Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Warden Angharad Brosca sat beside him at dinner that night, two bowls in hand.

Though first glance might fool you, Angharad could be called only pretty. Soft auburn curls fell loose from his elaborately knotted hair, framing his soft features. The full beard only accentuated how full and thoughtful his mouth was. Though his physique had the heft of a dwarf, and currently his arms were bare to display fine contours of muscle, at a second glance you might call him more wiry than burly. And his eyes—oh, those fine dark eyes, sharp and warm like a halla doe. A gaze so powerful was rare, and it was those kind eyes that had taken mercy on Zevran, had invited him in. Zevran tore himself away from staring.

The others, they were not quite so enigmatic. He could assess them in a glance. Alistair was young, valiant, and talented, the sort usually heading toward a tragic grave. Morrigan was distrustful and angry, and had delightfully already threatened to kill him should she be given reason to doubt Angharad's judgement. Wynne was a dutiful woman of faith, Leliana a keeper of secrets. Sten was Qunari.

“These aren’t both for me, you know.”

Zevran took a bowl, peering curiously at the stewed meat. Angharad did not strike him as a poisoner. In fact, he was beginning to doubt the dwarf would kill him at all. Was he truly so desperate for allies? Did he have some plan to use Zevran against Loghain?

Thoughts of cunning schemes evaporated when he glanced up to Angharad gazing at him.

“Strange. You talked a lot at first,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“Ah!” Zevran laughed. “My apologies. Most would prefer me to shut up.”

“After long enough around Alistair, silence grows unsettling.”

He tilted his head towards Alistair, who was in a spirited debate with Leliana as to whether or not Ferelden had a cuisine. Leliana appeared to be winning.

“Cookies,” interjected Sten. “These seem to me to be a fine cuisine.”

“They have cookies in Orlais!”

“They have cookies in Antiva,” Zevran agreed.

All eyes turned to him. He smiled quietly at the obvious discomfort, and took a long time to stretch and cross his legs.

“You are all so southern. Now, Antivan food! Such spices as your southern tongues could not comprehend. And ah, the coffee!”

“I am familiar with coffee.” Sten stared flatly, looking as if Zevran was a bug he would rather like to squish. Ah, the joys of causing a little scene.

“You have not had coffee until you have had Antivan coffee.”

Alistair was clearly debating whether or not to ask. Now, he stared at Zevran as though he had a distasteful rash. Next to him, Leliana did a very good job pretending she was not bothered by Zevran’s presence at all.

“I think surface food is all good,” Angharad broke in. He punctuated his statement with a loud sip of stew. “Never listen if someone tries to tell you how wonderful nug is. Most of the time, they don’t even give you nug. It’s ground up biscuits and mushrooms.”

“What do they make biscuits from in Orzammar?” Leliana asked.

“Mushrooms and dirt.”

Angharad took a spoonful of his stew. The fire crackled.

“See?” asked Alistair. “Why are you going after us, when Orzammar exists?”

Leliana sighed and got up. She stirred the dregs of the stew, deadly steel eyes fixed on Zevran.

He blew her a kiss and decided he might as well take some of the stew. It was… not fish. He had not exactly expected it, but his Antivan soul was still surprised. For being boiled rations, he thought it was quite tolerable indeed. Zevran took another bite, and Angharad nodded approvingly.

“Not even testing for poison. You’re a daring man, Zevran Aranai.”

“It would be foolish of you to spare my life not five hours ago, only to waste your rations on killing me.” Zevran gestured with his spoon. “Besides, from trusting you I lose nothing. The Crows will kill me if they catch me. Teyrn Loghain will likely kill me if he catches me. You will kill me, or you will not. You will either defend me from these forces, or you will not. I can be no worse off than I am without you.”

Why was he alive, anyway? Was the mystery of why he had been spared so compelling? It would be no more than a question of reaching for the knife at Angharad’s waist to ensure his death here and now.

Maybe that was why he was so willing to stay and get answers. It would be the work of an instant to lose this enigmatic goodwill. And then, at least he died no Crow. Perhaps in no one’s eyes but his own, but it would mean enough.

“That’s why I joined the Grey Wardens.” Angharad stood, placing his bowl on the ground. “I’m thirsty. Ale or water for you?”

“Ale, if you can spare it.” He looked up at Angharad, trying to judge. Was leaving the bowl a test or a message?

As Angharad moved over to the tree their packs were stowed in, Zevran was tempted to swap the bowls. No, he wouldn’t. This was a new game, much like luring a target to a secluded corner or bed, but one Zevran hadn’t started. Angharad was toying with him, dangling the bait. Action had to wait until he knew what the game was.

The pit in his stomach deepened, and Zevran pretended eating stew would help. Had he felt so unsafe since he was a child? Hilarious. He missed Isabela.

Angharad returned with two waterskins, and handed one to Zevran. “There you go.”

He sat down and took his bowl back up. He certainly gave no impression of checking to see if they had been switched. That was one of the rules, Zevran decided. You didn’t do something so pointed without understanding it—the man could have sat down with his food and his ale.

The point was acting as if it didn’t matter. That was Angharad’s game.

He was looking at Zevran. His move, now.

Zevran crossed his legs again (noting how Angharad’s gaze followed), and took a long sip of ale.

“I believe we were discussing why you joined the Grey Wardens?” That was the next move. Assuming he was trusted enough to get a truthful answer. Maybe he could at least get a hint as to how this man was clever enough to start such a game, yet naïve enough to recruit the assassin.

“Oh, were we?” He smiled serenely. Something clicked in Zevran’s mind: this man wasn’t just playing the game, he was playing. “I failed the Carta. Broke out of prison, got caught. Thankfully, a Grey Warden was there to conscript me. I always did want to see the sky.”

“The Carta operates on the Surface as well, does it not?” The game made sense now. It was a trap, Zevran knew that, but he didn’t understand the purpose. He didn’t have to. Easy enough to fling himself where Angharad led, waiting for his chance to make the Warden vulnerable instead with these similarities he drew out.

“Like they’d touch a Grey Warden.” Angharad took another sip, casting his gaze out to the fire. “Fighting the darkspawn is holy to dwarves. Not like the Ancestors, not like the Stone, but revered just the same. You don’t interfere with the Legion or the Wardens. We’re losing ground anyway. Only a monster would risk speeding that up.”

“The Fourth Blight did not go so well in Antiva.” Zevran paused. “I am not very educated so I cannot say I remember how it did not go so well. I believe we may have lost a king?”

“We lost an empire.” Angharad snorted. “The Shaperate would never let us forget that.”

Zevran took another swig of ale. Perhaps a touch of drunkenness would steady him. “U'Elvhenan ro. Enadin sal ha'miin.”

“Is that Antivan?”

“If you like.” He flashed a smile, enjoying the hint of blush that came to the warden’s cheeks. He always knew how to get that little bit of power back. How to stay safe.

Zevran had been left both alive and without control. He needed at least one of those things to change.

“What does it mean?” Angharad tilted his head, eyebrows raised. Such expressive eyes he had. He moved like a begging dog, yet his eyes betrayed sorrow and wisdom. Zevran allowed himself to momentarily get lost in them.

“We are the last of the Elvhenan,” he said, softly. “Never again shall we submit.”

“Never again shall you submit.” He smiled, and turned back to his stew. “Nice sentiment.”

“As you are not a shemlen, I think it is no dishonor to my people to follow you.” Zevran shrugged, following suit—shoulders squared, side by side but not looking to each other. “I am no Dalish, anyway.”

“Following isn’t the same as submitting.” Angharad wiped gravy from his beard. “I mean, I’d rather it not be.”

“Oh, I would have no problem submitting to you, dear Warden.”

Angharad shifted uncomfortably. Zevran’s eyes flicked over to gauge if his innuendo had landed. Perhaps not?

“Certainly, you could do worse for companionship. Even Grey Wardens must have needs, eh?”

Such a wonderful thing Zevran had no issues being utterly crude.

“Needs?” Angharad weakly echoed.

“It is an offer. Read no more into it.” He shrugged, and finished off his stew, discreetly glancing over to Angharad.

There it was. The power that had been taken away. Maker, a sweet little virgin handed to him on a platter. Zevran was not so lost after all.

The victory felt hollow. He took another sip of ale.

“You don’t owe me anything.” Angharad’s voice was stern, yet wavering. Oh. The silence held for a moment longer. “I didn’t spare you for… repayment. I’ve just… been there. I’ve been the grunt without a choice, desperately looking for a way out. I found mine. This is yours. Do with it whatever you will.”

Zevran bit his lip. So many ways to take this. He could walk away. He could dramatically reveal himself truly a Crow, regardless. He could twist Angharad Brosca around his little finger and into his bed within a week.

“That requires me to know what I want,” he whispered instead. Zevran stood and stretched, surveying the camp to see who had been eavesdropping.

A little distance away, Alistair and Morrigan were having a quiet argument while Sten put a tent up, ignoring them completely. Leliana was placidly petting the dog—she’d heard, certainly.

“I know,” Angharad said. He rose at Zevran’s side. “All right! Tents up, Alistair just let Morrigan do what she wants because she can turn into a bear, fresh meat does the dishes, and I’m taking first watch.”

“Second,” Leliana said, standing.

“And I’ll take third,” Alistair said, snapping to attention.

Angharad nodded decisively and moved towards where the remaining tents were stowed. He turned back, towards Zevran. “I assume you’d prefer to use my tent, for now.”

“I am not picky.” Zevran shrugged. So many witty flourishes were on the tip of his tongue, flirtatious little nothings that meant so much. Not yet. He didn’t want to upset Angharad.

“Until you get your own tent, then.”

Angharad nodded, and it was left at that.

What else was there for Zevran to do, but do the dishes as he had been told?

As he returned from the river, bearing their meagre clean dishes to pack back up, Angharad nodded. They didn’t need to say that Zevran had considered throwing himself into the river a half dozen times, and they didn’t need to say that Angharad was, of all things—

Proud.