Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/619943.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Dragon_Age:_Origins
  Relationship:
      Alistair/Zevran_Arainai
  Character:
      Alistair, Zevran, Female_Amell, Hero's_Companions, Loghain_Mac_Tir,
      Rendon_Howe, Various_Fereldan_Citizens
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-02 Updated: 2013-01-10 Chapters: 2/? Words: 6591
****** The Art of Living Without Regret ******
by olndina
Summary
     "To regret the past is to forfeit the future." -Chinese Proverb.
     If Zevran is to save Alistair's life, he must face his own past.
Notes
     The old version of this story is still up on fanfiction.net, but I'm
     putting the new version up here first.
     Many thanks to kelcat.
     There are relatively few things I own in this world… DA is not one of
     them. I do, however, hold a firm grasp of English Grammar, Usage, and
     Mechanics, as well as a fertile and dirty imagination. Please enjoy.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
“Bored” was not the correct descriptor.  Alistair was restless.  He longed for
action, for battle, for spilling darkspawn blood.  He almost wished an entire
fist of darkspawn would storm their camp right at that moment so that he could
kill something.
It was Analisse bloody Amell’s fault.  Since that first day in Redcliffe when
he had stood on the bridge overlooking the village and told her of his
parentage, she had refused to take him with her whenever she called in one of
their treaties.
“Alistair, you and Leliana guard the camp.”
I swear, if I hear that phrase one more time, I’m stripping to my small
clothes, finding the nearest village, and offering myself up as the new idiot. 
Guard the bloody camp.
Okay, he had to admit it to himself; it was Alistair bloody Theirin’s fault.
He sheathed his sword.  It didn’t really need to be cleaned.  He stretched and
stood from where he had been crouching in front of the still burning fire.  It
was his night for first watch.  The sky was cloudless, the stars were bright,
and the air was crisp.  He paced the camp, pausing at the tent of each of his
companions.
There were no sounds but the deep breathing of sleep coming from the tents of
Sten and Morrigan.  Their newest companion, Wynne, from the Circle of Magi, was
quiet as well.  The mabari Daggers was even silent inside Analisse and
Leliana’s tent.  Oghren, predictably, was talking in his sleep, arguing over
the price of a particularly juicy nug specimen from the sound of it.  Alistair
shuddered.  Nug was not one of his most favorite meals.  He quickly moved away
from the dwarf’s tent.
There were a number of sounds Alistair would have expected to come from
Zevran’s tent, but crying was not one of them.  He froze mid-step and held his
breath.  He could hear nothing and had almost convinced himself that he had
imagined the whole thing when the Crow spoke, “You’re not quite as adept at
sneaking around as you might think, Alistair.”
Alistair let out the breath he was holding and squatted at the entrance to
Zevran’s tent.  He pulled the flap back.  In the firelight, he could see that
the elf was sitting up, stripped to his waist.  The flickering of the flames
caused the swirls of his tattoos to dance.  Alistair swallowed hard.  “Is
everything…I mean, can I do something for you, Zevran?”
“An interesting question, and one whose answer I have made quite, quite clear
on more than one occasion, no?”
Alistair’s cheeks heated in embarrassment.  “That’s not what I meant.  I’m
sorry to have disturbed you.”  He made to leave, but in a movement Alistair was
hard-pressed to see, Zevran grabbed his wrist, stopping him.
“Please, do not go.  I did not wish to drive you away.”  Alistair relaxed back
on his heels.  He waited for Zevran to continue, but it was some time before
the assassin spoke again.  He finally dropped Alistair’s wrist and drew a deep
breath before speaking.  “Have the others told you about what happened at the
mages’ tower?”
They had only returned that afternoon, after days on the island.  In clipped
tones, Analisse filled Alistair in on the pertinent details—they had secured
the aid of the mages, both to stop the Blight and to help Analisse enter the
Fade to rescue Connor—however, apart from mentioning that a sloth demon had
trapped them and they escaped, Alistair knew nothing.  “Analisse said a sloth
demon enthralled you.”
“And did your fellow Grey Warden tell you that she rescued each of us from our
own prisons in the Fade?”
“Prisons?  But, don’t sloth demons want you to stay in the Fade, you know,
willingly?”
“Oh, I was willing, but I was also very much trapped.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I…” Zevran dropped his gaze from Alistair’s.  Alistair continued to watch
Zevran, though the assassin remained unmoving.  Finally, he huffed out a breath
and lifted his head to face Alistair again.  Alistair saw pain in the Crow’s
eyes and he knew that the crying he’d heard earlier had not been imagined.  “I
was sold to the Crows when I was very young.  What is that expression you
Fereldans have?  If she had been alive, I would have been attached to my
mother’s apron strings?”  Alistair nodded.  “My initial training was in the
most innocuous, as it were, of Crow talents.  I learned how to handle weapons,
mix basic poisons, and to dance.  I learned how to please my bed partners, to
ensure the height of pleasure.  It was not until I was fifteen, however, that
my true training began.  I spent my entire fifteenth birthday on the torture
rack for the first time.”  Alistair sucked in a breath through his teeth, but
Zevran did not stop.  “It was not quite two weeks later that I underwent my
last such session, and it was the most grueling.  I was hours stretched on the
table, days it felt like.  I was beaten, bruised, my eyes nearly swollen shut,
but I had not broken.”  Alistair heard a faint note of pride in Zevran’s voice,
and couldn’t help his own small smile, despite the gravity of the elf’s story.
Zevran continued, “There were rumors of course, that if we broke too soon we
would be killed.  I had not such desire to die then, and I refused to yield.  I
do not know if you have noticed, Alistair, but I tend to be…cocky and flippant,
especially at the most inappropriate of times.”  Alistair snorted his laughter,
and promptly forced himself to ignore the warmth that spread through his belly
at the sight of Zevran’s smile.  When it disappeared, however, replaced by a
frown, the warmth cooled considerably.  “I had not had a proper meal in some
time and I was, well, filthy was putting it mildly.  I wanted nothing more than
a bath, a fact that I was quite vocal about.  A voice from behind me gave a
command and I was released, healed, bathed, and fed.  I thought I had passed,
that I was a Crow, that after nearly eight years I was…” He sat with his hands
opening and closing in fists.
Alistair pitched his voice low.  “Safe?”
“Yes, I thought I was finally safe.”  He opened his fists one last time.  “The
Master who gave the command was my Master, and my final test was just
beginning.  I had barely finished washing my hands after my meal when I was
jerked from my room and dragged down the hall.  I was stripped and put into the
stocks.  My Master oiled me, my whole body.  He was gentle, reverential.  He
ran his fingers down the side of my face and kissed me.”  Alistair watched
Zevran’s fingers trace the curves of ink on his face.  He must have realized
what he was doing, because he abruptly stopped and whipped his hand away from
his face.  “It was then that the rapes started.”
“Rapes?  Zevran, I – ”
Zevran held up his hand and made a gesture, which Alistair took to mean Stay
quiet.  “This was not the first time I had been raped.  I was twelve.  One of
the older trainees drugged me, dulled my senses, took me in the night.  But
this was a Master, my Master, and the things he did to me… Well, I’ll say this,
it was a good thing he had a healer standing by.  I was a breath away from
begging for death when his thrusting stopped and he leaned in to whisper, ‘You
are mine.’  He gestured to his mage, and as she burned these into my skin,” he
indicated the curves on his face, “he came inside of me for the final time. 
And despite everything, I had never been more proud of anything in my life.” 
He stared past Alistair and into the fire, his eyes caught somewhere between a
look of intense pain and pride.
Alistair reached out with his gloved hand and touched his foot.  Zevran
flinched and met his gaze.  “I am sorry, Zev.”
The Antivan gave him a half smile.  “I thank you, Alistair, but you have no
reason to be sorry.  And, usually, I am not so sorry.  Very few things in this
world make me regret surviving the Crow initiation process, but, as it so
happens, being forced to relive a torture session and violent rape leaves me
with the idea that if I had broken, then perhaps the Crows would have killed
me.  Then perhaps, just perhaps, certain things would not have happened as a
result of my actions.”
“I understand regret.”
“Oh?”
The look of disbelief on Zevran’s face caused Alistair to withdraw his hand
from the elf’s foot and snap, “Of course I have regrets.”
“Ah, yes, perhaps I should not have eaten that last bite of cake?  Perhaps I
should have asked that pretty lass to dance?  Perhaps I – ”
“Perhaps I should have forced Duncan to let me fight at Ostagar.  Perhaps I
should have been there to protect him.  Perhaps I should have died, instead.” 
Alistair had kept his voice, even, but Zevran sat up so suddenly, as though he
had shouted.  He flung Zevran’s tent flap closed, not letting Zevran respond,
and stomped back across the camp.  He looked up at the stars, wishing his watch
were over and wishing he could crawl into his own tent and sleep.  Maybe he’d
have a darkspawn dream that night, and not the usual dream of Duncan dying and
accusing Alistair of abandoning him.  He wrapped his arms around his body,
hugging himself for comfort.  It had been a long time since someone had hugged
him and he desperately missed the warmth of another’s touch, of companionship.
He stood that way for some time, and idly wished for that darkspawn attack
again.  When no darkspawn seemed inclined to oblige him, however, he decided to
check the traps they had set around the camp, hoping for some meat for
breakfast in the morning.
                                     ~~X~~
Zevran heard Alistair moving around the camp again.  He truly had not meant to
be so dismissive with the Grey Warden, but he had not wanted to entertain the
idea that someone could ever hurt as much as he did at that moment.  He lay
back in his bedroll, pulling his furs up to his chin.  He stared into the
darkness of his tent and tried desperately not to think of her.  Of course, he
did anyway.
He thought of Rinna’s smile when he would wake up in the mornings to find her
already awake, running her fingers through his hair.
He thought of Rinna’s eyes and how they sparkled with talent and intelligence
when she worked a new poison.
He thought of the flush of Rinna’s skin, spreading from her face, down her
throat, across her breasts, and the rest of her body as she sat astride him,
her thighs squeezing him as her release shook her body.
Her laughter, high and pure with joy as they lay together in the afterglow, was
replaced by her sobs and he remembered Rinna’s tears as she begged for her
life.  Zevran’s own tears leaked from the corner of his eyes and burned hot
across his temples and into his ears. 
Zevran did not sleep that night.  He heard when Alistair woke Sten for second
watch.  For a moment, just a brief moment, his grief-filled thoughts of Rinna
were replaced by guilt-filled thoughts of Alistair.  He would have to apologize
to the younger man.
                                     ~~X~~
It was not until three nights later that Zevran actually got around to
apologizing to Alistair, and even then, he did not actually come out and say
the words, “I am sorry.”
It was Alistair’s turn at first watch again.  Zevran sat up and waited for him
to walk by his tent.  When he heard the twig snap, he called out, “Alistair?”
There was a rustle, and then firelight shone in his tent as Alistair lifted the
flap, his face as stone.  “Yes.”
Zevran counted it a victory that Alistair at least was speaking to him; the
last few days had been more silent than not.  He cleared his throat before
speaking.  “There is a distinct possibility that I was rude to you the other
night.”
“Yes.”
“I should not have been.”
“No.”
“I will refrain from being so in the future.”
As though the stone crumbled away, Alistair’s face crinkled and he gave a short
bark of laughter.  “Yeah, that’s bloody likely.  Zevran, has anyone ever told
you that you shouldn’t make promises you don’t intend to keep?  Wait…don’t
answer that.  Assassin.  You always make promises you don’t intend to keep.”
“I assure you, I…Well, if not always, I usually keep my word.”  Zevran spread
his hands out in front of himself, his fingers ghosting across the silky
smoothness of his sleeping furs.  “Bien, I shall refrain from being rude to you
about certain topics in future.  Will that suffice?”
“That will suffice.”
“Excellent.  Now, the subject of your virginity – ”
Alistair groaned.  “Can that please be one of those off-limits topics?”
“Never.”
“I thought as much.  Come on, then, do your worst.”
“Hmm…perhaps a childhood maiming incident robbed you of the proper parts for
pleasing a woman, no?”
“Oh, ho-hum.  Yes, I do have the proper parts, but what makes you so sure I
would use them to please a woman?”
Zevran had found his voice when he was thirteen years old.
Oh, sure, he was able to talk, to respond when spoken to, but he had never
talked.  The morning after Taliesen had shown him how to worship another’s
body, when he woke up with his arse well-fucked and his cock well-sucked,
Zevran had opened his mouth and laughed.  Before Taliesen could ask him why,
Zevran had started talking, even when there was nothing to talk about. 
But now, Alistair had just rendered him speechless for the first time in nearly
thirteen years.  He actually felt his mouth drop open in shock, but did not
miss the smug smile that crossed the almost-Templar’s face before Alistair
stood up and let the tent flap fall closed.
Zevran did not sleep again that night.  Only this time, when he stared up into
the darkness of his tent, it was Alistair’s face he saw, and that made him
smile.
                                     ~~X~~
It was not Alistair’s night at watch, but he was still awake.  He was restless
again, anxious for something to happen, but this time it was not for a
darkspawn attack.
Alistair was hard.
He had tried to do everything (apart from the obvious) to relieve his
situation, but to no avail.
First, he had gone through the several verses of the Chant of Light he actually
knew, figuring a little holy-rolling would banish all traces of arousal within
the first few lines.  But, when the Brother at the Denerim Compound turned into
Zevran and the words of Andraste took on a decidedly heated nature, he
discovered how very wrong he was.
His next arousal-dampening technique had been to think of the coldest day he’d
ever spent in Redcliffe as a child, the wind knifing through every gap in his
clothing and setting his teeth to a chattering that threatened to break every
single one of them.  When he imagined that he would be able to see his breath,
he pictured Wynne naked on that cold day.  Unfortunately, as old, wrinkly,
cold, and naked Wynne ran her hands down her body, she transformed into Zevran,
young, smooth, warm, and naked on a balmy, breezy day (like today), and new
jolts of arousal shot straight to his cock and he was as stiff as ever.
Zevran bloody Arainai.
For whatever torturous and unholy reason, Zevran had asked Leliana to teach him
some of her dagger tricks.  Leliana had agreed, and the two started flashing
daggers at one another.  Then, Zevran decided it was too hot to wear his bloody
breastplate, and had stripped down to just his skirt.  With the sweat gleaming
and the muscles rippling, Alistair could only stare and pray he didn’t drool.
When they were done training, Zevran had decided that his hair was simply a
disaster and taken his braids out, shaking his hair loose.  His sweat-dampened
hair still shone blonde in the afternoon sun, and Alistair had to wipe his
mouth when he realized that he was, in fact, drooling.
‘Too hot’ my well-toned arse.
It wasn’t that it was hot so much that it was simply warmer than it had been in
several weeks.  Alistair had felt perfectly comfortable sitting in the sun with
his armor on.  He hadn’t felt the need to prance around the camp and show off
his washboard abs, or the way the blonde hair grew darker down the middle of
his stomach until it was practically a brown as it disappeared below the waist
of his skirt to lead to his…
Alistair moaned and found that he had started stroking himself without
consciously deciding to do so.  He bit his lip to prevent more sound from
escaping and thought, The hell with it, and began picking up tempo.  He crooked
his knees and spread his legs wider, garnering some traction against his
blankets.  He felt heat spring out on his body and his heart was racing. 
Hysterically, he thought, Now it’s bloody hot.
He imagined grabbing Zevran’s wrist and dragging him to the small clearing by
the lake where they camped.  Zevran would start to protest, but then Alistair
would untie the laces to his skirt, dragging his thumbs across the skin of
Zevran’s thighs as he brought the skirt to the ground.  He imagined just how
dark that teasing hair turned and how Zevran’s hands would find Alistair’s head
as he buried his nose in the thick of it, inhaling.  Zevran’s cock would
twitch, and Alistair would take him into his mouth, holding his hips while the
elf bucked slightly.  The hands on Alistair’s head would guide him, setting the
pace, teaching Alistair what Zevran liked until –
Alistair arched his back, bowing from the ground, as he came, spurting his seed
onto his stomach.  He stayed that way, his muscles tensed, as he rode out his
orgasm, his mouth held open in a silent scream.
After what felt like hours, his muscles turned useless and he collapsed.  He
forced himself to slow his breathing, to stop sounding like a mabari in the hot
sun with no water.  Little aftershocks of pleasure shot through him.  He
fumbled around with a hand until he found his water skin.  He cleaned himself
off as best he could before crashing into sleep, a smile on his lips.
                                     ~~X~~
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     I offer my apologies for posting a day late. My husband and I are
     involved in a musical and this is opening week.
Chapter 2
                                     ~~X~~
Zevran moaned as he sank into the hot water of his bathtub, the oils kissing
his skin and filling his nostrils with scents of Antiva.  He couldn’t remember
when the last time a bath had been more than just a quick splashing of water on
his face, and he had long since made himself forget the last time he had given
his hair a proper washing.  He would enjoy the luxuries as he could find them,
however.
Going into the Fade in quick succession had been hard on Analisse, and after
saving the boy Connor from the desire demon, she needed to rest and regain her
strength and magic.  Zevran could have stayed at Redcliffe Castle with his
other companions, but he did not desire to do so.  Fereldan castles were so
typically Fereldan, whereas a tavern inn was a tavern inn, no matter the
country.  Zevran could close his eyes and almost imagine he was back home.  He
added more oil to his bath.  He knew that he would run out of the substance
before the week was up, but in a week, they could very well be back on the road
and it would not matter how much he had.  When the Blight was over, and Zevran
could disappear from the Crows for good, he was going to have to find a way to
get more from Antiva.
Zevran was just thinking about all of the good things from home when someone
knocked at the door, shattering his reverie.  He reached for the dagger he had
set beside the tub and called, “Enter.”  The door opened, and of all the people
to walk in, Zevran had not expected it to be Alistair. 
“Oh, Maker, I’m sorry!  I didn’t mean to – ”
“Alistair.  What a pleasant surprise.”  He let go of the dagger and picked up
his soap.  “Please, come in.”
“Are you sure?  I don’t want to disturb you…”
“My dear Warden, I would not have invited you to come in if I did not want your
company.”
“Thanks.”  Alistair came all the way into the room, and Zevran was surprised to
see that he was carrying his bedroll and bags.
“Are you moving in?”
Alistair grinned sheepishly and dropped his stuff on the floor before sitting
down in the room’s only chair.  “I can’t stay in the castle.  I wasn’t welcomed
there when I was a child, and Isolde keeps glaring at me.”  He scrubbed a hand
over his face.  “Maker, I feel like I’m eight years old again.  I was going to
take a room here, but this was the last one.”
“So what will you do now?”  Zevran had gone back to relaxing, leaning his head
back and closing his eyes.
“I suppose there’s always the castle stables.  I spent more than one night out
there before going to Denerim.  It wouldn’t be so bad, really.  I have lots of
fond memories of those stables.  And the horses?  They’re not such bad
company.”
Zevran lifted his head and gave the Fereldan a piercing look.  “Do not be so
ridiculous.  This room is more than big enough for the both of us.  You will
stay here.”
“But there’s only one bed.”
Zevran shrugged.  “It is a large bed, no?  Surely we can both sleep on it.”  He
was watching Alistair, and could see when the idea occurred to him, his entire
face lit with glee.
“Or I could have a mattress brought down from the castle.”
“Or you could have a mattress brought down from the castle.”  Zevran dipped his
head under the water, wetting his hair completely.  He groaned in pleasure when
he resurfaced.  “Maker, that does feel wonderful.”
“I can’t believe how long your hair’s gotten.”  Zevran made a noncommittal
noise.  Truthfully, it was much longer than he preferred.  “I like it.” 
Alistair’s voice was low and it was husky.  Zevran had to freeze, willing his
heart to start beating again.  He paid an inordinate amount of attention to
wringing out his washcloth, afraid that the blatant look of desire on his face
would scare the younger man off.  He decided that he was not going to cut his
hair for a very long time.
They sat in relative silence for a while, the only sounds coming from Zevran as
he moved around in the tub.  The water had cooled considerably—as well as his
arousal—and it was just about time for him to get out.  He lathered soap into
his hair.  If Alistair had been some mark he was sent to seduce, he would have
had no hesitation in asking him to help with this task.  It was an erotic,
sensual experience, and Zevran was no amateur at moaning a man into arousal. 
But, Alistair was no longer a mark.  He was becoming a companion, and even a
friend.  Zevran had not had a friend in a very long time, let alone something
more.
He reached over the side of the tub for the pitcher of water that was sitting
over a shovelful of embers from the fire in the common room.  The pitcher was
warm to the touch.  As he tilted his head back, he stole a glance at Alistair,
who had fallen asleep sitting in the chair.  Zevran bit his lip to keep from
laughing as he finished rinsing out his hair.  He stood from the tub.  He
picked up his towel from the chair and began patting himself dry.
He had just set the towel on the ground to step on when there was a thud.  He
looked up to see that Alistair had jumped to his feet and, in the process, had
knocked over his shield and sword.  Zevran stood up to his full height. 
Alistair hastily turned to face the door, but not before Zevran saw its
brilliant shade of embarrassed red.
“I, uh, I’ll just go send for that mattress then, shall I?”
“You do that.”
“Right.  I’ll do that.”
Zevran stepped onto the towel, and put his hands on his hips.  Alistair had not
moved.  “Alistair.”
The Grey Warden started to turn around, then realized what he was doing and
snapped his head back to the door.  He practically squeaked.  “Yes?”
“If you desire to have that mattress moved before nightfall, I suggest you seek
out Benj and make those arrangements.  Although, my offer still stands: the bed
is quite large.”
Alistair squeaked again and flew out the door.  Zevran laughed so hard, tears
came to his eyes.
                                     ~~X~~
Alistair was lying on his back, staring up into the nearly complete darkness of
his and Zevran’s room.  The mattress wasn’t quite as uncomfortable as sleeping
on the ground, but it was a near thing.  He couldn’t sleep.  Even with his eyes
opened, he kept picturing Zevran standing in the bathtub, all wet and naked. 
He was hard again, and this time he didn’t have the luxury of doing anything
about it.  Although other Templars-in-training had had no qualms about doing so
in a dorm room of twenty-plus men, Alistair felt it would be rude to jerk off
while Zevran was in the room with him; he was still a gentleman, he told
himself.
Zevran suddenly moved on the bed and his voice sounded low and close to
Alistair’s ear.  “Alistair?”
Alistair was convinced that Zevran knew about his current tense position and
precisely what he was imagining.  He cleared his throat before he answered. 
“Yes?”
“I have a small confession to make.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.  That night you found me in my tent, I admit that it had started as a
ruse.”
Alistair sat up, his arousal diminishing in suspicion and the beginnings of
disappointment.  He could not see the assassin, but he glared in the general
direction of his voice.  “What do you mean?”
“I originally sought a more physical form of solace from you.  However, when
you appeared, so concerned, it became real.  I, uh, I needed to tell you.  I am
truly sorry that I behaved so badly afterward.”
Alistair felt the glare slide from his face.  He reached out a hand and
tentatively groped for what he hoped was Zevran’s shoulder.  He touched skin,
and Zevran gasped.  Alistair started to jerk his hand away, but Zevran caught
his wrist and pressed his hand more firmly to his body.  Alistair was touching
Zevran’s face.  He brushed his thumb across Zevran’s cheekbone, nearly
whispering, “Thank you for making it real.”
“I could not have done so if you were not who you are, Alistair.  I thank you
for that.”  He let go of Alistair’s wrist, and Alistair reluctantly dropped his
hand to the mattress, feeling empty even though he curled his fingers into a
fist.  Zevran’s face was smooth.  The smell of the bath oil filled Alistair’s
senses.  “Shall I tell you about my regret now?”
“Zev, you don’t have to.”
“Of course I do not, but I choose to tell you.”
Alistair nodded his head, but then realized that Zevran wouldn’t be able to see
in the dark of their room.  His voice was quiet.  “Tell me.”
Alistair listened as Zevran told him of his lover, Rinna, of how he had fallen
in love with her.  “For a son of a whore raised by whores, I was taught to seek
pleasure wherever I could.  I had been used before, and I had used others.  I
was never taught to love, but she, she taught me how to love.”  Alistair’s
feeling of jealousy was quickly overshadowed by his sympathy for Zevran as he
revealed Taliesen’s treachery and his own betrayal.  Alistair did not remember
climbing into bed with Zevran, but it suddenly seemed right that he was holding
the smaller man in his arms and running his hand through his hair.  He felt
tears splash warm before cooling on his bare chest.  He was whispering again,
“I’m sorry” over and over until finally Zevran fell asleep.  It was hours
before Alistair himself slept.  One of his last thoughts before he drifted into
the Fade was that here, here was a man who could teach him how to love.
                                     ~~X~~
Zevran entered Redcliffe Castle.  He was looking for something.
It had been two days since Alistair had joined him in the tavern room, and in
that time, the two men had shared confidences with one another that Zevran
would not have thought possible had he not been willing to take the first
step.  They had not shared a bed since that first night, and Zevran was
unwilling to broach the topic, despite how cold the subsequent nights had
been.  He was determined that it must be Alistair’s decision. 
The closest he had come to suggesting Alistair allowing Zevran hold him as he
had held Zevran had come the previous evening.  Alistair had told Zevran of his
mother’s amulet and how he had broken it in a fit of childhood rage.  Zevran
had longed to comfort the other man when he saw the unshed tears gather in his
eyes, but he did not reach out to Alistair.  Instead, he decided that he would
find the amulet for him, if it still existed.
When he was very young—before the Crows took him—one of the whores had lost a
necklace.  It was a necklace one of her regulars asked her to wear when she was
with him.  If she did not have the necklace, the man would very likely have
killed her.  The whore was the kindest person Zevran had ever met.  She kept
him hidden in her room, away from the brothel’s less than savory clientele
whose preferred entertainment ran to the very young and the unwilling.  He had
closed his eyes, upset for the whore, longing for a way to help her.  That was
when the whispering in his ear began, telling him where to go.  With his eyes
still closed, he walked down the hall to the room of another whore.  There, the
whispering grew in intensity, compelling Zevran to lift the mattress.  Among
dozens of other lost objects was the necklace.
Over the years, his talent grew stronger.  It was the same talent that helped
him to become such a remarkable rogue, asking the whispers to tell him of the
hidden things in the shadows.  Zevran could not always find a lost object, but
the stronger and more personal of a connection he had with the owner of the
item, the easier and faster it was for him to find it.  It was therefore
unsurprising, given his growing connection with and feelings for Alistair, that
the whispering was practically a shout.  Zevran had no fear of running into
anything or anyone as he wended his way through the castle.  The voices would
keep him safe and he did not care if anyone saw him.
A ridiculously short amount of time passed before Zevran stopped and opened his
eyes.  He was standing in the arl’s study.  He knelt and withdrew his picks,
making short work of the third drawer down on the left side of the desk. 
Wrapped in a cloth, gleaming as though it had seen regular cleaning and
polishing, was the amulet, exactly as Alistair had described.  Zevran caressed
the cool metal once before he pocketed his prize.
“What are you doing?”
Zevran looked up to see Connor standing in the door.  He still looked far too
thin from his harrows with the desire demon.  “I was looking for a book.  I
thought it might be in here.”  Connor cocked his head to the side, wearing the
same haughty expression his mother wore.  Orlesians.
“What book?”
Oh, for the love of the Maker.  “The Complete Works of Aden Firethrower.”
“I’ve never heard of that one.”
“No?  It is quite famous in Antiva.  I was hoping to look up a particular poem
to woo a girl.”
“Oh.”
“And you?  What brings you to your father’s study on this morning?”
“I came to practice.” 
“What is it you are trying to do?”
“Make a ball of light.”
“Ah, the most basic of mage spells, no?”
“I can’t get it right though.”  He held out his hand and a faint ball of light
flickered into existence and then disappeared.  “It won’t last long.  Analisse
was helping me, but then Leliana came and took her to Father’s room, to Wynne.”
Zevran was horrified when tears welled up in the boy’s eyes.  He fretted,
thinking perhaps he should find a servant, or the boy’s mother, or anyone else,
really, to comfort the child.  He started to move past Connor when the young
boy grabbed his wrist.  Zevran sighed.  He could have easily broken away from
the child, but instead, he knelt in front of him.  Connor immediately adjusted
his hold on Zevran so that he could sob into Zevran’s shoulder.  Zevran said
nothing and just held him.
When Connor’s crying eventually eased enough for him to whisper, “I don’t want
to be a mage,” Zevran pulled the boy away and looked at him.  He withdrew a
handkerchief from his pocket and wiped Connor’s face.
“Why not?”
“Because mages are bad, like Jowan.  He poisoned Father.  I don’t want to be
bad.”
“Listen here.  Not all mages are bad, just as not all people are bad.  Is
Analisse?  Is Wynne?”  He purposefully did not mention Morrigan.  “They are
good, strong mages who use their powers to help other people.  When you go to
the Tower, you can learn how to heal people the way Wynne does, or to protect
people the way Analisse does.  Connor, you have great gifts you can use to help
others.”
“But I was an abomination.  What if another demon tries to – ”
“Hush.  You are stronger and braver than you think.  That demon was with you
for days, but you still fought her, no?  Analisse would never have gone into
the Fade to fight for you if she did not think you were worth saving.  And now,
you know what tricks a demon has.  And you will be better prepared in future.” 
Connor nodded his head.  “Excellent.  You should try that ball of light
again.”  Connor hesitated.  “Go on.”
Connor backed away from Zevran.  He screwed his face up in concentration, and
opened his hand. A brilliant blue ball of light burst into life, floating above
his palm without any flickering.  “I did it,” he whispered.
Zevran laughed.  “Was there every any doubt?  Go on, and show Analisse and
Wynne.  I am quite sure they will want to see.”
Connor grinned and spun on his heel, running smack into Alistair, who was
leaning against the doorframe.  “Look what I can do!”  He shouted, then
sprinted down the corridor.
Zevran stood from where he had been kneeling.  He looked at the wet spot on his
shirt where Connor’s tears had dampened it.  “I suppose it will dry.”
“Okay, who are you and what did you do with the real Zevran Arainai?”
Zevran looked at him.  “And what is that supposed to mean, my dear Warden?”
“It means that you just held a scared little boy and let him cry and snot all
over your second favorite shirt.  You’ll have to have it laundered, you know.”
“And how is that you know this is only my second favorite shirt?”
“The blue one is your favorite.  Don’t change the subject.”
Zevran smiled, amused at the younger man’s insistence.  “His mother is
preoccupied, and all the servants around the castle look at him as though he
were about to go into a killing rage and slaughter them in their sleep.  He
needed confidence and strength.”
“You are a wonder.”  Alistair smiled and shook his head.  “Will you walk with
me?”
Zevran felt the amulet’s weight in his pocket.  “Of course.”
                                     ~~X~~
When they had come to the bottom of the hill, neither Alistair nor Zevran had
continued on to the path of the village.  Instead, they walked to the bridge
and looked down on the tiny sprawl of shops and homes.  It was strange to be
looking out at Redcliffe with Zevran, but it was also right.  Alistair was
calm, at peace.  “You know, the last time I stood here with a friend, she
walked away hating me.”
“And do you have any earth-shattering secrets to tell me, Alistair?”
I love you.  “No, I don’t think I do today.  What about you, Zev?  Do you have
any secrets?”
Zevran snorted.  “Other than the obvious ones that would mean the death of both
of us should I share them, no.”  He sighed.  “I do, however, wish to give you
something.”
Alistair, intrigued, turned away from the village and looked the slighter man
in the face.  The assassin’s bronze eyes were unreadable, but looking at them
made Alistair’s breath hitch all the same.  “What is it?”
“What do you know of the Dales and their talents?”
“You mean walking on snow and talking to trees?”
Zevran threw his head back and laughed.  “Yes, I suppose you would have heard
of those, even if they are but a fraction of the Dalish talents.  Some Dales
can walk on snow, and some can talk to trees.  Others can bend wood into any
weapon, or always lead their tribes to fresh water.  Then, there are some who
find the secret places and things hidden in shadows.  My mother had this talent
and she passed some of it to me.”  Zevran reached into his pocket, and Alistair
knew before he opened his hand what Zevran was holding.  His breath stopped and
he covered Zevran’s hand with his own, preventing him from showing what he
held.  Zevran’s brow knitted in confusion.
“Wait.”  Alistair closed his eyes on the tears that pricked at their backs.  He
licked his lips, buying himself time before answering Zevran’s questioning
gaze.  The other man’s hand was warm and Alistair felt his skin tingle, much
like when Analisse or Morrigan called lightning in a battle.
“Alistair?”  Zevran’s voice was soft.
“I just need, oh, sod it.”  He tugged Zevran’s hand, bringing him closer.  He
opened his eyes just for a moment to see surprise light the man’s features. 
Alistair brushed his lips across Zevran’s.  There was no pressure.  The kiss
was by no means made of the stuff that would move heaven and earth.  It was
chaste and Alistair ended it almost immediately.  He rested his forehead
against Zevran’s before pulling back, breaking all physical contact.  “You keep
it for now.  Analisse leaves for Haven in the morning.  She wants me to go with
her.  You’re staying here, with Sten and Wynne.  When I return, give it to me
then.”
“Alistair – ”
Alistair couldn’t quite interpret the note in Zevran’s voice, and he didn’t
give him a chance to finish what he was going to say.  He turned and fled to
the castle.
                                     ~~X~~
End Notes
     I originally posted this in the summer of 2010 when I was pregnant
     with my first child. After giving birth to said child, I lost my
     focus on anything serious (you know, raising a child while working
     full time will do that). So, while I didn't leave fandom forever, I
     had to set this story aside and focus on fluffy candy, like Glee. It
     seems appropriate, now that I'm pregnant with child number two, that
     I finish this story and find some freaking closure. Updates will go
     up once a week, if all goes according to plan.
     Please, PM if you see any errors.
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