Part III: The Templar, The Crow

She Burns

"Her eyes and words are so icy
Oh but she burns
Like rum on the fire
Hot and fast and angry
As she can be
I walk my days on a wire."

(Hozier, Cherry Wine)

I should stop staring, I should concentrate. But his eyes inevitably strayed from Cassandra, his ears pounding with blood over the words she spoke. She'd seen him, but she wasn't looking his way now, she was smiling and laughing with Leliana, and though she looked tired and drawn as she hefted her pack over her shoulder, he doubted any sight had made him happier in his life. She was safe and she was here. A knot of worry unravelled itself inside him. Only to tighten again when he remembered his promise to the Inquisitor.

There will be no more distractions.

"Commander?" Cassandra's tone suggested she'd been trying to get his attention for a while. He tore his eyes away.

"Sorry Seeker, what were you saying?" he grunted.

"What punishment do you wish to give to these lowlifes..." she gave her customary scowl to the men still kneeling in the snow.

"Punishment?" the elf was still smirking. "I don't think that would be appropriate, my dear. I have..what's the phrase...diplomatic immunity."

Cassandra put her hands on her hips and fixed him with a look she usually reserved for particularly disgusting insects. "You're not an ambassador. You're a spy."

"Has anyone ever told you you're beautiful when you're angry?" the elf countered. "There's a real sparkle to your eyes and those cheekbones..." The elf stopped suddenly. No longer looking at the Seeker but to her left. His smirk vanished. The fight seemed to go out of him.

Neria stood, staring at the elf, her mouth slightly open, paler than usual under the smears of dirt and blood. Cullen felt a pang of jealousy, followed by the sharper stab of shame.

"My dear Warden," the elf whispered, as reverently as his flippant nature would allow. He tried to struggle to his feet but Cassandra put a heavy hand on his shoulder driving him back to his knees.

"What are you doing here?" There was a note of alarm in Neria's voice and any jealousy he'd felt quickly evaporated. She's not happy to see him.

"Looking for you, of course!" a true grin broke across his face that looked nothing like his usual smirk. "I err..." he glanced up at Cassandra. "I find myself in a little difficulty."

"They were fighting," the Seeker said, indicating the hunched over form of the Coporal.

The Corporal looked up, slowly, like a bruised and beaten tortoise coming out of its shell. "Jenkins!" Neria exclaimed.

"My lady Hero," he muttered, looking anywhere but her. "I'm glad you're safely returned."

Her alarm turned quickly to ire as she glared at the elf. "What in Thedas did you do?"

Cullen didn't bother to hide his smile as the elf's face fell. Boots on the other foot now.

"He hit me!" the elf said, peevishly.

"You were badmouthing the Commander," the Corporal retorted. "I was defending his honour."

"Corporal," Cullen growled a warning. "For speaking out of turn I dock your rum ration for a fortnight. For brawling with a guest of the Inquisition I'll have seventy hours of your free time to be used as I see fit. Now," he inclined his head to the infirmary. "Go and scrub the blood off your face. I want you back here in an hour, ready for drills."

Jenkins lurched to his feet, snapping into a smart salute. "As you wish, Commander."

"What about this one?" Cassandra sneered down at the elf but the assassin's attention was all for the Warden. "We could send him back to his King..."

"What?" Neria hissed, her head flicking from the Seeker to the elf. "What do you mean? What King?"

The elf winced. "Now my dear, do not get angry with me..."

"You..." she said, disbelief evident in her tone. "You still work for Alistair?"

"Well..."

"He sent you..." she muttered. "He sent you after me..." there was no room for question.

"Now, my dear," he said, his tone light and placating. "Do not blame the messenger."

"Enough," Leliana said, cutting psychically and verbally over the warden. "We have important matters to discuss with you, Commander. Let us leave Zevran's punishment for another time."

"As you wish," he said, meeting Neria's eye for the first time as he gestured up the steps to the keep.

Leliana stalked ahead, taking the stairs two at a time saying something about waking the Ambassador that Cullen didn't really hear.

And then they were alone.

She was a ball of fury as she walked beside him. He fought for something to say, something consoling and calming but nothing would come. He snuck glances at her, her usually soft brow was lined with worry, pulled low over narrowed eyes. Say something...say anything. Tell her you missed her...

"Commander," a recruit jogged up the stairs to meet him, clipboard in hand. "I have the report on tonight's incident..."

"On my desk," he grunted irritably, waving him away.

"Of course," the recruit bobbed his head and disappeared into the masses below.

When he turned back to his climb Neria was watching him from the step above. His vital organs did their customary somersault as she managed a small grin. "I'm sorry, I must be foul company."

"Your company could never be foul, my lady," he said, the fluttering feeling of a thousand birds taking flight filling him as her smile broke across her face. "I have missed it."

"And I yours," she said. "We should..." she broke off and shook her head. "We shouldn't keep them waiting."

He absentmindedly brushed the snow from his damp knees, his eyes following every movement of his Warden as she ascended the stairs to the keep. She didn't look back, not a single glance over her shoulder for her poor, beleaguered assassin, several years starved of her company. He grimaced, remembering the thinly veiled contempt in her eyes, the way they flashed like emeralds in the sun before they'd widened in surprise and then narrowed in disgust.

She was thinner than he remembered. The hollows of her cheekbones stark against her pale skin. Her auburn hair, though a tangled mess, showed no hint of grey but for the snowflakes settled there. She had long ago discarded the heavy plate she'd worn for most of the Blight. She walked differently, almost lithely, in boiled leathers of a huntsman, no fancy filigree or awkward straps to snag on errant branches.

She stopped halfway up the stairs and for a moment he thought she'd glance back, throw him a guilty look of regret or sorrow. He would instantly forgive her the sharp words, her less than warm welcome. But instead she turned to the Templar at her side, a bashful smile on her lips that he had seen a thousand times though never once for him.

He watched them. Heads bowed slightly towards each other, exchanging smiles and no doubt sweet words. It made him tut and sigh.

He would probably have to kill this one.

It was only when they'd disappeared from sight, the crowd of the fortress swarming between them, that Zevran realised he was not being watched.

He grinned.

In the chaos of the evening and the coming of the Warden they'd forgotten all about him. For the first time in three days Zevran relaxed, took a deep breath and then slipped into the crowd.

Had someone been following they'd have thought little of him slowly making his way to the infirmary. He'd spent nights there often enough, and the scar down his cheek would have been reason enough to seek the aid of the healers. The hustle and bustle at the make-shift entranceway made it easier to steal down the corridors, the healers had been run ragged all night, setting broken limbs and sewing split heads, they paid no mind at all to the elf strolling purposefully past, looking every inch like he'd a right to be there.

Had someone been following him, and he was careful to make sure that they were not, they would probably have become suspicious as he loitered in the corridor, peering over the heads of by-passing patients and healers alike, making a play of waiting for someone. Had that follower been exceptionally well trained they may have noticed his hands were not at his side but behind his back and that despite the elf's outward calm, his fingers moved frantically.

Had they been most observant they may have seen the glint of a lock pick disappearing up his sleeve and if they'd blinked at the wrong time they'd have missed him, sliding into the previously locked room like a shadow.

The air was dry in the cramped closet, thick with the cloying scent of herbs and spices, potions and poultices. He took deep breaths, trying to still the frantic knocking of his heart as he waited for his eyes to acclimatise to the gloom. If he was caught here there would be little anyone could do, his diplomatic immunity would not extend to stealing supplies from the Inquisition. Leliana had been most explicit. In this he was alone.

By the time he could read the labels on the myriad of bottles and pouches his heart had somewhat stilled, though he was coated in a thin sheen of anxious sweat. The stock room was well tended and meticulous, each shelf stocked high and alphabetically labelled. He gave silent thanks for the healer's organisation and set to work.

Twice he heard boots coming towards him through the thin walls and twice he stilled, willing himself to be silent, not even daring to breathe. Twice boots and voices went by, oblivious to the assassin-turned-thief lingering in the store room.

By the time he'd secreted the five bottles and two pouches about his person, the room was hot with his sweat. He pressed his ear to the door and on hearing nothing but his own heartbeat pounding through the wood, he whipped it open.

The man standing outside had clearly been there a while. His arms were crossed over his mage's robes and his sharp, angular face was made for the type of glower he threw at Zevran.

Oh dear.

"What in the void are you doing in my store room?"