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quiet mornings

a gift for @zevrn for our server’s end of year gift exchange! ❤️

***

Anyone else might hate waking up alone, but not Sadia. Anyone else. Leliana would always make a point to greet Meat Pie each morning. Alistair would pop his head into Sadia’s tent—Maker forbid Zev was in it too—just to say hello. Wynne was the worst. She always had to say good morning to everyone, and to offer a cup of tea or some porridge to anyone passing her by too. But even Morrigan, even Sten—both found each others’ silence a warm enough greeting to start the day.

Sadia happens to like the quiet. She likes peace. It doesn’t matter that she’d fallen asleep in Zevran’s arms the night before. The fact that the blankets are cool beside her and there’s no familiar soft snore in her ear brings her little if any concern.

For one, Zevran likes to go off unannounced sometimes. It’s in his nature.

And for two, she enjoys the time alone.

She stretches her arms back, back until her knuckles graze the headboard, closing her eyes once more just long enough to take a deep breath. It’s bright today. There’s sun outside. The little inn they’re staying at isn’t loud, at least not yet, and best of all, it’s warm. She hums a little tune to herself as she sits up, rolling her shoulders back, combing her fingers through her silky ash brown hair.

Her pack sits in the corner where she’d left it the night before. So does her sword, her shield, her Grey Warden armor.

Zev’s knives are missing.

She cocks an eyebrow at that. And she continues with her morning.

She rummages through her pack for something clean to wear, pulling out a soft cream-colored tunic and leggings she’s yet to get any blood on this week. Her socks come next, then her boots, and finally, she ties her hair into a high ponytail, smoothing out any bumps in one swift wave of her hand.

Part of her resents that she’s ready so quickly—she doesn’t quite want to leave the little room and return to the main tavern of the inn, but she’s loathe to sit idly either. A walk might be nice, she thinks; for a ghost of a moment she worries that Zevran might be concerned if she’s gone when he returns. The thought vanishes almost as quickly as it had formed, though. Zev can track anyone.

“Warden,” the innkeeper grunts with a stiff nod when she descends the creaky wooden stairs into the tavern.

She raises a silent hand in response, passing him by without a second glance.

“Yer boyfriend’s already—”

“I know.” She continues past the bar, past the warm fireplace, past the dusty vacant tables to the door. “I’ll be back.”

The air is crisp outside, drier than she remembers the Bannorn being, but then, it’s still early. Early enough that the grass is tipped with frost, that her breath billows out in puffs from her nose. Even the birds seem quiet. She stretches her arms again. There’s time for a stroll. She’s in the Bannorn for recruiting of all things, and I can’t recruit if there isn’t a Fereldan within five leagues of here awake to be recruited.

So she walks the empty dirt road alone, the peace and stillness more than welcome when there’s a day of consorting and posturing ahead of her. And she reflects. Zevran’s company was not something she accounted for on this trip, you don’t have to come, she’d told him in earnest, you’re not bound to the Wardens like I am, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

The lovely thing, mi armor, he’d told her, about not being bound to anything anymore is that I can go wherever I want. Which right now is wherever you are.

She can’t say she’s not grateful for his company—though she enjoys the solitude of traveling on her own, it’s the taverns, the towns, the little roadside inns where she appreciates his glib tongue and charismatic demeanor. Zev can make friends anywhere he goes, she thinks, just as easily as he can make enemies. It’s all in the tone of his voice and whether or not he decides to take his knives out of their sheathes. But it’s always in his control.

They’d departed not one week ago but she’s already grown tired of the recruitment tour. The conscription is such a delicate dance: pander without pleading, promote without soliciting, appeal without outright lying of the bleak future to come. Of what exactly they’re all signing up for. And that’s just for those who join of their own volition—it’s nothing to say of the thieves, the vagrants, the outcasts. The prisoners on death row joining up because the alternative is the hangman’s rope, the elves from the alienage like herself wo enlist because it’s better to die as a hero than to live as a second-class citizen.

Those are the recruits that trouble her the most. The reason she’s most grateful to have Zevran at her side each night as she navigates the task given to her not just for now but for the rest of her life.

She flexes her fingers again, straightening her shoulders and putting on a seasoned, practiced good face for the empty road before her, reminding herself to savor the kindness of the calm morning before the long day ahead. The cool air feels good in her lungs, the gritty dirt and gravel crunching pleasantly beneath her feet with each step a welcome sound on the otherwise quiet road. Her stomach growls a little—there’ll be food back at the inn, she thinks, though perhaps I should have brought an apple or something. The bright sky makes her head tinge a bit in pain. Could need some coffee, she notes, better not be anything more. She walks quickly, with purpose, until her cold cheeks feel a bit more rosy and her breath is steady, until her sleep-laden legs feel loose and limber. She makes her way well past the small grove of trees surrounding the inn, over a small brook, to the edges of a little farm where finally the dense silence is permeated by cows mooing in the distance and the creak of a little windmill not far away.

Only then does she decide to turn around.

On the return walk, a pair of humans pass her on horseback, and though they pass quickly and pay her little mind, a part of her regrets not bringing along her sword. But the time grows later and not long after, another human passes her by, this time on a horse-drawn cart and carrying goods. She finds herself increasing her pace, only slowing once to nod at a pair of dwarven merchants, again to wave hello to an elven traveler. The road grows silent again when she reaches the trees. But then, I’m almost back.

It’s under the cover of the tree shade that she wishes, a second time, that she had brought her sword. She can’t help but feel a pair of eyes on her, though she keeps a steady pace, standing as tall as she can, as strong as she can.

She thinks she hears a twig snap behind her. Careless, she thinks finally, unless they want—

“I wanted to be found,” Zevran says with a grin, raising his arms in feigned surrender when she whips around to face him, fists pulled tightly in front of her.

Maker’s breath.

His own face is flushed from the chilly morning, though it sports a grin she could never muster before coffee and breakfast. He’s dressed and armed and looking spry as ever, utterly unbothered that she’s wound up her arm and could have landed a punch at a moment’s notice.

But I do love him.

“Zev—”

“Good morning, my Sadia.”

Finally, she relaxes, loosens her fingers, lets her arms fall to her sides, and he takes that as permission to kiss her, softly and sweetly, before pulling back again. His smile never once falters.

“Good morning.” She narrows her eyes at him. “You weren’t there when I woke up.”

He chuckles, low and throaty, before kissing her again. “You’re very welcome.”

He’s done it now. Finally, she gives up trying to stop the little grin that pulls at her own lips. He knows her too well. “Thank you.”

He takes her hand as they start toward the inn, together this time. “I thought you might enjoy a little time on your own before the day begins.”

“You thought correctly. Although—”

“Not too much time alone, or at least alone without coffee and breakfast.”

She laughs. “Correct again.”

He flashes her another smile. “I stopped by the inn again before coming to find you. I asked the barkeep if he would be so kind as to prepare something for us. It should be ready…” He slows their pace as they emerge from the trees again in front of the inn, the sun a little higher in the sky then when she’d first left it. “...right about now.” With a sweeping bow, he opens the door for her. “After you, mi amor.”

She can’t help but laugh again. “Zev, I love you.”

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