Work Text:
Zevran's first thought when he awoke was that he had died.
The second, when his brain had interpreted what he was looking at, was the wonder if his mother's blood had seen him passed on to the Creators for judgement and what difference that might make to his eternal soul (likely they condemned murder as much as the Maker, the main difference was that he'd never considered requesting forgiveness from them).
And then he noticed the big dog coming close to sniff at his face, a low growl rumbling in its throat. There were other people, too - of the human variety, so that ruled out this being a Dalish afterlife.
The figure leaning over him straightened when they saw he had awakened, hand coming up to remove the wolf skull helm he'd found himself staring at. It came away with the quiet clattering of bone, and he found himself under the inspection of a rather fetching pair of piercing storm-grey eyes, recognising now the face from the sketches of his targets. His skin was pale under the violet tattoo that split his face in half, one dark and one light with mirroring intricate designs. Dark red hair fell to his chin, ruffled from having been under his helm, and Zevran caught himself wondering if it might feel as fluffy as it looked. Maybe he'd convince the attractive stranger to let him have a feel as a last request - or maybe he'd convince him to let him have a little more, though he doubted he'd be open to that, considering the circumstances.
The stranger stashed the helmet in his pack, moving to fetch something else from inside as the Crow cautiously tested his bindings, but the other Grey Warden quickly stepped forward.
"No, wait, I need to practice, let me..."
A dark-haired woman groaned in exasperation as he pulled a journal from his own pack, flicking through the pages. The other elf stared at his companion for a moment before making a gesture of agreement, much to the woman's continued chagrin.
Zevran watched, eyes alight with curiosity. What could possibly need practising? Some form of interrogation technique? Was he to be tortured at the hands of these men? He tilted his head, trying to see the book's contents, but he couldn't make anything out from this angle.
"Okay, go." The human's gaze was fixated on his Dalish companion as he spoke, charcoal at the ready.
The other man sighed before slowly making a series of complicated gestures at his companion.
Their captive found himself a touch disappointed that torture appeared to be off the table as the Warden frantically looked through the pages of his journal.
"I think I've got - can you repeat that?"
Behind them, their companions seemed to have lost all interest in their conversation. The redheaded woman was trying to strike up a conversation with a tall, tall man who seemed to have no interest in her, his gaze fixed on the road as though anticipating an attack. The dark-haired woman stood apart from the others, glowering at anything and everything. Even the dog had lost interest, sniffing around the road's edges and occasionally digging at the hard earth.
The elf wore a pained expression as he repeated himself, and this time Zevran paid close attention to his hands as he signed.
"Let's speed this up. He wants you to ask me who sent me," he supplied. "It does make sense for a first question, no?"
Six pairs of eyes fixated on him in shock, and he shrugged under the attention, focusing on the other elf as he spoke.
"Your way of speaking is a little unfamiliar - I imagine it's the cultural difference - but it's still trade tongue. Fingers? I'm passable."
The Warden's shoulders slumped in such an overwhelming display of relief that Zevran almost felt sorry for him. How long had it been since he could communicate properly with somebody? Having the first person be the one who had been hired to kill him was surely proof that the hands of fate had a sense of humour.
The human Warden looked put out but kept his journal ready in case he could catch anything, though his elven friend's signs were far faster and more fluid now that he was talking to somebody who could understand him.
Those signs were mostly recognisable as trade, though there were a few thrown in that Zevran could only assume would translate more readily into what Elvehn language the Dalish had scraped together. Still, he knew enough to get by with few issues, and when the interrogation was over, the Dalish elf reached down to cut his bonds with a dagger from his belt, accepted his oath of loyalty, and helped him to his feet.
"What?! We're taking the assassin with us now?!" His fellow Warden demanded, clearly stunned by the turn of events.
The elf signed back, and Zevran decided to make himself immediately useful by translating.
"He says 'we need all the help we can get'," he provided.
"True, but if there was a sign we were desperate..." but the bite was gone from his words. He couldn't fail to see the relief in his compatriot's face that they'd found someone he could communicate with; he couldn't truly deny him that, regardless of risk.
The Dalish turned fully to Zevran then, smile small and uncertain but welcoming all the same as he introduced himself by signing each letter individually.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Kael," he told him, pressing a flirtatious kiss to the back of his hand as soon as he was sure he had finished. Kael's face flushed as red as his hair, right to the tips of his ears.
Oh, but this would be fun.