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She spots the book in the market of Kingscote, and the moment she sees it she knows she’s going to be curious all day unless she has a closer look.
It’s small and unassuming, tall as the base of her palm to the second knuckle, and thinner than a finger. The soft red leather cover is cracked and worn at the edges, the spine broken numerous times from too-eager reading. The title, emblazoned in faded gold, reads ‘Poietamaz Erótikas del Amor’, and she’s picked up enough Antivan to know what that means.
It’s been less than a week since Zevran recited bad Antivan poetry to her (songs of hot breath upon my neck, songs of soft grunts by my head, songs of hands on muscled back). And here is a book of the stuff, right before her. How many markets in west Ferelden boast Antivan poetry books? What were the odds of her finding this very one? In the middle of a Blight, no less.
It’s funny how the universe conspires to throw something in our path, just as we are thinking of it.
She’ll just have a look inside, she tells herself. A quick peek. That’ll be enough to satisfy her curiosity, and then she can get back to the reason they’re actually here.
The book’s cover is warm to the touch, heated by the midday sun, and she opens it at a random page, reads the flowing black script inside:
Tu mei preyunta quantos dei tus beijos,
seryan sufisyentez para mi?
Quantos komo los granoz inúmeros dei arya Xyra
que estão em la ricya en hinojoz Trevyzo,
entrei o orákulo akyoz dei Andraste
e o tumva sakrada del belho Garahel.
Quantos as eztrelas quei, na noyte silencyoza,
ovzerban os amores furtybos dei loz mortales
– sólo tantos os beijos de tu boka
seryan sufisyentes ao louko erastiz;
em tão grande número que os não pozan contrar os curyosos,
nem fazer-lhes fetyçeo os maldytzentes.
… It’s in Antivan. Of course.
She closes the book with a huff of laughter at her own stupidity, replaces it on the stall, nods to the merchant. Just because she spent a few summers working down at the dockyard in Denerim, surrounded by sailors from al over Thedas, doesn’t mean she’s suddenly fluent in Antivan. All the words she know amount to ‘out of my way’, ‘heads up’, and some technical vocabulary about wind direction and tides.
All essential things to know when reading poetry. Or not.
She turns away, rejoins Wynne at the herbalist’s stall. There’s no point staying here, they have bigger problems to worry about. They’re worryingly low on basic supplies – food, medicinal herbs, gear to repair their fraying armour. Kingscote is the only town for miles around, and it’s far enough from the rest of civilisation that they’re probably safe from Loghain’s men. They can stay here until they’ve gathered what they need.
Which doesn’t include a book of smutty Antivan poetry. That she can’t even read.
But still. The first two lines she saw keep circling her head, and she repeats them almost like a mantra even as she haggles over the price of dried spindleweed.
They return to camp several hours later, with a significantly lighter coin purse. Zevran has supper ready, something he tells them is called ‘soutzoukakia’. He’s been cooking more and more often recently, as other than him, only Siegfried and Morrigan have any experience with food, and Siegfried’s repertoire mostly consists of tasteless broth while no one trusts Morrigan not to poison everyone just for a laugh. Alistair and Wynne have trouble with the amount of spices Zevran likes to put into his cooking, but everyone else finds it a marked improvement from what they were eating before, and Oghren likes the way it ‘makes his burps fiery’, so it’s an almost universal success.
They eat companionably, gathered around the campfire, trading tales from the day. Only Siegfried, Wynne, and Leliana went into Kingscote. She’s banned Alistair from shopping because he’s too obliging to haggle; Oghren, Sten, and Shale showed no interest in accompanying them into town; and Zevran had merely shrugged and said, my dear, I have everything I need already. Which seemed like an overstatement, considering they were constantly running out of his foreign Antivan ingredients (or the Ferelden equivalent), but Siegfried’s no cook.
Evening draws on, and gradually everyone retires to their tents. It’s a balmy night, and Siegfried doesn’t mind staying up – she feels safe here in a way that she hasn’t in a long time, like this is a place of rest and sanctuary. She knows it’s probably all nugshite; they could get attacked here as easily as anywhere else, but still. It feels nice to be comfortable for a change. As long as it doesn’t make her complacent.
The fire burns low, and soon it’s just the two of them left awake. She can hear Alistair snoring one tent over, Leliana humming softly in her sleep. Zevran’s lounging beside her, plaiting his own hair lazily. She gets the sudden urge to take over, and maybe it’s because she’s so relaxed here, but – she does. Just leans over, combs her fingers through his soft hair, nails gently grazing his scalp, teases out the knots. He sighs like a cat, kisses the inside of her wrist. Like it’s nothing.
She feels – content.
After a while, they relocate to her tent, where he strokes his way up her body, inside her body. And then as they lie tangled together afterwards, running her fingers through the soft patch of hair on his lower stomach, she suddenly remembers the little red book. Sits up a little, and says to him:
Tu mei preyunta quantos dei tus beijos,
seryan sufisyentez para mi?
For a moment, he says nothing. Just looks at her with a strange expression on his face. And then finally, he melts. Laughs, head thrown back, reverberating through his whole chest.
Your pronunciation is terrible, he tells her. Here, like this.
He says the lines slowly, makes her copy his speech. Rewards her with kisses when she gets it right. She finds his teaching methods to be very motivational.
He is gentle and lighthearted, happy speaking his mother tongue, and she thinks she’d be content for this moment to last forever. She drinks in his touch.
They drift off curled together, his head on her chest, her hand on his stomach. Mi kózmma, he calls her. Gently, quietly. She doesn’t know what it means, but his voice is tender.
The air is warm around her.
The next time she’s in Kingscote market, she looks for the book again. She remembers the way it made Zevran laugh, and decides it’s worth the forty five silvers after all.
Try as she might, she never gets him to reveal what that first poem means. It is only many years later that she will learn the translation:
You ask how many of your kisses
are enough and more than enough for me.
As big a number as the Xirian grains of sand
that lie at medicine-bearing Treviso
between the oracle of holy Andraste
and the sacred tomb of old Garahel.
Or as many stars that see the secret love affairs of men,
when the night is silent.
So many kisses are enough
and more than enough for this struck lover to kiss your lips,
these kisses which the curious cannot count
nor an evil tongue ruin.
She will tell him he’s an old romantic, and he will kiss his laughter into her.