Fic - A Child Unexpected (Part 2)
Title: A Child Unexpected (Part 2 of 8(ish))
Author: skybound2
Characters: Fem!City-Elf PC (Kallian Tabris), Sten, Zevran, and Alistair (this chapter is all Zevran and Alistair, but the overall fic is Zevran/Tabris with Sten and some others tossed in. Liberally, at times. References Alistair/Tabris and Zevran/Other.)
Word Count: ~3000 (this chapter, ~6400 so far)
Rating: T
Summary: Heroes have problems too. That's why they need friends. In this chapter: Alistair has a headache, and Zevran pilfers the mail.
Spoilers: Through end game.
Author's Note: Moving this story over here, on account of it having lots of him in it! Despite the fact that this entire chapter is told from Alistair's perspective. What? I'm odd... (Can also be found at FFN.) Many, many thanks to pennydreadful for the beta!!!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Denerim: Twelve Months after the Fall of the Archdemon
Alistair's head was pounding. One of those evil little headaches, where the drumming and hammering in your skull was only bested by the horrid sensation of blood thrumming away in your ears. (He always envisioned a little army of dwarves whacking away at a hundred little anvils inside his brain. Of course, this might have had something to with his first experience with such a headache having followed a night of ale swilling with Oghren.)
Sadly, this particular headache could not be attributed to such a (in relative comparison) pleasurable precursor. No. This particular headache had “Queen” stamped all over it. In bright, jewel encrusted letters. The most recent battle of wills with Anora had not gone well. The woman was simply insufferable when she didn't get her way. This, admittedly, wasn’t all that often…but still! He was the King. Was he not allowed to exact his authority on occasion?
And really, what did she have against hosting a cheese festival in Denerim? It seemed a perfectly reasonable suggestion from their Orlesian emissary. Wasn't it bad enough that she forbade the servants from serving him any of the lovely soft cheeses from Orlais? Claiming it gave him bad breath? She practically forced him to go sneaking like a thief around his own castle to find the stuff. Did she hate him so much, or was she just pure evil?
Yes. Yes she is. He let his head slump like a sack of potatoes to the desk. Perhaps he should just rest for...the rest of the afternoon. That was a sound plan, right? No way he could possibly be disturbed in his private -
“Ahh, Alistair! Just the monarch that I was looking for...”
Blood and damnation! With a monumental amount of effort, and a groan to match, Alistair lifted his eyes up to the entryway. There, Zevran lounged. Arms clasped loosely behind him; looking for all the world like he belonged there. “What do you want, Zevran? Isn't there some unsuspecting servant girl in need of your ogling?”
“Well, yes. In point of fact, there are several. There is one in particular, by the name of Carlina - she is the Queen's seamstress - and she has a bosom that could rival even that of our dear friend Wynne for its firm, and yet, supple appeal.” Alistair began to sputter, but Zevran kept on speaking - extolling the virtues of Carlina's hips and skin - overly wide smile firmly in place, “But, you are distracting me from my purpose. And as pleasant a distraction as it is, we can discuss the state of my current sexual conquests at another time. Yes?”
He moved fully into the room, striding fluidly over to the desk, and draping himself into the seat across from Alistair. How does he do that?
“I was just passing through the kitchens - you are having a delectable lamb and savory stew for supper tonight by the way - when I happened to come across a missive...” He held out a letter, the seal on it clearly broken; but when Alistair reluctantly reached out for it, the elf snatched it back. “Ah-ah-ah. Not so fast, you shall ruin the surprise.”
Alistair reached up to rub his temples. Had he really asked Zevran to stay in Denerim? Had that been him? By Andraste, what had he been thinking? Of course, the answer to that question was simple. He’d been thinking of Kallian, and how much easier things would go for her if the other elf remained in the city.
Alistair had known that things would be strained between them for a while. How could it be anything else? True, their break had been…mutual (he bristled at the idea that there was anything mutual about it, seeing as how he hadn’t wanted the throne in the first place, and he felt she had left them little choice) but their travel to Redcliffe following the Landsmeet had amply demonstrated how difficult it could be to remain in close quarters with someone you loved, and not act on those emotions. They had given in after only two days of travel.
But then had come Riordan, and Morrigan, and the final push to Denerim, and along with it all a vast ocean of guilty thoughts and feelings surrounding them both. No. It had been obvious that they would both need time, and distance, if they were to ever acclimate to the change in the status of their relationship. If they ever could; he wasn’t so naïve as to be certain that it was possible. Still, he had honestly hoped that she would accept the position of Chancellor when he had offered.
The people of Ferelden loved her. He loved her. And if he could manage all of this political nonsense without causing the entire nation to crumble around him into ash, then he was certain that she would do even more brilliantly.
While he'd always been somewhat...jealous of her close friendship with the Antivan, he was not so blinded by that emotion that he couldn't see how having the man around would help her to acclimate to the changes in their lives. (Even if the very thought of just how he might help her to acclimate left a sour taste in Alistair's mouth.) As much as it pained Alistair to admit it, she had leaned on Zevran as much as she had him - or Sten. Really, he’d always had to share her attentions in that regard. While he may have been the one she took to her bed, he was not the only one to fall for her charms. So the decision to offer a place to the assassin first, hoping it would help lead her own decision making process, had seemed a sound one.
Of course, he hadn't counted on Kallian deciding to go for a joy ride with Sten.
Nor had he expected it to last so long. What, were they taking the scenic route to Seheron? Had she found more strays to collect along the way? Honestly. A simple word…or, or a letter. Something in all these months to let him know that she was well, or at least not dead. To tell him that she missed him - them - or to even just yell at him some more would have been - “Oh! Did she - I mean, is that from…where -” Alistair could feel his cheeks warming, embarrassed over how eager he was for news of her. Zevran just laughed at him. Bastard.
“Now, now my liege. It is never good to behave as over-eager as a puppy. You do not want to be seen as a pushover to the people.”
Alistair raised an eyebrow, “Really? So exactly how would you describe your behavior half the time, if not over-eager?”
“That, my friend, is not eagerness. It is confidence. An entirely different beast. As I'm sure you are aware.”
“Riiight.” Oh, he was aware. Like right now for instance, he was confident that if Zevran didn’t get to the point soon, he would throttle him. (Which was not to be confused with the fact that he was quite eager to do so.) “What’s in the letter, Zevran?” Oh, but his head hurt.
“Well, you have correctly deduced that it is from our formerly Fearless Leader. Former leader, mind. Not formerly fearless. Despite the fact that it appears she has run off to join the qunari on a slightly more permanent basis. I suspect living amongst a nation full of Sten’s would still require a great deal of courage.”
“Run off? I wouldn't exactly say that she's run off...” Finally, he presented the letter to Alistair (Alistair's name in a familiar, stilted scrawl blazed across the top); the look on Zevran’s face as he passed it over shuttered, some of its normal spark decidedly missing. Zevran began to speak while Alistair scanned over its contents.
“It would appear that our constant ploys for her affection, have failed. Somewhat spectacularly, I might add.”
“They weren’t ploys!” Alistair seethed, his heart felt brittle. With effort, he lowered the volume of his voice, lest they be overheard. “At least, not on my part.”
“Nor on mine.” The look on Zevran’s face as he met Alistair’s angry stare was intense in its seriousness. The scrutiny between the two of them was short-lived, however, as the Antivan waved off the tense airs with a dismissing motion of his hand. “But still, the fact remains that she is planning to remain in Seheron. Living with Sten.”
The letter dropped from Alistair’s fingers to the stack of papers scattered haphazardly across his desk. “Indefinitely.”
“Mmhmm. But that is not all.”
Alistair, blinked, and tried to focus his aching eyes on the elf. “What do you mean? The letter seems pretty to the point.”
“And it is. Our Warden was never one to beat around the bush, no? She has always preferred the more direct approach.”
There was a knowing look in Zevran's faze that immediately set Alistair on edge. Even more so than simply hearing Zevran refer to Kallian in such a possessive manner. “The point, Zevran.”
Zevran pouted, a gesture that was wholly ineffective on Alistair, but one which the elf continued to employee regardless. “You are no fun.” He flicked at some imaginary spot of lint on his pant leg, and magically (or so it seemed to the King) produced a second letter, which he twirled about in his hands.
He frowned, “She sent two letters?”
Zevran's tone was clipped, and if Alistair wasn't mistaken, there was a brief flash of hurt across his face. “No. She did not. No, this one is from the Grey Wardens. In Weisshaupt.”
“Weisshaupt, but -” Alistair felt his stomach drop. He had dealt with the Warden's as best as he could following Kallian's defeat of the Archdemon. There had been many long, and painful 'discussions' with the Orlesian Commander that had arrived in Denerim just days after Alistair had been crowned. Of course, they wanted to speak with the woman herself. Which was a decidedly impossible feat considering she had left with Sten only the day before the Warden contingent from Orlais had arrived. And if Alistair told them a tiny fib as to where the Hero of Ferelden had absconded to, well, it was just the first of many.
Alistair and Kallian had spoken, at length, only once on the journey from Redcliffe to Denerim. Much to Alistair's dismay, the conversation had focused entirely on what to tell the other Wardens should Morrigan's ritual prove successful (and wasn't that just an awful thought, all on its own?) and they all survived.
The final outcome had been that they would say nothing, apart from: 'We have no idea.' They had considered fabricating some grand tale, especially considering Kallian's impressive (and not a litte scary) persuasive abilities. In the end, it was more important that both of them be able to maintain whatever tale they told. For Alistair's sake, that meant that the closer to the truth that they could stay, the safer they would be. Seeing as how they couldn't say for certain that Morrigan's ritual would work, or even be the cause of their success (should that be the case), claiming to have no clue was the best option. Maker help them.
Amazingly, it had seemed to work.For once, his natural tendency to babble when nervous had paid off, and the Warden Commander had concluded that Alistair truly had no clue what had happened, or why they had lived. He hadn't heard any more from the Warden's on the matter. But, if a letter was coming from Weisshaupt, and not out of Amarinthine, this couldn't just be a typical status report. Add to that the fact Zevran was bringing it to his attention, and well...it couldn't be anything good.
Zevran's accented voice broke his reverie, “It would appear that the Wardens are unsatisfied with the information that you have thus far provided. They are intent on speaking to 'the Warden Tabris with all due haste.' They sound rather...put out.”
“Well, that's not good.”
“Agreed.” Zevran twirled the letter once more in his hand before dropping it on the desk. Alistair immediately snatched it up, tearing into it. “You never mentioned that one of you was meant to die when killing the Archdemon.”
Alistair's heart jumped into his throat. Really, between his head, his stomach, and his heart - he was feeling quite unwell. The look on Zevran's face was cool, calculating. With maybe just a pinch of angry resolve thrown in. It was a potent combination. Alistair did his best to laugh it off. “Warden secret. You know how it is in these elite clubs.” He rolled his hands in front of him, a nervous gesture, “Special handshakes, nasty blood rituals, obliteration of souls for the good of the world. That sort of thing. Quite typical really, I'm sure the Crows weren't a whole lot different.”
Zevran didn't laugh. He didn't smile. He just stared. Unmoving. Which might have been the most unnerving thing that Alistair had ever seen the elf - who was perpetually in motion - do. This was saying quite a lot, considering he'd been witness to the elf appearing out of thin air behind a target and beheading them in one quick motion; not to mention the regular, and disturbing images the elf would conjure up (the worst of which involved Zevran, Alistair, Wynne, and a block of cheese). “Obliteration of a soul you say. And the two of you were aware of this requirement when you scaled Fort Drakon to take out the beast?” His accented voice was tight, tension rolling off of him in waves.
Why was he so angry? Shouldn't he have been happy that it hadn't worked? “Weeell...Yes. Yes we were, but it didn't work. Obviously. The obliteration part, not the killing of the Archdemon part. That worked rather brilliantly.” Alistair couldn't help but to beam at the memory. The sight of her delving her longsword into the great beast had been one the scariest, and most awe-inspiring of his life.
He must have said something to that effect out loud, because Zevran wrinkled his nose in distaste, his next words laced with a biting edge. “Yes, well. I'm certain that it was. Not that I was there to see it myself, of course.”
Alistair swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat. It shouldn't have surprised him that Zevran was bitter at having been left at the gates in favor of Wynne, but that certainly appeared to be the case. He wasn't sure what to say. The idea of comforting the other man, whose very inclusion in their group (even if he had been considerably more bearable this past year) had always grated on Alistair, seemed foreign. What could he say? Sorry you didn't get to come along and nearly get eaten by a really big dragon with us! Better luck next time! No. That simply wouldn't work.
While he was pondering just what sorts of platitudes would be fitting for the situation, the cool, unworried mask that Zevran often wore (and which Alistair could now recognize as such - he may not have been overly willing to call the man a 'friend', but the truth was that he spent more time with the Antivan than anyone else these days, despite Oghren and Wynne's regular presence at the castle; it just seemed that the elf was always the one directly under foot) slid back into place.
“But we are getting off topic again. How good you are at distraction, Alistair! We really should attempt to employ that talent in a more comfortable setting some time... To sum up the current dilemma: we have one wayward Warden vacationing indefinitely - a Warden who very specifically expressed her interest in being as far removed from the Wardens as she could get following the blight.” Alistair opened his mouth to interject, wanting to know just how Zevran had heard that bit of news, but Zevran did not allow it, “And a group of those very same Wardens, out for proverbial blood. Hers in particular. I ask you, Your Majesty: what do we intend to do about this?”
Alistair rubbed a hand over his face, and closed his eyes in thought. What should he do about this? Should he do anything about this? Her letter - as succinct as it was blunt - merely stated that she had arrived safely in Seheron, that Sten was back in the qunari’s good graces (whatever those might be), and that they had found a small apartment in the city in which to stay. Oh, and by the by, she has no idea how long it will be before - or even if - she will return. So, don’t wait up. Was it even his place to interfere anymore, if she truly wished to live with...with Sten for the foreseeable future?
The fact that the other Warden's were seeking her out might put a damper on her plans, but was that really his problem? She had sworn an oath after all. No one could just stop being a Grey Warden. Not even Alistair, and certainly not Kallian. But what would happen when they found her (for it was a when situation, and not an if)? Would they ask her kindly to join them for a nice round of interrogation? Serve her tea and crumpets? No, more likely they would issue some poorly veiled threats, which she would respond to in her typical fashion. The end result of which would be that she’d be taken - all but in chains - to the Fortress. And that is simply no way for a woman such as her to travel.
Alistair use to be disturbed by the fact that the little demon on his shoulder often sounded like Zevran, now it just made sense. “Do you have any suggestions?”
The smile on Zevran's face would have been sinister on anyone else. “My dear King, does Antiva have whores?”
Alistair tried not to grimace. This could only go well. Right?
On to Interlude (the First)!
Author: skybound2
Characters: Fem!City-Elf PC (Kallian Tabris), Sten, Zevran, and Alistair (this chapter is all Zevran and Alistair, but the overall fic is Zevran/Tabris with Sten and some others tossed in. Liberally, at times. References Alistair/Tabris and Zevran/Other.)
Word Count: ~3000 (this chapter, ~6400 so far)
Rating: T
Summary: Heroes have problems too. That's why they need friends. In this chapter: Alistair has a headache, and Zevran pilfers the mail.
Spoilers: Through end game.
Author's Note: Moving this story over here, on account of it having lots of him in it! Despite the fact that this entire chapter is told from Alistair's perspective. What? I'm odd... (Can also be found at FFN.) Many, many thanks to pennydreadful for the beta!!!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Denerim: Twelve Months after the Fall of the Archdemon
Alistair's head was pounding. One of those evil little headaches, where the drumming and hammering in your skull was only bested by the horrid sensation of blood thrumming away in your ears. (He always envisioned a little army of dwarves whacking away at a hundred little anvils inside his brain. Of course, this might have had something to with his first experience with such a headache having followed a night of ale swilling with Oghren.)
Sadly, this particular headache could not be attributed to such a (in relative comparison) pleasurable precursor. No. This particular headache had “Queen” stamped all over it. In bright, jewel encrusted letters. The most recent battle of wills with Anora had not gone well. The woman was simply insufferable when she didn't get her way. This, admittedly, wasn’t all that often…but still! He was the King. Was he not allowed to exact his authority on occasion?
And really, what did she have against hosting a cheese festival in Denerim? It seemed a perfectly reasonable suggestion from their Orlesian emissary. Wasn't it bad enough that she forbade the servants from serving him any of the lovely soft cheeses from Orlais? Claiming it gave him bad breath? She practically forced him to go sneaking like a thief around his own castle to find the stuff. Did she hate him so much, or was she just pure evil?
Yes. Yes she is. He let his head slump like a sack of potatoes to the desk. Perhaps he should just rest for...the rest of the afternoon. That was a sound plan, right? No way he could possibly be disturbed in his private -
“Ahh, Alistair! Just the monarch that I was looking for...”
Blood and damnation! With a monumental amount of effort, and a groan to match, Alistair lifted his eyes up to the entryway. There, Zevran lounged. Arms clasped loosely behind him; looking for all the world like he belonged there. “What do you want, Zevran? Isn't there some unsuspecting servant girl in need of your ogling?”
“Well, yes. In point of fact, there are several. There is one in particular, by the name of Carlina - she is the Queen's seamstress - and she has a bosom that could rival even that of our dear friend Wynne for its firm, and yet, supple appeal.” Alistair began to sputter, but Zevran kept on speaking - extolling the virtues of Carlina's hips and skin - overly wide smile firmly in place, “But, you are distracting me from my purpose. And as pleasant a distraction as it is, we can discuss the state of my current sexual conquests at another time. Yes?”
He moved fully into the room, striding fluidly over to the desk, and draping himself into the seat across from Alistair. How does he do that?
“I was just passing through the kitchens - you are having a delectable lamb and savory stew for supper tonight by the way - when I happened to come across a missive...” He held out a letter, the seal on it clearly broken; but when Alistair reluctantly reached out for it, the elf snatched it back. “Ah-ah-ah. Not so fast, you shall ruin the surprise.”
Alistair reached up to rub his temples. Had he really asked Zevran to stay in Denerim? Had that been him? By Andraste, what had he been thinking? Of course, the answer to that question was simple. He’d been thinking of Kallian, and how much easier things would go for her if the other elf remained in the city.
Alistair had known that things would be strained between them for a while. How could it be anything else? True, their break had been…mutual (he bristled at the idea that there was anything mutual about it, seeing as how he hadn’t wanted the throne in the first place, and he felt she had left them little choice) but their travel to Redcliffe following the Landsmeet had amply demonstrated how difficult it could be to remain in close quarters with someone you loved, and not act on those emotions. They had given in after only two days of travel.
But then had come Riordan, and Morrigan, and the final push to Denerim, and along with it all a vast ocean of guilty thoughts and feelings surrounding them both. No. It had been obvious that they would both need time, and distance, if they were to ever acclimate to the change in the status of their relationship. If they ever could; he wasn’t so naïve as to be certain that it was possible. Still, he had honestly hoped that she would accept the position of Chancellor when he had offered.
The people of Ferelden loved her. He loved her. And if he could manage all of this political nonsense without causing the entire nation to crumble around him into ash, then he was certain that she would do even more brilliantly.
While he'd always been somewhat...jealous of her close friendship with the Antivan, he was not so blinded by that emotion that he couldn't see how having the man around would help her to acclimate to the changes in their lives. (Even if the very thought of just how he might help her to acclimate left a sour taste in Alistair's mouth.) As much as it pained Alistair to admit it, she had leaned on Zevran as much as she had him - or Sten. Really, he’d always had to share her attentions in that regard. While he may have been the one she took to her bed, he was not the only one to fall for her charms. So the decision to offer a place to the assassin first, hoping it would help lead her own decision making process, had seemed a sound one.
Of course, he hadn't counted on Kallian deciding to go for a joy ride with Sten.
Nor had he expected it to last so long. What, were they taking the scenic route to Seheron? Had she found more strays to collect along the way? Honestly. A simple word…or, or a letter. Something in all these months to let him know that she was well, or at least not dead. To tell him that she missed him - them - or to even just yell at him some more would have been - “Oh! Did she - I mean, is that from…where -” Alistair could feel his cheeks warming, embarrassed over how eager he was for news of her. Zevran just laughed at him. Bastard.
“Now, now my liege. It is never good to behave as over-eager as a puppy. You do not want to be seen as a pushover to the people.”
Alistair raised an eyebrow, “Really? So exactly how would you describe your behavior half the time, if not over-eager?”
“That, my friend, is not eagerness. It is confidence. An entirely different beast. As I'm sure you are aware.”
“Riiight.” Oh, he was aware. Like right now for instance, he was confident that if Zevran didn’t get to the point soon, he would throttle him. (Which was not to be confused with the fact that he was quite eager to do so.) “What’s in the letter, Zevran?” Oh, but his head hurt.
“Well, you have correctly deduced that it is from our formerly Fearless Leader. Former leader, mind. Not formerly fearless. Despite the fact that it appears she has run off to join the qunari on a slightly more permanent basis. I suspect living amongst a nation full of Sten’s would still require a great deal of courage.”
“Run off? I wouldn't exactly say that she's run off...” Finally, he presented the letter to Alistair (Alistair's name in a familiar, stilted scrawl blazed across the top); the look on Zevran’s face as he passed it over shuttered, some of its normal spark decidedly missing. Zevran began to speak while Alistair scanned over its contents.
“It would appear that our constant ploys for her affection, have failed. Somewhat spectacularly, I might add.”
“They weren’t ploys!” Alistair seethed, his heart felt brittle. With effort, he lowered the volume of his voice, lest they be overheard. “At least, not on my part.”
“Nor on mine.” The look on Zevran’s face as he met Alistair’s angry stare was intense in its seriousness. The scrutiny between the two of them was short-lived, however, as the Antivan waved off the tense airs with a dismissing motion of his hand. “But still, the fact remains that she is planning to remain in Seheron. Living with Sten.”
The letter dropped from Alistair’s fingers to the stack of papers scattered haphazardly across his desk. “Indefinitely.”
“Mmhmm. But that is not all.”
Alistair, blinked, and tried to focus his aching eyes on the elf. “What do you mean? The letter seems pretty to the point.”
“And it is. Our Warden was never one to beat around the bush, no? She has always preferred the more direct approach.”
There was a knowing look in Zevran's faze that immediately set Alistair on edge. Even more so than simply hearing Zevran refer to Kallian in such a possessive manner. “The point, Zevran.”
Zevran pouted, a gesture that was wholly ineffective on Alistair, but one which the elf continued to employee regardless. “You are no fun.” He flicked at some imaginary spot of lint on his pant leg, and magically (or so it seemed to the King) produced a second letter, which he twirled about in his hands.
He frowned, “She sent two letters?”
Zevran's tone was clipped, and if Alistair wasn't mistaken, there was a brief flash of hurt across his face. “No. She did not. No, this one is from the Grey Wardens. In Weisshaupt.”
“Weisshaupt, but -” Alistair felt his stomach drop. He had dealt with the Warden's as best as he could following Kallian's defeat of the Archdemon. There had been many long, and painful 'discussions' with the Orlesian Commander that had arrived in Denerim just days after Alistair had been crowned. Of course, they wanted to speak with the woman herself. Which was a decidedly impossible feat considering she had left with Sten only the day before the Warden contingent from Orlais had arrived. And if Alistair told them a tiny fib as to where the Hero of Ferelden had absconded to, well, it was just the first of many.
Alistair and Kallian had spoken, at length, only once on the journey from Redcliffe to Denerim. Much to Alistair's dismay, the conversation had focused entirely on what to tell the other Wardens should Morrigan's ritual prove successful (and wasn't that just an awful thought, all on its own?) and they all survived.
The final outcome had been that they would say nothing, apart from: 'We have no idea.' They had considered fabricating some grand tale, especially considering Kallian's impressive (and not a litte scary) persuasive abilities. In the end, it was more important that both of them be able to maintain whatever tale they told. For Alistair's sake, that meant that the closer to the truth that they could stay, the safer they would be. Seeing as how they couldn't say for certain that Morrigan's ritual would work, or even be the cause of their success (should that be the case), claiming to have no clue was the best option. Maker help them.
Amazingly, it had seemed to work.For once, his natural tendency to babble when nervous had paid off, and the Warden Commander had concluded that Alistair truly had no clue what had happened, or why they had lived. He hadn't heard any more from the Warden's on the matter. But, if a letter was coming from Weisshaupt, and not out of Amarinthine, this couldn't just be a typical status report. Add to that the fact Zevran was bringing it to his attention, and well...it couldn't be anything good.
Zevran's accented voice broke his reverie, “It would appear that the Wardens are unsatisfied with the information that you have thus far provided. They are intent on speaking to 'the Warden Tabris with all due haste.' They sound rather...put out.”
“Well, that's not good.”
“Agreed.” Zevran twirled the letter once more in his hand before dropping it on the desk. Alistair immediately snatched it up, tearing into it. “You never mentioned that one of you was meant to die when killing the Archdemon.”
Alistair's heart jumped into his throat. Really, between his head, his stomach, and his heart - he was feeling quite unwell. The look on Zevran's face was cool, calculating. With maybe just a pinch of angry resolve thrown in. It was a potent combination. Alistair did his best to laugh it off. “Warden secret. You know how it is in these elite clubs.” He rolled his hands in front of him, a nervous gesture, “Special handshakes, nasty blood rituals, obliteration of souls for the good of the world. That sort of thing. Quite typical really, I'm sure the Crows weren't a whole lot different.”
Zevran didn't laugh. He didn't smile. He just stared. Unmoving. Which might have been the most unnerving thing that Alistair had ever seen the elf - who was perpetually in motion - do. This was saying quite a lot, considering he'd been witness to the elf appearing out of thin air behind a target and beheading them in one quick motion; not to mention the regular, and disturbing images the elf would conjure up (the worst of which involved Zevran, Alistair, Wynne, and a block of cheese). “Obliteration of a soul you say. And the two of you were aware of this requirement when you scaled Fort Drakon to take out the beast?” His accented voice was tight, tension rolling off of him in waves.
Why was he so angry? Shouldn't he have been happy that it hadn't worked? “Weeell...Yes. Yes we were, but it didn't work. Obviously. The obliteration part, not the killing of the Archdemon part. That worked rather brilliantly.” Alistair couldn't help but to beam at the memory. The sight of her delving her longsword into the great beast had been one the scariest, and most awe-inspiring of his life.
He must have said something to that effect out loud, because Zevran wrinkled his nose in distaste, his next words laced with a biting edge. “Yes, well. I'm certain that it was. Not that I was there to see it myself, of course.”
Alistair swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat. It shouldn't have surprised him that Zevran was bitter at having been left at the gates in favor of Wynne, but that certainly appeared to be the case. He wasn't sure what to say. The idea of comforting the other man, whose very inclusion in their group (even if he had been considerably more bearable this past year) had always grated on Alistair, seemed foreign. What could he say? Sorry you didn't get to come along and nearly get eaten by a really big dragon with us! Better luck next time! No. That simply wouldn't work.
While he was pondering just what sorts of platitudes would be fitting for the situation, the cool, unworried mask that Zevran often wore (and which Alistair could now recognize as such - he may not have been overly willing to call the man a 'friend', but the truth was that he spent more time with the Antivan than anyone else these days, despite Oghren and Wynne's regular presence at the castle; it just seemed that the elf was always the one directly under foot) slid back into place.
“But we are getting off topic again. How good you are at distraction, Alistair! We really should attempt to employ that talent in a more comfortable setting some time... To sum up the current dilemma: we have one wayward Warden vacationing indefinitely - a Warden who very specifically expressed her interest in being as far removed from the Wardens as she could get following the blight.” Alistair opened his mouth to interject, wanting to know just how Zevran had heard that bit of news, but Zevran did not allow it, “And a group of those very same Wardens, out for proverbial blood. Hers in particular. I ask you, Your Majesty: what do we intend to do about this?”
Alistair rubbed a hand over his face, and closed his eyes in thought. What should he do about this? Should he do anything about this? Her letter - as succinct as it was blunt - merely stated that she had arrived safely in Seheron, that Sten was back in the qunari’s good graces (whatever those might be), and that they had found a small apartment in the city in which to stay. Oh, and by the by, she has no idea how long it will be before - or even if - she will return. So, don’t wait up. Was it even his place to interfere anymore, if she truly wished to live with...with Sten for the foreseeable future?
The fact that the other Warden's were seeking her out might put a damper on her plans, but was that really his problem? She had sworn an oath after all. No one could just stop being a Grey Warden. Not even Alistair, and certainly not Kallian. But what would happen when they found her (for it was a when situation, and not an if)? Would they ask her kindly to join them for a nice round of interrogation? Serve her tea and crumpets? No, more likely they would issue some poorly veiled threats, which she would respond to in her typical fashion. The end result of which would be that she’d be taken - all but in chains - to the Fortress. And that is simply no way for a woman such as her to travel.
Alistair use to be disturbed by the fact that the little demon on his shoulder often sounded like Zevran, now it just made sense. “Do you have any suggestions?”
The smile on Zevran's face would have been sinister on anyone else. “My dear King, does Antiva have whores?”
Alistair tried not to grimace. This could only go well. Right?
On to Interlude (the First)!