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At the height of the day the Orzammar Commons was as crowded as any city Zevran had seen, and louder than any, the cacophany of the crowd echoing off the cavern ceiling high above. It was perfect for an assassination attempt, crowded enough that someone blundering into a mark would not cause alarm before the poisoned blade could slip home, and noisy enough that even if the mark managed to yell no one would notice. Of course now Zevran’s job was to counter any assassins, so instead of a nervous anticipation he had a nagging feeling of unease. He kept his hands near his daggers, and an eye out for any revolutionary dwarves who might make another suicidal attack upon the interfering Grey Wardens. Luckily the upper castes more went in for headlong attacks instead of covert assassinations.
For once Alessar was noticeable for his height in the crowd, which both made it easier for Zevran to watch out for him and easier for any would-be assassins to spot him. Even distracted as he was by the bustling dwarves, Zevran noticed when Alessar smiled and picked up a small hand mirror from a street-side jeweler’s stand. The mirror’s frame was gold and bore a relief of deer capering about, interspersed with fluttering birds. It looked like it would fit perfectly on the dressing table of some Orlesian noble-woman—meaning it was not at all Alessar’s usual style. Curious, he came up behind Alessar and said dryly, “Are you sure, cielo, it seems a little . . . subdued.”
Alessar gave a short laugh before looking around almost furtively. He lowered the mirror and turned away from the street, muttering to Zevran, “Don’t let her hear you say that! I’m getting it for Morrigan.” He paid the vendor without dickering, and slipped the mirror into his pack.
Alessar liked to buy presents for the party members, Zevran knew, probably because he would never have been able to afford to in the Alienage. He couldn’t help smiling at the secretive way Alessar had stashed the mirror away. He’d never known the young elf to be sneaky before.
He thought nothing more of it until later that evening, back in the Palace, in the Grey Wardens’ quarters. They had eaten dinner together in a small dining hall, and afterwards most of the party had spent a while talking, drinking mugs of ale, playing cards, and listening to Leliana plucking out tunes for them on her lute. Finally the hour started growing late, and one by one the party headed back to their rooms. Alessar left, but Zevran was waylaid by Oghren on his way out.
“Sit down, elf! I haven’t even had three pints yet, an’ I’m not gonna drink alone!” Zevran didn’t see why solitude should suddenly pose an obstacle, but decided it would do no harm to join the dwarf for a while. Oghren poured from one of a dozen bottles and flasks surrounding him and plunked the glass down in front of Zevran. “Have a taste of that!”
Zevran obligingly took a sip. It was quite bitter, more than he’d expected, and like all dwarven ales had an earthy undertone. Oghren laughed at his expression. “That there’s Bronto Drool!”
Zevran eyed the glass and said, “I suppose it could be worse.”
Oghren gave a bellow of laughter and thumped him on the back. “Then you’ll like this!” he said, and slid Zevran another glass, which he lifted cautiously.
Zevran was not obliged to stay much longer, since Oghren soon took over drinking for both of them. He was heading back towards Alessar’s room—perhaps to say good night, perhaps for something more—when he saw the elven Warden standing in the doorway of Morrigan’s room, his back to the hall. Zevran slowed automatically, and heard Alessar say gallantly, “It’s a present for a beautiful woman.”
For a moment he thought Alessar was going to step into the hall, but then Zevran heard the murmur of Morrigan’s voice and Alessar paused, his hand on the doorframe. Before Alessar or Morrigan could notice him, he turned and went back to the dining hall.
“Hadn’t you left?” Oghren asked him, looking a little unsteady even sitting. He didn’t wait for an answer, just handed Zevran another glass. “Try it—Headsman’s Axe.”
Despite the name, the ale was really on the mild side. Before Zevran retired to his room, Oghren had made him sample another half-dozen ales, and though he had not drunk very much of any of them, he was glad to collapse into bed.
The next morning they ate breakfast quickly before heading out into Orzammar. Oghren was bleary-eyed, but Alessar seemed well-rested enough. They barely had a chance to speak, besides pleasantries, until they were leaving the dining hall. “I missed you last night,” Alessar said lightly as he passed on his way out the door.
Zevran had just been growing used to the idea that even such a simple statement could be taken at face value. In the Crows the most innocuous comment had to be examined for subterfuge—was the intent to mislead, or to find out what he knew? He answered, “Oghren detained me. He wanted me to try all of Prince Bhelen’s cellars.”
Alessar just said with a smile, “I’m glad you’re not the worse for it, though I’d say Oghren is feeling the ill effects.”
Zevran examined Alessar’s face for some sign of guardedness, but he seemed as unaffected as ever. He only realized he’d been too slow to respond when Alessar gave him a questioning look. To cover, he brought his hand up and ran his fingertip down Alessar’s ear, then slid his hand behind his neck and kissed him. He breathed Alessar’s familiar scent, a mix of soap, beeswax, and leather. No sweet-sharp fragrance of elfroot, nor the spicy scent of lyrium.
When he stepped away a minute later Alessar was looking gratifyingly glassy-eyed. “If Oghren wants a drinking companion tonight, I think Wynne can take her turn,” Zevran said with a grin.
The sound of the gong reverberated through the Palace, muffled enough by the thick stone walls that it didn’t wake Alessar, who lay asleep beside Zevran. It was midnight, as the dwarves reckoned. Alessar had been asleep for perhaps a quarter of an hour, and Zevran had spent the time wrestling with himself. He could stay. He never had before, though he knew Alessar would like it. So would he, for that matter, which posed its own difficulty. But he had not slept next to someone since he was a child—at least not anyone he didn’t intend to kill. It was risky. Not that Alessar would roll over in the middle of the night and put a knife between his ribs, but . . . it sent certain messages. Of course, that was the entire reason he was considering it in the first place.
Finally he let out a silent breath and looked at Alessar. His face was barely visible in the glow from the lantern, its wick turned down low. He’d made himself vulnerable to Alessar in so many ways—actually armed him against him of his own free will. It sometimes made little sense to balk at this one gesture, for most people so innocuous. But for him it would be an obvious departure from normalcy. Perhaps there was a limit, maybe especially now. He slipped out of bed, and Ovden raised his head to watch him. Quickly gathering up his things, he dressed and stepped out into the dark hallway, leaving the door locked from the inside with the key still in the lock.
The coming days were busy, with the Wardens spending their full resources on solidifying Prince Bhelen’s claim to the throne. Morrigan still mostly kept to herself, but she was spending more time around Alessar, talking to him at meals, and stopping to talk to him at odd moments.
She had taken to wearing a golden pendant Zevran was reasonably sure Alessar had given to her a couple months ago. True, she did carry around an assortment of jewelry, but deciding to change necklaces at just this time seemed too coincidental.
His suspicions were fueled one morning as he and Alessar were walking through the Commons in companionable quiet. It was early, and the streets were not yet crowded. They passed a street-side stand, the jeweler still setting out his wares. A fanciful golden pendant caught Alessar’s eye. “Morrigan would like that,” he said.
Zevran bit his tongue, managing to hold back any number of comments such as, “Then Morrigan should buy it herself” or “Yes, she has a jackdaw’s taste in jewelry.” Alessar continued on without noticing anything amiss, but Zevran was in a simmer of anger that he couldn’t really explain.
He was half-convinced that Alessar was having a covert affair with the witch. It was really a foregone conclusion. Morrigan was beautiful, and Zevran would have bedded her if she had been interested, and circumstances had allowed it. She was clearly interested in Alessar, and it would be only natural for him to reciprocate. His own pursuit of the shy Warden had taken weeks, but since then Alessar had lost much of his former reticence. With that obstacle removed, why would he not pursue Morrigan?
He was foolish to have not seen this coming. The only surprise was that it had not happened sooner.
He had no proof, but that meant nothing. After all, they kept separate rooms, Alessar and Morrigan could be up to anything after dark. He could imagine them, lying twined together. He gave a twisted smile. For once his imagination gave him no pleasure.
Zevran supposed it was the fact that it was Morrigan that annoyed him, since they had never liked each other. He wished that Alessar had told him his intentions—but that was foolishness. He made no claim upon Alessar, and Alessar made none upon him. (Well, at least not since that romantic nonsense that night in Redcliffe, but that seemed to be a fleeting fancy.) No, there was no harm done. It was nothing to do with him. He would say nothing of it until Alessar decided to bring it up.
His resolve was tried over the next few days. Morrigan continued her attentions towards Alessar, and his reactions to her left Zevran confused. Alessar was friendly to her, but not affectionate, and they did not share even casual touches. Zevran was not sure if they had not actually had sex yet, or if they were simply being cautious. If it was the latter Morrigan needed some pointers on tact, because while her attitude towards Zevran had always been unfriendly, it became actually disdainful. Zevran habitually deflected her spiteful remarks towards him by making light of them, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to not answer her angrily.
They were on their way into Dust Town to track down some gangsters when Alistair commented on the necklace that Morrigan wore. “Are you sure you should be wearing that into Dust Town? Might . . . attract attention.”
“You mean more attention than our being two feet taller than everyone else?” she asked, her tone deceptively sweet.
“Fine, forget it. Just thought it was a little . . .”
Ostentatious? Zevran thought.
“Noticeable to thieves,” Alistair finished. “What is it, some kind of demon?”
“Perhaps,” she said, sounding uninterested.
Zevran couldn’t resist needling her. “I’m sure your mother could have identified it. It is unfortunate she did not have a chance to pass on more of her learning to you before her death.” Of course Morrigan had no gratitude towards him for his part in that. From the way she’d acted you would think that Alessar had killed Flemeth in single combat.
Morrigan gave him a poisonous look and said, “I wish you could have met her under more auspicious circumstances. You are just her type.”
He knew she didn’t mean anything complimentary by this, but asked, “Oh? Elven and handsome?”
“The sort that will never be missed,” she said icily.
Zevran glanced at Alessar, who seemed unperturbed by this comment, not even looking at them. It wasn’t unusual for Alessar not to intervene; he seemed to think his companions were best off dealing with Morrigan’s sharp tongue on their own. But Zevran was a little surprised when it was instead Alistair that objected.
“Hey now! Now that I think about it, that pendant actually has some resemblance to your mother. Creepy. I think it’s the nose,” he said pointedly. Zevran remembered he’d previously annoyed Morrigan by mentioning some family resemblance, chiefly based upon her nose.
“Are you quite satisfied now, having had the opportunity to exercise what little wit you have?” she asked acidly.
“What do you mean?” Alistair asked, smirking. Morrigan just growled something about foolishness, and hurried on ahead of them.
It was really the type of exchange that occurred within the party almost every day, but Zevran couldn’t help but find Alessar’s lack of reaction . . . discouraging. Alessar must notice Morrigan’s cold attitude toward him, but ignored it—which told him where Alessar’s interests must lie.
If that were the way things were, he certainly would not compete with Morrigan for Alessar’s attentions, like two street curs fighting over a bone. Really, the best thing to do would be to bow out now.
But the idea rankled. You did not survive as a Crow without learning to hold fast to any small treasures. He thought of everything he and Alessar had shared since he joined the party, not just the times alone in the tent, but time spent simply talking.
He remembered when he’d joined the party he’d initially thought Alessar a little, well, simple. No reasonable person would be that open about their thoughts and feelings, or at least that was Zevran’s experience among the Crows. But he had soon realized that while what Alessar said was always the truth, there was more going on in his mind than he chose to reveal.
When he first started his pursuit of the Warden it was intended to be simply a way to pass the time during the long nights. It came as a surprise to him when Alessar ended up being quite pleasant company, enough that the barrier brought about by the circumstances of their first meeting frustrated him. Gaining Alessar’s trust had become a contest, of sorts.
This was nothing new. In the Crows Zevran frequently had to gain a mark’s trust in order to get the chance to finish the job, and he always got a rush from it whenever they would betray themselves with some new confidence. What was new was that for the first time his intentions were sincere—he even found himself hampered by an unwillingness to use some of the tactics he’d been accustomed to. Perhaps Alessar’s candor was infectious. Zevran never intended to give away as much as he had, but somehow he found himself telling Alessar things he’d never mentioned to anyone else. It was liberating and alarming by turns, and only possible because Alessar had seemed so harmless.
He may have been mistaken about that.
If Morrigan got her way he was sure their late-night talks by the fire would be finished. Rather amusing, really, that he’d worked so hard on getting the Warden into his bed while keeping him out of his head, and now that it looked he might lose everything impending celibacy was the least of his concerns. Perhaps the witch was doing him a favor, though he hardly felt disposed to thank her for it.
Zevran had little appetite at dinner that evening. He doubted anyone had noticed anything out of the ordinary, since he sat near Alessar as usual and took part in the conversation, mostly business. He would hardly be much of a Crow if he could not seem untroubled in public no matter what his thoughts were.
Then Alessar unexpectedly said, “I want some of us to head into the Deep Roads to search for signs of Branka’s household tomorrow. Oghren will lead Wynne, Zevran, and me.” He looked at Alistair, “Alistair, can you and the others go back to Dust Town while we’re gone? I wouldn’t be surprised if some of Jarvia’s old gang start trying to put things back together.”
Zevran’s expression did not change, but he flicked his eyes towards Morrigan. She was clearly irked, her brows lowered. Seeing his glance, she gave him a haughty look.
Zevran did not notice what else was said at that meal, too distracted by his own thoughts. Once when he’d been in training in the Crows he’d bungled the job of stealing a maid’s key, scrapping an entire assassination plot. He was about to be dragged off to the cellars for his failure when the order was overruled and he’d been given another assignment. True, it simply delayed his punishment by a week. But he made the most of any reprieves he was given. This felt like just such a reprieve.
Alessar would be away from Morrigan’s interference and with him. He’d see how things went once they were out in the Deep Roads. Instead of simply breaking things off, perhaps it would be best to explain to Alessar the difficulty this situation would pose. Then if he preferred Morrigan’s company . . . well, he could choose her.
When they had first arrived in Orzammar Zevran had seen a little dwarven girl standing in the street, holding a cage woven from roots. Inside was a moth so large its outspread wings could have covered both of her palms. The moth was battering itself against the cage walls, and the girl must have taken pity on it because she opened the door and freed it. A moment later it had careened into a torch flame and immolated itself, and the little girl was wailing, tears running down her face.
Some would say it was a self-destructive instinct that led the moth to escape its cage only to fly inevitably into the flames. But maybe with luck once freed from its prison it might have flown up into the cavern, through the tunnels, and out into the moonlight.