faderift | heaven, a gateway, a hope

Alistair doesn't resist Zevran's tugging or hugging or even his kissing, though he does scrunch that half of his icy face up, exaggerated and childish, so his smile is lopsided when Zevran is far enough away from his cheek to see it.

"Zevran, that's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me," he says. "I mean, the part with the kitchens."

It's good to see him, too. The circumstances could be better--Haven less smashed, Heralds less dead, Alistair's head less full of Archdemon--but here's a bright spot. A slightly shady, assassiny bright spot. Alistair keeps a hand on one of his shoulders.

"But what in Andraste's name are you doing here?"

Quite literally in Andraste's name. Alistair had been expecting zealots, not Zevrans.

Ten years and still, as Leliana would say of him, a 'wonderful boy'. There had been moments during the campaign that could have changed him. Made him harsher, harder. Jaded. For whatever reason, Jonas did not see fit to make it so- young as they all were it would have been terribly easy to nudge them in spectacularly awful ways.

Yet here they are. Still themselves. Alistair playful and kind, Zevran looking for trouble. The demons of the world should be shaking in their boots.

"Ah, well. It is so very dull trimming the Crows down to nothing, I thought I would take a break by saving the world. Again. Leliana is here already and I thought..." Jonas missing, Morrigan in the wind, Shale and Sten off wherever it was they were, Oghren-

Well. Oghren.

And Wynne passed. For her more than anything else he felt he should step up. Why, though, he couldn't say. It feels right and he won't question it. "Perhaps this Inquisition could use a little perspective from someone that has been on this path once before, yes? Demons, war, monsters. It is all old hat to you and I."

Alistair's crooked, scrunched-up smile evens out as Zevran explains--if the elf is being serious, in his way, and sincere and dutiful, Alistair won't allow himself to be outdone. He straightens up at mention of Leliana, in particular. He hadn't known. He should have, perhaps, but the Wardens are a withdrawn, insular bunch, with their attention narrowed to the Blight and little else. Even something as large as a tear in the sky couldn't shake their focus away from the Calling and its consequences.

"I did hear there was a blighted dragon," Alistair says. "I'm surprised they didn't send for us personally, straight away." But if they had--it wouldn't have done any good. As soon as the words have left his mouth he shifts back on his heels and drops his hand from Zevran's shoulder, and the last ten years slide heavily back into place to put a weight on Alistair's shoulders, a distance between him and Zevran, a line between his eyebrows. "Unfortunately, I'm here to ask for help, not to offer it."

"Things have been a bit disorganized, else I'm certain they would have." There is no reason for the Inquisition to not, a blighted dragon? Demands the attention of the Grey Wardens. Considering how awful it was the last time he faced one he'd rather not do so without some of them at his side- perhaps one in particular.

There's a beat that follows Alistair stepping back, a decade of weight settling on him again. The Wardens need help? No, that did not matter, Alistair needing help? Without thought or preamble, he answers. "You have my sword at your disposal. What troubles the Wardens- wait."

Blighted dragons. Ten years is a long while but not so long that he cannot remember the tossing and turning of his traveling companions. The dreams. Voice low, he murmurs. "You are not- it isn't- it is but a blighted dragon, yes? Not an Archdemon? No song?"

Maker above, let there be no song.

Zevran's offer of his sword earns a brief widening of Alistair's smile--a flare of appreciation. He can't say he would be so quick to return the favor, if all he knew was that Zevran needed help. He'd ask questions first.

"It's not an Archdemon," Alistair says. But that's too certain-sounding and optimistic, probably, for the level of understanding they actually possess at the moment. He reconsiders, with an uncomfortable foot-shift, heart right out for display on his sleeve: he's very genuinely worried. "Or if it is, it's got new tricks."

He rubs his stubbled chin with one glove. Some ice comes away with it.

"We're hearing the Calling. All of us." His voice lowers, even though he'll have to tell other people--people who aren't in the order and aren't veterans of the Blight--eventually, if anything is to be done about it, and he tilts his head back to indicate the group of Wardens he left behind at the gate. "Some of them haven't been Wardens for a year yet, but we're..."

Dying. Maybe. Maybe not, but they can't know.

"Holes in the sky, demons in the Hinterlands-" And now the wardens hear The Call. It is soon. Far too soon for the newer ones and while the life expectancy of Wardens is no great thing...Zevran has always assumed he'd die on a Crow'd dagger before ever having to stand by and know his friend will soon be walking to his end.

Many things in life have twisted in Zevran's gut. Being sold, being bought, his first kill. Rinna. But none quite so sharp as this- they saved the world. They paid their dues. They were to be finished with this business and for all that he plays the pretty fool and laughs it off, for all that he is willing and ready to lend the Inquisition his aid- this is not what he would wish to be doing with his time, truly. Somehow Alistair being here, hearing that? Makes it more real.

It isn't fair. Had they not endured enough, fought enough? Was Alistair's time and sacrifice of the years that would come still not enough for the fates?

For a moment it shows on his face. The frustration, a glimmer of grief. Cracked open vulnerability precious few ever get to see before he paints on a thin smile. "A meal. You are overdue a meal, my friend. And I was lying about the cheese."

Ignore his voice should it waver, Alistair. You are hearing things, truly.

"Good," Alistair says, "because I wasn't lying about leaving."

Whether he will ignore the voice-wavers or vulnerability--let's be honest, that isn't going to happen. But any ribbing commentary he has on the subject, any Zevran, did you know you displayed emotions over me? Meee? can wait until it's all a bit less raw and his face is a bit less frozen. For now, he puts one hand back on his shoulder to brace the elf in place and claps him on the other. His grimness doesn't dissipate, but he doesn't wallow in it. No wallowing. Business, then food.

"Let me see to them," he says, nodding toward the other Wardens again, "and find someone official so I can ruin her day, and then I'll eat anything you can give me."

"We shall have to double our requests." For everything. Wardens eat a lot if memory served- that stew Alistair is so fond of may not have tasted much like anything but it can be made in large batches. All the more reason to have it on the ready for hungry wardens that apparently haven't eaten in two days. He'll have to stir the kitchens into some manner of liveliness.

Once Alistair deems it fit to let him go. Not that he minds the contact.

"Oh this you will love. There is a familiar face commanding most of the infantry here. Cullen. And much like yourself he grew into his height and his shoulders and his...everything. What is it about chantry boys becoming so pretty? Anyway- he can be found in one of the towers seeing to the planning and organization of resources. You see to yours and I shall prod the cooks with a stick until they've a meal ready for you."

"Cullen," Alistair repeats, a moment of puzzled eyebrow-furrowing, and then-- "from Kinloch Hold?" He purses his lips and nods, trying to imagine Ser Curly-And-Traumatized in charge of an entire military force. It's difficult. He decides the best way to summarize his thoughts on the matter is a speculative, noncommittal, "How about that."

(He'll come around when he sees for himself.)

(Not the shoulders. The leadership.)

He drops his hands from Zevran's shoulders maybe a few seconds later than he should have if he wanted to maintain his maximum possible masculinity levels. Fortunately, he doesn't care about that. Or only cares a little. Mostly when women are watching. You know how it is.

"Give us an hour," he says, "and I'll introduce you to the children."

"The very same. Transferred to Kirkwall for a short while, or so I heard, and now he is here." And actually seeming quite settled. The wonders, would they never cease? Considering what they had yet before them, Zevran sincerely hoped not. They could use a few more wonders.

A few miracles.

Alistair dropped his hands away and Zevran, well. Patted his cheek. "I always knew you'd make a wonderful father."

Not touching the other implications of that with a ten foot pole. No Ser. "One hour, kitchens, extra cheese and I think we may even have those little sausages you adore so very much."

Yes he remembered, no it didn't mean anything.

Speaking of extra cheese, Alistair says, "I adore you," hearts in his eyes and grumbling in his belly. If there's cheese and little sausages, maybe this will all have been worth it--

No. Definitely not. Worth the walk up the mountains, maybe, but not worth the Calling or the blood-ritual-demon-army nonsense. Nice, though, if all of that had to happen anyway.

"One hour," he says, holding up a finger to illustrate while he steps backwards toward the Wardens. It might turn into two or three hours, but he's an optimist. Either way, there are a lot of questions in Zevran's immediate future--Alistair may have the more immediately pressing, voices-in-his-head sort of news, but Zevran's been killing off a whole guild of assassins, he's probably got stories.

"I know." Blowing Alistair a kiss is probably a little much for teasing, but if he can convince some of the new Wardens that he is Alistair's long lost lover- it'd be well worth it. Oh the look on his face, it would be priceless. But first? The kitchens!

Feeding one Grey Warden is no small feat, let alone two. Several is...needless to say Zevran has to make quite a few promises to have them ready a table near the hearth, for warmth, they have been frozen, a decade ago the leader helped save Fereldan-

Honestly it is mentioning Alistair by name and 'yes that Alistair' that speeds the cooks along. Stews, sausages, a few wheels of cheese, crusted bread- it is all hearty, plentiful, and quite Fereldan as that tends to be what is easiest and cheapest to cook in large batches. It is also quite costly- Zevran has to lay down more than a handful of sovereigns along with the promise of more in the future or a proper bout of supplies with the next round of merchants up the mountain- but for Alistair and the Grey Wardens? It will be worthwhile.

If not he'll help himself to their coin afterward. No need to make a fuss.

Whenever Alistair wanders back Zevran will be perched at the head of the table, polishing another dagger while waiting for him and his 'children.' Actual polish. Actual dagger. Seriously, Alistair, where did you get such dirty thoughts?

He got them from the Chantry, clearly.

But even before he sees Zevran and his Actual Dagger, Alistair smells the food and has to stop for a moment outside the doors, genuinely overwhelmed. It's been a long couple of weeks, and now a long day; cavalier jokes aside, the Grey Wardens are breaking his heart, and explaining to the Inquisition's leadership that the Wardens really are being this stupid and this horrible--not the most fun he's ever had.

And he's so, so hungry.

He opens the door and glances inside to make sure Zevran is there, so he'll be able to hear this:

"He'll flirt with you. He'll flirt with me."

Rafael and Scipio are long gone. Hopefully not causing trouble. Hopefully not eating anything that smells this nice, so Alistair can make them regret their vanishing act later. And Alistair doesn't know what Cousland might have told Sigrun about Zevran Arainai, didn't ask because then they'd have to talk about Cousland, but assumes she probably knows better. For Sabriel's sake, however, if nothing else--

"Don't fall for it."

He smiles at Zevran, inviting him to disagree.

The knife is set away with a flourish, Zevran spreading his hands to put on his most crestfallen expression. "Only because you are so dear to me, Alistair. Or have you forgotten how we spent our long, cold nights during the Blight already? How cruel of you."

How unfair to warn them before they got to experience him for themselves. That is cheating him of their genuine surprise- then again surprising them after they've been warned and attempt to brace themselves is all the more amusing. And it does seem as though he and Alistair are in dire need of amusement if what he said earlier is true. The situation is dire, playing the fool to bring a little joy to the Wardens, to ease his friend's burden? Is no terrible thing.

Especially if he can get Alistair to blush. It's gotten more difficult over the years.

He stands and makes his approach, hangdog and wounded until he is close enough to wrap an arm around Alistair's waist and lean against him properly. "You said what we had was special. Did you not mean it?"

Edited (wording and phrasing blargle) 2015-10-30 23:14 (UTC)

She was persuaded down here for the food.

Actually, no. Sabriel was easily persuaded by virtue that, once they've spoken to several official people and been graciously provided with something clean to wear, that she was considering looking for her brothers (and sister) anyway, because that's what happens in a Circle or under anyone superior. They say jump, you say how high. They say we're going to raise a demon army, you say that you're already ready to go.

Or not, in this instance. Go and settle had been the unspoken order of the day, and it was easy for Alistair to persuade her along, because she was half-halfheartedly not doing much at all. Sleeping was still unlikely and she was, as he mentioned food, quite hungry: food wasn't free but this food was going to be. Another plus.

(Not that she wouldn't pay, but real, physical money isn't strewn about a mountainside in the snow.)

Alistair had mentioned a friend, something about the Blight - which she hadn't question because that was a no man's land thanks to the Prince Consort of Ferelden - and even with the warnings, she has no real idea of what or whom to expect.

Except when he does open his mouth his accent is Antivan, or what she assumes is Antivan, as she's had to listen to Scipio's wining for so long. She's not quite squinting, but that alone stops her in her tracks - sorry about that association. Her brow rises a little as Zevran approaches Alistair, and then goes down. If it weren't for the fact there was food and Alistair was, for all intents and purposes, her superior, she'd been skittering straight back out the door.

(She knows what flirting is. Theoretically. But what mages believe to be flirting is not this, not that she's engaged in flirting, so, yeah, this is brand new.)

"Alistair?" She's not sure why she says his name. It's not even a question really. Just a, 'who is this man, what's happening, why is he doing that?' She looks at Sigrun too. Sigrun, do you have any explanations? Please help.

Edited 2015-10-30 23:36 (UTC)

Sigrun may be short, but her arms have some reach, thank you, and she uses that reach in a very important way by covering Sabriel’s eyes with her hands, standing on her tip toes to make it easier. This is much better than an explanation, clearly. “Will no one think of the children?” She exclaims in (mostly) mock offense. Never mind the fact that Sabriel is a fully grown adult and the only one of child height present is Sigrun. What matters here is seniority and level of innocence, in that order. Someone has to preserve that Circle-raised purity.

If anyone can make her ignore a bounty of food and all the sights and smells associated with it, it is, apparently, Zevran. Much time has passed since Cousland’s tales of his exploits, and Alistair’s warnings pale in comparison to the real thing. Being told of someone’s antics is much different than experiencing them, of course, but. Wow. Zevran is every bit deserving of the tales told about him and more, at least from what Sigrun has gathered from this first impression.

To the unabashed assassin’s credit, it does take her mind off of the less than ideal circumstances. It has been a long, long day. Free food and entertainment is like a gift from above. Or below? She’s a not a surface dwarf, okay. Her gratitude is less than evident, but give it time. And a good reaction from Alistair to sweeten the deal. That should get the ball rolling.

In the meantime, awkwardly standing with her arms and legs such as they are in the peanut gallery is a bit much, so she sees fit to interject with an introduction, at least. “I’m Sigrun, by the way. And the girl you just scandalized is Sabriel.”

Alistair endures--no, that's the wrong word. He accepts Zevran's sidling-up, pliantly, because he knows there's no escape. But all the preparation in the world can't stop his cheeks from turning pink. Just a little pink. Easy to miss.

"I warned you," he says to Sabriel while Sigrun covers her eyes, and he gives Zevran a perfunctory one-armed hug that is equal parts affection and yes, all right, you can stop now. Whether Zevran cooperates with that or not, Alistair gamely tries to carry on as if nothing is at all odd about the greeting: "Sabriel is one of our newer recruits, from Nevarra," he says, "and Sigrun was with Warden-Commander Cousland--" He doesn't sound like he wants to cry or stomp his foot at the name. It's a miracle. Probably because he's distracted. "--at Vigil's Keep."

Zevran probably knows that. But manners. And efficiency. Food.

"And Zevran," he says to the women, particularly Sabriel, "helped the Wardens," all two or three of them, "defeat the Fifth Blight, out of the goodness of his soft and charitable heart."

"So you have replaced me. I see how it is. A few years apart and you find yourself something younger and more luscious." Not that it stops him from leaning his cheek against Alistair's shoulder, somber and horribly sad. The biggest, dewiest doe eyes are turned up to him in time to catch that blush. "I forgive you. It has been so long and I must respect your dalliances- you have needs after all."

To the women, a flicker of wicked humor sparkling behind the wounded mask. "Occasionally he would have needs more than once a night."

To that he steps away with a hearty slap to Alistair's behind, leading them to the table proper. "We have ale, we have food, we have cheese and sausages and a warm fire for your chilled bones. I would hear of your travels and your troubles if you are of a mind to share them- though I must ask, Sigrun. Is it true that Ogrhen became a Grey Warden? He wrote the once and I still do not believe it."

"Sigrun!" It's not much of a protest, if it is one at all. She doesn't seem to mind being called a child, at least, just the eye-covering, but her attempt at removing Sigrun's hands is rather feeble. Perhaps it's safer where she can't see anything.

Yes, it was definitely safer where she couldn't see Zevran because hearing was enough. She just shuffles on the spot, awkwardly. She knows what he's saying but she doesn't want to think about it, thank you very much for those mental images, Zevran. Are all Antivans like this? She thinks all Antivans are like this.

"It's..." she's trying to be polite. It's the last stop at normalcy. "...an honour to meet a companion to the Wardens that ended the Fifth Blight." Surprisingly, it's not strained, but genuine. You should have seen her when she met Alistair the first time.

For now, she just follows towards the table, but she doesn't make to sit until someone else does.

“Be grateful I only have the one pair of hands, or your ears would be covered, too.” Sigrun’s beginning to think she should have made to protect those over Sabriel’s eyes in the first place. What’s more offensive, Zevran’s gestures or his words? A question for the ages. The world may never know. The dwarf’s efforts are not overly forceful, at least, and her hands are removed when Sabriel wills them so.

Alistair’s formal addition to the round of introductions is dutifully acknowledged, though not mirrored. Instead, a quip is offered in its place. “Does that make him an honorary warden? I think it should.” Does she respect what Zevran has done? Certainly. Will she express that at a later time when behinds are not being slapped? Definitely.

Her nose cannot help but wrinkle in disgust when a certain name is brought up. It’s a reflex. Like breathing. “It’s true... Unfortunately.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and amends her statement with consideration and a heavy sigh. “I should cut him some slack. For all his faults, he’s a damn fine warden.” Wherever he may be. Stone speed, Oghren.

With all of the formalities finally out of the way, Sigrun beelines towards the table. She needs no invitation under normal circumstances, least of all the unique ones of tonight. A chair is pulled out and sat upon, and a hand reaches out for a piece of sausage. Then she reconsiders, as the memory of Oghren is still fresh in her mind. She helps herself to the cheese, instead.

It's younger and more luscious that finally makes Alistair sputter--only briefly, two unrecognizable syllables that are half-sigh and quickly tamped down on--and give Zevran a withering look. A look that tried to be withering. It is probably more pleading than withering in practice, especially with the blushing.

Anyway, the point: slap his rear if you must, but leave Sabriel alone. So young, so earnest, so unspoiled by lascivious elves.

There was not any genuine sexual tension in the room, fortunately, but if there had been, mention of Oghren would have sucked it all out. Alistair opens his mouth to say they're letting anyone Join these days but shuts it without a word, darkening. Because of Loghain, of course. But perhaps he only looks inexplicably moody.

"Well, I think it's cheating," he says after taking a moment to recover his tired, worried version of good cheer. "After all that dwarven ale, he could probably drink a whole dragon's worth of archdemon blood and ask for seconds."

That would be a yes to the honorary warden thing; Alistair wouldn't talk about the particulars of the Joining around just anyone. He sits down and hovers his hands--predictably--near the cheese until Sigrun has taken her share.

And there it is, the flushing and sputtering he had long missed in their time apart. Letters simply don't do the expression justice. He can dine happily now. "You'll not consider it an honor for long, sweet Sabriel, trust me. No one who meets me in person ever does. A pleasure, now..."

Does it count as leaving her alone if all he does is speak? He isn't even leering, too busy filling his plate with little slivers of roast whatever it is and dried fruits. Then again his voice can be considered as good as a hand in some instances- but he swears it's keeping from the collar up. For now.

"You know, after the blight? I offered myself to Alistair as the Warden's new mascot. I think it'd be more charming than a griffon, wouldn't you say?" He knocks his foot against Alistair's under the table- eat, boy. Lest you wither away to nothing before you have your fill of those tiny sausages he paid so much for you to have. "He always did have a stomach of iron. Do you recall when we wagered he could not eat- I think it was the leg of one of those massive spiders in the deep roads- and keep it down? Not only was he able to do so- he asked for seconds. This is what comes of too much ale and roast nug."

With the rest of the small gathering seated, Sabriel finally seats herself, as far away from Zevran as is possible (which isn't very far, given that the table isn't that long). What with the talk of Oghren as well, she's coming to the conclusion that Alistair had a very strange group of companions during the Fifth Blight and her mental image of the band of heroes might have been destroyed... ever so slightly.

"You were kind enough to invite us down here for dinner," she says, reaching for some bread, because this entire spread is so... Ferelden. Not that she minds, and would never complain about its simplicity and it's one hundred times better than whatever they could find in the Frostbacks, but still. Another reason to miss Nevarra. She does sound sincere, though - whether she's reminding herself or thanking him is another matter.

Probably herself, as the chewing of bread ceases at the mention of Alistair eating spiders. Now she's just looking at him. And Zevran, because is that a joke? Is he joking?

"Is that true?"

heaven, a gateway, a hope

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one to three hours later, the kitchens

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