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Zevran makes his way past the guards at the entrance with ease. None of the many, though not nearly as many as there should be, guards inside pay him any scrutiny either. It seems an awful oversight. Surely Alistair would have warned them about the one assassin who’s face and habits are known to him.
They could stand to be more careful in general, of course, but that they don’t stop Zevran or even seem to recognize him – that is worrying.
His mask does cover his face well, but he’d expected to be asked to remove it before being allowed anywhere near the festivities. But it seems now that everyone dressed for the event gets admitted with little or no questioning. This does pose some difficulty – not the kind he expected, but rather the kind where there might be more assassins here than Zevran was expecting. He had planned to only have to contend with the ones good enough to talk their way past the guards without causing a scene. Now it seems anyone capable of donning a mask and some fancy clothes will be here. Probably some that will have found an alternate way inside the castle as well, because the amount of guards is certainly not great enough to prevent that.
Though in truth Zevran could have sneaked in even in a properly guarded event. Maybe that’s what he should have done – made his way to Alistair’s royal quarters and waited for him there – but then he would have missed the masquerade. It’s a rather lovely one, if a bit quaint. Nowhere near as much gold and jewels on every surface as a royal ball in Antiva or even Orlais would have. Just the kind he would expect from Ferelden. He even spots a pair of dog statues and feels both amused and the slightest bit nostalgic.
Beyond making sure the wine at least is acceptable, Zevran also keeps an eye out for someone bold enough to make an attempt right there, in the ballroom. There is always, always someone bold enough. Sometimes Zevran himself, of course, but not tonight.
After a couple of turns on the dance floor with the two ladies in fox masks (they look to be having a silent argument at first, but after a while Zevran gets the feeling that the argument and the matching masks are on purpose, some kind of shared jest), Zevran makes out a man that is definitely up to something. Whether he’s meant to be a distraction or he’s making a serious attempt doesn’t matter as it’s clear that he at least will be easily stopped by Alistair’s guards. He will however serve as an excellent distraction for everyone else.
He makes another round around the ballroom, takes note of any especially good spots. To the credit of the Fereldans the room lacks most of the classic assassination spots, and the ones that are there are placed just inconveniently enough that the only real way to do away with the king in this room is approaching him directly.
It is a matter of a lot of gold not of some religious difference or lover’s spat, so most of those here tonight vying for Alistair’s lovely head instead of his lovely hand will try elsewhere.
That should be enough. There is nothing else to be gained in the ballroom except perhaps some strong wine. Yet Zevran lingers. Then a new tune starts and the king himself joins the dance. It’s one with a decently fast turn of partners, and before he can reconsider, Zevran joins the line. He steps from one partner to the next and when the song must be nearing its end, he turns and takes Alistair’s hand.
“Your Highness,” he says, accent barely changed and voice far too irreverent. No guards are near enough to hear him over the music, however. Alistair nods his head in greeting and silently walks the steps of the dance hand in hand with Zevran. There is no recognition in his face. Perhaps he has learned some subterfuge in the time they’ve been apart? Stranger things have happened.
Zevran should not provoke the guards, as some of them are watching their king quite keenly as he dances. Alas, he cannot resist the temptation. This is not a dance made for inappropriate or even lingering touches, but Zevran does try his best. Alistair’s mask is only symbolic, a thin frame around his eyes, and so it is easy to see, close as they are, how heat spreads across Alistair’s cheeks.
When the dance ends, they are still side by side. Zevran bows with as much flourish as he can manage, which is quite a lot. And he brings Alistair’s hand to his face, briefly presses it to his mask in a mock kiss.
“It is always a great pleasure to enjoy your company,” Zevran says, voice low to not be overheard.
“Do I know you?” The lines that appear between Alistair’s eyebrows are endearing. Clearly he does not recognize Zevran, but at least he has finally noticed something is out of the ordinary.
“What an impolite question to ask at a masquerade.” Truly, Fereldans. And it’s past time Zevran should be leaving, so he bows again and steps back.
“Wait, who–”
“There is poison in your wine, Highness.” And indeed, it barely takes a moment for a lady in a gilded mask to tip some powder into the cup when the guards all glance at their King, lingering too long after his dance.
“Poison?” Alistair looks to the small table where his wine cup is on, and Zevran makes his escape. The nearest guards appear to have heard Alistair’s exclamation. Some of them start in his direction, but Zevran has long disappeared in the crowd by the time they get there.
He makes his way to the nearest door, the one Alistair is most likely to take when leaving the ballroom in the event of an emergency.
He takes the same path the guards will lead the king to and makes note of all the places he would use for an ambush. Two of them are already occupied by someone else with that very goal, so Zevran kills them and drags the bodies out of the way, leaving them behind some rather conveniently large dog statues. He has to hide from a group of guards running toward the ballroom, but that ends up being his only trouble on his way to Alistair’s rooms, other than some healthy competition. Very lacking security, this. Whatever attempt was meant to happen in the ballroom must already be happening, if the guards are any measure.
Zevran picks the far too simple lock on the King’s chambers. Not that a more complicated lock would have stopped him, but truly, all of this seems like an invitation to get assassinated. Zevran slips into the room quietly, his costume chosen to be dark and without any shiny or noisy bits, which alone should have been enough to make the guards pay attention.
The rooms look empty on first glance, but Zevran is a professional. He notes the best hiding places and then slides soundlessly out of view behind a screen that no self respecting assassin would hide behind. It is the best place for what he intends, however.
After another minute or two he hears a commotion in the hallway. The doors are thrown open and Alistair strides in, two guards with him. The rest stay outside, which is truly poor planning. The door has barely closed (and, oh, they didn’t even notice it was unlocked when it shouldn’t have been, did they?) when the thwack of a crossbow rings out and one of the guards crumples with a bolt in his neck. The other guard manages to draw his sword, but a knife in his gut drops him as well. Zevran narrows his eyes. That’s two. His own throwing knives take care of them. Two dead assassins fall out of their hiding places while a wide-eyed Alistair looks around the room with a sword in hand. At least he still carries a weapon.
After a moment of stillness Alistair takes a step back towards the door. Another knife flies at him and he barely avoids being struck in the neck. Rather lucky that his costume for the masquerade is that of a knight – the knife doesn’t pierce the plate armor, glances off it. Lucky, because by the sheen of it Zevran is sure it is poisoned with something potent enough to kill with a single scratch.
The third assassin gets out of his hiding place, daggers in hand, and attacks Alistair. Rather unprofessional to go for the target like that, but of course whoever it is must expect Zevran to be only a competitor that will step back for anyone who manages to strike down the target first. This would be true for any other bounty, but oh, Zevran is sentimental enough to offer his friend a special treatment. The kind where he doesn’t kill them, even if the bounty offered is impressively tempting. And it is very tempting. But Alistair’s quite lovely form is also as tempting as it was two years ago, when Zevran last saw him. So of course the fool that he is, Zevran does not plan to collect on this particular contract. Ah, well, this practice will at least keep Zevran in good form. He watches the assassin fight Alistair, waits for him to lose, because Alistair is decent with a sword, which many an assassin not used to Ferelden royalty would not expect from a king.
The third assassin falls, and then – ah, this. Zevran steps out of his own rather flimsy hiding place and throws another knife. Alistair stares at him in wide-eyed surprise for the few moments between the throw and the knife embedding itself into the forehead of the fourth assassin, poised to stab Alistair in the back with yet another heavily poisoned blade. No imagination. The assassin, one that certainly made his way into the castle the same way as Zevran, for he is wearing a rather garish mask of some bird that Zevran cannot distinguish, falls with a soft thud. Alistair spares him only a glance, though he does turn slightly paler at seeing how close to death he just was.
“Ah, my King,” Zevran says and makes his way closer to Alistair. “Tis such an eventful night, is it not?” Alistair takes a small step back when Zevran gets close, then stops and his eyes narrow.
“You.”
“Indeed, me.” Zevran bows. Really, there is something he quite likes about Alistair being king. And he’s survived this long without Zevran’s help, he mustn’t be too bad at it.
“What do you want?” Alistair asks. Oh, now he decides to be suspicious of strange assassins in his ball.
“Your Highness, how generous of you, to offer me a favor of my choosing for the small task of saving your life!”
“I offer no such thing. What were you doing in here, if not waiting for the same chance they tried to take?” Alistair waves at the bodies on the floor without taking his eyes off Zevran.
“Why, saving you again, of course. My heart would surely break if your beauty were to be extinguished by such… amateurs.”
Alistair’s eyes narrow further and he takes another step back, and reaches back for the door. He pauses when a commotion breaks out in the hall, the sounds of fighting, guards shouting.
“Your chances are much better if you’ll bar the doors, Highness.” Zevran will deal with whatever is on the other side if he must, but surely it would be easier to just stay and wait it out. Catch up, perhaps. There are many a thing they could do together in a locked room.
With much completely unwarranted suspicion still on his face Alistair slowly reaches for the bar and lowers it.
“Why are you helping me? What favor are you after?” he asks, pronounces favor like one does a dirty word.
“Truly, Highness, all my efforts would be repaid with interest,” Zevran says and walks closer, “if I could have but one kiss from you.” He steps within reach of Alistair and then closer, ignores the sword that’s no longer pointed at him. ”A lasting kiss, you understand. Perhaps two or three, in fact, as I did save you more than once.”
Even in the dim light Alistair’s sudden blush is obvious and quite charming. He looks shocked by the request for only a moment, and then his eyes narrow in suspicion again.
“Zevran?”
“Ah, my friend, I knew you had such fantasies about me!”
Alistair splutters some denial and his blush deepens. Finally Zevran removes his mask. He then does Alistair the favor of kissing him and cutting off his failed attempts at coherent speech. He tries patience out first, starts slowly so as to not shock Alistair too badly. But Alistair soon kisses back with admirable fervor. Truly this is the best favor Zevran could have asked for, and he only regrets he didn’t name a higher number of kisses. One for each assassin he’s killed tonight? That would have been a better bargain.
The number Zevran first proposed must slip Alistair’s mind, however, as they keep kissing well past it, and the kisses only get more heated. Alistair’s hands settle on Zevran’s hips with little hesitance. He tries to guide him back, away from the door, and almost trips them both over a dead body. They are forced to part to keep from slipping and falling in the fresh blood.
“Uh, we should go. That door leads to my rooms,” Alistair says with a motion to an almost inconspicuous screen at the far corner that hides a doorway. He glances at Zevran almost furtively, as if Zevran might decline the proposition. Or at least he very much hopes it is a proposition.
With a rather pleased smile Zevran nods his agreement. Then his head clears and his smile twists somewhat.
“Perhaps this very sturdy looking desk will suit us instead?”
“What? Why?” Alistair does look at said desk with an intrigued expression, but then he looks down at all the dead and their still spreading blood and grimaces. Trust him to become squeamish of such things.
“There will certainly be no fewer than three assassins in your bedroom, my friend. Of which I will gladly help you dispose of, certainly, as nothing will keep me from your bed when you invite me into it.”
This time it is Alistair that kisses him. Still clearly unpracticed, but he is delightfully passionate about it, and not even trying to count the kisses. Maybe kingship has made him less squeamish about dead bodies than Zevran assumed. Or it might be he has missed Zevran nearly as much as Zevran missed him.