#zevrn

The air is crisp outside, drier than she remembers the Bannorn being, but then, it’s still early. Early enough that the grass is tipped with frost, that her breath billows out in puffs from her nose. Even the birds seem quiet. She stretches her arms again. There’s time for a stroll. She’s in the Bannorn for recruiting of all things, and I can’t recruit if there isn’t a Fereldan within five leagues of here awake to be recruited.

So she walks the empty dirt road alone, the peace and stillness more than welcome when there’s a day of consorting and posturing ahead of her. And she reflects. Zevran’s company was not something she accounted for on this trip, you don’t have to come, she’d told him in earnest, you’re not bound to the Wardens like I am, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

The lovely thing, mi armor, he’d told her, about not being bound to anything anymore is that I can go wherever I want. Which right now is wherever you are.

She can’t say she’s not grateful for his company—though she enjoys the solitude of traveling on her own, it’s the taverns, the towns, the little roadside inns where she appreciates his glib tongue and charismatic demeanor. Zev can make friends anywhere he goes, she thinks, just as easily as he can make enemies. It’s all in the tone of his voice and whether or not he decides to take his knives out of their sheathes. But it’s always in his control.

They’d departed not one week ago but she’s already grown tired of the recruitment tour. The conscription is such a delicate dance: pander without pleading, promote without soliciting, appeal without outright lying of the bleak future to come. Of what exactly they’re all signing up for. And that’s just for those who join of their own volition—it’s nothing to say of the thieves, the vagrants, the outcasts. The prisoners on death row joining up because the alternative is the hangman’s rope, the elves from the alienage like herself wo enlist because it’s better to die as a hero than to live as a second-class citizen.

Those are the recruits that trouble her the most. The reason she’s most grateful to have Zevran at her side each night as she navigates the task given to her not just for now but for the rest of her life.

She flexes her fingers again, straightening her shoulders and putting on a seasoned, practiced good face for the empty road before her, reminding herself to savor the kindness of the calm morning before the long day ahead. The cool air feels good in her lungs, the gritty dirt and gravel crunching pleasantly beneath her feet with each step a welcome sound on the otherwise quiet road. Her stomach growls a little—there’ll be food back at the inn, she thinks, though perhaps I should have brought an apple or something. The bright sky makes her head tinge a bit in pain. Could need some coffee, she notes, better not be anything more. She walks quickly, with purpose, until her cold cheeks feel a bit more rosy and her breath is steady, until her sleep-laden legs feel loose and limber. She makes her way well past the small grove of trees surrounding the inn, over a small brook, to the edges of a little farm where finally the dense silence is permeated by cows mooing in the distance and the creak of a little windmill not far away.

Only then does she decide to turn around.

On the return walk, a pair of humans pass her on horseback, and though they pass quickly and pay her little mind, a part of her regrets not bringing along her sword. But the time grows later and not long after, another human passes her by, this time on a horse-drawn cart and carrying goods. She finds herself increasing her pace, only slowing once to nod at a pair of dwarven merchants, again to wave hello to an elven traveler. The road grows silent again when she reaches the trees. But then, I’m almost back.

It’s under the cover of the tree shade that she wishes, a second time, that she had brought her sword. She can’t help but feel a pair of eyes on her, though she keeps a steady pace, standing as tall as she can, as strong as she can.

She thinks she hears a twig snap behind her. Careless, she thinks finally, unless they want—

“I wanted to be found,” Zevran says with a grin, raising his arms in feigned surrender when she whips around to face him, fists pulled tightly in front of her.

Maker’s breath.

His own face is flushed from the chilly morning, though it sports a grin she could never muster before coffee and breakfast. He’s dressed and armed and looking spry as ever, utterly unbothered that she’s wound up her arm and could have landed a punch at a moment’s notice.

But I do love him.

“Zev—”

“Good morning, my Sadia.”

Finally, she relaxes, loosens her fingers, lets her arms fall to her sides, and he takes that as permission to kiss her, softly and sweetly, before pulling back again. His smile never once falters.

“Good morning.” She narrows her eyes at him. “You weren’t there when I woke up.”

He chuckles, low and throaty, before kissing her again. “You’re very welcome.”

He’s done it now. Finally, she gives up trying to stop the little grin that pulls at her own lips. He knows her too well. “Thank you.”

He takes her hand as they start toward the inn, together this time. “I thought you might enjoy a little time on your own before the day begins.”

“You thought correctly. Although—”

“Not too much time alone, or at least alone without coffee and breakfast.”

She laughs. “Correct again.”

He flashes her another smile. “I stopped by the inn again before coming to find you. I asked the barkeep if he would be so kind as to prepare something for us. It should be ready…” He slows their pace as they emerge from the trees again in front of the inn, the sun a little higher in the sky then when she’d first left it. “...right about now.” With a sweeping bow, he opens the door for her. “After you, mi amor.”