#Leliana and Zevran are used to cleaning up crime scenes

[anti-eluvians]

#imagining alistair trying to teach anyone anything is hilarious though#'yeah you just kinda do it like- MAKER NOT LIKE THAT- anyway no you're fine yeah go on'#i imagine the hygiene standards between different origins is pretty wild too#aeducan would be pretty uptight about potential blight contamination as would mahariel i imagine#ditto i imagine for a circle mage who has up until that point lived a relatively confined existence. terrarium animal.#but tabris??????? brosca?? i dunno man. i just don't know.#cousland is honestly a wild card to me. it could go either 'extremely uptight military brat' or 'blithely scattering gore around#and has to be reminded that not everyone is a grey warden now

actually come to think of it

Did the origins gang have a decontamination regimen after dealing with darkspawn? Alistair and the Warden might be immune to the taint, but the rest of their entourage sure as hell is not.

I know they weren't traipsing into camp leaking who knows what kind of cursed bile/ichor everywhere. Surely. Surely they cover that in Grey Warden basic. ....

..

right.

right?

[jawsandbones]

The Evening Red - Chapter Seven

Rating: E

Summary: The blighted plague at your feet, and ghosts at your bedside. Those things that go bump in the night? They follow behind you. If only you had someone to protect you. A late-Victorian era re-imagining of Dragon Age Origins.

Pairing: Zevran x Female Warden

AO3 Link: Click Here

Chapter Seven: Imminence

“Oh, Duncan,” Wynne says softly, swaying gently in the doorway. She watches as both Noya and Morrigan make their way forward. Morrigan takes interest in the goblet. With her hands on his shoulders, Noya very gently and carefully pushes his body back into the chair. She tips his head back against the crest rail, and sighs as she bends over to look closer. Noya puts one of her hands over his, and clenches his hand into a fist.

“Curious.” Morrigan holds the goblet in her hands, nose curling as she looks at the pool of blood. “This would suggest the presence of those who typically partake in the eating of blood.” Noya’s eyes flick towards Morrigan as she lets go of Duncan’s hand.

“There’s no rigor mortis, and the body is still warm,” she says.

“Interrupted in the middle of the meal, perhaps?”

“It could have been collected for some ritualistic reason as well. Either way, it was likely done after Duncan sent Alistair out. They would have been watching, then, and known that Duncan had no servants, or any other occupants.” Noya points towards the jagged slice across Duncan’s neck. “He fought, that much is clear.”

Morrigan settles the goblet back down onto the table and leans closer. She reaches out, pinches strands of hair between her fingers, and plucks them up from Duncan’s shoulders. “I imagine we’ll find evidence of trauma to his scalp,” she says. She glances towards Duncan’s hands. She picks one up, moves her thumb over knuckle and bone. “There’s nothing underneath his fingernails. Either he didn’t get the chance to, or he simply couldn’t pierce his attackers flesh.”  

“I would wager on not getting the chance to. This reeks of surprise.”

“There was no sign of disturbance when we entered the estate, so it’s entirely possible he was killed before he even had a chance to get out of the chair. Still, it will take a full examination to see if there are bruises elsewhere, and the body was staged for us to find –”

“If you don’t mind,” Wynne says from the threshold, “we should leave this for the police.” Both Noya and Morrigan instantly take a step back from the body, the guilt cascading over their faces. They look at each other uncertainly for a moment, before moving towards Wynne. While Morrigan crosses her arms, Noya reaches out, and puts her hand at Wynne’s shoulder.

“Morrigan can go with Leliana and fetch the police. I’ll talk to Alistair,” Noya says, looking towards Morrigan. A nod of agreement from her, and Noya gives Wynne’s shoulder a small squeeze. Even when they leave, she does not. Wynne rubs her hand against her forehead, leans against the doorframe. She crosses her arms, looks at the long and empty table. The fireplace still burns warmly, without cessation. Her shoes tap across the floor, come to rest beside Duncan. She reaches out, closes his clouded eyes.

“What have we found ourselves in now, old friend?” She murmurs softly.

Alistair is crouched at the very bottom of the shelves, Leliana leaning over him with the candle in her hand. She holds it near the dusty bottles and squints as she tries to read. “There are bottles from all over the world here,” she says in a low voice, as if afraid to disturb the silence of the cellar. A spider watches idly from the corner, content in its web. Alistair reaches out, and plucks one of the bottles from its place. He blows at the label, succeeds in sending a cloud of dust upwards. Leliana coughs, waving her free hand in front of her face.

“Most of them are from Orlais,” he says as he holds the bottle up, “this one is from Rivain.”

“How lovely,” she says as she reaches for it. The glass is cold to her touch, the bottle still quite dusty. She holds the candle closer, rubs her thumb over the label. The details of it slowly become legible. “Are there any from the Free Marches? I hear Starkhaven has a delicious flavor.” Alistair looks over his shoulder up at her, and raises an eyebrow.

“Are you sure you’re a sister of the Chantry?”

“It’s not like I’ve taken any vows yet,” she says cheerfully. They both turn when they hear the door open, creaking footsteps on the stairs. Morrigan lights a flame in the palm of her hand, looks around the cellar with disdain.

“This place is filthy,” she says, her lip curled. Noya shakes her head, and takes the candle from Leliana. The wax drips onto the plate, the lone flame desperately reaching for the ceiling. Alistair stands, brushes the dirt from his trousers, and moves to follow Leliana and Morrigan up the stairs. Noya puts her hand on his arm, keeps him here, instead. Their voices slowly fade, footsteps growing further, and she finally turns to look him in the eye. She can only see part of him; the flame struggling in the overpowering darkness. She puts the candle down on one of the shelves, and steps closer to him. Her hand slips from his arm, to his hand.

She reaches upwards, settles her palm against his cheek. His stubble is rough underneath her fingers, her thumb, as she moves a comforting touch across his cheekbones. “Alistair,” she says, “I have something I need to tell you. You must promise me you won’t do anything rash, first.”

“Rash? I think it’s only fair you tell me what it is before I promise anything. Full knowledge for agreement, and all that. Why are you making me promise anyway? Did Zevran do something to you?” His voice turns from playful worry to full-blown concern, his brows furrowing. He steps closer to her, his hands clenched in fists at his side. Noya shakes her head.

“The reason I sent you away from the dining room. We found Duncan, Alistair. He’s dead.” He blinks at her, looks towards the stairs. It’s Noya’s hand around his, at his face, that keeps him from leaving. “Alistair, look at me.” He does. “Do you understand what I told you?” He doesn’t. “Morrigan and Leliana are fetching the police. Wynne is with the body. I don’t think you should stay here tonight,” she says. He looks at her blankly. Her hand slips from his, and she cups his face.

“Lal,” she says and perhaps it’s the rare use of the nickname which snaps him back to reality. Perhaps it’s just that her earlier words have finally sunk in. Either way, trembling hands wrap around her arms. It’s always been a running joke how much taller he is compared to Noya and Tamlen. How much wider. Yet, here, in her embrace, he seems so small.

---

“Twice, in one week. I don’t like seeing you at all these crime scenes,” Sergeant Kylon says, notepad in one hand and pencil in the other. The four women exchange glances with each other.

“We don’t like being at these crime scenes,” Noya says. Alistair, and a few officers, have gently laid Duncan’s body on the floor, covered him with a sheet. It’s there that he stands and stays, unwilling to leave the body. Kylon grunts amusement, points the end of his pencil towards Alistair.

“Who is he?”

“Sir Duncan’s ward. Having examined the body, we determined that the murder occurred after he sent Alistair away, and before we arrived. That’s a very small timeframe. There’s a possibility Duncan was being watched, and perhaps the murderer may still be watching,” she says.

“Oh so you’re police now?” he says it with skepticism, but he’s writing furiously. He points at a nearby officer, and gives an explicitly clear set of instructions to patrol around the house and apprehend anyone of suspicion. Morrigan is the only one paying attention to Kylon. The other three are watching as Alistair helps lay Duncan’s body onto a stretcher. He’s left behind as they take his body away, and so, he joins the edge of their circle, by Morrigan. He keeps his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. His eyes are red-rimmed, but dry.

“We’ll have to clean up the place,” Kylon says as an officer carefully steps around them, the goblet of blood in his hands, “and investigate the rest of the area. It’s a fairly large estate so it might take us some time. You shouldn’t be on the property until we finish.”

“There’s an empty room next to mine at the hotel, Alistair. I’ll book it for you,” Wynne says. He agrees without argument and with a simple nod. “Perhaps you should pack some things? If Sergeant Kylon doesn’t mind, that is.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem, but we do need an officer to go with you and watch. I’m sure I don’t need to explain why,” Kylon says. Another nod, Alistair’s jaw locked shut. “We covered all the questions earlier…. And then some, so you’re free to do as you please. Just, don’t leave Denerim any time soon.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

While Alistair packs his things, the others wait outside. Noya turns her head away from the estate, towards the distant sun disappearing behind rooftops. Its hand still reaches across the sky, clawing at clouds in an effort to remain. It will lose this fight, but Noya knows what comes after. “I’ll arrange a service at the Chantry,” Leliana says quietly. “I’m sure they’ll need to do an autopsy but… after. Alistair’ll be overwhelmed with the… with whatever he needs to do.”

“I’ll see if I can drop in on the autopsy. I’m too close to Duncan to be a part of it, but I can ensure that everything goes smoothly and that the body is delivered to the Chantry you choose, Leliana,” Wynne says. Morrigan has her arms crossed, one finger tapping at the side of her jaw.

“Am I the only one concerned with who might have killed him?” Noya turns her head back to the group at Morrigan’s angry words.

“No, you’re not. A blighted wouldn’t have the mechanical skill to do this, even if they were controlled. You saw how brutish they were when they attacked us. They don’t have the fine motor skills required for this. I do think it is related to the Blight, and that Loghain might be involved,” Noya says. Wynne narrows her eyes. “I meant to bring it up at dinner. I went to the University yesterday, with Alistair. We both saw and heard Loghain telling Duncan that we’re no longer allowed to work on anything to do with the blight. It’s being completely closed off for royally appointed physicians and researchers.”

“Well that’s ridiculous,” Morrigan says, biting at her thumbnail. Wynne takes a deep breath.

“I agree. With Duncan’s death, I am now the Dean of Medicine. It will need to be finalized and put in place by Irving, but after, I’ll petition King Cailan for permissions,” she says. Morrigan moves to reply, but the front door opens – Alistair, with a bag in hand – and she quietly closes her mouth instead. Wynne smiles at him kindly, puts a hand at his back when he joins them.

“How much do I owe you for the hotel?” He asks.

“Oh my dear, nothing, you me nothing. You’ll be doing me a favor by keeping me company. It’s a nice hotel, but very large and very empty. Now I’ll have someone to share dinner with,” she says. She locks her own grief away, for his sake. Wynne and Leliana flank him as they begin to walk down the street, keeping the conversation light and in an entirely other continent of anything related to Duncan. Alistair listens patiently to all of it, but doesn’t say anything in return. Morrigan and Noya walk behind them, quietly contemplative.

“Miss Mahariel.” She turns her head at the sound of her name, isn’t surprised when she sees Zevran behind her. He holds a plain parasol in his hands, protection from the almost sleeping sun. He smiles pleasantly, in a neat suit. On first appearance, it might appear plain, but through the shafts of light, small patterns appear on his jacket. The vest is more outwardly ornate, the tie made of silk. Golden chains mark the presence of his pocket watch, and although he wears a bowler hat, he cannot hide his hair.

“Zevran,” she says. As she stops, so do the others.

“I was wondering if you might enjoy coming with me on an adventure,” he says.

“An – right now?” Noya looks at the others. “It’s not the best time…”

“You should go,” Alistair says. She looks from one to the other, searches for help from Morrigan or Leliana. “Go.” He says it again, a little more insistently, brushing her away. She moves closer to him, her hands on his chest, and lifts herself up onto her tip toes.

“I’ll bring breakfast with me in the morning,” she tells him as she presses the kiss to his cheek. The conversation continues as they split away, with Leliana dragging even Morrigan into it. They go in the opposite direction, and Zevran smiles as Noya walks beside him. He keeps the parasol between them, turning it in his hands so that it spins.

“So Alistair gets a kiss…” Zevran says, leaning over with a smile.

“Would it shock you to know that we’ve slept together?” Almost instantly, Zevran turns on his heel to look behind him, at Alistair’s retreating back. He walks backwards with confidence, and doesn’t miss a step, even as he tilts his head to fully examine Alistair’s form.

“It doesn’t, actually,” he says as he turns back around. They both share a secretive smile before dissolving with laughter. As they sway, their shoulders bump into each other and their hands intuitively entwine. It’s as though, with his presence, the day is swept away and forgotten.

“Tell me about this adventure we’re about to have,” she says, still smiling.

“I was hoping you would accompany me to a showing of A Mabari of No Importance.”

“Is that Tethras’s newest?”

“Indeed it is.”

“I would be delighted, Mr. Arainai,” she says as she links her arm in his.

---

She wears her best. It’s fine enough, perfectly acceptable. More than acceptable. It’s the same as every other noble, every other Lord and Lady who walks the halls of the Royal Palace. Wynne sits patiently outside of a closed door, a stack of papers in her hands. She watches each servant come and go, following their quick steps and listening to their low whispers. Something is happening. Something which keeps her from the throne room, something which sends others away. She’s the only petitioner. “Her Majesty will see you now,” a servant says, bowing low. “If you’ll follow me.”

The hallways seem never ending. It isn’t as oppressively ornate as the Orlesian palaces – Ferelden is much too proud of their own tradition and heritage – but it is still quite impressive. He brings Wynne to a large door, lined with gold leaf. The bowing never ends, as he does another when he opens the door. “Ms. Aequitar, your majesty.”

“I know your name. My husband visited your University.” Anora doesn’t look up from what she’s writing. The light pours in from the large windows behind her, highlight her frame.

“Yes, your majesty. I was hoping to re-open the issue of our research. In the short time that we’ve studied the blight, we’ve made significant progress, and I believe that –”

“Lord Mac Tir has already settled this matter, hasn’t he? There are many doctors in our halls, these days. All of them think – all of them believe they will find a cure,” she says, the scratching of her pen finally pausing. Anora barely lifts her head to look at Wynne. “And they will. Gooday Ms. Aequitar, I hope your journey home is pleasant.”

“If you would, your Majesty –” Wynne steps forward, beginning to hold out the papers she holds. Anora stops her with a flat raised hand.

“Gooday Ms. Aequitar.”

“Your Majesty.” Wynne gives a low courtesy, turns around. The pace she holds is no longer leisurely. She practically marches through the halls, staring down all those who pass her. From the moment she heard that Loghain was shuttering research, she suspected. Anora’s words firmly press her guess into knowing territory. King Cailan has the blight.