Chapter Text
“Never bet with an Antivan,” Zevran says, tossing two more coppers into the pot. Isabela laughs.
“Is that all you’ve got?” She leans forward, and enjoys how Zevran’s eyes trace down her face and to her cleavage caressingly, and then back up again. They’ll fuck after this. Maybe Hawke or Merrill join in, or even Anders in the right more. “You’re bluffing. You have to be. You used to be more reckless.”
Zevran shrugs. It is an eloquent shrug, conveying amusement with himself and her and the circumstances in which they have found each other, and resignation with the churning of life.
“The Blight changed things,” he says, considering his cards. “I need enough for my passage to Wycombe.”
“And then?” she prods. The witchlight glitters in her earrings and Isabela knows she looks her best.
He chuckles. “Why consider the problems of tomorrow? I fold.”
Isabela rolls her eyes. “You would.” She tosses a silver piece in now, real money. “Match that.” He does. She considers her cards. Her mother taught her a little card-reading. Outside of Rivain, people are gullible, and think anyone can draw the future from a deck of cards. Queen of Spades, Ten of Clubs, Two of Hearts: trouble but your friends have your back, a fulfilling lay at the end of it, she hopes. She doesn’t want it to mean more, she doesn’t want to think past tomorrow morning and whether Zevran will stay for coffee before sneaking off.
He does stay for breakfast the next morning, which is a pleasant surprise, and she walks him to the docks, aching. One day, one of those ships will be hers. They stop near the boarding pass and he presses a scrap of paper into her hands: a forward address. “Stay in touch,” he says.
“Really,” Isabela says. She is uncomfortable.
“Why not?” Zevran smiles. “I might need rescuing again, and you’re more dashing than Keeper Istimaethorial’s hunters. Write me. I’ll write back.”
She laughs, because she doesn’t know what to say. “You’re right. The Blight did change you. What--” She stops when she sees the way he is looking at her, and steps forward and kisses him gently. He is a lover she will never regret. Perhaps she will write him, and perhaps he will write her back. He holds her for a moment too long when she breaks from the kiss, and she thinks: maybe she won’t. Whatever has changed about him, it’s not about her. It never is.
“Safe travels,” Isabela says, as he pulls away and begins to climb up the plank to his ship. She is worried, of course. She always is. It isn’t safe for elves to travel alone, not like this, not from Kirkwall at least, but she knows the captain, and Hawke and Varric threatened him last night especially for this trip.
“May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent,” Zevran throws over his shoulder, and to her surprise, she does end up seeing him again, and again, and again.