Zevran was dreadfully bored. His Theron had gone to see off his silent giant friend, the scrumptious Orlesian dish was already away to revenge herself on her treacherous mentor, and he could only amuse himself so long chatting with the dog. The elf was decidedly unhappy. Not that he'd ever admit that, except perhaps as an overblown declamation about his ill-use.

He was deliciously well off, true. A bed big enough for two to comfortably sprawl in, three full, hot meals a day, and perfumed and coifed eye candy moving every which way were all luxuries unheard of to him. Why, if he kept this up for a bit, he might actually put on an ounce or two of flesh. The blight was over and the damage was minimal. He didn't approve of wanton destruction any more than the outwardly moral and upright, and as well as unnamed hundreds upon hundreds of reasonably innocent lives saved, Theron was intact and well, if a little inaccessible. He was inside a well-defended castle with a battle-hardened mabari at his side, the Crows probably still under the impression he had shuffled off his mortal coil. Yes, Zevran was in the pleasantest state of his life.

The elf glanced down at his hands. His embroidered Dalish gloves clashed terribly with the dress tunic he'd borrowed from that Oswyn character they'd extracted from Howe's rack, held to his slight frame with artful application of pins. He'd felt so naked going about unarmed he'd concealed a few security blades between tunic and smallclothes, but he'd been confined to small, cheap throwing daggers.

That about summed up his situation. This was a beautiful, safe, scrumptious world, but it wasn't his. The fine, ill-fitting clothes would have irked anyone, but only an elf and a foreigner would feel the constraint that he did. No knife-eared whoreson, basking in borrowed glory or no, was welcome here. Theron had slain an archdemon, ended two wars, and enthroned a king. Even the nastiest Ferelden noble wouldn't dare contest his right to stride about purposefully in dragon-scale armor crafted specially by a madman, crossbow on his back and slinging surprisingly charming insults like so many barbed bolts. The same consideration was not due to the hero's unsavory paramour.

And so Zevran wore borrowed finery along with secondhand relics of his past, almost inclined to leave off his boots and gloves so his little treasures needn't be insulted by the situation. He kept his eyes down around fine ladies and his mouth shut in the presence of their fine men. It wasn't so bad to be a mongrel among the pedigreed as long as he behaved, or so he told himself.

Zevran realized with a start that he was sulking. Most unbecoming. He rolled off the bed with a dramatic sigh and patted Theron's dog. "Come, my slightly malodorous friend. Join me for a game of Discomfit the King of Ferelden." Until recently, of course, that game had been called Bother Alistair, but the pomp and circumstance of a coronation seemed to call for a shift toward overblown language.

He tried not to slink when he moved. It really only attracted more attention with a slobbery beast trotting happily beside him and a gold and orange tunic, but the habit was very hard to kick. Zevran disapproved of the palace for the same reason he disapproved of Theron and Alistair's public appearances. The castle was awfully hard to enter with a lot of large, loud men with swords, but the dozens of little, barely used rooms and corridors could have concealed a dozen assassins who could probably just let themselves in at a kitchen door with a bit of effort. Fereldens.

He met Arl Eamon on the way to the king's corridors and the two men exchanged a nod. As far as Zevran could tell, the Arl didn't seem to mind at all that he dared to exist around decent people. A high compliment, all told. He found Alistair glowering at a pile of written edicts with a golden seal in hand. The king didn't seem to be reading, but rather contemplating (angrily), as though trying to force the elaborate legal language into his head by osmosis. The Mabari hopped up on the desk and licked his face.

"Ew." Alistair seemed to have missed their entry. A guard had noted and glared at Zevran, but the king himself was off in his own little world. Amusing, but worrisome. Zevran was fond of the thick-headed Warden in his way, and political chaos was no longer to be his bread and butter. And Theron would be the first targeted if this administration happened to fall. "Oh, hello… Dog." Theron had named the dog Cou'gi, something significant in Elvish, and Alistair had never been able to pronounce it. Zevran didn't have the best luck himself. The gentle, lilting tones of his mother's language evaded him.

"And hello to you, you horrible little man." Alistair looked happier to see Zevran than the elf was accustomed to. Probably just a welcome distraction from puzzling out pardons for Loghain's supporters. "And what can your humble ruler do for you this fine morning?"

"It is about four o'clock, Oh Majestic One." Zevran smiled beatifically while Alistair rolled his eyes. "Perhaps you have locked yourself away with your duties too long? A distraction seems in order. You know, from what I have overheard, young Lady Beatri's middle name is Distraction… And her quarters are only a floor below us. Hmm?"

"Oh, hush. You're the opposite of helpful." He blushed, but Alistair blushed a lot. Zevran noticed that the king honestly didn't look interested, just flustered. In all fairness, the heiress was, from what he could tell, essentially the neighborhood donkey. Everyone had gone on a drunken joyride or two, but it was a rare soul that'd admit it.

Fairness, however, was no fun. "Oh, I see. Well, I could distract you. Should you promise not to let word get back to himself. Or if you'd like to include him. I'm sure I can be sufficiently persuasive to—"

"No. No! We're ending this conversation! La la la I can't hear you…" The most amusing thing was he actually put his fingers in his ears. Zevran half wanted to pinch his cheek and ask him what he was going to learn in school next year. Precious.

"I am admittedly new to your customs, but is it considered… befitting for a king to express his estimable dignity in such a manner?" Nothing like smiling at a bewildered Alistair who knew he ought to be insulted but couldn't work out why. If Zevran could bottle that expression, he could buy an estate and a harem and retire. Where did one go to purchase harems. Were there bulk rates? Oh, well, all academic. "Were I to see it in Antivan royalty, I would assume she or he had already been poisoned and was in the delirium stages of a messy, protracted death."

"You tell the best bedtime stories." For someone with the brains of a rock, Alistair was excellent at sarcasm. Zevran had to give him that. "I know it's difficult to believe, what with my unimportant little job, but I'm actually very busy. Did you come here for a reason?"

"Aside from offering my extremely expert distraction services?" Zevran had to duck when Alistair threw an account book at him. Fortunately it only winged his shoulder. "You wound me, Your Highness. I am only trying my best to be a model citizen, selfless and adoring of my ruler."

Alistair tried to look threatening. It was strange. Zevran had seen this man dismember untold Darkspawn and execute Loghain in cold blood, but he was about as scary as a newborn kitten. Zevran had to try not to snicker as Alistair menaced him. "You keep this up and I'll have you put on a rack."

Zevran's eyes lit up and he clapped. On the small side even for an elf and surprisingly tidy with his easy living lately, his soft brown eyes and sun-bleached hair let him look innocent enough to horrify anyone in this context. "Oh do, do!" He reveled in Alistair's stunned expression. He was a bad, bad man. The king made a series of unconnected sputtering noises for a bit, picked up his inkwell, and emptied the contents over Zevran's head.

The elf blinked a bit, the sudden cold soaking now inching down his scalp. "…Well played."

"I honestly don't know why I did that. Or what I thought it would accomplish." Alistair had the decency to look sheepish.

"Well, that was honestly the genius of the maneuver. I am flummoxed, and I commend you, Your Majesty." Ink dripping down the side of his ear was a really singular sensation. He wasn't exactly sure what to do about this. Would a rapid dunking stop the staining? Theron was going to be very confused if there were suddenly a piebald brunette in his bed. But the ink dripping onto the tunic was a good sign. He'd have a perfectly good excuse to wear his own clothes again, and the king would have to take the blame.

"Ahem. Well. Clearly, that's what I meant to do." The king folded his hands and did a fairly good job of looking stately. Zevran would have bought it if there hadn't been ink oozing down the back of his neck. "Shut you up there. Ha. …Did you have a reason to come and pester me? I've forgotten now."

"Aha. Yes." Though he was tempted to just excuse himself now and go dunk his head. That seemed like a retreat, though, and he was not retreating from Alistair of all people, even if he had somehow been outmaneuvered. "I do, in fact, have a justification for pestering you beyond pure love of the entertainment. I am slated to join Theron in his wanderings… soon." Whenever that might be. Zevran had been secretly delighted with the idea of the two of them sweeping off into the sunset the moment the parade ended, but there had been preparations, complications, tribulations, and other –ation words that meant he and his Grey Warden would spend more time in the palace and less off having adventures. He'd barely seen his lover since the celebration began.

"Oh, yes." Alistair made a face. "You couldn't talk him out of it, could you? Would you, I guess, is the real question. I could use him."

"I believe his heart is set on his current plan." Or at least Zevran's was, and he was not extending their time in this gilded cage another moment. "The reason I bring it up is my already stated intention to remain in Ferelden. To reinvent myself as a citizen, rather. I would be dead if I set foot in Antiva." And the Zevran who'd have intended to return was long dead, too, his life torn away with the darkspawn and Taliesin and werewolves. "To that end, I would like to swear fealty to the man who can now be the only ruler of any undertaking I may pursue."

Zevran took a moment to imprint forever on his memory the look on Alistair's face. If the elf had been confused by the ink on his head (now threatening to drip into one eye), it was nothing to the king's total consternation. Even Cou'ghi abandoned the chair leg he'd been happily gnawing to poke Alistair's hand with his wet nose, checking that the man's heart was still beating.

After a long delay, Alistair stood, hands behind his back and eyes narrowed in the most suspicious expression his kind face could manage. "So, let me make sure I have the facts. You." He jabbed his finger at Zevran's head. The tip came back black and a bit sticky. "You, the lunatic, incompetent assassin want to swear your sword to me." Again he pointed, leaving an amusing black splotch on his chest. "Me, the bastard king of Ferelden."

"And having laid out the cast of characters, our little play may begin." Zevran's request was perfectly sincere with only the least little ulterior motive. He was just enjoying himself. "Do you accept my sword or not? Well, metaphorically. My sword is actually under the bed in Theron's room. I could run and fetch it or use that ridiculous mirrored one on your wall."

"I think it's bolted on. Um, here." Alistair still looked confused, but he'd probably been born looking that way, and only more so since a crown was set on his head. He produced a shortsword from under his desk. Zevran noted that with approval. Maybe the king wouldn't be caught too terribly off guard when the first assassin inevitably arrived. "Plain, but it'll do. And I guess it suits you, since it's a little small."

Zevran glared for just a moment, but he knew Alistair didn't mean anything by the casual racism. He'd complain later. Baring the blade and balancing it carefully on upturned palms, he dropped to one knee, only to realize he had no idea what Fereldens said when they swore such oaths. He'd dozed or ogled nearby ladies during all the ceremonies he'd had to sit through the last few days.

Well, he was a master of improvisation. "I, Zevran Arainai, formerly of Antiva, Formerly of the Crows, son of Cardehni Arainai and… a gentleman unspecified, do hereby pledge myself to service of Ferelden's monarch in the practice of my craft and the strength of my arms, in the selfsame capacity as a native-born son." There. Pretty, serviceable, and in no way disruptive to his standing oath to Theron.

Alistair blinked for a moment and rather mechanically recited, "I, King Alistair of Ferelden, do accept thy pledge and thy blade with all my heart and bid thee to loyal service of crown and country as heart and duty shall guide thee." He sounded very awkward but almost cute trying to deliver his rote reply with feeling. The king took Zevran's borrowed sword, held it before him, and then bowed as he returned it. Considerably less elaborate than comparable Antivan ceremonies Zevran had watched from atop rafters or under floorboards. A good king for his land, whatever anyone said.

Zevran accepted the blade. Alistair's guard looked pointedly at the floor a few times before he took the hint and laid the sword at the king's feat. Alistair actually pressed his hand to his heart, something Zevran had never seen anyone actually do.

"I… I don't know what to think. I'm honestly touched, Zevran. And to think I didn't trust you." He gave the elf a bemused smile. "You know what? I… I'm going to find a title for you. It will have to be made up out of whole cloth, I think, but something to the tune of a royal hero's protectorate… I mean, it's the least I can do. What can I say?"

Zevran found this very charming, but of course he couldn't let it lie. He looked up to Alistair with his best innocent face. "How pleased you are to finally have me on my knees?"

"Oh… You're terrible!" Alistair bent slightly, hooked his hands under Zevran's arms, and hauled the slender elf to his feet without much effort. "Go… go and wash your hair." He shoved Zevran to the door and collapsed back into his desk chair with a groan, rubbing his temples. The guard patted his shoulder companionably.

Zevran smirked as he escaped. Mission accomplished. Some elaborate piece of paper with a pretty seal from the king wouldn't be much in the way of armor, but his tentative move from shadows in the corners of room to standing beside brash, bright Theron meant he needed a few new ways to protect them both. He didn't think that granting a token of favor to a foreign criminal was particularly outlandish as Alistair's reign was going, and it might give a potential enemy enough pause for Zevran to act.

Ha. Now to find a bathtub.

Washing didn't do much about the ink. He wasn't sure how long he'd have a blotch roughly the shape of Orlais covering about half his hair, but entirely too long seemed a fair estimate. And the drippy blob that covered half his left ear and a lot of his neck was even more charming. Damn Alistair.

Theron still wasn't back. He'd probably met a throng of admirers on the way back. Zevran found himself scowling as he toweled off, and not just at the ink blot on his head. He wasn't sure what annoyed him more. His Theron's insistence on acting as though safety was assured now and wandering about the city alone or, worse, in large groups? Or the idea of a gaggle of lithe-limbed, smooth-skinned young things all clamoring for the great hero's attention?

A delightful little mental image, in theory. And if Theron could be persuaded to bring one or two of them home… But the idea wasn't as sweet as it should have been. Zevran sighed. He was either getting old or going mad, probably a bit of both. Either way, he needed to go find some way to keep busy.

He and Cou'ghi wound up in the kitchens after a bit of restless prowling. People were often shocked to find that Zevran could cook, but to him it made perfect sense. When he'd been very young, the kitchens were the one part of the whorehouse where he'd known any sort of peace, hiding under the tables and listening to gossip while he smelled bread baking. That had just struck a spark, though. He'd learned his real skill with the Crows. One had to know ordinary herbs as well as the poisonous, to understand flavor and texture to have any luck in that mode of assassination. Blades were far simpler to use on dead flesh than a living victim, and any assassin knew a great deal about structural integrity and where to slice, be it cucumber or mutton under the knife. The kitchen was usually the easiest part of a noble house to penetrate, and being able to hide ably among the staff was an edge in many a mission. Zevran was far from the most accomplished chef among the Crows.

After the head cook left off shouting at him and the dog and his underlings emerged from hiding, Zevran managed to improvise an approximation of an Antivan soup. Ferelden didn't seem to have spicy sausage and the greens were a bit wrong, but he made do, and the result was perfectly edible. He was basking in the praise of a scullery maid and a footman when Cou'ghi looked up from his bone and barked happily.

He held his ears in a very particular way when Theron was nearby. Nobody else made the dog so happy. The reasons had been explained to Zevran at some point, but mostly he thought it was cute.

"There you are." Theron leaned against the doorframe, looking very tired. One of his braids had come undone and there were actually dark circles under his eyes. Zevran had thought that expression an exaggeration until he'd met his bone-pale lover. He actually looked more like he had a black eye. "Wynne told me you'd headed this way. …Is that an apron?"

"Yes. It is an apron." Zevran smiled cheerily, happier than he let on to see Theron. When he turned to greet Cou'ghi, the little jeweled ring in his ear caught the light from the cooking fire and glowed. Property of Zevran. "It enables me to make delicious dinners without damage to my impeccable person. Where have you been all day?"

"Every inch of Denerim, it feels like. My feet feel like lead." He walked over beside Zevran and the Theron's hand just barely brushed his lover's in a perfectly incidental sort of way. The Dalish elf was no more demonstrative or vocal than Zevran. "You made this?"

Alright, maybe he'd been looking forward to showing off. Spending so much time around painfully cultured nobles, he felt like a bit of a one-trick pony, and demonstrating his accomplishments was fun. "You sound shocked. I'm wounded." He turned to wink at Theron and stopped short. Yes, the other elf was clearly very tired, and yes, his eyes were a little puffy. But he didn't just look as though he had a black eye. Without pausing to think, Zevran caught Theron's chin in his hand, staring levelly with an assassin's intent eye for detail. He quite ignored a couple of giggles at the familiar gesture. "Who hit you?" His voice was flat, not a hint of a joke.

Theron looked evasive, to say the least. "Let's discuss that after dinner?"

"No. We discuss it now and in detail." Zevran was quite unwilling to believe the Hero of Ferelden had just been smacked by accident in a tavern brawl. Theron? Sure. It didn't take much imagination to envision him mouthing off to the wrong person, and Theron didn't like finishing fights nearly as much as starting them. He was strong enough, hauling around that crossbow everywhere he went, but he preferred weaseling his way out of conflict or standing back and making everyone else fight the bad guys.

The blond latched onto Theron's wrist and marched him out of the kitchens. His lover was stronger than he was, but The Great Hero seemed to know better than to struggle. Zevran stopped only a few steps into the hallway. He didn't care that much if they were overheard, just that they had space to hear each other. "Now. Who hit you?"

"Prostitute by the name of Juny. She was a distraction, though. Someone paid her to get my attention while another individual came up behind." Theron was very good at wearing a mask, making people believe and react just as he liked. It didn't work nearly so well on Zevran, who had watched such machinations all his life and with a certain disgust. Theron made his shameless maneuvering almost endearing, but Zevran didn't care for it turned on him.

He stayed calm, though. "And who was this individual?"

"Um, we're not sure. She was in a few too many pieces to get information from." Zevran cocked his head and made a quizzical noise. Multiple pieces didn't sound like Theron's style. Fortunately, clarification was forthcoming. "They must have gotten impatient, because I'd only just waved goodbye to Sten about ten minutes before. It seems he ran into a kitten one street down and was… Well, he claims he was training it to become a great warrior among cats."

"…And he was no doubt successful." Despite Zevran's sudden black mood, the image was too precious not to laugh at. "So the assassin is mincemeat. And her lackey?"

"In custody, but probably doesn't know very much. My guess? She was drunk and desperate and accepted a few coins to annoy… what was it? Skinny knife-earred trash, I think she said." Theron shrugged.

Zevran sighed slightly, finally letting go of Theron's shoulders and only then realizing he'd been holding on. "Ahem. Well, I can see why you've developed an unhealthily cavalier attitude about miscellaneous factions attempting to end your career. That said, trust the expert and take this seriously." Sure, it was a laughable attempt, but they knew far too little. Just off the top of his head, Zevran could see this as testing the waters, an attempt to lull Theron into complaisance, or a staged attempt designed to make the Gray Warden look all the more noble. Set an assassin to catch an assassin. He could easily have set up any such scenario himself.

"You'll do me the favor of not going anywhere unarmed, unarmored, or unaccompanied. And speak of this in detail with Alistair and anyone else you deem wise." Zevran took a step back. The trouble with scolding Theron with about an inch between them, however much more effective it might make his remonstrations, was that a nose full of the man's oiled leather and fresh air scent was a terrible deterrent to rational thought.

"You'd better be careful, or people will start thinking you like me." Just the least little hint of color had risen to Theron's cheeks (ah, that complexion showed everything) and Zevran guessed his thoughts weren't far divergent. He coughed theatrically. Wouldn't do to run off to the bedroom before they'd eaten, rested, or done anything about the attack, Zevran reminded himself sternly.

"Heaven forbid. Come and eat something. I'm willing to believe you have gone and forgotten again." Theron didn't deny it and Zevran led him back to the kitchen. Theron generally ate with Alistair and the king's other advisors, but Zevran had noticed he detested the mannerly, stuffy occasions. Rescuing him was a small kindness. As expected, the Dalish elf wolfed two bowls of soup, barely managing a quick acknowledgement to go with. He had the strangest eating habits. Zevran had first assumed that the other elf's build came from the same unavoidable sort of high activity and lack of nourishment responsible for his own rather flimsy body, but at least part of it was that Theron was just too busy scheming or fuming or just gazing into space to remember meals half the time.

Zevran had a bowl of his own, slightly amused at the soup's reception. Theron's honest enjoyment was a much better compliment than spoken flattery. Lucky they were both so prickly and evasive or they'd drive each other mad. "You have a taste for Antivan, I see."

Oddly enough, that hadn't been intentional, and he was so surprised to have made an unintentional innuendo it was almost like shame. Theron grinned, as always quite willing to match him for outrageous statements. "Always."

Might as well roll with it, then. "You'll have to treat me to a few Dalish tastes to level the playing field."

"Yup." It was odd for the other elf to not try to match him for witty repertoire, just as that light in his eyes and his solid hand on Zevran's was odd. But hardly unwelcome. Theron whistled for Cou'ghi as he half dragged Zevron from the wooden kitchen bench where they'd been eating. More and more pleasant. Theron often took initiative, but not usually so forcefully.

He yanked Zevran to his feet and strode out of the kitchen. Normally, Zevran might have objected to being manhandled thusly. He was the one who did the ravishing, damn it. But there was something thrilling in seeing Theron tear his clothes off with his eyes, to being dragged to bed by a strong man with fire in his gaze. They hadn't had any proper time together since before the Blight ended. It was… intriguing to see a fierce, wild creature in his sweet little faun.

"I assure you, you need not pull quite so hard. I am perfectly willing." Zevran took a few long strides to catch up. Interesting as Theron's sudden hunger was, he was not a passive partner.

"Shh." Zevran thought he was being pulled into a hug, but Theron's arm moved too fast, held too tight, and suddenly there was a hand over his mouth as they spun around a corner. Theron hissed straight into his ear. "New maid listening too closely. Knife in her belt wasn't for cabbages."

Zevran cursed himself for not noticing. He was, admittedly, an assassin and not a spy and Theron was really just distressingly clever. He cursed himself doubly for arousal that refused to dissipate just because their lives might be in danger. Theron's knack for acting could be infuriating. And had that all been an act? Because if his lover wanted to pounce on him and haul him to bed with a growl, Zevran was pretty sure he'd be interested.

He nodded firmly, both to show he understood and to clear his head a little. Theron let him go and both elves separated, melting into the shadows. About a minute later, the young woman darted by, looking perfectly casual. She did have a distinctly athletic stride, though, her long skirts thrown about strangely by her long, solid paces. Thank heaven for Theron's irksomely sharp mind. Zevran didn't think he'd have noticed anything wrong until she pulled a blade on him.

Zevran looked to Theron and the other elf nodded just the very slightest bit, only his eyes moving. They took off after the girl together, Theron moving barely behind her and Zevran bringing up the rear, hand on one of his concealed knives. Theron was at least properly armed after his day out in the city, if only with one of those awkward ceremonial blades the nobles wore.

It only took a few moments to determine pretty clearly where the woman was going. Sure, there were a lot of nobles who lived on the upper floors, but she didn't even glance at any doors they passed. Unless one knew the castle very, very well, those identical rooms and corridors warranted some little examination. The king's quarters, however, were most distinctive. No mistaking those, and if you just kept going up, you'd find them.

Zevran could tell Theron wanted to take the girl now, when it was safe, but Zevran had experience with the apprehension of assassins. Admittedly, from the wrong side. They had to be very sure of the woman's target, for one. There was always the chance that she'd done excellent reconnaissance or even that she was just scouting now. If that was the case, they could spy on the spy. Theron would find a way to make that splendidly useful.

Theron gave another tiny nod at that, but she stopped at Alistair's door a moment later. The woman pulled a long, thin knife of an odd design from within her skirts, and the two elves pounced.

The scuffle was brief and messy. She aimed the knife at Theron and Zevran thanked the maker his lover was so fast on his feet. Zevran was even faster and a quick, sharp kick to the knee toppled the woman. He was sitting on her by the time Alistair and his guard got the door open.

He looked from Zevran, straddling her waist with her arms twisted back, to Theron, hand wrapped in her hair and her own knife to her throat. The woman, by comparison, was young, pretty, quite lacking tattoos and scars… Quite a splendid tableau. Alistair took a deep breath and sighed tragically. "I hope you two have a really, really good explanation for what I'm seeing."

"We brought you a present?" Theron offered. Alistair didn't look amused, but Zevran appreciated it. "This matches the knife the assassin Sten cut in half was carrying." He straightened, bracing his boot on the girl's neck as he handed the dagger, hilt first, to Alistair.

"Oh, excellent. This day gets better and better." Zevran was irrationally annoyed to find the king knew about the attempt on Theron. Shouldn't he be first? But perhaps he'd heard secondhand.

"Not even a thank you?" Theron tried to look wounded. It didn't suit him. "Two in one day. And obviously working for the same force. So that's interesting."

"Very." Zevran realized what had been bothering him. He wished Theron had mentioned the peculiar dagger design, but he wouldn't have known to. "Recognizable weapons are not the purview of sensible assassins. Crow daggers are of excellent design, but also readily available. Most people assume that the style was simply copied, but it was in fact intentionally leaked as a smokescreen." Zevran had had to figure that out on his own, but the wisdom behind it was clear. Alistair was blinking a little vaguely, but Theron was attentive. He could probably translate back to Gray Warden for the king's benefit.

"You'll have to help us along with this, Zevran. And maybe you should get off of her while you do so?" Theron smiled helpfully, nodding to the several guards who had assembled following the commotion. Zevran assented, making sure the woman was in hand before he released her. He had any Antivan's studied, theoretical respect for delicate females, but he was also a Crow, and knew many women as dangerous as any male operative. This one was deadly silent now, glowering at him viciously. He didn't want to make her angrier.

He dusted himself off theatrically to make them wait. "As I was saying, a calling card is an excellent thing for making a point, but not recommended if one wishes to preserve plausible deniability. Especially outside Antiva, where high profile assassinations barely register as out of the ordinary. And these knives are most distinct. Blackened steel, thin blades, and even this… runic symbol. I do not recognize it, but these are assassins who wish their work to be known."

"And how is this different from the Crows?" Alistair looked like he just wanted to go to bed. Good of him to try and pay attention.

"Depends on the situation, of course. Sometimes an assassination is meant to be noticed and credit is meant to be taken. That may be the intention of this lovely lady." Zevran bowed to her. She spat at him. "So this is one possibility. And ending the career of the king and his right hand in a day would certainly be a point. However, I doubt this to be the case. Neither of these assassins has been especially skilled." She actually growled at him. Odd sound. Cou'ghi growled back. "Which could be a warning shot, perhaps? Or the other possibility is that we are dealing with an order of fanatics. Such a faction arose within the Crows once, before my time. One who spends too much time with death may very well become fixated. Cults arise. What I suspect is that one such is targeting you."

"Oh, splendid. That's fantastic, Zevran. Thank you for making my day brighter." Alistair covered his face in his hands. "Take her to the dungeon. And… And double the guard. Around and inside the castle. I want at least two guards on Theron's room and… Well, I suppose you'll be there, Zevran. But two, nonetheless. And that's all I'm good for today, I'm afraid."

Theron sighed. "We still have a window, Alistair. And I doubt I'll get much sleep tonight, so why don't we just—"

"No." Theron looked surprised. Zevran had never heard Alistair tell the elf off before. Well, he deserved it. "You've been alternately sulking and running yourself ragged since the end of the battle. Honestly, you look worse than you did while we were actually fighting Darkspawn every ten minutes. Go to bed. And… That is an order." He crossed his arms and tried to look kingly. Zevran thought he was getting better at it.

Theron seemed to want to argue, but Zevran agreed with Alistair too much to let him. He rested his hand against the other elf's softly, turning a bit so it wasn't visible to the king, the prisoner, and the guards. "You are going the right way to be useless now. To bed with you." He shot a look at Alistair quickly and grinned. "And bring me with?"

That convinced him. "The girl is in hand. We'll deal with this in the morning, then." Theron took a long look at the prisoner and sighed. "Goodnight."

"Sweet dreams, and a pleasanter morning." Alistair turned to talk quickly with the guards and then returned to his room.

Theron sighed and, once he saw that the hallway was clear again, hooked his arm in Zevran's. "You're wicked."

"I am perfectly excellent and morally upright. You, on the other hand, are a tease." Zevran stuck his nose in the air. "While I understand your motivations, you could certainly have gotten me quickly out of the kitchen without getting my hopes up so."

"I wanted to be expedient." Theron had the decency to look sheepish. "And maybe I wanted to see if it would work."

"And maybe you are utterly incorrigible." Zevran sniffed. "If you weren't so decidedly handsome I would leave you alone in a cold bed."

"Cou'ghi would sleep with me."

"Spare me! The grisly details are outside even my interest." Theron poked Zevran with his elbow as they approached their room. A guard was already coming up.

Zevran nodded to the poor woman, hoping she'd be horribly annoyed by the noise from their bedroom. Theron had been too tired or stressed to pay him much more mind than a kiss or two. Funny, the Dalish elf hadn't been the least bit overwhelmed by hordes of terrifying monsters, but the pressures of court were straining him terribly.

He needn't have worried. As soon as the door was firmly closed behind them, Theron pushed him against the wall and kissed until they were both breathless. He stepped back with a funny, secret smile.

"So… what happened to your hair?"

"What, you don't like my experiment? I am merely exploring my options. You don't like me brunette?"

"Well, I do appreciate the usual contrast with your complexion." Theron's hand was on his cheek. Zevran was glad for his studied self control. Those tender little gestures made him a bit weak at the knees, and he didn't need to feed the other elf's ego too much. "Is your ear also part of the experiment?"

Zevran raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to be quiet so I can undress you in peace?"

"…That is the only question that might have shut me up."

"It's not working very well, is it?" Theron answered by leaning in and biting gently at his ink-stained earlobe and Zevran's sarcasm descended into a soft moan. Theron was almost too familiar with his weak points. He reached backward, dragging the other elf along as he moved to the bed. The second he touched the mattress he dragged the Warden down with him, growling a possessive declaration in Antivan.

Somehow, the word "love" didn't make him squirm quite so much in his native tongue.