Dragon Age 1. Chapter 1

_My thanks to the writers at Bioware for developing such a fantastic story and such wonderful characters. David, Mary and Sheryl particular thanks for your time spent answering questions on the forums prior to the games release. My apologies for any liberties taken within my interpretation of the characters. Apologies also for horses and cloaks- it is much easier for me to write them in a story than it is for designers to put them in the game._

_Readers note: I have labeled the story as mature because I am not sure what will be in future chapters. Strong language and violence are likely, explicit content is not (okay maybe a little _—_ Zevran is in the story after all). Constructive criticism is very welcome, as this is the first creative writing I have submitted for review since high school English (a very long time ago). All of my college writing was technical in nature and I have only written for myself in the years since graduation._

_I have done some serious editing since "Awakening" came out, both for story consistency and to decrease the excess angst and tighten up the prose. For those of you who have been following the story no major changes have been made._

**A Grey Warden's Honor**

Chapter 1- Heir

Aithne closed her eyes wearily for a moment and stretched. She had just set the new trade agreement with Orlais aside for the ink to dry. All that was left now was for Alistair to sign it. He should be back from his latest trip to Redcliffe and the Bannorn any day now. She shook her head, _no thoughts of Alistair_, he was married now and she was just the Chancellor. Pushing her chair back she glanced about her. There were thick rugs on the floor, rich tapestries on the walls, ornate carvings, so far from a simple Dalish clan. What would they think of her now she wondered? Aithne had never returned. She was so far from the innocent child who had left the forest. Never to be a simple hunter again, the silent communion with nature, the feel of moist loam beneath her feet, the musky scent of rotting leaves — so far from the stone and noise of the city.

She rose, walked over to the large window and stared out toward the Amaranthine Ocean. The winter winds were pushing white caps into the bay, light rain spat at the windows and there was a tang of ozone in the air — storm tonight. Alistair had chosen this office for her, "I know it is not much, but at least you can look out on something besides the streets of Denerim, my dear." He had looked away, voice breaking. "It is the least I can do for you."

Caressing the windowsill she remembered, it had been only a week since the defeat of the Archdemon. Even in the frantic pace of trying to find food, medicine and shelter for the displaced population of Denerim and organizing help for those returning to their homes to the south he had found time to do this simple thing for her. Alistair had turned back to her, "I …" stopping he had reached out and crushed her to him. It had been their last kiss, tender, yearning, but as tumultuous as the angry sea.

They had stepped apart, wanting more, knowing it could not be. "Alistair, you are king now, the nobles would not allow it…, and you need a legitimate heir." The words tasted sour as ashes in her mouth, true though they were. Honor was all they had left, was all they could have.

"You know I never wanted this, there was just no other way." The weariness of the last year seemed to fall upon him. He had left then, shoulders bowed with the weight of responsibility, and she had not cried, not then.

Her reverie was disturbed by the creak of the door. Alistair stepped in, dripping rain from his travels. He always sought her out as soon as he returned, before poor Rothana, his wife. "I trust you have been well." His rich voice both a balm and an aching pain. The tension flowed between them as it always did.

"I just finished the Orlesian treaty — the terms are very favorable to Fereldan. The Orlesian ambassador was most accommodating after the little matter of the spies Zevran caught was brought to his attention." Her voice was level, professional, after four long years of practice. "Leliana has returned, Genitivi is still studying the temple, but there has been no sign of the Ashes reappearing. I trust all is well with Teagan and his wife."

"Teagan and Kaitlyn send their best wishes. It's good to hear Leliana is back, I find that I even miss that silly nug of hers sometimes." Their conversation was light, never touching deeper things. "I am sure the Orlesian treaty is well done, you always take good care of Ferelden. I can sign it now if you would like." Alistair stripped off his gloves and went to the desk.

Light footsteps in the corridor alerted them both before Rothana stepped into the room. "I heard you were back darling, and…."

Alistair went to his wife and gently took her hands. "What is it?" Rothana was a beautiful woman, tall, dark hair, and rich brown eyes. Athletic and accomplished she could run the domestic affairs of the castle and still hit a target at 100 paces with an arrow. Regret pierced his heart, she deserved so much more than his kind affection.

"Alistair," she hesitated, leaning forward so only he could hear, "we are going to have a baby."

"Baby…, you're pregnant? Thank the Maker, after all this time I was afraid it would never happen." He drew his wife into his arms and kissed her soundly. Arm curled around his wife, he then turned to Aithne. "A father, I'm going to be a father!"

"Congratulations, my Lord, my Lady, I am so happy for you." It had happened at last, a child conceived; one Aithne could never have given him. Ferelden would have a legitimate heir.

Rothana reveled in her husband's embrace. It was so rare for him to spontaneously turn to her. She had fallen for the handsome King shortly after he had taken the throne and Arl Eamon had introduced them. She had not realized at the time that his love was given elsewhere. It had taken all of her willpower and training as a noble lady not to be bitter and spiteful, but in truth Aithne and Alistair had behaved with complete honor in all the time she had been married. It was just hard to compete with the savior of Fereldan, particularly when she was a beautiful elf. Hugging her husband hard to bring his attention back to her (and to the now somewhat noticeable bump in her belly), Rothana spoke. "I thought I might be pregnant when you left last time, but it was too early to tell for sure. I didn't want to disappoint you if I was wrong."

Alistair smiled down at his wife, "Let's see, that was three months ago, so our child will be due in the spring, Drakonis or Cloudreach I think. A father…, I just can't believe it."

"Cloudreach, just in time for spring. Come with me my lord. Let's get you out of these wet clothes." Rothana gently guided her stammering husband from the room.

Aithne remained at the window, her fingers white in their grip on the sill. She should be happy, the throne would be secure, Alistair a father at last. The culmination of things that had been set in motion at Landsmeet all those years ago had been achieved. This was what they had sacrificed their love for, a legitimate heir and dynastic stability for Ferelden.

Instead all of the pain of losing Alistair boiled up. Rothana had the man she loved and the child she could never have given him. What would it have felt like to carry his child beneath her heart? In some ways it was worse than the night of Alistair's wedding. _Demons summoned forth,_ she thought, looking back on that night three years ago.

All of Ferelden had celebrated the marriage of their king. The atmosphere in Denerim thrummed with excitement. A handsome king who had defeated the blight, a beautiful queen who had defended her fathers holding in the Bannorn. It was a fairy tale come true, for everyone but the participants. Aithne had attended the marriage in the packed great hall, outwardly cheerful in support of Alistair, defying rumors of their affair. He had put on a lighthearted demeanor; only someone who knew him well could see the strain beneath the façade. Her control had been perfect, no sign showed of what it cost her to be there.

When Alistair and Rothana finally left her resolve broke, making excuses she slipped from the feast hall with a bottle of wine and made her way to the top of a tower, far from the revelry below. With the soft night wind in her hair and reinforced by a large quantity of wine she finally broke.

With racking, heaving sobs she had cried at last, cried for what was and for what could never be. Cried with the pain of a broken heart; the agony of sacrificing happiness for honor and duty for happiness. If only she could go back to that awful night before the last battle; tell Morrigan no, sacrifice herself to the Archdemon instead of making that dreadful deal. But the risk of losing Alistair had been too much, for her and for Ferelden. She had railed against the unfairness of it after all they had been through. Now it seemed so futile, the risk of the child becoming another Archdemon, for what? Happiness she would never have.

Zevran had come, had held her, told her bawdy stories from his childhood and his time as a Crow. Helped her finish the wine bottle and brought another. They sat together at the top of the tower that long night, his friendship a salve on an open wound. Awakening the next morning she found herself in her own bed, dwarven smiths pounding in her head, with Zev asleep in the chair by the fire. She had teased him about missing his opportunity with a voice ragged from tears. He had smiled and said it would ruin his reputation to take advantage of a very drunk woman. Ah, Zevran, he had been her rock. He had stayed after the blight and become head of security for the royal palace at her request; Aithne doubted that even she could slip past the measures the assassin had taken to protect the king.

As if her thoughts had summoned him she felt massaging fingers on her tight shoulders. "You look like you need a drink," he said, guiding her to her chair. He fished the bottle of Highever single malt out of her desk drawer and poured them both a measure. "I hear congratulations are in order for our king."

Aithne took a swallow, the whisky burning its way down. "Indeed, the babe is due in Cloudreach." She took another swig, then refilled her glass and drank again.

"I thought as much, she has been showing signs for some time now. The babe is his, Rothana has been faithful." He shifted his weight uneasily. "You know, you only drink like this when he is in Denerim."

"Andraste's Ashes Zev, you poured it for me."

"You needed it." Shifting again he regarded her with uncharacteristic gravity. "This has to end; it is tearing both of you apart. Alistair can't really be king and you are destroying yourself a little at a time. This is a chance for him to have a real marriage, but it's not going to happen if you stay. If you both were not so stiff with honor you could be his mistress and it might work, but I know you both, it won't happen."

Zevran's voice caught a bit, perhaps it was the whisky. "You run the kingdom for him and he stays away from Denerim because he can't stand to be here. Rothana is a good woman and is caught in the middle of it. What will happen when the babe arrives and its father is never here?" His glass clattering as he slammed it down on the desk, Zevran stood abruptly.

Aithne froze, shocked by his words, they echoed with the truth, but as a knife to her heart. "Zevran, but I…, he needed my help…."

"Maybe, and maybe you just couldn't stand to let go. I know about Morrigan, I don't blame you for that, it was a choice I would have made." Anger now clear on his fine elven features he continued. "You, the noble Dalish, never bow to anyone, are a slave to your obsession, with Alistair and with your honor. I have watched this long enough, I am leaving."

"Zevran, no…" this was a side of her dear friend she had never seen before.

"You have a choice, stay here and ruin both your lives or leave, come with me if you wish. I won't stay and be party to this any longer." Zevran swept out of the room, jaw tight with suppressed emotion. She would come or she would stay. He had said his piece, had been planning it for a long time. He hadn't planned to be so harsh, but perhaps it was better this way. She would not come and he would be safe, could drown his sorrows in the arms of other women. If her green eyes haunted him, well he had other regrets.

Aithne sat frozen at her desk old hurts long buried clawed their way to the surface. Honor, the double edged sword rent her heart. Could she abandon her king, her love, for honor? What about friendship, what about Zev? Always her path had been clear. True, there had been some harsh choices, but mostly they had worked out well. What now? Was she truly not needed? Could Alistair step fully into the kingship if she were not there?

Opening a tattered notebook she retrieved her most precious possession, a dried rose. Most of its petals shattered and gone, dried and withered it was a ghost of its former beauty. Much like her time with Alistair she mused. She carefully returned the remains of the rose to its place in the book. Aithne faced the bitter dregs, perhaps she had done much more harm than good in not sacrificing herself, in staying near Alistair. Pulling a fresh sheet of vellum out, she grasped the quill with shaking hands.

_"Dear Alistair, I have to go. I do not think I will return. May you find happiness and joy in your wife and child. I cannot remain a burden on your heart forever."_

She wanted to say so much more, but it was better left unsaid. No, she could not do it, crumpling the letter she threw it in the fire. He deserved better. She would tell him, but in the morning. Tonight was for the King and Queen to celebrate.

Taking a deep breath she tried to step back into the calm center that had sheltered her all these years. It was easier not to feel, not to care. Armor her heart against the pain and cover herself with the shield of duty. She should have the technique perfect by now. Her armor had been built bit by bit since that fateful day at Landsmeet. Alistair had set her aside for duty and she had agreed.

She stopped to knock on a door in the private wing set aside for their companions. "Leliana, are you there?"

"Come in" the Orlesian bard's musical voice called.

"I have a favor to ask of you, I would like you to stay in Denerim to help Alistair. I have to go…away."

"So, it has finally come, you are leaving." Leliana did not look surprised, merely sad. "I thought it might, particularly with the child coming."

"You know too?" Rothana had only told Alistair this evening. "Do the rumors fly that fast?"

"Half of Denerim has suspected for months. Perhaps only you and Alistair were unaware? That is part of why I came back. I thought you might need a friend." Compassion resounded in her words, striking Aithne in her already battered heart.

"You thought…, oh what a fool I have been. Help him, Leli, please."

"I will do my best, but I think he will not need so much help. He is King now and he needs to truly rule. Zevran asked me to take over security so at least I will keep him safe." Leliana paused, unsure of what to say to her friend.

"Zevran asked…, oh so I am the last one to know anything. Even about myself, good old Aithne, she will always do what is right." _Damn Zevran anyway,_ "serves him right if the Crows get him after all these years."

"Do not judge him so harshly! Do you think it has been easy for any of us to sit and watch you and Alistair torture each other all this time? At least Zevran has finally forced you to do something about it. He is a better friend than you know." Leliana caught herself before she shared her private suspicions with her friend — now was definitely not the time.

Aithne's anger cooled as quickly as it had been raised. What was wrong with her tonight? Her friends were trying to help and all she was doing was push them away. "I am sorry Leli, I did not mean that about Zev, he has always stood by me."

"You will tell Alistair in the morning, yes?" Leliana took a deep breath. "Talk to Zevran tonight, go with him when you leave. At least you won't be alone on the road."

Leli's arrows always hit their mark, Aithne essayed a weak smile. "I will talk to Zev tonight if you think I should. Alistair…, I will talk to him in the morning. Good night, and Leli, I want you to know I will always treasure your friendship." Aithne turned and closed the door behind her, taking a deep breath she steeled herself to talk to her closest friend.

Zevran sat in his chamber staring at the fire, listening to the rain outside the shutters. He was packed, he should go. It was cold and wet, perhaps leaving in the morning would be a better idea. Why did one woman, of all of those he had known, matter so much? Hell, he had never even bedded her. Her fire had gotten into his blood; perhaps it was when she spared his life, perhaps somewhere in all the desperate traveling and fighting to stop the blight. Perhaps it was that everyone mattered to her, commoner, noble, elf, dwarf, qunari, human, golem, even the misanthropic witch.

For the first time in his life Zevran found someone who truly cared about him — not about what he could be used for or who he could be used against. That was what held their little group of misfits together — Aithne cared about all of them. She had done more, she had required all of them to care, to see that the blight was bigger than any one of them. Zevran thought the last was perhaps the key. If she had not made him care, he would have left long ago.

A door shut down the corridor and he sensed as much as heard the light steps. The footsteps stopped outside his door. "Come in" he did not wait for her to knock.

Stepping into his chamber Aithne was unsure of the reception she would receive. After his harsh words earlier, she had no idea whether he would even wish to talk. She glanced at him, lounging in his chair, Antivan wine in hand. The firelight reflected on the angular planes of his face, in his deep amber eyes. How many times had they sat there and talked until the wee hours of the morning? Feeling awkward she sat down.

"You must think me a fool and a coward." Aithne finally broke the silence. "I made a mess of things by surviving the Archdemon then I can't even end things as I should, all I have caused is pain by staying."

"You are the bravest woman I know. You faced down an Archdemon, for Makers sake! Yes, you are a fool sometimes, but so are we all. You have never been a coward though, never." He could see the sorrow in her eyes. Not now he thought. If she cries I will take back all I have said, all I should have said these long years. Slipping into a mischievous grin he continued. "A brave fool you are, alone in the night with Zevran the notorious Crow assassin. Will he finish his contract, or ravish you instead?"

Aithne smiled a little in spite of herself. Trust Zev to lighten the mood. Did the man ever take anything seriously? Then she frowned, he had been all too somber earlier that evening. "Zev, why did you never say anything before?"

"About ravishing you — well I did and you said no, I had hoped you had changed your mind." His eyes glinted in the firelight. "But I see that is not what you mean. I had hoped that things would work out somehow for you. My fair Aithne, you deserve happiness if anyone does. I did not wish to cause you more grief." Suddenly he shifted out of his chair and knelt before her, taking her hands. "Will you come with me then? See the beauty of Orlais, the markets of the Free Marches, the wonders of Antiva?"

"Zev, the Crows will have your head if you set foot in Antiva!"

"Ah, but my fair lady, they will not have a chance facing our blades together. After all you already defeated the best of the Crows, who could stand against us?"

"I see I will have to accompany you, just to keep you out of trouble. Otherwise, who knows how many women will be forced to spare your life." It was an old joke between them and it cheered her slightly. Aithne still did not understand his strange behavior. "Zev, get up, I will come with you if it means that much. You were right, I have to go."

Her hands still grasped in his he got to his feet, drawing her along with him. "Yes, it means that much to me. I would do anything to get out of the stink of mud and dogs in Ferelden." His speech was light and jesting, but his eyes were intense and searching. "I will even help you pack, make sure you don't forget your best Orlesian lingerie." He grinned at her lasciviously.

"Zev, you are impossible. Starfang, Thorn — yes, lingerie— no. I will talk to Alistair in the morning, we will leave after that."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2- Departure

Aithne sat at her desk contemplating what lay ahead, fingers curled around a steaming mug of tea. She had packed her things and spent a restless night listening to the rain pound the glass of the window as thunder rumbled across the bay — the weather fit her mood. The violent storm and generally unpredictable fall weather meant no ships would be leaving harbor in the near future. Unwilling to delay for the weather she had spoken to Arl Eamon early this morning and arranged for two horses. The old Arl had been painfully sympathetic when she told him her plans. He had also, much to her shame, looked relieved.

All that was left to do was wait for Alistair. He was conscientious about the bureaucratic end of running the kingdom on the rare occasions that he was in Denerim. She would not have long before he appeared to address business. All of the papers were organized; finances, garrison strength, warehouse stores and diplomatic issues. In truth with Eamon and Leliana to help he would not find it hard to do without her.

Alistair finally appeared, later than usual and with a buoyancy that had been missing for some time. "Good morning. Hard at work already, I see." His grin was replaced by wariness after a moment to assess the elf in front of him.

"Good morning, my Lord." Her even tone belied the shadows in her eyes. "I have the accounts ready for your review. There are some new trade negotiations from the Free Marches that arrived this morning."

Alistair bypassed the business at hand, perceptive of her distress. "Aithne, I don't know what to say. I am not sorry, the kingdom needs an heir." He ran a hand through his hair, struggling with what to say. "I am King of Ferelden. Maker's Breath, you put me on the throne. If there had been any other choice, you know I would have…"

She cut him off. "I know, and I am happy for you and Rothana. We agreed long ago that this was for the best. It's just that, well, I have to go. You can't have a real marriage with me here. I never should have stayed." There, she had said it, badly, but it was said.

Alistair came around the desk and stood before his first true love. "I never wanted to hurt you. You have to believe that. I never wanted to be king, never thought we would survive the blight." Voice husky, he took her limp hands.

"I believe you, always." Aithne took a deep breath. "Zevran and I are going today, I don't know where. It is the best, the only chance for any of us. I… I hope that you will come to love Rothana as you love me. She deserves that. Be a father to your child. That is more than either of us had. Eamon knows enough about all of this to help you manage." She gestured at the piles of papers. "Leliana is staying here too. I…I…, thank you for everything." Giving his hands a gentle squeeze she stood and fled the room.

Rothana found him there hours later, a tattered notebook open, the remains of a rose dried in its pages. Tears had dried on his face and he stared vacantly into the fire. "Alistair," she said gently as she placed a soft hand on his shoulder.

"She is gone." The anguish in his voice tore her heart. "She said I could not be a proper husband or father with her here." He turned to his wife and she gathered him to her. "She was right. I am so sorry, but she was right. I have treated you poorly and neglected Ferelden, all for something that could never be. Can you ever forgive me?"

Looking down at her husband, bereft of his usual strength and so lost, Rothana's heart, carefully locked away from all of the pain of their marriage, opened again. "Of course I forgive you Alistair. Shall we make another start, just you and I?"

Zevran was waiting when Aithne reached her chamber. Hard as steel and fragile as glass he thought, seeing her drawn features. "The horses are saddled and ready, shall we go?" Seeing her questioning glance about the room, he added. "Your things are already in the saddlebags." He gently set her traveling cloak about her shoulders and pulled the hood up. "You always pick the worst weather to travel in, must be your stoic Dalish blood."

"You have Dalish blood too." Aithne struggled to engage in their normal banter.

"Ah yes, but I was raised by whores, they have better sense. Stay inside where it is warm and dry in foul weather. Of course, it is hard to look your best when freezing and soaking wet, bad for business. What woman will look at me by the end of the day, dripping and smelling of horse?" Zevran did his best to look pitiful.

"Oh Maker, will I have to listen to this all the way across Thedas?" Rolling her eyes Aithne left the room. Even in the worst moments Zev could always make her smile. Twenty minutes later they trotted out of the gates of the palace headed for the north road. She did not look back, did not want to know if he had watched her go.

Aithne rode numbly, heart aching, unmindful of the freezing rain or the mud that splashed onto everything from their horses' hooves. The weather seemed to have silenced Zevran so she was alone with her thoughts. Why had she fallen for a human, a bastard prince no less, in the first place? Remembering their first meeting and his unexpected kindness, his devastation those early days after Ostagar, their desperate struggle to gather allies against the blight, the gift of the rose; she blinked back tears. He was everything she had not expected of a human, and he had stolen her heart. Then there had been those frantic years rebuilding after the blight. She had thrown everything she had into restoring Ferelden, not just for him but for all of its citizens. That perhaps had been the only good to come out of the pact with Morrigan. Memories and regrets chased around in her head as the miles flew by.

"Aithne," she was jostled out of her stupor as Zevran grabbed her horse's bridle. "I swear, we could have been ambushed by darkspawn and you would not have noticed. We need to stop at the inn here. I am cold, wet and hungry and the horses are tired. The sun is going down." She looked about, noticing they were about to ride out of a small village.

"Sure, Zev." What did it matter where they stopped?

Zevran guided their horses back to the small tavern he had seen. Maker willing there would be a room they could rent. Likely they would have to sleep in the stable, he thought glumly. They tied their horses to the rickety fence, took their saddlebags and went in. It was warmer, Zevran would give it that. The tiny village tavern did not have much else to recommend it. It was a small room, only four scarred tables, redolent of smoke and spilled beer. The few patrons turned to stare as they stepped inside, he kicked a half chewed bone out of the way as he crossed to the barkeep. "I would like dinner for two, stabling for our horses and a room if you have one." He pulled a few silvers out and laid them on the counter. "More if you can provide hot water for a bath and someone to rub the horses down."

The barkeep hesitated for a moment, and then decided that chasing off two heavily armed elves with silver to spend was probably not wise. "Aye, there's a room in back. "Lisbeth will show you." He waved at a dark haired girl pouring beer. "No bath, but I can send ye some hot water and find a lad for the horses."

Zevran dropped more silver on the counter, "Hot water will be fine. The horses are out front." Turning to follow the serving girl he shook his head. He must be crazy, riding across Ferelden with winter coming, all for a woman who loved another man. The Crow assassin would have left years ago for warmer climates and warmer women.

Surveying their room with distaste Zevran was forced to admit that he had gotten soft. A private room with its own hearth would have been a luxury many times in his life. Now the tiny, dusty room with the straw mattress and rickety table seemed meager accommodation. At least they weren't camping in the rain. Checking his saddlebags and finding his spare clothes only a little damp he proceeded to strip off his muddy attire.

Aithne turned her back on Zevran to fumble with her own wet clothes. Feeling her face grow warm she wondered why it should bother her to change in the same room with him. During the blight they had certainly seen as much of each other when bandaging wounds. Of course, with Zevran it was entirely possible that he was not wearing any small clothes, you never knew with him. Her blush crept higher and she was glad the only light was from the erratic dancing of the fire. Pulling on damp, but thankfully not muddy clothes she called, "Zev, are you dressed?"

"I hate to disappoint a lady, but yes." His rich Antivan accent sounded close to her ear as he stepped past her to hang his wet clothes on pegs by the fire. "I am always willing to please though," he grinned and started to remove his shirt.

"Zevran!" She hissed, "No, I didn't mean…"

"Alone with the finest lover in all of Ferelden and what does she say? No. You have wounded me." His amber eyes alight with mischief he threw himself into a chair clutching his chest.

Exasperated Aithne shook her head. "For my own sanity I should have fed you to a dragon." Hearing a knock at the door she opened it for the serving girl.

"I 'av your hot water for ye. Dinner 'll be up in a minute." The girl set a pitcher of water and two clean cloths on the table. Nervously eyeing them she backed out of the room.

"Well, at least the mud comes off better than darkspawn blood." Aithne sponged her face with the warm cloth. "I will never forget the stink."

"Nor I," Zevran replied suddenly sober. Watching her wash he remembered clearly all the times when it had been her blood, not just the blood of their enemies. He hastily finished his ablutions; that was not a subject he cared to dwell on.

The girl returned with a hearty stew, crusty bread and mediocre beer. They ate in silence. Hard riding in the rain had sharpened their appetites to a fine edge. At last warm and full Aithne turned to contemplate her armor. No help for it, it needed cleaned and oiled tonight. She let her eyelids sag for one delicious moment before turning to the task at hand. There was a peaceful rhythm to cleaning and oiling armor and weapons and she let it soothe her as they worked.

Zevran finally broke the silence. "Where shall we go? Not to dismiss the fun of traveling all winter in the mud and snow, but perhaps we should have a direction? Somewhere with more sun I hope."

"I remember you promising to show me 'the beauty of Orlais, markets of the Free Marches, the wonders of Antiva.'" Aithne scrubbed industriously at a bit of mud embedded in a drake scale glove. "In truth I have no idea, out of Ferelden. At one time I might have said Weisshaupt but they are still making enquires about the Archdemon. Maybe we should look for Morrigan."

"Orlais it is then, at least for now." Oiling his longsword Zevran glanced at her under his lashes. "I know you and Alistair made a deal with Morrigan to survive the Archdemon. Might I enquire as to the nature of the agreement?"

Aithne blushed for the second time that evening, bright red if the heat she felt was anything to judge by. "Um, well," taking a deep breath she went on. "I suppose if we are going to look for her you have a right to know."

Zevran raised an eyebrow but did not interject. Now what could she have to blush about?

"I never told you about the Joining, about how they make a Grey Warden. It is supposed to be secret but it involves how an Archdemon is killed." Remembering the shock and sorrow of that day she found it difficult to continue. "We drink darkspawn blood that has been altered by magic and lyrium, I don't know exactly how. The blood taints us, makes us akin in a way, to the darkspawn. That is how we sense them. That is also how we kill an Archdemon. If someone besides a Grey Warden strikes the final blow the Archdemon's soul simply travels to the nearest darkspawn and it arises again. If a Grey Warden strikes the final blow the Archdemon's soul is destroyed," her voice trailed to a whisper, "but so is the Grey Warden."

"But I was with you. You struck the final blow. You are still alive." Zevran's voice dropped in horror. "Does that mean that the blight is not truly over?"

With an ironic laugh Aithne continued. "Oh, it is over, there is no doubt. At what price however, I don't know. That was Morrigan's deal. She had a way; perhaps it was blood magic, perhaps something older, to transfer the soul of the Old God to an unborn child at the moment of the Archdemon's death. The child however had to be fathered by someone who had recently acquired the taint. This was the only way for the Old God's soul to be freed of the darkspawn corruption. Riordan was too old, had been tainted too long."

It took him a few minutes to digest all she had said. "That means Alistair…"

"Yes, I talked him into it. I should have died that day. What is worse is that I'm not sure I wouldn't make the same choice now." Looking back up, green eyes burning into his she continued. "For a long time I thought I chose just to save myself and the man I loved. That isn't really true. I asked Morrigan why she would do this, risk herself, risk another blight. She told me that some things were worth saving. Perhaps the soul of an Old God is one of those things. There is so much that has been lost in this world. We as elves know that better than any other race."

Dropping eye contact she turned and stared at the fire. "The worst thing is that I do not know what Morrigan intends with this child, this Old God. I trusted her as someone who sees the wilds as the Dalish do, as a companion, as a friend. I hope it has not been a mistake that all of Thedas will pay for."

Zevran was silent a long time. This was no minor issue to be turned aside by glib humor or suggestive comments. His life as an assassin had never prepared him to deal with this. He did not know what to say, did not even know what he thought should be said. Prior to meeting Aithne he had never worried about a blight, elvish history, moral right and wrong or anything outside himself. Their quest to kill the Archdemon and later his time in Denerim had introduced him to these things, yet it was still a struggle to step outside himself and see the bigger picture. He emerged from his contemplation to realize she was sitting still as stone, back to him, as a prisoner waiting to be condemned.

Rising to his feet he came around the table to face her. He reached out, fingers tracing the tattoos on her forehead. "You never told me what these meant. I know they have something to do with our ancient gods but I don't know what. I never really thought of gods, elven, dragon or otherwise. I have always prayed to the Maker for my sins, but perhaps that is more habit than anything." His deep voice continued soft and soothing as one would gentle a wild creature. "I don't know if your deal with Morrigan was right or wrong, but I do know that it is done. We can find her, maybe influence what happens to the child, but no amount of self recrimination will change what has happened. Aithne, no matter what occurs, know that I will stand with you. I gave you my pledge long ago and I am honored to keep it now."

"Truly Zev, you do not think I am horrible?"

"Remember, you are asking an assassin, but no I do not think you are horrible." Looking down at her in the firelight he wanted to say 'no I think you are beautiful', but wisely kept it to himself. Now was not the time. "Come to bed. I suggest we use our bedrolls unless you want to wake up itching." He gave a wary glance at the straw mattress in the corner, no doubt inhabited by fleas, bedbugs and numerous other vermin.

"I'll check to be sure the horses are settled first." Aithne slipped out the door, needing a few minutes away from the fugue of the tiny tavern, outside where she could breathe, outside where Zevran's warmth was not so close.

By the time she returned their armor had been put away and the table and chairs had been placed atop the unsavory mattress. Zevran lounged in his bedroll, hers lay empty neatly next to his. "You are heartless you know, drag me through the mud all day, then leave me alone in a cold damp bed." He gave her his best 'come hither' glance.

"You should have tried it on the barmaid." Aithne firmly turned her back to him as she climbed into her own cold, damp blankets.

Contemplating the injustices of unattractive barmaids and uncooperative traveling companions Zevran settled it for what he suspected was the first of many uncomfortable nights.


	3. Chapter 3

_As always my thanks to Bioware for creating this wonderful world to play in. Any inaccuracies are strictly my fault. _

_Apologies for liberties taken with the natural history of the halla. I used North American Elk as a partial behavioral model as the lore only holds a little information on halla at this time. Anyone who has ever heard a bull elk bugle will understand my characters getting sidetracked. This section may be revised if more information on halla is made available._

_Thank you also to the other writers who have inspired me to put forth my work for public consumption._

Chapter 3- Unexpected Meeting

Aithne woke to the gentle weight of a hand on her hip, for a confused moment she thought it was Alistair. Remembering she reached up and returned the offending appendage to its owner. Rolling over she gave Zevran a raised eyebrow. Smiling he shrugged his shoulders. Some things would never change she thought as she slipped from her blankets, at least he was still in his own bedroll.

Efficiently donning her armor and rolling blankets in their oiled canvas covering Aithne considered the coming day. Checking her weapons for signs of dirt or rust before returning them to their sheaths she nudged Zevran with the toe of her boot. "Time to get up, I would like to get on the road."

He sighed, it probably wasn't even dawn yet. At least it had stopped raining, the pounding on the shingles and the annoying drip in the corner had stopped sometime during the night. Rising he felt an unaccustomed stiffness in his calves and thighs, one mark against riding horses. Well at least she hadn't kicked him out of the arms of a warm bedmate for sparring practice — that had happened more than once. In Denerim he had quickly learned not to bring his consorts back to his chamber if he wished to sleep in. Aithne had never commented on his various pleasures, but if they had planned weapons practice she expected him to show up.

"I'll feed the horses and see if I can find some breakfast."

Zevran watched her go, she was still upset, her natural fluid grace disrupted by the stiff set of her shoulders. It will take time he reflected, she has lost so much and paid such a price. Clearing his mind he began a series of stretches to ease his sore muscles and maintain his needed dexterity. By the time she had returned smelling of hay and bearing two bowls of lumpy porridge for breakfast he had packed his things and returned the table and chairs to the center of the narrow room from their perch on the bed.

Stirring the half-cooked meal with his spoon Zevran was trying to decide how hungry he was when she spoke. "Zev, I wanted to thank you for all you have done, all you have been to me. I know you would like our… relationship to include more. I cannot give you what you want now, maybe never. I… thought I should tell you," her expression unreadable, even to Zevran's experienced eyes, "before we were too far from Denerim. In case you… changed your mind."

He started to reply, she held up a hand to stop him. "That is not all. I intend to avoid shemlen — at least for a time." The derogatory word felt strange on her lips. She had lived among them, worked to rebuild their homes and cities for so long it seemed wrong to belittle them. "I need to return to who I was, find out who I am. I cannot do that sleeping under a wooden roof, living confined as they do. The barkeep, last night, would have turned us away had we not been armed, had coin. That is not the way of the Dalish." Her eyes were far away. "We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit."

Returning to the present she cast her eyes down. "I am no longer Dalish. I fell in love with a human, lived in a shemlen city. I am not even a proper Grey Warden. I am leaving the other wardens to protect Ferelden, have allowed the soul of an Old God to survive risking another blight. I need to find out what I am before I find Morrigan, before I see her child. Zev, I would like you to come with me, but I will not hold you to your pledge. Where I am going, what I must do, this is not the life for," she managed a weak smile, "a worldly assassin. If you wish to go back I will not hold it against you."

Resigning himself to the hardships of the wilderness (while hoping she would come to her senses soon) Zevran declared. "I am your man — without reservation. I still hold to that pledge." He sighed ruefully, if she was being honest he had to add, "I will not promise to stay out of your bed, only to respect your wishes if you say no." Grinning, he added, "and I do not intend to make it easy for you to say no."

Relief mixed with apprehension washed through her. Twice in less than a day she had given him good reason to leave. Twice he had renewed his pledge, one she had released him from long ago. His loyalty was both comforting and worrisome. She and Alistair had hurt each other so badly. The thought of hurting Zevran in the same way was beyond tragic. She had confronted him this morning partly in hopes that he would leave. Then she could sort her life out without entanglements. Still it was impossible to deny the joy she felt at his words. She would be adrift without his friendship, and yes even his ridiculous flirtation, in her life.

They finally left the village rather later than she had hoped. With their plans to avoid humans it was necessary to procure supplies where they were — which took some time. They had only packed minimal provisions when they left Denerim, assuming they would be able to buy what they needed in villages along the way. Had it been earlier in the year Aithne could have gathered most of what they needed as they traveled. Now with winter rapidly approaching she was unlikely to be able to find what they needed for a varied diet. It was nearly three hours past sunrise when they finally rode out, horses burdened with their supplies.

Even with the delay Aithne felt surprisingly light hearted as the last buildings disappeared behind them and they turned off the road to the north. It felt good to travel again, to be away from the noise and stink of human cities. The air was fresh from the recent rain and off the road there was little mud. She tried not to dwell on the reason for traveling, trying only to experience the moment to moment existence of a nomad. The wind in her hair, the moist scent of the earth beneath her, the far off tang of the ocean, it was enough just to be alive on a beautiful autumn day. The rolling hills of the coastlands rose up before her open and free.

Zevran watched her transformation over the following days. Though their errand was an important one he saw the stress and burden of responsibility fall away from her. There was still a shadow of sadness in her eyes but she did not let it consume her. He did not mind the camping so much, the weather had held warm and dry and Aithne was a surprisingly good cook. It was something that had never occurred to him, accustomed to city life as he was, that traveling through the wilderness could be almost comfortable. Not that he did not wish for a soft bed, fine wine and perfectly spiced Antivan food, but for now what he had was enough. The last thought surprised him, they had traveled this way during the blight and he had found it to be rather unpleasant. Of course Alistair had done much of the cooking then and, he thought rather darkly, the human had had the attentions of Aithne.

Their days fell into a routine, break camp early with a quick breakfast, travel through the morning hours, a sparring session before lunch while the horses were allowed to rest and graze a little, travel again until late afternoon, then set up camp and hunt if they needed meat. Often they would sit and talk until well after dark before retiring, much to Zevran's regret, to their own bedrolls. They rarely took watches, relying on the horses to alert them if there was trouble in these relatively tame lands. In this manner they passed across northern Ferelden and into the foothills of the Frostback Mountains.

During their journey Aithne often shared with him the subtle things she saw, a bear scrape or a depression where a deer had bedded down, plants that were good to eat or to season a meal. Things that were as evident to her as a subtle current of tension in a crowded tavern was to him. One afternoon as they gradually ascended toward the imposing mountains he heard a peculiar sound, a sustained ascending note with an odd husky quality. He looked enquiringly at Aithne who answered, "The wild halla are in rut, that is a mature stag. They are not quite like the tame halla in the Dalish camps who are encouraged to pair off with a single mate. In the wild a stag will bugle to attempt to attract as many females as possible, sometimes two stags will even fight over the possession of a harem." They gradually worked their way toward the source of the sound and it became plain that there were two stags bugling. They stopped and dismounted in the trees just below the crest of a hill and crept over the top.

Looking down they could see six or seven female halla milling nervously as two huge stags eyed each other intermittently bugling and tossing their antlers. The sight of the beautiful white animals entranced them both. Here was an ageless scene that had occurred long before elves and humans had met, long before the first blight occurred. It was something wild and compelling. They watched for perhaps an hour as the stags attempted to sort out dominance, until something spooked them and the whole herd turned and crashed out of the clearing.

Missing Aithne's tension Zevran spoke quietly. "That is a sight I will not forget, thank you." He stopped at the gentle touch on his arm, suddenly alert as she rose to her feet.

"Show yourselves," she called, outwardly relaxed weapons sheathed. Zevran came up beside her, palms itching for sword and dagger but following her lead.

A Dalish elf, perhaps a few years younger than Aithne stepped into view and strode toward them bow in hand. "You stink of shem and your horses make more noise than their dogs." His voice dripped with disdain.

"We are…Rill, is that you?" Aithne paused, recognizing the elf.

"Aithne? We thought you were still off saving the world, and here I find you dressed as a shem, with a city elf and horses no less? Why have you returned?" Contempt evident on his features Rill stared at her.

"She did save the world. You would know that if you hadn't spent the blight hiding in the woods." Zevran interjected.

"Peace Zev. Rill you should have better manners. I had not intended to return, did not even realize the clan was here. Perhaps you would like to tell your companion not to shoot us." Aithne gestured toward another elf with an arrow nocked and ready across the clearing.

Rill gave a hand signal and the other elf dropped his bow. "The keeper will want to see you. Bring your horses and come with me."

"I assume this is your clan?" Zevran enquired. "Are they always this friendly?"

"You will have to excuse Rill, he lost his sister and both parents to a shemlen raid. My clan has had trouble with humans often in the past and are perhaps more militant about maintaining Dalish traditions than many others. I doubt they would have allowed Duncan to recruit me if I had not been tainted already." She winced remembering the day she had said her farewells to her clan, the day of Tamlen's funeral. "Do not think badly of them Zev, they have their reasons."

They did not speak further as Rill and his companion led them to the Dalish camp. As they approached Zevran noted that most of the Dalish grasped bows or daggers and maintained a wary silence.

A mature Dalish woman strode toward them, "Rill, who are these strangers?"

"Do you not recognize me Marethari? It has not been so long." Aithne strode forward head high.

"Aithne? The gods have blessed you to return to us safe." The Dalish keeper smiled and held her hands out in welcome. Aithne strode forward and was wrapped in the woman's embrace. The clan members clustered around, one of their family had returned.

Aithne allowed herself a few moments to bask in their warm greeting before beckoning to Zevran. "I would like you all to meet my dear friend Zevran Arainai."

Zevran accepted their greetings and introductions with a cool smile, still wary after the initial reaction they had received.

"You must tell us of your travels." Keeper Marethari looked at them both, questions in her eyes. "We had heard from some of the clans in the Dalish lands near Ostagar that a Dalish elf named Aithne had helped defeat the blight and was chancellor for the shemlen king."

"It is a long story Keeper. We would gladly share it after our horses are cared for. They will not bother the halla if we may pasture them with the herd." Aithne waited for the keeper to nod and then strode through the encampment toward the halla she could hear bleating softly.

By the time they had cared for their mounts and turned them loose to graze it was apparent that a feast was being prepared. They spent a few extra minutes to wash in an icy stream before returning to camp. The Keeper waved them over as they returned to the central cluster of tents and aravels. "Please, put your things in my tent and then come and tell your tale." Aithne raised a brow, guests rarely stayed with the keeper.

"Nervous?" Zevran asked in the privacy of the keeper's tent. It was obvious that although Aithne was happy to see her clan, she was unsettled about something.

"I am overjoyed to see everyone, yet I feel like a stranger. I had not planned on coming back, in part because they may expect me to stay and this is not my home anymore. I don't really know what to say, how to explain about the blight, the Grey Wardens, all the things we have done and seen. It has changed us both Zev. How do you tell someone you are not who you were before?"

"I don't know, I never really had anything to go back to. " Zevran grinned lest it seem he was indulging in self pity. "Perhaps you should tell the tale and then see how things stand."

"You are right, I worry too much." They left the tent and found a seat on a bench near the fire.

"My friends, you know that I left to become a Grey Warden, to join their struggle against the darkspawn. As you are probably aware treachery by Teryn Loghain, in one of the early battles to contain the blight, allowed the defeat of King Cailan's army and caused the deaths of the king and most of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. King Alistair and I were the only two Grey Wardens left in the country."

As she spun her tale Zevran admired her ability to put their experiences into words. Her time as chancellor, unhappy though it had been, had taught her how to speak to people, to engage their hearts as well as their minds. During some of the more difficult parts of the story he felt her press her leg into his, gaining courage to continue. Their experience in the Deep Roads was particularly difficult for her to relate. The process of darkspawn turning females of other races into their Broodmothers still caused her nightmares. Her description of the ruins in the Brecilian forest garnered the most interest from the Dalish as he had expected. She gave full credit to all of their companions and described heroic battles including some that Zevran had tried to forget. When she reached the final battle with the Archdemon he had to resist putting a protective arm around her. Just remembering his fear, not for himself, but for her was heart wrenching. He had thought she was dead after the battle, laying there crumpled next to the lifeless Archdemon. It was not a good memory.

"A stirring tale, you have honored your people with your courage." The keeper seemed to stare through Aithne as she asked. "But why did you stay with the shemlen after it was over?"

Fist clenching on her thigh she replied. "I am a Grey Warden and a subject of King Alistair. My duty now lies beyond my own clan." Aithne gave as much of an answer as she could.

Marethari gave her a keen glance, obviously suspecting additional reasons. She held her peace however. There was time enough for private discussion later.

The impromptu feast was delicious and most of the conversation involved innocuous questions about their tale. Zevran felt speculative eyes on him several times that evening but most of the clan tried to make him feel welcome. At last, warm and full they were able to plead exhaustion and escape to the Keeper's tent.

Inside the tent it was a relief to set aside their weapons and armor. Aithne turned to Zevran after setting her equipment in a neat pile. "You know Marethari will have more questions tonight."

"Indeed, perhaps we should scandalize her so we can have some peace." He reached up and stroked her cheek. He was rewarded with a flash of interest in her eyes. It was gone so quickly he was not quite sure it had actually been there.

"I am rather difficult to scandalize." Marethari slipped into the tent.

Grinning wickedly Zevran continued. "Is that so? Three's company I always say. You are welcome to join us."

The Keeper froze for a moment in disbelief. "Aithne, I can't believe you have chosen this…, this…"

Aithne bit her lip to stifle her laughter, the expression on the very proper Keeper's face was a combination of disgust and horror. Zevran always had a unique talent for shocking people. "Keeper, Zev wasn't serious. " She shot him a quelling glance. "He simply has a rather different perspective on the world."

"A different…" The elven woman struggled to regain her composure. "Well, yes. How did he join your company anyway? You explained how your other companions joined, but not Zevran."

"I was contracted to assassinate the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden by Teryn Loghain. Obviously the attempt failed and here I am." Zevran indicated his surroundings with a flourish.

"An assassin! You let him live?" Marethari was incredulous.

Aithne smiled at Zevran remembering. "He claimed he would be useful. Said he had skills in fighting, lock picking, cleaning armor and…" she decided to have a little fun, "bed warming I believe it was. " Turning to Zevran she proceeded. "The fighting you are good at, so I guess one out of four isn't bad."

"You wound me, my lady." Zevran appealed to Marethari, "you raised her to be heartless, denigrating my skills with a lock pick…"

Aithne finally decided to have mercy on the poor woman who was staring at them like they had each grown another head. "I am sorry Keeper. Zev and I have been friends for a long time and it is a rather old joke." She shrugged, explaining how a friendship had blossomed from a failed assassination was all but impossible. "He was an Antivan Crow and they treat failure by their members with rather permanent solutions. I could not kill him in cold blood and I could not turn him loose so he joined us. I did not wish to share the details with the clan knowing Dalish views on honor."

Marethari nodded, "probably wise of you. You have strayed far from our traditions and not everyone would have understood. I would speak with you more about the other Grey Warden and the Archdemon if you would indulge me." The Keeper motioned for her guests to be seated while she poured a measure of spari berry wine for each of them.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks as always to Bioware for their craftsmanship in building the DA:O world and its characters._

_Thank you to my beta Tarante11a whose sharp eye found many things I had missed._

_Finally, thanks to all of you who have left your reviews and/or subscribed to my story. Apologies for the time it takes me to write a new chapter _—_ work sometimes interferes with my writing time._

Chapter 4- Dalish Lore

Aithne was glad she had removed her armor and was wearing only her comfortable woolen shirt and pants as she settled, cross legged, on the rugs on the tent floor. Zevran lounged next to her, as usual making even the act of sitting a seductive one. She felt rather like a child again - this was where Marethari had taught the clan children to read and write so the lore that had been regained would never be lost again. It had been a shock to realize many of those she had met after leaving her clan could not read well, or sometimes at all. Of course, it had also surprised many of the Banns that she was educated. They had apparently expected a Dalish elf to be illiterate.

Marethari finally spoke. "I have always understood only a Grey Warden can kill an Archdemon and that in doing so the Grey Warden dies. This is written in our lore and I have always taken it as true. Yet you claim to have killed the Archdemon and you live."

Sipping her wine, Aithne struggled with what to tell her clanswoman. The true story was only known to four people and she did not wish to increase that number. Still, Marethari was a Dalish Keeper and might have access to knowledge about the Old Gods, might even have knowledge of what kind of magic was involved in Morrigan's ritual. Aithne measured her and found a strong woman she could trust.

"The Archdemon is dead and it was my hand that struck the final blow although there were many who aided in bringing the beast down. I am not dead because I made a bargain with Morrigan…" Aithne spun the entire sordid story for the old Keeper, leaving none of her reasoning out; from her love for Alistair and the need for him to become King, to the preservation of the soul of an Old God. "So, I do not know if I have done good or ill. I fear the worst, yet I feel I could not have done differently. We need to find Morrigan to learn those answers." Leaning into Zevran she drained her wine and waited for the Keepers response.

"I know little of the nature of the Old Gods other than a few bits of lore gleaned from artifacts. You have taken a terrible chance, whether it was love, duty to your king or a desire to preserve an ancient power. As much as I am glad to see you I fear that it would have been better to have made the sacrifice." Marethari's face was grim but her gaze held compassion for her clanswoman.

"I believe you are wrong Keeper." Zevran had spent the past weeks mulling over Aithne's revelation. Their evening talks had often come back to that fateful choice and its current and potential consequences. "First, there were only three Grey Wardens present in Ferelden, if they had all fallen then there would have been no one to stop the Archdemon. With the ritual anyone could kill the Archdemon and there was at least a chance that its soul would travel to Morrigan's child. Second, Alistair has been generous to the elves in Ferelden. Although true strength comes from achieving things on your own, at least there are more opportunities now. Anora saw elves only as servants and tools. Third, and perhaps most important, the fall of the Old Gods coincided with the appearance of the darkspawn. This is true whether you believe the Chantry's version or not. Perhaps an awake and untainted Old God may have the key to stopping the blights altogether."

"There are some flaws in your logic, but you have given me something to think on. Perhaps I can find some information to aid you." She motioned toward the stacks of scrolls and books that completely filled one end of the large tent. "If you can give me a little time I believe I can find something useful."

"We would be grateful for any assistance you can offer." Aithne stood and Zevran followed a shadow beside her. "Zev, shall we check the horses?"

The moonlight flooded the night with silver as they walked to the halla pasture, their quiet steps making a dark trail in the frost nipped grass. "Do you think we will find her?" Aithne queried her unusually quiet companion.

"Given enough time I think it likely. It seems hard for a Witch of the Wilds to stay completely hidden. My spies had reliable information that placed her in Orlais within a few months after the coronation. I doubt she is there still, but I am sure we will find some leads." Zevran stopped at the makeshift fence containing the halla.

"I am not sure what to say when we find her. She had her own purposes for the child, how do I ask if they involve taking possession of its body?" Aithne gave a bitter laugh. "Flemeth was bad enough, Morrigan's power enhanced with the soul of an Old God, I am not sure I want to start that fight." Watching the dark figures of the halla and the horses grazing in the moonlight she continued. "I hope she had changed enough in the time we traveled that her plans are more benign. I fear her thirst for power though. I hate the thought of a child, even a god child, paying the price for my trust in her."

"We cannot know what her plans are from here. It is not worth the worry until we find her. I thought we came out to check the horses." Zevran lithely slipped over the fence.

"Live for the moment, right Zev." She smiled and followed him. The crisp autumn air made her feel alive. Her skin tingled with awareness; the music of the small creek, the soft breathing of the animals, the cool caress of the wind with its promise of winter, Zevran's warmth as he walked beside her. They spent several minutes assuring themselves of the health of their sturdy mounts then wandered down to sit on the stream bank.

"As a child I would slip out to sit with the halla and think. It was always so peaceful, just to watch the stars and listen to the sounds of the night. I think that is what I have missed the most, feeling so at one with the natural world. It must seem strange to you to be away from the people and the noise." Aithne leaned back on her elbows, the end of her braid trailing in the grass.

"No, it is not what I am used to, but I can see the beauty in it and…in you." Hesitant, afraid to disrupt the change in their relationship that had been growing these last weeks, he leaned over, touched his lips to hers.

His kiss was gentle, carefully hiding the passion that threatened to overwhelm him. She kissed him back, at first tentatively, then with surprising intensity. Finally Aithne broke the contact and sat up to regard him thoughtfully.

"Zev, I... that…" She struggled for the right words, struggled to slow her heart. "I want to be sure that it is you I want, not just that I have been overwhelmed by today's events. You are my most trusted friend, perhaps much more. I do not want to ruin what we have by rushing forward. Right now I want you. I just don't want either of us to regret it tomorrow."

"I will not say I am sorry." Zevran drew an arm around her. "But I bow to your wishes." He could push the matter, he knew, have her naked in his arms with a few deft caresses. The pressure in his groin suggested that he do just that, but a single night of passion was not worth losing her forever. Resigning himself to just holding her he could not resist murmuring into her hair. "I don't believe we would regret it."

They sat together listening to the night for perhaps an hour before the chill drove them to their feet. Walking back Zevran silently laughed at himself. The Crow assassin trained in seduction, born in a whorehouse, content to simply hold a woman's hand.

Keeper Marethari had been busy in their absence. A small stack of books lay before her on the intricately woven rug. She smiled when they entered, "I have found some interesting things."

Reluctant to relinquish contact Zevran settled next to his Grey Warden, shoulders touching. Aithne let her fingers rest lightly atop his and addressed the Keeper. "We would be honored to hear what you have found."

Marethari observed them with curiosity. In spite of the assassin's earlier comments she had been sure that they were not lovers, but something had changed. Well, they would need one another if they were to pursue this quest of theirs. "It is only fragments that have been copied numerous times so there might be inaccuracies." Once again the lore keeper she continued her exposition. "I have some material that was written by an elven scholar some time after the fall of Arlathan. The text describes the Gods of the Tevinter Imperium as ancient and powerful high dragons. It details the dragons contact with and interference in the affairs of humans. Their draconic abilities appeared to include shapeshifting and impressive displays of magic. It was these abilities that led the humans to worship them. This scholar believed it was knowledge given by the dragon Dumat which aided in the fall of Arlathan. Interestingly he also tells of other dragons who contacted Elvhenan in an attempt to thwart Dumat's plan. Urthemial was one of those dragons."

"I have several other accounts here describing the rise of the darkspawn and the first Blight. They all agree that there were no darkspawn seen prior to the hibernation of the high dragons." She paused, "I do find it interesting that all of the accounts by elven writers refer to the 'hibernation' of the dragons rather than the 'imprisonment' of the Old Gods as taught by the human Chantry." Fingers smoothing the worn leather binding of the book she was holding the Keeper concluded. "I do not know if this helps you. It seems you have the soul of a magic wielding dragon to deal with. Perhaps it will have answers as to how the darkspawn came to be or how they can be contained, I do not know. I am not even sure if the soul will carry memories of the previous life with it. Blood magic can have unpredictable results and I am not familiar with rituals such as this Morrigan may have used."

Zevran grinned. "So we only have a powerful magical dragon to deal with instead of a god. What a relief, we'll just take care of it and still have time for our tour of Thedas."

Aithne punched him in the arm to conceal an answering smile. "As I recall you only helped fight one dragon, we snuck by the one in Haven and you hid in your tent when I went to deal with Flemeth. Besides, the child will still be very young, it is Morrigan we may have to deal with."

"I was not hiding."

"Okay, so you had a hangover, you should have known better than to drink Ohgren's homebrew." Aithne turned back to the keeper, leaving her companion to contemplate her all too accurate memory. "Thank you Marethari. You have given us more information than I was able to uncover in the last few years, even with all of the resources available in Denerim."

That night Aithne lay in the dark listening to Zevran's soft breathing next to her and the Keeper's occasional snores across the tent. When she finally fell asleep she dreamed of a golden dragon with Alistair's eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5- Goodbye Again.

The subtle sounds of the clan starting the day woke Aithne. She could hear the soft thunk of wood as fires were built, the crackle and pop of flames on damp wood, the clink of breakfast preparations. Snuggling deeper in her blankets she felt Zevran's presence even through the folds of both their bedrolls. Feeling safe, warm and content she decided that for once she could sleep in.

Sometime later she awoke to a soft kiss on her brow. "Wake up, my Grey Warden." She had rolled over in her sleep and was now facing Zevran. "Your Keeper has been up for some time and has stopped to check on us twice. I fear we must either get up or join our bedrolls and engage in other activity lest my reputation be tarnished."

"You're impossible Zev." She rolled out of her blankets and stood, "ugh, it's cold this morning."

"I could fix that you know." Eyes twinkling he reached for her.

Brushing him aside she reached for the wool garments she had discarded the night before in favor of the soft linen shirt she usually slept in. Pulling on the warm clothes provoked thoughts of the advancing winter. "We should go today; it is already late in the year to be traveling into the mountains. A heavy snowstorm could close the pass." Slipping on her boots and gathering her cloak she headed out of the tent.

It was still early morning, the sun just barely over the horizon, the frost covered trees glittering in its bright rays. Aithne stretched arms above her head and watched the plumes of her breath condense in the icy air. The weather had definitely gotten colder during the night.

Approaching the main fire her old friend Fenarel proffered steaming mugs of tea. "Aneth ara. I did not get a chance to speak with you last night." Piling plates with hot breakfast cakes filled with berries and covered in honey he served them breakfast as well. "I never said goodbye when you left. I was upset that you did not take me with you when you searched for Tamlen. I'm glad you came back."

"Fenarel, I was so afraid of losing anyone else, I would not even have taken Merrill if the Keeper had not insisted. Later Duncan told me I was lucky to have survived at all, tainted as I was." Green eyes soft with reminiscence she continued. "It was too late for Tamlen when Duncan did not find him with me at the first."

"You gave up on him, that's what happened." Rill stalked up to the group by the fire. "Saved yourself instead of searching until you found him."

"Rill, he was my friend too. I would have given my life if that would have saved him. It was just too late." Aithne understood some of the hostility he directed at her. She had blamed herself for a long time — for not going back to find the Keeper when they first found the cave, for letting Tamlen touch the mirror, for not searching until they found him — however long it took. It was not until she had spoken about it with Relgar, the Warden Commander from Orlais that she had finally understood that it had been too late when he was not found immediately. They had been surprised that the Keeper had been able to contain her taint long enough that she was able to undergo the Joining in Ostagar. Normally the even the Joining was not enough to save someone if they had been tainted for more than a few days. It was only with this understanding that she had finally come to terms with Tamlen's death.

"You don't know that, he could still be out there somewhere. His body was never found. You are no better than the shem you whored yourself out to. Don't think we haven't heard the truth of it, you made a spectacle of yourself hanging on him when you helped Zathrian's clan. You have chosen shemlen and spineless city elves over your own people. You are not Dalish!" The venom in Rill's voice froze her. Distantly she felt Zevran leap to his feet.

"Who are you to speak to her like that? Were you racing to raise an army before the Blight overran Ferelden? Did you agonize over whether the choices you made would save or condemn an entire country? Did you stand atop Fort Drakon and fight the Archdemon? Everything she has done has been to save you, to save all of Ferelden and all you can do is condemn her! I have had enough of you. It is you who are a coward. Where were you when she had to put an end to the twisted, evil thing your precious Tamlen had become?" Zevran glared up at the taller Dalish elf waiting for the clansman to make his move.

"No! I will not have this." The imminent fight stirred Aithne to action. Normally Zevran would have defused the situation with a few suggestive comments. What was wrong with him? Placing herself between the two she broke the tableau. "Rill, what I have chosen to do is none of your business. I am sorry that you lost your family to shemlen, but they are not all like that. Tamlen," old grief choked her, "I could not leave him as he was…"

"Wait," Fenarel broke in, "you found Tamlen when, where? What happened?"

"Please sit, all of you." Noticing the gathering crowd Aithne sunk heavily to the bench. She glared at Rill who remained standing defiantly until he too sat.

"It was after we had helped Zathrian's clan and were heading back to Redcliffe to join Arl Eamon and support Alistair's claim at the Landsmeet. Our camp was attacked one night by shrieks — the horrific spawn of an elvish broodmother. We defeated the shrieks and were cleaning up the mess when another darkspawn appeared." Lost in the memory she was drawn back to the shock of what she found. "I ran to stop it but…it was Tamlen. He was twisted, corrupted...but he still knew me, begged me to kill him. I hesitated and the taint drove him to attack. I had no choice…my blade ended his suffering." Chin raised she waited for her clan's judgment.

"So you killed him. I was right, you are a traitor to your people. I cannot sit here and listen to this." Rill spat as he stormed off.

"Lethallin, why did you not tell us last night?" Fenarel sounded hurt and confused. Clan bonds were strong. He did not understand why she would withhold this.

"I had planned to…, when it came time I just couldn't. What he had become was not Tamlen. The darkspawn taint twists things to its own purpose." She struggled to explain. "He truly died when he was lost too us, long before I encountered his body that night. I was ashamed to dishonor his memory with the darkness that consumed him. Remember him as he was, a Dalish hunter, one with the land."

"But you survived, you have not become one of the tainted creatures." Fenarel accused.

"Yes I survived. I have the Keeper to thank. Without her I would not have lived to undergo the Joining. You must understand becoming a Grey Warden does not remove the taint, it merely delays it. All Grey Wardens eventually succumb, most choose to die in battle rather than let the taint destroy them. Had Tamlen been found in the first few days, before the taint had progressed, he might have had a chance. But nothing is certain…" visions of Daveth, Jory and recruits since flashed through her mind.

"We searched for Tamlen until I thought we would both fall from exhaustion, even though the shem said he would not be found. Do not blame Aithne for not finding him. I was there as well." Merrill pushed her way to the fire. "This was all settled years ago, do not let Rill's bitterness open old wounds. Please, Aithne, Zevran accept my apologies. You have both done a great service to all the people of Ferelden, I am ashamed to see you treated this way."

"Abelas. What Merrill says is true. I apologize for my hasty words. Will you forgive me Aithne?" Fenarel waited for response.

"There is nothing to forgive." Aithne gave her old friend a quick embrace. "I do not wish to spoil the day for everyone with old regrets." They finished their breakfast, camaraderie somewhat restored by Merrill's timely intervention. If there was a little stiffness to Aithne's features or if her clansmen were a little more reserved than previously no mention was made of it.

Helping Fenarel clean up after they had finished eating Aithne finally confronted him with her thoughts. "Rill has changed a lot. He withdrew after he lost his family but he was never this bitter when he was hunting with Tamlen and I."

"I believe that is the root of the problem. When you three were together he had a family again. After Tamlen was lost and you left Rill never really fit in anywhere. He spends his time hunting alone or with Laran who does not question him. He has gotten worse since we visited the Dalish lands near Ostagar and heard rumors," Fenarel had the grace to blush, "that you were involved with the shemlen king."

"Alistair is a good man, the clan could do worse than trust him. Rothana, his queen is expecting his heir this spring." Aithne dodged the implicit question with only a pang of regret. The past weeks had given her perspective, she had given him up years ago, leaving had finally allowed the wound to heal. Not that she did not still love him, she always would. Now her love was colored with insight, it had been a first love, an idyllic and impossible love.

"Whether the rumors are true or not," Fenarel's appraisal was skeptical, "it is still hard for him to see you here, alive and with a city elf."

"What does Zevran have to do with it?" She eyed her companion who was feigning disinterest in the conversation.

"That is for Rill to answer. Perhaps you should talk to him, it might make things worse, but it may help him too. It has been a strain on the whole clan for him to separate himself like this. Just be careful, he has become rather volatile."

Sighing Aithne stood, it had seemed like such a lovely day when she had left the keeper's tent. "I'll speak to him." Her keen eyes spotted the tall, dark haired elf as he slung a pack on his shoulder. "Fen'Harel's dirty hide." Muttering under her breath she hurried to catch up with the departing hunter.

"Rill, stop I need to talk to you." Scowling he continued to walk away. "Damn it Rill, you condemn me without even listening." Aithne grabbed his arm and spun him around. "You have been rude and judgmental since I arrived. I did not leave the clan to hurt you. I did not abandon Tamlen. I know you have lost much in your life but this is not the way of a Dalish warrior, not Vir Tanadhal.

"Do not speak to me of Vir Tanadhal, you who are no more than a shem with pointy ears. You left our clan to help murdering shemlen. You defiled yourself with a human and now a dirty city elf, how many have you spread your legs for?" Raw anger dripped from his words and sizzled across Aithne's nerves.

"You go to far dog." Zevran was there, pushing Aithne aside. "Draw your weapons. You will eat those words." Daggers hissing out of their sheaths he settled into a fighting stance.

"My pleasure. Tell me, do you enjoy being a slave to the humans, receiving only their leftovers?" Rill's nod clearly indicated he was referring to Aithne as he too drew daggers.

Rill's barbs stung but Zevran was too much the professional to let them sink in. With a few brief feints he had the measure of his opponent. The taller elf, although skilled was no match for a trained Crow assassin. Luring his opponent in with a tempting hole in his defense he neatly sidestepped the attack and with a twist of his wrist sent one of Rill's daggers flying. Rill's second dagger followed the first as Zevran tripped him and calmly twisted his arm behind his back. Dagger at the Dalish elf's throat he hissed. "Do not speak of her that way. Aithne has more honor in her little finger than you do in your whole body. If it were up to me I would end your miserable little life."

"Rill, what is wrong with you? Zevran and I have done nothing to you. Had I stayed I could have contaminated the whole clan with the darkspawn taint. Is that what you wanted?" Aithne interrogated her old friend astonished and horrified by his behavior.

"It would have been better than joining the shemlen. Have you forgotten our history? You demean yourself by association with the shem and their pawns."

She looked at the beaten elf with disgust. "I thought I knew you Rill. I was wrong. Let him go Zev, he's not worth the trouble."

"Aithne, I loved you, the thought of you soiling yourself with a shem after all they have done to us… You should be here with your clan, bearing Dalish children, not sullying yourself with others. Stay with us."

"Your hatred has blinded you to reason. Goodbye Rill." Aithne turned away, another friend lost, this time not to battle but to prejudice.

Silently they returned to the Marethari's tent to pack their belongings. The confrontation with Rill had been witnessed by much of the clan, it was time to move on.

The old Keeper made no move to interfere. The repercussions of their visit would be felt in the clan for a long time, for good or ill she did not know. When they had readied their mounts and said their goodbyes she was the last to approach. "Here are a few things you left before. I thought you might wish to have them now." She proffered a small pouch to Aithne. "May Andruil and Dirthamen watch over you, I fear you will need their guidance and the protection of all the gods."

"Ma serannas Keeper. May the Gods watch over you." Aithne gave Marethari a hug before swinging onto her horse.

Marethari watched them go two elves Dalish and city, united with the shemlen and wondered.

* * *

_Apologies again for the long delay, work and my beta's busy schedule have conspired to keep this chapter unposted. I hope to have the next few chapters out a little more quickly, although there will be a delay when "Awakening" comes out. _

_Huge thanks to my beta Tarante11a who is a much more skilled wordsmith than I. _

_Thanks also to the folks who post on the Dragon Age wiki - they have compiled a collection of lore and language that is very useful._

_As always I own nothing and give my thanks to the folks at Bioware for creating such a compelling world._


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Points

The horses were frisky in the brisk autumn air and they pulled and snorted at being kept to a trot. The two elves were not many miles from the Dalish camp when the valley they were riding through opened into a long meadow. With only a brief look of challenge Aithne gave her sturdy mount his head. Zevran grinned and crouched low on his gelding's neck as they leapt to follow. Hooves pounding and blood racing they flew across the open ground scattering a covey of grouse and a bewildered fox in their wake.

Laughing they pulled their blowing steeds up just shy of the trees. Aithne watched her lithe companion as he settled his mount with a deft touch, his tension from the morning's confrontation shed with the exhilaration of the impromptu race. "Zev, I apologize for dragging you into that mess with Rill. I had no idea he felt that way."

"It was nothing. He was just another narrow minded fool. I do have a question though; you spoke of Vir Tanadhal. It is not an elvish expression I am familiar with."

"It is the Way of the Three Trees, a code Dalish hunters live by." With a distant expression Aithne recited the verses.

_"Vir Assan – the way of the arrow_

_Be swift and silent_

_Strike true, do not waver_

_And let not your prey suffer_

_That is my way_

_Vir Bor'assan – the way of the bow_

_As the sapling bends, so must you_

_In yielding, find resilience_

_In pliancy, find strength_

_That is my way_

_Vir Adahlen – the way of the wood_

_Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness_

_Respect the sacrifice of my children_

_Know that your passing shall nourish them in turn_

_That is my way_

_Remember the way of the hunter_

_And I shall be with you."_

"Vir Tanadhal helped guide me through the blight and its spirit still directs me. I may not follow all my clan traditions anymore, but I still find wisdom in much of our lore."

"Speaking of lore, I am surprised you shared so much with your Keeper. Surely it is a risk for more people to know of Morrigan's ritual?" Zevran finally voiced the concern he had carried since the previous night.

"It was, but Marethari is like a grandmother to me. She has kept secrets for the clan all of her life and I have never known her to share them. We need more information on the Old Gods, information not colored by the Chantry. I fear that knowledge is lost, like so much else, but there is a scroll in the pouch she gave me that may have additional guidance."

"You think she found more information after we spoke last night?"

"I hope so. I doubt there would be much need for her to send the scroll otherwise. She also restocked our provisions, I am sure you noticed the saddlebags were heavier." Aithne was grateful, after nearly a month on the road their supplies had become rather sparse. The scroll intrigued her. Its shape and weight were distinct in the pouch but she had not found time to examine it yet, perhaps she would in camp tonight.

"I admit the supplies are welcome, I was getting rather sick of rabbit and onion stew. It is too much to hope for that she might have sent some spices? Ferelden food is rather bland… no slight to your cooking my dear Warden." Zevran's expression was a little wistful. It had been a long time since he had savored the exotic flavors of Antiva — their meal with the Dalish the previous night had contained a few familiar flavors, enough to stir his palate with memory.

"I will have to look, she may have. My clan has traveled extensively and does not always stay in Ferelden. We often traded for spices and medicines with clans from the north." Casually reaching for her bow and nocking an arrow she fixed on a spot in the trees across the meadow. With a quick motion she let fly once, then twice. "If you don't like my cooking you can try with these grouse." Riding over she retrieved the hapless birds that had drawn her attention.

Off balance for a moment Zevran quickly recovered. "Your cooking is wonderful. I was referring to the unending quantities of lamb and pea stew everywhere we go. I swear it must be the Ferelden national dish — ugh. Still, if you wish I will cook tonight. Just remember the one meal I made during the blight resulted in half the party declaring it was poison and trying to drown themselves after the first few bites." Zevran was sure they had exaggerated — it wasn't that spicy! He did savor the recollection of Alistair turning bright red with tears running down his face as he attempted to consume the contents of an entire waterskin in one gulp.

"That was a delicious meal, I even had seconds" Aithne grinned. "You must have missed that while you were helping Wynne." Zevran would never admit it but he had a soft spot for the older mage. When he had seen her discomfort he had rushed to pour her some wine, the alcohol was much better at taming the fires the spices lit. He had even cooked some porridge for her once she recovered.

"You liked it? I thought Sten had finished it." The qunari had seemed to enjoy the dish, at least as far a Zevran could tell.

"Yes, I liked it very much. I think the peppers you bought in Denerim were a little strong for the uninitiated though."

Her comment startled Zevran a little. Aithne was very observant but he had assumed that she was too wrapped up in Alistair's little farce with Goldanna at the time to notice his brief shopping expedition. "They were the only peppers available. How was I too know they don't use such things in Ferelden?" In truth he had suspected, it had seemed a good way to get a jab in at the naïve former templar. He had underestimated the effects on the rest of the party though and it had not been his intention to cause Wynne distress.

"It's settled then, you cook tonight." Aithne gave him a satisfied smirk and passed him the two birds. "That means you can clean and pluck these." Turning her horse she left him there holding the limp grouse.

As the day progressed Aithne was needled by a building sense of unease. They were sitting on a stream bank for lunch the feeling suddenly clarified. "_Darkspawn_."

"How close?" Zevran had learned to rely on her warden sense during the blight. They had hoped the darkspawn threat would recede after the death of the Archdemon but the incursions had continued. When Aithne had traveled to Amaranthine to see the Grey Wardens settled in their new base they had discovered a new threat — sentient darkspawn. Even after the deaths of the Architect and the Mother a few of the newly aware darkspawn had continued raids on surface lands.

"They are a way off yet — but moving in this direction. We need to intercept them." Finishing her cold venison she rose.

"How many?" The two of them were formidable but a large band might be too much of a challenge.

"Feels like a smaller group, perhaps a dozen, maybe a few more." Visage grim, Aithne tightened her gelding's girth and swung into the saddle.

"Just a little fun then." Slipping a couple of poison bottles into his belt for easy access, Zevran followed her.

Several hours of swift riding brought them close to the band. Tying their horses they stealthily crept into the forest to intercept the forward scouts.

"Shall we compete for points?" Zevran's usual pre-battle enquiry was greeted with a brief smile.

"Sure — emissaries and alphas two points, all others one." It was their usual scoring system, one that had garnered laughs from the Orlesian wardens until they had seen the two rogues in action. "Stakes?"

Zevran paused — it was time to up the ante. He had played the game conservatively until now and impatience gnawed at him. "Loser gives the winner a massage."

Aithne gave him a speculative glance. With Zevran those stakes were higher than a massage she was sure. Loneliness and desire, twin weaknesses, clamored to be heard. It had been years since Alistair — years of waking in the night, cold and alone, wrapping her arms around a pillow wishing it was hard muscle, strong arms, a beating heart. These past weeks alone with Zevran had drained her resistance, forced her to acknowledge she might desire more than friendship. Her weaknesses silenced the portion of her conscience that suggested she might just be using her dear friend. They also silenced her fear of being hurt again. "Sure."

Stunned Zevran fought the race of blood from his head to his groin. He had not expected her to agree. Feeling like a virgin on his first trip to a brothel, he struggled for control — there were still darkspawn to fight, he just wasn't sure if he wanted to win or lose, either way could have…possibilities. It took all of his years of Crow training to force himself to refocus on the task at hand.

Silent as wraiths, part of the forest, they crept up on the unsuspecting scouts. A quick movement to tip the head back, and a dagger slice destined to sever the windpipe along with the major vessels, ensured that no sound alerted the remainder of the darkspawn band. Hiding their prey under the autumn leaves they circled around to the tail of the group.

Aithne gave a quick signal to Zevran. "Careful — emissary," then melted into the shadows behind a trailing genlock. The Crow assassin mirrored her movements until he was in place. Their earlier maneuver was repeated, four darkspawn down and the band still had not been alerted.

Creeping up they slid into position again. This time luck abandoned them as a nervous hurlock turned just as Zevran struck. The hurlock went down but not before his strangled cry echoed through the rest of the warband.

Aithne threw herself forward intercepting the next hurlock as it turned, a dagger finding the left kidney, leaving it sprawled and bleeding on the forest floor. Zevran spun forward to another target, his sword cleanly removing its head. Leaping forward he landed in the middle of a group of darkspawn. Whirling and stabbing he left all of them wounded before leaping out again, melding with the deepening twilight.

Using Zevran's distraction, Aithne raced forward to the emissary before he could release a spell. Strikes in quick succession left it bleeding and dazed but still upright. Refreshing the poison on her blades with a deft motion she moved in for the kill. The emissary cursed her as she stepped around to backstab and waves of weakness spread through her limbs. Drawing on her willpower she dove in for a critical strike, sliding beneath it and thrusting upward into a femoral artery. Seven down — no eight as she saw Zevran's current target fall.

Darting in and out they lead their opponents in a deadly dance. Unexpected strikes, slipping in and out of a target's vision, an occasional swift kick to a sensitive area and poison, these were the tools they used. A lightly armored rogue could not go toe to toe with a heavily armed adversary and win; it all hinged on swift, deceptive movements and well placed strikes.

They did not escape unscathed. A mistimed dodge sent Zevran's forehead directly into a pommel strike from a huge hurlock. Aithne earned a dagger slice to her upper arm when she lost track of a genlock rogue. Still they felled their enemies with speed and efficiency. The twilight shadows had scarcely grown longer by the time the last darkspawn lay still.

Covered with gore and trying to ignore a rising headache Zevran grinned. "Seven for me."

"I had seven as well, but one was the emissary. Eight points — I win." Aithne had forgotten the stakes briefly in the heat of battle. They were brought back suddenly as Zevran moved forward desire glinting in his eyes.

"I believe I owe you a massage."

The Antivan's seductive voice bypassed her brain and centered on a spot much lower. Demanding that her body behave itself Aithne spoke. "Perhaps we should clean up and make camp first. I, for one would prefer not to be covered in darkspawn blood."

Zevran's smile expanded. "A bath, then a massage, good idea — very relaxing."

Aithne's body and brain collided, fought and surfaced with the same idea. "I know of a hot spring not too far from here — if you do not mind riding in the dark."

"I am always up for a hard ride my Warden." Zevran's voice caressed her suggesting things that she had tried to forget.

Blushing yet again she led them back to where their horses were tethered.

They paused briefly before riding out to clean and apply poultices to their injuries. The cut on Aithne's arm was short but deep and had bled freely. Zevran had an abrasion and a large bruise coming up on his temple. He was not about to admit to the headache – she would only use that to delay his payment. After all he had lost fair and square, he owed her the massage.

They rode several hours past dark, wearily working their way into a tiny meadow along a small river. As they wound their way around the small cliff face next to the river, Zevran noticed a few fallen trees arranged into a haphazard fence. Aithne dismounted once they were through and closed the gap with a thick branch. "This place is often used as a hunting camp by the Dalish. The horses can graze freely here and we will not be disturbed. The hot spring empties into the river just above the overhang." She indicated an opening in the cliff right next to the river.

Reaching the overhang, where the soft limestone had been eroded by the acidic waters of the hot spring in ages past, Aithne motioned Zevran toward the firewood piled in the back of the opening. "I will tend the horses if you will start the fire. I believe you owe me dinner as well."

"A pleasure, my dear Warden." Zevran was a master of seduction. He could not have engineered things better. Taking the saddlebags and setting them near the stones that demarcated a fire ring he busied himself.

By the time Aithne had finished tending the horses he had the fire going and was sorting the packages of herbs and spices that Marethari had indeed supplied them with. The Keeper had been generous; a few of the items she had given them were rather expensive. Perhaps she did view his grey warden as a granddaughter after all.

"Why don't you get out of your armor and bathe while I cook" he offered. The scene was not yet set.

Aithne watched the blond elf for a moment. She was as nervous as the time she had confessed to Alistair that she had never "licked a lamppost". Gathering her courage she set her armor in a neat pile and pulled a threadbare towel out of her pack. Her spare shirt and pants and some scented soap she had found at a shop in Denerim followed. Stepping down to the river's edge she welcomed the mist curling off the heated water in the frosty air. Without a backward glance, she shed her blood covered clothes and let the familiar waters welcome her.

Zevran restrained himself from following, her bath would give him time to finish his preparations.

Drying her hair with the towel Aithne walked back up the stony slope to the fire. Zevran was pulling the spiced and breaded breasts and thighs of the grouse out of a pan where he had fried them in halla butter. Laying them atop a nest of grains and mushrooms he poured wine over the whole thing and placed the cover over the small cast iron oven. Setting the oven on some coals near the edge of the fire he rose, amber eyes vulnerable in the firelight. "Our meal will need to cook a while yet. If you don't mind, I would like to clean up as well."

"The water gets warmer as you move upstream closer to the spring, be careful, it is hot enough to burn if you get too close."

"So many things are my Grey Warden." With that cryptic comment he turned toward the river.

Aithne surveyed their little camp while Zevran bathed. He had laid her bedroll, open flat, near the fire. His was still folded but near enough to grab with a casual reach. Nervous she cast around for something to do. The savory scent of the roasting grouse drew her attention to the campfire. Maybe there was something. A few minutes later she had two apples cored and placed in her other tiny cast iron oven, a pat of halla butter in each, a drizzle of honey and a sprinkle of cinnamon, nothing fancy but it would do for dessert.

She was just placing the second oven on the coals when Zevran emerged from the mist near the river. His hair wet and chest bare he resembled the stories of river spirits she had heard of as a child. Advancing lithely toward the fire he held her with his gaze. Reaching her seat he drew her toward him until they were standing eye to eye. "I think it is time for me to pay up." His words whispered like silk along her skin.

"You are sure Zev? That hurlock got in a good hit." Her fingers brushed the purple bruise on his temple.

"Perhaps you could kiss it better, no?" Silk again, and the uniquely Zevran scent of spices and leather.

It was madness, yet so appealing, "Perhaps." Tentatively she drew his head down and laid a soft kiss over the bruise.

Pulling her down to the blankets, with gentle fingers and soft lips he paid in full.

* * *

_Acknowledgments as always to Bioware, I own nothing._

_Huge thanks to my beta Tarante11a, she keeps me from publishing gibberish. If you have not yet checked out her "Rogue on the Rocks" I highly recommend it._

_The next few chapters should be up fairly quickly, I spent most of the weekend writing so I have 2 more after this that just need polished. I am also planning on editing my ealier chapters once "Awakening" is out for story consistancy. The timeline will need to back up a bit I think._

_Thanks again to the folks who contribute to the wiki. I could never find all the wonderful lore just by sorting through the old forums._


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Refugees

Later that night, Aithne and Zevran sat wrapped in a blanket and shared the roasted birds and baked apples. "I think you can cook from now on, this is marvelous." Aithne took another bite of spiced grains and breaded grouse.

"So you like my cooking now, do you?" Zevran teased, his question having nothing to do with the food.

"Hmm, spicy, savory, a little zest of wine. What's not to like?" Two could play this game.

"I think I like your cooking better — particularly the honey." He fed her a slice of baked apple, then made a show of licking the dripping honey off of her breast.

Smiling she leaned her head on his shoulder. Aithne had given Alistair her virginity and her heart. This time with Zevran should feel like a betrayal. Yet it didn't. The world felt just as right in the Antivan's arms as it ever had when she was with her fellow grey warden. The thought disturbed her but she avoided analyzing it for the moment.

"Regrets?" Zevran seemed to read her thoughts.

"About tonight? No. About the past — too many to count." She turned to face him, his amber eyes filled with desire but cautious… always cautious. The mood was too serious and the past threatened, looming over both of them. _Not tonight_ she vowed. They both needed a reprieve from the darkness, from what might have been.

"The Antivan massage was wonderful. What about a Dalish bath?" Allowing a grin she beckoned him to the river.

Zevran awoke to the scent of wildflowers, his face buried in her hair. Only the lingering soreness in his temple, thanks to the darkspawn, convinced him it was not a dream. Zevran smiled wishing he could preserve the moment; his Warden at last — if just for one night. His arm tightened possessively around her. His Warden, if he could convince her to forget about the human king. It was her choice though. She had taught him that when she had freed him from his vow after the fight with Taliesin.

She stirred in her sleep and rolled to face him. He kissed her and she smiled, mumbling, "Morning Zev." It was a start.

They broke camp late that morning — replenishing the wood supply under the overhang and cleaning the gore off their armor took some time. They also washed their dirty, blood soaked clothes from the previous day, though the garments were scarcely dry when they packed up to go.

Little conversation passed between them as they both mulled the new parameters of their relationship. Aithne was also uneasy — there were darkspawn ahead of them, probably right on the road through Gherlen's pass. Her warden sense gave her the impression that they were hunting. She was about to swing wide to come behind the troop, when her sensitive ears picked up faint human screams on the wind.

Zevran heard them too and looked at her with resignation. "Too the rescue, right?"

"I'm a Grey Warden, I have to go. We need to be careful though, it's a big group." Worried, she cued her horse into a gallop, Zevran a shadow at her side.

Breaking through the trees, it was clear the humans were losing the fight. Surrounded by at least thirty darkspawn, the group of peasants — though roughly the same size — was being steadily beaten back toward a small cluster of wagons and carts, where women and children were screaming. An emissary was filling the air with magic.

"Take the emissary — I'm going to try to rally them!" Aithne shouted at Zevran as she urged her mount to greater speed.

Charging through the mass of darkspawn, Aithne did what damage she could. She had never had much training in mounted combat, thus it was with relief that she reached the human line and swung off, sending her horse into the center of the circle near the wagons. She had just enough time to note a few elves among the humans, before she turned back to the stunned hurlock her horse had trampled and finished it with a sword to the spine.

"To me! Fight them!" She ordered as she waded into the fray.

Zevran marveled at his stupid fearless Warden, before he leapt from his mount and flattened the emissary to the ground with a dagger in his back. Pulling the weapon free, he drew his sword in the other hand and started working his way along the outskirts of the battle, doing what he did best: backstabbing, poisoning, crippling, removing darkspawn from the fight in the most efficient way possible. His Crow training allowed him to turn off the icy fear he felt for Aithne, standing in the middle of the melee drawing attention to herself — the worst possible tactical decision for a rogue.

Aithne struggled to keep up with the enemies pressing against her. She would love to slip out of sight and really start dealing some damage, but if she chose that course the peasants were likely to break and run, leaving the women and the children vulnerable. That she could not allow. She would kill the women herself if the darkspawn overwhelmed them, to spare them the fate of a broodmother. So she held the line and parried what she could. Blood was running down both arms and from a cut on her cheek and she had felled only a handful of darkspawn.

An alpha hurlock worked its way toward her, correctly assessing her as the greatest threat. The farmers near her fell back in fear, leaving her flanks exposed.

"Sodding nug-humpers." Oghren's favorite curse flew from her lips as she braced herself to deflect the blow from the alpha's massive battle axe. She had no room to dodge without running into another blade. As it was, a genlock's short sword dug deep into her hip just as the great axe came down, forcing her to her knees. Calculating her options she only saw one chance and rolling forward between the hurlock's legs, she came up behind him and pierced his chest through the opening in his armpit, as he struggled to regain his balance. The move had disposed of the hulking alpha but had placed her squarely in the middle of another knot of darkspawn. With no cover for her back or flanks, she was spinning madly, dishing out random damage, as a half a dozen blades sought her flesh. There was no opening to escape and her efforts became desperate as fatigue sapped her strength and speed. She felt (rather than saw) the pressure lessen at her back. Throwing herself sideways, she eviscerated a genlock, freeing herself from the trap. Relief washed through her as Zevran and a large human with a hammer stepped into the gap and occupied all but one of the remaining darkspawn. Burying her dagger in the last hurlock's eye as it gaped at its fallen comrades, she sank to the ground exhausted.

Zevran stood over his Grey Warden protectively as he quickly strung his bow to pick off a fleeing genlock. Only when it fell to the ground wheezing blood did his attention turn to Aithne.

"Of all the stupid, foolish, hare-brained…" He trailed off with a string of Antivan curses guaranteed to give even an experienced prostitute pause.

"Zev! Zev, I'm alright." Finding she couldn't stand without assistance, she reached for his hand. "Well mostly anyway."

He helped her to her feet and stood holding her for a minute. "That was…"

"Necessary." She finished for him. "They were after the women. You remember Hespith and the Broodmother."

Recollected horror shone in his eyes and he gave her a curt nod. "Can you walk?" he queried.

"Not far." She grimaced in pain as he slung her arm over his shoulder. "Careful, broken ribs." As they made their way slowly across the few dozen yards to the clustered peasants, she assessed the situation. The wagons and hand-carts were filled with household goods, a couple of chickens flapped in crates and four half-starved oxen stood patiently in their yokes. The people — human and elf — appeared in little better shape; gaunt cheeks and frightened eyes were everywhere.

The large human with the hammer cleared a spot for her to sit at the back of one of the wagons. "I'm Perrin, the blacksmith," he introduced himself with a deep Orlesian baritone. "I don't know why you came to our aid but we are grateful that you did."

"Aithne, Grey Warden. This is Zevran." Her hand was briefly engulfed in the blacksmith's huge paw in greeting.

"Luck was indeed upon us for a Grey Warden to come." The big man smiled though his eyes held much grief.

"Zev, will you make sure of the darkspawn so the wounded can receive aid?" The blond elf nodded and drew his dagger, though it irked him to leave her wounded and bleeding, the task was necessary.

Her next words were directed at the blacksmith. "With your permission," Aithne motioned to the stunned farmers milling about in confusion. She quickly organized the camp to deal with the wounded and dead from her perch on the wagon. The shell-shocked peasants seemed relieved to be given direction and did not argue with the stranger's orders. By the time Zevran returned, leading his horse and wiping blood off his dagger from a couple of darkspawn that hadn't been quite dead, the able bodied members of the camp had already unloaded the wagons to accommodate the wounded and had water warming over a small fire.

"Now it's your turn." He stripped off her armor and ruined clothes, wrapped her in a blanket and proceeded to clean and cover all of her wounds with healing poultices. The gouge in her hip was particularly nasty and, in the absence of a mage, required stitches. Zevran sewed carefully as she sat gritting her teeth and watching the farmers break up their meager furniture to make a pyre for their dead. They would need the wagons for the wounded anyway.

It was close to nightfall before all the wounded were tended and the dead consigned to the two pyres – one for darkspawn and one for the farmers. It was too late to move on, so Aithne grudgingly had the peasants set up camp only a mile from the battlefield. The last two chickens were killed to make broth for the wounded and Zevran emptied their packs to share supplies.

As a scanty meal was being prepared Aithne motioned Perrin over. "Tell me your tale. Why are Orlesian farmers traveling into Ferelden in winter?" As if her words were a cue, the first snowflakes started to fall.

The big man slumped forward staring into the fire. "We are from a village in eastern Orlais, our lord Chevalier passed on two winters ago leaving his son to rule. Chevalier Johns de SanBente was not like his father. He sold our crops, leaving no food for the winter; took our women and used them as he pleased. He took my daughter and when my boy went to her aid, he killed them both." The blacksmith's voice shook as he related his story. "I killed him for what he did — smashed his head open with my hammer." Perrin gestured to the large hammer he had wielded earlier that day. "His soldiers tried to avenge him but they underestimated my friends." His gesture encompassed the desolate group. "The entire village ambushed them and left their corpses rotting in the fields. Our lives are now forfeit in Orlais, but it seems we will perish here in the Ferelden wilderness." With sorrow and regret etched in every line of his body the blacksmith rose and left the fire.

"They will not make it without help you know." Zevran spoke softly, studying a dark-haired elvish boy seven or eight years old, dangling a bandaged knee and sharpening a butcher knife. "The life of a serf in Orlais is much worse than that of a peasant in Ferelden. They are little more than slaves, tied to the land they work for their lords. This group has shown great courage in fighting back and fleeing, most Orlesian peasants are so beaten down that they simply allow the lords to abuse them."

Following his gaze, Aithne was reminded of Zevran's history, how he was sold to the Crows at age seven. Sliding her fingers through his she replied. "We can take them to Redcliffe, Teagan will help." He surprised her sometimes, this Crow assassin. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he would have left these people to their fate without a second thought.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before rising. "If I don't get your clothes dry you will be wearing a blanket all the way to Redcliffe."

The next two weeks were pure misery. Snow fell almost every day and it was all the starved and dispirited peasants could do to keep walking. The worst of the wounded still rode in the wagons, along with the few young children, but every effort was made to keep the loads light to spare the starving oxen. Aithne and Zevran walked as well, putting a few of the more able bodied wounded, including the elf child, on the horses. There was no food if they did not hunt so hunt they did, sometimes into the night to find enough to at least make some kind of meal. On several occasions they were lucky enough to shoot a deer and have food for everyone. Even with a third of the men killed outright in the battle, there were a lot of mouths to feed. Aithne's ribs ached and her hip burned with every step, yet she was more fit than many of the serfs. Between alternating watches and hunting the two elves scarcely saw each other.

To make matters worse, some sort of ague seemed to be going through the group. It had apparently started shortly after the peasants had tried to trade for supplies near the gates of Orzammar. Most of the group was coughing and warm with fever, several of the children were dangerously ill. It seemed to be more severe in the elves and Aithne and Zevran were not spared.

The only bright spot was Cathal, the orphaned elf with the butcher's knife. He quickly attached himself to the two rogues and cheered them with his outrageous stories and youthful resilience. Zevran in particular developed a soft spot for the child and often gave him his own portion of their meager meals.

The last night on the road before they reached Redcliffe Zevran joined Aithne on her watch, too miserable to even sleep. Huddling together they shivered and coughed and watched the snow fall.

"Sometimes I don't know if I will ever be warm again." Zevran idly wondered. "In Antiva it rarely snows and it is warm most of the year. The afternoon rains in the summer are just cool enough to make the heat bearable. There is so much moisture in the air, it sometimes feels like you are swimming on dry land." He lifted one of Aithne's chapped and bleeding hands to his lips. "Your hands would be soft and beautiful there."

"Do you miss it so much?"

"The warmth, the silks and the smells of the markets, yes I do. The Crows — not so much. Still, Ferelden has its bright spots." He smiled to himself and Aithne noted that he did not care to name any of the bright spots.

Morning finally came — the pink and orange hues of sunrise creeping into the sky. Anxious to get to Redcliffe and with no food, the group was on the road before the sun had done more than peek over the horizon. Close to noon Aithne sent Cathal, who had quickly developed an affinity for riding, with a message to alert Bann Teagan of their impending arrival.

Thus it was only with moderate surprise that she greeted Teagan when he met them several miles from the village. Her message had described the peasants' distress and he had marshaled every cart and wagon in Redcliffe to help them over the final distance. When the last of the Orlesians had been safely helped into a conveyance, Aithne and Zevran mounted their own horses to head to the castle. She was alarmed at how Zev slumped in his saddle and barely noticed Teagan's attempt at conversation. Had he said something about Oghren?

* * *

_Once again, many thanks to my beta, she valiantly trys to keep my writing intelligible._

_As always, thanks to Bioware for letting me play in your sandbox._


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Complications

"I'm sorry Teagan, what did you say?" Aithne tried to direct her attention at the Bann, who was Arl of Redcliffe in all but name. He had new lines creasing the corners of his mouth and he looked tired, yet his blue eyes were friendly as ever.

"Oghren is waiting for you at the castle. He has a message for you from Alistair."

Her world spun for just a moment before righting itself. Taking a deep breath she asked, "Do you know what it's about?"

"No, but from Oghren's grumbling it involves one of your old companions."

Relief with a wisp of disappointment slowed her racing heart. Alistair was in her past and she needed him to stay there. "Do you know who?"

"He won't say, just grumbles about 'the general of Ferelden' being demoted to messenger boy. In truth, I don't think he really minds except he had to ride to get here." Teagan grinned at the dwarf's vocal dislike of horses.

Further conversation was interrupted as Zevran began a slow slide off his mount. Aithne kneed her own horse over to catch him before he slid to the ground. "Teagan give me a hand please." She struggled to pull the assassin up, broken ribs stabbing her as she wrestled with his limp form.

The Bann dismounted and aided her in positioning the unconscious elf so she could hold him comfortably. It was then she became aware of the smell and the damp dressing leaking pus on his right shoulder. Teagan helped her steady Zevran as she ripped the foul thing off. If he was taken aback by her language when the fetid wound was uncovered, he gave no sign.

Eamon's brother waited for her curses to wind down before he gently suggested they make all haste to the castle. She was only vaguely aware of their arrival at Redcliffe, as Teagan himself carried Zevran's slack form to a guest chamber and called for the healer. Clutching Zevran's burning hand she berated herself for accepting his "_I'm_ _fine, now hold still and let me finish these stitches_" after the battle. The wound looked deep — the flesh smeared with greenish pus and red streaks radiated along his skin.

The healer arrived, a young mage fresh from the tower, and set to work cleaning the wound and flushing it with raw whiskey. Zevran thrashed and mumbled as the wound was cleaned and debrided; Aithne had to crawl up onto the bed to hold him still. The procedure was painful but necessary if he was to have any chance to live. She had seen more than one man perish from a suppurating wound — healing spells were of little use when the tissue was so diseased. After packing the wound with an herbal poultice designed to draw the infection, the mage turned to her.

"No offense, but when did he last eat?"

Fingers bumping along Zevran's prominent ribs, Aithne shook her head. "I don't know. The last good meal we had was two weeks ago, before he was wounded." Their interlude by the hot spring seemed almost a fantasy now.

"You will need to get some broth in him as soon as you can — nothing too rich for a few days. The same goes for you, m'lady." The young mage shuffled nervously. "The Bann wants me to take a look at you before I go down to help the other refugees."

Aithne nodded and stripped off her armor and shirt. "Zev took care of me right after the battle. I think everything is healing well except the ribs. Save your spells for the Orlesians, some of them are in real need." She stood for the mage's examination as the woman checked her wounds and complimented Zevran's suturing. "You are right m'lady. Let me just bind those ribs for you, then I will head down to the village."

"Thank you Petra, and call me Aithne." She finally remembered the mage's name. It was the girl Wynne had saved from the demon during Uldred's failed coup.

Heartsick and exhausted, Aithne pulled off the rest of her clothes and slipped into the night shirt some kind soul had laid out. Wrapping herself around Zevran and burying them both in a nest of blankets, she fell asleep.

When Oghren came up to see them, he opened the door and stopped at the sight of the two elves curled together. "Well I'll be a bronto's behind. Who'd have guessed?" Chuckling to himself he quietly closed the door and went to find more of Teagan's excellent stout. It looked like his message would just have to wait.

It was dark outside when Aithne woke to Zevran sweating and shivering with fever. He cried out, "No, stop. Promise I'll be faster next time. No! No, don't make me kill him, just hungry."

His fever dreams continued for some time, clearly memories of a little boy subjected to Crow training methods. All she could do was hold him, her heart breaking at the abuse he had overcome to become the man he was. At last he subsided into a deeper sleep and she eased him back on the pillows.

A soft knock sounded at the door and a tired Petra stepped in, followed by two servants bearing trays. The wonderful aroma of beef broth followed her into the room.

"Sorry it took so long to check back. You were right about the Orlesians needing my help. I have no idea how they made it this far." The mage's face was pinched and blue circles framed her eyes. "I brought some willow bark tea and broth for both you and Zevran. I would like to change the poultice again too."

Nodding, Aithne unwrapped the assassin's bandaged shoulder. The linen was covered with more pus and drainage from the wound, but the flesh already looked better. The angry red streaks had receded some and there was a healthy pink tinge to the damaged muscle inside the wound.

The mage probed the wound and smiled. She had tried a new poultice based on bread mold and the results were surprisingly good. "We will need to change the dressing four times a day for the next few days, but I think he is on the mend. Now, you need to eat."

Aithne savored the broth and hearty rye bread while Petra and one of the serving girls spooned tea and broth into Zevran. She finished her meal as they poured the last mouthful into the assassin.

Petra beckoned her over to the supplies on the second tray. "I need to go back down to the village tonight, several of the children are still critically ill and Zevran's is not the only wound gone putrid. His poultice will need to be changed again and he will need more tea and broth around four bells. I will show you what needs done and have Becca," the mage motioned to the sturdy, middle aged serving woman, "come help you."

Petra showed her how to mix the bread mold with the herbs and use "warm, not hot" water to make the poultice. Measuring out two portions of willow bark the mage directed her to make sure she took some too. Finally, indicating a level on a bowl the mage addressed her, "make sure he drinks at least this much broth."

"Thank you Petra." She touched the mage's arm as the woman turned to go. "I don't know if I could stand to lose him."

The young mage studied the careworn grey warden. "You saved us all at the tower, it's the least I can do."

Alone with Zevran, she tossed more wood on the fire and slipped back under the covers next to him. Laying a hand on his chest to reassure herself he was still breathing she sank into sleep.

The hearth had burned low again when Becca's knock woke her. Automatically, Aithne checked Zevran, his fever had dropped and his breathing was deep and even.

"Come in," she called as she struggled out of bed, her ribs and half healed wounds protesting the movement.

The serving woman had brought more broth and warm water for the poultice and the tea. Aithne removed Zevran's bandage while Becca fed the fire and lit some candles so they could see. The wound was still improving and the dirty bandages were not as foul. In a matter of minutes they had the fresh poultice made and Zevran's shoulder covered in swaths of white linen again. Adjusting the pillows, Aithne propped him up to feed him when his eyelids fluttered. "I see you have me naked in bed, are you going to have your way with me?"

"Absolutely! I am going to dose you with all sorts of horrible herb tea, force feed you broth and poke you when I change your bandage. How dare you do this to me! Even a stupid nug has the sense to clean a wound from a darkspawn blade, they're filthy. Of all the thoughtless…" She trailed off in a string of Antivan curses she had no doubt learned from him and ended with a fit of coughing. Wiping her eyes, she glared at him. "Did I miss any?"

"Not many, good thing we aren't in Antiva. You almost made me blush." His voice was weak as he strove for his usual bravado.

"Why didn't you tell me? I could have treated the wound for you.".

"You fell asleep. I did have one of the other women clean and dress it but by that time we were out of poultices and even raw elfroot. Later I thought it was just the ague everyone had." The truth shone from his fever bright eyes.

"Next time, wake me. You could have died." Brushing a gentle hand on his cheek, she turned away so he would not see the tears that threatened to spill. Hells, she had cried more in the last two months than during the whole damned blight. She looked up to see Becca studiously ignoring them as she gathered up the soiled bandages.

"If you don't need anything, I'll just go m'lady." The servant retreated from the room, arms full of dirty linen.

Aithne waved dismissal and picked up a cup of willow bark tea that had been steeping. "Time for the horrible herb tea."

"Willow bark?" Zevran grimaced when she nodded and handed the cup to him. It worked but it tasted awful. A spark of humor lit his face as she lifted an identical cup and frowned. "So I'm not the only patient here?"

"Just drink your tea."

Aithne ended up feeding his broth to him. His hands still shook too much to keep a spoon steady. Before she finished, Zevran's eyelids were sagging but he managed one last sally. "Eat your food then perhaps you can kiss me better."

He was asleep before she responded with a soft, "Perhaps."

Midmorning sunlight had sluiced over the bed when an insistent tapping disturbed them again. Aithne rolled away from Zevran as Petra stepped in, looking no better than the previous day.

Zevran looked at the mage in confusion until she was introduced. "This is Petra, she was Wynne's apprentice at the tower."

"Ah, so you will be full of wisdom and advice I assume." His eyes sparkled with amusement. "I see she passed on the secret of her magical bosom."

Tired as she was the young mage blushed and stammered, "Just medicine and healing… her magical what?"

"Ignore him, that's just how he is." Aithne smiled at the dumbfounded mage.

"Ignore me? I compliment a beautiful woman and she says ignore me." Vibrant with mischief, he addressed the mage. "Do you know this cruel woman would not even give me a kiss to alleviate my pain?"

Aithne punched him in his good arm.

"Ow."

"Serves you right. Anyway, I did kiss you. It's not my fault you were asleep."

Zevran was silent, contemplating her answer, as she slipped out of bed and pulled on a robe offered by a timid serving girl. "How are the Orlesians?"

"None have died, though there are still some at risk. The children are doing better at least. Food and warmth can work miracles it seems." Petra smiled with the good news. "I see your patient has improved."

"Remarkably," she said dryly, observing Zevran's attempts to untangle the sheets and get out of bed. Stepping to his side she pushed him down before he could escape.

"Alas, here I am, at the mercy of three women." Zevran eyed them all lasciviously, at least as much as was possible while lying in bed gravely wounded.

"Oh, stuff it Zev." By some miracle he actually shut up so Aithne could concentrate on removing his bandage. When the blood and pus soaked wrapping was removed, he blanched.

"It was bad, wasn't it?" As an assassin he was all too familiar with the results of a putrid wound.

"Much worse than this actually — Petra has performed miracles since we carried you in." Aithne held his eyes, letting the gravity of her words sink in.

"Maker's blessing, thank you." He directed his words at the young mage, having seen more than one young apprentice succumb to a wound such as this. The foul stench of rot, the greenish-grey color as their flesh died and sloughed — it all came back to him. Turning away, he let them clean and dress the wound in peace.

Setting a tray of food on his lap, the mage left him with a final admonition. "You are still very ill. I will not be responsible for what happens if you leave this bed and try to go running about. You will stay here, eat and rest until that wound is healed. Do you hear me?"

Zevran laughed as the mage shut the door. "Wynne's apprentice indeed."

"Sounds just like her, doesn't she? Can you handle that?" Aithne indicated the food on his tray.

"I'll manage, my dear Warden. You need to eat too." He had to concentrate to hold the spoon steady but at least he could feed himself today.

Aithne was placing his empty tray on the table when the door burst open without even a knock.

"Warden!" A scruffy, red-haired dwarf nearly tackled her in his enthusiasm. "Good to see you. Sod it. Bloody great to see both of you!" He dragged her toward the bed to include Zevran in his boisterous greeting.

"Oof, careful — broken ribs." Aithne squeaked.

"Sorry Warden. The mage said…" snuffling a little in his beard the dwarf loosened his grip. "Well, she said you both had been fighting without me and nearly got killed! See what happens when you leave your old friend Oghren behind — no good comes of it."

"We've missed you too Oghren." Aithne planted a kiss on the smelly dwarf's brow. "How are Felsi and the baby?"

"Sodding great, Warden. He's running everywhere, loves the toy sword you gave him. And the fits he throws — he'll be a warrior just like old dad." The pride in Oghren's voice was unmistakable.

"So what brings you so far from home, my short friend?" Zevran's query was rich with the fondness he felt for the dwarf.

"Oh yeah, that's right. Alistair did have a message for you two. Here's the letter he sent with me." Pulling a missive from inside his tunic the dwarf handed it to Aithne.

She unfolded the grimy piece of vellum and held it so Zevran could read it too.

"The package is in danger, M?" Zevran puzzled over the brief message and the terse instruction to contact Captain Isabela for further information.

"Oh, and there was a mirror in a gold frame with the letter. I left it in Denerim — it would have broken on the road. Alistair said you would know what it means Aithne. Said to tell you he sent Leliana to help in case I couldn't find you." Oghren was clearly out of his depth with the intrigue. "Do you know what it means?"

"Yes, Oghren, I do. We will need to ride for Denerim as soon as we are able."

"Ride — that means horses. I think I need more beer." Aithne escorted the dwarf out of the room, encouraging him to continue his raids on Teagan's cellars.

"It's a message from Morrigan." Zevran voiced more statement than query.

"I believe so. It seems the child may be at risk. Things must be desperate for her to seek Alistair's aid — she never intended for him to know anything about the child." Aithne turned to him unease coloring her tone. "Anyone seeking power could be a threat, but I fear it is either Flemeth or the Wardens."

"I thought you killed Flemeth. The Grey Wardens' interest I can understand, but how would they know?" Zevran's sharp mind needed more pieces before he could see the shape of the puzzle.

"We killed Flemeth's body. Morrigan suspected the spirit of an ancient abomination would not be so easy to kill. In truth, I am not sure if there is a way to kill her permanently. If she desired Morrigan's body as a shell, then how much more tempting would an Old God be?" Aithne paced the room. "You know the Wardens have enquired and even threatened Alistair and I about our survival past the Archdemon's demise — they may have correlated Morrigan's disappearance with our continued existence. There's no shortage of people in Ferelden who could share the identities of our companions with them. The Wardens would view an Old God, even one in the body of a child, as something to destroy."

"You were not contemplating the same thing?" The assassin's query stopped her.

"Yes — but not without evaluating the child first. We discussed this. Maybe the child is harmless, likely it is dangerous, and mayhap it will help us eliminate the darkspawn for good. The Wardens in Weisshaupt are not able to bend. They would destroy the child without even thinking."

"Vir Tanadhal, my Dalish lady. I think I understand." Zevran's amber eyes followed her agitated movements.

A rap at the door and the appearance of Kaitlyn forestalled further debate. "Good morning Aithne, Zevran. I apologize for being such a negligent hostess — there has just been so much to do with the refugees. Not that I am complaining mind you, it's just that there's so many of them." Teagan's bride was followed into the room by several servants and an amused Sir Perth.

"When Teagan got your message… I can't imagine what those poor people have gone through. It's a good thing you found them when you did, I can't imagine fighting all those darkspawn by yourselves. And then your wounds — Petra says they were terrible — she feared for Zevran's life in particular." Kaitlyn was just as Aithne remembered from previous visits with the couple — bubbly personality, endless chatter and a good heart.

Averting further commentary, Aithne broke in. "Thank you for all your help. Zevran and I both owe you and Teagan a great debt. We are also grateful that you were able to take the Orlesians in. I know it is a strain on the resources of Redcliffe." Accepting a brief hug from the smiling woman, Aithne turned to the red-haired knight accompanying her. "It is good to see you Sir Perth." The knight had treated her with respect and kindness during the blight when so many others had dismissed her as an upstart elf.

Executing a courtly bow the chivalrous knight took Aithne's hand and kissed it. "I am glad to see you well Warden." Giving her bed ridden companion a smile he continued, "It is good to see you awake Zevran, your injury was most grave."

With uncharacteristic courtesy the assassin thanked both Kaitlyn and Sir Perth for their concern. Baiting them was simply not worth it, they were both kind, uncomplicated souls. His usual teasing would have merely hurt people he genuinely liked.

"You are such a gentleman." Kaitlyn had clearly never had the real Zevran unleashed upon her. "I know Petra says it's too early for rich food, but surely a couple of cinnamon rolls wouldn't hurt." Revealing a tray piled with the sweets she swept forward. "These are fresh out of the oven."

"Can I 'ave one?" A dirty elf child darted into the room and made a beeline for Zevran.

"Cathal, what are you doing here? You should be down at the village with the others." The Antivan scolded gently.

The child's peasant accent thickened at the correction from his hero. "Couldn't Ser Zevran. Bad things happen to them that goes to the castle. I had to see you and Lady Aithne safe."

"Not this castle young one, Ferelden is not like Orlais. Bann Teagan and his wife Kaitlyn are good friends of ours — they would never harm us, or you." The scrawny youth looked at Zevran dubiously; this information was in direct contrast to the truths of his former life.

"This must be one of the refugee children." Kaitlyn smiled at the waif. "Of course you may have a sweet — then you must go back to your parents."

Cathal snatched a roll and mumbled, "No parents," around his first bite.

Aithne glanced at Zevran with a lifted brow, when he nodded assent to her unvoiced question, she directed the grubby youth to a chair and addressed Kaitlyn. "He lost his parents when the villagers rebelled; he has no relatives to look after him. If you do not mind, he can stay here with us, for now. He does, however, need a bath."

"If you will allow, I can assist with that. I have a bit of experience with five younger brothers." Sir Perth rightly figured that the child would be a handful for the two wounded elves.

"No! No, he's a chevalier…" Cathal was clearly terrified.

Aithne dropped to one knee to look the frightened child in the eye. "He's a knight of Redcliff and he will not hurt you in any way. As a knight he swore to Andraste to protect those that need help. Just as important, he is a friend to Zevran and I. You can trust him. Besides, if you go and have your bath, we'll save you another cinnamon roll."

"I think the cook has some meat pies ready too." Sir Perth appealed to the elf child's obvious hunger. Aithne smiled gratefully at the knight as he steered Cathal out of the room, still nervously chewing his roll.

"Well, that's settled, though I doubt you'll get the rest you need with him to look after." Kaitlyn seemed more amused than surprised. Her kind heart had gone out to the orphan, thinking of her own son who was only a few months old. "I did bring you something besides sweets. I have fresh clothes for you both and a basin of hot water and soap. Petra said you weren't to have regular baths until your wounds had healed but I thought this might help. Also you will want a change of sheets when you are finished – I have tended more than one patient with a fever myself." Teagan's wife prattled on, efficiently directing the servants to place the indicated items in the room.

Aithne stopped the human woman as she turned to go. "I really can't tell you how grateful we are for your aid."

"You were so generous during the blight, finding Bevin, giving us money for the sword. I would never have met Teagan if you had not helped us – I owe you everything." Embarrassed the generous woman ducked out the door. "I will leave you now — Petra needs more supplies for the refugees in the village. Please just let me know if you need anything."

Zevran waited for the door to close, and then commented dryly, "I thought it was only grown strays you picked up."

"Don't blame me, you encouraged the boy. Anyway, he has no place with the villagers, you know as well as I that the other elves don't want him, and the humans want nothing to do with the elves." The Orlesian serfs had made it very clear that the elves with them had been slaves purchased by the young chevalier and not members of their community.

His voice soft with introspection the assassin admitted, "He reminds me a bit of myself — before the Crows."

"I thought so. I don't think he should travel with us, given Morrigan's letter, our mission seems too perilous. Perhaps we can foster him with someone here at Redcliffe or with Shianni in Dererim — she has a particular talent for placing orphans." Aithne didn't wish to disrupt the child's life more than it already was but their mission was simply too dangerous to take him along.

"I agree — he'll have a better chance than most orphans anyway." Brushing away his serious mood Zevran grinned, "Now what about that sponge bath?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you're incorrigible?" Aithne gathered the basin of hot water and soap.

"Almost every day my dear Warden."

* * *

_I would like to thank all of you who have put my story on your story alerts or taken time to review it. As a writer, it keeps me going to know that you are reading and enjoying my tale. Please do not be shy if you have any suggestions for improvement._

_Heaps of thanks to my beta, Tarante11a, who has been so gracious with her time. _

_Thanks, as always, to Bioware._


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Dinner Party

Aithne sat poring over the scroll Marethari had sent with them. She had spent much of the past four days, interspersed with a few hands of Wicked Grace, attempting to decipher the ancient elvish with little success.

"Do you really think staring at it will cause a translation to suddenly appear? Teagan and Kaitlyn will be waiting; if we're to be late it should be for better reason than a moldy text." Zevran's fingers followed the line of her neck.

"Zev, you're barely out of bed," she stood halting the progress of his hand. "You're right though, I just don't have the skill to translate it. Are you sure you're up to this tonight?" His skin was still pale beneath his tan, the fine lines near his eyes etched deep.

"It's only dinner, anyway I've spent enough time in bed the last few days."

"Now that's something I never thought to hear you say." Aithne laughed as she straightened a crease where his tunic had wrinkled over his bandaged shoulder. Her fingers lingered a moment on the fabric, "I'm glad you're here to say it."

"So am I my dear warden." He took her hand and softly kissed it. "Shall we?"

It was a short stroll down the corridor to the Arl's comfortably appointed apartments where they were greeted by an enthusiastic Oghren as well as the Bann and his wife.

"Zevran – I told them you'd be up, tough as an old bronto." Oghren clapped the elf on the back making him stagger slightly.

"Indeed my friend, I couldn't leave you alone with these lovely women. What would Felsi think?

"Ah, I'm a family man now, 'sides these are taken." The gruff dwarf glared at Zevran, "why didn't you tell me about you and the Commander?"

Zevran studied Aithne in silent query, hoping she considered their shift from friends to lovers a lasting change. He was rewarded with her smile and gentle fingers enfolding his own, a public answer to the private question.

Oghren snorted, "fine friends you are, now I owe Felsi five sovereigns and a new dress, she always said you two would end up together."

Teagan raised a brow at the exchange and tactfully changed the subject. "Come friends, Kaitlyn found some Antivan wine in the cellars, I thought we should celebrate."

"Celebrate?" Aithne looked around the old arl's quarters; they had changed a lot since her last visit. Most of the ornate Orlesian furnishings Isolde had been so fond of had been replaced with sturdy and more comfortable Ferelden made items. Kaitlyn's touch was unmistakable in the choices that made the rooms less imposing and more homelike. She grinned, "Did Eamon finally name you Arl?"

"Oghren brought the letter when he came looking for you. Eamon and Isolde intend to remain in the capital permanently." Teagan offered them all glasses of a deep red wine.

"To the new Arl and Arlessa of Redcliffe, may their lands be filled with peace and prosperity." Aithne raised her glass in toast and they all followed.

"Mmm, 9:12 Dragon, a very good year. A fitting choice to celebrate your promotion." Zevran sipped his wine with obvious appreciation.

"Not bad, but not much of a bite." Oghren's appraisal generated a laugh from the group, his palate was more attuned to stronger, and frequently toxic beverages.

"Never fear, I have a bit of Nevarran brandy put back for after dinner."

Teagan's cook had created a truly exceptional meal and the group chatted and laughed through five courses of delicious food. Aithne was toying with the last bits of a peach trifle when Teagan addressed her. "I would like your opinion on who should take over Rainesfere. I thought perhaps it would be a fitting reward for Ser Perth, who has shown such loyalty to RedCliffe and the crown."

"A generous reward, but appropriate I think. Perth would do well with it, he is honest and kind, and his wife is a practical woman – also she is a younger daughter of the Bann of Copper Falls." Aithne smiled at the thought of the knight and his quiet wife as landholders. Ser Perth's young son had become fast friends with the orphaned elf Cathal, thanks to his father's fairness and lack of prejudice. Kearney and Cathal were no doubt creating havoc while she and Zevran were enjoying their dinner.

"I shall make the arrangements then."

"Teagan, I did want to ask you about the refugees, I know it is a strain on the resources of RedCliffe to feed all the extra mouths. I am no longer chancellor but the royal storehouses are well enough stocked that you could utilize them if need be. I will confirm it with Alistair when we go to Denerim, but it should not be a problem. Most of the Orlesians could be relocated to Lothering or the lands to the south in the spring – they're farmers, not fishermen."

"Your advice is appreciated, I feared a lean winter, the town's population has increased by nearly one-third with the new additions. We have a lot of salted and smoked fish stored but our granaries are barely sufficient. Come spring I will see the humans resettled, however I am at a bit of a loss as to the two elvish families." Teagan felt a bit awkward addressing a racial division with the Dalish woman but she was in the best position to recommend a solution.

"I would not send them with the humans, they hold little regard for slaves purchased to replace those who fled or were killed under the new Chevalier's rule. I can ask them if they wish to go to Denerim's alienage but I hate to condemn anyone to that life, even with the improvements Shianni has made." Aithne had been disgusted by the squalor that her kinsfolk in the alienage had accepted as their lot in life. It was one thing to be a member of a subjugated race – it was another to have no pride.

"I thought slavery was illegal in Orlais?" Kaitlyn had built a thriving business prior to her marriage but she still had little experience with the realities of politics.

"Slavery is – indenture is not. In practice the two are the same; indenture contracts are not written to allow those involved to fulfill their terms." Zevran reclined in his chair idly toying with his wine glass.

"But that's horrible, taking someone's freedom forever…what about the children?" Kaitlyn stared at Zevran aghast.

"In many parts of Thedas a poor child's only value is what he will bring from the highest bidder." The stone of the castle had more expression than the assassin's voice. Zevran casually drained his wine. "But I see I have distressed you, such was not my intention. We were discussing their regained freedom, were we not?"

Teagan glanced over; the Antivan's cool demeanor covered something. The Arl shrugged, he knew little of the elf before his arrival in Ferelden, the man was loyal to Alistair – that was all he needed to know. "I don't know if they would be comfortable here with no other elves, but let them know they are welcome to stay if they wish. Varden claims to have skill as a woodworker and Alene, Doran's wife, is a seamstress, their skills would be useful." He had spent some time talking to each of the refugees over the last few days. The elves' courage and acceptance of hardship had impressed him though they remained leery of a human lord.

"Thank you Teagan, I will speak to them, they may feel more at ease expressing their wishes to another elf." Aithne smiled, of all the human lords Teagan had proven himself to be the most open-minded, and in fact had been one of the few to acknowledge Shianni socially after Alistair had named her Bann. "So tell me, what are your plans for RedCliffe now?"

They spent another comfortable hour discussing Teagan and Kaitlyn's plans for improvements in the Arling, before Aithne made their excuses. Zevran had been oddly quiet, his usual witty repartee and innuendo half-hearted at best. Oghren was still detailing some type of dwarven fortification he thought would be of benefit to the castle when the two elves bade their hosts good-night.

Cathal was curled up asleep in his blankets by they fire when they reached their chamber. Zevran sank onto the bed and absently considered the boy. "He's too young to even realize what a precious thing freedom is. I always scorned those too weak to climb out of their sorry lives, mocking them from my own gilded cage. I am glad we helped them, finding the courage to fight back is not an easy thing to do. Had it not been for you, my Dalish lady, I would have willingly climbed back into my prison when Taliesin came."

Aithne settled next to him tenderly tracing the line of his Crow tattoo. "I do not believe that."

"I told you about Rinna, you know what I was."

"I know you were trying to escape, that you did not wish to be a tool for the Crows any longer, even if it meant your death."

"Why did you spare me?" She had never told him. He pictured his carefully engineered destruction that had marred a beautiful summer day, his team of assassins and mercenaries all assembled with the purpose of exterminating the last Grey Wardens in Ferelden.

"It was your eyes."

"My eyes?"

"I know it sounds silly but there was something there, something more than flirting and bluff. Something that did not fit a cold assassin, made me believe your pledge."

"You should be careful what you believe."

"I always am Zev."

He reached for her, fingers tangling in her hair, all sunlight and shadows. He wanted her, to take her and mark her as his. She melted into his fierce embrace, trusting him, believing in him –

"Ser Zevran?" Cathal's voice interrupted them.

Zevran disentangled himself with a regretful smile. He had no wish to expose their young charge to the carnal knowledge he had experienced so early, given his own childhood spent in a brothel. "Yes, Cathal?"

The child flourished a small wooden horse. "Can I keep it? Ser Perth gave it too me, it's painted to look just like Tempest."

"Of course you may. Did you thank him for it?" Perth had taken the boy to the stables that first day, trying to gain the trust of the frightened child. Cathal had enthused about the magnificent warhorses ever since.

"Yes Ser. He said I could ask if Kearney could come to the village with us tomorrow too."

With Zevran on the mend Aithne had planned to purchase some supplies in RedCliffe village the next day. "If Ser Perth approves, then yes, he can come. Now, back to bed with you, it's late and you need your sleep."

"Yes, Lady Aithne."

The following day was clear and bright, Zevran and Aithne walked down to the village, listening to the shrieks of the two children as they pelted each other with snowballs. For a brief moment Aithne pictured what it would have been like if she had not become a Grey Warden, had married and borne children. If there had been no blight, no bastard prince, and no enigmatic assassin in her life. The image was peaceful, but she had to admit, false. Before the blight she had not wished for the simple things in life, had been too restless to appreciate what she had, even now the spark of adventure appealed more than a quiet life. She grinned as Zevran ducked a poorly aimed snowball, not that there was much risk of a quiet life.

Aithne spotted Varden outside the village Chantry splitting wood, the frosty air eliciting an occasional cough. "Good to see you Varden."

The Orlesian elf leaned his axe against the pile and bowed. "Lady Aithne."

"Just Aithne, I told you, I am no lady. How is Senya today?"

"She has stopped bleeding, she will not loose the child." Varden's face was an impassive mask.

Aithne nodded, the child Varden's wife carried was likely the offspring of the human Chevalier. The elves had already declined her offer to send them to the Dalish lands for that very reason. "I spoke with Arl Teagan, he has offered a place for you here if you wish, otherwise you could go to Bann Shianni in the spring."

"I will talk with the others, but I think Senya and I at least, will stay. The…our, child may not feel so out of place among humans. Your Arl Teagan is generous for a human lord."

"You can trust him – if you speak to him I am sure he can find projects more fitting to your skills than splitting wood." Aithne left the former slave with that encouraging thought.

Aithne left Zevan and the boys with the seamstress to have Cathal measured for new clothes, he had been wearing some of Kearney's cast-offs to this point, but he really needed clothes that fit properly. While they were occupied she went to the general store for the other items on her list: bandages, oil for their armor, herbs (for medicine and for cooking), and a few precious packets of spices. The spices were outrageously expensive this far from a port city, but she had rarely spent even a fraction of the stipend Alistair insisted she take. It would be worth every sovereign for more of Zevran's cooking.

Ser Perth and his wife Brygid met them on their return to the castle. Shooing the children upstairs to change into dry clothes Perth wrapped an arm around his wife and addressed them. "A moment if you please, my wife and I would like to ask you both something."

"Certainly," noting the pair's unease Aithne gestured toward the library, the entry hall seemed a bit public. "I would guess this is not a simple matter, perhaps we should sit down."

"Of course," the tall knight remained standing, his hand on Brygid's shoulder as Aithne and Zevran settled into two of the comfortable library chairs.

"What troubles you?" Aithne had rarely seen the confidant knight so disturbed.

"We don't want to offend you, it's just that Brygid and I have always wanted a large family, and well…, there's only been Kearney. Cathal gets along so well with him and with the move to Rainesfere there'll be the manor house and it will be so empty…. He has no family and Teagan tells us you will be traveling again…"

"What Perth is trying to say is that we would like to adopt Cathal. I know you would probably prefer he be raised by elves, not humans but, well… he needs a family and we want him to become part of ours." Brygid's hand wrapped around her husband's as she anxiously awaited their answer.

"Zev, what do you think?"

He stared at the floor, _what gave him the right to determine the child's fate? _"We should ask him, if it is his wish then I agree."

Aithne nodded, it felt right. Human or not, Perth and Brygid were good parents, Cathal would be loved and cared for without regard to his race. Their offer to adopt, not just foster, would give him unprecedented status for an elf. "Let's talk to him then."

Two days later Arl Teagan formally recognized the adoption of the elf Cathal, age seven, by Bann Perth and Lady Brygid.

* * *

_A special thanks to Erynnar who beta'd this chapter for me. If you have not read her story** "Soulmates"** I would recommend it - she has it all Alistair, Zevran, intrigue, romance, humor, friendship and a rocking good story._

_As always I own nothing and give my thanks to Bioware for letting me play with their toys._

_As a side note our orphan Cathal will have his own story when I have finished Aithne and Zevran's tale. After all if I am going to upset the social status quo of Ferelden I might as well have fun with it._


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10: Privy Council

The month of Haring was not a pleasant time to ride across Ferelden. Though the snows were not as deep as they would be in Wintermarch; the frequent storms and gusting winds made travel uncomfortable at best. There were some beautiful days, of course, when the frost rimed the trees and the snow sparkled like a blanket across the Bannorn – it was just hard to remember them when frozen fingers curled in gloves and icy needles of wet snow crusted heavy on cloaks and boots and balled in the horses' hooves.

"Maker's frozen tits!" Zevran jumped off his horse as the poor animal slipped and came to halt. Lifting a front foot he proceeded to dig out the packed snow that was giving the gelding difficulty and reapplied lard to the bottom of the foot – again. The grease would keep the snow from sticking for a few miles, and then they would have to stop and repeat the procedure. "Why did I ever come to this icicle of a country?"

"Because you were trying to kill me?" Aithne grinned at him as she and Oghren dismounted to tend to their horses.

Zevran ignored the teasing, he was sick of being cold and wet, tired of sleeping on the floor in crowded taverns (the approach of the First Day holiday had every private room full), and revolted by the thought of another overcooked bowl of lamb and pea stew.

"Well lad, you were." Oghren snickered, "But you found another use for our lady Warden…, not that you've done much about it. Seems to me you'd like the cold about now…."

"Oghren!" Aithne scooped up a handful of snow and dumped it down the dwarf's back; this, of course, was considered a declaration of war and a few minutes later they were all covered in snow and laughing.

Zevran, humor restored by the lighthearted exchange, paused to give Aithne a brief kiss as he helped her to her feet. Oghren might be crude, but his assessment of Zevran's predicament was on target, the hot spring was entirely too long ago.

They only spent one more uncomfortable night on the road, pushing their horses hard they arrived in Denerim the next day. A blizzard swirled at their heels as they rode through the city gates an hour after nightfall. The castle stables were overflowing and carriages filled the yard, it appeared that the court was indulging in First Day festivities a little early.

Aithne sighed, with a state dinner Alistair was likely to be occupied until late. She would have preferred to get this meeting over with – her nerves were stretched tight enough already. Leaving their horses with a stableman they entered the castle through the servant's entrance.

Reading her mood Zevran leaned over, "it will give us time to get cleaned up. A hot bath perhaps?"

They parted company with Oghren, who was anxious to be reunited with Felsi, and continued to Aithne's chamber. She laid her saddlebags on the small table and absorbed the essence of the room that had been her home for most of the last four years. Nothing had been touched; Oghren had assured them Alistair had given orders for their chambers to be left as they were. The Dalish tapestry depicting Andruil still hung on the wall, a selection of books sat neatly on the shelf, an armor stand stood in the corner holding the ancient elvish armor she had never been able to part with – though it was far to heavy for her.

Zevran entered behind her, having found a servant to send for bath water. He took in her stillness, her disregard for the puddle of water dripping off her cloak, her hand gripping the back of the chair. "I do not have to stay, if you prefer I can go to my own quarters."

She turned and went to him, her deft fingers worrying at the fastening of his cloak. "No Zev, please stay. It's just that I felt so…free, when we were traveling – it seems confining to be back here." Meeting the uncertainty in his amber eyes with desire in her own, she continued. "Now about that bath…."

Alistair was bored, state dinners always seemed to drag on interminably; he toyed with simply leaving, taking Rothana and retreating to their rooms for a quiet evening. He sighed, _duty first_, and turned his attention back to the Rivaini ambassador. His eyes glazed as she extolled the virtues of reducing the Ferelden tariff on imported silk. When a servant bent and whispered a message in his ear he restrained a smile, _at last._ The ambassador paused to take a sip of wine and he took advantage of the moment to request a favor of Warden Commander Howe. The lean man nodded his understanding and excused himself from the table.

_Funny thing that,_ Alistair thought to himself as he politely smiled for the ambassador to continue. He would have never thought to trust the offspring of a snake like Rendon Howe – when Aithne returned from Amaranthine with Nathaniel in tow he had been shocked to say the least. To imagine that the man would become a close friend and confidant, that he had never dreamed.

Rothana caught his hand in hers under the table and arched a brow in question. He nodded, _yes, they were here_. He kept her hand, thumb stroking her palm in reassurance, their marriage had indeed blossomed beyond the cold matter of producing an heir, but the new understanding was still a fragile thing.

Nathaniel was grateful for the excuse to leave – his visits to court were a mixed blessing. He had found a surprising kindred spirit in the Grey Warden turned king, but spending time in Denerim, subject to the hostility of his former peers, was always awkward. His position had been made more difficult when Aithne had named him Warden Commander of Ferelden – in essence giving Amaranthine back to him. Not that he objected, but it had generated a significant amount of malicious gossip and outright discontent among those who had suffered at his father's hands. He looked up at the former chancellor's door; his feet had traveled a straight path while his thoughts meandered. He knocked and was surprised to hear a giggle, then a splash. Some servant involved in a tryst no doubt, he started to open the door to shoo the intruders out of Aithne's room.

"Give me a moment, I'll be right there." Aithne's voice sounded, then another muffled laugh.

_A giggle? Aithne didn't giggle, she rarely laughed at all_. Nathaniel was at a loss to explain his former Commander's change of behavior. She had barely opened the door –dressed in hastily donned shirt and pants with hair still wet – when Zevran stepped in to view, bare-chested and also dripping. "Oh…, I'll just come back later…" he turned to go.

Tossing Zevran a clean shirt Aithne called, "Nate, come in, it's okay. What did you need?"

Averting his eyes as Zevran made a show of donning his shirt Nate sat in the offered chair. "Alistair wants us to meet in his chambers when the state dinner is over. There have been new…developments."

"What developments?" Disturbed Aithne stared at Nathaniel.

The Grey Warden Commander leaned back in his chair, _where to start_? "You read Morrigan's letter?" He waited for their nods, and then continued. "I recently received correspondence from Weisshaupt asking me to be on the alert for her whereabouts. If I were to find her I am supposed to detain or kill, both her and any child that may be with her."

Nathaniel did not miss the glance the two elves exchanged. _Interesting_, he had expected Aithne's reaction, he had not been sure if she would have shared the secret with Zevran. He held up a hand, silencing the question on Aithne's lips. "We should probably wait to discuss this further until we meet tonight. I still have Oghren and Anders to find. And Aithne, Zevran, it's good to see you both safe."

"It's good to see you too, Nate." He could still feel the warmth of her fingers on his arm where she had given him an affectionate squeeze as he turned to go. Smiling, he recalled her decision to make him a Grey Warden. He had hated her, wanted to wring her slender neck, see death cloud her green eyes for the slight to his house and the death of his father. Instead she had given him a chance to find the truth, to find himself. In doing so she had cemented his loyalty, to her and eventually to the crown. The Grey Wardens came in a distant third. He hoped her mercy and faith in her friends had not led her astray with Morrigan. Still she could be ruthless if need be. He still recalled her slight form, crouched over the broken body of the Architect, praying to commend his soul to Falon'Din, Guide of the Dead. She had believed the Architect, had recognized his worth, but she had still killed him; his survival was too much of a risk.

Nathaniel's footsteps quickened down the hall, best to tell Oghren next. Felsi was going to kill him for stealing her husband away so soon but the dwarf, as the former General of Ferelden and a Grey Warden, was an important part of the unofficial privy council.

"It's a dangerous game he plays," Zevran guided Aithne to a chair, fingers gently working the knots of tension in her shoulders.

"I know Zev, if Weisshaupt ever finds out I don't know that we can protect him." Nathaniel had agreed to his duplicitous role after he had been approached by an Anderfels warden expecting him to still have resentment toward Alistair and Aithne for his father's death. It had been suggested that he pretend to befriend the two Ferelden wardens who had defeated the Archdemon, and keep Weisshaupt advised of their actions. His friendship already firmly cemented with Aithne, he had volunteered for the role of double agent.

"He was raised to politics and the Ferelden wardens are loyal to him, he plays his hand with skill."

"And perhaps with a few hidden cards." The resources of the intelligence network assembled by Leliana and Zevran were not inconsiderable. Aithne sighed, they had not been back in Denerim for two hours and she was already immersed in the political quagmire again. She allowed herself the brief respite of Zevran's massaging hands until her stomach loudly complained about missing dinner. "Shall we raid the kitchen Zev?"

The kitchens boiled with activity as the servants attempted to keep food and drink flowing out to the nobles and foreign dignitaries. Swiping a couple of plates and piling them with food they retreated under the chastisement of an undercook.

Thus it was that they finished their meal and arrived at the king's quarters considerably before Alistair could courteously leave his guests. Aithne paced the sitting room, heedless of the fine rug beneath her boots.

She was stopped in her current transit by Zevran, he pressed a glass of wine into her hand, amber eyes shuttered in the face of her distress. She laid a hand on his sleeve, "Zev…"

"I can't believe you got another one to believe the, 'a mage really knows how to use his staff' line." Nathaniel's deep voice penetrated the room.

"But it works so well Nate. And mage robes are, well you know, handy." Anders had clearly been working on his latest conquest when Nate had found him.

"Don't feel to bad son, Felsi and I were just about to grease up the old bronto when he knocked." They could hear the dwarf chide the Warden Commander. "You should give a man time to polish his sword a little when he's been away from his lady."

"Sorry brothers, it was the king's wish we meet tonight." Nathaniel entered the room trailed by the mage and disgruntled dwarf.

"Anders, still making up for lost time in the tower I see." Aithne embraced the mage. "We should issue a public warning."

"Oh, nothing so serious as that, there's just this little Rivaini girl…."

"And the girl from Gwaren before that, the blonde Orlesian, the twins from Amaranthine…"

"Okay, okay, can you blame me? After all that time locked in the tower I am enjoying the pleasures of being free." Anders innocent smile garnered laughs from the entire company. "It's good to see you back."

"Indeed, it is." Alistair entered with Rothana on his arm. "I trust your journey was safe."

Aithne felt her heart stop and then start again. She wasn't ready to face him yet, not with his very pregnant wife on his arm, not with Zevran sitting so calm on the sofa he had retreated to. She looked to the assassin, his eyes were blank; they held no light, no warmth, nothing of Zevran – just as they had been when Taliesin had come to claim him. Gathering herself she managed a bow, "Your Majesties."

"Good grief, not you too. As if I don't have enough toadies bowing and scraping all day."

Aithne nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She watched as the king tenderly seated his wife then settled himself next to her. Forcing composure she walked over and installed herself next to Zevran on the sofa. His posture was relaxed, languid but she could feel the barrier he had thrown between them as if it were a solid wall. She schooled her hands in her lap, wanting to reach out to her Antivan lover, afraid they would both shatter if she did. Looking up she found the King and Queen watching her, Rothana with a shadow of triumph colored by a little lingering resentment and no small amount of compassion, Alistair with sadness – a final farewell. Sighing she forged ahead, _nothing had been easy since Tamlen found the mirror, why start now?_ "We received the letter and Nate has informed us of the other difficulty…"

"Yes, before we begin though, I think we need to share the whole story with everyone here. Do you wish to tell it or shall I?" Alistair's gaze held her, she had been the one that convinced him, it was her job.

Aithne took a fortifying sip of wine – he wanted her to tell everyone, even his wife? "She was my friend, I will tell the tale." Having told the story twice recently she pared it down to the bare facts. In deference to Rothana she left out any reference to motivation beyond increasing the chances of eliminating the Archdemon and keeping Alistair alive to take the throne, her previous relationship with Alistair was well known to everyone in the room but Aithne was not going to bring it up.

"So that's how you survived? I always wondered. Risky but probably worth it." Anders viewed his old commander in a new light.

"Worth it? How can risking another blight be worth it? Sodding! Bloody! Nug! Humper!" Oghren stalked across the room and glared at Aithne. "How could you even think…?" Sputtering he turned his back on her.

"Oghren…"

"I need a drink." The angry dwarf stalked over and helped himself to an entire decanter of brandy.

"What was done is not the issue, what happens now is." Nate broke the silence that had fallen. "Weisshaupt is looking for Morrigan and the child, the Anderfels wardens intend to destroy them both."

"Best sodding thing to do," Oghren muttered between swigs.

"It may be the best thing to do, it may not. This child, this old god, may hold the knowledge to stop the blights for good. It seems foolish to throw that away." Zevran finally joined the conversation.

"Do you think that is possible?" Alistair looked up sudden hope in his eyes.

"Anything is possible. Aithne and I have gathered a bit of elvish lore pertaining to the Old Gods in the course of our travels. It differs a bit from the Chantry's version, but both agree that there were no darkspawn prior to the imprisonment of the Old Gods or the hibernation of the ancient dragons – depending on which version you believe. Perhaps an awakened Old God can aid us in containing the darkspawn."

Alistair seemed greatly relieved by this line of reasoning. "I sent Leliana to Morrigan when Isabela delivered the letter. She had instructions to destroy the child if it carried any hint of the darkspawn taint; otherwise she was to protect both it and Morrigan as far as she was able."

To order the possible death of a child, his child – Aithne could not imagine what those orders must have cost Alistair. He had finally grown into his title and the loss of the innocent templar pained her. She watched as Rothana rested a gentle hand on her husband's arm, reassuring him with her touch. At least he had a wife who cared about him and a legitimate child to love on the way.

"There seems little we can do from here, Zevran and I were looking for Morrigan anyway…" Aithne stole a glance at Zev, he was not quite as cold, and the barrier had dropped a little, "Leliana will likely need help if there are Wardens after the child, we could go…"

"Someone needs to. I cannot, as Warden Commander my absence would be noted, it would also be wise to keep a few loyal Wardens in court in case Weisshaupt comes looking for Alistair. Oghren and Anders are already established here so they would be obvious choices." Nate turned back to Aithne. "I guess that leaves you and Zevran to go if you are agreeable."

"I will go. Zev, are you with me?" She was almost afraid to ask, afraid of what his stony silence might mean.

The full force of his amber eyes met hers, "I gave you my pledge."

"Well, that's settled then, one nasty swamp witch to rescue, one god baby to deal with and two body guards that will drain my cellars and dally with the maids. Boy, its good to be king." Rothana whispered something in Alistair's ear and he smiled down at her. "Isabela's ship is due in harbor sometime this week, we will meet again when she arrives. I am going to exercise my kingly privileges and go to bed. Good night."

* * *

_As always my first thanks go to Bioware, I own nothing._

_Thank you also to my beta Erynnar- if you have not read her story "Soulmates" you are missing out._

_Thank you also to everyone who has taken the time to review, or put me on favorites or story alerts, you keep me writing. A special shout out to Judy who left a review I was unable to reply to - thank you -reviews make my day._


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11: Silk Sheets

Zevran trailed Aithne as she marched back to her chambers. He tried, _Maker knows he tried,_ not to care so much. He had told himself their intimacy was casual, an enjoyable extension of their friendship. His mind kept thrusting pictures into his vision, her distress on arriving at the castle, the almost frantic enjoyment of their earlier lovemaking, the way her too strong jaw had clenched and her face paled at the sound of Alistair's voice. He worked to shove the bitter, _possessive, _feeling away. She was not his, not a thing like a sword – which he could take and keep. What right did he, assassin, murderer, and betrayer; have to this honest, honorable woman? He was jealous of her reaction to the king and it angered him. They reached her chamber and he began gathering his things, staying in her room had been a mistake.

"Zev," a hesitant touch on his arm, "Why?"

A hundred little questions in that one word, he flinched away. "I am not a trophy to be displayed – 'you chose her so I'll pick him.' I won't be a pawn," he sneered, eyes a little wild. "You want a lover? Go to his bed."

"What? What are you talking about? You…us…it's not like that. I needed you in there!" Eyes flashing she blocked his exit from the room. "I had to confess to my dear friends – and to his wife – the most dishonorable thing I have ever done and you just sat there, walled up in your cold little assassin world!" Voice rising with fury she shoved him back, "you are my dearest friend, my lover, the one person who might understand and you pushed me away. Am I not good enough for you, is that it? Maybe I should be glad – you killed the only other person you ever cared about!" She stopped horrified as what she had just said, watched the blood drain from his face as he staggered backward.

"Oh, Zev I didn't mean that…I'm so sorry," she stayed, frozen to the spot by the raw hurt in his eyes as he walked out.

She sank down next to the bed, staring at the door he had slammed. _Of all the things she could have said, it had to be the one thing that could truly hurt him,_ she wrapped her arms around her knees and sat shivering on the floor. Zevran had been there for her, his presence confidant and reassuring, taken for granted. He had sworn to assault the gates of the Black City with her if that was her desire and she had just hurt him, perhaps beyond repair, as surely as if she had wielded a dagger to his heart. _No, not this time,_ she had kept quiet, hidden her pain with Alistair and it had gained her what? _Nothing. _Maybe it was time to be a little selfish, there was much in her life she could not control, but she was not going to lose Zevran – not without talking to him anyway.

That short distance down the hallway was the hardest she had ever walked; climbing the steps of Fort Drakon had not been this difficult. She watched as her hand, almost with a life of its own raised and knocked. Silence. She knocked again, "Zevran?" Nothing. She tried the knob – locked. Pulling the set of lockpicks she always carried out of a pouch, she tripped the tumblers to open the lock – he had not reset the poison trap since their return.

He was huddled in his favorite chair, staring at the cold hearth when she entered. "Zevran?" He did not even look her way. It was hard, she could choose a king, send people to die in battle on her order, risk the fate of a kingdom, but to talk to him – after what had been said – she swallowed and tried to summon the courage. "I truly did not mean it. I have no excuse…, please look at me." She knelt in front of him, trying to catch his eyes. "What I had with Alistair – that is over, has been over for a long time. He is happy with Rothana, as…as," she stumbled over her next words, afraid to confess, afraid to stay silent, "as I have been happy with you." She tentatively traced the line of his jaw, turning him to face her; an insect in amber, she was caught in his eyes. Drawing a shuddering breath her words spilled out, words she hadn't meant to say, words that could not be contained. "Zevran Arainai, Gods help me, but I love you."

Breathe in, out – he still hadn't moved, hadn't blinked. She dropped her hand; Zevran had paid dearly for his one foray into love, how could she have reminded him of it, and then lay her own heart in his lap? She freed her eyes from his and stared resolutely at the carved arm of his chair.

Later, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, his weapon callused hand fell to her shoulder as he slid to the floor. "I am an assassin, a son of a whore, an Antivan Crow, love is not for such as I." His voice was rough and his eyes were far away. "I was trained to be a killer, be cold, to take my pleasures and leave. How…how can you love," he expelled the word, "someone like that?"

"Because that is not all there is to Zevran Arainai." She caught his hand, fingers smoothing the blue vessels under his skin. "This is the hand of an assassin, true; it is also the hand of a stalwart warrior, an artist with sharpened blades, a true friend, a gentle lover, a philosopher on the experience of life, a rescuer of orphan children, an intelligent and resourceful advisor to the king, a rebuilder of a war-torn country, and a good man."

He shook his head, "I am not…."

"You are."

"I do not…cannot, give you what you wish."

"How do you know what I wish, Zevran? You made assumptions earlier, look where that led us." She tipped her head to the side, studying him. "Perhaps I am content with what you can give. For now all I wish is an honest answer, do you want me to leave, to end this between us?" It was a gamble, but she needed to know, could not live in the limbo she had existed in before. Breathe in, out; still as a pond on a windless day she awaited his answer.

"Stay," it was barely a whisper, as if he was not sure. Then his fingers tightened around hers and he drew her into his embrace. They sat silent, Aithne wrapped in Zevran's arms, her head resting on his shoulder. Neither wanted more words, wounds still raw from their fight, feelings that weren't to be discussed.

Eventually the stone floor and the chill of the room forced them to move. They stood, Zevran toying with a strand of her hair that had escaped her braid. "Will you stay with me tonight, here?"

She looked at his bed, the site of so many of his dalliances; she had preferred her own room, if only for that reason. She nodded, "I'll get the fire going, it's freezing in here."

"Not for long my Dalish lady." He turned and walked across the room to open a chest. Finding the lock undisturbed and his traps still in place, he withdrew a bottle of wine and two blown glass goblets. After the wine he removed fresh sheets from the chest and set about changing the dusty bedding. His task completed he poured the wine and brought a glass to Aithne as she built the now burning kindling into a merry blaze. He laid a blanket in front of the fire and settled next to her, sipping the fine Antivan red and watching the flickering shadows play across her face.

They shared the wine and the warmth of the fire for a time, before he gently reached up and unbraided her hair. Allowing the dark blonde – almost brown, strands to play across her shoulders he leaned over to taste her lips. She tasted of wine and sunshine and something wild. They tarried by the fire a while, until clothing lay heaped and tangled and bare flesh shivered in anticipation. He then lifted her and laid her in his bed, where the green silk sheets so perfectly matched her eyes.

Much later, as she lay sleeping, nestled against his chest, he reached down to sweep her unruly hair from her face and whispered, "Mi` amor." Zevran Arainai did not sleep much that night.

* * *

_Sorry for the short chapter, I didn't want to leave you all wondering why Zevran shut down in the meeting and this needed to stand separate from the next chapter I have planned._


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12: Gifts 

Aithne woke to the steady thump of Zevran's heart beneath her ear; her hand lay on the smooth skin of his chest, sensitive to the honed muscle beneath. A slight headache from the wine pinched behind her eyes. _The Antivan red he had opened after _–_ oh no. _With unfortunate clarity she recalled the painful council meeting and their fight afterward. She had gone to him and told him – _Gods preserve her, had she really said that?_ She had meant every word, but to tell him, when she had only realized it as the words tumbled out?

She lay still, listening to his heart rate increase as her tension roused him, wishing she could hide. She did not want to see him, not distant and closed as he had been; or worse see the wound her harsh words had inflicted. _Courage. _She looked up when his hand moved from her ribs to trace the line of her hip. No words, just a demanding kiss as his fingers continued to roam. It was easier to surrender to the passion than to try to understand, so that was what she did.

Afterward, he tucked her back under the covers while he dressed. "I'll only be a minute," he said, and slipped out the door.

Aithne reclined against the soft pillows and debated rising to clean herself. Before she managed to turn thoughts into action, he had returned with her robe and fresh clothes.

"We'll have breakfast and water for a bath shortly." Zevran fidgeted with something in his hand as he prowled restlessly around the room, pausing to rekindle the fire and pick up the wine goblets and blanket from the previous night.

Servants brought breakfast and laid it on the table. They sat and ate, neither willing to break the silence, while the bath was filled. Finally, the last bucket of steaming water was poured and they were left to themselves.

"I owe you an apology for last night." His eyes were shadow-rimmed and turbulent. "I should not have said those things."

"No, but my own words were no less cruel…."

"But you spoke the truth. I am sorry, Aithne, it is difficult. I was always taught not to care, that it would make me weak…." Abruptly reaching a decision, his hand went to his pocket and pulled out an earring. "I was thinking – you have given me so many things, not the least of which has been my freedom from the Crows. I would like you to have this – I took it from my first mark, a Rivaini princeling. He was wearing this and little else."

The earring sparkled on his fingertips as he held it out to her. She could not read him. After years of practice, that surprised her; it could be a parting gift, an apology, anything at all. That it held meaning for him was clear. He would not have kept a simple trophy for so many years; would not be waiting, tension betrayed by the forced calm of his features, for her response. "Thank you, Zev." She swept her hair back, allowing him to place the gold hoop in a delicate earlobe. For the first time, she was actually grateful that she had allowed Leliana to pierce her ears.

A knock sounded at the door. Zevran traced the curve of her ear before turning to answer it.

"Morning Zevran, you haven't seen Aithne have you? She's not in her chamber and…oh." Alistair blushed red and started to back out of the room at the sight of Aithne, clad only in her robe, casually eating breakfast.

"Alistair, what did you need?" Aithne remained seated; the King's appearance was a complication she did not want.

"Um…I, well I was thinking last night, you are risking yourself to find m…Morrigan's child. Anyway, I know you haven't wanted another Mabari since Rabbit was killed, but there is still one pup from his last litter that has never imprinted – she's almost two now and well trained. I… would you at least look at her? I would feel better knowing you, and Zevran, have some back-up." Alistair paused, "I am glad the two of you have…are…um, together." He turned to go, and then swung back. "Don't forget, First Day court is tomorrow. I expect you both to attend – if I have to suffer through it, you should too."

Zevran shut the door behind the embarrassed king. "I would think he has been married long enough for the blushing to stop."

Aithne sighed. "First Day court. I wish we had stayed in Redcliffe a few more days. I hate attending court."

"Ah, but you are a vision in a dress; it always made me wonder what delights lay beneath."

"Nothing you hadn't seen before, I'm sure. I'm going to take my bath before the water gets cold." Aithne glanced at Zevran, who appeared rather nonplused by her response. "Come with me this morning, Genitivi should be back in town and I would like to see what he can do with Marethari's scroll. You needed your boots resoled anyway." She smiled. He still wore the Antivan leather boots she had given him, though there was probably little of the original leather left at this point from all the repairs over the years.

"Compliment a beautiful lady and she talks about boots." Zevran shook his head in mock bewilderment. "I'll get the scroll. Is there anything else you want from your room?"

"No, I don't think so. I'll have to pick out a dress for court later…."

Zevran disappeared out the door and Aithne hastily finished her bath. She was pulling on a dark brown tunic when he reentered; her saddlebags in one hand and – _oh Gods_ – the burgundy dress Leliana had talked her into and she had never worn, the one with the cream colored lace and the low neckline, draped over his other arm.

"Zev, what are you doing?"

"Making sure my Dalish lady is the most beautiful in Denerim, no? It would not do to attend First Day court in a wrinkled dress." He carefully hung the garment so the offending wrinkles could relax.

"I hardly think I would qualify."

He gave her an appraising look. "In this it is my opinion that matters, no? I say you are magnificent, thus it is so."

"You might want your bath before the water gets cold." She shrugged off his words; by human standards she might pass for pretty, but as an elf she was no more than average. Zevran could charm the Revered Mother out of her Chantry robe given enough time – his flattery, while pleasant, meant little.

It was still only mid-morning when they entered Denerim's marketplace. Even the previous night's storm had not stifled the bustle as the city's populace readied itself for First Day. The holiday was meant to be a gathering of neighbors and family, a reassurance in rural areas that all had made it through the past year; in the cities it was an occasion for feasting and celebration. Savory aromas filled the air as all manner of holiday treats were offered, bright ribbons fluttered in stalls, a cheerful tune stirred the air as a minstrel played.

Zevran watched Aithne, her cheeks flushed with cold, sunlight glinting off the gold earring when she turned her head. He still was not sure what to feel; he wanted to announce to the world that she was his, but at the same time he wanted to run, as far and as fast as he could, to get away from the dangerous emotions she stirred in him. Last night he had lashed out with vicious accusations, stung by her unmistakable reaction to Alistair – and she had apologized and said those three terrifying words: _I love you._ I love you, three words that scared him more than all the Crows in Antiva. He had been glad when Alistair had interrupted this morning; she had accepted the earring, and he had not known what else to say. What if she had asked him why? He had given it to her in the guise of a thank you and apology, but he was afraid it meant "_mine"._

His musings were interrupted by the creak of the door to his favorite cobbler shop. He held out the boots to the middle-aged man sitting surrounded by boots, shoes, laces and bits of leather.

"Again, Ser Arainai? There is a limit to what I can do."

"Ah, but they were given to me by a fair maiden who will pine away if I do not wear them."

Aithne rolled her eyes; Zev was in rare form this morning.

"I'll do my best, but don't complain if the stitching doesn't hold. How soon do you need them?" Silver flashed from Zevran's palm, and the cobbler nodded. "They'll be ready after lunch."

Boots delivered, they walked to Genitivi's home, just off the market square.

"Hello Aithne, Zevran; good to see you, come in." The lanky brother greeted them. "You have been traveling, so I hear. Dare I hope you have found anything of interest?" Genitivi was always fascinated with any odd bits of lore or artifacts that came to light. The temple that had housed the Urn of Sacred Ashes had been his focus for several years now, but he usually returned to his home in Denerim during the winter months.

Aithne smiled; she had always liked the scholar, even if she did not follow the Chantry's teachings. "How are you with ancient elvish?"

"Ancient elvish? I know a bit, but I don't think anyone, even the Dalish," he nodded to Aithne, "can translate all of it."

"I would like you to take a look at this; it is a copy of a copy so I cannot be sure of its accuracy." Aithne handed the scroll to Genitivi.

The scholar unrolled it carefully and started mumbling to himself as he puzzled out the words. Finally he looked up, touching the scroll reverently. "Do you know what this is?"

Aithne shook her head, "No I could puzzle out a few words; dragons in general are mentioned multiple times, as is Arlathan. Specifically the dragons Dumat, Zazikel, Toth, Lusacan, Urthemial and, I think, Razikale, although the last name seems to be in a far different form than is used today."

"It is a firsthand account of the fall of Arlathan. I am afraid I do not have the skill to translate it fully, but it appears that the dragons Dumat, Zazikel, and Lusacan aided the Tevinter Imperium in the invasion of Arlathan. Urthemial and perhaps Razikale are mentioned elsewhere but I don't know enough elvish to understand what their roles were. Andoral, the dragon of chains, and Toth, the dragon of fire, do not appear to be mentioned at all." The balding scholar regarded the two elves with curiosity. "Not that I wish you had taken this elsewhere, but I think a Dalish Keeper might be able to translate more."

"The keeper of my clan has already tried. She was able to translate about as much as you did."

"If I had some time I might be able to do more." Genitivi suppressed his anticipation; it would be exciting to finally translate an elvish account of the fall of Arlathan_._

"I'm afraid all I can give you is a few hours. I hope to find a Keeper who can translate more of it, and the Chantry might object if this were found in your keeping. We Dalish are all heretics, after all." Aithne gave Genitivi a cynical smile.

"I understand. If you will allow me then…." Genitivi trailed off, already immersed in the scroll to which he would only have brief access.

The two elves strolled through the market, sampling the holiday fare and perusing the wares for sale. When a cold wind started to blow off the harbor, they slipped into the Gnawed Noble Tavern for hot, mulled cider and fresh scones. For a few hours they were simple people enjoying the holiday, not a Grey Warden and a former Crow on a quest to find a child inhabited by an ancient power.

All too soon the idyll ended, and they retrieved the scroll and Zevran's boots and headed back to the castle. Leaving their burdens in Zevran's chamber, they headed down to the kennels to look at the Mabari Alistair had mentioned.

Zevran wondered if Aithne was even seriously considering another Mabari. She had been very attached to Rabbit and had refused all offers of another dog after he had been killed during what was supposed to have been a routine mop up of darkspawn near Dragon's Peak. Still, Rabbit had been a staunch ally; one of his pups would no doubt be useful in their coming mission.

Zevran studied her approach to the kennel indicated by one of the dog handlers; a female Mabari stood watching Aithne with intelligent eyes. The dog was an unusual deep red color and was a little smaller and lighter boned than her sire.

Aithne opened the kennel and held out her hand for the dog to sniff. Zevran shifted unobtrusively, a throwing knife ready to hand. Until imprinted, Mabari could be aggressive and unpredictable, so he was calculating speed and trajectory for the knife as the dog approached Aithne, stiff-legged and dominant. His slight Grey Warden simply stared the bitch down, apparently oblivious to the dog's greater weight and speed. Finally, less than two feet from the immobile Warden, the bitch whined and sank to the ground, rolling belly-up in submission.

"Come." Aithne gave the hand signal accompanying the voice command and the dog rose and followed.

Zevran noted the dog handlers staring at his departing Warden; by their reactions it was clear they hadn't expected her to be able to imprint the Mabari. Of course, when he had seen the animal's aggressive posture he had not been so sure either. While Aithne's imprinting the dog may aid them on their quest, it also appeared to have removed a problem from the royal kennel. And now he had a smelly, drooling Mabari moving into his room – the things he did for his Warden.

"Zev, I am going to take her to the kitchens and bathe her." The Mabari whined and hung her head. "None of that, you smell like the kennels. If you want to sleep in the castle proper I am going to have to bathe you." Aithne addressed the hound, who appeared to consider the idea, then padded off behind her.

Alone with his thoughts, Zevran forced himself to settle in a chair to keep from pacing. It had been easier to pretend to ignore the previous night's events and resume his normal casual banter after Alistair had interrupted that morning. Eventually he would need to decide what he felt. _I love you_. Those words provoked visions of Rinna, light fading from her eyes as her life blood poured from her. _Gods help me, but I love you_. What did that mean? He had shared more of himself with Aithne than anyone else in his life, during the blight and in the four years since. She was the one person who never judged him, accepted him for who and what he was. Aithne was the only one he had ever told about Rinna, and she had shared his sorrow, not pitied or condemned him as he had expected.

The door creaked open and there was a scuffle of paws as two hundred pounds of clean Mabari bounced in and circled his chair, snuffling at his knees.

"What are you going to call her?"

"I don't know yet, I'm sure something will come to me eventually." Aithne sat on the floor in front of the hearth, allowing the Mabari to wiggle its head into her lap as she absently stroked the dog's ears. This close to Zevran she could sense the turbulence of his thoughts as if they were her own. "If you would prefer some time alone, I can stay in my own room tonight."

"I… yes, I think I need some time."

Aithne rose gracefully. "Take what time you need." Restraining her urge to touch him, she signaled the Mabari and left.

Zevran sat staring at the fire, seeing only a pair of brilliant green eyes.

* * *

_As always my thanks to Bioware, I own nothing._

_Thank you to my beta readers, Erynnar and brownc0at, who have wonderful stories of their own and who take time out of their day to make sure I am posting something coherent._

_A special thank you to everyone who reviews, puts me on alerts, favs or just reads and enjoys this story._


	13. Chapter 13

_First I want to thank all of my readers who have so patiently waited for this chapter. Work got a little crazy for a couple of weeks and I also had a dear friend die. I hope you are not disappointed, as the muse abandoned me and my thoughts were scattered when trying to write it. Special thanks to all of those who review or have added my story to their favorites or alerts - it keeps me writing to know that you like my tale._

_Second, huge thanks to my beta readers Erynnar, Brownc0at and Tarante11a. You are all magicians with words, I am humbled by your skills. All three have stories on my "must read" list - check them out._

_Finally, thanks as always to Bioware, Dragon Age has provided such fertile ground for the seeds of my imagination._

Chapter 13: Sky

Aithne closed the door to Zevran's chamber and paused in the hall. It was better to give Zevran space to come to terms with her confession, and, to be completely honest, she needed a little time too. Love was not something she had ever expected to feel for the handsome assassin, and it left her uncertain. She debated going to her own chamber and retiring for the evening, but with her thoughts in turmoil it seemed wiser to do something else. Making a decision, she turned and headed for the royal apartments, the Mabari trotting at her heels.

Aithne was ushered to the queen's sitting room after the guards announced her. The room was comfortably furnished, and late afternoon sun streamed through the window, illuminating the pregnant queen, who was seated on a richly upholstered divan with her feet propped on an ottoman. Rothana was going through a stack of letters and waved the Grey Warden to a cushioned chair. "Thank you for your offer to track down Morrigan last night. The child has weighed on Alistair's mind for a long time." Rothana paused, noticing the red Mabari accompanying the slender elf. "I see you went to the kennels. She is a beautiful dog, is she not?"

"That is part of why I came. I wished to thank you both for her; she is magnificent. I am surprised that she was not kept for breeding when she failed to imprint."

"You're welcome. In truth, she was considered, but the kennel master felt her temperament was a little uncertain. Alistair was sure your Dalish talent with animals would allow you to imprint her and a loyal Mabari will add another effective fighter if Nathaniel's fears of Weisshaupt's interference are correct."

"That is something else I wanted to discuss. I assume since you were present for last night's meeting…" Aithne wondered how one politely asked the queen if she was privy to all of the state secrets. She had hoped to find Alistair, but perhaps it was best to address her concern to Rothana.

Rothana watched the Dalish woman. She had never been friendly with her; it had been hard to fight down her jealousy at Aithne's prior involvement with Alistair. Still, the former chancellor had always acted in the best interests of the crown and Ferelden.

"Are you asking how much I know? I assure you Leliana and I worked together before she left. Eamon is a good enough politician, but he is ill equipped to direct espionage. I can coordinate information from our sources with Nathaniel, and I will direct our efforts in determining the nature of the threat to Morrigan and what, if any, action Weisshaupt plans against Alistair."

Aithne looked at the queen with new-found respect. She had been concerned about the leadership of the network of merchants, bards and other agents assembled by Leliana and Zevran. It appeared Leliana had been discussing more than shoes and hair in the time she spent with Rothana. "I'm glad Leliana confided in you. I was concerned we might need to find someone else to run things."

"I became involved several years ago, and I have been leading our efforts since Leliana's departure." Rothana did not add that it was her own efforts to spy on Aithne and Alistair which had drawn the bard's attention. In any case, helping Leliana with the intelligence network had been more fulfilling than simply running the domestic affairs of the castle. She might not have the first hand experience the Orlesian bard could claim, but she was bright, observant and had been raised to Ferelden's convoluted politics.

"Ward our king and kingdom well then, Your Majesty. And Rothana, I'm glad he found you." Aithne rose and bowed to the queen, arms crossed at her chest with hands on her shoulders, a Dalish gesture of respect. She left with the queen's acknowledging smile, the red Mabari trotting at her heels.

Winding her way through the castle Aithne reahed the gardens stretching behind the palace. "You need a run, don't you girl?" Seating herself on a stone bench swept clean of snow, she watched the dog investigate. Without being imprinted, the Mabari would have had little opportunity to venture beyond the kennels and the training yard. As she watched the dog revel in her freedom, Aithne contemplated how the closeness of the city trapped her after months of traveling. She had certainly spent enough time in Denerim; it had simply never been home. Home, that was a strange thought. She didn't know what home was anymore. Rising, she meandered down the path where she had last seen the Mabari.

The snow covered gardens were abandoned and peaceful, and Aithne lingered with the dog until the blue sky dimmed and the first stars glinted in the heavens. She spoke to the Mabari, "You see those stars, off to the west? That's Andruil – the Huntress. Perhaps I am foolish for following an imprisoned goddess." Aithne stroked the dog's head as the animal followed her gaze up to the heavens. "What, I wonder, do you see when you look at the sky?"

The Mabari whined and pushed further under her hand.

"Do you see something?" The dog remained silent. "What should I call you anyway? I can't just keep calling you dog. What about Sky, you seemed to like that?"

The dog shifted under Aithne's had and gave a soft "woof."

"Sky it is then. No sillier than Rabbit. Your sire was named Rabbit – he used to bounce everywhere and it seemed appropriate. I think my companions thought I was daft to name a warhound after a bunny. It fit him though. He was a fierce warrior, but he also liked to play, and he gave me many moments of laughter. You, I think, are more serious." Aithne gave a snort of laughter. "Look at me talking to you. I know you understand a lot, but I have no idea how much. I suppose we should go in now, you're probably hungry."

At Sky's approving "Woof," Aithne headed toward the kitchens. They would surely have some scraps for a hungry Mabari.

Later in her room, Aithne changed into a loose shirt to sleep in. The fabric still smelled of spices and leather – of Zevran. She allowed herself a moment's indulgence in the scent, lonely as her bed would be tonight, before lighting a candle and selecting a slim volume of Dalish poetry from her saddlebags. Marethari had thoughtfully included it with the scroll and a few other items that had belonged to Aithne's parents. Sinking into the luxury of her feather mattress, she patted the covers to encourage Sky to jump up on the bed. Comfortable and warm with the red Mabari beside her, Aithne opened the book and stared at the inscription. The delicate tracery of elvish inside the front cover was in her father's hand; the book had been a gift to her mother.

Absently petting Sky, Aithne wondered about her parents. She had few memories of them; they had been killed when she was only a small child. What would they think of her; a Grey Warden, subject to a shemlen king, slayer of an Archdemon, in love with a flat ear city elf who could break her heart again….

_Oh Zev. _When had she fallen in love with him? Aithne tried to think, tried to recall when her feelings had changed – he had been her best friend and confidant for so long it was hard to separate that from what she felt now. When had their late night talks become more than just conversation? When had they included the desire to remain in his company, just to be there? She couldn't remember, not right away certainly. It was sometime after Amaranthine, perhaps, somewhere in the loneliness of watching her former lover with his wife. Somewhere in Zev's teasing support, his understanding, his always being there. Her love for Zevran was different from the shy desire and joining of purpose she had with Alistair – no less passionate, but more subtle; founded on long friendship, not the urgency of danger and youth. Had it been there when she was still pining for Alistair? _Possibly_. It was hard to be sure when the Antivan assassin had become central to her life. It had certainly occurred long before she realized it, long before their fight had forced the confession from her lips.

It had been a poor time to blurt out her feelings. With her words, she had reopened the wound he carried from his role in the betrayal and death of his first love. It was no wonder he needed time to come to terms with her admission of love. Truthfully, Aithne feared even their friendship might not survive. This could push Zevran back to the precipice he had teetered on when he had first taken the contract on the Grey Wardens. For all the training the Crows had given him in weapons, stealth, and seduction, they had purposefully forced their recruits to create an icy shell to survive. Zevran had a history of running when his shell was breached.

Aithne sat in silence, hugging Sky, a lone tear sliding down her cheek. She would find Morrigan on her own if Zevran could not come to terms with her confession. Yet duty and honor were cold bedfellows, and she longed for his wiry strength next to her.

Morning found her, Dalish poetry lying askew on the covers, a snoring Mabari sprawled across half the bed. She lay still for a few minutes, soaking in the warmth, before slipping out of the blankets to pull her clothes on. Sky woke with Aithne's movement and jumped off the bed to stand whining at the door. Buckling her baldric and pulling on a wool cloak, Aithne headed out.

After allowing Sky a good run, she turned her footsteps toward the practice yard. If she was to be stuck in court all evening, it was best that she get some exercise first. The clash of steel and the scuff of boots on cobblestones alerted her to a bout in progress.

"Pick your feet up and turn Nate, you have to be faster than that." Zevran's voice floated across the yard.

Aithne turned the corner to see a sweating Nathaniel trying to keep up with the agile elf. She paused in the shadows to watch. Nate was good with his sword and dagger but he was no match for the fluid Antivan. She watched as Zevran led the dance, drawing the larger human into faster and more graceful movement. Had it been a real battle Zevran could have taken the Warden Commander at any point, even with the slight burr in the motion of his right arm from his recent wound.

Nathaniel fell away, arms spread in surrender. "You could have had me a hundred times by now, but thank you for the lesson."

"You are improving, but still too slow. I think you forget you are not wielding a bow." Zevran turned to where Aithne stood in the shadows. "Care to show Nate a real dance?"

She grinned and stepped forward, both rogues had known she was there but the startled glances from the bystanders were priceless. "Ready when you are." Signaling Sky to stay, she stepped forward, drawing the daggers she carried today. It had been a while since she had practiced with two daggers; she liked the speed and versatility of using them in close quarters or when a longer reach with a sword was not needed.

Dance was the right word for what they did, all swiftness and grace. Metal wove in blurring patterns as they closed, intertwined, leapt and separated. It was barely possible to follow individual movements in the whirling pattern. It was clear to all present that these were two masters of the art. It was over as quickly as it had begun, Aithne disarming and twisting Zevran's right arm, dagger at his throat. "I shouldn't have been able to do that; you need to work that scar," she whispered, her voice too low for any but Zevran to hear.

"Well fought, my lady, I concede." He smiled as she handed his dagger back to him, softening the lack of innuendo that would have been his normal fare in such circumstance.

_So, he was still upset._ "Perhaps we should give Nate a chance to redeem himself." If he was not ready she would not press him.

"Archery, now there I have a chance." Nate strung his bow and walked over to the archery butts.

As much as she and Zevran were masters of sword and dagger, Nathaniel was an artist with a bow. Aithne had thought Leliana an expert, but the bard was only competent compared to Nate. Some of his effectiveness was certainly due to his strength, because the ability to draw a heavy bow increased the penetration of his shots, but his accuracy and concentration were equally important. Having been a Dalish hunter, Aithne had always felt good about her skill with a bow – at least until she had watched Nate in battle.

Zevran was worse than usual; drawing the bow clearly pained him, in spite of Petra's healing. He quickly stepped aside to watch Nate cluster three or four arrows around Aithne's one, over and over again, at twice her distance.

Laughing, Aithne finally granted Nate the victory. "If we had a hundred archers like you, we would never need to worry about a blight again. You could simply shoot the Archdemon when it first appeared and everyone could go home."

"Only if it stays far enough away that I don't have to use my sword." This generated nervous laughter from the bystanders, none of whom could hope to challenge the Warden Commander even in melee combat.

A page came scurrying up as they gathered their arrows from the targets. "Their Majesties request your attendance in the royal apartment."

They joined Alistair and Rothana in the queen's sitting room. Savory aromas drifted from an array of breakfast foods assembled in anticipation of an early morning meeting involving multiple Grey Wardens. Aithne found her appetite had moderated a bit over the years, though she still ate far more than prior to the Joining. Filling a plate, she found a seat while they waited for Anders and Oghren to appear. She was mildly surprised when Zevran elected to sit next to her.

Oghren finally appeared with Anders in tow, the mage sporting a sheepish expression. "Sod it, I'm all for forgin' the moaning statue, but how a man in a skirt always ends up with all the women...?" Oghren huffed. "Had to chase all over the castle to find him."

"Is there an angry father involved this time?" Alistair ran a hand through his hair, exasperated.

"Um, no. At least I don't think so." Anders shuffled nervously.

"If you're going to chase skirts, do it at the Pearl. I've had enough complaints." All the authority of the Arl of Amaranthine and Warden Commander of Ferelden infused Nathaniel's command.

"Yes, Sir." Anders would obey for a while, at least until the next temptation crossed his path.

Giving Anders a cold stare, Rothana addressed the group. "Isabela docked with the morning tide. She can have a new cargo loaded and her ship prepared to sail by mid-day tomorrow. Leliana left word that she could be contacted in Markham City in the Free Marches. Our loyal captain can take Aithne and Zevran as far as Ostwick, on the coast. I think, perhaps, Anders should accompany them."

Nathaniel started to voice his objection, but, seeing the look of relief on the King's face, he reconsidered. A change of climate might be just what the mage needed. "A fine idea; a mage might be useful in determining how dangerous the child is."

"But…I don't…have never sailed...." Anders stammered and looked for support.

"I've never sailed either, Anders. Welcome aboard." Aithne schooled her features to avoid laughter at the mage's discomfiture.

"You have never met Isabela, have you? I believe you will find sailing perfectly agreeable." Zevran returned his attentions to his breakfast, all innocence.

Anders subsided in defeat, but not without a brief glare at Zevran. It hardly seemed fair; the elf had certainly had his share of liaisons, and no one had ever objected. To be honest, he had to admit that Zevran had not pursued unmarried daughters of landed nobles.

"You all need to sniff the nug droppings. We don't need to determine how dangerous the child is – we know. Or maybe the blight and the Archdemon were just sodding fun. We're Grey Wardens. We kill darkspawn – remember? We don't find their next bloody Archdemon for them." Oghren huffed and crossed his arms.

"Oghren, no one denies there is a risk, but if the child might help us defeat the darkspawn for good it seems worth it." Alistair had seized on the notion that the result of the ritual with Morrigan could be used to prevent another blight.

The dwarf snorted and shook his head. "You just don't see, do you? Any risk at all is too much."

"Morrigan asked for our help. She was my friend, yet I still do not believe she would have called on us if she thought we would kill her child. I intend to listen to her and see the child myself before making any decision. But know this, Oghren; if I find the child has any hint of evil or is likely to be captured by the darkspawn, I will destroy it myself." Aithne caught the dwarf's eyes and held them, forcing him to see her sincerity and determination.

Oghren finally dropped his gaze and turned away. "Do what you will. I can't support this, but I won't interfere. When it goes to sodding hell, don't say I didn't warn you."

With Oghren's disapproving silence hovering over them, the meeting was quickly concluded. Rothana detailed Ferelden contacts and their probable locations on the northern peninsula of Thedas, as well as specific code phrases needed for recognition. A pouch of mixed currency was supplied for the purchase of mounts and other necessities upon their arrival in the Free Marches.

Good-byes were said. There would be little opportunity later, with First Day court and the responsibilities of the royal couple. "Maker speed you and gift you with luck. I am afraid you will need it." Alistair stood next to his wife, carefully observing the propriety demanded by his role as king and husband.

"Mythal's grace be upon you and your child. May she watch over and protect you." Aithne smiled. "I look forward to greeting Ferelden's new heir on my return."

Aithne was stopped before reaching her chamber by Zevran's touch on her arm. He held the burgundy dress out to her. "I thought you might want this."

She studied his nonchalant posture, only his eyes betraying uncertainty. "Thank you, Zev. I will wear it tonight."

He nodded and turned away, but not before she noticed his gaze resting upon the gold hoop he had placed in her ear.

* * *

The castle was fragrant with the evergreen boughs that had been woven amongst the ribbons and other First Day decorations adorning every available wall. With Rothana visibly showing the bulge of the future heir, the nobility were in a celebratory mood. Aithne sat next to Zevran in the vast dining hall; thankfully, they had not been assigned seats at the king's table. She was uncomfortable enough with Zevran's carefully polite conversation, coupled with the blatant desire in his gaze when he thought her attention was elsewhere.

She wore the burgundy dress, its tight fitting bodice accentuating her slender figure. Fortunately, she was spared indecency by virtue of being only modestly endowed. A full-chested woman would have been a great deal more exposed. It really shouldn't bother her. Her original Dalish armor left considerably less to the imagination. It was simply that the purpose of this dress was not freedom of movement, but beauty. Rothana had even sent one of her maids to fix her hair in an elaborate coiffure as a peace offering. Aithne had scarcely recognized herself in the mirror earlier, but she had not been able to deny that for once she felt pretty; it was just that it all felt artificial. It might even have been tolerable if Zevran had chimed in with his usual risqué humor; however, he was still acting oddly and even refusing the verbal bait she offered.

The meal finally ended with the king rising to give his obligatory First Day speech and then directing everyone to the great hall for dancing. Aithne spotted Brother Genitivi beckoning to her as she rose. Genitivi had a standing invitation to all functions at the castle, in thanks for his assistance on the quest for the Urn. He rarely bothered to attend, his interests more focused on the intellectual and spiritual than the social.

"Genitivi, I had not thought to see you here."

"I was able to translate more…." In his eagerness the Brother had forgotten to tell Aithne he had copied her scroll.

"Translate more?"

"Well, when you left the scroll, I was able to copy most of it. I do not think I made many errors, although I would like to compare it to your copy again to be sure." Once again Genitivi's curiosity overcame his caution.

"We are leaving in the morning, perhaps when we return. You were able to translate more?" Aithne had left the scroll suspecting Genitivi might copy it. She couldn't fault him on his thirst for knowledge – after all, her own people were equally as eager. She directed their steps away from the nearest nobles – this was not a conversation that should be overheard.

"Only a little. There are several references to the dragons' ability to alter the very nature of the people and things around them. It seems the magisters did not age while under the influence of the dragons, and, perhaps more importantly, there are references to the evolution of new magical talents – simply because the dragons wished it. It is possible to discount this as just a fairy tale, but the elf writing this clearly believed that the dragons could alter the very nature of a being with their will." Genitivi appeared to become more excited. "What if the darkspawn came to be as an extension of their will?"

"Careful, the Chantry would think that heretical. See what happens when you associate with Maker-forsaken elves?" Aithne teased him, her mind whirling with the implications. If this had even a sliver of truth, then maybe Oghren was right.

"Aithne, it is just a supposition. However, since the thought came to my mind I have not been able to shake it. Perhaps it is the Maker's guidance, perhaps just the foolishness of an old man. I don't know." The Chantry brother was still trying to deal with the tremors this idea caused at the roots of his faith. "In any case, I have a feeling you brought the scroll to me with a purpose in mind, not just out of idle curiosity. Be careful in this; the Old Gods were not beings to be trifled with if they could guide an assault on the Golden City. Have care, my friend." Concerns voiced and warning issued, Genitivi began his retreat from the overwhelming noise and commotion of First Day court.

"Thank you, Brother."

He turned to acknowledge Aithne's words, then slipped out of the crowded room.

Glancing about, Aithne noted nearly everyone had removed to the great hall to continue the celebration. There were only a handful of guests conversing in clusters in the dining hall, and none of her friends were among them.

Entering the great hall, it was Nathaniel she found first. He claimed her hand for a dance, and she was able to enlighten him as to the gist of her conversation with Genitivi while they followed the music. Nate promised he would keep in touch with the scholar, in case he made further discoveries in her absence.

Anders danced with her next, followed by Eamon and several of the nobles she had come to know in her time as chancellor. She looked for Zevran but had not been able to locate him, until a hand at her waist claimed her for a waltz. Looking up, she was startled by a pair of intense amber eyes.

"I could not pass up a dance with the luscious slayer of the Archdemon." Zevran's voice was soft in her ear.

She leaned into him, allowing the intimacy of the music to create its own little bubble in time and space. She could feel each step, the subtle play of muscle beneath her hand, his warm breath at her delicate ear. One two three, one two three; the cadence of the dance timed to the beating of her heart. All too soon, it was over. Zevran escorted her to her room and left her, in an all too Alistair-like gesture, with a kiss at her door. She had felt the tremble of his arm beneath her fingers, known it was a near thing between his sweeping her in his arms, and taking desperate flight away from her and away from his feelings.

Alone in her room, she changed out of the dress and sank down in front of the fire, Sky's head in her lap, as she tried to figure out how she had made such a muddle of things.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14: Siren's Call

They arrived at the Siren's Call as the last of her cargo was loaded. A converted Rivani warship, the sleek frigate did not have the hold capacity of most merchant vessels. With her limited space, Isabela specialized in finished goods and hard to obtain items, not bulk goods such as lumber, grain or wool. The speed and maneuverability of the vessel made the Siren ideal for lucrative smuggling operations as well.

"Welcome aboard the Siren's Call, the fastest ship between here and Par Vollen." It was a bit of an exaggeration, but Isabela was understandably proud of her vessel.

"Thank you; we're honored to sail with you." Aithne gave the captain a rather stiff bow as the woman turned toward Zevran.

Isabela appraised the Antivan with knowing eyes, and then ran her fingers along his jaw in a gesture of casual familiarity. "My sweet, you look so tired. A nice restful sea voyage could do wonders for you."

Stepping back, Zevran searched for a way to divert his former lover. "Isabela, had I known how well command would suit you, I would've aided you without the contract. You must take care, lest you distract our mage here. He has already expressed an interest in learning the ropes on a vessel with the fine curves of the Siren." His rich accent and careful emphasis made the innuendo clear. Zevran stood in quiet amusement as Isabela openly assessed Anders. Mission accomplished.

"The Siren does have fine lines; she can easily handle even the stiffest seas." Isabela apparently liked what she saw.

"I have always thought the soft rolling of the ocean rather fascinating." Anders' eyes were trapped by the captain's barely concealed bosom.

At that inopportune moment Ser Pounce-A-Lot elected to poke her head out of Anders' pack and emit a loud meow in protest.

Glaring at Aithne's Mabari, then at Anders' cat, Isabela said, "I am not transporting a menagerie."

"Ser Pounce-A- Lot is not a menagerie! Besides, she is a fine mouser, I'm sure she will be useful." Anders reached up to stroke the cat, who was now perched on his shoulder.

"Sky and Pounce will both be well behaved and cause you no trouble. I give you my word." Aithne's gaze swept past Isabela and found purchase on Anders.

"No, no trouble at all." The mage stammered and nodded acknowledgement of order received.

"Any trouble and they are off the ship – I don't care if they have to swim. Zevran, you know where the spare cabin is, you can all share or you can bunk with the crew." Isabela stalked off to supervise the final preparations for launch.

"You're lucky she didn't simply throw you and Pounce overboard. Cats are considered bad luck on a ship." Shaking his head at Anders, Zevran led them aft to the cabin.

Anders surveyed the tiny cabin and the tension still present between his two companions and quickly decided he would rather sleep elsewhere. He turned to look for the crew quarters and was stopped by Zevran.

"You might wish to leave your things here. Isabela runs a good crew, but no sense in offering temptation."

Heeding Zevran's advice, Anders set his pack down on the floor and then stood holding Pounce, unsure of what to do with his feline friend.

"Leave him, Sky will guard the cabin and she won't hurt him." Aithne scratched the Mabari's ears and received an answering whine.

Anders looked dubiously at the huge Mabari, who chuffed softly at him, seemingly in reassurance, before setting his precious cat down. Pounce promptly stalked over to Sky, sniffed her, and then jumped onto the bunk for a nap.

"They'll be fine, now let's go get some fresh air before the weather turns again." Aithne closed the cabin door behind her and climbed the narrow steps back to the deck.

Her sails filled with the steady wind, the Siren's Call had made good time and the rocky façade of Fort Drakon, looming above Denerim's deep water harbor, had faded from view. Zevran had watched Aithne for the last hours, wisps of her braid teased free by the crisp breeze, as she stared out toward the open ocean. Abandoning his perch on the half-deck he jumped down and made his way to Aithne's side.

"So what do you think?"

"It's amazing, you know I've never sailed before, never even been on a boat. But I stand here and breath the salt air, feel the ship surge through the waves and, well, I'm not quite sure how to describe it." Aithne brushed a few strands of hair out of her face, her cheeks flushed in the wintery air. "It is a bit like riding a halla, knowing you can suggest your direction, but you do not have full control. You warned me of seasickness and storms, you never told me how alive it makes you feel."

"Not everyone finds the sea so comfortable."

"Do you?"

A smile creased his face, "Yes. The Crows encouraged us to learn the basics of sailing a small sloop. I had never left Rialto Bay until I came to Ferelden, but the bay was big enough to give me a taste for it. Of course, it was very different than sailing on a large ship like this."

"Sailing seems a curious skill for a Crow."

"Not so. Antiva has many miles of coastline and several large rivers; it was often a practical way to reach our quarry. I even sailed with Rinna on one contract." His grip tightened on the ship's rail at the memory.

Aithne reached over and covered his hand with her own. She smiled when he laced his fingers with hers, accepting her comfort. "Zev, I am not Rinna and you are much more than simply another Antivan Crow. The past is just that, past."

"It is, and it isn't. I have always been able to distance myself, except with Rinna," and softly, "except with you." Removing his hand from the railing, he pulled away.

"Zev, sooner or later we are going to have to talk about this."

"I…yes, it's just that I don't know what to say."

"The great Zevran Arainai at a loss for words, I must applaud you Warden, I never thought to see that." Isabela draped an arm around the Antivan, ignoring the warning glance he gave her. "I'm afraid I must steal him for a moment, my dear. Don't worry, I'll return him when we're finished."

"Zevran is his own man; he is free to do as he pleases."

Zevran only had time to notice Aithne's impassive mask drop into place before he was steered toward the captain's cabin. Sliding free of her arm, he remained standing as Isabela closed the door.

"You're sure you don't wish to play 'pirates'? I do have a bit of rope." The captain bounced suggestively on her bed.

"Pirates you say? No, last week was pirates and rope. I'm afraid it will have to be something different."

"I rather think it is Wardens and Darkspawn you play now." Isabela schooled her features in a pout. "What's a girl to do for a bit of fun?" Her expression suddenly turned serious. "It is not your prowess in bed I wished to speak about. I wanted to warn you."

"Warn me?" Zevran leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, deliberately nonchalant.

"There seemed to be an unwarranted amount of Crow activity in the Free Marches when I set sail for Denerim. I don't know what has stirred the hive, but I do know they don't forgive failure. Step carefully, Zevran. It wouldn't be an easy death."

"Failure, what are you talking about?"

"Don't play me for a fool, Zev. I have eyes and ears, I know you went rogue. I bet I can make a pretty good guess who the contract was on as well. Perhaps a certain Dalish Grey Warden?" When Zevran failed to respond, Isabela sighed. "Do what you will. I just would hate to see your pretty hide hanging on the gates of Antiva city."

"I'll be careful." Zevran glanced out the window, trying to spot Aithne's slender figure at the rail.

Isabela followed his gaze. "Have you told her?"

"What?"

"Your eyes haven't left her since you boarded my ship. I might be offended if it wasn't so obvious. If Zevran Arainai is going to fall in love he should at least tell the woman involved."

"I…don't…."

With an impatient gesture Isabela shushed him. "I know enough of love to recognize it when I see it." Smoothing her expression, she continued. "You will dine with me tonight. Bring your Warden and the mage. I suppose, since you so delicately thrust him into my lap, I should find out what else he is hiding beneath his robes." Waving Zevran out of her cabin, Isabela spared a moment to remember youth, a misty beach and a dark-haired fisherman's son.

Failing to locate Aithne after a cursory search, Zevran returned to his perch on the half-deck above the captain's cabin. A frown emphasized the fine lines etched in his face as he contemplated Isabela's words. He had told Aithne the truth; he didn't know what to say. What was love? A fierce possessive feeling that frightened him and summoned the desire to use his Crow skills for other than pay, to lash out at any who hurt her? Was it his shameful desire to shake her and make her understand how hard it had been to watch her pine after Alistair? Was it the pain he felt at being her second choice? Was it the tenderness, the physical need to touch her? Was it akin to the anger, the lust, and the sheer vulnerability that led him to betray Rinna? Studying his hands, hands that were so skilled in the arts of love and death, Zevran tried to find answers.

"Zev."

He turned to find Aithne there.

"Dinner is ready, Isabela wishes us to eat with her."

"Yes, she mentioned that." He trailed Aithne to the captain's cabin, and was not surprised to find Anders already enthralled by Isabela's charms.

The meal passed pleasantly enough with much laughter and innuendo deep enough to require boots. The conversation wound its way from seafaring lore to Antivan delicacies and current Rivaini fashion. Aithne said little, content, as usual, to listen to the banter and secure in Isabela's clear interest in Anders. She allowed her attention to drift to the hum of the wind outside until Zevran's name caught her attention.

"So Anders wants to hear how we met? Will you tell him or shall I?" Isabela's eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Hmm, where to begin? I was in Dairsmund to fulfill a contract; my mark had entered "The Midnight Sea," a rather exclusive brothel, so I found an outdoor table at a nearby tavern to wait."

"He was rather enticing, a handsome elf, dangerous enough to be left alone on a hot summer evening. I was intrigued, so I offered him a game of Wicked Grace."

"The stakes were a bit higher than fencing lessons." Zevran grinned wickedly. "It was an instructive evening. I fulfilled my contract the next day and left Rivain. After that, on the occasions I had an assignment in Dairsmund, I found myself in that particular tavern. Sometimes Isabela would show, sometimes not. My final contract in Dairsmund was on her husband, though I did not know she was married until I researched my mark."

"He killed your husband?" Anders looked from Isabela to Zevran in astonishment.

"It was no loss. I had no love for the greasy bastard, and it gained me the fair Siren's Call." Isabela stroked Anders' thigh beneath the table, firmly returning his interest to her. "I think it is time to call it a night. Are you sure you wouldn't care to join us?" Her suggestive look included both elves.

"No, lovely though you are, I have no wish to dwell in the past."

Aithne and Zevran made their exit, Isabela giving her Antivan friend a wink as she leaned closer to Anders to better appreciate the suggestions the mage was whispering in her ear.

Zevran drew Aithne down the stairs, out of the icy winter wind. Lighting the glass lantern in their cabin, he gave himself a few precious seconds to gather his thoughts. "You were right, we do need to talk."

Aithne seated herself on the edge of the bed and tilted her head, waiting.

"I still don't know what to say, but let me try to explain." He shrugged out of his heavy cloak and hung it on the back of a chair. Absently rubbing his shoulder, which had begun to ache in the cold, he sat down next to Aithne. "My life has been filled with people, acquaintances, who cared little whether I lived or was found dead in the gutter the next day. I have had few friends until I met you. Only Rinna and Taliesin, really, and they were both more than friends. Both dead now, due to my own actions. The Crows taught us the danger of emotion; so far they have been proven right."

He flinched a little as Aithne's strong hands replaced his, massaging his scarred shoulder. "When we returned to Denerim, it was clear that you were upset and I was afraid that you and Alistair…." Her fingers stilled for a moment, then continued their soothing motions. "I felt betrayed, I was angry, and I didn't wish to simply be a substitute for him. After we fought I was ready to leave, to go back to the Crows and whatever awaited me there. Then you came and said you cared…that you loved me." He turned to face her, his eyes dark, shadowed. "I still don't know how to answer that. I care about you, so much that it frightens me. I…I wanted to tell you that when I gave you the earring. I don't know if what I feel is love, perhaps it is. If so, it seems a rather more selfish emotion than I had imagined. I want you, but not if I am your second choice." The lantern light flickered off the lean angles of his face as he waited.

"Second, never! Zev, from the time I met you, even when I was still half afraid you would stab me in my sleep, you have always been there for me. I think it was after Amaranthine that I realized that you were important in my life. I just didn't truly understand how important until much later. I was too involved in the "what if's" of the past to see it, to see what you meant to me, until we fought, until I hurt you." She sighed, hands twisting in her lap as she tried to show him her heart, explain to him that it was not a contest between him and Alistair.

"I did and still do love Alistair, but he is no longer my choice at all, just as you still love Rinna even though she is gone. Yes, I was upset about seeing Alistair again, I didn't know how I would feel after the time you and I had spent together. When I saw how tenderly he treated Rothana, I admit I was relieved. They are far more suited than he and I ever had been. Even were he to walk into this cabin right now, free of the Crown, free to make his own choices, I still would choose you."

At her words, he seemed to relax, the caution in his amber gaze replaced with hunger. She let herself be drawn into his embrace as their lips met, both needing physical affirmation of the words said. The mingled flavors of wine and Zevran filled her senses as tongues explored and teeth nibbled. She stopped him when his fingers slid beneath her tunic. Setting his hands firmly on the bed, green eyes teasing in the lantern light, she kicked off her boots and knelt to remove his.

Sliding upward, she unlaced his tunic and drew it over his head, admiring the sleek muscle of his torso. Pushing him back onto the bed, she traced the bold curve of a tattoo from his hip to the laces of his breeches. With slow, teasing fingers, she finished disrobing him. Continuing her seductive play, she dropped her own clothes on the cabin floor one piece at a time, pausing occasionally to admire the view of her naked Antivan lounging on the bed.

"Now let's see if I can remember how to give an Antivan massage." Smiling, she slid onto the bed with him and proceeded to demonstrate just how well she remembered.

* * *

_A big thank you to my betas Erynnar and Brownc0at who use their free time to help me make my story better. *Hugs* to both of you. _

_Thank you as always to Bioware for letting me play in their world._

_Finally, thanks to all my readers and reviewers for sticking with the story and putting up with all the angst in the last few chapters. The plot should start to roll forward a lot more rapidly from here on._


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15: Storm

Spices and leather, smooth skin and hard muscle under her fingertips. Aithne stirred and struggled for consciousness to find herself curled around Zevran, the grey morning light peeking through the small porthole.

Bump. A cold damp nose poked the back of her neck again, as a quiet whine reached her ears.

"Sky." Suppressing a sigh, she eased away from Zevran, trying not to wake him.

He rolled to his back with the loss of her warmth and peeked up at her with sleep-fogged eyes. "Mmm, don't go."

"Sky needs out. Stay there. I'll be back in a few minutes." Gathering her discarded clothes, she dressed quickly, anxious to get back to the tempting sight of Zevran, his morning arousal clear as he tossed back the covers.

He stood and gently brushed his lips to hers. "I'll find us some breakfast, and then we can pick up where we left off last night, no?"

Aithne reflected on the luxury of returning to bed with Zevran as she took Sky up to the deck. As a passenger she had little to do aboard the Siren's Call, and she intended to enjoy her freedom. Sky finished her business, and Aithne rinsed the mess off the deck with seawater. At least Anders had brought a little box and some dirt for Pounce.

Hearing Zevran's voice in the galley on her way back to their cabin, she paused in the narrow door. An exhausted Anders blushed under Zevran's scrutiny as the mage balanced a tray of food.

"Tired, my friend? Isabela is rather a handful, no? I would suggest something more strengthening than that," Zevran gestured to the light breakfast already on Anders' tray, "if you wish to keep up with her brand of exercise."

"I could say the same to you. It wasn't silence I heard from your cabin last night."

Zevran laughed at Anders' retort. "Ah, but I am adequately provisioned." He lifted the cloth over the tray he was holding, revealing a hearty meal of sausage, eggs, biscuits and honey. Steam curled from two mugs of strong tea. Looking up, he noticed Aithne in the doorway. "Perfect timing my dear, the cook has even provided some scraps for Sky and Pounce." He indicated another tray, still resting on the counter. "If you will assist, we can let Anders return to his morning exertions."

Aithne grinned at Anders, who sported a tinge of red on both cheeks. Zevran could generate an undertone of sexuality in even the most innocuous conversation; when given a more direct opening, his tone and inflection could make even a sailor blush. Leaving Anders in the galley with the ship's cook, who had ignored the entire exchange, Aithne and Zevran returned to their own quiet refuge.

Setting the scraps for the animals on the floor, Aithne smiled as Sky allowed Pounce to steal the choice pieces of fish from under her nose. The Denerim kennel master would no doubt be astonished to see the Mabari tolerating the spoiled cat.

Zevran wrapped his arms around her, and Aithne leaned back into his embrace. "I was thinking; breakfast in bed?"

"Mmm, sounds delicious. Do you have any ideas for dessert?"

Much later, Aithne was nestled contentedly against Zevran's chest. "I think we should have breakfast in bed every morning."

"My dear Warden, you do have some splendid ideas." Zevran shifted so he could see her face, and then winced as his right shoulder shifted.

Aithne sat up, aware of his discomfort. "I think it's time to work on that shoulder. Petra said you would need to rest it for a few weeks, but it should be healed by now. It's probably time to start the exercises she recommended."

"I already have; the scar seems to limit movement." He gave her a worried look. "I can force almost a full range of motion, but it's slow and throws my timing off."

She pushed him back and, with deft fingers, began to work the hard knots of scarring in his shoulder. The depressed area visible on his skin, now fading from angry purple to white, was only slightly larger than a sovereign; it was the network of fibrous tissue running through the muscle from the infection that pinched and ached. Zevran forced himself to relax into the pain/pleasure of Aithne's hands. This was nothing like the art of sensual massage he was familiar with, but along with the burning sensation of scar tissue breaking up, he could feel the easing of muscles held unconsciously tense.

It hurt, nothing like the torment he had endured as part of his Crow training, or the sharp pain of a battle injury, but it did hurt. "So how did you learn this…?" Conversation could serve as a distraction to discomfort, an aptitude he had used often in the past.

"Most Dalish clans are small enough that each member needs to learn more than one skill. I was a hunter, but I also had an interest in healing, although I lacked the…abilities…of a Keeper. I learned what I could of herb lore and other healing arts, saving those that required the grace of the Gods or use of magic. Yours is not the first injury I have seen that requires more than magic. I would think, with what little you have told me about the Crows, you would have had this problem before."

Zevran chose his words carefully; his youth and training were not subjects he enjoyed. "No, care was always taken so we were not permanently damaged…, at least those of us who showed promise. After all, you would not cripple a horse or a dog that you intended to give good service." He met her sharp look with a half-smile. He was still raw from the emotional upheaval of the past few days; time to change the subject. "But we were discussing you, my Dalish lady. I knew you were skilled in potions and poisons, why did you never say there was more?"

"It was not needed. During the Blight, and even in Amaranthine, we always had a healer available. If a wound can be healed quickly and cleanly, these problems do not come up."

"So what else have you been hiding? What would you have become, if you hadn't joined the Grey Wardens?"

"Besides a ghoul?" Aithne smiled, taking the sting out of her words. "If Tamlen hadn't touched the mirror, if we hadn't run across those shemlen…. I don't know. I would probably still be hunting with Tamlen and Rill, working with Marethari on my skills as a healer, maybe I would have bonded, had children. It's hard to say. I always dreamed of doing more, traveling, finding some long lost bit of elvish lore…. I doubt I would've, though. Tamlen was always the adventurer, I was too cautious."

"This Tamlen, would you have bonded with him?"

"No, it was expected, but he was more like a brother to me. I had thought, at the time, that I might meet someone from another clan…."

Although her calloused hands continued their work, Zevran sensed a distance, as her thoughts traveled to back to what could have been. "Would you change things, if you could?"

"If it meant no Blight, to return all those to life who died so needlessly, yes. Otherwise, no. The Blight was a terrible thing, but with all the loss and sadness, I found happiness, friendship, and… love. I always wished for adventure and excitement, but without the Blight I don't think I would have been brave enough to seek it on my own. And I learned to see things beyond the narrow view of most Dalish, that no one race is superior to another, that ignoring the shemlen will not improve things for the elves." With a self-deprecating laugh she continued. "I'm afraid I was not so different from Rill in my beliefs, when Duncan first recruited me. Tamlen suggested that we kill the humans who told us about the cave with the mirror, just because they were shemlen. I am ashamed to admit, at the time I was tempted."

Zevran studied her, trying to reconcile this confession with the reserved woman he knew. The woman who tempered practicality with kindness, whose willingness to consider all interests often drove him to distraction. "But you did not."

"No. Even then it seemed a foolish waste of life, to kill them just for being there, and likely to cause trouble for our clan – I guess it did anyway." She prodded him to turn over, so she could work on his back.

"Yet you have never faulted me for being an assassin."

"You and I have both been honed as weapons, by training and circumstance. How can I fault you, when my own hands are bloody? And, as you pointed out once, there are very few individuals who are truly innocent." She paused, and then continued. "Then, there is the thrill of a clean kill, a battle well fought. As a healer it is hard to understand, but I am also a hunter, and that part of me thrives on the knife edge of existence. Alistair never really understood that, you do."

He was silent a long while, as she soothed knotted muscles, old pains he hadn't even realized were there. "You spoke of children earlier, yet you have told me that Grey Wardens are unlikely to ever have children. Do you regret that?"

"I don't know. I would have little time for a child, so in that respect, no. Yet, in other ways, yes. You spoke to Shale once, about embracing life, experiencing all that it has to offer. The little time we had with Cathal made me think, wonder what it would be like, to have a child. Had we not received the message from Morrigan, I would have been tempted to bring him with us instead of leaving him with Ser Perth." Aithne now lapsed into a considering silence. "Do you…," gathering her courage, she continued, "have any children?"

Not entirely shocked by her question, Zevran considered his answer. "There are ways to prevent such… consequences. Being what I am, I had no wish to leave another orphan on the street."

"Twenty-five years, more or less, for me, and the Crows want you dead. I suppose it's best there are no children involved." With a last few soothing strokes she finished. "There, now see how that feels."

Zevran stood and stretched. Aithne's massage had covered his entire body, not just his shoulder, and, although sore, he felt more relaxed than he had in a long time. Experimentally, he worked his right shoulder through a complete range of motion, appreciating the return to smooth function. "Thank you."

"It won't stay that way unless you exercise it. and I'll probably need to work the muscle every few days for a while."

"If I had known this was all it took to get your hands on me, I would have gotten hurt more often during the Blight." He gave her his best lecherous grin.

Aithne laughed as she gathered her warm clothes to go on deck. "That's why I love you. Now get dressed, I'm in the mood for a different sort of sparring." She gathered her daggers and left the stuffy cabin for some fresh air.

The midday sun had warmed the deck, and the sails billowed in the steady breeze. The salt air was a welcome change from the confines of a tiny cabin occupied by two people, a Mabari and a cat. Aithne nodded to Isabela, and noted that Anders was nowhere in sight.

"He's still sleeping. I think the famous Grey Warden stamina may be a myth." Isabela strolled over, her look of satisfaction contrasting with her words.

"Anders always sleeps 'til noon. If early rising is a test for a Grey Warden, I'm afraid he fails."

"I... What?" Anders emerged from Isabela's cabin, looking somewhat the worse for wear.

Aithne and Isabela shared a glance and laughed.

"Great, I'm funny now. Since you're finally up, I'll just go check on Pounce."

Zevran passed Anders on his way to the deck, the mage barely acknowledging his greeting. Emerging on deck, Zevran spotted the two women. "Isabela, you're losing your touch. A night with you and he's grumpy?"

"Oh, trust me Zev darling; he wasn't grumpy at all in bed." Isabela's smile was pure cat with the cream. "On that subject, you two weren't up any too early either. Have a nice conversation, did you?"

Zevran restricted himself to a content smile, particularly in view of the color blooming in Aithne's cheeks.

Recovering, Aithne addressed Isabela. "Zev and I were going to do a little sparring, care to join us?"

"Indeed, I would love to see what you've done with those little tricks I taught you."

Aithne started with Zevran, carefully testing his reach and flexibility with a series of standard openings, before moving into their usual blurring dance. Zevran still compensated a little for a reduced reach with his right arm, but their bout was close to an even match. He finally bowed out as his shoulder began to tire, nodding to Isabela to take his place.

Other than a brief spar at the Pearl, when Isabela had taught Aithne a few dueling tricks, the two had never fought. They began with a series of feints, looking for openings or flaws in the other's skill. Finding none, Isabela moved first, seeking to throw Aithne off balance with a sudden twist mid-attack. Aithne responded, dagger deflecting rapier, dodging and striking with her other dagger in the perceived opening. Isabela turned Aithne's attack, and closed again. Their speed and skill were evenly matched, but Isabela was more experienced at fighting on the rolling deck of a ship. She finally threw Aithne off balance with an attack perfectly timed to the drop as the ship crested a wave, her rapier stopping a hair's breadth from the elf's neck.

"Fantastic, I haven't had such a match in a long time." The captain arched a brow at her crew, most of whom had stopped working to watch the two women spar. There was a sudden flurry of activity as men returned to their stations.

"You have them well trained, I expected more yelling after my previous voyage," Zevran observed.

"If I have to yell, they're off my ship. I only keep the best." She paused, following Aithne's questioning glance and Zevran's nod in answer. "So when did you get hurt, Zev?"

Sighing, Zevran shrugged. Isabela was too observant by half. "It's mostly healed; I just need to use it now."

"Better use it a lot. I wasn't kidding about being careful."

Aithne gave Zevran an enquiring look. "The Crows. I'll tell you later."

Zevran did share Isabela's concerns with Aithne later that night, and consequently their sea voyage lost its leisurely overtones, and focused instead on having him back in perfect form before they arrived in Ostwick.

In spite of the winter season, the Siren's course along the coast of Ferelden and into the Waking Sea was uneventful, if slow. The winds that had graced the start of their trip had slacked to a whisper, and though not becalmed, the Siren was not making fast progress. Thus, her passengers viewed the increasing south wind with gratitude instead of alarm, as the ship picked up speed in her northward journey. It wasn't until Zevran noticed there was no effort to take down any canvas as the wind began to gust, that he realized they were in for a storm.

Zevran made his way to Isabela, who was at the wheel watching the growing waves with fierce concentration. "You're going to run before it?"

"As long as we can; there are too many rocks to try to anchor this side of Brandal's Reach. Our best bet is to get into the open water of the Waking Sea before she hits." The captain glowered at the darkening sky, as if willpower alone could hold off the storm. "Best get below, this is no summer squall. She'll ice up, and an icy deck is no place for the inexperienced."

Zevran nodded, noting a crewman closing the hurricane shutters over the glass windows of the captain's cabin. "We'll secure our cabin. Is there anything else we can do?"

"Pray to the Maker, if it suits you."

As he headed for the stairs, Zevran saw Anders confer briefly with Isabela before retreating to her cabin. He had thought the mage would join them below deck, but it appeared not.

With the wind keening outside, the two elves worked to secure any loose items in their cabin. The pitching of the ship had already increased, and they were forced to chase stray items across the cabin floor several times before everything was put away or tied down. Sky joined them on the bunk with a nervous whine, and even the aloof Pounce was convinced to join them as they began to feel the occasional moment of freefall whenever the ship dropped over a particularly large wave.

They could hear the pounding feed above them and the strident shouts of the sailors as they gradually stripped canvas from the Siren's three masts over the next hours. The groan of the masts as they pulled against the shrouds increased even as the sails were furled. As the howl of the wind grew, all other sounds were masked. The crew finally retired from the deck, a frantic scurry of feet past their cabin to the crew quarters.

"Have you ever sailed in a storm like this?" Aithne asked, worry threading her words.

"No, the most I've ever been in was a minor squall. We see storms like this occasionally in Antiva in the late summer and fall. They blow in off Rialto Bay, or occasionally come down from the north, off the Venefication Sea. The winds can push water into the streets of the coastal cities, causing flooding and much damage. Even the Crows cease business until a hurricane has passed. I don't know much about these southern storms; perhaps they are not as severe." The cabin was dark; with the ship tossed by wind and wave it was too dangerous to light the lantern, so he could not see her expression. But he could feel her tension, an undercurrent of fear in his bold Dalish lady. The storm was a foe she could not fight. "In Antiva, we gathered in groups, ate, drank and told stories until a storm had passed. Have I ever told you the tale of Lord Averendo's shoes?"

Hours passed slowly as they traded stories and conversation, always listening with one ear to the howling wind. Zevran was in the middle of a series of fanciful tales, supposedly told by a harem girl, when a tremendous booming crash shook the entire ship and the vessel suddenly listed to the side.

Leaping off the bunk, Zevran hurtled out of the cabin onto the deck, Aithne close on his heels. Abruptly, silence reigned, except for his own harsh breathing. He looked wildly around for the source of the change.

Anders stood, lashed to the wheel with Isabela, his entire focus on maintaining the force field he had used to encase the ship.

Zevran waved the crew to stay as they tried to shove their way past Aithne. The deck was a mad jumble of broken rigging, the main mast splintered and trailing off the starboard side, its weight forcing the ship to list almost to the water line. The top half of the foremast had also been sheared off and was tangled in the remains of the main mast. Glancing back, he was relieved to see the mizzen mast still intact. "Aithne, get the extra lyrium potions." Trusting her to acquire the potions he knew they would need, he signaled the crew forward to start cutting lines so the weight of the shattered masts could be shed.

Isabela was shouting orders to her crew as Anders began to shake from the effort of shielding an entire ship. Aithne poured a potion down his throat, then another, desperately trying to buy time for the crew to clear the deck. Time passed in frozen minutes. The sounds of frantic activity echoed in the unnatural stillness: shouting, a sailor's scream as his arm was caught between the heavy timbers of the masts, another as a hand was caught in a line, the crash of discarded potion bottles against the deck, the hiss of severed lines pulled away by the weight of the wood and canvas attached to them. At last the deck was mostly clear, the broken remains of wood and rigging trapped against the starboard hull by Anders' spell. Isabela motioned her sailors off the deck; the next part would be tricky.

Aithne poured yet another lyrium potion into Anders. "Anders, listen to me." His attention remained fixed on the shimmer of his force field. She grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her. "Anders, listen. You are going to need to drop the force field and use a repulsion field to right the ship and get us clear of the debris. Nod if you understand."

He was shaking violently under her fingertips, from exhaustion, lyrium reaction, or both; she couldn't be sure. He gave a slow nod.

The ship crashed back into the waves and the screaming wind, and with a violent lurch, returned to an even keel as Anders manipulated the spells in rapid succession, then collapsed. Aithne was thrown violently against the deck and started to slide, only to be abruptly stopped by the rope Zevran had secured about her waist while she was busy with Anders. Struggling to her feet, she staggered over to the unconscious mage. She fumbled with the knots on the water-swollen ropes, trying to release them and get Anders to shelter. Isabela was fully occupied with steering the Siren, as well as she was able, into the waves.

Then Zevran was there, his belt knife slicing their bindings, helping her move the heavy man across the pitching deck to Isabela's cabin. They stripped the mage out of his sodden robes and lifted him onto the bed.

"Zev, can you stay with him for a minute? I need a few things out of my pack." Anders' breathing was shallow under the heavy blankets, and Aithne struggled to remember exactly how many lyrium potions she had given him. At Zevran's nod, she left the cabin. On deck, she noted that Isabela's first mate had joined his captain at the wheel.

Sky bounced in excitement at her return. "Easy girl, just take good care of Pounce for now." The Mabari whined, and then returned to the bed to curl up next to the nervous cat.

Digging through her pack, Aithne quickly found the supplies she needed and returned to Anders and Zevran. She fed the mage sips of an herbal infusion at intervals until his pulse slowed and his breathing became deeper and more even. "That much lyrium, it was a shock to his system. He should be alright now, but he's going to have a hell of a headache when he wakes up."

"I'm just glad we had the lyrium. Things could have been much more… interesting, if Anders hadn't been here to help." The wind had died some and the roll of the ship was steadier, less violent, yet Zevran still did not wish to tempt fate by giving voice to their near demise.

Half an hour later, the storm had subsided enough for Isabela to stumble into the cabin, leaving the Siren in the capable hands of her first mate.

They returned to the deck to greet the first blush of sunrise, the golden light chasing the retreating storm clouds from the clean scoured sky. Zevran swept Aithne into his arms and kissed her, just for the sheer joy of being alive.

* * *

_Hurricane parties and __Scheherazade's Thousand and One Nights, I couldn't leave them out._

_Thank you to my betas Erynnar and Brownc0at who help make this into a story instead of just a jumble of words._

_As always, thanks to all my readers and reviewers. I know I don't update very often, but I am not planning on abandoning this story - not when it is just getting going. _

_And my gratitude to Bioware for letting me play with their toys._


	16. Chapter 16

_Once again I apologize for the long delay between chapters, real life seems to have attacked again leaving me with little time for the creative process. _

_Thank you as always to all my readers ,reviewers and all those who have added this to their story alerts - you humble me with your interest._

_Apologies for my Spanish translation of joie de vivre, it just seemed to fit better for Zev - thank you Erynnar (and yes I know Antiva is supposed to be more like Italy, but his accent makes Spanish seem more natural)._

_Many many thanks to my wonderful betas (Tarante11a, Brownc0at and Erynnar) who helped me hammer the rough metal of this chapter into (hopefully) shining prose._

_Bioware owns all and is kind enough to let me play with their toys._

* * *

Chapter 16: Kirkwall

Zevran's _alegría de vivir_ was infectious, and Aithne laughed as he released his embrace. "That storm… I wasn't sure we would live to see the dawn. It seems your Maker likes naughty stories."

"Should I suggest it to the Chantry, dirty stories instead of prayer?" His eyes glittered with amusement. "Ah, but they would have to design new robes to fit the theme. Think of the increase in attendance. But, alas, I don't imagine the Revered Mother would allow it."

Giggling now, Aithne poked him in the ribs. "You are terrible."

"So I have been told. If not the Chantry, perhaps your trickster Fen'Harel…."

"Fen'Harel would want elvish stories."

"I'm sure we could make some up." Zevran gave her a practiced leer.

"Later. I'd like to see if I can help the injured sailors. Anders isn't going to be of much use for a while."

Aithne struggled through their cabin door, trying to keep an anxious Sky from knocking her down. Commanding the Mabari to sit, she surveyed the chaos before her; bandages, herbs, cooking gear, clothing and a variety of other miscellaneous supplies were strewn about the cabin – a result of a packs left unsecured following her frantic delving for lyrium potions and later healing herbs during the storm. Sky had made a nest of most of her spare clothing, and Pounce was napping in Zevran's pack, having dislodged a number of poison vials to make herself comfortable. Thankfully, all of the vials were intact; Zevran chose sturdy glass to contain the tools of his craft.

Sky finally bolted past her, desperately heading for the deck after the long hours of confinement. Aithne could hear Zevran's amused voice as the dog dashed for a spot near the rail to relieve herself. Grateful that Sky seemed to like Zevran, Aithne smiled as she heard his footsteps follow the Mabari back on deck. She then dislodged Pounce from her hiding spot and began cleaning up the shambles, managing to corral most of the loose items on the bed by the time Sky trotted back into the cabin followed by Zevran.

He captured a stray vial of concentrated deathroot extract as it rolled across the floor, and then sighed as he noticed his own spare clothes were also in the pile covered by Mabari hair. "If you wish to care for the injured, I'll clean up in here."

"Thanks, Zev." Aithne quickly gathered bandaging materials and herbs from the pile on the bed.

Several hours later, after treating one broken arm, a crushed hand, several broken fingers and multiple lacerations, Aithne finally found time to check on Anders again. Her patient groaned, and his eyelids fluttered while she forced another herbal infusion into him, but the mage did not regain consciousness.

Zevran had helped with her impromptu clinic after he restored order to their room and was now seated across the cabin, deep in conversation with Isabela. Although they were trying to be quiet out of respect for the exhausted mage, Aithne could hear the thinly veiled concern as they debated the best course of action to get the crippled vessel to port for repairs.

Isabela's calculations indicated that the storm had hastened their journey north considerably. Unfortunately, with only a noontime sighting it was impossible to determine whether they had been blown east or west. The captain had her charts spread across the table and was cataloging the resources available at the small villages along the northern coast of the Waking Sea. Isabela's fingers lingered on the empty stretch of coastline between Ostwick and Kirkwall, the only ports anywhere near their probable location with the resources to repair the Siren.

Aithne drifted over to Zevran, her earlier relief at surviving the storm replaced by unease at the implications of the conversation. "So we are lost?"

"In a manner, yes. Navigation is an imprecise business at best. I must bow to Isabela's experience here, but I understand our location will be more easily determined after tonight's calculations are made." Sensitive to his lover's concern, he gave her a reassuring smile. "According to our good captain here, we are far enough north that we should be within sight of the coast in a day or two, even with only the mizzenmast left to carry sail."

Aithne looked to Isabela for confirmation; the captain's nod of agreement buoyed her some. It seemed strange, to trust their course to the oddly-shaped brass instrument in its padded leather case, but Aithne was aware that her Dalish education fell short on a number of subjects. Not knowledgeable enough to contribute further to the conversation, she excused herself for some much needed rest.

Isabela turned back to Zevran at Aithne's departure. "Your Warden is an impressive woman, Arainai. I was surprised to see you involved with one of the Dalish, but now I think I understand."

"I'm glad you do, for I still do not. She is nothing I ever expected, yet I…cannot describe it." He leaned back in his chair and shrugged. Isabela had always been too perceptive, and his feelings were something he had no wish to discuss.

"Take care of her Zev; the Crows will use her to get to you, if they can. I don't know what mission you are on, but you have returned to their territory. What might have been overlooked when you were far away in Ferelden will draw their attention in the north."

With a curt nod, Zevran rose; she had warned him before and it served no purpose to address the subject again. Her words hounded him as he descended the steps to his cabin and introduced an emotion he had been stranger to …fear. Stepping into their tiny cabin, he found Aithne already curled up on the bunk, her smile beckoning him to join her. He slipped beneath the blanket and wrapped an arm around her, unable to do anything to settle his fear but hold her close.

The storm had blown them far to the west, and they spent several anxious days creeping along the coast to reach Kirkwall. When, at last, the cluster of islands guarding Kirkwall's harbor broke the horizon, the passengers and crew of the Siren all gave a collective sigh of relief. The crippled vessel was a vulnerable target on open water, and storms were only one of many concerns to those who sailed the vast ocean.

Zevran's expression was impassive, despite his trepidation, as the walled city came into sight. He considered a disguise because of Isabela's warnings about the Crows, but with the limited supplies he had available it would be difficult to come up with something convincing. Any Crow he did encounter would probably see through a disguise anyway. They were trained for careful observation, and he was certain that his likeness and description as a renegade had been distributed through every cell. Likewise, sneaking off the ship at night would draw more attention than a simple departure in broad daylight. They would simply have to make the best of it and hope the Crow presence in the Free Marches was not as ubiquitous as Isabela thought.

The harbor was filled with a startling number of vessels, many with torn sails and broken masts, evidence the storm's fury had penetrated this far west. Isabela was forced to drop anchor out in the harbor, as all the dockside berths were filled.

Aithne knocked on the door of the captain's cabin. "Anders, are you ready? Isabela has the boat in the water."

"Just a moment, I have to find Pounce." Isabela attitude toward the cat had softened after Anders heroic efforts during the storm. Her sympathy had even extended so far as to allow Pounce to move into her cabin while the mage was abed recovering from lyrium overdose.

Aithne opened the cabin door. "Sky, find Pounce." The Mabari trotted into the room and poked her nose into a pile of blankets at the foot of the bed. The affronted cat emerged with a plaintive meow and sauntered over to Anders.

Scooping the cat into her usual spot in his pack, the mage gathered his things and followed Aithne out.

Zevran was already waiting by the rail, ready with the harness he had contrived to lower Sky into the dinghy. It took a few minutes (and some encouragement from Aithne) but the dog accepted being lowered into the boat with relative grace.

Anders' cat, on the other hand, began to object loudly as soon as he started to climb down. Pounce remained on her perch, at the top of Anders' pack, but was clearly distressed by her proximity to the water of the harbor. She did settle down once he was seated in the boat and could hold her in his lap, but it was evident she was not impressed.

The arrival of another dinghy was all but unnoticed in the chaos of the docks. With sailors shouting, vendors hawking their wares and craftsmen carting lumber and fittings to repair damaged vessels, the small group from the Siren was of no significance. After issuing a few brief orders, Isabela released her crewman to ferry some of his mates in for shore leave.

Aithne staggered a bit, and Zevran caught her elbow to steady her. "It takes some getting used to, the dry land, after spending time at sea."

Wrinkling her nose at the stench of dead fish and human refuse, Aithne followed Isabela up the quay. There was debris strewn everywhere: broken timbers, damaged cargo, destroyed fishing gear. As they picked their way through the mess and up a cobbled street, she spotted damaged buildings and fallen trees – Kirkwall had clearly suffered a direct hit from the storm.

Isabela led them to a large inn on the east side of a modest square near the market district. The building was relatively undamaged and appeared to be open for business. Early afternoon during the slow winter season had left the common room empty except for a pair of old men intent on a card game.

"Isabela, I see the storm swept you in with the rest. I hope the Siren fared better than most." A grizzled old sailor, one arm missing at the elbow, greeted the captain with genuine warmth and a Rivaini accent. He then turned to her companions. "Welcome to _The Windward_. Finest ale in Kirkwall; I brew it myself."

"Tyren, are you still trying to sell that swill?" Isabela teased, helping herself to a mug behind the bar and filling it with a rich, dark beer.

"I'd have some to sell if you didn't drink it all every time you're in town." Tyren's swarthy, weathered face creased with amusement, clearly pleased by the fiery captain's enjoyment of his brew. "Your usual room, I suppose?"

"Yes, and a room for my companions as well." Isabela swept an arm toward the two elves, while giving Anders a wink.

The innkeeper chuckled at the byplay. "Found yourself another one, did you?" He turned an appraising glance on Anders. "He looks a little thin; you should feed them better, Bela." Before Anders could decide whether to take offense, the wiry sailor had them seated at a table by the fire and served with steaming bowls of meaty stew and a loaf of fresh bread. The old man joined them as mugs of the hearty stout were poured by a smiling waitress. "So, how much damage did the Siren take?"

"Fore and main masts, most of the starboard rail, a few other minor things."

Tyren winced. "You'll be in port awhile. The shipwrights are scrambling with all the repairs as it is. At least the Siren will sail again, not like my Windward Lady." Shaking himself free of memory, he noticed the curious looks from Isabela's companions. "I named the inn after the Windward Lady, as fine a ship as ever sailed. She ran aground during a storm nearly fifteen years ago. I hadn't the heart to sail again without her, and I had a bit put by…." He waved his one hand, indicating the interior of the tidy inn.

"Do you know of any ships still fit to sail?" Zevran enquired.

"None that I am aware of." Tyren eyed Zevran's tattoos with narrowed eyes, easily placing the blond elf's accent and his relaxed awareness. "Isabela, I would be a poor uncle if I didn't point out that your taste in passengers leaves a bit to be desired."

Now that it had been pointed out, Aithne noticed the similarities between the two Rivaini. Family resemblance was something she rarely noted in humans, and she studied the pair as Isabela leaned over to whisper a brief explanation in the man's ear.

Tyren's eyes widened briefly at Isabela's words, but he gave the barest of nods in acknowledgement. They would have his discretion. "I'm afraid you face quite a delay if you wish to travel by sea; however, the coast road isn't too bad if you can find decent horses."

Finding decent horses proved more difficult than one might think. Leaving Anders and Sky at the inn, Aithne and Zevran traversed the subdued market to find the horse pens at its extreme edge. There were certainly plenty of horses there – plenty of horses with bowed tendons, spavined hocks, bad feet, crooked legs, and filed teeth to make them look a decade younger than they were. In short, plenty of horses that were worthless for hard riding and rough terrain. Other travelers, unwilling to delay for ship repairs, had already departed after purchasing the cream of the available horses. Zevran found one rangy mud-brown mare with a roman nose that seemed promising. She was sound and fit, if a little high spirited, and her gait was smooth and comfortable. Their remaining prospects in the sound and fit category were slim; one beautiful but ill-tempered bay stallion who snaked his head out to bite at every opportunity, and an unremarkable roan mare whose chief flaw was that she was young and only green broke. The roan mare had at least carried a pack saddle for the last few months, if the trader was to be believed.

Aithne watched quietly while Zevran bartered over the price of the horses and suitable tack, hoping the animals would suffice. She wasn't encouraged by the roan mare's balky reticence when she tried her paces, or by the bay stallion's vicious temperament. Traveling with two mares and a stallion was apt to be difficult as well; as spring progressed the mares would start to cycle, which certainly would not improve the stallion's temperament. Still, with no better options, the horses were preferable to walking.

Her attention wandered as Zevran continued to haggle, and she casually scanned the marketplace. She smiled as she remembered Zev's promise to show her the "markets of the Free Marches."

Her gaze fell on a lean elf in hunting leathers investigating the contents of a blacksmith's stall a short distance away. She couldn't see his face, but his nonchalant posture drew her scrutiny. There was something in the way he moved that reminded her of… Zevran. Now on guard, she continued her observation of the market, but nothing else caught her eye. The elf was still at the same stall when Zevran passed a handful of coins to the horse trader. The light brush of Aithne's fingertips on his arm and the direction of her gaze alerted him, and he risked a quick glance under the guise of adjusting the fit of the bay stallion's bridle.

Zevran's subterfuge nearly earned him a bite, only his lightening reflexes allowing him to deflect the bay's teeth. Fingers wrapped around the stallion's ear and twisted. " I would not recommend you make a habit of that, or the term 'crow bait' will have a rather special meaning for you," he hissed as he gained the horse's full attention. Taking a secure hold of the bay's bridle, he relaxed his hand on the ear and rubbed the stallion's head for a moment. "See now, there is no need for unpleasantness." He gave Aithne a slight nod, the stallion's antics cover for his acknowledgement of her warning.

They left their latest acquisitions in The Windward's stable, after cautioning the stable boy not to go into the stallion's stall. The two elves then returned to their room to find clean clothes neatly folded on the bed and a large tub waiting to be filled. Anders had been busy in their absence. A servant appeared only a few minutes after their arrival, and soon the tub was filled with steaming water.

Zevran only shook his head when Aithne started to speak, his wary glance at the window enough to silence her questions. Only once they were clean and sated, after enjoying the bath together, did he voice his answer to her unasked question.

"You have good eyes, my Dalish huntress – a Crow, indeed, and aware of our presence." His lips nibbled at her ear, disguising his words in an intimate embrace. "I think it best that we leave tonight, before they have time to organize. He will not be alone."

Twisting slightly in the tub, she kissed him, and then said, "Surely they will have someone watching the inn."

"That, I can handle."

They dined with Isabela, Anders and Tyren that night in a private parlor. Tyren regaled them with tales from his career as a smuggler while they partook of fine food and drink. Aithne surreptitiously informed Anders of their planned departure in the early hours of the morning, garnering a disappointed sigh from the mage. After much laughter at a few of the more improbable stories told by Tyren, they retired for a few hours sleep.

The Chantry cathedral had only tolled the second bell when Zevran slipped out of bed to don his clothing and armor. Leaving Aithne with a parting kiss, he disappeared into the night to deal with whoever had been assigned to watch them. Aithne also dressed swiftly and packed their things as Sky stood silently near the door, obedient to her commands.

Zevran slipped back into the room not fifteen minutes later. "Apprentice," he said, disgusted. "They must be short-handed to send one so unprepared."

Aithne tapped on the door to Isabela's room and was reassured by the sound of someone fumbling with their clothes.

A grumpy, "Be there in a minute," was whispered through the door.

Satisfied Anders was awake, Aithne continued to the stables to help Zevran with the horses. The disheveled mage showed up a few minutes later, trailing Tyren, who was cheerful and energetic despite the hour.

Hardly any time passed before the gates of Kirkwall closed behind them, thanks to Tyren's contacts in the city guard. It appeared the old smuggler hadn't quit the profession; he had simply revised his strategy after the loss of his ship. Without such aid, and with no one to alert them, the Crows would be delayed for hours before they could follow.

With the moon bright in the sky, they mounted and started down the coast road.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17: Ambush

Mud sucked at the horses' feet, and murky puddles reflected the diminishing torchlight as they left the Kirkwall gates behind. A full moon supplied light bright enough to allow them to ride confidently. But, less than a mile from the gates, Anders was already clinging desperately to the brown mare as she tossed her head, jigged, and snorted, trying to escape his fear-induced chokehold. The mage was an indifferent rider at best, and the mare was restive in the crisp air with an open road before her.

Calling for a halt, Aithne pulled the roan mare off the road and dismounted. Zevran and Anders circled back to her as the brown mare danced and pulled for more rein.

"Anders, why don't we trade? This roan doesn't know much, but if you leave the reins loose she'll just follow the others. Her temperament seems a bit quieter, and you won't have to fight her the whole time." Aithne took the brown mare's bridle to steady her while the mage dismounted. Passing the roan's reins to Anders, she spent a few moments soothing the impatient brown mare before she climbed into the saddle.

They returned to the road, and Aithne loosened the reins and asked the rangy mare for a trot. The next few miles passed in a blur as the mare, freed from the mage's nervous grasp, reached out with her long stride and consumed the miles. Zevran's bay kept up, though he had to canter, and Anders was forced to stand in his stirrups and grab a twist of mane to stay aboard as the roan struggled to keep the pace. Sky flew alongside, overjoyed to be out of the city. The silvered moonlight had dropped a hand-span toward the horizon before Anders surrendered his pride and asked for the pace to slow.

Aithne looked back to find Anders trailing behind, having already dropped his mount to a walk, though his hand was yet fisted in her mane. The roan was blowing and sweating, clearly unaccustomed to the speed at which they traveled. Circling back to join him, Aithne was pleased to note the brown mare now seemed willing to walk.

Zevran's bay still danced and kept trying to nip the mares, earning him a swift kick in the muzzle with an Antivan leather-clad foot at one point. "Brasca! I warned you about the crow bait, did I not?"

The bay stallion seemed unperturbed by his rider's words, but he at least ceased reaching for the mares, his nose stinging from the kick.

The riders followed the road until the moonlight dimmed as the orb dropped toward the horizon. They turned into the scrub forest at the base of a modest hill for a short rest before dawn. Zevran took watch, staring pensively down the road toward Kirkwall. Senses alert, he filtered out the insignificant noises: pre-dawn sounds as nocturnal animals returned to their daytime nests and burrows, the shuffling of the horses as they grazed at the end of their tethers, Anders' soft snores and the whisper of the waves as the tide crept up the shoreline. He had hoped to out-distance the Crows and lose them by cutting across the Vimmark Mountains and traveling cross-country to Markham. However, given Anders' lack of riding skill and the green mare the mage was riding, it seemed better to plan for when the Crows did find them.

Zevran's gaze drifted to Aithne's sleeping form, huddled under a blanket, only a few feet away. Isabela's second warning had disturbed him - stirred remembered pain, the pull of the rack, heated slivers placed beneath fingernails, days of cramped confinement in a tiny cage, and other tortures designed to break and remold him. If they found Aithne, knew he cared for her, they would not be so kind. His eyes returned to the road stretched below him, winding along the edge of the beach for miles. The Crows would likely be on that road soon, if they weren't already, keen in pursuit of their quarry.

The little group was back in the saddle just past dawn, Pounce hissing as she was placed back in the confinement of Anders, pack. They paused several times during the day to allow the horses to rest and graze for brief periods and dismounted and walked between long sessions of trotting. Again, it was Anders and the roan mare limiting their pace. As twilight descended, Aithne guided them off the road and up into the foothills, following a meandering stream until she reached a suitably defensible camping spot with grazing for the horses.

Anders released Pounce from his pack, not even stripping the tack off his tired mare, before settling to the damp ground with a groan. Zevran turned to reprimand the mage for not doing more to care for his horse or set up camp. The words died in his mouth as he noted the dark stains along the inside of Anders' pants. Unaccustomed to riding and to the stiff cloth of pants instead of the soft fabric of his robe, the mage had worn the inside of his legs bloody.

Stifling a curse, Zevran caught Aithne's attention and directed her to the suffering mage.

She nodded and brought her saddlebags over to Anders, extracted a jar of elfroot ointment and handed it to him. "Clean those up and put this salve on. It should help until you are rested enough to heal yourself."

The mage groaned again as he complied with Aithne's advice. By the time the two elves had the horses rubbed down and staked out to graze, he was feeling well enough to have a small fire started and the beginnings of dinner heating in one of Aithne's pots. The Dalish Warden slipped away to do a bit of scouting, and perhaps some hunting, leaving Zevran and Anders to set up camp.

"You did not heal yourself. Why?"

Anders kept his attention on the pot he was stirring, not meeting Zevran's eyes. "I did …several times."

"That shouldn't tire you so much that you can't do it again; the wounds are minor."

"Alright, so I'm worse than a lousy rider. After the first few hours, all that was keeping me on the horse was magic – a carefully applied force field can be used for many things." Anders turned to the Antivan, who now wore his annoying smirk, "And, if you must know, I don't dare take any lyrium for a while. I haven't recovered fully from the overdose during the storm. The stuff is addictive, you know."

"Hmm, so you have studied these applications of magic for… _riding?_ It seems there are uses for mages I hadn't considered." Zevran's eyes held a teasing gleam, in contrast to the seductive caress he gave his words.

"I have spent some time applying my theories." Parry and riposte.

"So, did they hold up in practice?"

"They were rooted in firm ground."

"A fine thing; they stood up to the test."

"I have found that strong magic is essential for good penetration."

A snort of laughter interrupted Zevran before he could reply. Aithne was leaning casually on a tree across camp, eyes sparkling from contained mirth. "You two could make washing socks sound like a trip to the Pearl." She crossed to Zevran, dropping two rabbits by the fire, and leaned in for a quick kiss. "It's a good thing you're a master swordsman."

"Grandmaster at least, my Warden."

"Mmm, even grandmasters need to practice." Her fingers trailed a heated promise down his back as she turned. "Tomorrow you can teach Anders to ride…horses."

Zevran trailed his Grey Warden out of camp, leaving Anders to attend to dinner. He expected the Crows to catch up with them in the next few days; this was likely to be his last opportunity for a few unguarded moments until his former colleagues were dealt with.

They resumed their journey as the first grey light crept into the sky. The horses snorted icy plumes in the cold air and Aithne spent several minutes settling the brown mare before she was content to walk.

Zevran held his bay in check, pacing Anders' roan. "No, no, hold on with your thighs, not your knees. And not so stiff; follow her mouth with your hands – treat her like a lover, flow with her movements. I cannot think so many ladies would fall into your bed if you treated them so."

"It's a horse, not a woman."

"A little pressure here, a touch there, they are much the same. Now, relax the reins and let her have her head. Much smoother, no?"

Anders' riding gradually improved under Zevran's tutelage. Although the mage was still stiff and sore in the evenings, he no longer had to use spells to stay in the saddle.

Three days out from Kirkwall, Aithne guided them into the forest and back-tracked to a low bluff overlooking the road. The bluff loomed with uncertain shadows in the twilight, a sheer rock wall near the road with a few spindly pines clinging to the rocky soil at its crest, and sloped gently down to a clearing in the scrub forest to the north. A tiny stream skirted the base of the bluff to the west.

Zevran nodded his satisfaction with Aithne's choice. Both prey and predator, his awareness of the Crows' pursuit skittered along his nerves. _Tonight_, he thought, as he staked the stallion near the stream.

Aithne kept watch atop the bluff as Zevran, weapon-callused hands sure in their work, prepared a greeting for his former guild-mates. The former Crow glanced occasionally at Anders, who was partly concealed in the bare branches of an old willow tree, as he laid traps designed to protect the vulnerable mage's position.

The Crows did come, riding boldly down the road on nearly spent horses. Aithne watched them ride past the bluff, past the point where her own party had turned off into the forest. She signaled Zevran as the lead rider paused briefly before riding on; their trail had been marked.

Time passed, motionless, marked only by the progression of the filigreed shadows cast by moonlight on shrub and tree. Aithne watched, even the whisper of her own breath harsh in her ears, and waited for the dense patch of shadow amid a small copse of pines to move again. Slowly, ever so slowly, it shifted west instead of east, contrary to the shadows cast by the descending moon. Her own shadow masked by the dense bulk of the rising bluff and motion concealed by apparently impenetrable brambles, she eased her bowstring back, then let fly.

The muffled cry of her victim blended in synchrony with the whir of Zevran's arrow as he ousted another shadow. The still air was rent by sounds of battle: Sky's growls as she erupted from Aithne's feet, the crack of broken branches as combatants on both sides discarded concealment in favor of open battle, the sizzle and sudden light as Anders engulfed a Crow in flames, the song of steel on steel as weapons clashed. A surreal ballet of death amid the flicker of magical fire, the dancers twisted and spun, not man or elf or dog but sharp-edged weapons in an intricate exchange.

It ended, as always, with the harsh breathing of the victors, the metallic scent of blood and the cloying odor of sundered bowels hanging heavy in the air.

Aithne surveyed the torn bodies sprawled nearby with a mixture of disgust and regret. Zevran had warned her. Still, she had hoped that the Crows would not be so foolish as to spend lives merely to reclaim a man who refused to remain their puppet. Shaking her head at the waste, she proceeded with the grisly task of checking their victims. Three were dead already, with no need for the merciful coup. Zevran was bent over a fourth, with Sky guarding yet another. A sixth figure was weakly crawling toward the stream. Grimly, she committed the spirits of the latter two to whatever gods they worshiped. Brutal necessity forced her hand; they could not afford to have Crow pursuit on their errand.

Zevran was still attending the final Crow when she finished rinsing sword and dagger in the stream. Striding toward them, she was aware of the subtle tension in her lover's relaxed pose.

"Enzo, you will tell me why so many Crows have flown so far from home, no?" Cleaning his dagger on a scrap of cloth, Zevran barely glanced at his victim as he made his query.

"You have done well for yourself. Perhaps you will tell me why you return," the swarthy Crow wheezed, his lips flecked with bloody spittle.

"Why? Because I wish to; I find that Ferelden is sorely lacking decent fish chowder."

"You always were an arrogant bastard." Enzo's eyes flicked over to Aithne. "I think you have simply found a new master. Pity our old one never could beat the heart out of you. You might have been the best Crow assassin in a hundred years."

"Might have been? I am, that is all there is to it."

Zevran's cool declaration elicited a choked laugh from Enzo. "I'm almost glad I won't be around to see what the Grandmaster does to you. You do know he fancies your hide for the wall of his estate?"

"I think he will need better than you to part me from it. Now, tell me about the Crows." Shifting his weight, Zevran ground the heel of his boot into his former comrade's hand.

"No, I think not. I'm dying anyway; at least I go to the Maker watching you squirm. You're not on top anymore, Zevran…." Enzo's words trailed off into gasping breaths; foam and blood stained his mouth as he wheezed and choked.

With the flash of a dagger, Zevran ended the Crow's life. Turning, he strode stiffly to disarm the traps below the willow so Anders could vacate his arboreal perch.

"A murder of Crows in truth," Anders quipped as he descended the tree, looking askance at Zevran.

"It was necessary," Aithne cut Anders off. "Isabela warned us that the Crows have suddenly taken interest in the Free Marches; we need to know why."

"We could have taken them prisoner, asked them…"

"No. Enzo wouldn't talk, and he was their leader. The others would have known little or nothing." Zevran began placing the salvaged trap supplies back in small leather pouches.

"You knew him, and you still hurt him, tortured him?"

Straightening, Zevran faced the mage. "I grew up with him. If you think what I did was real torture, you have a lot to learn."

"Pack up, Anders. We're not spending the rest of the night with these bodies." Aithne tossed saddle bags at the mage and went to gather the horses.

Shortly after first light, Aithne found a lightly used trail off the main road, and they began their ascent into the Vimmark Mountains. The trail left the scrub forest of the coast quickly and rose through vast stands of hardwoods, stripped bare in winter dormancy. The Vimmarks lacked the towering crags of the Frostbacks. These were older mountains, slopes worn by time in softer, rounded shapes.

Trying to make up for lost time, they broke camp early and traveled until evening dulled the landscape. Over the course of the next week, the track they were on guided them through a low pass where the snow was only a difficulty to overcome instead of the insurmountable obstacle it would have been in the Frostbacks in late winter. Another week's travel saw them free of the mountains, disgorged onto the vast plains of the Free Marches.

Only a few days after their descent, the bustling town of Markham appeared on the horizon, and the weariness melted from the companions at the thought of warmth and a hot meal beneath a roof. Blending with the light traffic on the road, they entered Markham, noted only as three travel-worn mercenaries by the gate guard.

A few coppers to a street urchin garnered them directions to "The Lady's Harp." The inn proved to be a modest but reputable establishment, catering primarily to caravans, traders and local merchants. The presence of three mercenaries, even if two of them were elves, was little to be remarked upon with the diverse nature of her clientele. The Harp was a place where deals were made, goods were contracted and guards hired.

Carefully phrased words to the innkeeper about the wool trade in Amaranthine generated a startled look and rapid service. Given the appropriate code, there weren't even any protests about the presence of a Mabari and a cat in the common room.

Settling into a corner table, Aithne sighed with pleasure as a mug of steaming cider was placed before her. Wrapping her frozen fingers around the wooden cup, she noted that Anders and Zevran had done the same, though Zevran kept one hand below the table, resting idly on his belt knife. The companions wasted no time in ordering food, uncertain how long it would take the message to yield results.

The serving girl was clearing the remains of their meal when a slender red-haired woman stepped through the door. In moments, she had found them and worked her way confidently toward the table.

"Leliana." Aithne rose to embrace her friend. "The child?" she whispered under cover of hugging her friend.

"Safe for now. Come with me, and you can see for yourself."

Leaving a handful of coins to pay for their meal, the companions rose and followed the Orlesian bard out of the inn.

* * *

_Once again real life interfered with my writing, my apologies for the delay._

_Thanks as always to my betas Erynnar and Brownc0at who catch the little things that make such a difference._

_As always, Bioware owns all. I'm just playing with their toys._


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18: Morrigan

Markham did not live up to its reputation as a bustling trade center, the heart of the great "breadbasket" of Thedas, when frozen in Guardian's icy grip. The second month of the year left mostly deserted streets; only a few hardy locals on silent errands noted their passage on the chill evening as wintry breeze sought purchase under cloak and hood. The gentle promise of spring was but weeks away, yet still too distant for shops and warehouses to be open into the twilight hours.

Aithne could sense a dichotomy of emotion in the Orlesian bard riding double behind her. Leliana brimmed with a suppressed excitement belied by the grim purpose in her eyes. The bard guided them through the twilight streets and into a neighborhood of neat two-story homes; solid construction and decorative touches displayed the moderate wealth of their owners. They halted their mounts at a well-kept livery stable, and tipped the stable boy to rub down their weary mounts and give them extra feed. Their destination was less than half a block away; a house was built of pale local brick, its front steps adorned with a sturdy iron railing.

"A summer home for one of our merchant contacts," Leliana explained as they followed the bard into the wood-paneled entry way. The small group shed muddy boots and heavy cloaks before continuing on to the beckoning warmth of the parlor.

Aithne froze in astonishment as she entered the candle-lit room, "Wynne!" She heard pleased laughter from Leliana as the now fragile mage enfolded her in an embrace.

"Aithne, truly the Maker is with us; you have finally come."

"It's good to see you too, Wynne." Aithne smiled as she hugged the circle mage. Wynne often came across as sanctimonious, but the woman had a kind heart. Something it had taken a suspicious Dalish hunter months to see.

Aithne released Wynne and glanced around the room as the mage slipped past her to greet Zevran and Anders. Morrigan was seated in a chair near the fire with a small child in her lap. The Witch of the Wilds huddled in her shawl, face pinched and pale in the flickering light as she stroked the blonde curls of the sleeping child.

Aithne exhaled the breath she had not realized she held and crossed the room to the apostate. The first, and perhaps only, human of her acquaintance to share her love and understanding of the savage beauty of the wild lands, to see the perfect symmetry in a place where hunter often becomes hunted and, in the end, always returns to the earth to nourish the next cycle. "Morrigan, my friend."

"At least that foolish king of yours had the wisdom to find you and give you my letter." The witch's acerbic words were softened by a genuine smile.

"This is the child?" Looking down, Aithne knew it could be no other. The slender bone structure was all Morrigan, but the sandy blonde hair with its tendency to curl bespoke Alistair.

"I call her Mei."

Morrigan's tender expression made Aithne ashamed for ever doubting her friend. "A beautiful name for a beautiful child."

"It does not greet me. I might as well have remained a statue."

Aithne turned to face a stout dwarf, unfamiliar, with her neat braid of silver-shot brown hair and mocking grey eyes. "Shayle?"

"Were you expecting the king of Orzammar?"

"Shayle! It worked then; the Tevinter mages were able to change you back." Aithne embraced the former golem, just because she could, and tried to reconcile her stony companion with this sturdy, middle-aged dwarf. It seemed outrageous, too much of a chance, for so many of her old companions to be present.

Zevran's comment echoed her thoughts. "Had I known we were going to a reunion I would have dressed for the occasion. All we lack is a campfire and a few darkspawn." His words held a slight edge, which he softened with a genuine smile for Shayle. "So, now you're a dwarf again, are you enjoying the _joys_ of life as a flesh creature?"

"The painted elf is very funny." Shayle paused, glancing at Mei. "But, I think perhaps in some instances he may have been right."

Bewildered, Anders entered the conversation. "I've heard all the stories, and I'm sure Shayle was a golem."

"I was."

"This I have to hear."

"And hear you shall, if you can simply keep your mouth closed and your ears open." Morrigan stopped as the child stirred in her lap, blinking to awareness.

_Alistair's eyes. _Aithne was catapulted back to her dream vision, a golden dragon with Alistair's eyes. The child who squirmed on her mother's lap bore no resemblance to the dragon of her vision. But the eyes were not those of a child; they were deeper, older, brimming with the promise of yet unrealized power.

"Kitty!" Mei squealed with delight, noticing Pounce, who had gracefully seated herself in front of the fire. Then, "Doggy," when Sky stalked into the room, refusing to be left out. Mei slipped off her mother's lap, oblivious to the strangers in the room, and scooped the cat up in her arms. Pounce suffered the awkward embrace as Mei tried to figure out how to pet Sky with an armful of cat.

"Mei, we have visitors." Morrigan's voice was soft, reminding the child of courtesies that she – former witch of the wilds- barely regarded.

Mei looked up as she struggled to hold a tolerant Pounce, and gave a shy, "Hi."

It was Zevran who crouched down next to the child, engaging her with his smile. "Do you have your own cat?"

"No, mommy said they just die."

"Well, let me introduce you to Pounce," Zevran motioned toward the cat, "And Sky," he gave the Mabari's ears an affectionate scratch. "I am Zevran, and the lovely elf lady is Aithne. We are old friends of your mother's. And Pounce belongs to Anders, over there."

"Pounce. Sky." The child fixed the important names in her mind, and then turned to the mage. "Can I play with your kitty?"

"Certainly, young lady. Perhaps you would like to sit down with her, though." Pounce was still dangling from Mei's arms, the child's small hands around her chest, the cat's back legs swinging.

Aithne glanced about the room as Zevran helped the child situate Pounce in her lap. It was apparent that Mei's sheer presence had captured the attention of every adult in the room. _Definitely more than an ordinary child_. She knelt next to Morrigan's chair, and murmured, "You once told me some things are worth saving; was it worth it?"

Morrigan followed Aithne's gaze to the blackened patch of tainted skin now visible on her wasted arm. "Yes, I think so. You know, I had intended to take her body, as Flemeth meant to take mine. It seemed a sure way to protect myself from my mother's return, binding myself to the soul of an Old God."

"And now?"

"No, she is more important to me than my own survival. 'Tis something I think you taught me." Her mouth curved in a bitter smile. "It seems now that I will pay with my life. The archdemon's taint had to go somewhere, something I'm sure Flemeth withheld on purpose."

"It's been years; how have you withstood the taint this long?" Sorrow for her friend battled with Aithne's knowledge as a Grey Warden.

"In part, my own power, thus my condition." Morrigan swept her hand down her emaciated frame. "Mei also has power of her own; she's just too young to guide it. If I could hold on until she was older I might have years, but 'tis a waste to wish for things that cannot be."

"Is that why you sent the letter?"

"In part. I think the whole story can wait until Mei is in bed; she is a bit distracting…." Morrigan's eyes followed Anders, who was showing Mei how to tease Pounce with a bit of string. "Also, there are things I would not have her know yet."

"Not to interrupt, but I set water to heat for bathing before I went to meet you at the inn. If we are to wait for the storytelling, this might be a good time to get cleaned up." Leliana set a mug of steaming herb tea next to Morrigan with a compassionate smile.

Aithne nodded her thanks and left the men to play with Mei, her thoughts churning as she followed Leliana to the kitchen, where a metal tub sat, filled with blessedly clean, hot water.

Later that evening, washed and dressed in clean attire, the companions returned to the parlor for the storytelling. Aithne sat on a slightly-worn divan, Zevran lounging at her side. "I'm not sure what I'd rather hear first, your story, Morrigan, or Shale's."

"I will start. 'Tis Mei that concerns us after all." Morrigan stared into the fire, eyes unfocused as she strove to find the words for her tale. "After the Archdemon was slain, I knew the ritual had worked. I could feel the power in the child, even so early after conception."

Aithne glanced in silent query toward Wynne, Shale and Leliana. Wynne's arched brow was answer enough; Morrigan had told them how the child came to be. She forced herself to remain still under the mage's disapproval, and returned her attention to Morrigan's words.

"I had planned to retreat to a southern highland of the Tirashan known as the Urthemial Plateau. It seemed remote enough and appropriate at the time. 'Twas my failing, that I misjudged the difficulty of starting in an unfamiliar place while pregnant, and later, with an infant. We left the Tirashan when Mei was nearly a year of age; she was walking and apt to wander off the moment my attention strayed – 'twas a most dangerous habit in the wild-lands. The remote areas of Orlais presented little challenge as we traveled, but when the land became more populous there were more Templars, and more arrogant Chevaliers." Morrigan frowned with remembered annoyance and continued. "For myself, there would have been little problem, but Mei… you have seen the child; magic radiated from her, even so young."

"We barely escaped from a group of Templars in Charmeaux. Containing the taint was taking increasing amounts of my power, leaving little to deal with the foolish mage hunters and their narrow-minded Chantry doctrine. I nearly retreated back to the wilds, but fear that the taint would overcome my abilities before Mei was grown turned us toward Tevinter. There I would not be pursued as an apostate; also, I hoped to find a way to slow the spreading corruption in my body. The great library at the University of Minrathous seemed the best option."

"You have been there, then? To the library?" Anders interrupted.

Morrigan gave him a quelling look. "'Tis what I was getting to before you unleashed your foolish tongue." She then turned back to the others, ignoring Anders entirely. "We spent over a year traveling, working our way north through Nevarra, then Tevinter. It would have been much faster to shift and travel as a wolf, but again, I had Mei to consider. Minrathous itself contained the most ill-advised collection of humanity I have ever witnessed, but the knowledge…." Her voice held blatant desire, a lust for information and the power it brought. "One could spend a dozen lifetimes and never read it all. I spent months simply trying to determine where, in all the books, the information I needed might be. 'Twas searching the library that led to my present difficulties, and also to the solution." She closed her eyes wearily and gestured at Wynne to continue.

"Morrigan is right about the library; it's simply amazing. Imagine a building, an entire city block, filled with nothing but books. Books in every language of Thedas, even those considered extinct." She turned toward the two elves. "Even a small section of texts in the rare stacks, protected by spells from decay, said to have been salvaged from Arlathan itself. Of course, no one can translate them fully now. Shale and I spent days randomly searching, trying to find anything involving golems or shape-shifting, before we attracted the attention of one of the scholars interested in transfiguration. Even with the knowledge of his entire department at the University it took several years before we amassed enough information to try to change Shayle back."

"That kind of help could not have been cheap." Zevran, street-wise and practical, broke the spell woven by the thought of such a search.

Shayle spoke. "No, it wasn't. Fortunately, the coin was something we could pay –information. They wished to know of my time as a golem, of Orzammar and of the blight. Every detail of those things copied by a scribe and bound in one of their books. What good it will do them I don't know, but it was their fee. The puny scholars seemed so excited by the challenge of changing me back that I think they might have done it for free, but someone higher up, I'm not sure who, wished payment."

"A high price indeed." Zevran's hooded gaze concealed his rapid calculations of what had been exchanged and the dangers that information might present to Aithne, the dwarves and the nation of Ferelden.

"You think so? You spoke to me once of the cost of immortality, of living in an invulnerable stone body. Your words showed me the things I was missing, that the vulnerabilities of a puny flesh creature were also its strengths. Do you take those words back now?" Shayle rounded on the assassin, the fire of new-forged convictions in her eyes.

"You may not be the only one to pay the price. Yet the deed is done, and I hold to my words; life in all its frailties is meant to be experienced. What sense in living if you don't feel; how sad to never hold the fire of a lover, the rush of standing on the knife edge of death, the joy of children, the warmth of your heart's desire, to grow up and grow old. That is life."

"Fine words, elf, but where is your true love; where are your children? You speak of things you know nothing of. I became a golem to escape those things; I buried a husband and all of my children. I think I know a bit about what things cost." Shayle's eyes bored into Zevran's, daring him to comment, as the rest of the group stared at her in shock.

"No comment. Good. We were discussing how we ran into Morrigan. Go on, Wynne." Shayle turned back to the mage, ignoring the effect her words created.

The circle mage stared at Zevran in unflattering appraisal for a moment before resuming her tale. "Those last months, before we made the final effort to restore Shayle, she and I occasionally saw a dark-haired woman with a child. She never was close enough to be sure, but we wondered if it was Morrigan. After Shayle was returned to her true form, it was several weeks before she was prepared to leave the apartment we shared. In that time, we talked, and occasionally our conversation included our suspicions about the dark-haired woman. We formed a plan to follow her; with Shayle a dwarf again, there was no chance of recognition."

"I followed her to the alienage, a rotting slum far worse than the one in Denerim. It's no wonder parents there sell their own children into slavery." Revulsion dripped from Shayle's words.

"'Twas the only place the mages would not follow me. They could sense Mei's potential, but they were unsure which of us harbored so much ability, thus we were left alone in public. It was when we left the library that we were followed; the Tevinter mages hoped to catch me unaware and discover our secret. Shayle returned with Wynne the very night she found me. They did not consider the alienage a suitable place for a child and wished to move us both."

"Morrigan had been right to hide. She and the child had only been in our apartment a few days before we were attacked by blood mages." Wynne spat the words with all the contempt a lifetime of Chantry teaching could muster.

"They spoke of a prophecy and tried to take Mei. I guess they had forgotten how poorly magic works on dwarves." Shayle gave a satisfied grin. "Blood mages die the same as any other on the blade of a sharp axe."

Wynne continued the tale. "We left Minrathous the next morning, sailing on the first vessel that would take us. In Avariel we ran into Isabela. We didn't sail with her, Seheron was her next port of call – not a pleasant place for a party of mages, but it gave us the opportunity to send the letter and give her verbal directions to have you meet us in the Free Marches at the port of Hercinia. Over the next months, we were occasionally pursued by blood mages and once by a group of Grey Wardens. When Leliana met us in Hercinia, she suggested we travel inland to Markham, as she had contacts here, and the approaching winter storms made sailing further south a risky venture."

"So the Grey Wardens I understand, they would wish to get rid of the child, but why the blood mages?" Anders queried.

"There is apparently an old Tevinter prophecy about the return of the Old Gods restoring the Imperium to its former glory. A group controlling an Old God would be in prime position to take over Tevinter if only politics is considered. If one throws religion in the mix, well, 'tis easy to see how fools are made." In perfect condescending form Morrigan replied.

"So what's our status now; have you been followed here?" Aithne calculated how quickly they could travel with a small child, a very ill Morrigan, and elderly Wynne given the imminent spring thaw. Ferelden seemed a very long way away.

Leliana spoke. "There was a man outside _The Lady's Harp_ tonight that looked familiar. Not someone I've seen here in Markham before, either."

Aithne and Zevran exchanged glances; Leliana's memory for faces was flawless. If there was a familiar face outside the inn, chances were that Morrigan and the child had been found.

Zevran tipped his head and considered his lover's unspoken question. The howl of the wind outside rattled the windows as the storm that hovered on the horizon earlier in the evening finally arrived. "We can check things out tomorrow. Going out in a blizzard will only make us stand out more."

Aithne nodded her assent, secretly amused by Zevran's logic. In the quiet winter season two heavily armed elves going about asking questions would be noteworthy no matter when they did it. His inviting look made her reconsider his motives, and she drifted her hand across his thigh in answer.

"I see the painted elf does take his own advice," Shayle commented as she stood. "It appears the party's over. I'm off to bed."

Morrigan and Wynne followed the dwarf up the stairs, leaving Leliana, Anders and the two elves to make plans.

"Any idea who the man was, Leli?" Aithne asked.

"No, but it was a face I'm sure I saw in Hercinia. Black hair, close-cropped beard and mustache, medium height but solid. He was wearing chainmail and carried a rather nice silverite mace."

"Likely a Warden; we'll know if we get close," Anders said.

"And he'll know us if it's been any time since his joining at all." _Damn it, why did Weisshaupt have to get involved in this? _Aithne mulled and discarded half a dozen plans. "No help for it; we'll just have to confront him."

"In the morning, my Dalish lady." Zevran's hand kneaded the tight-strung muscles in her neck and shoulders.

Leliana grinned at her two friends. "I'm glad to see you two have worked things out. C'mon, Anders, I think they need some time alone."

"But what about you, Leli; surely you don't want to be lonely in a cold bed?" Anders pursued the bard up the stairs, pleading his case.

"He's not even in her league." Zevran chuckled as he laid out their bedrolls on the floor. With only three rooms upstairs, they had volunteered to sleep in the parlor. It also allowed them to guard the first floor entries in case someone did decide to brave the storm. Sky had been set to guard the sleeping Mei, so for the first time in nearly a month, they were truly alone.

"Anders can be persuasive when he wants to be, though. I doubt he'll end up sleeping on the floor."

"Perhaps not; Leliana has no doubt been short on company since she arrived. Speaking of company, my lovely Warden…."

"I've always heard Crows were persuasive…."

Later, relaxed in the afterglow, Zevran spoke. "You know Morrigan is dying."

"Yes, if the taint doesn't kill her, I'll have to. She's nearly a ghoul now."

Zevran held his Dalish lady to his chest as her silent tears fell.

* * *

_Thanks to my betas for the excellent job they do in keeping my story coherent. *Hugs* to Erynnar and Brownc0at - I couldn't do it without you._

_Also, thank you to everyone who has read this story and enjoyed it. Every time I get a story alert, favorite or review it makes my day._


	19. Chapter 19

_Once again, apologies to my readers for my extended hiatus. Work, children and other projects consumed my time at the expense of this story. I hope that my updates will be more timely in the future. _

_As always, Bioware owns all, I'm merely playing with their toys._

Chapter 19:

Aithne wrinkled her nose; its tip was cold outside her bedroll. She shifted tucking her body tight against Zevran's. Somehow the cold seemed out of place. Camping in the winter should be cold - _but, no, that wasn't right. _They were in Markham, in a house. She opened her eyes to find the fire out and frost coating blankets where moisture from her breath had condensed. She sighed and rose; the fire wouldn't relight itself. Zevran mumbled something and reached for her. Aithne smiled and tucked the blankets back around him.

"How is it we can never travel anywhere warm?" Zevran's complaint emerged from the blanket he had pulled over his head.

"You seemed plenty warm last night."

"I had company."

"Well, if that's all you need I can have Sky crawl in with you." The Mabari had come downstairs and was whining softly.

"No! No, I have no wish to be cold and smell like dog." Zevran wrapped a blanket around himself as he sat up and crept closer to the fire Aithne was kindling. "Here, I'll take care of this. Sky needs out."

Anders was entertaining Mei in the parlor, much to the amusement of a yawning Leliana, by the time Aithne returned from taking Sky for her morning run. She paused in the door to watch the child, grinning at the sound of a muffled "brasca" and the tantalizing scent of frying sausages from the kitchen.

Leliana stood and walked over to her friend. "She seems such an ordinary child; sometimes it's hard to believe she is more."

"I was thinking much the same thing." Mei's squeal of delight surrounded them as Anders found a ticklish spot. "I can feel no taint in her, no evil. Watching her, it's hard to remember she's central to a prophesy, a target for the Grey Wardens, and a potential pawn in games of power."

"She is a prize in such games, make no mistake of that." Morrigan joined them, looking scarcely refreshed despite a full night's sleep. The witch caught Aithne's gaze. "I would speak with you a moment."

Aithne nodded sharply and followed Morrigan back to the kitchen.

"Ah, such loveliness. To what do I owe the pleasure, ladies?" Zevran looked up from the pans sizzling on the wood stove.

"I've no time for such foolishness. What I have to say concerns you both." Morrigan's arrogant stance faltered a bit. "Aithne, you know what I will become. I have little time left and Mei must be kept safe – not just from Grey Wardens and the Tevinter mages, but also from my mother, when she returns. I trust no other with this; you alone have stood by me. I ask you, as a friend, to take Mei and raise her as your own when my time comes."

"What of Alistair?" Aithne queried.

"What of him? He contributed his seed, no more. Mei's future does not concern him." Morrigan's voice was cold. "He could not protect her, in any case. Ferelden is still weak from the blight and Alistair is not sufficiently ruthless."

"And I am?"

"Yes, you will do what needs to be done. You've proven that, against my good advice at times."

Aithne stared at Morrigan, trying to fathom the motivations in her yellow eyes. "What of Zevran? What is his part in this?"

The dark-haired witch gave a brief snort of laughter. "Besides the fact that he occupies your bed and appears likely to do so for the foreseeable future; he is lethal, cunning and devoted to you."

"Tsk, tsk, such flattery, Morrigan. And here I thought it was my dashing good looks and massage skills you wanted me for."

Aithne held up a hand to forestall the witch's reply. The subject was too serious for the conversation to degenerate into their usual sarcastic banter. "Morrigan, for myself, I would say yes. But I can't answer for Zevran." She turned to her lover. "It will likely mean travel and hiding in remote villages, possibly with the Dalish, for many years."

"To the gates of the Black City," was his soft reply.

"'Tis settled then. I will inform the others, so there are no questions when the time comes."

Aithne waited until the dark-haired witch left the room before turning to Zevran. To her surprise his lips were curved in a thoughtful smile.

"It seems your Fen'Harel has quite the sense of humor. It doesn't seem so long ago, that we were discussing why we shouldn't have children. Now we are pledged to a child with more dangerous enemies than our own."

They lingered over breakfast, the heavy snowfall abating their sense of urgency. Travel would be difficult, not only for the companions, but also for their enemies. Finally, warmed by hot food and a strong, bitter beverage Zevran called coffee, Aithne and Leliana set out for _The Lady's Harp _leaving the others to guard Mei.

A hum of comfortable conversation enveloped them as they entered the inn. Many of the inn's guests were seated in the common room enjoying a leisurely breakfast, since both business and travel had been postponed by the recent storm. The two women took seats at a corner table and ordered mulled cider. The innkeeper returned with the steaming cider and deftly slipped a scrap of paper to Leliana when he set the mugs down.

Aithne casually sipped her beverage (it really was excellent cider), while biting back her impatience to discuss the note. The hastily scrawled _Plough and Furrow _meant nothing to her, but Leliana seemed to recognize the name. They stayed at the table, two friends stopping to warm themselves, for nearly half an hour. Finally, Leliana rose and Aithne trailed her back into the cold.

The bard turned south from the _Harp_ and casually strolled for several blocks before speaking. "The _Plough_ is a brothel near the alienage; it serves some rough customers, and apparently our dark-haired spy. A bit of coin should yield information and access to his room – the _Plough's_ ladies are neither paid nor treated well."

"How did the innkeeper know…?"

"You think my contacts exist only to provide shelter for travelers?" Amusement rippled in Leliana's words.

Aithne shook her head; the complexities of the game Leliana played were far out of her league. It was easier to simply follow the vibrant bard's lead in matters of intrigue than to attempt to sort them out for herself.

Not far from the alienage gates they found a decaying two-story mansion. Peeling paint on the sign declared their arrival at the _Plough and Furrow._ Aithne grimaced in distaste as they ascended the sagging steps. Her experience with houses of ill-repute had been limited to a handful of trips to the _Pearl,_ none of them for pleasure. At least none of the _Pearl's _employees had the haggard, empty expressions she noted looking down from the _Plough's _windows.

"I don't buy Dalish." A hatchet faced Madam dismissed Leliana and gestured toward the door.

"I should hope not." Aithne swept her cloak back, revealing two dagger hilts previously concealed by her hood and the unmistakably rich sheen of drake-scale armor. "Because if I were to find one of my people held here…." Unfamiliar fury swept through her at the thought of a Dalish held in this _cesspool._

Leliana grinned and yielded control of the situation to Aithne. It was not how she had expected the encounter to go, but the Madam's unfortunate assumption could yield both entertaining results and information without the expenditure of coin if the Dalish Warden continued on the same path.

Aithne stalked toward the human Madam, her righteous anger lending her presence greater than her slender stature. A hulking man with beady eyes moved to intercept her. She caught his fist and tripped him to the floor, a tiny stiletto poised to rid him of his family jewels if he interfered again. Aithne pinned the Madam with her gaze. "Now, let's start over. Perhaps we should begin with you not assuming that every elf is a slave or a servant. Then we could continue with you answering my questions. If you are polite and give me the answers I need, then we leave. If not, well…" The stiletto parted cloth, freezing the man on the floor, as its mate appeared in Aithne's other hand.

The Madam glared back, unwilling to submit to a mere elf. The second stiletto blurred and sank into the wall scarcely two inches from her head and another slender dagger appeared from a boot as the elf stared her down. "What do you want?"

"We are looking for a man." Aithne held the woman with her gaze silently cursing her own uncharacteristic lack of control. Leliana gave a precise description of their mark and it was clear the Madam recognized it.

"He's gone, left this morning with another fellow. Paid his account in good silver, he did."

"Do you know where he went?" It was a slender hope, but Leliana asked anyway.

"Nah, why would he tell the likes of us?"

"Let's go, she doesn't know anything else." Aithne allowed the bouncer to rise to his feet as she backed toward the door.

"But…"

"Now!"

They slipped out the door as the sound of heavy steps and the jingle of chainmail sounded above them. The two rogues retreated, taking a wandering course down side streets and alleys until they were sure any pursuit was lost.

"Not that I didn't enjoy every minute of your little show, but warn me next time."

"Sorry Leli, I just…the thought of a Dalish in that place." Aithne frowned. "We probably would have more information if I hadn't…."

"I understand, it's part of your vow as a Dalish."

"_We are the last of the Elvehenan, and never again shall we submit_. Still, I'm more than just Dalish now, and then there's Mei…."

"Don't worry over it. We're not far from the south gate now, we can enquire there."

As it turned out, their quarry had indeed exited the south gate earlier that morning, accompanied by another armed and armored man. Aithne and Leliana hastened back to the house, concerned that the suspected Wardens had gone for reinforcements.

"Zevran, Anders, you're with me. Morrigan, Wynne, Shayle, stay and guard Mei. Leliana, can you find out if our friends had any other contacts in the city?"

Leliana nodded.

"Good. Then let's saddle up." Aithne left, trailed by Sky, with Zevran and Anders close behind.

They exited the south gate before the noon bells rang and followed the only hoof-prints in the new-fallen snow. Turning their mounts west they headed for a hazy forest some miles away. With the fresh snow there was no need for Sky to follow the scent, and they made good time.

Several hours later, they rode beneath snow-laden trees and attempted to sort out the maze of fresh trails that wound through the wood. The area was clearly heavily used, no doubt by brigands, highwaymen and other unsavory sorts, though they saw no one. Even Sky seemed to have lost the trail in the myriad of scents swirling under her nose.

Zevran spared a glance for their back-trail before speaking. "This would be a splendid place for an ambush, no?"

"You think we were set up?" Aithne queried as she noted the unusual stillness of the forest.

"Si. This feels wrong."

"You're both making the back of my neck itch. I've spent enough time hunted by the Templars; I have no desire to be stalked by anyone else. Let's go back. Besides…" Anders wiggled his fingers dramatically and shivered. "I'm so cold that I'll be casting lightning-sickles."

With another wary glance around the silent forest, Aithne nodded assent to Anders' suggestion and turned her horse back toward Markham. "I suspect they've gone for reinforcements. We need to get back to make plans anyway."

It was a quiet ride back toward the city. Losing the Wardens' trail raised the specter of fresh pursuit and the need for a rapid departure from the Free Marches. They rode through the city gate just at twilight on lathered horses, plans already set.

Zevran and Anders went immediately to the market to obtain fresh provisions before the vendors closed their shops. Aithne headed for the house, anxious to prepare the rest of their company for an early morning and hard riding. She was nearly to the front door when Sky drew her attention. The Mabari was growling, hackles raised, and Aithne drew her sword before cautiously opening the door.

Blood… and the tang of fear. The scent swirled through the house. Sky rushed past her whining frantically, claws scrabbling on the wood floor. Aithne resisted the impulse to dash after the Mabari and sank into the shadows instead, stalking forward cautiously, aware of every sound, every breath of air. Too quiet now, no childish giggles, no conversation, not even the whisper of fabric from Wynne's sewing basket. A noise from the sitting room drew her attention, and she crept around the corner to investigate.

Leliana sat, tears streaking her face, over a pile of bloodied mage's robes. It was Wynne, her expression serene in death, as it had been in life.

"Lel?"

The bard looked up, stricken.

"Leli, what happened?"

"I don't know. I spent the day chasing tips that led nowhere. I came back to find…." The red-head stroked the mages hand helplessly, choking on a sob. "It's not fair, after everything during the blight, to lose her now, like this…."

"What of the others, Lel? Where's Morrigan? Where's Mei?" Aithne's voice rose on the last words.

"I don't… I just barely got here. Oh, no!" The bard gently pulled a fold of Wynne's robe over sightless eyes as she stood.

Aithne motioned for Leliana to check the ground floor while she followed Sky's faint whines up the stairs. The metallic taste to the air told her of blood spilled before she found the first crimson splash, drips and drops, a bigger spray here, now a spreading pool on the rug. Down the hall, silent steps leaving no mark in the drying stains, she worked her way to the open door.

Sky whimpered, nudging the motionless Morrigan, who sat propped against the bed in a macabre display, tainted skin streaked with fresh scarlet and drying purple-black. Aithne knelt to check the fallen apostate, hoping to find some sign of life. "Morrigan, please, not you too."

"A bit late, aren't you, Warden?" The words were faint but unmistakable as Morrigan's eyelids fluttered.

"Morrigan! Here, let me help you." Aithne fumbled for a health poultice, trying to distance emotion and focus on her patient; _airway- open, breathing- shallow but steady, circulation- pulse thready, blood loss, check for wounds. _The healer's litany ran through her head as she worked to stabilize her patient.

"Aithne, I've found Shayle. She's alive, but I can't wake her. The rest of the house is empty." Leliana pushed past Sky to stare at the bed where Aithne was working to save Morrigan. "Will she live?"

Aithne shrugged. "I can treat the wounds I can see, but…." She paused and took a breath. "There's internal damage, and the wounds I can see are from no blade. This was blood magic. We need Anders."

"Where is he? Did something else happen?"

"Nothing happened, that's the problem. We lost the trail. Zevran and Anders went to the market for provisions…." Aithne stopped, realizing who else was missing. "Morrigan, wake up!" She gave her patient a gentle shake. "Morrigan, where's Mei?"

Black lashes fluttered against the apostate's pale face. "Taken…, I couldn't stop them."


End file.
