A/N: This is the last chapter! There is the tiniest smattering of Orlesian and Antivan. Thanks again to my beta, Smaragdina (LJ), and my translator, Adrienne (soupconneux on Tumblr). Please, if you've enjoyed the story, I'd love to hear from you. I love reviews (who doesn't?), and I promise I don't bite!

Thanks to all my readers, no matter how much you've read; this entire story has been me trying out various things, from new ways of using dialogue for character building, to utilizing other languages (which I don't think I'll repeat), to writing fight scenes based in old military theory. I hope you enjoyed some, or even all, of it!

Couper la Poire en Deux

His estate is four stories high and doesn't sprawl nearly as much she would have expected, even warned by the maps. There is no curtain wall like there would be in Denerim; it's all one building with what look like towers at each corner poking up just a few floors above the roof. The first floor shows no windows and what windows there are are small, and the whole building is made of stone. The gate to the front courtyard and other seemingly random spots are carved intricately with scenes from the Chant of Light and higher up are gilded designs. Gargoyles stare down from the roof and Cauthrien thinks she can see jeweled eyes glinting in the afternoon sun.

The whole thing is ostentatious and arrogant. Denerim is just as crowded as Jader, and yet the Arl of Denerim's estate is still walled and purely practical on the exterior.

The front gate is lowered and she frowns at it from where she and the mercenaries are camped across and down the broad thoroughfare.

"He's not going to let us all in," she mutters.

Janine, at her elbow, laughs grimly. "You thought he would?"

"I thought he'd at least have the gate open." She taps a gauntleted finger (she's borrowed a few pieces of armor from the other mercenaries) against her chin. "We'll have to force it once a few of us are through, and he won't like that. We'll be showing our hand a little early."

"And I still think he would know what we were planning the moment you marched the eight of us through his front door."

"He's arrogant. It was possible he could just be intimidated." She shrugs, then turns to survey to group. Apart from Janine, she has seven other mercenaries to draw on. Three are light infantry in leathers with quick weapons. The others are like Janine, walking bulwarks with weapons that crush. She falls somewhere in the middle, itching for her usual mail and plate.

She pulls Janine in to what will amount to her guard (she hates the sound of that), as well as an archer, a quick and nimble elven swordswoman who eschews even a shield, and a man who towers over even her and carries a hammer. They look a motley bunch, but there's no helping it; even if she took all of her mercenaries in heavy armor, they would be mismatched and awkward, personal armor and weapons of varying ages and styles.

No, she builds for versatility.

Janine had earlier suggested she stay behind and lead the second band, but Cauthrien simply shook her head and said, "Mages."

So that gives her one just-as-good-as-a-templar, an imposing wall who can break walls, a distracting and fast little woman who would fill Zevran's role, and an archer whose claim to fame was being able to scale a three-story building in under three minutes. It would do.

She lays out plans quickly and calmly, slipping into her commander's voice just as Janine falls back into attentive subordinate. She's grown close to the woman over the last few days and they've taken to bantering, but here, now, is no longer the place.

"The five of us will attempt to walk in the front gate. If the rest stay out of sight, there's a chance that he won't lower the gate immediately. If the opportunity presents itself, take it; otherwise, we will attempt to both end the engagement quickly and open the gate as soon as possible from the inside. There's no knowing how many guards he'll have with him, or if he'll even receive us if I don't come alone. If he's shy, then we force the encounter.

"Taking down Lorraine is top priority. Finding Arainai follows directly on that. There is a chance that he is already dead. If not, he is injured and likely unable to fight. He's been in there three days, and the Comte does not strike me as a gracious host to assassins who hold their tongues. If Arainai is dead or dies in the conflict, I will personally ensure that the Crown pays each and every one of you. I expect loyalty in this last push.

"From what we know, there's a stable just off the main courtyard. When the job is done, we will take on the responsibility of liberating all of those well-bred Orlesian steeds. The Fereldan cavalry could use some new blood." There are a few laughs among the group and her lips curl in a thin smile. "And if anybody sees my sword, I'd appreciate it back." More laughter. If these were soldiers, she might have felt awkward admitting her lost equipment, but here it's the sort of joke that makes her seem real and approachable. She just hopes that whatever Zevran has promised them is enough to keep them with her.

"Maker protect us all."

They break just as the Jader chantry begins ringing the bells that mark the hour. Janine comes to her elbow and says, lightly, "Seems like a good time to start singing to Him, huh?"

"If the others want it, go right ahead."

"You don't?"

Cauthrien purses her lips, then shrugs. "I don't want to waste the time, but if more people than just me want it, I'll certainly kneel."

"Ah, good to know we have a reasonable Andrastian leading us in." Janine's small smile widens into a grin. "The Maker, in my experience, greatly favors pragmatism.

"And you think my plan of rush the enemy until he's dead is pragmatic?"

Janine shrugs. "He also favors boldness. Let's just hope you've got the right mix going."

It takes twenty minutes for Lorraine to open the gate.

Well, Cauthrien thinks as she watches the metal slowly rise, it took him twenty minutes to choose to open the gate. She can see through to the front door of the estate; it's up a short set of steps from the courtyard and standing at the top if Lorraine, dressed in-

Her breathing stops.

He's wearing full Chevalier plate, plate that went out of style three decades ago but is as familiar to her as the weight of a sword in her hands. It's not his- it's not- and she keeps repeating that to herself as the gate winches up into place and she and her impromptu guard step through.

It's not Loghain's; the pauldrons are reversed, and she notes from how he wears his sword that he's left handed.

Well, that will make things interesting.

She has her composure back as they stride into the courtyard. A quick glance around tells her that the majority of Lorraine's men stand before him. There are two archers up in the windows facing the courtyard, but their bows don't appear to be nocked. Not yet.

She stops a ways back from the center of the courtyard yet, unwilling to cut herself off entirely. The gate behind them remains open.

"Ah, Ser Cauthrien!" Lorraine calls when she stops moving. She meets his gaze but does not respond, and he chuckles, lowering himself one step. "I see you did not take my advice on your attire. A pity."

Cauthrien frowns at his use of Common; he intends to embarrass her, she thinks, letting her guard understand. But it makes this easier and more pleasant for her, even as her shoulders tense and her chin rises in indignation.

"You already know that I am not a whore. It would-" she pauses, considering just how much she wants to bait him. (A lot, she thinks, but really, the question is how much she should-) "It would be shameful, coming here in a disguise we both know is false. I am much more comfortable in this."

"Ah, but it's not yours! I think you would look better in your own armor, my dear."

"Then hand it over."

"Hah! Of course, my dear Cauthrien- but only if you strip out of those rags first."

It seems her time with Zevran has given her at least one advantage: she does not blush. She does, however, narrow her eyes and say, "Must I repeat myself in Common to make you understand? You are too familiar."

He laughs again, wrinkled skin creasing further, and beckons her towards him. "Come now, don't be like that. I'm sure that we can come to a... pleasant enough arrangement. My offer still stands, and I'll even give you back your little elven toy!"

He is not a toy is replaced before she can speak with, "He is not mine, Lorraine."

He flinches at the lack of title but hides it well. "Oh?" he asks, lightly, taking another step down towards her. His guards part. She hears Janine shift at her right. The gate has yet to lower again and Cauthrien can only hope that the remaining mercenaries have sidled up to the building and are close to the entrance.

"I have no claim on him except that he works for the same employer," Cauthrien says, levelly. She itches to have her sword in her hand, but to walk in with weapons drawn or to draw her weapon now would be impolitic and, more importantly, dangerous. So she crosses her arms over her chest instead, eyes never leaving the Comte.

"The marks on his throat would suggest otherwise. He was quite happy to boast of their provenance, even if he wouldn't give me your name. How did you find my gift, by the way? Was it... stimulating?"

"A great conversation piece, surely," she responds, voice dry. She will have to tell Zevran not to brag about that sort of thing in the future. She doesn't know how many more bits of his body he can spare.

Lorraine frowns, seemingly at a loss for words. Finally, he sighs and shrugs, holding out his armor-clad hands. "Cauthrien, lovely little Cauthrien, do you really delight in games like this? What will it take to win you? Our retaking of Ferelden?" He grins. "Is that just the sort of thing to bring you to your knees? I will have you there, make no mistake."

Cauthrien grits her teeth and fights not to respond, her eyes narrowed to slits and the muscles of her jaw and throat jumping. Her right hand twitches, eager to take up steel. She sees red at the mention of invasion, red at his arrogance, red at his obsession with a Fereldan farmer's daughter who stands not for something unobtainable but something that is to be crushed and conquered and taken.

She wonders if Zevran's spies told him that much. A fetish for Ferelden.

"You know," he continues, taking the final step down to the ground, now with only two guards between him and her, "without all of your paint, you look familiar."

No. No, she will not give him the time to remember her aunt, to place her any more than he already has. There's the softest mess of sounds behind her and she can make out leather and metal and breath, and so she lifts her chin.

"I'm not interested in reliving your good old days," she says, simply, and then reaches back to unharness her sword, her other hand raising up in a fist as she bellows the order to attack.

Lorraine has come too far down the stairs and he scrambles to put his guards between her and him, but she's fast and the guards are surprised at how soon the courtyard fills with armed men and women, and she manages to push through the guard and unbalance two of them so that they tumble down in a crash of armor.

Lorraine has his sword drawn and raised by then, and he edges back towards his open door. The landing they're on is too small to maneuver and so she can only force him into the interior, getting herself through the doorway at a crouch in case there are any strung traps waiting.

There aren't, and the moment she straightens he's on her, sword cutting low and shield pushing to her right, attempting to catch her sword before she can bring it into guard. She's forced back into the side wall but gains enough space and leverage to push his shield away and bring her sword before her.

It's like sparring with Loghain, only a mirror image who is far more out of practice and far more intent on doing real damage. At first she attempts to mirror her own moves, but that proves too complicated on the first real engagement. From then on she forces herself to ignore the similarities in size, in armor, in weapon. They fight differently, she realizes in the back of her mind, and she can use that to her advantage.

He will not unsteady her with a gleaming flash of thirty-year-old metal.

He growls something in Orlesian, but she can't hear it above the roar outside of pitched battle. It begins to spill into the building as she forces Lorraine back across the entry room. The two great front doors are mirrored directly across the room and are propped barely open. He ducks between them and she follows.

Those doors open on to a grand ballroom, its furniture covered in white sheets and carpets laid down to protect what must be a floor of polished, inlaid wood if anything she's heard about Orlais is true. Their footsteps are muffled as she presses forward and then is pressed back. He won't let her get close enough to catch and throw him down, and she circles warily. Her eyes flick towards one of the curving staircases leading to a balcony above just as Janine runs full tilt up it, not pursued and not pursuing.

And then Lorraine darts in from her right, faster than she'd expected, and while she brings her sword up in time to stop his, he slams his shield hard into her chest and she goes down. He laughs and hisses,

"Enfin je t'ai à mes pieds, salope fereldaine!¹"

She gasps for breath as she rolls onto the curve of her back and kicks up, driving her booted feet into left knee. He howls and she has just enough time to get back on her feet and circle around, blade poised.

There are others in the room now, seemingly all of his guards and all of her men, and she sees more metal flash up the stairways. She growls as she barely parries a downward cut towards her shoulder courtesy of Lorraine before side-stepping a pike thrust towards her side by a guard. She's pushed away from Lorraine just enough that he falls back and joins his other men on the stairs, while she catches the pike on her half-sworded blade and closes enough that she can unbalance him and take him out in echo of the same way she did the hurlock all those weeks ago by West Hill.

And then it's her turn to take the stairs two at a time, as she shouts out orders behind her.

"Hold the stairs!" she cries, and the mountain of a man in armor crashes his hammer into the skull of one of the Orlesian guards before taking up position at one end of the staircase. One of the other heavy mercenaries who followed in the second round takes the other end. An arrow flies past her and lodges in a guard's throat and she kicks the body down behind her as it falls.

Lorraine comes at her with sword raised and shield in front of his chest. She brings her blade up and around and meets his from the left, pushing in fast and catching his shield on her shoulder. He may still practice, may still know how to handle a sword, but she's taller than he is, and younger. She's stronger, too, and she forces his shield arm against his chest as she steps her right foot around him and forces his sword up and back. She lowers her sword, pommel towards his head, and as he brings his sword back down and around on her left, she catches her right arm across his throat. Her left hand grips the blade of her sword and she forces her right knee up as she pulls back. He tries desperately to crash his shield into her face but she ducks and completes the throw, rolling him over her leg as she turns.

She completes the spin with her sword pointed at his gut and stabs down just as he rolls away.

She follows but it's hard striking him on the ground, and he stumbles away far enough that another of his guards intercepts and she's forced to parry and engage. She tries to keep one eye on him as he scrambles to his feet, anger twisting his face, but she has to look away to stay alive, to maneuver out of a hold, to drive her foot into the guard's gut with enough force to send him tumbling over the railing.

By that time, Lorraine is halfway to a small door around the horseshoe of the balcony, two more guards falling in to place to cover his exit.

He snarls as his eyes meet hers and shouts, "Tu vas baiser ma cravache alors que tu suces ma bite parce que je suis chevalier, et tu es pire qu'une chienne, conasse fereldaine! Je vais te punir!²"

The moment he's through the door, Cauthrien stalks forward with her sword held out behind her in Nebenhut³. There's a flash of memory and she remembers Janine streaking through that door not five minutes before. Her pace quickens.

Another arrow finds one of the guards and sends him sliding down the wall with a scream that falls into a gurgle, and the other expects her to go right when she goes left and ends up with one less head than he started with.

She's panting for breath as she pushes into the dimly lit, narrow hallway that leads off the balcony. She closes the door behind her before advancing slowly, eyes darting to each side. Each room she passes she looks in to, then closes when she's sure it's empty. It's slow going and in the growing quiet as the noise of the ballroom falls away, all she can hear is her pulse and the whisper of you're going to lose him.

She can hear something ahead of her down the hall, but she can't make out what it is besides metal on metal. It could be Janine or Lorraine or both. She picks up her pace, clearing rooms as fast as she can.

One of the last rooms before the hall ends in a large, ornate door is dominated by a large stone sarcophagus with its lid toppled off the side and leaning barely propped. She barely notices except for a glimpse of red, and then she slows.

Three dead mages ring the box.

Janine.

She enters the room and hurries to the sarcophagus, but there's nothing there except a few smears of blood, a few pale, blonde hairs.

She takes a deep breath and then runs from the room, to the ornate doors, and out them.

A long staircase winds down into a garden, and she can see a glimpse of metal through carefully manicured bushes and trees. Cauthrien forces herself to descend slowly and watch her footing, but as soon as she's on the ground, she slinks along paved pathways, looking around for any sign of Lorraine.

There's harsh panting and she turns in its direction. It leads her into a circle-shaped plaza with a labyrinth set into the stone below her, and there is Lorraine, clutching at his chest and glaring hard at her.

"There you are," she says, advancing.

"Stand down," he hisses in Common, as if she will be more apt to listen to him if he speaks in her tongue. "I don't know what you want, but-"

She doesn't reply, merely darts forward with her sword cutting up, and he shouts, parries, and manages to catch her gauntlet on his shield and force her arm up. She loses her tight grip on her sword and he uses the opportunity to unbalance her and knock her to the ground. Her sword goes skittering across the paving stones, and she grabs his downward stabbing blade in time only to deflect it, the edge cutting across her jaw in a searing line of heat.

He's ended up balanced on one knee to drive his blade down, and she keeps hold of his sword as she hooks a leg around his waist and pulls, rolling them. She crashes her elbow hard enough against the weak underside of the elbow joint of his armor and he hisses, grip relaxing enough that she pulls his blade from his hand and turns it on him. He tries to throw his shield up in front of him again, but she drives her other shoulder onto it. It leaves her awkwardly bent over him, her legs and hips holding his down, her upper body pinning his shield, the sword caught between the neck of his armor and his jaw.

She presses down.

Lorraine swings his unpinned arm up and his fist connects with her jaw but she falters only on her grip on his sword. He curses as she slips and draws blood but does not press hard enough to kill. She's shifting back, grasping for his free wrist desperately, when she hears a low chuckle.

Zevran drops to one knee at Lorraine's head, and she watches as his left hand- whole, undamaged- presses a dagger to the line Cauthrien has created. Lorraine's eyes widen and he thrashes, leaving Cauthrien to pin him down, abandoning the sword to better hold him.

"You told me," Zevran murmurs, eyes flicking up to her, "that I was to never steal your kills or come to your rescue again. So, here we are. You may have the honor." And he twists his hand so that she can easily take the hilt of his knife.

She stares down at Lorraine, then shakes her head.

"No. I think you had better go ahead."

Zevran makes a pleased little sound, one she's heard in bed and conversation, and he draws the blade almost tenderly across Lorraine's throat. He leans in close as Lorraine's pupils dilate and his body bucks up against Cauthrien's.

She hears him whisper, "Éso es para ponerme en esa caja.⁴" And then he sits back, watching as Lorraine thrashes and fights as the blood slowly drains out of him.

Finally the man falls still, eyes going glassy and breath falling to a wheezing whisper. Cauthrien pushes herself up from him and to her feet, standing back. Her gaze only grudgingly leaves the old Chevalier's face to look at Zevran, now standing as well with only the faintest of smirks touching his otherwise hard expression.

It's the tip of his right ear that's missing, and his index and middle finger of his right hand. He looks haggard, his braids coming undone and his eyes ringed in dark blue. There are bruises, too, everywhere she looks, and cuts. But he's standing steadily, and when he catches her gaze, he smiles.

"Well, querida. A job well done, yes?"

She feels herself smiling in return, though it feels awkward and lopsided. "... there are still two things left to do."

"Oh?"

"My sword-"

There's a rattle of metal and Janine is leaning over the balcony up to the hall Cauthrien has just come through. She holds a set of chain and plate and, more importantly, a two-handed sword taller than she is with a diamond-patterned hilt.

"You two!" Janine calls, jerking her head toward the door. "Come on, we've got them on the run! We're going to have Jader guards coming down on her heads before you can blink!"

Cauthrien starts for the steps while Zevran crouches again and begins to unbuckle Lorrain's gauntlet. Zevran slides the metal off and uses his dagger to lop off the same two fingers he is now lacking, pockets them in a pouch attached to his belt, and comes after her.

They're halfway up the steps when Zevran catches up and says, "and the other thing?"

Cauthrien shrugs. "I hope you know how to ride."

"You know, I never asked." They're six hours of frantic riding outside of Jader, just drawing up on the trio of familiar wagons. Cauthrien swings her leg over and dismounts, regretting the lack of time to properly saddle the horses. Her entire body aches; riding for so long just after a brutal fight with no time to change clothing or even catch her breath has left her exhausted. Still, their triumph and Zevran's safe return have her in a good mood and she's almost smiling when she takes the reins from Zevran while he deftly slides down from his perch.

"Asked what?" he asks when his feet touch the ground and she passes the reins back.

"Why the queen sent us after Lorraine in the first place. I didn't care, at first, and then I forgot that I didn't know."

He shrugs. "He has been petitioning the Empress of Orlais to reclaim Ferelden, citing, I believe, that the Blight had been handled badly. Odd, that, when it was the shortest to ever happen."

Cauthrien stops walking and turns to face him. "... Well."

"Well?" He smiles and passes by her, his horse snorting.

"Well, it's a good thing he's dead, then," she says, shrugging. Zevran laughs and she hurries to catch up with him on long strides. "What?"

"Vengeance is a fine reason to kill, you know. I do not judge! We do not all need glorious excuses like It is the archdemon or I am getting paid a handsome sum." He waves a hand. "Just keep in mind that vengeance should not dissuade planning, and I think we shall be good. In fact, I should remember that."

Cauthrien doesn't say anything, the wild thrill of victory fading quickly. Instead, she takes the lead of his horse and walks them both to the first wagon, tethering them. They've made camp alongside a stream and the horses amble down to the water. Cauthrien watches.

Zevran sighs, just behind her left ear, and she startles.

"Querida," he says, and she blinks at the endearment, confused, "do you know what foolish thing I did? Do you know how I decided to throw our plans to the winds?"

"I assumed that Lorraine's men were waiting for you at the brothel," she responds, turning to him and leaning against the side of the wagon.

"Oh, no. No, I was far more foolish than that." He sits down at her feet, leaning back on his uninjured hand and smiling up at her. That smile unnerves her; it makes so little sense with what she knows, what she remembers, but it's as genuine as the smile he gave her the night in Ghislain's pass when he made her scream. "No, I went straight to our friend the Comte. Did you know, the man had a fleet of small dogs- only a foot high at the shoulders, and they all looked like miniature mabari? Saw them all in a herd through a doorway at one point.

"Anyway, I snuck in the back door, waltzed up the steps, traipsed about his gardens - such lovely gardens, aren't they? Though I suppose you did not have the time to appreciate them - and straight into the arms of his guards. Many of them. I did not even come close to my goal.

"No, I was too distracted, thinking about how I could not trust you and how, just a little, I would have liked to make him suffer in return for what he paid you and your family. I am a generous man, yes? But a foolish one, there is no doubt." He sighs.

She wonders how he can talk about this as if nothing has happened. Two and a half days of imprisonment and he comes out of it missing bits. At least, she thinks, he came out of it to the team's success. At least he came out of it.

Perhaps that's how he moves past it. Or perhaps, as she's beginning to understand, he simply is a superb actor who does not show much on the surface besides lecherous good nature.

"Lorraine sent me a letter," she says when she realizes he's stopped speaking and is looking up at her. She'd burned the thing before she and Janine had left the safehouse, but now regrets it - she would have liked to see Zevran's reaction to it.

She turns from him to fish in the back of the wagon for a waterskin, which she drinks deep from. Cauthrien is just about to toss it to him when she remembers his only free hand is injured, and then she leans forward to hand it to him. He takes it with a grin.

"Oh?"

"Yes, it said you were quite... uncommunicative."

Zevran laughs, that rolling, rollicking sound she's gotten quite used to and noted the absence of only too sharply these last few days. "Hm. Yes, I suppose that is a good word for it. Oh, I talked and talked when they asked me to! Just not about what he was interested in, I'm afraid."

"And that's why..." She motions to his hand, his ear.

Zevran shakes his head. "Oh, no. No, they tried the more usual tactics. Half-drownings, the rack, lashes. You are familiar with them, yes? I recall you mentioning that sometimes such things are necessary."

Her jaw clenches at the thought. It is true, though - even if this was not such a situation.

"At any rate," he continues, "we Crows, we are put through training much like that. I do not think our friend the Comte appreciated me laughing as if I were being tickled." He grins, waggling a brow.

"You are in high spirits," she comments, taking the waterskin when he offers it back and taking another large swallow. She glances up as one of the translators calls a greeting, lifting her hand in return. There will be more time for full reunions later, though, once a fire is going and food is ready. For now, she returns her attention to Zevran. "I didn't expect to find you like this."

"Ah, but fresh air is so good for the soul, cariña! Especially after you have spent a day trapped in a tiny little stone box." Here his expression falls and he pushes himself back to his feet, turning from her and drawing his blade. He plays with it in his uninjured hand, twisting it and twirling it. She can see just barely how the muscles in his neck tense and relax. He's thinking.

She does not press.

"Did you see it?" he finally asks.

"See what?"

"The sarcophagus. He took great pride in telling me where it came from. Grand Nevarra! Yes, a relic from before the Pentaghasts came to power. He wove such stories, that man. I did not listen most of the time; they were all boring. Of course, when one is being shoved into such a tomb and the lid is being slid into place with magic, one is a bit more attentive." He turns just a little and he catches the hard set of his lips, the slight furrow in his brow.

"The Crows teach you how to hold up under most tortures. They do not, however, teach you much about how to hold up under nothing."

Cauthrien frowns. "What do you mean, nothing?"

"Just what I said," he says with a sigh and a roll of his shoulders. She can see now how he keeps moving even more than normal, puts his joints through their full range of motion, steps lightly and rolls on the ball of his foot. "No light, no sound- no movement. Nothing but yourself. You spent a great deal of time with nothing but yourself, Cauthrien- imagine if you had not been able to soothe it with alcohol or with pacing or with whatever else it was you did to pass the time?"

She goes cold and still at the thought. She has tried to put that behind her, those shameful weeks spent with nothing but bottles, wallowing when she could have been watching for a subtle sign of order or favor from her queen.

And she has only the regrets of a year. When she looks at Zevran, she realizes she has no idea what he may have had to relive and sink into in that darkness.

"And so," he says finally, shaking whatever bleak memories have resurfaced, "I enjoy the fresh air now. The man responsible is dead, I am free, and I am only a little worse for wear." He summons a grin, seemingly from the Void itself, and she watches as the tension melts from his face.

Still, she glances back to his injuries once more. They're something she can't forget and can even less forgive herself for. If she'd only been faster; if she'd only stuck to the original plan.

"Your hand-"

"Unpleasant, but manageable." He chuckles. "You and the Orlesians do have a few things in common, you know. For instance, you grip your swords with your first two fingers. Ah, but in Antiva-" He shifts his sword to his injured hand, and she sees how his last two fingers sit on the hilt, controlling it with a light touch. When she reaches out and tries to push at the blade, he's able to keep it in place. "I will lose some of my strength, but it is not final."

"... And your ear?"

Zevran's grin remains in place as he leans in and sheathes his sword. "He has found perhaps one of the few elves who does not feel much attachment to his people. I am Antivan, not an elf- and I shall wear the notch as a battle scar. The ladies love battle scars!"

She flushes faintly at the abrupt shift in topic, though it is welcome and familiar and a reminder that, despite the tension and fear of the last few days, they are still the same people who entered Jader. "You have plans for going out carousing again?"

"As soon as we return to Denerim! Unless-" He pauses and quirks a brow in question, sidling up to her until there is only heat between them. "Unless that would make you jealous, Ser Cauthrien?"

"It-" She frowns, then pushes him away. He laughs, dancing back. "I have no claim on you."

"Ah, but if you would like to, I'll offer it up! For a time, at least."

"After all... of this?" she asks, waving a hand back in the direction of the city.

"Oh, I did not say I would care to work with you again. But bed you? Tease you? Dodge your very muscled arms when you try and punch me? Oh! I could get used to that."

She can't help but look at him disbelievingly and snort. She, at least, can't forget how she'd driven him directly into Lorraine's maw.

He shrugs again, languidly sidling up to her once more and dropping an arm around her waist. "If you like, I could punish you. Do they do lashes in the Ferelden army? I would be happy to play disciplinarian. If you'd like. Or even if you say you wouldn't like but actually would. You may be as coy as you wish!"

"You are an unhealthy little man," she says, flatly, though there's color rising to her cheeks. The determination of his pursuit is overwhelming. That he could still be interested after everything her actions have led to only cements her opinion that he has a truly obscene fetish for women like Georgiana Cousland. And, it seems, herself.

"Unhealthy! I assure you, Wynne has checked me over several times. I take very good care of myself."

"I mean in that head of yours," she says. Her voice falters when he takes her hand with his uninjured one and brings it to his lips, playing his mouth along her fingers. She snatches it back and he grins.

"Is it the lashes? We can forget about the lashes."

"No, it's-" Cauthrien pauses, coloring still more strongly at the implication. "I'm not interested in the- lashes, but what I meant is-"

His hand snakes out again and takes hers, this time without protest. He pulls the tip of her index finger into her mouth and touches his tongue to it. She stops talking.

"I do not think," he says, slowly, when he pulls his tongue away, "that it is up to you who I pursue, only in the way you let me do it, yes? Do not question, and I can assure you a lovely time back to Denerim. And by then, who knows- you may have finally killed me, I may have sated my appetites, or..."

She doesn't want to hear whatever might come last, and so she grabs him close and presses her lips to his. This isn't the grand love she sometimes still dreams could have been between her and Loghain. There are no maps sprawled out beneath them, no armor gleaming in the practice yard, no bellowed orders adoringly obeyed. She will eventually grow unable to stand him, or he her, and yet-

A trip back to Denerim, pausing the sit along the banks of the River Dane and complain endlessly about the Orlesian penchant for ridiculous face paints and equally ridiculous lap-sized mabari-like dogs sounds lovely, and she looks forward to it with a lightness she hasn't felt since before the order to retreat came at Ostagar.

¹ At last I have you at my feet, you Fereldan bitch!

² You will fuck my riding crop while you suck my cock because I am a Chevalier, and you are no better than a dog, you Fereldan bitch! I will tame you!

³ Nebenhut, "near ward", from Liechtenauer's German longsword (two-handed sword) fencing system. Assume German is "Alamarri", i.e., the original language spoken in Ferelden

⁴ That is for putting me in that box.

Final author's note: I do have ideas for a few other fics about Cauthrien within this world, so if you're interested, keep a look out. :)