Chapter Text
For three days, Zevran shivered and tossed and turned. And itched. The fever was miserable, the muscle aches and headache more so, and the itching was maddening, but it was the new and entirely unwelcome distance between himself and Alistair that troubled him most.
Alistair had tended to Zevran’s every need and request as diligently as he attended to his other unwanted duties. Yet, several overtures of conversation had resulted in monosyllabic responses and more brooding. For all that he looked divine while doing it, brooding was not Alistair’s natural state. Such an unhappy look on Zevran’s sunshine prince was more than unwelcome, particularly given that he had put it there himself.
When Wynne declared him fit to travel on the fourth day, he tried to help break down the tent, but Alistair shooed him away.
“Just because you’re allowed to walk for a while today doesn’t mean you ought to be wrestling with a tent. I’ve got it.”
Zevran ground his teeth and made a gesture of surrender. He ambled over to the center of camp, where Nadia was burying their fire pit.
She glanced up and went back to her work. “Glad to see you’re still among the living.”
His fingertips brushed over the scabbed over spots that lingered on his jaw. “Yes. I apologize my dear for holding up your mission.”
She shrugged. “I mean, it’s only the world hanging in the balance.”
He winced.
“Not your fault though, I get that.”
“Ah, well, I thank you anyway for your willingness to wait for me.”
“Wasn’t my doing. You make a good addition to the team, and I’m not mad that we waited, but if it were up to me…” She shrugged again.
Zevran’s eyebrow rose. “Was it not?”
“Nope. You’ve got Alistair to thank for that.”
Zevran glanced back to be sure Alistair was too far to overhear them. “How is that?”
She grimaced. “He told me if I wanted to go off, feel free, but he was staying right here with you until you were cleared to go. Made such a convincing case for you that everyone but Morrigan agreed with him, and even she didn’t want to split the party given the fights we’ve had to face since leaving Orzammar. He doesn’t take a stand often, but when he does, not even a charging bronto could budge that man. If Eamon ends up making him a king, he’s not going to get the puppet he’s looking for, I don’t think.”
“I see. Then I shall have to find a way to thank him for that as well.”
“You want some advice?” she asked, straightening to her full height.
Zevran still had to look down at her as he nodded his assent.
“Whatever’s gone wrong between the two of you these last few days, figure it out. I’ve known a lot of folks who could hold a grudge like they’d be letting go of their last breath, but he ain’t one of ‘em. Whatever it is would have healed already if the knife wasn’t still in the wound. So it’s up to you to figure out what’s still poking him. He’s worth the effort.”
Yes. Yes, he is. Enough of Zevran’s senses had returned to seal his mouth shut on such a sentiment, but he gave Nadia a small nod and a thoughtful look.
They walked for a shorter distance than usual that day, and Zevran found himself grateful for the reprieve when they made camp for the night. He was given the chore of sitting on a stump and stirring the cookpot in lieu of anything more strenuous. The aftermath of being sick frequently irritated him more than the sickness itself. Being weak and breathless when there no longer seemed a reason for it was somehow more even more galling than the fever.
But it was of no consequence. He would build his strength back quickly enough. Certainly they would not go another full day without being attacked by… well, he wouldn’t hazard a guess. Something.
In the meantime, stirring tonight’s dinner was an excellent use of his dwindling energy. Even if he would rather be assisting Alistair with putting up their shared tent. The warden had already decreed that there was no sense changing around the sleeping arrangements until they got to Redcliffe. And though Zevran had contemplated pitching his bedroll by the fire now that the weather was fair, Nadia’s words about leaving the knife in the wound had chewed on him the better part of the day.
So he let Alistair continue avoiding him through supper without comment. Once the fire was banked and the tent flaps closed, he would suss out how to repair what he had broken with those careless words.
“I’ll take first,” Alistair said, handing his plate off to Sten, who had drawn dishwashing duty.
Nadia glanced at Zevran and back to Alistair. “You’ve been on first a lot lately. And you’re not exactly a night owl.”
“I don’t mind.”
She tilted her head. “Nah. I’m on first tonight. Been doing nothing but laying around in camp for days anyhow. You get some sleep.”
“Nadia—”
“Alistair,” she said right back, hands on her hips now.
He sighed. “Fine.”
“Knew you’d see it my way,” she said, smugly. She curled up beside the fire with her head in Leliana’s lap.
Rather than entering their tent, Alistair flopped back down across from the two of them, pouting.
This would not do, Zevran decided. “Alistair, I do hate to ask, but could you help me apply this last bit of Wynne’s ointment?”
Alistair frowned at him. “You’ve been taking care of that yourself for days. What—”
“There are a few spots that are… more difficult to reach. I thought to ignore them, but they are still being quite troublesome.” Zevran stuck out his full lower lip for effect. “I would simply suffer in silence, but—”
“No, I’ll help.” He got to his feet.
Leliana and Nadia flashed Zevran matching thumbs up signs. He flashed back a gesture that was meant to be somewhat less encouraging. The titters of their laughter followed him into the tent at Alistair’s back.
Inside the tent, Alistair struck flint to steel and lit the oil lamp. Then he sat upon his bedroll and turned his eyes on Zevran. “So where are—”
“I lied,” Zevran said. His body blocked the only way out of the tent.
Alistair’s face screwed up in anger. “What? Why would you lie about that?”
“Because you have been avoiding me, and quite successfully. Surprising, given we have been sharing this tent for some time. I believe we need to talk.”
Flopping down onto his bedroll, Alistair let out a heavy sigh. “I know. Sorry, I was just… Brooding, I guess.”
“And very handsomely, too. But I miss your smile, my friend. Please, tell me what I have done to earn only frowns, hm? How can I make it up to you?”
“It’s not you.”
“Is it not? Was I not the one who belittled your heritage and insulted your guardian?”
“Well… yeah, but I’m not sure you were wrong. About either of them.”
As it seemed unlikely that Alistair would attempt to flee the conversation at this point, Zevran lowered himself to his own bedroll, which Alistair had kindly set up for him. The inside of the tent was still small, cramped, though much better organized than it had been. Sitting as they were, their knees were almost touching.
“Perhaps I was not wrong,” Zevran said, “but I was also not kind. And you deserve kindness, from me in particular. For that, I apologize, my dear.”
Alistair offered him a small, almost shy smile then. “Thank you. If I’m being honest, I don’t know if I want to be king. It doesn’t seem likely that I’ll have a choice.”
“Simply speak the words, and I will ensure that you do, one way or another.”
“Without assassinating the arl?”
“Oh, I think I could meet that stipulation. I am quite… persuasive, when I am motivated to be so.” Zevran smirked.
Alistair laughed off the suggestion. “Tempting, but no. I don’t think I get to run away from this, anymore than I get to run away from being a Grey Warden.”
He dragged a hand over his face and sighed again. “And I need to stop running away from you, too.”
Zevran co*cked an eyebrow. “Me?”
“Have I ever told you how much I like your eyes?”
“My…”
“I’ve heard you poke fun at them for being yellow, but I think you’re wrong. They’re this warm, golden color. Like late evening sun in the autumn. They’re beautiful, and so are you.”
Zevran’s mouth opened. He tried to fit several words through that gaping orifice, but nothing fit. He closed his mouth again.
“And I know you said stay above the neck, but I really like your hands, too. They’re strong, but still graceful, just like the rest of you.” A bead of sweat broke from Alistair’s temple and ran down his face. “I… wanted to wait until you weren’t sick anymore and do this properly, but… well, with Redcliffe looming, I thought maybe I should… you know, before.”
“Alistair,” Zevran said at last, for want of anything better. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Right. Right. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Or ask you. Or… show you, I guess.”
“Alright,” Zevran said slowly. He wondered for a moment if he were still ill and this some sort of fever dream.
“There’s a reason I asked after those markings you wear. The ones that look like soulmarks.”
Every instinct Zevran had screamed at him to turn tail and run as far from this conversation as he could get.
Alistair pulled at the laces of the leather cuff Zevran had never seen him without. It slid off his arm to reveal a strip of skin that was several shades paler than what surrounded it. “I probably should have shown you a while ago.”
He swallowed hard and turned his arm to display the pulse point. There, on that strip of pale flesh, was a miniature version of a mark Zevran knew well, though his own, larger version was on his back, just to the left of where his fifth rib connected to his spine. Right over his heart.
That mark had been the reason Zevran survived his training as a Crow, had been the reason he’d been offered up to them in the first place. The whor*house boys who hadn’t been born with a soulmark had been put to work in-house rather than farmed out for other purposes. Superstition meant a whor* with a soulmark that couldn’t be covered in the fashion Alistair had covered his would be rejected by most clients, and those who did not refuse… well, the less said about them, the better.
The mark upon his soul and the three gold sovereigns Master Arainai had paid for his otherwise worthless hide had taught him he had value in the world. Had taught him that the Maker at least did not think him worthless. It had been something to build upon. Something to hope for.
How many nights had he stared at that mark in mirrors, imagining a moment when he would find the person he was destined for? In his more fanciful moments, he had dreamed of a wealthy merchant, a pirate on the Antivan seas, an Orlesian noblewoman. For a time, he had convinced himself that Rinna must be his fated mate, that perhaps her mark had been removed as a babe, somehow, even though such things were not possible. If they were, his own would have been scrubbed from his skin before he ever realized it was there.
He had fought to keep it free from the inks Master Arainai had planned to use to cover it, at great personal cost. The compromise had cost him dearly. The pain of the many marks that made his own look like just another stylized tattoo was nothing compared to the beatings, the starvation, the humiliation he had paid to the master for the audacity to demand a different path.
Zevran lifted his eyes to Alistair’s, to the hope burning bright in that handsome face. Then he got to his feet and ducked out of the tent and fled, as fast and as far as his feet would carry him.
