatious wooden taverns that cost an absolute fortune to stay in.

Of equal fame to the timber were the townspeople who supplied it. In keeping with the universal truth that the rich were an inveterately strange bunch, the Wysbechers were known for their preference to sleep during the day and work at night. They believed, so Alistair had said, that killing a tree was like killing a cow: the better rested it was directly before the slaughter, the better the quality of the product. If he was honest with himself (and he always was), Zevran had never considered the sleeping patterns of trees. Indeed, it had never occurred to him that trees might sleep at all, but the Wysbechers had evidently analysed the matter scrupulously, and had come to the conclusion that nighttime labour was best for business. This odd schedule, coupled with the industrious Fereldan dedication to drinking after work, meant that Zevran could not recall ever having seen a sober Wysbecher when passing through during the day. The taverns were always open, though, and had everything needed for the Wardens' party to restock, observe the drunks, and laughingly go on their way to Orzammar.

Except, of course, for the fact that there were no peanuts in Wysbeche.

But there were peanuts in Crestwood.

And with that critical fact in mind, Zevran looked up at Rhodri as the party waded through the snow toward the Highway (he was, of course, snugly wrapped in Rhodri's arms). He fixed his bearer with his largest and most winning Antivan eyes, and asked if she would consider taking them on to Crestwood to resupply instead. It had to be Crestwood in particular, he purred to her, because he had an emergent need for peanuts. Strictly speaking, that was true: there was a need for them– and a pressing one at that. How in the Maker's name was he to delight Rhodri with peanuts if he didn't have any bloody peanuts to start with? And there was no need for anyone to be asking why he might have needed peanuts, despite the concerning smirks Alistair, Leliana, and now Stella, were sharing. What a man did with twenty bags of salted peanuts was between him and the Maker.

Rhodri, thank goodness, hadn't noticed any of the looks passing between the company. In fact, her eyes darkened in much the same way as they had earlier that morning when, after having cleared all the snow off and around the tent, she had returned to said tent to find Zevran naked, hard, and arranged most alluringly on the bedroll. Whether there was any genuine competition between him and her favourite finger food remained to be seen (and Maker knew if there was, he'd rather work with peanuts than against them– did peanut underwear exist? In Antiva, a few nobles with more money than sense had commissioned underwear consisting of sugar sweets tied onto string, so surely there had to be someone out there harebrained enough to commission one made of peanuts).

"Oh," Rhodri breathed (a little erotically, it had to be said), squeezing his hand in a soft but insistent rhythm. "Peanuts. Though… it would mean extra journeying when Wysbeche is right there, and we are meant to go to Orzammar."

"Nobody who appreciates fresh air longs to go to Orzammar," Morrigan sniped from the back. "And since the village comes to mention, that fool dog has once again found his way into my wardrobe and consumed half of it! You would be lucky to find replacements for any of them in such a place as Crestwood, let alone Wysbeche."

Leliana, once she had stopped laughing (and had narrowly missed a kidney jab from a certain furious witch in the process), spoke up now, "And you know, Satinalia is coming up soon! In two weeks, I think."

Zevran felt his eyes widen, and as if to apologise to the Maker for forgetting it, he touched a hand to the pocket containing his prayer beads. "My word, I must have lost track of time after the tunnels… is it really that close?"

"Yep," Alistair rubbed his chin. "I'd love a break from the Darkspawn, just take a little time to enjoy the season and stuff myself with Feast Day fish. We've already missed All Soul's Day."

Stella bounded over to Rhodri and grabbed her in a half-hug, shaking her (and thus Zevran) like a toy.

"Hear that, Rhod?" she cooed. "Satinalia, come on! It'll be nice. And it'll be better in Crestwood, 'cause they'll have the Satinalia markets on!"

Rhodri watched Stella with a weak smile; Stella grinned and hugged Rhodri a little tighter. "Ooh, I'm winning you over. Come on. The people want it, that's a majority."

"We don't know that until we take it to a vote, Stell." Rhodri chuckled, set Zevran down, and turned to face the party. "All in favour of going to Crestwood for the Satinalia period instead of heading straight to Orzammar?"

All hands but Sten's and Shale's went up. Even Morrigan had a hand up this time; she was glaring so spitefully at Jeppe that the dog sat up on his haunches and held both paws aloft.

"Hah. Well, to Crestwood it is, then," Rhodri nodded.

"Good," Stella purred, and gave her a little clap on the back. "About time you got to sit in on a–"

Stella was cut off as Rhodri hushed her with a gentle, mildly warning shake of her head. She playfully rolled her eyes, but nodded, and after shooting an inquisitive Zevran with a wink, went back to walking beside Morrigan and Aneirin.

Excited twittering issued from behind, primarily between Stella, Alistair, Aneirin, and Leliana. To Zevran's right, Rhodri walked silently, with a concerned frown etched deep into her brows. Her fingers were twisted in her robe, wringing it roughly. With a smile, Zevran slipped a finger between hers, allowing himself one, and only one moment to revel in the way she relaxed in consequence.

"Ah, dulcis," she said warmly, apologetically, and fanned out her fingers to let his wrap her hand up. "I wasn't watching what I was doing."

"You are deep in thought," he agreed in a purr. "What has your attention so, hmm?"

Rhodri shrugged. "Presents. I hope we aren't too late for the markets. Do people give gifts for Satinalia here, do you know? … Does Antiva?"

"Ferelden, I am not so sure," Zevran wobbled his head noncommittally before a grin seized him, "but Antiva certainly does! Ooh, my Grey Warden. Oh, I think Antiva does Satinalia better than anyone!"

Rhodri's eyes ran over his face, and her breath swelled audibly. She squeezed his hand, beaming and nodding encouragingly. "Tell me, dulcis. I want to know everything."

"Ooh… where do I start? They decorate the city two weeks beforehand. Ah, it's beautiful! Glowing paper moon lanterns everywhere, and they hang big, decorative Trevisan masks," Zevran held his hands (and one of Rhodri's) a metre apart, "off the Crow houses and public buildings."

"Ah? The Crows participate?"

"Everyone participates," Zevran chuckled. "It is one of the few times the government and the Crows cooperate. Ordinary people who have the money will hang paper moon lanterns in their windows, too."

"D'you have Satinalia markets in Antiva, Zev?" Alistair asked from behind.

"My word, we do," Zevran grinned, looking over his shoulder. "All of the special Feast Day foods are there. Rose wine, confetto, pestiños, polvonares, marzipan… and there are mask vendors, of course. Plenty of those."

"Is that all they sell? Food and masks?" Alistair frowned. "No stalls that sell… you know, presents?"

Zevran raised an eyebrow. "Those are the presents in Antiva. For Satinalia, we give food as gifts."

"Oh," he said. "But what about things you can keep? You don't give any of those?"

"No," Zevran shook his head. "Believe me, my friend, if you were given a bag of polvonares, you would want food as a gift as well."

Alistair hummed at this, looking only partway convinced. Zevran swallowed down a sigh of despair for this man, this poor slob who got starry-eyed over grey, grainy stews and had likely never had a decent meal in his life. Until Zevran came into the picture, anyway, and brought with him the arts of searing meat and sauteing vegetables, and seasoning the fucking dish. But even then, Ferelden was a place where scarcely anything, let alone things with flavour, grew readily, and imported goods were rare, expensive, and often almost rotting by the time they had made it into the country. What Zevran made, given that it was usually the same handful of hardy ingredients each time, was nothing short of miraculous, but at the end of the day, it was still not a patch on Antivan food, made with Antivan ingredients. It was hardly a wonder he didn't believe Zevran.

Quietly resolving to get at least one proper Antivan food into Alistair before one of them died, Zevran turned forward again. In the corner of his eye, Rhodri was slightly turned away from him, scribbling something furiously on a piece of paper.

"Pol…von…ares…" he heard her murmur. "Ah… and confetto, sic, that was another…"

"Ooh, my Grey Warden, are you–?" he sang through a grin, only to stop dead as Rhodri froze, hunched over the piece of paper. A kick to his ankle then drew his attention to Leliana, who gave him a warning look that, while appreciated, was unnecessary. Rhodri was not given to secrecy, but then again, most every gift he (and, from what he had seen, the other party members) had ever received had taken him by surprise. And she had always looked so pleased when she had. And with those intentions clear to him now, Zevran, who was not given to spoiling someone's fun (and especially not Rhodri's), touched a hand to Rhodri's back and pushed on.

"Are you going to be fasting, my dear Warden?" he purred.

Rhodri, who looked as though she was going to keel over with relief, stuffed the paper into her pocket and cleared her throat.

"I… don't know anything about that," she said after a moment. "I never have before. Is that common in Antiva?"

"Oh? It is common most everywhere, I had thought."

"We fast in Ferelden," Alistair spoke up again.

"And there was fasting in Orlais, too," said Leliana now.

Rhodri shrugged. "There was no fasting in Tevinter. Not that I remember. When is this supposed to happen?"

"It goes for the week after Feast Day."

"A week?" she yelped.

Zevran chuckled and nodded. "Me, I do my fasting the week before, instead of the week after."

Leliana frowned. "I have never heard of an early fasting before. Is it common in Antiva, Zevran?"

Zevran slunk down the hallway, swallowing down a whimper as a fresh wave of pain constricted his belly. He stood where he was a moment, taking the belt around his waist and tightening it another few notches until the worst of the ache had subsided. With another breath, he crept along until he was outside the door to the kitchen. His hand drifted up to the knob, flying away again when he heard the back door to the kitchen open and voices– and sobbing– filled the room.

"I know, I know," came Daniela's voice, weary and impatient. "I know, 'Stofania."

"Who steals from a whorehouse?" Cristofania choked. "Who?"

"You've asked that question about fifteen times today. The answer isn't going to change. Everybody steals from whores."

"Not just from us! The children, too! It took months to scrape the Feast Day money together, and there's no way on the Maker's earth we will make that sort of money again in five days!"

"'Stofania, the only thing people care less about than whores is the children of whores. Here, blow your nose."

A honking noise issued before Cristofania hulked out another sob. "Galindo was crying from hunger today. I–I saw Zevran give him some of his bread. That boy is s-s-skin and bone."

Zevran frowned and poked at his ribs. They stuck out, certainly, but Daniela had said it was normal for children of his age. And there were other things than skin and bone. He had been a good boy, paying attention to when Carmela drew the muscles on a willing model, and knew for a fact that people had muscle and fat, too, not just skin and bones. And organs, too!

Daniela let out a groan. "Cristofania, get a grip. The children cry from hunger often enough. We are whores! This is our life. Hunger is our life. Crying children is our life."

"I can be a whore and still be upset that my starving child is being fed by another starving child, Daniela!" Cristofania shouted. "I just can't fucking stand it! They look forward to Satinalia all year, it's the only day I see them get to be normal children and now– now there is nothing!" She dissolved into a fresh round of tears, twice as loud and (Zevran winced) with the sound of a hand slapping skin.

"Stop hitting your head– for fuck's sake, stop it!" The slapping stopped; Daniela sighed. "It breaks my heart when you cry. Look, how about this: we fast this week, put the food money aside, and we should be able to scrape together a decent dinner for them by the Friday. What do you think?"

"... Do the fast early?"

"Why not? The fast is meant to remind people to have sympathy for the poor, no? And we are the poor. The Maker will not mind if we practice our poverty a little differently than usual."

Cristofania sniffled. "I suppose He won't."

"That's right. Now for fuck's sake, stop crying, and don't act like this in front of the kids, all right? This is all they know."

"Oh, Maker, don't say that."

"It's true– listen. They've grown up like this. It's normal for them. They don't know they're poor."

"They're hungry, Daniela!"

"And? As far as they know, everyone goes hungry once in a while. They hate being hungry. They hate being kept inside during thunderstorms, too. It's normal. Get it? They don't know they're poor, so don't make them think they are."

"... Yes? I think I do."

"Good. So we'll tell them they're fasting this week to spiritually cleanse themselves and prepare their bodies for the Satinalia feast. The Maker is pleased when they keep to the fast, and He rewards them by making the food taste better… Actually, now I think on it, if their stomachs shrink a little, it might not be so bad. They'll eat less at the feast, might leave enough left over for a little breakfast for them too."

"By the Maker, Daniela. That's cold."

"Am I wrong? No, I'm not. So keep it in your head: they're not poor. They're-not-poor. Don't be cruel and make them think they are, Cristofania. They don't deserve that. They'll find out soon enough."

Cristofania sniffed again. "All right," she chuckled weakly. "You're a genius, you know."

"And don't you forget it! Now clean up your face and go to bed. I think I'll do the same, myself…"

A thrill of terror went through Zevran as footsteps registered from behind the door. He turned around as quickly as he dared and tiptoed back up the hall, only to hear his name from behind him. He swallowed hard and turned around, watching Daniela watch him with her hands on her hips.

"I wanted some water," he said quickly. "But you were in the kitchen and the door was closed."

"Did you hear anything?"

"No," he lied.

"Hm," she said, not looking particularly convinced, and shrugged. "I will take you in now, then. Come."

With one hand, she waved a tearstreaked Cristofania out of the kitchen, and with the other, she took Zevran by the hand and led him back down the hall.

"You know what is happening on Friday, Zevran?"

He nodded, carefully. "Satinalia."

"That's right," she said warmly. "You remember what we did last year?"

"We went to the Chantry for mass."

"Mm? What else?"

"The people had their masks on!" Zevran giggled at the memory, "Aaaand they made the fool rule the city for the day! That was so funny."

"So it was!" Daniela nodded. "And this Friday, we will close the brothel all day. We'll go to the Chantry, and then we'll take you to see the masks! Aren't you a lucky boy?"

Zevran bounced on his toes. "Yes! And the fool? Can we see the fool again?" He paused and, once remembering his manners, quickly added, "Ah, can we please see the fool again?"

Daniela smiled. "Good boy. Yes, we'll see the fool– ah-ah, not so loud," she held a finger to her lips, interrupting Zevran mid-cheer. "You'll wake the others."

Zevran slapped a hand over his mouth, shifting it away again to grin as Daniela lifted him up onto the kitchen bench.

"Oh!" she sighed. "You're heavy now. Getting taller, too." Daniela took a glass from the cabinet, dipped it into the drinking pail, and handed it to Zevran. "You know, I know a fool. Has long, blonde hair and big, gold eyes like mother. Gets into all sorts of trouble with the whores for being silly."

Zevran hid his snort behind the half-empty glass, which Daniela moved aside with one finger. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Who is this fool I'm talking about, hmm?" she asked. "Do you know, Zevran?"

Zevran beamed, his legs swinging. "It's you!" He giggled as Daniela playfully swatted him on the knee.

"Listen to you," she rolled her eyes. "Cheeky and a fool. They'll make you ruler of the city one day. Maybe all of Antiva, at this rate." She pointed her nose at his glass, "Drink that, amorcito, and go to bed."

Zevran smiled at his feet. "Fasting the week before Satinalia… I would call it a very, very local custom. Now, I suppose we all have the ceremony where the town fool is given the run of the place for the day, no?"

Agreement issued from everyone participating in the discussion– with the exception of Stella, who pointed out that the fools had the run of the Circle every day of the year, and Rhodri, who remained silent. Zevran acknowledged all this with a nod.

"Right, right. And do we all go to the Chantry for the Satinalia service beforehand?"

Alistair snorted. "Templars can't even skip the regular services, let alone the holiday ones. Not that I would, of course, but still."

"They had lovely services in Orlais," Leliana sighed. "Lothering had its charms, but the Val Royeaux Cathedral choir was in a league of its own. The péans du Satinalie were always…" she shook her head and kissed her fingers, "exquisite."

"I think Crestwood will have all that stuff," Alistair finally said– and was that a note of defensiveness Zevran heard? The Templar scratched his chin and added, "Well, I dunno what those foods you mentioned were, Zevvers, but I'm sure we have something similar. We definitely have fish and shortbread, and they're great."

Zevran swallowed down a scream of some sort. Laughter, he supposed, was the most likely candidate, but there was no denying that it could also have been despair. But laughter was more positive, and Maker knew Zevran was an optimist at heart.

"Ah," he managed. "Well, that should be lovely."

Alistair– looking none the wiser to the fact that Zevran was moments away from snatching up Rhodri and speeding them both off to the nearest Antivan border, Crow consequences be damned– gave a pleased nod at that. Zevran, relieved, turned back to Rhodri, who was watching him with an amused little smirk. Did she…?

He grinned despite himself. Rhodri elbowed him gently; he elbowed her back. It was enough.