fadewalk | RP: Alistair

Zevran literally walked out the door of the palace and into Skyhold.

He froze, immediately on high alert, then quickly melted into the shadows--after snagging the book that had tumbled to his feet. Finding a high, quiet place where he could watch the hall without being seen, Zevran had spent hours listening in to conversations and flipping through the strange journal.

Not-the-Fade, eluvians, people from different worlds and versions of reality, no escape. All trapped together like bears in a circus. All right, he could deal with that.

Eventually he began scouting the castle, hiding in alcoves and eavesdropping as a matter of course. Entertaining himself as well as gathering the information he'd need to finally announce his presence. It was the sound of a familiar voice that had him hesitating as he crept along a beam high in the rafters, however. He waited, utterly still, and watched as a vaguely familiar man, an unfamiliar woman, and...ah yes...Alistair passed. Beginning to grin to himself, Zevran followed a safe distance behind and waited patiently for Alistair to move off on his own. The bar was there beneath him, practically calling the man's name. It was only a matter of time.

Once Alistair finally appeared, Zevran waited just long enough to be certain the man and woman weren't on his heels. Then he swung down on whisper-light feet, dropping onto the bar just far enough away to avoid getting beer splashed on his nice new boots. "And I thought to myself," Zevran said, starting the conversation mid-thought the way he sometimes did, "where would my friend go to try to sort out his own head? And so, here you are and here am I."

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It took a while, sorting this out, wrangling that, but eventually Alistair was able to leave Neria and Cullen to sleep or research or organizing or whatever it was that the important Commanders of Things types did.

Alistair scarpered off to the bar. He was nominally doing inventory on things like barrels of ale, but what was the point if everyone else was too busy trying to fix things to drink it?

He'd bothered to build a fire in the central hearth, trying to get some normal sort of light to keep the empty shadows from seeming quite so much like they were staring at him. He poured himself a mug, he collapsed onto a stool with a sigh, and gave a very manly shout when Zevran dropped out of the sky like a dead... well crow.

Only not dead, not dead and definitely here. Alistair cleared his throat, shaking the ale that had sloshed up to his wrist onto the floor, and tried to ignore the flush that was creeping up his cheeks. "Maker's breath, Zevran, you..." He exhaled slowly through his nose, squinting at the elf as he did so. "You probably aren't even you. Not you-you. That would be too lucky by half the way this has all gone."

"You have very little faith, my friend," Zevran teased, lips twitching into a quick, flashing grin. Startling people in general was fun; startling Alistair and earning that flush--the one that turned his ears bright red--was glorious. "But perhaps you are right. Perhaps we know little of each other. Perhaps this will be enough to have you calling for my head."

He flipped the seal to Alistair, trusting him to catch it. Anora's blood had tried a deep red over its face, but the royal insignia was clear.

The seal lay heavy in Alistair's hand and he stared at it with his mouth slightly open. Not quite a gape, but close enough. "You--" He swallowed, then took a drink, a long, desperate gulp that made his throat bob under the week-old scruff of his beard. He set the mug down with a clunk and rested his head in that hand. "Is this real? You killed Anora Mac Tir? For-- why?!" Because it would be too much to even consider it had been done on his behalf.

His gaze lifted, peering past his drawn brows and studied Zevran's face. If it was the Zevran he'd known, who'd spoken against his execution, against his banishment... His swallow clicked in his throat this time.

"Symmetry," Zevran said, head tipped as he studied Alistair's reaction. He didn't look angry, necessarily, which was a very good thing. Zevran had been taking a gamble there (even though he'd been fairly confident he'd guessed Alistair's identity correctly, he couldn't be certain.) "I killed her father on the battlefield, so it only seemed right I kill her in her palace."

Zevran settled easily on top the bar, legs folded beneath him. "You, my friend, are now avenged...unless you wish me to take all three, in which case I may demand payment."

He winked.

Alistair ran his thumb over the seal's surface, ignoring the fact it was painted with the blood of a woman he'd hated. He'd hated her father rather more, true. He wet his lips. "You killed Loghain? But the Archdemon? Avenged." He avoided looking up, flush failing to subside under Zevran's studying eyes and his own inability to complete a sentence or a thought.

Avenged. That sounded so strange. And the third, the scent of which he still smelled in his dreams, woke with in his nose, stomach roiling, while he strained and ached in his smalls. The wash of spit in his mouth tasted sour. "No, killing Elissa, that would be-- this is more than-- Well."

He thought for a moment about just letting his head rest on the bar, let this all wash over him, but that would put his face rather close to Zevran's lap. Maker's breath, his ears were starting to burn.

"Morrigan found a solution," Zevran explained, "that would allow either to strike the killing blow and survive. Elissa agreed to the ritual, yet had Loghain strike the final blow. For insurance, you see."

Elissa had been a beautiful, brilliant, cunning, terrible woman. Zevran loved her dearly, for all that he was more than happy to slit her throat if asked.

"I was close when he struck the blow. Elissa survived. Loghain survived. The world was blood and flames and chaos. I made sure he suffered the way your Duncan did, and even Elissa thought the ritual had failed. Anora I let go easy. And Elissa...if that is what you really want."

He tipped his head and suddenly leaned in, quick as a flash, and tweaked one of Alistair's ears. "You are blushing. Thoughts of your former lover, or are you that pleased to see me?" he teased.

It didn't answer the question of why, not entirely, and Alistair had enough pride left, scraps and dregs not to press the question. He hadn't asked for Loghain's death, though he'd have taken it if offered, nor Anora's. And honestly it had never even occurred to him to seek Elissa's death. The woman was a force of nature, some kind of immutable law like the direction of the sky, but tricky and clever and occasionally very, very cruel.

Alistair tried to catch Zevran's wrist as he tweaked his ear, the exclamation, "Ow!" leaving his lips though it hadn't actually hurt. And now the blushing was worse. Fantastic! "No, I mean, yes, we were just talking about her, so of course and--" His nostrils flared in irritation and rubbed his fingers over his insulted earlobe. "Yes, actually, I am glad to see you." Did he see a glint of triumph in Zevran's eyes at the admission? He sputtered, "Not like that! I didn't mean it like that!"

Zevran wasn't the sort to answer a question like that. Not unless he knew how it would be received...or even fully understood the impulse that had driven the acts himself.

How was so much easier than why.

"You missed me very much," Zevran purred, grinning and fluttering his lashes. "But I am thinking I come from later in our shared timeline than you, or you would be more pleased and less surprised. I stole you," he explained. "After finding you in Kirkwall. We live in Antiva and you still drink too much wine."

The purring, the eyelash batting, that was safer ground, for a moment. Alistair rolled his eyes over the rim of his mug but stopped when Zevran said--

"Pardon, you stole me?" He coughed the ale out of his throat, grimacing. "Stole me. We live in Antiva? I don't even drink wine!" He was thinking about starting. This ale was terrible, and weak and this would all make less sense and be easier to ignore if he were truly drunk. He drained the rest of it though, and set the mug down with a loud thump.

The images that the words called up were all out of terrible romance novels, Alistair tossed over Zevran's shoulder, bound and blindfolded. He snorted. "And when you're not killing queens for me, what do we do in Antiva? Kill other people? Ooh, am I a Crow?" This was becoming harder to swallow, but that could just be the ache in his chest that there was some version of him, really him, not the others that Cullen or Neria remembered, that wasn't stumbling around drunk and alone.

Zevran scoffed. "You would make a terrible Crow," he said. "Besides, as the Crows are very intent on taking my life, it would not be best to draw their eye. Which is why we are in Antiva, where they would least expect to find me. No," he added, shaking his head. "You are not a Crow. You are working instead of being happy, which may be just as difficult for you. But then," Zevran added, swinging a leg over the bar and sliding off on the other side, "you have me to help you, no?

He frowned and poked around behind the bar. "Do they drink nothing but nug piss?"

"Maybe a little bronto as well, if the cask I tried was labeled right." He pushed off the stool, moved over to a shelf that had a few murky, unpromising-looking bottles. Alistair pulled the cork on one and sniffed it, recoiling at the smell. "We'll set that one aside for armor cleaning and pickling the rest of my innards."

He scratched idly at his stubble, trying not to be obvious in his curiosity as he cast a glance over at Zevran. Helping him? What did that entail? There were things that the assassin said that implied... well, nevermind. Whatever they were doing in Antiva, they weren't there, and if they got out of this Zevran would hopefully go back there, and he'd just be stuck in a gutter on the highway outside Tantervale, probably puking rather remarkable amounts of mead back up.

Assuming they ever left at all. "Zevran, are you truly in danger from the Crows?"

Zevran rose on his toes to snag a higher bottle. "Of course I am," he said offhandedly. "I have slipped the leash, have I not? And now I am famous. All the great masters would love nothing more than to see me dead, and every novice thinks to make a name for himself by killing me."

He dropped back down lightly, pulling open the bottle and taking a sniff. Pleased, he poured a glass. "But I am very, very good at not being caught...unless you count the time you and the Warden caught me. That was not my best moment."

Zevran glanced over his shoulder, lips quirking. "And how angry you were when she wanted to let me live. You are glad of it now, having me around?"

He hated to see Alistair twisted up like this again, but Zevran was nothing if not extremely patient. He would go back to square one, gently teasing and prodding and keeping Alistair on his toes until he relaxed back into their easy friendship.

Antiva must be a terrible place, with all the murdering going on at all hours of the night. Alistair watched Zevran's easy movements, wondered briefly what was in the bottle had found acceptable, and then his ears caught up with him.

Better than even odds Alistair would die not of the taint, but of blushing and tripping over his own feet and hitting his head on something hard, he was certain. He managed not to hit his head this time, though there was a brief stumble. "You had just set the worst trap that had ever tried to trap anything and you were tied up and leering and she was just going to take your word on it!" He frowned at the assassin and then looked away. "But yes, I am glad. I wouldn't have had anyone to speak for me and I'd probably be dead with my head on a pike without you around."

That was the closest he'd been to saying thank you for Zevran's defense of him before Anora and Elissa, and there was just so much still there, hurt thorny and leaden, it wasn't possible yet. He wasn't always certain he was glad his head wasn't on a pike somewhere. He moved to stand against the bar next to him and nudged a cup in his direction.

"Ah, see?" Zevran said with a laugh. He turned back to the bar, leaning lightly against it and pouring Alistair a drink--decent wine instead of nasty ale. "It all worked out wonderfully, did it not? Proving we are both far too pretty to die. And now we are here, and we will have someone to trust at our backs."

He hopped up on the counter again, bottle by his knee, long fingers curled around his glass. Zevran reached up to brush back a loose strand of blonde hair. "I trust you to help keep me alive."

A confusing sentiment for someone with his history, and one he'd grappled with for a long, long time. Saying it brought a ghost of a smile to his lips; there was something defiant about that trust that never failed to warm his insides.

Alistair listened with a touch of that pink still in his ears. Pretty. Pretty? Well Zevran was certainly what people called pretty. Alistair? He scrubbed at the stubble, wincing as his fingers dragged over the abraded bruise beneath.

The wine... wasn't bad. He took another small sip, frowning down into it with a focus that might lead one to wonder if it had insulted his mother, not that he knew her from the Queen of Antiva. He glanced up and caught the ghost of the smile, and found his mouth quirking in answer.

"Trust is a funny thing, isn't it?" His eyes searched Zevran's face, not sure what he was looking for, but finding something that made his smile a bit stronger and at least one of the knots in his shoulders loosen. "It's good you're here, Zev. I'd rather neither of us wound up eaten by demons or shadow monsters or whatever came out of that big metal boat thing behind the castle."

"And should something terrible come, well--we have fought terrible and survived to breathe another day, no?" he said cheerfully. "At the worst, you can distract the monster by being big and waving your sword, and I will slip behind it when it is suitably distracted and slit its throat. A sound strategy that has worked many times for me."

Alistair raised his cup to that, took a long drink of the wine. "As long as you remember to wait for it to actually be distracted, and don't go running underneath a foot or a tail and Maker, I truly hope there are no more high dragons in my future."

Seeing Zevran get stepped on by the hind foot of that monstrous lizard outside the Temple of Sacred Ashes was, upon reflection, one of Alistair's worse memories.

Zevran waved off the memory with a laugh. "There is elfroot; I was fine," he said. "But you be wary of ogres, yes? The last thing we need is to cut the armor off you again."

That had been particularly unpleasant, the way the suit of armor had crumpled beneath the massive fist until each move Alistair made cut into his flesh. Unpleasant and messy.

Zevran propped his chin on his fist. "I miss Wynn."

Alistair rubbed a hand against his right pectoral muscle, grimacing. It wasn't the only time he'd seen the wrong side of an ogre's fist, but it was definitely one of the more memorable.

"Well if there's ogres I'd take even Morrigan or her mother wandering through." Alistair grimaced. Cullen had said his Inquisitor, some monster of a woman named Evelea, had had Morrigan executed. And then there was Flemeth, who Elissa had killed. "Although that would be awkward, all things considered."

He frowned, pulled his journal from where he'd kept it tucked under his belt and set it on the bar top, angling it where Zevran could see it and flipped it opened to Cullen's missive. He tapped a finger there. "Is there anything you need for your kit? Deathroot or... poisony things? More knives? I assume you're not ready to fall out of the rafters on anyone else's head just yet."

"You are so very thoughtful, my friend," Zevran said, practically fluttering his lashes at Alistair. Any chance he got to flirt, he took it. It was just part of his nature.

Zevran leaned in to read the entry, one hand braced on Alistair's shoulder (unnecessarily) as he scanned the words. "Hmm. Do we trust this Cullen to have such tight control of all the weapons?" Zevran asked. "Even if he is offering to dole them out, do we know he is not keeping many in reserve?"

The weight of Zevran's hand surprised Alistair and he went very still for a moment. He'd become the sort of man where casual touches were reserved for pickpockets and whores, and it had been months since they meant otherwise.

He shrugged, a little awkwardly since he was only using one shoulder to do it, the side that Zevran's hand wasn't touching. "Maker, I don't know. He seems all right, and he certainly knew where to find everything here." He tapped his thumb against the side of his cup. "Offering to give them to people might be his way of assessing them. He seemed to think this could be some sort of trap his Inquisitor set. Not sure why she'd want me involved if that were the case."

"Hmmm," Zevran hummed. He wasn't the sort who trusted anyone--not without a whole lot of reason to--but he did trust Alistair's instincts. If he wasn't worried about Cullen, then Zevran...

Well, no, Zevran would still keep a careful eye on Cullen, but there wouldn't be quite the same level of intensity there.

He absently brushed his thumb along the nape of Alistair's neck, eyes still on the page. "Very well, my friend. I will give you a list of things I will need. We may need to be sneaky as well, though, yes? Or the game, it will be given away like that."

Zevran looked up with a crooked smile, snapping his fingers. Still teasing along the short bristles of blond hair with his other hand.

Having Cullen evince some level of trust, and for a fighting man putting Alistair at his back with a weapon he provided read as at least a little of that, appealed to his better nature. The road since Denerim had taught him plenty about not trusting, simpler lessons than the one Elissa had been so very helpful with.

The thumb on his nape drew a tingle down along his back, a slight shiver that he swallowed and ignored. "Sneaky. Wonderful." Lying not really Alistair's strongest suit even now. He ducked his head slightly as the thumb dragged through the fine hairs on his neck. He leaned back, pushing off the bar and out of Zevran's reach. "I'll get what you need and tell anyone wgowants to know why I need poisons and daggers that I've been a deadly assassin this whole time and the washed up Warden thing was just my cover."

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. It was colder. He reached for the mug near Zevran's knee and finished the wine in one go.

It amused him when Alistair moved away. It also, conversely, made him feel shockingly warm inside that it took so long for him to do it.

True pleasure came in the little things with this one.

"Ah, my friend, as much as I appreciate your willingness to lie for me," that was not an exaggeration, "I meant that I will be sneaky. All you need do is get hold of his inventory and adjust the records accordingly. I will pilfer what I need. Though far be it from me to keep you from outing yourself as the world's second-deadliest assassin."

Given what Alistair knew about Cullen, he wasn't entirely sure there wasn't a decapitation in his future if he was caught. But it didn't occur to him to hesitate before agreeing with a ready nod. Keeping Zevran's secret, keeping Zevran secret, seemed smart, all things considered.

It didn't hurt that it was Zevran's plan. He drummed his fingers on the bar top, a single pass, before he reached to take the bottle to pour himself another measure. His head was swimming slightly, finally, the color rising in his cheeks not a blush or a flush (well maybe a touch, just a touch because of the hand that had been on his shoulder, but probably definitely not) from anything other than wine.

"I would be an extremely deadly assassin, I'll have you know. Death would walk in my shadow." The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile.

"Would you kill with giant wheels of cheese?" Zevran mused. "I am fascinated. Tell me more of your mite."

Alistair pursed his lips, eyes squinching slightly in consideration. "Cheese, smoked hams, enormous mince pies. Anything can be a deadly weapon on a big enough scale. Impaled on a giant spicy sausage, terrible way to die."

This was easier. Normal. Alistair sipped his wine, pretended the warmth came from it.

"Hmm. I will admit, I have put much thought into my death," Zevran said, finally settling into a stool next to Alistair's. His feet swung, not quite hitting the run. Even for an elf, he was small. "My method of choice would not be a giant spicy sausage...orrrr," he added, waggling his brows playfully, "not a literal sausage, if you take my meaning."

Whether influenced by the wine, the quip, or the eyebrow waggle, Alistair finds himself stifling a snort of laughter, looking a little horrified at the same time. The wine flush deepened on his cheeks. "Alright, I'll bite, err, no, not--" He sighed, wincing. "Not like that, and no sausages, literal or... whatever."

He half turned toward Zevran, quirking an eyebrow, but his mouth more serious. "What sort of death would be your choice?" He's thought rather too much about his own since he was spared the whole head-on-a-pike business. It usually involves ditches.

He opened his mouth to make a terrible joke about biting and 'sausages'...then sighed at Alistair's question.

Well. Now that was actually serious.

"There is a gulf between what I wish and what I think may be true," Zevran said with uncharacteristic solemnity. He rested his head on his fist, watching Alistair with serious copper-brown eyes. "I wish for a bed somewhere in Antiva. The windows are open and the curtain is blowing with each breeze. I can hear the life of the city outside--music, laughter, fighting, haggling. I have no wish to join them, however. My pillow is soft and my lover is near, tracing fingertips across my stomach until our hands link. I can smell spice and good leather and the first chill of death, and I think--not bad for an elf born to a whore and sold like bread to feed the Crows, eh?"

Then he winked. "But shh, tell no one or they will think I have somehow become romantic in my age."

Alistair's eyes met Zevran's steadily, and it was easy to see the solemnity there, the way he swallowed hard once. It was such a full, rich, good image.

The wink broke the spell and he blinked in time with it, before smiling lopsidedly down at the bar. "I'll tell anyone who asks there's nothing but bad jokes and dirty limericks and murder under that armor." The second lie he'd agreed to tell for him tonight.

Zevran laughed heartily at that, lifting his glass in a toast to Alistair. "Thank you, my friend. And in return for that kindness, I will do what is in my power to make certain that whatever end you someday meet, it will never be alone or unmourned."

"Honestly more than I'd come to expect." Alistair wrinkled his nose at his own bitterness, smile becoming even more sardonic as he echoed the raised glass. "But also good to know that you'll be hanging around to mourn me, and I'll be dead and on fire because I bumbled into an exploding bear trap full of poisonous snakes you failed to warn me about."

"Oh, are we wandering into bear territory then?" he teased. "This is good to know. I would hate to be eaten--that would be a waste of a perfectly good elf, no?"

"It isn't as if we're wandering anywhere at the moment and even if there were bears it isn't my fault you're definitely tastier than me." Alistair blinked as the words just tumbled right out of his mouth, a fresh flush on his cheeks.

Zevran beamed, dark eyes flashing. "You wish to taste me be sure?" he asked, voice dropping a register. Two. "You know I would never begrudge you a little...nibble."

He tipped back his chin, deliberately letting golden hair sweep back to reveal the unbroken line of his neck.

Then he waggled his eyebrows.

"You-- you know that's not what I meant and I think I've decided maybe I hate you." Alistair's eyes didn't seem to hate him though, lingering just a beat too long on the bronze skin, the line of his jaw. He cleared his throat and picked up his wine, forcing his eyes down as he drank.

"You hate me now, and you will be thinking fond thoughts of me anon," Zevran laughed. "It is the way of our dance, no? Built on so much trust and shared experience and shifting emotion. But ah, that is to be expected. We come from very different worlds."

He leaned close, quite suddenly, there before Alistair could register the movement. "But if you tire of these shifts, you could take me to your bed and figure out what all that hate really is," he teased, breath hot in Alistair's ear.

...then he darted away before Alistair could backhand him.

Alistair wouldn't backhand him, though the elf might warrant a reasonable throttle now and again. He licked his lips as Zevran's breath was hot on his ear and then the elf darted away, all laughter and light, empty flirtation.

He scrubbed a hand hard through his hair, mouth twisted into a sour sort of smile. Take Zevran to bed? To be laughed at? His mind skipped away from the very idea, focusing on the fact Zev was teasing him. Possibly even pitying Elissa's poor, besotted, heartbroken castoff.

"But hating you keeps me so warm at night. It really is my absolute favorite." Another lie, this one told for Alistair's own benefit, maybe.

"Oh, is that the thought that keeps you warm at night?"

Zevran couldn't help himself. He really, really could not.

"Only when there isn't enough ale around to do the job." Alistair was far from his most charming when petulant, but earnestness hadn't gotten him very far in the past. He finished the wine he'd poured himself and then slid off the stool to hunt around for another bottle or cask of something palatable. Somewhere in the course of this conversation he'd decided that drunker was definitely better.

Zevran opened his mouth with some clever volley or another--then went still, head tilting. "Someone is coming," he said. "Take care, my friend. I will be nearby."

And he disappeared--almost literally in front of Alistair's eyes.

(OOC: I figured this would be a good place to end!)

That left Alistair feeling colder than he'd admit, even to himself, Zevran gone as if he'd never been there. He frowned at the far corner, the shadows above him, and sighed. "Don't do anything too crazy," he said to the air, and then ducked his head back to the ale he was pouring.

(OOC: Yep yep! Sounds good. Onward to knew scenes/plots/shenanigans!)

(OOC: Onward to creepy elf assassins in your rafters, watching you sleep.)

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Fadewalk

November 2015

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