Introductions

They were most of a day from Denerim, heading south on the old Imperium roads when she approached. Lena heard her before the human did, a shrill woman hollering and running without rhythm toward them on the cobbles. Alistair heard her a beat later, and stopped instinctively, his hand coming up to warn her as though she did already know.

The woman was calling one word over and over, of course.

"Darkspawn! Darkspawn!"

Always the knight, he ran ahead. Sighing, Lena followed. If it was treachery (as she'd come to expect) better it should find them now than when they were at camp, and the sun was low in the sky.

When she caught up to Alistair, a disheveled, red-headed woman was speaking rapidly and barely-coherently about darkspawn attacking her wagon.

"...and it's right over there!" She finished at last, breathing heavily, a hand over her heart. Alistair drew his sword and flashed her a meaningful look. He was suspicious as well.

Ahead, a wagon lay upended, clothes and other personal items strewn around, but there was no evidence of darkspawn or any other attackers. Lena surveyed their surroundings. They were within sight of the road. There was no cover to speak of, only a few scant bushes and trees on the grassy plains. No thugs or mercenaries behind rocks or hostile mages over a rise.

If the woman noticed their reservations, she didn't comment.

"It's over there!" She pointed to the wagon yet again, as though it were possible not to see it. Lena drew her sword and Dar'Misu, stretching her neck and dropping her pack. As they approached the site, the woman bolted, and they let her. Lena had expected a double-cross, of course, but not this. No army of mercs or darkspawn loomed ahead, but a single elf.

He wasn't much taller than her, wiry, blonde, angular features like most Dalish, but his facial tattoos were from no family that she'd seen before.

"You can't get good help these days," he said with a familiar, clipped accent, and time seemed to slow as he drew his weapons.

The assassin fell on Alistair first, bringing one foot hard into the knee-joint in his armor, then striking him savagely in the cheekbone with the pommel of his sword.

Snarling, Lena charged him. He turned to face her just in time for her to drive her iron-plated shoulder into his relatively unarmored solar plexis. Alistair was reeling, and she turned the fight away from him as best she could, hacking wildly at the elf, trying to throw him off-balance.

The assassin clicked his tongue against his teeth in seeming disapproval, holding against her onslaught with seeming ease. He took an unexpected step toward her as she struck again, and their weapons tangled overhead. She was close enough to feel his breath on her face. He smiled at her, and, inappropriately, she realized how attractive he was.

Then his foot snaked out and pulled her legs out from under her. The assassin's off-hand blade was coming down for her soft throat when Alastair pulled him over in a flying tackle. Alistair was easily twice his size, but by the time Lena was on her feet again, Alastair was only holding a clump of blonde hair with his shield-hand and the assassin was circling him again.

They met him together this time. In Denerim, a life-time ago, her mother told her that a well-disciplined elf warrior moved like "grace itself". This had never seemed more true. And despite being an elf herself, she was having difficulty keeping up. Alistair aimed a long, sweeping stroke at neck-level (a mistake, of course, but there wasn't time to tell him about economy of movement and short, choppy strikes that the assassin couldn't turn against him).

Time slowed again. The attacker leaned back impossibly far, and the enormous weapon fluttered harmlessly past his face. As it did, his right hand reached up and closed on Alistair's wrist, using the movement's momentum to hold his sword arm against his own body. Then the left hand came up and drove the slim dagger into the tiny gap in his armor underneath his pinned arm. He simply pushed Alistair's limp form out of the way.

But now her attacker had only one weapon, and she pressed the advantage, trying not to think of Alistair slowly bleeding out while they fought. The elf used her moment of contemplation to get off a well-placed kick to her kidneys, but she caught him across the face with her elbow while his footing was still awkward.

And now, of course, his left side was relatively undefended, and she struck at him with her off-hand weapon, the Dar'Misu passing within an inch of his throat. Their blades met with bone-jarring force. He was a great deal stronger than he looked. He lunged forward, pivoting at the hips, then pushing against their locked blades and throwing her backwards.

She put one foot behind her to steady herself, but instead ended on one knee in front of him with his blade firmly in her shoulder. If she hadn't slipped, he would have taken her sword arm cleanly off. As it was, his blade had been stopped by the bones of her shoulder.

Howling, she plunged the Dar'Misu into his bare thigh, and wrapping her injured arm around his knees, toppled him.

Twisting the blade only slightly as she pulled if free, Lena stood, shivering, over him, and kicked his bloody sword from his hand.

...And then, hesitated.

"Alastair!" she shouted. "I...alright," he muttered.

He'd gotten the dagger out of his ribs and was putting pressure on the wound. At her feet, the assassin was awaiting his fate with surprising calm. He cocked an eyebrow at her when she looked back down at him. His wound was bleeding prodigiously, pooling out on the ground underneath him.

"Who are you? Who sent you?" She said breathlessly, holding her elbow tight to her body and hoping her arm wouldn't just slide off as she stood there.

"Ah, so I am to be interrogated." He said, and she finally placed the accent. Antivan. It was strange to hear it from an elf, since Antivans were generally quite swarthy but elves looked more or less the same everywhere.

"I am Zevran Arainai, and I was sent by the Antivan Crows, though I was hired by a very taciturn fellow called Teryn Logain." That surprised her. She had expected a prolonged threatening and torture session before every piece of information.

Lena's mouth opened and closed reflexively a few times before she spoke again. "Why are you telling me this?" she said suspiciously.

"Because I enjoy living, mostly. But also because they did not buy my silence, though in truth I did not offer it, as such." She clutched her elbow tighter. Now that the battle was done, her wound was beginning to radiate pain all the way down to her fingertips. Her whole arm was slick with blood.

By the wagon, Alistair had struggled to his feet. Apparently his blades weren't poisoned, at least.

"What in Andraste's tits should I do with you now?"

Her potent swearing didn't phase him. "You seem to get up to interesting things. You meet interesting people and then you kill them. I'm game to tag along, if you are."

"You must think I'm royally stupid."

"I think you're royally tough to kill. And utterly gorgeous. Not that you'll respond to simple flattery. But there are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess."

Lena actually took a step back in surprise. Alastair was coming up alongside. They had to end this quickly before she passed out.

"But won't you just try to kill me again?" Her voice sounded desperate. Alastair was looking at her as though she were completely deranged.

"No. I have failed rather spectacularly at my assassination attempt, and so my life is forfeit. That is how it works, I'm afraid. In my position, the best thing to do is to serve a new master, one who can assist me when the Crows come hunting me. And they will."

"You can't be serious!" Alistair's voice cracked. "We cannot take the assassin with us!"

"Alistair..." she turned to face him.

"He'll slit our throats while we sleep! He'll poison our food!"

Zevran piped up from the ground, matter-of-factly. "Incidentally, it would be a good idea to be vigilant about one's food in general, Grey Wardens. You have many enemies."

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Hired Killer." Alastair was not amused.

"Alastair, I think he's being truthful. The first time someone sees us alive after today, the Crows will hear of it, and they'll be a bounty on his head. He has no reason to kill the only people with a reasonable chance of protecting him..."

She looked back over her shoulder at the prone Zevran. "...But no preparing food. Ever."

"Of course." He spread his hands in polite acquiescence.

"Lena..." Alistair growled. They hadn't exactly seen eye-to-eye on every issue thus far, but she could be extremely persuasive.

"Will you be the one to kill him, then?" Alastair looked uncomfortable, clutching the hole Zevran had punched into his torso mere moments ago.

"Maker's Balls," he sighed, and hauled Zevran to his feet. Lena pulled some bandages from their discarded packs. She tossed the assassin one.

"Camp is only over the next rise. We have a healer with us but it would be best not to bleed out before we get to her."

The walk back to camp was not pleasant. Alastair unhappily supported the limping Zevran, and she walked alone, her shoulder bandaged but still hemorrhaging. Wynn rushed out to meet them on the road, and half-carried her back to camp. She lost consciousness briefly as Wynn treated her, and woke only when her war-dog, Sir Digby, started licking her face to alert her that dinner was ready.

Lena sat up painfully.

The sun had long set, but a healthy fire burned and the smell of food was overwhelming.

"Wynn!" Alistair called. He was sitting my the campfire in wool trousers and a white undershirt. The assassin was also sitting my the fire, across from her, his elbow resting on one bent knee. The other leg was thoroughly bandaged, probably also by Wynn. He was still wearing full armor, but he'd at least gotten all the blood off his boots.

Wynn's form emerged out of darkness, her white hair almost glowing against the light of the fire. Her kind face was crinkled with a worried smile.

"So! You live after all!"

Lena realized she was also stripped down to clean trousers and an undershirt. Wynn seemed to follow her train of thoughts. "I washed your armor and trousers in the stream. The shirt was done for, I'm afraid. Honestly, I can't believe your arm is still on." She shot a stealthy look at Zevran, who was abruptly interested in the state of his fingernails.

"Thank you, Wynn. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Think nothing of it, Warden. Shall I get you some dinner? Sir Digby pulled some rabbits out of the forest for us."

Wynn seemed to enjoy mothering her, and in a way, she appreciated it. Her own mother had been dead for some time.

"No, thank you. I'll manage."

It occurred to her that the camp seemed a great deal more peaceful than usual.

"Where is Morrigan?"

"Ah. She's built her own fire over yonder."

"Yes," Alistair chimed in. "And I think I'll join her."

Alistair stalked off with one backwards glance at the assassin. Wynn stared uncomfortably at the ground as he stormed off.

"Not everyone approves of your choice of companions, my dear."

"Yes, I'd noticed that."

"Well...do be careful. I'm going to bed. I'm too old for these late nights. No lifting anything with that arm!"

Wynn disappeared into her tent. Digby was busy chewing an enormous thighbone from...something, so she gathered that he had already eaten. Lena rose stiffly, and went to the fire. She handed a plateful of rabbit stew to the assassin and got one for herself. She sat. He was looking at his plate like he'd never seen food before.

"What is this?"

Again, it was jarring to hear an Antivan accent from a fellow elf. His speech was clipped and precise like someone with professional training in the language.

"Dinner," she said dryly, around a mouthful.

"You are planning to feed me then?"

"I'm not planning on starving you, if that's what you mean."

"Ah. I had expected at least a few hungry days is all. Thank you, Warden. You are a very forgiving woman."

"I am apparently the very soul of charity."

The Grey Warden finished eating and limped off to the stream without a backwards glance. It was utterly shocking how quickly the mind could switch gears. Mere hours ago he was intent on killing her. Now, he was more interested in bedding her. Ah well. Life seemed to move at a brisker pace in Ferelden.

She returned. Without armor, the curves of her body were more apparent. Small even for an elf, she was unusually dark-complected. All the city elves in Denerim were smaller and darker than the willowy Dalish, he was finding.

She put a hand to her side and sat again, painfully. "I'm pissing blood, I want you to know."

Ah yes. A well-placed kick to the kidneys would do that.

"Forgive me, Warden. I was possessed of a temporary but admittedly long-lasting insanity."

She sighed. "How is your leg?"

"Your mage treated me. It will be good as new in a few days, I am sure. Thank you for that, as well."

"Which, the stabbing, or healing?"

Oh, she was sharp, in more ways that one.

"Both. I have made good use of this lesson in humility."

"How long until your Crows come after us?"

"Three months at most. They move quickly but we have few contacts this far afield."

"How many?"

"Five or ten, I'd say."

"Are they all as good as you?"

"Certainly not."

"Then we may have a chance. As long as they don't catch us unawares, which is admittedly what assassins generally do. We'll camp away from the roads and try to keep our heads down for awhile."

She was strategizing. It was delicious.

"I wouldn't worry, Warden. May I call you Lena?"

"Please."

"I wouldn't worry, Lena. I am a remarkably light sleeper. Even as a friend of the Crows it was rarely advisable to sleep except in short naps. Killing your fellow initiates was not only not frowned upon but actually encouraged."

"Why did you join?"

She was apparently very unfamiliar with both assassin's guilds and Antiva in general. "I was sold to them at the age of seven. They got quite a deal, from what I understand. The whorehouse where I was born believed more money could be made from the Crows than from pimping me. I was only slightly insulted at the time."

"That is...unfortunate."

He deflected her. "But not surprising. People like us are not the product of comfortable upbringings, yes?"

She stroked her dog's enormous skull, carefully neutral. "Indeed."

Then, suddenly, she sprang up.

"I'm going to sleep. I hope you won't take it personally that I've told Sir Digby to keep an eye on you."

"Who?"

"Sir Digby," she nodded at her enormous, slobbery war-dog. "Named for a famously impoverished wandering knight from Denerim. He weighs 250 pounds and can crush a deer's spinal column with one crunch. Sleep well, Zevran."