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Chapter Text

It begins with a blade to the throat.

Sunlight glints off the steel of the sword, and Zevran closes his eyes before the blow falls. It is not such a bad sight, he thinks. He would rather that be the last thing he sees than the inelegant spill of his own blood against Fereldan mud. He lets the daggers in his hands slip to the ground, and he waits for the moment to end.

It doesn’t. Instead, the seconds stretch on, longer and longer as the noise of the battle continues in the background. At last- and with some impatience at being denied now, after everything- Zevran opens his eyes.

The Grey Warden is staring at him, his sword still poised and pointed at the fallen assassin. Conflict is clear on his face, and Zevran almost laughs. The Grey Wardens are supposed to be legendary warriors, skilled and ruthless, are they not? To have his plans dashed because a Warden lacks the stomach to finish off an unarmed attacker is not something Zevran could have expected.

Come now, friend, he thinks, staring right back into the Warden’s dark brown eyes. Let’s get this over with.

Zevran’s fingers twitch, and he almost dives for the daggers laying discarded on the ground. If he did, surely the Warden would have no reason to hold back. If Zevran is quick, he may even be able to get in one last strike- something for this Warden to remember him by, a lesson in what happens when one hesitates in battle.

But the blade hovering oh-so-close to his neck shifts, and the sun once again flashes against the sharp edge of the steel, and this time it is Zevran who hesitates.

That pause seems to stretch on for hours, but in reality the whole encounter likely takes less than five seconds. Such a short time, and yet Zevran is suddenly too late- the sounds of the battle have faded behind him, and the other Wardens are shouting for their companion.

The fight is over. Somehow, Zevran is still alive.

He should be disappointed. Maybe he will be, later, but in this moment he suddenly feels light as a breeze over the ocean. It is not the first time Zevran has been inches from his own death, and he recognizes the rush of relief enveloping him upon the realization of his own survival. Every sensation suddenly feels beautiful- the warmth of the evening sun on his skin, the faint wind pulling at his hair, even the damp sludge of the mud in which he sits.

“What’s this about?” one of the Wardens is asking, and even her irate tone brings a smile to Zevran’s face. It is with no small amount of amusement that he watches the other Warden- his Warden- attempt to stammer out an explanation.

“He, uh. He yielded.”

The man’s sword is still held in position, but Zevran knows now he has no intentions of using it, so long as he is not given a reason to. So Zevran flashes a smile at the approaching woman and nods eagerly, as if this were the most natural situation in the world. “I yielded.”

Perhaps he is imagining things, but Zevran thinks he sees a flicker of relief in his Warden’s eyes.

There is much argument amongst the Wardens about what is to be done with Zevran, but in the end, they let him live.

And Zevran is grateful. He sits and ponders this fact for quite a while, wondering what exactly it means. He’d thought he was ready; he’d thought that this, finally, was the perfect way to make his exit. He’d believed it fully, up until the very last second, when the sword he’d chosen as the last kiss upon his neck simply refused to fall.

And now he is left here, in the Fereldan countryside, with nothing to his name but a scavenged dagger and a tentative will to live. He’d offered his services to the Wardens- and made quite the compelling argument, in his own humble opinion- but the Aeducan woman who seemed to be acting as their leader would have none of it. She’d barely been persuaded to leave him alive at all. The other dwarf, Brosca, had resisted the idea briefly against her, but not with enough strength to change her mind.

It had been the human Warden with dark brown eyes and conflicted morals who argued, however reluctantly, for Zevran’s life. Alistair: the one whom Loghain wanted dead more than either of the dwarves, and the first Warden to lower his sword. By no means did he have any trust for Zevran, that much had been clear. In fact, he’d been downright appalled at the idea of working with the assassin. And yet, he’d shown an equal amount of dismay at the idea of killing him as he lay defenseless, however quick and efficient the process may be. An intriguing contradiction, that.

In any case, it is because of him that Zevran is, against all odds, still alive.

Death will come eventually, of that Zevran is sure. He could simply stay here and wait for a darkspawn swarm to find the easy prey of one lone traveler. He could wait until the Crows hear of his failure and take care of the problem on their own. But the appeal of the Wardens delivering that final blow had lain in the promise of one last glorious fight, one last grand tale. Being eaten by darkspawn or disposed of by the Crows is not how Zevran wants his story to end.

As he sits there in the mud, mulling over his options, an idea flickers to life. The Wardens’ story is not ending here; they have a long road ahead of them, if they truly intend to stand against Loghain and end the Blight. They will need the help of an assassin, whether they admit it or not. Aeducan may not have been swayed by his initial argument, but perhaps what she needs is a better display of Zevran’s skills.

It is more of a plan than any other idea Zevran has, so he picks himself and sets off down the road to Redcliffe. If he still meets his death with the Wardens, so be it.

If not…it will be interesting, to see what comes next.

Chapter Text

Alistair wakes early in the morning. He is somehow still tired- exhausted, even, as if the bruises from yesterday’s battle have sunk into his very bones- but try as he might, sleep does not return. After a few futile minutes of tossing and turning, he gives up and rises to greet the day.

It’s a bleak one that greets him back. There had been celebration last night, in the immediate wake of their victory against the undead, but now the villagers have more somber duties to attend to. The bodies of the fallen have been piled near the Chantry, and people are already at work preparing for the funerals of their friends and family. Alistair tries to offer his help, but is immediately shooed away- oh no, not after everything you’ve done already, we couldn’t possibly- and he recognizes the rebuttal for what it is.

These are our people, not yours, is what they mean, and they’re right, but it still stings. This place was once his home, however long ago that was. But he still doesn’t want to intrude, so he retreats to the docks with a chunk of bread and an apple for his breakfast.

The sun is still in the process of rising over the lake, and Alistair sits at the edge of the dock as he enjoys his meal and the view. The action brings with it a wave of nostalgia- how many times did he sneak down here as a child, to sit just like this on the docks with a stolen treat in hand?

“Ah, what a beautiful morning it is!”

Alistair jolts and nearly drops his apple into the water. Luckily, he catches it at the last minute- unluckily, the intruder on his quiet morning saw the whole thing and is now chuckling to himself. Alistair glances over his shoulder to the other end of the dock, where Zevran stands flashing his most charming smile. Far behind him, Alistair can make out the distance shapes of the funeral pyres being erected by the villagers.

“Yeah…not sure that’s how I’d describe it.”

The assassin steps up lightly onto one of the posts holding up the docks, balancing there for a moment with admittedly impressive grace before continuing his journey to Alistair’s side. He finally plops down right next to the Warden, letting one leg dangle off the dock as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for the two of them to be sitting here together.

“In my line of work, every morning I am alive is a beautiful one.”

Right. His line of work. Being an assassin. Assassinating. Assassinating Grey Wardens. That’s the person Alistair decided to vouch for, because he’s just so bloody brilliant.

Looking at Zevran now, it’s hard to justify that impulse. Back on the battlefield, Alistair could have sworn he’d caught of glimpse of something…well, something he couldn’t quite name, as the elf stared up at him from the ground. As if he were daring the Warden to strike the blow. And as foolish as it was, Alistair just couldn’t do it.

He still hasn’t tried to explain that to Marja. He’d doesn’t think he could, not in any way she’d understand. Maker, Alistair barely understands himself. All he knows is that while half of him is busy berating his own indecision, the other half is relieved that however difficult things have gotten, they at least haven’t resorted to killing unarmed men in cold blood.

And then to make everything even more confusing, there’s a third half of himself which is simply marveling at how desperate the Wardens are, that Zevran was able to navigate his way into their company at all.

Because in Alistair’s defense, he had expected to go the rest of his life without seeing the assassin- hopefully without seeing any assassin- ever again. But then Zevran had reappeared, swooping in to help them fight off a horde of undead as if he were a hero in a play. After that, even Marja was willing to give him a chance.

And now here he is, grinning at Alistair as if this is all a perfectly normal and pleasant way to meet new people. Gone is the desperation or daring or whatever it was Alistair thought he saw during that first fight; now, Zevran is all confidence and bravado and smug, self-assured smiles.

Zevran tilts his head, and that smile takes on a mischievous edge. “I assure you, Warden, you needn’t watch me so closely. I did not go through all the trouble of tracking you down again just to kill you by pushing you into a lake. Of course…” He stretches out slowly, leaning back against the dock’s rickety railing and folding his arms behind his head. “…if you are enjoying the view, then do feel free to keep staring.”

And, of course, there’s that. The flirting- or, as Marja calls it, ‘the least subtle attempt at manipulative flattery she has ever seen’. It’s one of elf’s more irritating quirks, in her opinion, which is probably why Darvis finds it so amusing. For his part, Alistair has decided the wisest course of action is to blithely ignore the elf’s teasing.

“Pushing me into the lake wouldn’t work anyway,” he says, tearing his eyes away from Zevran’s face to look out over the water. “I can swim, I’ll have you know.”

“Alas! Another perfect plan, foiled. It seems we are stuck with each other a while longer.”

“Looks like it.” In spite of himself, Alistair can’t help glancing once more at Zevran. The assassin is still grinning lazily back at him, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“You are staring again, my friend.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Do try not to hurt yourself.”

Alistair rolls his eyes. “If you’re trying to insult me, you’ll have to try harder. I’ve heard worse from Morrigan on a good day.”

“Merely a jest! Do tell me, what has you thinking so seriously on such a lovely morning?”

“I’m still trying to decide if bringing you along is a mistake,” Alistair says truthfully. “You have to admit, it’d be pretty embarrassing if after everything we’ve been through, we get ourselves killed because somebody thought it was a good idea to invite the guy who already tried to kill us to share dinner and sing songs around a campfire.”

Zevran releases a dramatic gasp. “I assure you, I would never dream of embarrassing my new friends in such a way!”

“See, you can say that,” Alistair presses, “but I still remember that time two days ago when- I repeat- you tried to kill us.”

“Are you truly going to keep holding that against me?”

“It’s a little hard not to, to be honest.”

“Ah, but that was before. This is now, and I have sworn my fealty to the Grey Wardens. I am your man, and I will fight by your side for as long as you’ll have me. This I swear.” The words are right, but there’s still something in the way Zevran says them. They roll too easily off that silver tongue of his, and it’s all just a little too rehearsed to be trusted. Especially when Zevran follows the declaration with a cheeky wink and adds, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Right…” Alistair says, not trying to hide how little he’s convinced. “And how much, exactly, is a Crow’s promise worth?”

“In this case?” Zevran raises an eyebrow. “Exactly as much as his life.”

Before Alistair can ask just what in the Maker’s name that is supposed to mean, Zevran pulls himself to his feet. “In any case, I do believe it is time we set off. The good Ser Teagan has requested our presence, and if we are lucky, we shall be storming the castle today.”

“Wonderful,” Alistair sighs. “Can’t wait,” He takes one last bite of his apple, then tosses the core into the lake. He remembers old stories about wishing on coins in fountains, and…well, it’s certainly no coin, but he still takes the opportunity to hope that Eamon is okay, and that they’ve seen the last of any undead abominations.

As Alistair turns to follow Zevran back into the village, he also spares a moment to hope that the assassin isn’t completely lying to his face when he claims he can be trusted.

Chapter Text

Zevran hears Alistair long before he sees him.

It would be quite impossible not to, even for someone without Zevran’s training; the man is not one to move lightly. Every wooden step of The Spoiled Princess’s stairway creaks under his weight, loudly signaling his approach for anyone who cares to listen. Why, if Zevran ever made such a racket in the night, even as a child, his instructors would have-

But that is not a productive line of thought. Not after the day Zevran has had. He forces himself to focus, to relax, and he regains his composure just in time for Alistair to step into the room.

The Warden does not see Zevran at first; perhaps due to the darkness of the night, or perhaps due to the manner in which Zevran is perched beneath the far window. Either way, Alistair startles in a most endearing fashion when Zevran raises his voice to say, “Good evening, my friend.”

Alistair twists in the dark room, searching for the source of the voice. The tension in his shoulders does not ease when his gaze finally fixes upon Zevran. “What are you doing down here?”

A reasonable question. The hour is late; the candles once lighting the room have long burned out; the rest of the party has turned in for a well-deserved night’s rest. Yet despite the stillness of the night, Zevran’s mind has been anything but quiet, and he did not even make an attempt at what would surely be a fitful and fruitless sleep.

Not that he needs to explain every detail of this to Alistair. To Alistair, Zevran merely shrugs and says, “I could very well ask you the same thing.”

“My room is, uh- well, it’s right next to Darvis.” Alistair pauses, and though the shadows make it difficult to be certain, Zevran could swear he blushes. “And…Morrigan. Let’s just say there are some things a person doesn’t need to hear.”

Zevran chuckles. “Good for them. It would seem that after the adventures of today, sleep is difficult to come by for many of us. At least they are being productive with their time.”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Alistair mutters, crossing his arms. He stands there a moment, weighing his options, and in the end an assassin’s company must win out against unwilling voyeurism. With only a slight hint of reluctance he sinks into a chair not far from Zevran’s window, and a tentative silence settles over the two of them.

Outside the window, the tower of Kinloch Hold stretches into the moonlit sky. Flickering lights dot the tower windows like stars in the sky, evidence of the Templars and mages inside, likely already working to restore the burnt and bloody hallways to their former order.

They’ll be burning their dead in the morning, Zevran thinks idly. Just like Redcliffe.

The thought is a dreary one, as is the view, so Zevran tears his eyes away and settles his attention on Alistair instead.

“Care for a drink?” he asks, nodding to the abandoned bar across the room. “The innkeeper is asleep, but his collection of spirits is hardly secure.” Even in the dark he can see Alistair’s brow furrow, and a hint of exasperation creeps into Zevran’s voice as he adds, “And we have the coin to pay for it in the morning, so no need to worry that pesky conscience.”

“Thanks…I guess,” Alistair says. “But I’m good.”

The man is cautious, even after all this time- likely he still expects a knife in his back or poison in his cup. Good instincts, if inconvenient for Zevran.

Not that Zevran wants to kill Alistair, of course. That would be a rather rude repayment. It’s simply that old habits die hard, and it is always prudent to have options. Especially if- when- the Crows do find him again…

Zevran rubs at his wrists, and immediately regrets the action. He is not hurt; the restraints that bound him in place to the torture rack were a dream, just as the rack itself was a dream. Just as the laughing, taunting voices were a dream. All a passing fantasy, not even strong enough to leave marks on his wrist where the imagined leather bit into his skin.

But Alistair notices the nervous motion. One wouldn’t think it of him, but the Warden is surprisingly observant.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Alistair says, voice deliberately light, eyes darting away quickly. “Hope you weren’t planning to get me drunk and take advantage.” The man’s eyes go wide as soon as the words are out of his mouth, and he practically trips over himself to repair the statement. “To kill me, I mean. Sorry. Bad joke. I’m not at my best right now. It’s been- Maker, but it’s been a day.”

Zevran studies Alistair’s face in the dark. Imaginary or no, Zevran’s wrists still sting; his nonexistent bruises are still tender. Were it anyone else poking at those wounds…

Yet even in the shadow of all that, Alistair is so ridiculously earnest in his apology that it is difficult for Zevran to retain his armor in the way he should.

“Think nothing of it,” Zevran answers softly. “None of us are at our best tonight, I think.”

“No, that’s true.”

Alistair’s voice is heavy as he answers, and Zevran cannot deny a moment of curiosity. What would a demon show to a man like Alistair? it is a tantalizing question, for reasons Zevran cannot fully describe.

The act of asking, however, would invite the same question to be turned upon Zevran…and he has lingered on those thoughts too long already. What use is there, to remember the bite of rope and leather, the punishment to skin and bone, the achingly familiar laughter ghosting in his ear-

“At least we saved them,” Alistair says, jarring Zevran from the memory. The Warden is gazing through the window to Kinloch Hold, his eyes catching the pinpricks of firelight. “The mages, I mean. As awful as this day was, at least we did that. It helps, seeing that we can actually do some good for people.”

“I would warn against becoming dependent on the feeling,” Zevran replies without thinking. More memories hiss through his mind- (torture, murder, dispose of the body, laugh about it afterward but never forget you’re only one misstep away, never forget you could go back on the rack just as easily)- but he pushes them away even as the words slip out of his mouth. “You cannot save everyone.”

And Alistair actually scoffs at him.

“Maker, you sound like Morrigan. I can try, can’t I?” He pauses, and Zevran wonders what runs through that head of his. Is it Lady Isolde, her blood splattered on the stone floor of her dining hall? Lord Eamon, catatonic in his deathbed?

But when Zevran looks at Alistair, the man’s warm brown eyes are on him, that familiar, unexpectedly shrewd observance making itself known once again. “You were glad we saved the mages, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” There is no point in denying it, after all. Zevran tilts his head as he meets Alistair’s eyes. “You are surprised.”

“I just wouldn’t have expected you to care.”

A smile flits across Zevran’s face as he leans back in his chair. “I suppose I have an appreciation for dangerous things. And even one such as I would regret to see people slaughtered without need.” He’d expected the words to comfort, but Alistair merely narrows his eyes in suspicion, and Zevran has to laugh. “Oh, do not be so skeptical, my friend. You will find I am a man of many hidden depths. As are you…Templar.”

“Ex-Templar,” Alistair mutters. “Everyone likes to forget the ex- part.”

“Very well. If the ex-Templar wishes to spare the innocent mages, would it be so impossible to believe the assassin does as well?”

Alistair hums a noncommittal sound, his eyes still narrowed, as if trying to read Zevran’s intentions through the shadows. “Maybe I can believe it…for now. But don’t get too comfortable. I’m sure it’s only the sleep deprivation talking, and I’m going right back to not trusting you in the morning.”

Again, Zevran cannot help but laugh. “Very well. I shall enjoy this while it lasts.”

Silence hangs between the two again, this time settling into something almost like companionship as they sit together in the weak light of the silver moon.

Chapter Text

Alistair doesn’t intend to eavesdrop.

Well…maybe he does. Just a tad.

It’s not that he’s trying to be a sneak or anything like that- he’s simply bored. By his judgment there’s still two weeks of travel before the group reaches Denerim, and the Imperial Highway becomes monotonous rather quickly. Even the darkspawn attacks provide only brief moments of excitement in between the miles and miles dusty fields and farmland.

The clambering of bothersome thoughts circling through his head doesn’t help much. Left to his own devices for too long, his mind inevitably takes him back either to Eamon, left behind in Redcliffe to wait for a magical cure, or Goldanna, his actual real live sister who dwells somewhere in the city ahead.

He needs to save one, and he needs to find the other, and he is all too aware of the myriad of ways in which he is likely to let them both down.

So really, he’s just happy for any kind of distraction. On many of the days spent in travel, distraction just happens to come in the form of Zevran and his endless stories.

And they are endless. Tales of assassinations gone awry, tales of narrow escapes, tales of exploits in seduction. The tales are mainly told to Darvis- he and Zevran are becoming chummier every day, which is almost certainly cause for concern- but as the Warden’s group marches down the highway, his voice lifts loud enough for any of them to listen in.

So it’s not even eavesdropping, really. It’s just…overhearing.

The day starts off as usual, with Zevran reciting tales that swing from salacious (Alistair can feel his ears turning red at those, and he does his honest best not to listen too closely), to daring (Zevran speaks of so many last-minute saves and once-in-a-lifetime chances of luck that Alistair is convinced he’s making all of it up on the spot), to light-hearted (and it is funny, Alistair muses, how self-deprecating the man can be beneath his veneer of smug confidence).

Those latter stories do, unfortunately, often coax a chuckle out of Alistair. He covers the sound with a fake cough, which turns real as the wind throws a cloud of dust from the path under his feet straight into his face. Maker, but he’s already missing the inescapable mud of early Fereldan spring; now, after weeks without rain, the Imperial Highway has dried into a mess of hot dust.

While Alistair is lost in these lamentations, it’s Leliana who asks the question that shifts the mood- a question that probes further back into Zevran’s past. And Alistair overhears as Zevran, in a breezingly casual tone, begins speaking of his parents.

“My mother was Dalish, once,” he begins, before weaving the story of a beautiful Dalish woman, the woodcutter from the city whom she fell in love with, and the tragically short-lived romance that followed.

It’s the first time Alistair has heard him speak of this, but the beats of the story are achingly familiar.

A windstorm of emotion. A father gone, a mother gone. A baby, left alone.

“I never knew my mother. She died during my birth.” Zevran says the words easily, even gives a short, dark-natured laugh. “My first victim, as it were.”

Alistair can’t help it, then- he drops the pretense of not listening and turns to look over his shoulder at the elf. Zevran meets his stare with a ready smirk, not flustered or abashed in the slightest. This isn’t the first time the assassin has met horrible things with such an easy smile; Alistair doesn’t understand how he does it.

But Alistair does recognize a smile being faked.

He forces himself to turn back around and face the road ahead, wishing they could just get to Denerim already so he wouldn’t have to think so much. Wouldn’t have to listen as Zevran talks about his lonely childhood with the Crows, about the old pair of gloves that was the only keepsake from his mother. Wouldn’t have to feel a twinge of- concern? Sympathy? Something- for the assassin.

But they’re all stuck here, together on the road, and Alistair can’t help overhearing snippets from the rest of Zevran’s conversation.

“None of us are products of idyllic lives, are we?”

The whole thing sticks in Alistair’s head that night, far longer than it has any right to.

Assassins are tricky and they tell lies and this one in particular has tried to kill them all.

And yet you’re the one who still let him live, Alistair, a voice chides in the back of his head,

Exactly, another answers. That’s already more than we owe him, so you should be done with him.

Alistair groans and turns over in his bedroll. The Chantry amulet that Marja recovered from Eamon’s office is stowed under his pillow as usual. Tonight, it feels as if it’s burning a hole through cloth.

Fine, Alistair finally tells himself, and he’s not certain which part of him has won tonight. But this is a stupid idea.

 Alistair’s stupid idea requires a bit of searching, and he spends the net morning digging through the group’s supply bags. He then spends the rest of the day arguing with himself about whether to go through with the stupid idea or not, until evening comes and he’s ready to go through with it just to get the whole thing over with.

He finds Zevran sitting on his own near the campfire, staring into the flames so thoughtfully that for once he doesn’t immediately notice Alistair’s approach. When he does, he leaps to his feet, falling back into his typical character and granting Alistair a sweeping bow.

“At your service,” he says, and Alistair hasn’t a clue how to respond to that, so of course he does the most awkward thing possible and simply shoves the gift into Zevran’s hands.

 “Here,” he says stiffly, and winces. Wonderful job. Very smooth.

Zevran raises an eyebrow at him, but he unfolds the cloth he’s been handed to reveal a simple pair of leather gloves. Dalish gloves, to be precise, with handmade stitching just like Zevran talked about, although he doesn’t seem to recognize them and suddenly Alistair feels like an idiot all over again.

 “This is…not what I expected, I admit,” Zevran admits.

“They’re Dalish,” Alistair replies. He rubs at the back of his neck, fumbling for words as he explains. “We were in the Brecilian Forest, a while back, and we picked up a lot of supplies. I know there’s no chance they’re actually…but I thought you might like to have them, anyway.”

Zevran goes quiet, the easy smile slipping from his face. “I see,” he says carefully. “They are quite handsome. What do I owe you, for such a find?”

“What? Nothing! It’s just-” Alistair waves his hands at the gloves, and although he really didn’t want to go there, not with Zevran of all people, the words are already tumbling out of his mouth. “It’s just- my mother died, too. Same way yours did, actually. And I don’t have much to remember her by, so…so I know I would want those, if I were you. That’s all. You don’t owe me anything for them.”

Zevran still isn’t smiling; he looks back and forth between Alistair and the gloves, seeming more confused than anything, and Alistair wonders if he’s finally managed to somehow offend the man.

But then Zevran tilts his head and says, “No has ever simply…given me a gift before,” and for once his words feel too sincere to be a lie.

“Really?” Alistair asks, still more awkward than anything. “I’m your first?”

And just like that, Zevran is chuckling again, and Alistair flushes as he realizes he’s once again stuck his foot in his mouth. “Okay, I didn’t- that sounds- whatever you’re thinking, just stop!”

“I said nothing!” Zevran protests with a smirk. “For once, you are the one with the silver tongue.”

“Maker…” Alistair grumbles. “You know what, forget I said anything at all.”

As he turns away, however, he swears he hear Zevran say one last thing, so quiet that Alistair almost misses the words over the crackling of the campfire.

“…thank you.”

Alistair glances back over his shoulder and watches as Zevran runs his lithe fingers over the stitched material. He traces the designs gently with his thumb, then slips his callused hands carefully inside the cloth. The gloves cling tightly to his skin, fitting him like- well, fitting him like a glove.

Zevran is still smiling, but the expression has softened. The curve of his lips is lacking in his usual bravado, and in its place is something more…real.

With a start Alistair realizes that he is staring, and he turns away before Zevran can notice. He retreats back into the safety of his tent, where nobody else can see the blush which refuses to fade for the rest of the night.