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wild-houseplant · 1 year

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Have Warden, Will Travel-- Chapter 29

My god I’m at 29 chapters and these bastards STILL aren’t together. I’m starting to think my English teachers had a point when they called me out for my tendency to waffle. Content warnings for ableism and the very very mildest and briefest of nsfw reference.

In any case, here it be. Featuring:

- Wynne’s Regret!

- Neighbourhood Scuffles! and

- Leliana Prying Unpleasant Truths Out Of Zevran!

AO3 here, and the chapter is under the cut! Hope you bunch are doing ok! Please drink your fluids and do not behave >:)

A part of Zevran wanted to introduce himself to Aneirin with his proper name, and the other, larger majority was screaming at him to use a pseudonym. After all, who was Aneirin, anyway? An elf of that age, no vallaslin, hanging about in the forest? It wasn’t entirely unlikely that he was a Crow.

He let the others go ahead of him. Alistair and Leliana stepped up first; Morrigan’s brief introduction came next, and Rhodri rounded things off.

“I remember you,” Aneirin chuckled at her. “You were the last child they brought to the Circle before I ran away. You followed the Tranquil around like a little duck. That was you, wasn’t it? ‘The littlest Tranquil?’”

Zevran’s fingers twitched; he let his fingers dance over the pommel of his hip-dagger.

“It was,” Rhodri answered defensively, drawing herself up to her full height, “and the Tranquil mages were very good to me right up until I left the Circle this year.”

“Rhodri…” Wynne said warningly.

Aneirin gave a sad smile and held his hands up. “It’s all right, Wynne. Forgive me– Rhodri, was it? I didn’t mean to offend. I remember the scenes fondly, but I do realise it was an unbecoming name to give a small child. You’ve certainly outgrown it now.”

From the bottom of Zevran’s periphery, Rhodri’s hand clenched her robe. "I have not," she growled softly.

Aneirin cleared his throat, looking distinctly uneasy now. "... Well, I'm sorry to hear that," he said after a moment, and quickly turned to Zevran. "Ah, forgive me, I didn't catch your name.”

“Zevran, of Crow House Arainai,” he replied smoothly. “Now turned co-adventurer. How do you do?”

Ooh, and if there had been a way to freeze time so he could drink in the way that man’s eyes widened at that, Zevran would have. He would have to try drawing it later; perhaps he could even tattoo it onto himself.

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” the fellow croaked. Without another word, Aneirin ushered a glaring Wynne, and the templar and bard loitering beside her, to the campfire. The rest of them trailed after him.

Aneirin sat down on a log by the fire. “I had thought to apologise for not having spare cups, but it looks as though you have been journeying for quite some time.”

“Some months,” Wynne nodded, joining him on the log and rummaging in her satchel. “Oh, my cup’s gone right to the bottom of the bag again…”

The young man gave a fond pat to an identical satchel by his feet. “It always amazed me how much these Circle bags could hold. Irving told me the only magic to it was clever design, but I suspected it was something more. I’m glad I thought to take mine with me when I escaped.”

Wynne, having located the elusive cup, handed it to Aneirin and sighed. “I still wonder how you managed to do it. The Templars swore up and down that their eyes hadn’t left the doors the night you disappeared.”

Aneirin chewed on his smile as he filled the cup with leaves. “I hope you like wedgegrass tea. Anyone else who would like some, hand me your cups.” He waved his hand once and a shower of ice fell neatly into Wynne’s cup; another wave, and the contents were steaming, and the tea went back to Wynne. “They only expect mages to escape. Never a thought to anyone else who might give it a try.”

Wynne frowned. “You disguised yourself? As a Templar, I suppose. I am surprised nobody caught you.”

“Oh,” Aneirin laughed and shook his head. “Oh, no. Not a Templar.” He lifted one hand, and Wynne’s mouth fell open as his fingers proceeded to sprout sleek, white feathers.

Off to Zevran’s left, Morrigan observed the display with some of the worst-concealed intrigue Zevran had seen from her so far. There she sat on a nearby stump, clutching a drink she had prepared herself with tight fingers, watching that man over the rim of the cup like he had found a way to kill Alistair without anyone knowing. Aneirin looked up in time to catch a glimpse of her eyeing him and gave her a brief, smouldering smirk. Morrigan scowled and looked away.

“A shapeshifter,” Wynne uttered weakly. “But how? The topic is barely even touched-upon in the Circle."

Aneirin looked back at her and with a wiggle of his fingers, the feathers were gone. “There was a book,” he said with a smile. “A black, leather-bound grimoire. It was written in a mixture of Ancient and Modern Tevene, had just about every kind of forbidden magic in it. Shapeshifting, necromancy… whoever wrote it even had a ritual for prolonging her life by raising daughters and stealing their bodies…” Aneirin shook his head. “Those poor girls had no idea what was waiting for them when they became women.”

An unexplained urge compelled Zevran to steal a glance at Morrigan, who had gone ashen-faced. Her hands shook; she carefully set the cup on the ground and shoved her wrists awkwardly between her knees. Something else, he wasn’t sure it was, either, prompted him to try and catch her eye. It wasn't his heart sinking per se; Maker knew Zevran didn’t have a heart to sink in the first place. No, it must have been something sexual.

That didn’t sit right either, though, did it. Sexual anything in him seemed tied to the one person for now, and Morrigan wasn’t it. In which case, it had to be a mysterious third thing. Why did he always make life so hard for himself?

Ah! No, it was perfectly obvious: Zevran was concerned for his safety. Suppose that black book Rhodri had taken from the Circle had belonged to Morrigan’s mother. What then? After all, Morrigan had confirmed more than once that her mother was the Witch of the Wilds. To be raised like a pig for slaughter at the hands of one of Thedas’ most powerful women, only to be intentionally sent from her… that had to be some matter of concern for all present. At some point, once they were all out of this wretched forest, Zevran would have to mention it to Rhodri.

Morrigan’s eyes snapped up to meet his, and it occurred to Zevran, as she watched him like she would disembowel him if he didn’t look elsewhere, that the most immediate danger was right in front of him. He smiled– carefully– and decided that now had never been a better time to meticulously examine his boots.

“I read that thing from cover to cover,” Aneirin continued. “We always had a steady colony of ants coming into the kitchen, if you remember, so I tracked them over time and was able to shift into one. I’d only meant to use the spell when I was craving a little fresh air or food, but something…” he shrugged, “switched in me after that last fight we had. I realised I was never meant to be in the Circle after all. And so I shifted that evening and escaped unseen.”

Wynne exhaled shakily and wiped under her eyes. “I remember that argument. I berated you over something trivial. I cannot even remember what it was about, now.”

“Keeping my eyes on my hands when casting nullification enchantments,” he said softly.

“You remembered,” Wynne murmured. “Of course you did. Those things stick with children. I failed you, Aneirin.” She shook her head. “I was always so harsh with you, paid no regard to your background or your needs. You tried so many times to make me listen, but I pushed you away.”

Zevran was not biting his lips over the drama of the scene. Nor was he in the process of gauging Rhodri’s reaction to this outpouring of regret. Even if it did undoubtedly strike a chord of some sort. He wasn’t looking, not moving his–

No, he was looking. Definitely looking. He was looking, with his two nosy little eyes, at Rhodri’s hard, shuttered-off expression, and because he still hadn't looked away, he witnessed it harden further still as Aneirin took Wynne’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

Zevran could do that, in theory. He had a hand, and Rhodri had a hand– in fact, they both had two hands each, and he could have taken both of hers into both of his. There was no reason to do it– when was there ever a reason to do something so mindless as non-strategic touching? But there was an unshakeable confidence brewing that had Zevran mimicked Aneirin’s action, Rhodri’s face would soften. What would happen after that was anyone’s guess, though, and it didn’t bear thinking about. None of it had warranted consideration to begin with. Zevran clasped his hands and sandwiched them between his knees.

Aneirin sat there for Maker-knew-how-long, comforting his distraught former taskmistress that aside from his brutal skewering at the hands of the Templars, and the crushing loneliness that living alone in the forest had brought, he was without a doubt on the right path now. Here, in the forest, amid the perennially wet greenery and murderous co-habitants, Aneirin enjoyed contact now and then with the Dalish, and otherwise had learned to enjoy his own company. Zevran presumed this meant he had begun talking to himself unironically, and had found in himself a complimentary audience.

Morrigan, however, remained fascinated through it all. If she had ever regarded anyone with such interest, Zevran was yet to see it. Rhodri’s expression was frozen in a mask of impassivity (and hand touching was off the table); Alistair and Leliana switched between reaching for each other and reaching for Wynne, and it was exhausting.

At some point, the soothings from Aneirin and warm encouragements from Wynne that this poor man return to the Circle (Morrigan looked ready to murder Wynne for it, which was most delightful) had reached their natural conclusion, and the matter turned to what must have been the most obvious question for Aneirin: why, in the name of the Maker and his cherished bride, were Wynne “and her friends” out in the Brecilian Forest?

Zevran smiled thinly, unable to keep himself from uttering, “I ask myself that question every morning I wake up here.” Rhodri snorted at that, and Zevran blessed the Maker for his brief lapse in inhibition. She took it upon herself, as a good leader ought, to explain the situation, which Aneirin took in with enough nods to dislocate something.

“Quite a task you have ahead of you, there,” he said after a moment. “Zathrian told me he had been constantly keeping the werewolves away from the clan for hundreds of years–”

“Sorry, hundreds?” Alistair squinted at him. “I didn’t hear that right, did I?”

“You did,” Aneirin confirmed. “Many say that Zathrian is the first of the Dalish to become immortal again, and he certainly looks well for several hundred years old.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “Well, if you’re out to pursue the werewolves, you should know that you’re off course.”

“Oh?” Rhodri said. “Do you know where they usually live?”

He pointed back in the direction they had come. “Down that way and further out to the right, there are ruins. That is where I have seen them retreat. I can take you nearby, if you wish, but I would rather not confront the werewolves myself.”

Wynne accepted the offer with thanks before Rhodri could say anything, and to Zevran’s astonishment, Morrigan had looked to be a close contender to get her approval in as well. And, once the others had all agreed, the Grey Warden who was nominated to make those decisions added her appreciation to the chorus.

At the request of the Senior Enchanter, the party elected to set up in Aneirin’s camp for the rapidly-approaching evening, with plans to leave tomorrow morning. Zevran could have sworn he saw Morrigan smile.

A squeaky kissing sound from behind had Zevran looking over his shoulder from his watch station that evening.

“... Ah.”

Leliana snorted at Zevran and gave him a playfully pointed look as she marched up and plopped down on the ground beside him. “That’s a lovely way to greet a friend. I’m happy to see you, too.”

He touched a hand to his chest. “Dear lady, did I say I was disappointed?”

“You look a bit put out.”

“Hah. Perhaps I simply have an uninviting expression at rest, hmm?”

Leliana smirked. “I see you’re taking a leaf out of Rhodri’s book. Speaking of which–”

“My dear Leliana,” Zevran chuckled hollowly, “surely there is nothing of interest in that topic now.”

“Listen, Zevran,” Leliana sighed and rested a hand on his shoulder. “My friend. Mon râleur. It cannot go on like this. It is agonising!”

“Go on like what? Like it always has?” He raised an eyebrow. “You did not seem so troubled by it when I first joined the party.”

“If you felt the same way then as you do now, you hid it much better. I didn’t know you were interested in her until Honnleath.” She tapped his shoulder impatiently, completely oblivious to the fact that Zevran’s stomach had just passed through all natural barriers and left his body for the wide open spaces of the Brecilian Forest, never to be seen again. “But that isn’t the point! The point is that now is the time to do something about it!”

Zevran rubbed his brow. “Leliana…”

“No-no-no,” she nudged him in the ribs. “No putting it off. It is my duty to keep you on track, as the only other member of the Warden Lovers Club I just made up.”

“You are the sole member,” he replied tiredly.

“I am with that attitude,” she retorted. “What is it that’s holding you back? Should I speak to Rhodri for you? I can tell her, if you’re nervous.”

At this point, there was no real wisdom in attempting to obfuscate any longer. Leliana had tried uncountable times to cajole information out of him already, and now that she was getting the taste for intrigue, it seemed even more unlikely that she would back down now.

“You say that as though she has not already been informed.”

“I– what?”

Zevran pursed his lips and gave her a withering look. The copper dropped; Leliana's face exploded into a mortifying, infuriating blend of shock and pity, discomfiting enough to make his frown scrunch his brow.

“I’m sorry Zevran,” she whispered. The hand on his shoulder shifted until her arm was fully around him, and Zevran didn’t quite have it in him to push her away.

“Oh, I had no idea. I was so sure she had such a tender spot for you.”

Zevran’s stomach lurched violently enough to surprise him. He stitched on a smile and winked at Leliana.

“Not to worry, my dear,” he purred. “Maker knows with all of these beasts, neither of us have the time for such things. But do not hesitate to tell me all of the juicy details of your escapades with that handsome Fereldan man you keep taking into your tent of an evening!” He waggled his eyebrows. “You have attracted the attention of quite a few bears in recent nights, you two.”

Credit where it was due, as jarringly saccharine as Leliana could be, she certainly knew how to play along when needed. That mildly bruised look to her was gone in a flash, replaced with a saucy smile he was sure he had only recently employed himself. His stomach settled.

Leliana flickered her eyebrows and gave his shoulder a conspiratorial squeeze. “It’s funny, you know. I noticed that every time we get ambushed by bears, it’s always been around the time I do this one thing with my tongue…”

To everyone’s astonishment, and no doubt her own, Morrigan was the first one awake before dawn the next morning. Zevran’s usual position of second riser (after relentless early-bird Rhodri) had now been bumped down to third, and for such a small change in the circumstances, it was remarkably irritating.

Not because such an event cut out the handful of minutes in the day where they were alone together. It was some other reason– a very obvious one, to be sure– that Zevran didn’t have available at that moment.

Morrigan, however, appeared in fine form. She and Aneirin were sitting there in front of the firepit, nursing a cup of tea and a sandwich each. Morrigan dissected him with her eyes whenever he spoke, and she visibly (to Zevran, at least) struggled to maintain a cool, sphinxlike facade when her turn to speak came. Her eyes snapped onto Zevran as he made his way from his tent over to where they sat, visibly narrowing with every step he took.

And Zevran, forever blessed with detailed memories of Morrigan’s spider form chewing the neck out of a live wolf last week, decided at that moment that breakfast was unnecessary. With a polite wave to the two of them, he made a beeline for the edge of the clearing, where Rhodri would be finishing the second watch shift.

He cleared his throat as he approached. “Well, my Grey Warden,” he called out to her, “it seems the forest has not changed since I handed watch duty over to you.”

In the space of that sentence, Rhodri had looked over her shoulder, beamed and made a delighted little ‘Mmm!’ at him, and, just as Zevran’s stomach had started to jitter, she dove into her satchel and pulled out two cups (two? Had she been expecting him? ) and a bag.

“Zev, good morning! How was your night?” She paused as she went to open the bag. “Ah, I nearly didn’t ask– tea for you?”

He didn’t dare indulge the curiosity by asking about the cup; Zevran nodded appreciatively. “Please.”

She nodded, patted the spot beside her, and set to work on the tea. “Come and sit, come and sit. So you slept well? For what little time you had, anyway.”

“Oh, no trouble there at all.” He plonked himself down cross-legged and accepted the steaming cup she offered with thanks. “I see Morrigan is enjoying herself with this Aneirin fellow.”

“Mmm,” Rhodri nodded. “I haven’t heard her so happy since she was harvesting organs from that bat with the three kidneys. Remember that?”

“Ah,” Zevran smiled. “She almost forgot to frown at Alistair the whole day.”

“She did!”

“Mmm.”

“Mm.”

The silence was comfortable. A handful of topics that could be broached floated on the periphery of Zevran’s mind: expectations of the day; thoughts on Witherfang; checking on the progress of Rhodri’s latest magical experimentation (a long-lastinger frost-free freezing spell). And, as the sound of Aneirin’s gentle laugh breezed through the quiet, Zevran’s mind looped back to thoughts of that damned book. And, it had to be said, of Flemeth turning up without warning, in the form of a house-sized spider, and sucking the juices out of every last one of them with her fangs.

“Tell me, Rhodri,” he said before he could stop himself and question the wisdom of the enquiry, “that book Aneirin had read– the grimoire, I think it was called. Do you suppose it could have been the book you found in the Circle?”

Rhodri sighed heavily enough that he was tempted to backtrack and apologise. And then she… chuckled?

“You’re a smart man, Zev,” she said. “Yes, it was Flemeth’s grimoire. The Circle has no books like that. Officially, it doesn’t even believe in shapeshifters. All the cultures that practise it have an oral tradition, which the Circle dismisses as hearsay.”

Zevran took a moment to picture a mass bowel evacuation among the Templars as they witnessed Morrigan dissolving into a swarm of bees. How effervescent. “Someone like our lovely witch would give them a shock,” he mused, half to himself and half to his company.

Rhodri shrugged with a half-smile. “Perhaps she would. But then, if the Circle doesn't believe in shapeshifters, they’d never know it was her. They could well encounter shapeshifters all the time, but they just squash or shoo them like they would any other animal.”

He snorted. “My goodness, what a thought.”

“In any case,” Rhodri pushed on gravely, “Morrigan and I have already spoken about it. When she feels the danger can no longer be ignored, we will take action.”

“‘Take… action.’” Zevran chuckled weakly. “That sounds rather dangerous.”

“It’s very dangerous,” Rhodri nodded. “In the same way taking action against the Crows would be if they tried to take you away. But Morrigan is one of us, and we mustn’t fail her.”

Don't swoon, just get on with it.

“Just so, my dear Warden,” he conceded, adding, “though if this Flemeth woman turns me into a toad, I expect Morrigan to do her utmost to change me back.”

Rhodri laughed. “She will. And if she doesn’t manage to do it, I’ll catch flies for you and carry you around in a little tub of water until we find someone who can. I’ll even keep the water warm. Does that sound fair?”

The mention of liquid finally reminded Zevran that he had a cup of tea in his hand that would need warming if he put off drinking it any longer. He smiled and took a sip of the lukewarm stuff. “A better deal than most toads can expect,” he said. “I humbly accept.”

Aneirin, by his own account, was one of two permanently- settled residents in this part of the Brecilian forest. The ramshackle bridges and other infrastructure in various states of decrepitude were all remnants of long-bygone eras, when the Forest had been a well-populated gateway to the port city of Gwaren in one direction, and to the rest of Ferelden in the other. Its excellent location (Aneirin’s words, Zevran reminded himself, not his own) and abundance of natural resources (also not Zevran’s words) had apparently made itself a very desirable place to everyone.

When Zevran gave into the urge and enquired who, precisely, ‘everyone’ was, Aneirin gave a detailed history of the clashes between the invading Tevinters and peaceful Dalish, and the occasional Barbarians who were passing by and opted to throw in on the chaos. The ongoing fights eventually led to the Veil being torn open, and all manner of horrid spirits and creatures eloped from the Fade to plague the forest (and thus Zevran, for as long as he was there) to the present day.

“The only part I am having trouble believing is the idea that any Northerner willingly left the warm, sparkling beaches to come to the icy forests of the South,” Zevran mused aloud.

To his right, Rhodri nodded emphatically and mumbled a stream of Tevene. Zevran caught the words ‘complete truth’, and smiled to himself.

Aneirin raised an eyebrow at the two of them. “I am sure many would want to come and enjoy the fresh air here–”

“See?” Alistair bumped his shoulder into Rhodri’s. “I told you the air’s better here.”

Rhodri snorted. “If the forest air is so wonderful, why does the fog keep blocking us at every turn?” She threw a hand in the direction of the path ahead, where a curtain of fog was creeping over the path and blocking the view of everything beyond. “Never had this problem on the Plaia Familias.”

Aneirin squinted, his voice dropping to a growl. “Oh, by the Gods, not this again.”

Wynne watched him worriedly. “Aneirin?”

He replied by way of rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “This has been going on for years. One of these days I’m going to feed him to the trees, I swear on his head…” He pointed to a rather-less-worn path off to the right that veered out of the path of the fog. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Ah… go where, exactly?” Rhodri asked cautiously. “Will we need to be prepared to fight?”

“Eh? Oh!” Aneirin shook his head again. “No, no, you won’t need to do anything. I just need to pay a quick visit to someone to confirm my suspicions.”

“Which are…?”

“You’ll see in a moment. Just over this hill, and– yes, here he is…”

Zevran couldn’t help wondering if he was simply a dull sort of fellow for not immediately realising who this ‘he’ was. There were no animals nearby, and no other people to speak of either. It was just them, and the trees–

Oh, the bloody trees.

Sure enough, one particularly large tree, with bronze leaves and a large enough space in its ribcage to serve as a city penitentiary, was turning around to look at them. Its mouth– if a gap in the wood could be called as much, pulled up in a smile.

Its voice boomed in a slow drawl as it addressed them, “Greetings to thee once again. Thou knowst about my acorn, then?”

Rhodri’s face went blank. She put an arm around Leliana and pulled her closer.

“Leli, darling,” she said calmly, “that mushroom omelette you cooked this morning–”

“I did not drug us, Rhodri, if that is what you are about to ask,” Leliana cut her off, laughing.\.

“Are you quite sure?”

“I am quite sure.”

Aneirin had been good enough to pause and let the rest of the party marvel over the tree, not taking his eyes off Morrigan as she mused aloud, “‘Tis a rhyming tree. One can only imagine what sort of spirit is involved here.”

“Perhaps a poet’s soul’s in me. Does that make me a poet-tree?” The tree laughed at its own little ditty; whether the laughs of Rhodri, Wynne, and Alistair were equally as genuine remained to be seen– Zevran guessed they were– but it appeared to appreciate the reception nonetheless. At the very least, the tree didn’t seem to mark Morrigan’s eyeroll. Apparently there was a point where nature could cease to amaze the witch, and that point, it seemed, was when nature started to behave like Alistair.

Aneirin was quick to step in again. “So the Hermit took your acorn again, Grand Oak, I take it?”

The Grand Oak let out a dolorous groan. “That is the thief, the one I seek. It is he who made my future bleak!”

“Right,” he sighed. “I don’t know why he’s always going after your nuts. Well, time to pay the neighbour a visit. See you in a little while, Grand Oak.”

“Go, please, reclaim it from that man. I shall await, do what thou can.”

“I will, I will.” Aneirin beckoned them down yet another winding path. “Come on, the Hermit lives this way.”

Once they were out of earshot from the tree (presumably; how well did they hear?), Aneirin spoke again. “This happens every single month. The Hermit comes and steals the Grand Oak’s acorn, and he panics and floods the forest with mist until I bring it back to him.”

Morrigan tsked . “An obsession with his own seed. Truly, ‘tis the same for all males.”

“Not only the males,” Rhodri protested, dropping a protective hand to the lower part of her belly. “I wouldn’t want anyone taking my things, either.”

“You do not make seed, Warden.”

“I don’t need to make seed,” Rhodri replied simply. “I have the other half of the equation, and I wouldn’t want some neighbour regularly pilfering it.”

Alistair laughed. “But occasionally pilfering? What about that?”

“No pilfering,” she shook her head firmly. “How rude, thinking nothing of stealing a person’s bits and pieces. The shamelessness of it. And if you’re going to split hairs, Serah, let me pre-empt you by saying that I wouldn’t want a non-neighbour to steal them either!”

The conversation was funny. It was funny. It was an absurd banter about the casual theft of reproductive organs, and there was no need for Zevran’s brain to make his own reproductive organs keenly aware that Rhodri was talking about hers. He was not thinking about that. No blood whatsoever was rushing to any strategic areas of his. The conversation was funny and oh, Maker take him he was about to die he was about to die–

Rhodri leapt a foot in the air as a shriek of laughter burst out of Zevran. He ascribed it mostly to the fact that he had, at long last, lost what was left of his mind. Though it had to be said, it was also partly because there was something funny about picturing a petty thief filching a critical body part like someone taking a pie left to cool on the window sill.

Mortified, he slapped a hand over his mouth to at least physically contain the noise and prayed for the Maker to smile on him and have the ground swallow him up. Take him in his prime, at his prettiest and most useful so someone might remember him fondly despite his proclivity to make an utter fool of himself.

With the noise dampened, Rhodri gave her head a triumphant little wobble and smiled at the unimpressed-looking witch.

“You see, Morrigan?” she said. “Zevran thinks I’m funny.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “So does Alistair. The indictments get more and more damning.”

Rhodri’s mouth was already shaping the first syllable of her protest when Aneirin called for attention again.

He held up a hand. “If you’d all kindly wait here a moment, I’ll go and speak to my… neighbour.”

A shield, summoned by Rhodri, rose up over the party as Aneirin continued down into a small clearing around the corner, and Zevran had never been more grateful for the fact that said shields did nothing to repel sound as an impassioned kerfuffle started up.

“It’s you!” came a reedy man’s voice. “Bloody robber, back again! Get away with you–”

“You stole the Grand Oak’s acorn! Again! I can’t go anywhere without walking into mist– give me that thing–”

“Not the beard! Ow! Ow, not fair! Not fair! ”

“Stop stealing nuts– give me that damned acorn– every month you take that nut–”

“You’re supposed to ask a question– this is completely against the rules!”

“Aht aht! Don’t you try that illusion malarkey on me! You think you’re the only apostate living in this forest?”

“Oh-h-h, POOH TO YOU! Take it, then, and leave me in peace!”

There was a rustle and a disgusted noise from Aneirin. “Urgh. What do you keep in this thing?”

“That was my sandwich! Don’t crush it!”

“It’s soggy!”

“Well, bread doesn’t stay dry forever, you know!”

“Oh, you grot. You bloody grot. I suppose I’ll see you next month to do all this again.”

“Mayhap you will, mayhap you won’t...”

One set of footfalls sounded, crushing the fallen leaves in heavy stomps as they drew closer. Aneirin came back into view holding a single acorn, and his fingertips were green and dripping.

“I need to find a stream to wash my hands in,” he said through gritted teeth. “That sandwich was even older than I thought.”

Things were looking a whole lot brighter– and, more importantly, a whole lot clearer– once the Grand Oak’s acorn was returned to him. The party moved unobstructed and untroubled. No wolves, no bears, nothing but people. Just the way Zevran liked it.

At some point, Zevran wasn’t sure of the time, Aneirin drew to a stop, and the rest of the party followed suit. He gestured at a rather well-trodden path hugging the edge of an exposed slope that disappeared around a corner into Maker-knew-what.

“Following this path along will take you the last little way to the ruins where I suspect the werewolves dwell,” he said to them. “I am not one for fighting, if I may be honest, and would rather leave you to it from here.”

Unable to resist himself, Zevran stole a glance in Morrigan’s direction, just in time to see disappointment flash over her face. He looked away again before she could catch him and murder him with her eyes.

Wynne nodded. “I understand, Aneirin. Then we part ways, I suppose.”

“We do,” he nodded, and reached around to the back of his neck, unhooking something. “But first, I have something for you, Wynne.” He held out a piece of amber-coloured material (resin, perhaps? Sap?) hanging off a long piece of leather strap, took Wynne’s hand, and pressed it into her palm.

“Here,” he said gently. “This is the hardened sap of a tree native to this forest. I found it on the ground the day the Templars skewered me, and have always kept it as a sort of lucky charm. Take it. Hopefully it will serve you as well as it’s served for me all these years.”

Wynne accepted the necklace with a smile whose warmth Zevran had seen previously reserved for Alistair and Leliana, and slipped it over her head. With free hands now, she clasped his hands in hers and squeezed them tightly.

“I am grateful, Aneirin,” she said affectionately. “I am… so pleased to have made your acquaintance. Not being able to apologise for failing you has been my greatest regret in life, and it is…” she sighed. “Wonderful to see you doing so well.”

Aneirin smiled and nodded. “You know, my years in the Circle were not a complete waste. I learned more than I let on. You did teach me, Wynne, even if you didn’t know it.”

They shared a silence between them, and the rest of the group held its breath as if to keep the unspoken spell from breaking before it was due to. Mercifully, they kept it brief, and with another nod to each other, Aneirin departed– giving Morrigan a rather hungry look as he went, no less. It could never be said the party kept company with dull people, in any case.

Rhodri gave a satisfied-sounding sigh as she stood at the front of the group again (had she been so bothered that Aneirin went first?).

“Well,” she said, “on we go, then, sic?”

Zevran grinned as he took his place to her left. “On we go,” he echoed with an eyebrow waggle.

And on they went.

Well, until they made it down to the corner and turned it. Naturally, one could only go on for a short way uninterrupted when one had a job to do, and in this case, the interruption was one sole werewolf, who was limping towards them. Around its neck sat a colourful scarf, which Zevran guessed to be of Dalish make.

Ah, and of course, behind the approaching werewolf the lair was now visible in the background. Was it a trap? Sending out the one with a gammy leg and a familiar article of clothing to court sympathy seemed a bit of an unwise tactic given the Warden’s attitude during the last encounter, but if one was out of options, one was out of options.

The werewolf spoke in a pained growl, “P-please… wait. I am… not the mindless beast you think…”

Rhodri was quick to replace her pitying look with a raised brow.

“No,” she said evenly. “I am aware that you’re a werewolf.”

“I am, though I was not always,” it gasped. “The watch-wolves, they said Zathrian sent you. You… seek Witherfang.”

“I do. You have seen him?”

“Yes. But…” the werewolf clutched at its chest and gave an agonised groan. “It is not as you think. I have no time to explain. Please… do something for me.”

Rhodri summoned a shield over herself and the party, and drew a little closer. “What would you ask of me?”

The werewolf pulled the scarf off its neck and lay it at Rhodri’s feet. “Pass on a message from me to my husband. His name is Athras. Tell him–”

“Athras?” Rhodri repeated, her eyes wide now. “Are you Danyla?”

“Yes. Tell Athras I love him, and that I am dead and with the gods. I beg you…”

“No, no,” Rhodri shook her head. “There will be no death for you. Your husband and daughter are waiting for you in the camp.”

“It is too late,” the werewolf cried. “The curse is too far gone… the pain is too much… please, end it for me…”

“No,” Rhodri slashed a hand through the air. “No, we are about to find a cure. You will hold on a little longer, for them.” With a flick of her wrist, the werewolf collapsed before it could begin to object. She stuffed a hand in her satchel and pulled out another set of robes.

“Someone help me, please,” she requested, bending down and picking up the floppy wolf. “I’ll tie her to me and carry her, and once we find this cure we can give it to her first and take her home.”

Zevran stepped forward with a grin and received the robe. At this point, making a body sling for injured individuals was becoming something of a new skill of his. He would have to brush up on his knots at this rate. If only Isabela were travelling with them!

When Danyla was secured in place, Rhodri nodded appreciatively to Zevran, and then gestured at the ruins. “On we go.”

“On we go,” Zevran echoed. “I hope.”

#Have Warden Will Travel #HWWT #Rhodri Amell #In which people fight over nuts. No not that kind #Imagine moving to the forest for contemplative peace and quiet and you have to put up with neighbours like I supply #why would you go anywhere else?#Dragon Age: Origins

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wild-houseplant · 1 year

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Have Warden, Will Travel- Chapter 24

Back on my long-winded bullshit again, folks. And STILL they’re not kissing. Well, no, that’s not entirely true. Rhodri kisses Zevran. You’ll see what I mean when you read further. AO3 here, and the rest is under the cut! CW for ableism, it's painful if you're autistic (and no doubt other NDs) so heads up.

Hope you bunch are having a happy weekend!! Please drink your fluids!!!

“… Rhod?” Alistair said her name with the cautiousness of someone waking a bear. “There’s… something wedding-related I’m curious about now.”

Rhodri smiled, her eyes gleaming. “Oh-h-h,” her hands– momentarily, before she caught herself doing it– drummed against her thighs. “Have you and Leliana changed your mind about marrying? I know we only left the topic a few moments ago, but it’s never too soon to–”

“No, no,” he waved his hands like he was trying to flag a ship down, and Leliana got a worried look again. “Not us, not us!”

“Ah.” She deflated, if only slightly. “Ah, well. I suppose there need not be a wedding to have cake, sic?”

“Erm… yeah, definitely.” He blinked. “Anyway, that thing you said about marrying someone you don’t like…”

“Mm? It’s perfectly true,” Rhodri said with a nod. “Affairs can only be so distracting, see? At some point or another, you need to see your spouse.”

“... Right. So Tevinters are, erm… expected to marry someone they don’t love, or even like?”

Rhodri shrugged. “It happens often enough.”

“Will you have to?”

Zevran decided, before the panic could decide for him, that he was listening as intently as he usually did to group conversations. If he was paying closer attention now, it was quite simply because he was paying attention to the fact that he was paying attention, which increased the rate of attention paid exponentially. It was inevitable.

Besides, if she ended up in a marriage to some contemptuous oaf, who was to say she couldn’t have her affair with Zevran? Plenty of rich Tevinters had their way with handsome elves– behind closed doors, of course. And Zevran was a man who dwelled in the shadows. It was the perfect set-up. He would have to bring up the idea with Rhodri later.

Rhodri hummed thoughtfully. “I must marry, and fairly soon. That’s non-negotiable if I want to be the heir, which I do. I'm happy enough to do it. But Tata has always said I can marry anyone I like, so long as it isn’t a woman.” She wobbled her head a little. “I never bothered looking, though, so I’ll probably have him find me someone once I go back to Tevinter.”

Alistair’s eyes (and Leliana’s now, too) were like dinner plates. “You… really don’t mind if he puts you with someone you’re not in love with?”

“It’s not so unthinkable in Tevinter. The point of marriage for us is to merge two households, create new family connections, make children. Dozens of people are affected by it, so whether two people are romantically tied…” she shrugged. “It’s not so relevant. No strong family is built on throbbing hearts. The one with similar values, who will work with you and not against you, that is the spouse who will bring you through life in one piece.”

He blinked. “I… well, I s’pose it’s good to be with someone like-minded, but forever’s a long time to be stuck with someone you don’t feel anything for.” Alistair shook his head. “It just sounds like Tevinter parents don’t give a damn how you feel, so long as the marriage suits everyone else.”

Rhodri raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say that, did I? Most parents look for someone they know we’ll get along with, and we’re usually listened to if we veto their choice. Some parents choose the most politically advantageous person, certainly, but I think most are very considerate when matchmaking.” She chuckled, “Do Fereldan parents let you marry someone who is patently bad for you and your household, just because you’re in love with them?”

“Well– well it’s their choice, isn’t it?” Alistair blustered. “And what if it turns out they’re wrong, and you’re a perfect match?”

Rhodri shrugged. “What if it turns out your mother and father chose a good partner for you, despite your initial misgivings? No system is perfect, I don’t think. Many Tevinters are in strong but romanceless marriages and pursue affairs to plug the gap. Many Fereldans go to pieces four years into the marriage because the passion has faded and the true incompatibility can no longer be ignored. Which sounds worse to you?”

“Both sound pretty awful to me, to be honest,” Alistair winced a little. “I hope I don’t end up in either one.”

Rhodri gave a good-natured laugh. “Let’s hope you marry someone perfect for you, then. For me, I’ll be extremely pleased if my husband and I are friendly and we raise plenty of happy children together.” She rubbed her hands together and grinned, adding, “Ideally in the not-too-distant future!”

“Maker’s breath…” Alistair shook his head.

She laughed again. “Definitely don’t do it our way, amicus, if that’s how you feel, but most of us are satisfied. Stick with your romance, sic?”

Alistair sighed. “You know what, I think I’d better…”

Zevran couldn’t help but ponder the curious fact that, going by Rhodri's standards, he was a suitable marriage candidate. Her father’s sole criterion was no women, and Zevran was a man– and that seemed unlikely to change. He and Rhodri got along well, the two of them, and there were certainly worse ways to spend life than rearing a cheerful brood of children in good company. After all, life did not begin and end with oneself, and it would be quite the shame not to pass good looks and charm of his level on to the next generation. Who would be able to resist a fat little infant– or a league of them, even, with a winning smile and bright grey eyes? No-one, that’s who.

In all, it was arguable that if Rhodri hadn’t accidentally omitted other requirements issued by herself or her father– no elves, no assassins (even if not actively trying to murder her in particular), no Crows, no people with no notable families… well, it meant they two could– in theory, of course– make a good fist of it together.

And that was really all there was to the thought. There was no need for panic to creep back in and accuse him of feeding some sort of hope that only led to danger for all concerned. His had been a perfectly sensible notion, and really , it was well to have considered it. Indeed, what might have occurred if Rhodri happened upon the idea herself later and brought it up? Had he not mulled it over himself, he would have been caught by surprise, and what then?

No, it was perfectly reasonable. A sensible marriage, unlikely as it was to occur. Were it to happen, though, Zevran would prove himself a capable father, and whatever needs Rhodri might have in the capacity of a spouse would no doubt be easily met. And marriage would bring the benefit of permanently securing a lifetime away from the Crows!

Which she has already guaranteed, without wanting marriage or children from you.

Zevran’s fingertips went cold. Even if that were the case, idly pondering the concept of being legally bound and with offspring wasn’t so dangerous, surely. Not when there wasn’t any emotional attachment required– Rhodri explicitly said there wasn’t. Any fool could see this was purely practical.

But why had he even entertained the thought?

He could have laughed as the answer hit him– he nearly did, in fact. It was so very obvious: why did anyone think of those sorts of things? Sex, of course. Encouraged in marriage, and a necessary step in procreation. A natural, healthy impulse if ever there was one, and after Maker-knew-how-many months without so much as a wet dream, it was no doubt a sign that that part of him was ready to be brought out of dormancy. Emotional attachment indeed! Why would there be any risk of that when Zevran was obviously incapable of it anyway?

He sighed with relief. All that fluster for nothing. This was why it was well not to lose one's head and read too much into flitting fancies, when it all invariably came back to the simple and the obvious.

Zevran smiled to himself and pondered the going rates in Denerim brothels.

There was something terribly, deeply filthy about forests. Perhaps it was the fact that the only thing separating the foot from a layer of dirt going all the way down to the core of the planet was grass. Hair scarcely separated skin from whatever was touching it; why would grass be any better?

The answer, of course, was that it wasn’t any better, and that dirt in all its states– dust, silt, mud– would plague Zevran and his gear for the rest of his days.

And it wasn’t as though Zevran was a snob. No, indeed, he had eked out an existence in some of the most squalid slums imaginable, but he took permanent solace in the fact that once the mould and bodily byproducts and other mysterious filth had been scrubbed away, the walls and floors beneath were perfectly sanitary. And they kept the worst of the elements away. The outdoors didn’t have a leg to stand on in that regard.

“I do not suppose there is any way we could tempt the Dalish to come to us, is there?” he croaked miserably as he took in the endless, uninterrupted stretch of trees ahead. “Surely they would benefit from a brief stay on the outskirts of a town. I am beginning to forget what buildings look like.”

“Zevran,” Rhodri said gently, raising an eyebrow at him, “we passed a hamlet shortly after lunch, and we haven’t gone more than twenty paces from the Imperial Highway– the heavily paved Imperial Highway,” she added with a chuckle, “since leaving Denerim.”

From behind him, Alistair scoffed and Leliana giggled, and Zevran was quite sure he had heard Morrigan and Wynne rolling their eyes. He heaved a sigh and kicked a nearby rock.

“Ah,” Rhodri clucked her tongue sympathetically. “You are not enjoying the fresh air?”

“It smells like fresh dirt,” he sulked. “And my boots, they are dusty."

He glanced up in time to see Rhodri’s expression go suspiciously neutral. Glazed, even. A small vein was rapidly gaining prominence on one side of her head.

“Ah,” she said again after a moment. "The ground is too dry, is it?"

"My boots speak for themselves," he lamented, kicking one shod foot up indicatively as he walked.

"Is Antiva not dusty, Zevran?" Leliana asked through a smile he could hear.

He sighed and turned around, walking backwards as he faced the party. "Not my Antiva City," he returned, permitting tenderness to creep into his voice. After all, there was no shame in loving one's country.

"Perhaps out there in the Drylands there is dust," he waved a hand dismissively in the direction he guessed the Drylands to lie. "And the sun burns hot in Antiva City, to be sure, and everything dries out quickly, but it almost always storms in the afternoon. Big, heavy rains that wash away all the dirt, and so the next day starts fresh." He kissed his fingers. "You could eat your breakfast off the ground, it is so clean."

Amid the doubtful looks from the Fereldans, a nostalgic-sounding sigh issued from Rhodri and, to Zevran’s intense surprise, a hint of a smile flickered over Sten's face as well.

“You paint a very romantic picture, mon râleur, I must say,” Leliana chuckled. “But I do not think all that water would be very welcome to the people who end up flooded with it.”

Zevran beamed. “You flatter me, dear lady. If an Orlesian calls me a complainer, then I must be very good at it.”

“Yes, you are,” Rhodri chimed in cheerfully, and he, Leliana, and Alistair snorted in unison.

“It’s true,” Alistair added, somewhat less blithely than the Warden. “You could complain for Antiva.”

“Oh, now the praise is going to my head,” Zevran cackled. “You’ll find I am nowhere near as talented as my countrymen in that regard, but I am a suitable enough representative in the South. We Northerners complain like we are getting paid to do it!”

“He isn’t joking,” Rhodri said over her shoulder when Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Tevinters, Antivans, and Orlesians are all born whiners. It’s good for the health.”

“Good for the–?”

“Oh, yes,” Leliana linked arms with Alistair and smiled up at him. “If you let your troubles bottle up in you, you’ll fall over dead at some point.”

Alistair’s eyes widened. “Is… is that true? I mean, really true, not some old wives’ tale.”

There was a clamour as the Orlesian, the Antivan, and the Tevinter all made to vigorously impart how many people they had seen or– and the numbers were far higher here– heard of expiring from an acute lack of complaints and the complications thereof.

Leliana declared that she had witnessed a handful of stiff-lipped Orlesian nobles die suddenly and violently as all their complaints consumed them at once, a harsh result from years of playing the Grand Game a little too well. And Zevran, well. How many times had he been given a mark who had made a point of not complaining to anyone, and then, in a moment of urgency, blurted the wrong details to the wrong person? Their deaths, after all, weren’t really caused by Zevran; he was nothing more than the last sentence in the book, when it all boiled down to it. The true result in such deaths always lay a few chapters back.

“In fact,” Rhodri announced after relaying her own anecdotal evidence, “some three years ago, my mother told me that there was research from the University of Orlais, warning of the dangers of not complaining enough!”

“Mmm!” Leliana nodded vehemently. “I think I heard about that from a friend. An especially big problem long-term, is it not?”

Rhodri nodded gravely. “It is. The constant discomfort imbalances the four humours, you see Alistair, and then over time places a great strain on the organs. Then one day,” she snapped her fingers, “something gives out, and that’s the end of you.”

Zevran clenched a hand victoriously. “HA! I knew it!” he cried. “I said it to Taliesen often enough! ‘Mark my words,’ I would say to him, ‘scholars will find it is bad for the humours!’ Too much of the biles. He called me a fool, but who is the fool now, I ask you? Who?”

“Not you!” Rhodri said in a near-shout, grinning at him like the victory had been her own. Leliana and Alistair started to laugh, and everyone else rolled their eyes. Zevran’s chest swelled until it was fit to burst.

He swivelled on his heel to face the front again, his long-forgotten dusty boots all the way down on the ground while his head was up and up and up, past the treetops and clipping through the clouds. His laughter rang like bells and his voice came from his chest, “Not me!”

Oh yes, him. Yes him, coming back to them again and again with his hands out like a dog begging for scraps. It was wrong and he knew it, and there was no escaping knowing it.

Zevran breathed through the stopper in his lungs, forced the air in until there was no chance of them collapsing. His fingertips were tingling.

Ah, but Leliana had asked him a question! Stale by now, but still unanswered. He seized it anyway.

“Ah, and about the flooding, Leliana,” he waved a hand with all the nonchalance he could muster, “we have gutters. Big ones, deep, on the side of the paths and the paths are all angled just a little, so that the rain runs straight into these gutters. You should see how many people fall in those things and break something. Oh!” He chuckled. “Just dreadful.”

The Chantry Sister took in this information with a hum, and made another when Rhodri vouched for a similar system in her own country.

“But where does it go then?” she asked after a moment. “Who gets flooded at the end of all that?”

“Oh, no-one.” Zevran smirked. “All those gutters drain into an enormous reservoir, where we bottle the water up and sell it to the Orlesians.”

Everything seemed to happen at once: Rhodri laughed so fitfully she sank to her knees; Leliana cursed Zevran; Alistair gave a surprised squeak. What the others did was beyond Zevran’s notice or care, not least when several fat, icy drops of rain plummeted into his hair. Through deep, body-wracking guffaws, and as of a few moments later thick sheets of torrential rain, the Warden directed them into the canopy for the fastest camp set-up in existence.

“You really ought to get a move on, you know, Zevran.”

Zevran looked up at Leliana over the potato he was peeling. While everyone else went about setting up camp amid the downpour, they were tasked with making the supper together, and it had to be said: Leliana wasn’t making that much more headway with the carrots she’d been dicing.

He gave her a flourished inclination of the head anyway. “Ah, forgive me! I was overcome by your radiant beauty. Shall I move and sit in the rain so I am not distracted while I work?”

She snorted. “You know perfectly well I’m not talking about potatoes.”

“Oh?” He waggled his brows, already dreading wherever this was headed. “You are being a little ambiguous, my dear. I suppose I will simply have to live my life at twice the speed to ensure you are not disappointed. Will that do?”

“Now, now,” she smirked at him. “No need to be flippant. All I’m saying is Rhodri won’t be on the market for much longer, and once she’s taken, I don’t think she’ll have much time for the affairs she speaks of.”

Zevran allowed himself a single, peevish sigh. “Are you still on about this, woman?”

Leliana chuckled. “And why not, hmm? You’re still her shadow, still blushing up to your ears when she so much as smiles in your direction. And still not saying a word to her about it!”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he diced the potato and tossed it into the water.

“Of course you don’t.” Leliana threw him a shit-eating grin and ate a piece of carrot. “I didn’t see you trip over your feet the other day to get over to Rhodri when she realised you weren’t walking beside her. Not at all.”

Zevran’s stomach threatened to escape via his bellybutton; it took two goes before he had tensed it back into place. “There was a rock in the road.”

“Mm-hmm. And I suppose there was another rock right after that when she said that it didn’t feel right without you walking next to her, no?”

“It is possible, my dear lady, to trip for more than one step,” he said brusquely, and snatched another potato from the bowl.

From his periphery, Leliana rolled her eyes. “I don’t see why you don’t just make a move. Even if she’s not interested, she’ll be flattered, and you can move on.” She winked, “Of course, the best case scenario is much more likely, and then we’ll have one each.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow. “One what?”

“Oh, Zevran,” Leliana lamented. “Keep up, darling. One Warden each! Think of it! We could compare notes, no?” She reached an elbow up and dug it into his ribs with another, much more lascivious wink.

He tsked and gave her a withering look. “Does your gentleman caller know you are encouraging ‘The Assassin’ to seduce the Warden? Amid her grief?”

“Pish tosh,” she waved a hand airily. “Obviously you aren’t about to kill her. If you were, you’d have done it already. And as for the grief, it’s been two months now. Didn’t she go to a brothel last month? Besides, if she doesn’t want to, all she need do is decline. She’d take it as a compliment, even if she weren’t interested.”

“Hah. Well, I’m glad someone is being sensible, at least.”

“Unlike you!” Leliana nudged him again. “Come on, I want to see if it’s true what they say about Grey Wardens’ endurance.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow, privately pondering if said endurance reflected the number of prostitutes Rhodri took into that little room with her. “I am surprised you think it would be prudent to talk of such things given how private our dear Warden is.”

“Hah. I know for a fact that Rhodri and Alistair talk to each other about just about anything going on between their legs.” Leliana smirked as the potato in Zevran’s hands slipped free, and he barely caught it before it landed in the mud. “Interested, are we?”

“My dear woman,” he chuckled weakly, dicing the potato as quickly as he dared, “what on earth were you doing to pick up information like that?”

“Oh, nothing sinister. Just accidental overhearings. Why do you think those two insist on going to chop firewood together, hmm?”

Zevran silently cursed Leliana and the curiosity her remarks were imbuing. “... Ah. Not to exercise brute strength for the good of the party, then.”

“That too, of course! But enough of that,” she waved a hand. “My point is that they confide in each other about these things. I don’t doubt Alistair will confide in her once we get around to that, as well. And what problem is it?”

“No problem,” Zevran shook his head quickly. “It is good to have a third party opinion about these things, I think. I am surprised to see a Fereldan doing it, but well and good.”

Leliana snorted. “And don’t I deserve someone to confide in?”

“Naturally.”

“There, see? And if you hurry up and get to business, she’ll have Alistair, and you’ll have me. Is that not a fair deal?”

“... I am astonished we are discussing this, but yes, I suppose it is.”

She clucked her tongue. “Come on. Surely the Antivan seducer isn’t a prude beneath all that salaciousness.”

He gave a wan smile. “Perhaps you have gone where even I dare not follow.”

“And where is it I’ve gone, hmm?” Leliana arched a brow at him. “Gentle encouragement to flirt with someone who’d suit you well? What a wicked, sinful place that is!”

“Hah. Never mind the other remarks, then?”

The good Sister smiled warmly. “Exactly. We need not talk about anything, if you don’t like, but my original point still stands. She’s fond of you, no? I think perhaps not quite aware how fond she is yet, but with the right kind of suggestion, I think she’ll wake up to herself.”

Leliana winked, apparently blissfully unaware that Zevran’s life essence was haemorrhaging out of him, and added, “Take it from me, though: don’t be subtle about it, otherwise you’ll be in for a long wait– ah, here comes the firewood!”

Beaming now, Leliana rose to her feet and offered all manner of stomach-turning compliments to a sopping-wet Alistair, who grinned and reddened like a sunburnt child as he set his armful of wood on the ground. Rhodri, who was equally drenched (and Zevran was not looking at anything below her neck or even vaguely considering Leliana’s suggestion of what she and Alistair might have been discussing while chopping the firewood), deposited her own load next to his and straightened up. She and Alistair shared a look, the latter suddenly becoming far more nervous than the former.

“Go,” she nudged him. “I’ll handle the firewood. Go on.”

Alistair’s face was purpling, but he took the instruction with a nod. “Right. Erm… Leli, are you free for a moment?”

The man making the request almost jumped as Leliana touched his forearm, and when she had declared that she was and carefully bent his arm so that her hand hung off it, Alistair took his cue and escorted her away. With his back to them, a single rose with signs of thumbing on some of the petals could be seen sticking out of his back pocket, bobbing a little with each step he took.

By the time Zevran had looked away, Rhodri was already industriously wicking the moisture out of each piece of wood, sending small clouds of moisture into the chilly night air. Not of a mind to interrupt her, or that fetching little frown of concentration she was sporting, he picked up another potato and returned to work. It wasn’t as though there was any hurry for him to do this flirtation Leliana spoke of– indeed, it wasn’t even compulsory. No, there was nothing to do for the moment but enjoy the silence and attend to the task at hand, and so he did.

Right up until Leliana’s astonished yowl tore through the camp: “SO YOU’RE THE ONE WHO PICKED MY PROPHETIC ROSE!”

A deeply-absorbed Rhodri didn’t notice the noise, even when Zevran– quite ungracefully– snorted. If Leliana’s proposal today was anything to go by, no doubt he’d have all the dramatic details before the night’s end, whether he wanted to or not.

And what sin was there in being content enough to know? Only fools wished to be unaware of the goings-on around them. Zevran could cope with the accusations of nosy fishwifery that came with being someone who knew things.

He took another potato.

In the heart of the forest, after dinner, Zevran sat by the lake with his poisons belt open and vials ready for re-filling. It was a simple enough task, but a damned fiddly one, and best carried out with close access to fresh water lest an errant drop find its way to him and require immediate washing-off.

From somewhere back and to his left, behind the enormous rock he was leaning against, Rhodri’s voice carried. He glanced over his shoulder, but upon seeing no trace of her, he returned to work.

“We need to leave this until I can get a new staff, Wynne. Our progress is minimal in the current conditions.”

“Hm,” Wynne said. “If you are inclined to use your staves as a bludgeon, Warden Amell, I think it may be well for you to adjust to spellcasting without.”

Rhodri scoffed . “There are few people so single-handedly responsible for the murder of my students and peers as the one I hit, and fewer still who would think it clever to insult my house on top of that.”

Wynne gave an unimpressed-sounding little harrumph. “And what if you don’t find another staff? The Wonders of Thedas had nothing free of lyrium. Will you simply give away the training altogether?”

“You seem not to have noticed, Madam,” she said coldly, “but since leaving the Tower, I have only cast imperfectly during our training sessions. Is it so unthinkable that when you have me vividly picture my slaughtered children while unspent mana burns me from palms to fingertips, that I falter? The pain is excruciating! How much must I be expected to suffer in the name of nominal progress?”

Zevran paused, guts roiling. Evidently, this conversation was not for his ears, but the situation put him in a difficult position. Standing up and announcing his presence now would see him accused of eavesdropping, which he certainly was not doing. He had heard things, to be sure, but keen elven hearing was hardly a moral failing.

And he couldn't gather up all his things and run away, either, not when all of his things were carefully spread out on the ground. It would take longer than a round of Wicked Grace to clear up. Perhaps he could emerge from behind the rock, stab Wynne, and thus end all possibility of the conversation continuing. He would do his utmost to look remorseful if Rhodri scolded him for the act.

Oh, now he was being ridiculous. There was nothing to do but keep an ear out for the end of the conversation while he worked, and that was precisely what Zevran resolved to do.

“How much you should suffer is for you to decide,” Wynne replied. "How keen are you to avoid a recurrence of what happened when we were fighting Uldred? That fireball could have killed someone.”

“A recurrence is highly unlikely.”

“You cannot be sure of that.”

“I can, actually. Uldred and Greagoir are gone, and if I may be a little grim here, they saw to it that I have almost no children or peers left now. Any would-be mass killer will be terribly disappointed in Kinloch Hold’s current offering.”

“Your flippancy does you no credit, Warden. You know that isn't what I mean by a recurrence.”

Rhodri groaned irritably. “What do you mean, then, Wynne? The circumstances are different here. My party consists of proficient adults, and I’m not two weeks away if they need my help.”

“And suppose you were separated from them and they were incapacitated? Some of them killed? What then?” Zevran could practically hear Wynne standing with arms akimbo as she spoke.

Rhodri sighed. “I would give my very best efforts to protect them, as I always do.”

“Well, to be truthful, Warden Amell, I think that as it stands, your best is insufficient, and you owe it to your party members to improve where you may. How you will stop a Blight when you cannot keep your temper enough to safely cast a fireball is beyond me. You cannot even resist the urge to rock and slap your legs like a lunatic, even when it obviously disturbs others. You are far, far too self-indulgent. In fact, if I may be blunt, I find myself wondering what persuaded Irving to apprentice you at all.”

Silence fell. Zevran caught his fists clenching rather than adding the deathroot to vial number five, and relaxed them. And, because he was unable to resist, he threw a quick prayer heavenwards that the lack of noise was due to Rhodri having frozen Wynne to death, only to find his hopes dashed when the latter prompted the former with a 'Hmm?'

“If you consider yourself a better leader, Madam,” Rhodri said stiffly, “you're more than welcome to say it to the rest of the party and take it to a vote. If you're chosen, I will stand down without trouble.”

“I’m not interested in leading,” Wynne replied plainly. “I want you to put this petulance behind you and act like the leader everyone thinks you are. Control your emotions. Cast spells properly. Adapt to your circumstances. Exercise a little discipline once in a while.” The heel of a boot squeaked as it spun on the wet grass. "I think we should train in the mornings as well, ideally starting tomorrow. Good night to you, Warden Amell.”

Only one set of footfalls reached his ears, and they didn’t match Rhodri’s gait. They went around behind him, looping back toward the camp. Zevran glanced behind him and caught sight of Wynne shaking her head as she marched back toward the tents. She reached her own and, as she turned and stepped inside, caught him watching her. Perhaps he had meant her to, perhaps not, but the flash of anger searing his guts upon meeting her eyes had been entirely unplanned. They stayed like that, him staring her down and her watching back haughtily for what felt like hours. When he finally remembered to, Zevran gave her a smile that no amount of self-flagellation could force to touch his eyes. Unease crept into Wynne’s face, and it tasted sweeter than a swig of honey. She disappeared into her tent, and Zevran called it a victory.

From his right, Rhodri heaved a sigh and a thrill surged through his spine and out to his fingertips as her footfalls drew nearer. Zevran looked up as the Warden came into view around the rock and caught him sitting there with his hazardous things spread out in front of him like a Feastday arrangement.

Rhodri stopped dead. Zevran pinned on an ineffectual smile that faltered as soon as he caught the shame creeping into her own face. He rose to his feet, carefully and slowly as he could manage, but she still watched on like he was going to belt her.

Such displays were nothing new to him. There was always the odd mark who cottoned on earlier than expected, watched him for the first time with the appropriate level of fear given the circumstances they’d allowed themselves to be eased into. The difficulty, of course, was that he had always resolved their fear by making it come true– and thus expedited their journey to that next place, where such feelings were either nonexistent or, by that point, unnecessary.

Zevran racked his brains for a solution that didn’t involve murder, only to pause as Rhodri spoke in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

“You heard all that,” she rasped.

With a wince he didn’t quite manage to stifle, he nodded once and half-wished he hadn’t as Rhodri hung her head, her eyes fixed on the ground.

What was there to say to that? An apology? A distraction by means of a filthy poem? Offering a helpful, ‘Do try not to be so ashamed of yourself?’ What, for heaven’s sake?

Nothing came to him, and when the silence grew suffocating, Zevran slipped off his gloves and reached a hand out toward her. A friendly pat to the arm, a more than suitable response, and far less intimate than other things he had ice used to put his marks at ease. Rhodri’s eyes went onto the hand as it edged closer, her body tensing, and when he caught her eye and smiled, comprehension of some sort appeared to strike. She almost stumbled over herself to take the proffered hand, her long, warm fingers (and never the thumb) slipping under his and gently guiding his hand toward her.

Zevran’s mouth nearly fell open, heat creeping into his ears as Rhodri bowed her head all the way down to where she held the back of his hand, and kissed it.

“Parce,” she said, and kissed it again. “Parce, non dignus.”

Have mercy, I am unworthy. Zevran knew of the apology from a book he’d stolen years ago, some dramatic stuff and nonsense shipped straight out of Minrathous. The book hadn’t mentioned how to reply, particularly when an apology of any sort was not called for. And certainly, he wasn’t in a fit state to speak or do much of anything beyond trying to keep himself from keeling over.

He would have to say something, though. It didn’t do to just gape and go weak-kneed at a time like this (or at any time, really.) Before he could so much as croak out an ‘ah...’ Rhodri had released his hand and was walking away, pulling the hood of her robe over her head as she went.

The urge to follow was strong. To say something, do something– though what, precisely, Zevran couldn’t imagine. That, and the fact that his feet were rooted to the ground, held him in place, rendering him as utterly useless as ever. He conceded defeat with a sigh and sat back down.

Something would have to change. It didn’t do to have his protector consistently injured and ashamed of herself, especially unnecessarily. Kisses were best given for pleasure, not apology, and Maker knew misery had no place in peak performance.

Perhaps Leliana had a point after all. Flirtation lightened the hearts of all sorts of people, eased their burdens and puffed up their egos a little. And Rhodri was a proud person, there was no doubt about it. Proud like a show horse. The right sort of remark could well lift her spirits like nothing else, restoring that crucial sense of self. Not to mention the ways one could reinflate that pride between the sheets if she accepted! A worthy task, and it was indisputable that Zevran, master seducer and verifiable satisfier of all and sundry, was just the man for that very job. Once a little time had passed and the harshest parts of that distress had eased, the action would really begin.

With a pleased nod to himself, he turned back to vial number five, and to the other fourteen vials awaiting attention.

#Have Warden Will Travel #HWWT #PSA: Complaining is good for your health. Complain today!#Rhodri Amell #You know things are bad when Ninjamance Leliana is telling you to get a move on and put the good word on the Warden

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