Dragon Age: Progeny Ch. 4

Leliana and Morrigan headed south to the Korcari Wilds, while Zevran and Soraya headed west, leaving a trail toward the Frostback Mountains for the templars to follow. The weather turned cold, and paired with Ferelden's annual rainy season, it wasn't long before Soraya was slowed down by a head cold.

Zevran cursed in Antivan, longing for the sunshine of fairer lands as rain fell and wind battered them morning, noon and night. Daylight faded quickly in the ever present, gray gloom, and camping was miserable. He felt as though he had not been completely dry for days, and the smell of wet mabari permeated everything.

He heard coughing several paces behind him and turned. Soraya came up the trail, walking as though her feet weighed as much as the warm aravel they had left behind in the Brecilian Forest two weeks before. Frowning, the Antivan doubled back, pausing as the mage folded in half, coughing again as she steadied herself against Rontu.

"You are not well," Zevran murmured as he came to stand in front of her, concern in his amber eyes. The mabari looked up at him, whining in appeal. He, too, was worried about the mage's health.

"I'm fine," Soraya told them after she had recovered her breath. "It's just a cold."

"Dragon shit," Zevran muttered. Her eyes were bloodshot and glassy, her skin flushed and her expression weary. She seemed barely able to stand now that they had paused, swaying slightly on her feet. He pressed his palm to her forehead, then the back of his fingers to her reddened cheeks. She was a walking furnace. "You have a fever."

"I have felt better," she admitted, a commiserating smile bringing some light back to her face.

"We're a half day's walk to a small village." Zevran watched her face as she considered, weighing the need to put as much distance between them and the templars who might be hunting her against the need for rest and recovery. Oh, to be dry again, he murmured privately. "They have an inn. We can rest there until your strength returns."

Soraya nodded. "Very well," she said with a sigh. "Maybe just for a night or two?"

The Antivan picked up the pace, and despite her obvious misery, the mage did her best to keep up with him. Even so, it was nightfall by the time they reached the small inn on the edge of the tiny hamlet.

While the Grey Warden rested by the roaring hearth, Rontu at her side, Zev approached the innkeeper for a room. A stout, dark-haired woman with piggish eyes glared at him, small mouth puckered in disdain.

"What do you want, knife ears?" she asked, as though he were lower than dragon droppings.

"I require accommodations for the night. What do you have available?" Zev asked the woman, ignoring the insult.

"I have a cot upstairs for ten silvers for your … master," she offered gruffly, jutting her chin in the direction of the weary mage. "You can sleep in the street… with that stinking hulk of a dog."

Zevran sniffed, arching a brow. "You can't have possibly seen much of the world, or you would realize that is no ordinary dog. He is a mabari war hound, and only people of worth claim them. I'll take your finest room for the woman over there and her hound. One with a hearth. I'll take one for myself, as well, although it need not be so … fancy. And three baths. One for the woman, her mabari, and one for me."

"Oh, really?" she drawled, dripping with condescension. "Does your mistress have coin for such fine accommodations?"

Just because I'm an elf, they automatically think I'm the human's servant, the Antivan thought, his anger rising. Jaw clenched despite his pleasant smile, he retrieved a drawstring purse from inside his cloak. What he really wanted to do was take his daggers from their scabbards and plunge each into the eyes of this beastly woman, teach her some manners. Instead, he shook the bag, the sound of heavy gold sovereigns clinking together. The response was immediate and favorable, as the woman's narrow eyes widened greedily.

"I've only one room left, my best. It only has one bed, but it'll fit the three of ya, and then some," she told him, her hand already extended to receive payment. "But it'll cost you. I want twenty sovereigns."

The Antivan resisted the urge to snarl at her for the ridiculous cost, but heard Soraya coughing from where she stood by the heart, wet, miserable and ailing. He smiled sweetly, retrieving the coins from his purse. "For that much, I'll expect two nights and whatever food and drink we may desire."

The innkeeper nodded, her eyes on the coins as he removed them slowly, one by one. "See Marta in the kitchen. She'll see that you get all that you need," she babbled as the coins plunked down into her palm. "The room is at the end of the hall upstairs. The bath is the second door on the right. I'll have someone prepare your baths immediately."

"A pleasure doing business with you," Zevran told her with thinly veiled sarcasm. Too enraptured in the shiny gold coins, the innkeeper was oblivious, nodding silently as she lifted one to her mouth, biting down to verify its quality.

Zevran went to where Soraya and Rontu stood by the roaring hearth. She was shivering, even though she stood close to the flames. "I secured us their finest room," he told her, then made a rueful face. "One bed only."

"That's all right, Zev," she assured him. The weariness of her voice worried him.

"I can sleep on the floor, if you prefer."

"Don't be ridiculous." And then she smiled at him, that slow, shy half smile that always managed to strike him to his heart. "I couldn't ask you to do such a thing. We'll share the bed. It'll be warmer that way."

"Yes, well," he smirked. "I could ensure that it gets very warm, if you like."

She laughed, which prompted a fit of coughing that robbed her of breath. When she had recovered, she saw his expression and made a face at him. "I wouldn't advise it. What if you get sick, too?"

"Well," Zevran said, taking her by the shoulders. "I would advise that you make your way upstairs. There will be a hot bath waiting."

She cast her eyes heavenward, closing them as she sighed in anticipation and relief. "That sounds wonderful, Zev."

Zevran carried their gear up the creaking wooden stairs and into the room. It was small, dominated by the large, heavily draped bed. The small hearth was cold, but firewood was stacked next to it. He pulled a small hatchet from his pack and selected a few small pieces for kindling.

"I'll get a fire going. You go get your bath. Then I'll bathe Rontu, and then myself."

The mabari growled low in his throat in defiance.

"You aren't planning on being difficult, are you, my four-footed friend?"

In answer, Rontu bristled, laying back his ears and baring his teeth at the Antivan.

Zevran looked to Soraya for aid. She shrugged, saying, "This is your idea. You deal with it." Then she gave him a wan smile and left, the sound of her coughing following her out the door.

Zevran cursed softly, then arched a brow at the dog and asserted himself. "You're getting a bath. No arguments. And you will behave for me as though I am Andraste herself, do I make myself clear?"

Rontu dropped to the floor with a heavy sigh and sulked, his chin on his massive paws.


The mabari did, indeed, behave himself for Zevran, moaning sorrowfully the entire time the Antivan scrubbed mud and burrs from his fur.

"You really are such a handsome fellow," the elf told the dog as he rinsed soap suds off the sleek pelt. "You should devote more care to your appearance. How else do you hope to attract a comely she-mabari?"

Rontu grunted in response. Zev played along.

"Oh? Really? You think to attract mabari ladies from as far away as possible with your overpowering stench?"

Rontu answered with a short bark of affirmation.

"Well, let me assure you," Zev told him, putting an arm around the dog's shoulders, one friend imparting advice to the other. "You might not want to draw them all the way from Orlais… those bitches are fussy types. Just ask Leliana."

The mabari cocked his head, whining.

"I speak true," Zev assured him with a companionable pat on the shoulder. "I wonder how those two are doing?" They are constantly in Raya's thoughts. Does she still think of Alistair so often, though, I wonder?

Rontu's jaws closed over Zevran's hand gently.

Zev smiled, standing up and holding out a drying sheet. "Out with you, then. Let's dry you off." He didn't even complain when the dog shook the water from his skin, scattering droplets everywhere. "This is the only time you're getting away with this," Zev grinned, patting the dog on the shoulder. "I'm already wet, and I'm about to get wetter. Now, go find your mistress."


Gloriously clean and dry for the first time in three weeks, Zevran went down to the tavern for some food. Soraya was nowhere to be found. Neither was Rontu, her ever-present canine shadow. Thinking perhaps she had gone immediately to bed, he followed the scent of baking bread and roasting meat to the kitchen at the back of the tavern. A quick-stepping elf was busily removing bread from the oven, giving the roast a turn on the spit as she went. Seeing him, she smiled, bright green eyes out of an angular face greeting him.

"Are you Marta?" Zevran asked.

"Aye," she answered. "Gertrude told me you might be coming down. What can I get you, ser?"

"A platter to take upstairs, if that's all right?"

"Of course," she answered. "For how many?"

"Two. And a dog."

Marta nodded with another smile, and he watched as she assembled a platter of dense, dark bread, pale butter, golden cheese and ripe fruit, along with two tankards of mulled cider, filling the kitchen with the scent of cinnamon and citrus. She supplied an ox roast bone, much meat still clinging to it, for the mabari.

"I was going to use it for soup, but we rarely receive dogs as guests," she explained. "I hope he enjoys it."

Zevran made a wry face. "I'm sure he will think he died and joined the Ancestors. He doesn't have a very discerning palate, my dear."

Marta laughed, and added a loaf of dry bread for the dog, as well. When Zevran tipped her twenty silvers, she bowed at the waist as though he were noble born, a slight blush to her cheeks.

Zevran returned upstairs to a warm room. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, hissing and popping occasionally. Soraya was a mere hump under the thick goose down cover, breathing slow and steady. Rontu, who lay next to her, lifted his head as Zevran entered, his tail wagging briefly.

"Hungry?" he asked the dog, and Rontu stepped from the bed and began to gnaw enthusiastically on his meal.

Zevran approached the side of the bed. Only Soraya's head extended from the down cover, her breathing soft, but with an ominous rattle, and she shivered. He touched her forehead with warm fingers. A fine sheen of perspiration beaded on her skin. Her eyes, bright with fever, opened, looked up at him with a frown.

"I'm sorry," he told her softly. "I didn't want to wake you, but I thought you should eat something."

Soraya sat up, and Zevran sat the platter between them.

"Here," he said, handing her a tankard of hot cider. "Start with this."

She sipped slowly, murmuring her approval. "It's good."

"I had the kitchen maven add some rum. It will warm you up from the inside out. Are you hungry?"

She shook her head. "A little thirsty, that's all."

He nodded, pushing the hair out of her eyes. She seemed oblivious, half asleep. "Finish, and then go back to sleep. You can eat tomorrow, then."


Zevran awoke to the rumble of thunder echoing through the hills, rain pattering on the slate roof over their heads. He propped his head up on his elbow, smiling as he made out Soraya's face in the early morning gloom. Rontu's heavy bulk was at his feet, laying vigilant, ears swiveling at the sounds around him.

He swung out of bed and went to the fireside, stirring the embers back to life as he added kindling. The flames took hold, consuming the wood eagerly.

"Zevran!" Soraya's voice called out sharply behind him, startling him.

He rose suddenly, reaching for a weapon as he turned. Rontu looked at her with his head cocked in confusion. Soraya was sitting up in bed, her hair soaked with perspiration, eyes wide and fearful.

"What it is, Raya?" the assassin asked, frowning as he came to her side. "Were you dreaming of darkspawn?"

She shook her head. "Where are Leliana and Alistair! We have to get to the top of the tower before it's too late! The archdemon…" The rest was lost in a fit of coughing.

"Alistair? Archdemon?" he murmured softly. "Oh Maker, no." He pressed his palm to her forehead. The heat coming from her skin was only rivaled by the flames burning in the hearth across the room. "You're worse. Delirious."

He gently pressed her back down against the pillows, covering her up to her chin. She closed her eyes and was almost immediately asleep. He turned to Rontu. "I don't need to tell you to keep her safe, do I?"

The mabari answered with a short bark.

"That's a good fellow," Zevran said. "I'll find a healer for Soraya. Stay with her."



The woman Marta sent was just as unpleasant as the innkeeper, short, stout and smelling of old cabbage. She waddled into the room, gazing at him with black eyes and a lip curled in disdain. Her greasy, unwashed hair was pulled back into a tight bun at her nape, covering her skull like the wings of a graying crow.

"I am Alfre, the healer."

Zevran nodded, but did not deign to offer his name in return. She turned her head when she heard Soraya coughing harshly. Seeing Rontu for the first time, the woman scowled, shooing the dog off the bed. Rontu complied, but not before giving her a warning stare. The woman seemed nonplussed by the mabari's demonstration, and went to Soraya's side, pulling the covers down over her hips. She pressed her palm to the shivering mage's forehead and cheeks.

"Are you her servant, knife ears?" she asked Zevran without looking up at him, instead jabbing her fingers into the mage's neck to gauge her pulse.

"No," he spat.

She grunted softly, leaning over to press her ear against Soraya's chest. After a moment, she rose with a bubbling sigh. "She's got the lung sickness, but not for long. I've a poultice that will clear this up in a couple of days." She paused, frowning. The healer bent over Soraya once again, running a searching hand over her breasts and belly.

"What in Andraste's name are you doing?" Zevran asked in a warning tone.

Alfre flicked her gaze up and over at him. "Are you the father?"

Zevran frowned. The woman was making no sense. "The father of what?"

Those black eyes stared at him. "She's with child." She gave him a moment to let this revelation sink in. "Or didn't you know?"

"No," he breathed. "I didn't." It was true, he hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. Even now, he didn't. But then, with the onset of the sudden cold, she was cloaked most of the time. He would not notice any change in her appearance.

Alfre gave him an unpleasant smirk. "You're not the father, judging by the look on your face." Then she turned away from him, reaching into the bag slung over her shoulder. "The poultice won't harm the child. She'll be up and around in a day or two, but she needs rest. Do I make myself clear? No … bedsport."

"It is not that way between us," he told her in a tone that would freeze Lake Calenhad solid, with a glare to match.

The unpleasant smirk returned. "Judging by the look on your face, you wish it was."


Alfre might have been a singularly disagreeable person, but she was an excellent healer, her assurances proving true as Soraya improved drastically by the first night. No more random shouts about darkspawn or the archdemon, although Zevran admitted that her rants about Anora were particularly colorful and amusing, "I'll strangle that Maker damned bitch with her own braids!" being among his favorites. But her wails when she remembered that Alistair had wed the Ice Queen of Ferelden made him wince as though his heart were breaking as well. His anger at Alistair surged to new heights.

She began to weep. Without thinking, he lifted her into his arms, stroking damp hair back from her brow. "I'm sorry," she whispered, over and over.

"What do you have to be sorry for?" he asked her, not expecting an answer.

"Zev, forgive me." He did not expect her to speak his name. He held her close, rocking her as he might a fevered child, waiting for Alfre's medicine to work its magic.


Her fever broke in the middle of the second night, and she awoke to find him sitting next to her, his back propped against the headboard. She was coated in sweat once again, but her eyes were clear, her skin no longer flushed with heat.

"How do you feel?" Zevran asked.

"I thirst," she said in a husky voice. "Is there water?"

He smiled. "Better. Here, try this."

She lifted a cup of mulled wine to her lips and sipped. It had gone cold, but still tasted sweet and good. "Thank you, Zevran."

He chuckled to himself, but there was little mirth in it. After all they had been through, after he had spent two days caring for her, and she still called him by that name. "I may as well be your servant," he muttered softly.

"What?" she asked just as softly, her brow creasing as she gave him a small frown.

Zevran turned his amber gaze on her. "What am I to you, Raya?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, perplexed.

"Am I your equal?"

She chuckled softly, then coughed. He took the cup from her hand, wiping the side of her mouth with a gentle finger. Her eyes, weary as they were, laughed as she gazed up at him. "In every way but one."

He stiffened, wondering if she would insult him in some way. "And what is that?"

She grinned, poking him in the shoulder. "You would kick my ass in a fight, hands down. I've never seen anyone move so fast as you, Zev. Never."

His eyes softened, and he released a breath.

"What brought all this on?"

"Something someone said. Several someones, actually. If someone refers to me as 'knife ears' one more time in this place, I'll show them a pair of real knives they won't soon forget."

Soraya's face became sympathetic, and he felt as though lightning had touched him as her fingers rested on his shoulder. "Elves aren't looked upon as equals in Ferelden when they should be. It sickens me."

"Humans," he muttered bitterly.

His sudden venom did not insult her. Instead, she gave him her gentle smile and a comforting squeeze of her hand. "Remember who you're talking to. I'm a mage, remember? I was imprisoned almost my whole life simply because of who I am. I am uniquely qualified to understand your plight, don't you think?"

He shrugged, taking her hand in his, pulling it to his lips in thanks.

She tucked a strand of hair that had escaped one of his braids behind his ear. "I think you should spend more time among the Dalish, Zev." Her voice, her fingers, whispered along his skin, and he wished he could do more than sit in this bed with her.

"What?" He frowned, suddenly hearing her. "And leave you?"

"They might help you to find yourself. It's important. You need this."

"But what of you?" he asked her, unwilling to release her hand, entwining her fingers with his. "Don't you need me?"

She smiled, the corners of her eyes narrowing. "Always. But your needs outweigh mine."

She doesn't know that I know about the child, he thought. Maybe she doesn't want me to know. But why? Can't she see? It would not matter. Not to me. I would love her, love Alistair's child as if he or she were of my own body. Why won't she…

Another voice spoke in his mind. The part of his soul still owned by the Crows. Because, assassin, she does not love you. Her heart belongs to another.

But she can't have him, he argued.

Brusque, unfeeling: It does not matter. You can't have her. She is a future you will never know.

The man that he had become in the brief time he had been a part of Soraya's life was crestfallen. Because of who I am?

Don't be an idiot, the Crow within him scoffed. You've never lacked confidence. Don't start now. It is because of who you are not. You are not Alistair, son of Maric, King of Ferelden.

Zevran heaved a sigh, releasing her hand. "You are certain of this?"

And then she was in his arms, embracing him so tightly he thought his ribs would break. He stifled a gasp, leaning his head against hers and closing his eyes.

"No, I'm not certain," she whispered. "But let's say that I am, before I change my mind."

Zevran held her, and still weak from her illness, she fell asleep in his arms. As he brushed tangled hair from her eyes, he realized he had no intention of letting her go, despite what the Crow within him said. He would wait for her.

He would wait for her as long as it took for her to realize that he loved her and wanted her for his own.