It was such an odd thing, seeing Trevisan masks hanging in the Ocean Glen Inn. The most foreign thing Zevran had ever seen in Crestwood was Sten; how, exactly, the masks had gotten there was anyone's guess, but the sight was welcome all the same. Colombinos, Arlequins, Bautas, Carnevales, all hanging from the rafters, up the balustrades, one or two sitting in the middle of each table in the dining room. The roaring fireplaces kept the air inside close and warm, and the snow was falling thick and fast outside.

"I'm starting to see the appeal of the Antivan Satinalia, Zev," Alistair said from across the table. He nudged Zevran's boot with his own and smiled congenially, with all the grace of a good loser. "I really like the confetti. Funny name, but a nice way to eat nuts."

Zevran chuckled and nodded. "Confetto," he corrected gently. "And I am glad you liked them. The confectioners say they use the same ingredients in all the colours– except for the dyes, of course– but I always believed the pink ones tasted like strawberry." Zevran sighed, happily he would have said, and perused the plentiful table. Full, yellow moon candles sat burning between cake stands spilling over with sweets: confetto, of course, that had fallen off the stand and dotted the table; marzipan of all colours and sizes, in the shape of moons, hearts, and stars; full, tall flagons of rose wine glowing in the firelight like bottled sunsets; sugar-dusted pestiños, still hot to the touch… no polvonares– how greedy of him to get hung up on one lacking thing, when everything else was so abundant.

But they are my favourite…

Mid-search, Rhodri's warm, searching hand slipped around his waist, pulled him and his chair over to her until their chairs (and their sides) were pressed together. Her mouth found its way down by his ear, voice oozing with sultry charm as she murmured, "Looking for something, dulcis?"

He bit his lip, curled an ankle around hers and revelled in the small, approving hum of encouragement it won from her. With a soft chuckle, he said, "I thought I wanted polvonares for a moment, but a lovely, strong hand on my waist put my priorities right."

"Hah," she smiled slyly and got to her feet. "Good timing. I have a surprise for you. I'll get it, shall I?"

"Ooh! How you spoil me, my darling."

Rhodri answered by way of a kiss to the cheek and a gentle squeeze to Zevran's hip ("Ooh!" he squeaked delightedly), and left for the kitchen with her robes billowing out behind her.

Under the table, Alistair's foot nudged Zevran's again, much more insistently this time. Zevran looked over at him with a raised eyebrow, his cheeky remark on being committed elsewhere dying on his tongue as Alistair, who was watching after Rhodri, drew his sword.

He frowned. "Alistair, what–?"

"Shh. Come with me, quick. Keep your knives handy. Darkspawn."

"In here?"

"Yeah. Through there," he pointed at the kitchen and strode toward the door.

"Not in the kitchen, surely."

"I can sense one!"

Zevran, not in a position to argue given his notable lack of the Taint, accepted the statement with a nod and followed Alistair through the door to–

Avernus' jail cells?

"But we are in Crestwood," Zevran said dumbly.

Alistair squinted at him, like Zevran was the madman. Of all people.

"What are you talking about, Zev?" he asked.

"Never mind. I saw food coming out of here," Zevran murmured worriedly. "We all ate food from here– Maker's mercy, there it is!"

Alistair hurriedly stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the only occupied cage, but its resident was unmistakably one of those horrible creatures Avernus had drained dry for his research.

"Shit," Alistair said. "Shit. Oh, Rhodri."

Zevran's stomach dropped. He sidestepped Alistair and peered into the cell, and he choked on a gasp as a pair of round, grey eyes watched back.

"... Ah," Rhodri said. She was squatting in a hunch in the tiny cell, with nothing but a tattered robe to cover her. Her teeth were like knives, with no lips to conceal them, gleaming like murder in the dim light as her mouth spread further still in a wild smile. "I found them, dulcis."

"F-found–?" Zevran stammered.

"I knew that Avernus was up to no good," Alistair growled. "I knew it. Maker, it's only been a few weeks since that bloody ritual!"

Rhodri appeared not to notice Alistair's remarks, her eyes not leaving Zevran. She edged forward and stuck a claw through the bars of the cage.

"I got your surprise, the polvonares," she opened her hand to reveal a fistful of biscuit crumbs and powdered sugar. "Oh, they got crushed." Rhodri's eyes went to her long, sharp nails and then up to Zevran, running over him keenly, intently.

"Get back," Alistair took Zevran by the shoulder and pulled him away. "'Spawn will eat anything. Can't believe you'd try luring him to you with biscuit crumbs. You think he'll fall for anything, do you?"

"Oh, I–" Rhodri wrapped her long, mould-coloured fingers around the bars. "I know I have claws. And– and teeth." She nodded, a little entreatingly. "But you're safe with me, dulcis. We'll go home, won't we?"

"Stop it," the Templar snarled. He smacked the flat of his sword against the bars with a loud clang, cursing his reflexive apology as Rhodri shrieked and recoiled to the back of the tiny cage, sending crumbs everywhere in the process.

A lump formed in Zevran's throat as Rhodri's gaze went onto him again. She crawled up to the bars and wrapped her shaking fingers around her bony knees. "I'll find you better polvonares," she said softly. "Nice ones, intact. Lots of icing sugar, sic?"

"Oh, I've had enough of this." Alistair marched forward, snatched Rhodri by the sparse hair on her head, and shouted reprimands as she cried out in pain. He took his sword and slipped it through the bars, holding it to her neck.

"No-no-no," she groaned. "My hair– no, don't touch my hair, it hurts– Alistair– Zev–"

"Step away, Zev," Alistair said to him, almost apologetically. "Don't get this blood on you."

Zevran attempted to comply, only to find his feet were stuck to the floor like they'd been glued there. His hand was inching its way forward to the cage, to the lock that would have been a breeze to pick; he shoved it into his pocket.

"Why are you hurting me?" Rhodri's voice grew to a wail. "Why?"

"Because you are going to hurt others if you get out of this cage!" Alistair jerked his head in Zevran's direction. "You were eyeing him like he's a roast dinner!"

"N-no," she choked. "Zev. Zev, look at me! I love you."

A breath stuck in Zevran's throat. Grey eyes flashed dark brown; his gorge rose.

"I love you so much," she gasped. "You know me! I would never!"

In his pockets, Zevran's hands shook. His mouth moved, as if on its own accord, pushing the words out between his teeth.

"Even if it were true," he said evenly, "I don't care." His legs unstuck themselves from the floor and shifted him back, "Do it, Alistair."

His eyes averted themselves as the knife opened her throat, but his head turned back all the same as Alistair let out a gasp and Rhodri, herself and without a hint of Darkspawn to her, haemorrhaged on the floor of the cell.

"Shit," Alistair rasped. "Oh, shit. Where's the 'Spawn?"

Rhodri's hands, red and dripping, clutched at the bars of the cell, her sleeves falling back to expose swirling Crow tattoos running up the length of her arms–

–

Zevran awoke with a gasp, drenched in sweat and chest too tight to take in any air. He flew upright before he could think to keep himself quiet.

"Dulcis?"

From beside him, Rhodri sat up with equal urgency, reaching for Zevran only to pull back when he leapt away. He reached for a knife and found nothing. Her eyes, grey and bearing no trace of Rinna's brown ones, widened. "Forgive me! I didn't mean to frighten you– are you all right?"

Zevran stayed, only partly against his will, in the corner he had backed himself into. In the dim glow of the lyrium, he scrutinised Rhodri's face– no sharp teeth, lips still there, a hand on her mouth looking perfectly normal length, sans claws, no tattoos– and then the interior of the tent, and then, finally, when his eyes drifted down to his– Rhodri's pyjama shirt, the mortification finally sank in.

"... Ah," he said softly, residual energy still wheeling through him. He wiped a hand over his burning cheeks, "Well, I must look a fool right now."

"You don't," Rhodri assured him. "You look like yourself. Did you have a nightmare?"

Zevran gave a weak chuckle and nodded.

"It must have been awful," she said, a little sadly. "Would you like to talk about it?"

He would have to at some point, he supposed, belly going ice-cold at the thought of having withheld, if unconsciously, the murder of his last lover from his current one. That was something that ought to have been disclosed as a disclaimer, long before any relationship had started. And somehow, it had taken a nightmare in which he replicated parts of Rinna's murder on Rhodri, his apparent next victim, to become aware of this.

"I…" he heaved a shaky sigh. "Not about the dream, perhaps, but it does seem to me that you should know where it came from."

Rhodri frowned. "Dreams and nightmares come from the Fade."

"No, I–" Zevran gave an exasperated little laugh. "No, not that. I mean something I did here, in the waking world, last year. It is where the nightmare came from. I–" he wiped a trembling hand over his brow, now flushing with sweat. "I think it is time that you knew."

He let his gaze fall to his knees, where Rhodri's enquiring face was replaced with the ghost of Rinna's bloodied, clammy face; somehow, that was easier to cope with, and for that thought, he sent an apology to Rinna, no doubt bound for the scrap heap where the thousands of previous apologies had been redirected. How weak he was, watching his knees and shaking like a leaf, iteration after iteration of his confession collecting and sitting in his mouth like water. It hadn't been this hard to murder his former lover; why should it be so difficult to admit the event to his current one?

But there was nothing to do. If Rhodri was disgusted with him, as she ought to be, she would cut him off, and that would be that. He would simply have to live with it. His tent was in Bodahn's cart; he could dig that out, set it up in the snow. Rhodri might dump his things outside her tent, save him having to go back in and see her watching him like the filth that he was. She never forgave, did she? Not really. And why should she? What about Rinna's murder merited forgiveness, from her or anyone else?

And, because it wasn't enough to feel shame alone, mortification also ensued when, at the sound of his name, Zevran was startled enough to flinch, his crossed leg flying out in front of him and knocking over a stack of books. He offered a choppy apology– he must have– but Rhodri was there first, hushing and soothing and putting the books back, insisting that it was such an easy fix, but there was never an easy fix, was there, and why were his eyes watering?

Too soft to be a Crow, that was his trouble. And too evil to be anything else. Was it a nightmare he'd had? Or was it a dream? Hadn't he choked on his own air, felt his chest swell fit to bursting, when Rhodri had told him, at knifepoint no less, that she loved him?

His organs shot up, all of them skyrocketing into the uppermost recesses of his shoulders and neck, choking the daylights out of him and blurring his vision and oh Maker, have mercy on him–

"Dulcis," Rhodri said quietly, evenly. "You don't look ready to talk about this, whatever it is."

Zevran drew in a breath– it felt like the first in minutes– and swallowed down the lump in his throat. "Does it matter?" he asked thickly.

"I think it does, and I'd rather you didn't tell me until you're ready." She sighed, "Look, what's important to me is how safe we are. What you did, does me not knowing put any of our party, you and me included, at risk? Even theoretically?"

He shook his head.

"Do you want to harm yourself or other innocents?"

Rinna's pleas echoed through his head; Zevran winced. "No," he said softly.

"Right. Well, in that case, you can tell me you don't want to talk about it and I won't press the matter. You can tell me when– if you're ready, and I will remember that I said all this. I fully bear the consequence of anything happening as a result."

An unseen force pulled Zevran's eyes off his knees, and turned his gaze to Rhodri again. "... Is it really that simple?"

Rhodri nodded slowly, with certainty; somehow, Zevran became aware of the birdwing flutter of his heart in his chest, and his head grew unpleasantly light.

"It is that simple," Rhodri answered. "You have told me you never harmed another for sport, and for me, that is enough." She smiled. "So, was I right? Would you rather leave that topic for another time?"

He didn't deserve to take her up on it, Zevran knew. But the offer had been made all the same, and when it almost felt like a last kiss, a last mercy or favour or anything else that an undeserving received before it all went to shit, it almost seemed churlish to refuse it. Zevran, being the selfish man that he was, nodded apologetically

"... Yes," he breathed, "I would like to leave it for now."

"Consider it done."

As if all at once, Zevran's head got some weight, some consciousness to it. His heart slowed, pounded harder and heavier. He blessed the Maker with what little brain he had to hand and willed himself to think of something to get them off this bastarding topic.

"Hah," he murmured with a wan smile. "All from a nightmare… that's the last time I eat cheese with dinner."

"I've said it before," Rhodri declared, "and I'll say it again: cheese does not cause nightmares. Alistair says that because he wants more for himself. He is a greedy half-man half-mouse who is hiding his obsession behind a thin veil of Fereldan superstition. I will not be convinced otherwise."

Zevran, too astonished by his lover's denouncement to say anything clever, coughed out a laugh. "You won't?"

"I won't. When we die and appear in the next life, our souls will look like ourselves, and Alistair's will look like a wheel of Fereldan cheddar."

"Hah. True enough."

She nodded, "I know it. Will you go back to sleep?

"Oh, I hope so." He sighed, "Tell me, my Grey Warden, could you spare any of that marvellous sleeping draught? I had a lovely, dreamless sleep with that."

"I can spare it, but it doesn't prevent nightmares. The somnifer's sole purpose is to keep you asleep, which would be terrible if you had that bad dream again." Rhodri's eyes sparkled now, "But! I have a spell I think you'd like."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hmm! Every Tevinter mage who has cared for a child has tried to learn it. It gives you sweet dreams, you see?"

Zevran, finally trusting himself not to jump or simply fall over and die at the slightest touch, shuffled forward and palpated Rhodri's knee. "Is that so?"

Rhodri, once Zevran had agreed with a nod, rested a hand on his, smiling contentedly as he twined their fingers together.

"It is," she murmured. "Works beautifully, you know. My father would put the spell on me and my siblings every single night, and we never once had a bad dream."

"Well, if that isn't a glowing review, I do not know what is. Certainly worth a try, no?" Zevran paused, a little embarrassed to be asking the same question he seemed to ask at the mention of every spell these days, though apparently not embarrassed enough to refrain from enquiring: "Could I learn a spell like that, do you think? Perhaps not, no? You said many try to learn it."

Rhodri hummed. "I can teach you how it's done, certainly. It's very complex and very mana intensive, as most entropy spells are, but even if your own mana pool won't suffice, you'll know how to teach it to someone who can." With a smile, and another consenting nod from Zevran, she brushed her knuckles over his cheek. "Though you know, of course, that as long as you'll have me at your side, I'll gladly cast it for you every single night if you wish."

Zevran decided at that moment that there he would not be considering any of those words, either in their context as a sentence, or as individual building blocks thereof. In addition, there would be no pounding hearts, burning ears, or jittering stomachs, because there was no cause for any departure from a normal state for any part of his body. There would be no thoughts of futures or who was at whose side, and especially not after that shitty, shitty nightmare. They were all going to die in a few months at the hands of an enraged archdemon, and that, praise the Maker, was that.

And now, of course, Rhodri's soft grin was melting away into confusion because Zevran, the foremost fool in the entire, comprehensive history of the fool, had taken too long to respond. He cleared his throat.

"Tempting," he croaked, and cleared his throat again to drown out the screaming in his head. "Well, let's try it out first, hmm? See what I think of these good dreams. Do you choose the dream for me? I do hope you will be naked in it!"

Rhodri snorted and shook her head. "Not for this one."

"Was that for the nakedness, or for choosing the dream?"

"The latter," she raised an eyebrow. "I can't choose your dream any more than you can. All I can do is put a ward on your soul for the night so that when it enters the Fade, it possesses a resonance that disharmonic energies fail to bind to." She gave a shit-eating grin and shrugged, "But that does mean that the only things that can bind overnight will be good things, so your chances of a naked Rhodri dream are higher than they've ever been!"

Zevran, who had been trying very hard to take in the technical explanation and file it away amid the myriad questions already cropping up, admitted defeat upon hearing of the improved odds for nudity dreams. He grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

"I shall pester you for more information tomorrow," he crooned, "but for now, I am more than ready to see you naked in the Fade."

Rhodri cackled– cackled!- behind her hand, and then filled the same hand with water. "Right. Well, here, have something to drink before you go back to sleep."

Perhaps at some point, it had been an odd thing to drink water benign magicked out of someone's hand. It must have, Zevran supposed, because he vaguely remembered feeling some surprise the first time he had done it. Now, though, they were in a good routine. The edge of her hand fit so snugly against his mouth, and allowed for far more efficient water consumption than a glass had ever offered. No having to wrap one's lip around the rim, no side-spillage. With Rhodri's hand as the drinking vessel, Zevran could have his mouth open as wide as a shark and not a single drop of liquid would be lost. Did the wealthy Orlesians have their own water mages? If mages could make wine, no doubt, they would be more in-demand than silk. However it was there, Rhodri was making water here, and Zevran was drinking it. And when he had drunk to elegant sufficiency, he nodded his thanks.

"So," he said. "How do we do the spell? Shall I lie down?" Rhodri nodded; Zevran complied.

From above him on her knees, she chuckled delightedly. "Ah, it's a proper Tevinter goodnight! Which means…" Rhodri took his hands and, with permission, kissed his palms, her voice as warm as brandy on his fingers, "Severin con matinalis expectarete. You understood?"

Once he had shelved his surprise over the use of the Tevinter name, and resolved to make further enquiries later, offered his translation attempt with his most careful pronuncation: "'Severin waits with the morning for me?'"

"Just so." She chewed her cheek and added, "I know using the name sounds pompous, but I promise in Tevene it feels warmer, more personal to use your name in greetings."

"Ah, I see." He pushed on, before manners could make him shelve the question: "You never use that name with me. With any of us. Do we say it incorrectly?"

Rhodri frowned. "You said it just fine. I used that name because it's easier to say while speaking Tevene."

"But you prefer to be called Rhodri?" he pressed.

"I don't, actually. I prefer Severin."

"Eh?" His eyebrows shot up despite himself.

"Mmm. I even thought about asking you to use it, you know, because I thought it would sound nice in your accent, but by your second day with us I realised it was better you called me Rhodri."

Zevran clucked his tongue. "I had no idea! Why?"

"Well– think about it!" She moved a hand between the two of them, "Severin, Zevran. Our names are so similar! And then Alistair would shorten it to Sev and Zev, and that's even worse!"

An astonished laugh was all Zevran could manage; Rhodri let out a groan and slapped a hand to her forehead.

"Oh, think of Tevinter, dulcis! Most people there call me Sēvē, and they'll call you Zēvē, and– oh, my stars, there are going to be infinite mix-ups in our future… Maker help us…" She shook her head and sighed; Zevran laughed even harder.

"Madness," he gasped, wiping the tears out of his eyes.

"Yes," she nodded solemnly. "Anyway, enough language and culture lessons." Rhodri paused, "Unless, of course, you'd like to teach me about Antivan goodnights? You have my full attention if you do."

"I thought you'd never ask!" Zevran grinned and hooked a finger in the collar of her sleeping shirt; Rhodri followed the gentle pull so easily, so readily, that instead of the requisite double cheek-kiss, a somewhat giddy Zevran administered another six, most of which missed the cheeks and ended up square on the mouth. How their tongues got involved was anyone's guess, but Zevran never was one to overthink these things. Instead, he released a breathless Rhodri after the eighth kiss and advised that Antivans were not the best at spoken greetings and goodnights, but they more than made up for it with physical gestures.

It took a moment before Rhodri, now heavy-lidded and flushed a terribly fetching shade of pink, appeared to catch up with the remark– and in fairness to her, she had been kissed terribly thoroughly– but when she did, she chuckled and nodded.

"I can… ah… see the appeal of the Antivan style," she mumbled as she straightened up. She looked down at Zevran, squinting at him now like she was trying to read fine print on his forehead. "Um… we were going to…? Maker, what was it?"

Zevran smirked, finding himself decidedly less ready to sleep now, and pulled Rhodri back down to him.

"It will come to you, I'm sure," he murmured. "Until then, I have another Antivan goodnight that may be of interest to you."

"... Ah," she swallowed thickly and rubbed her nose against his. "I'm always interested in what you have to say."

"Still no talking, I'm afraid. This one is much more hands-on," he shot her a wink that would have been visible from the bottom of the Frozen Seas, and deciding to keep with the direct approach asked, without any finesse whatsoever, "Will you kiss me and strip me bare?"

He was given a fraction of a second to watch her eyes blow– grey, not brown– before Rhodri's mouth sank onto his and his own eyes fell shut. Long, familiar hands slipped under his shirt, around his waist and over his back, the slow tense of her muscles moving over his skin as her arms lifted him off the bedroll to her with all the gentle, consistent force of a swelling wave. How many weeks together now– three? Four?- and not once had she been rough with him. He had been lifted, positioned, held aloft, gripped tightly, fucked powerfully and comprehensively too, but with care, with the utmost attention to comforts that he might never have noticed himself had she not focused on them. Always with something soft under his head, always with hands keeping him in the safest, most comfortable position. Unfailingly good to him.

And in return, here he was, making a second Rinna of her in his dreams. In theory, he could put it off indefinitely; Rhodri had worded it as such and had accepted the full consequences. Aloud, no less. But that wouldn't do. He was many horrible things, but a man who cheated a good person of the truth he was not. She deserved to know what sort of person she was affording such care and attention, and at some point, he would have to divulge as much.

But for now he was bare and on his knees, putting Rhodri on her back and kissing his way down her belly, drinking in hungry gasps and narrow hips canting up to him– him!- so, so eagerly. Choosing pleasure over morality– and why wouldn't he? Zevran was a selfish man, as the Crows had raised him to be– which meant that he was handling the night's events precisely as he should be, and any fears of attachment or the desire thereof were totally unfounded– and the opportunity to speak about Rinna would present itself in time. Not now, though.

Not now.

§

Morrigan was in a good mood, and nobody knew what to do about it.

In practice, very little had changed. In Zevran's potions lesson the night prior, Morrigan had ruled the classroom of one with an iron fist. Through the day today, instead of maintaining her usual policy of silence unless addressed, she had voluntarily and without provocation, stirred up Alistair several times; eyed Leliana's kidneys like they were dartboards; and teased both Rhodri and Stella about the inferiority of Circle education. In fact, the more Zevran thought about it, Morrigan was currently making an even greater effort than usual to get a rise out of people; the increased frequency was indisputable, but most puzzling– and most evident of said positive mood– was that Morrigan did it all with a smile she could barely conceal and rounded it all off with an unusually warm laugh afterward. If Zevran didn't know better, he'd say that for once, it actually brought her pleasure to do it.

It was an argument that made sense, given the greater than usual lengths Morrigan was going to for these things. At one point, she had even magicked a pair of illusory underpants onto the dog– a punishment, Zevran supposed, for the continued raiding of her intimates drawer.

"There," she had said to him. "Let that be a lesson to you."

To everyone's surprise, Jeppe made no attempts to remove them. His stubby tail wagged like fury, clipping through the thin, shining patina of his ghostly undergarment. He barked– almost whooped with joy, Zevran would have said– and leapt into the air like a creature possessed.

Zevran chewed his lips as Rhodri stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the dog's elation with a suspiciously blank expression. The dog turned circles mid-air; she looked over at Morrigan.

"Well, Morrigan, that's shown him," she said. "I suppose the next lesson will be a brassiere, is it? Don't forget he's got eight nipples."

Morrigan gave Rhodri a withering look that, in normal circumstances, would have been dripping with temporary vitriol. Now, however, her eyes crinkled at the sides ever so slightly– an effect that had been noticed by all present, judging by the way Alistair and others were not even attempting to hide their confused squints. With a smile she had barely managed to pass off as a curled lip, Morrigan waved a hand, and the dog was bare once more.

The effect was instantaneous: Jeppe looked around at his uncovered behind, barked once, twice, three times. He nosed his rump, and then finally, he crept over and sat at Morrigan's feet, watching her with eyes of a size and patheticness Zevran had yet to witness. Not even rescinded offers of cheese had made a face that pleading.

Morrigan raised an eyebrow at Rhodri. "Imagine, Warden, how crestfallen he will be when next time, the brassiere goes, too." She shot a quick, saucy smile at Aneirin who, aside from the three bulging veins on his forehead, had thus far kept a marvellous poker face– though it had to be said that he was starting to falter now. He bit his lips and nodded; Morrigan gave a gentle, decidedly congenial laugh.

Rhodri frowned at the dog, and then at Morrigan. She opened her mouth and closed it. And then she opened it again, and left it ajar. Squinted, at Morrigan, and then at the sky. It was a clear, bitterly cold day, without so much as a wisp of cloud; what Rhodri hoped to find up there was anyone's guess, but evidently she had, because unexplained comprehension– and, it had to be said, a distinctly haunted look– replaced the furrow in her brow.

"Oh," she croaked. "Double full moons."

Stella, who had been quiet for the entire exchange, screamed with laughter.

"Not just for kids, eh, Rhod?" she called to her through a mile-wide grin.

Rhodri shook her head. "Apparently not. Thank the Maker it isn't summer any more…"

And then, without anyone offering any explanation as to what full moons or summer could mean, in terms of humour, ominous child-related events, or anything in between, Rhodri steered the party back into a walk. Stella kept laughing– if anything, her amusement had only intensified with time– and the party kept walking.

And Zevran, of course, blinked confusedly throughout. As was his right.

§

The Wode smacked of the Brecilian Forest, but worse.

Not only was it packed with all the nature of the previous woodland (and the month-and-some spent there had been enough for several lifetimes), it didn't even have the spray of autumnal colours to make up for it. Here, in the dead of winter, everything was one shade: white. The fir trees that crowded the Wode were quite possibly the only trees in the country that still had foliage– not that it mattered, because

Everything

Was

White.

Even the left half of all the tree trunks were white. Places that snow physically should not be able to stick to had it. It was in tent bags. It was up Zevran's nose. The bastarding stuff was everywhere. What times these were, Zevran mourned privately, that he would have parted with enormous sums of money to swap this out for the Brecilian!

Perhaps the only good thing about it was the fact that Rhodri, eternal good sport that she was, was more than willing to let Zevran ride on her shoulders when the snow got too deep. There was a special pleasure in being atop a delicious, broad, warm-blooded human as she ploughed a tireless path into the forest. Not least because she would occasionally reach up and give his knees a conspiratorial little squeeze, the raciness of the gesture clear to them alone. Exquisite.

Then, of course, as these things were wont to do, it all came to an end– or, more accurately, to a head– as the party caught sight of a campsite in a small clearing, where three humans sat hunched over a fire. The shortest of them was a rangy, redheaded woman who, when her eyes fell on them, leapt to her feet and cupped a hand to her mouth.

"What do you want?" she called out to them.

Rhodri glanced over her shoulder at Aneirin, who chuckled and nodded, falling back behind Morrigan. She faced forward again.

"Hello!" she waved at the woman. "We're looking for a few people who have been tasked with reporting blood magic. Would that be you, by any chance?"

Alistair snorted quietly. "Nice and subtle, Rhod."

The woman folded her arms. "Who's askin'? You an apostate, are you? I see that staff you got, there."

Rhodri smiled and shook her head. "Not at all. Just a Grey Warden. They recruit mages, too, you see."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess they put some of you outside the Circle, don't they?" She shrugged and nodded at her own statement. "Anyway, them people you're looking for, you found 'em. An apostate named Aneirin's been doing blood magic in the forest, and we're makin' for the Denerim Chantry with the news so the Templars can get out there and sort it."

Oh, so that's what they wanted Aneirin for. Why don't you ever listen?

Another of the adventurers, a tallish man with floppy, blonde hair, stood up and strode over to the woman's side. "How come you lot know about the feller, then? You seen him yourself, have you?"

"Oh, yes," Rhodri smiled and nodded. "Many times. Aneirin has been of great assistance to the Grey Wardens while we have been working to stop the Blight spreading through Ferelden."

"... Yeah?"

"Oh, yes," she nodded again. "Listen, I think you might have the wrong person."

The woman squinted. "What do you mean? His name's Aneirin, isn't it?"

"It is, but the accusations are wrong. I've seen him use magic plenty of times, and it was never blood magic."

"Yeah?" the tall man raised an eyebrow. "What's your proof, then?"

Rhodri frowned and glanced over her shoulder at Aneirin, who shrugged back at her. Beside him, Morrigan rolled her eyes. And everyone else, as per usual, shared lip-bitten looks.

"Well," Rhodri replied slowly, her fingers tangling in her robe. "I suppose… mmm… oh, wait!" She beamed. "Yes, I do have proof!"

The woman, who had been looking unimpressed for quite some time now, put her hands on her hips. "Oh, this is going to be good. Go on, then. Give us your 'proof.'"

"Well, I've done blood magic before!" Rhodri said cheerfully, impervious to the sudden drop of all the jaws in both the adventuring party and her own. "I know what it looks like, and I never saw Aneirin doing it, so–"

"You do blood magic?" The third adventurer shrieked, scrambling to his feet now.

"Yes, but nothing advanced," Rhodri waved a hand modestly (Zevran was wheezing behind his own). "Morrigan and I only had two weeks of lessons, see, and it's unwise to do anything above what we trained for. It's enough to know that what Aneirin does is nothing like it, though."

The adventurers said nothing to that– though, in fairness, they didn't need to. The act of them drawing their swords and knives spoke volumes on its own. As per usual, Rhodri's shield bubbled up around the party, but there was no need for it. With a wild laugh, Morrigan burst into a run, leaping into the air as a lithe, exhilarated woman and landing on the ground as a spider the size of a house.

The battle was over before it began. By the time Alistair had stopped screaming and Rhodri was two spells in, Morrigan the spider had enwebbed and exsanguinated all three of the adventurers. Aneirin, who had kept to the back the entire time, came forward now with stars in his eyes. Morrigan's eight eyes went onto him; she returned to her human form, and Aneirin grabbed her right there, in front of the party and the corpses, and kissed her with enough passionate force to make the witch's knees slew underneath her. She gave an exultant moan, to which Alistair made a childish retching noise and Stella whooped loudly; Leliana watched her feet and looked incredibly miserable.

Rhodri gaped at the pair, and then looked skywards. In the sliver of heavens visible between the trees, the two moons loomed large. She turned to Zevran, shook her head, and left to loot the bodies.

§

"What d'you reckon the accommodation's like in those Wysbeche taverns?" Alistair asked, seemingly to no-one in particular.

Zevran chuckled. "For fifty gold a night, I would hope it is exceptional."

The Templar hummed. He bent down, picked up a fistful of snow, and packed it tightly between his hands. "I reckon if I ever get rich, I'll take a holiday there and find out for myself. Here, catch."

On reflex Zevran turned, catching the incoming snowball with a good margin, and cursed as the thing fell apart in his hands.

"I'll send you there for a month's holiday once I come into money if you like, Alistair," Rhodri offered, taking Zevran's icy hands in hers and heating them with a spell. "Once this Archdemon business is over, of course."

"It would be a waste of money," Leliana said. "You know why the rooms are so expensive, don't you?"

"... To keep people out?" Zevran offered.

"Exactly," she smiled. "No chance to charm your way into the community if you cannot stay with them long. And no tourists to crowd it out or bring change to the place."

Rhodri grinned and gestured at the party, "Except us, of course. So what's on our itinerary, then, as day-trippers through Wysbeche?"

"Oh! Oh, I–" Alistair frowned. "No, I forgot. Bugger."

"It'll come to you," Leliana assured him. "Me, I would like to have a little Orlesian wine! A glass or two of Château des Vingt-et-un Collines would be lovely before I start my fast. Those taverns are quite well stocked, no? They might have something there."

"Mmm," Zevran palpated Rhodri's hand in his own. "If there is any rare Antivan brandy for sale there, I might have one, myself."

Stella let out a laugh. "Ooh, we should get into something like that. Hey Morri! 'Neirin? What do you think?"

"'Twas around this day the last time, Stella, was it not?" Morrigan raised an eyebrow wryly.

Leliana, whose gossipy streak overwhelmed any memory of the open animosity between her and the witch, turned around and grinned at them. "Hmm! Did you girls have a party?"

Morrigan's memory was not so patchy; her eyes narrowed, and she responded with a short, sharp, "Yes."

But Stella, who had, on occasion, eyed Leliana with barely-concealed interest, spoke up now, before the good Sister's face could finish falling. She slung an arm around Leliana and fixed her with a toothy grin.

"Ooh, it was a great night Leli– can I call you Leli?" Leliana, blushing just a little, nodded. Stella beamed and squeezed the Sister's shoulder. "Lovely. So, picture it: Flemeth's hut, 9:28 Dragon. It's Satinalia, my first one with access to alcohol since I accidentally got it banned in the Circle–"

She paused there, having been forced to by a sudden peal of laughter from Rhodri, and waved the Warden's mirth away.

"Yes, yes, Rhodri, it was very funny–"

"It was," Rhodri gasped. "Remember I laughed so hard when you told me that we both got an extra week in the dungeons?"

"Yes, I do, you colossal turd. I should've knocked you out, saved us both the trouble." Stella winked at Leliana, and then at Alistair, who had now resorted to walking backwards to fully take in the retelling. "You'll have that story later on. Now! I had taken the liberty of commandeering the washbasin to make Nevarran bath schnaps–"

"'Nevarran bath schnaps?'" Alistair echoed in a near-shriek. "They don't make 'em in a bath, do they?"

"The poorer ones do," Stella waggled her eyebrows. "My papa's Nevarran, see, and I grew up watching him do it, so I know how. So anyway, I'd taken the washbasin to make apple bath schnaps, just like Papa used to make. Got about two flagons of the stuff out of it– only a small washbasin, see. That'd normally be enough for two parties of ten people, but Morri, Flem, and I drank it all that night."

In the corner of Zevran's eye, Morrigan was shooting Aneirin a smug smile; from behind her, Sten was looking at her with an unexpected respect, even going so far as to give an approving nod she would never see.

"Wait, wait– Flemeth drank with you?" Leliana squeaked.

Stella laughed richly. "Drank? That woman took an entire flagon for herself! Morri and I had half a one each. To this day, I've never seen anyone put the booze away like Flemeth. Maker, but she could drink. But this one's about Morrigan, not Flemeth, so."

Morrigan snickered. "Remember, Stella, that I have far more undignified tales of you than you have of me."

"Morrigan, I have the dignity of a striptease in the Chantry, and you know it. Now, can I just tell this story, please?"

Stella's question was met with unanimous agreement– even Sten was nodding, now.

"Thank you. So anyway, we three have polished off the two flagons, and we're playing a game of pick-up sticks at the table, because these people don't have any fucking cards–"

"We had cards!" Morrigan insisted defensively.

"You had them as a prop to lure Templars into your mother's traps, woman!" Stella roared (at the noise, Rhodri leapt away, stopping her ears and scowling). "You wouldn't know what to do with a pack of cards if I blood magicked the instructions into your head!"

Morrigan wiped a finger over her reddening cheek, her lip curling. "Bitch."

Stella smiled. "That's right. Now! During round two of pick-up sticks, Morrigan spots this house spider up in the corner of the kitchen ceiling, right?"

"Right," a few people said.

"And she points at it and calls out to it," Stella threw a finger out haphazardly, her face taking on the slow, beady blink of a drunk and her voice falling into a remarkably Morrigan-like slur, "'There is room for one arachnid in this hut, spider! And 'tis I!'"

Zevran, unable to resist himself, stole a glance at Morrigan, and was astonished to find that the witch was biting back a laugh. How gratifying that on occasion, she looked the way he felt. Others, like Alistair, Leliana, and Aneirin, were less able to keep it in, and were laughing openly now; how Rhodri was able to watch on with a wide-eyed smile was beyond him– he decided to enquire further later on.

"So what happened?" Alistair asked, wiping his eyes. "Can– can spiders understand you, Morrigan?"

"Of course not, you utter simpleton," she snapped. "Spiders do not communicate through speech–"

"Something you conveniently forgot in your drunken haze," Stella retorted through a wicked smile. "And of course, the spider did nothing, stayed right where it was. And so this bitch shouts something about asserting dominance, and transforms into a spider, right there at the kitchen table! You saw how big she was when we took out those adventurers right?"

"She was huge!" Alistair gaped. "And Flemeth's hut is tiny!"

"Damn straight! It was carnage! Her thorax alone got so big, so quickly, that it threw the kitchen table to the other side of the room, smashed it to bits! Flemeth got belted off her chair and went straight through the front door, and I ended up at the other end of the room!" She beamed as the party dissolved into raucous laughter, adding loudly, "Two of her back legs went through the windows, and the front two ploughed through the kitchen and knocked every bit of crockery off the shelves. Ooh, Flemeth was pissed, Morrigan, do you remember?"

Morrigan shrugged. "Not particularly. Flemeth's anger was not infrequent. What I do remember of that evening was you propositioning my mother during our third game of pick-up sticks. Do you recall?"

The party almost– almost fell silent, except for the quiet, shared gasp from all present. Stella, of course, was the only exception, closing her eyes and rubbing her brow with one hand.

"... No," she mumbled, "But it does sound like something I'd do." She winked at Leliana and nudged her. "I'm a better drunk in the first half of the night. I do great technical drawings, and some of my best inventions have come to me when I'm plastered, but Maker, that second half. It's anything with a pulse for me then, you know?" As a blush crept into the faces of both the Sister and Alistair, Stella turned back to Morrigan with a pensive frown. "So what happened, Morri? I don't remember getting into bed with her."

"You did not. You said to her, if memory serves, that Flemeth was an attractive mother, and asked if she would be interested in making you a mother fucker. Flemeth laughed with such force that she vomited onto your boots."

Stella snapped her fingers, "Ah! That does explain a lot, actually. Sorry about coming onto your mum in front of you, Morri, in case I didn't say it later on."

Morrigan got a faraway look to her now, "Of all the things to have to hear with one's own ears…"

"... Yeah," Stella scuffed her boot into the snow. "The joys of alcohol, eh?"

The witch looked almost grateful as Alistair spoke up again and, in so doing, drew the party's attention away from Stella's apology.

"Speaking of," he said, "what was Flemeth like? You know, as a drunk."

"Boring," answered Morrigan and Stella in chorus. They shared a smirk, and Stella made an inviting gesture to Morrigan; the witch continued.

"Flemeth would ask inane questions that she considered very cryptic. Whether one answered or not, seriously or not, she would look very pleased with herself." She clucked her tongue, "An utter dullard."

"Finding it hard to imagine the Witch of the Wilds as a dullard, I won't lie," Alistair chuckled and then, as if struck by lightning, he snapped his fingers and bounded up to Rhodri, slinging an arm over her shoulder. "Hey! I remembered what I wanted to do, Rhod!"

Said Warden smiled and patted Alistair's back fondly. "Sic, amicus? What is it you want to do?"

"The boats!" he said. "I want to watch them coming down that little river again."

Rhodri frowned. "There were boats? I thought you said they were rafts."

"No no, they have both." He moved his hands in a sewing motion, "Sometimes the Wysbechers tie the logs into rafts and float 'em up like that, if the water's high enough, but there's boats, too. They come down through the fjord in Crestwood."

"From Crestwood...?" Her eyes widened. "By the Maker, wait a minute!"

Alistair's arm flew off her, and Zevran released Rhodri's other hand, as she dove into her satchel and extracted the map. She unfolded it and drew a finger through Lake Calenhad, and then, after shooting a quick glance heavenwards, she pointed her arms out like a roadsign.

"... Rhod?" Alistair asked, a little worriedly.

"Just a– yes!" She gave a victorious laugh. "In the Circle library, I'd watch the boats sometimes, and some of them would come out of that river," she tapped the eastern aspect of Lake Calenhad and drew her finger over to the right side, "and go in here. That's Gherlen's Pass! Orzammar!"

"Oh!" Stella called, sharing a nod with Aneirin. "Yeah, there is! It's an imports ship, but they take merchants sometimes, don't they, 'Neirin? Yeah?" She waved a finger, "I knew there was something I'd wanted to tell you about Crestwood! They dock there and go on inland."

"Then we might be able to take the boat from Crestwood straight to Gherlen's Pass!" Rhodri beamed, bouncing on her toes. "It'll be so much quicker!"

"Hear, hear!" Stella declared. "And it beats going through the snow, eh?"

Zevran, who by now had to be infamous, both locally and internationally, for his hatred of the cold weather and its byproducts, agreed with vehemence in the utmost.

For a moment, Rhodri's eyes left the map and watched him mirthfully. Conspiratorially, he would have said, if not outright knowingly. Zevran smiled under the familiar attention, and when Rhodri returned to the map, he shoved his stupid, fidgety hands into his pockets and kicked a piece of ice up the road.