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Zevran was polishing his Antivan leather boots when Alistair approached, awkwardly shuffling and clearing his throat. The assassin paused at his task, looked up at the young Warden.
“I, um, er," said Alistair. “That is...about what you said earlier.”
“Ah, yes," said Zevran. “About your private times with our lovely leader.”
Impossibly, Alistair’s blush deepened. “Yes, well…apparently not so private.” He was clearly uncomfortable, fingers fidgeting with the fastenings of his steel gauntlets. “I just wondered...I know the two of you were, um, close.”
Zevran paused at his task, sighing. “We were indeed. But she chose you, Alistair. I find no cause for bitterness.”
“It's just that...I want her to be happy.”
He shrugged. “As do we all.”
The human shuffled his feet. “Were you...I mean...did you love her?”
The elf cocked his head, considering. “How shall I say this? For some of us, love is a weakness. For others, it is a strength. For the warden and I...well, some things are never meant to be. I was happy to provide a distraction, for a time.”
Alistair considered this. “And for the two of us...do you think love is more a weakness, or a strength?”
The assassin bent again to his task. “I cannot answer this for you, but I imagine your heart already knows the answer. Anyway, I suspect you did not come over here to question me about love. Not in that manner, at least.”
Alistair lowered himself onto the log next to Zevran, his brow knit with concern.
“It's just that...privacy is hard to come by, in camp. And when the two of you were together...well, there were...sounds. And I haven't, er, managed to produce those sounds.”
Zevran could not help but feel some measure of satisfaction. “Ah, I see. So you require my tutelage after all?”
Alistair shifted uneasily. “Yes. Please.”
“Well,” Zevran said, “in regard to these...sounds. What have you tried so far?”
Alistair spluttered. “Maker’s - I’m not telling you that!”
“Suit yourself.” Zevran worked his rag over a spot of dirt, waiting. Soon Alistair groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I’m doing this…fine. Well, first I -” he leant closer to the elf and mumbled in his ear.
Zevran nodded. “I see. And then what?”
“Usually after that, I -” he shifted uncomfortably as he glanced around. Oghren lay on the ground not far away, flat on his back, making an unconvincing show of being asleep. Alistair leaned in close and whispered, gesturing with his hands.
Zevran paused at his task, considering. “That is a very good start, my friend. But have you tried…” he leant in to Alistair’s ear and whispered, sending the Warden into a fit of coughing.
“With my - my what?”
“Remember,” Zevran said, “think of it not so much as thrusting a sword into your enemy, but more like delicately picking a lock.”
Alistair chuckled. “I'm sorry, but you're not the first person I'd come to for advice about lock picking.”
Zevran fixed an assassin's stare upon him, and the grin died on his face.
“Please,” he said, “do continue.”
“Now, think of when you polish your sword," Zevran said.
“You what?” Alistair’s eyes fell to his lap, his face mottled with embarrassment.
“Ah, Alistair.” Zevran shook his head. “I mean your actual sword.”
“Oh," said Alistair. “Yes, I see. So what about my, um, sword?”
“Well,” said Zevran, “when it comes to cleaning your weapon you must take your time, find the areas most needing your attention, yes? A woman is no different. Concentrate your attention on the parts that need them most, and your weapon will shine.”
Alistair’s brows knit together, confused. Zevran sighed. “All right...how to explain. Between her legs, she has this pearl of flesh…”
“Now hang on," Alistair protested. “I know you knew her before me, but there's no need to show off!”
Zevran shook his head. “Oh, my dear Alistair. All women have this.”
Alistair cocked his head, considering. “Oh. All right then.” He leaned in, intrigued. On the ground Oghren shifted and froze before letting out a hearty and unconvincing snore. Zevran whispered in Alistair’s ear, delighting in the blush creeping up his neck. Alistair’s eyes widened. “Really? I - I had no idea.”
“Then it is lucky you came to me, my good man.”
“But my hands," Alistair said, wringing the offending limbs between his knees. “I never know what I should be doing with them. I feel like...like a bear trying to play the lute.” He sighed, rolled his head back in despair.
Zevran took pity on him. “Here,” he said, “let me show you.” He stood and offered Alistair a hand, drawing him to his feet. He positioned himself behind the warden and traced light fingers down his neck, lingering at his shoulders before working deftly down his back and around his hips, fingers gently massaging and teasing. Alistair squirmed. “Oh...no...please...I'm feeling very uncomfortable now.” His voice rose to a squeak. “Oh, blessed Andraste - stop!” He squirmed free of the assassin’s fingers, face positively glowing with mortification.
Zevran smirked. “I think that ends our lesson for today, yes?” Alistair heartily nodded his assent. “I wish you luck, my friend.” He chuckled and returned to polishing his boots.
Hours later, Lianna threw a large branch on the fire before coming to stand by Alistair.
“You’ve been polishing that sword for a while now," she said curiously. Alistair glanced at Zevran and blushed a deep crimson. “Coming to bed?”
He sheathed his sword and followed her meekly to the tent, avoiding the assassin’s laughing eyes.
Zevran and Morrigan were on watch and he sat fletching arrows while she attempted to pore over a thick grimoire. After a time she dropped the book to her lap with a huff of frustration, glaring at the wardens’ tent. Intriguing noises had drifted from that direction for some time now.
“This is too much!” she complained. She stood and brushed the grass from her robes before fixing a yellow glare on him. “This is your doing, elf.” He winked and she made a sound of disgust before stalking away to her own campfire, fingers jammed in her ears.
Zevran smiled ruefully and carried on fletching arrows.