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Denerim had changed in ten years. And not just because it had been ravaged by an archdemon. The roads and houses were clean, dogs and children were fat and happy. The Pearl had changed very little in those ten years. Full of smoke, perfume, and sweat, it was exactly where Zevran needed to be. He chatted up the bar maid, not really paying attention to the compliments that spilled habitually from his lips. She kept his mug full as he watched the games the whores played with their clients. It felt familiar, and the madame had even greeted him fondly like he imagined a busy mother might have. The Pearl was full of beautiful people, and Zevran admired them from a distance, letting the alcohol run to his head and numb the tips of his fingers. “Sure we can’t get you anything?” the barmaid asked again. “Just more to drink, my dear,” said Zevran. “Most people don’t come to a whore house just to drink,” she said. Zevran put his hand over his chest in mock horror. “And here I thought I had wandered into a simple tavern. I should have known everyone was too lovely.”As she left to attend to others, Zevran stared at his hands around the mug. If he hadn’t been able to place every scar that crossed them, he would have sworn they didn’t belong to him. Surely his hands couldn’t look so young. His dark skin should be spotted with age dots, be dry and papery. Zevran had to remind himself that he wasn’t even forty. Old perhaps for an assassin, but not for a man. A man, young to Zevran’s eyes, sat next to him. He was good looking, with a strong jaw and a short trimmed beard. He looked at Zevran with tentative hope in his eyes. “I’d offer to buy you a drink, but I’m not sure you need any more. Could I impose upon your company?”Zevran smiled and gestured extravagantly. “Oh course my friend. And please, ply me with more alcohol,” he said, though he grimaced at how slurred his words sounded, even to himself. The man returned Zevran’s smile and got both of them new drinks. Zevran was sure the man had told him his name at some point, but the night was swimming together and Zevran couldn’t remember, even as they flirted shamelessly. Fingers wandered over his tattoos, and if Zevran closed his eyes, he could almost pretend it was his warden's calloused hands moving over his skin. But the lips that met his were large and soft and surrounded by a well kept beard. Not the small, typically chapped lips he had forgotten to not expect. His eyes flew open and looked into eyes the wrong color. The young man backed off, looking at Zevran with concern. “Are you alright?” he asked. Zevran closed his eyes and waited for the swirling in his head to calm down. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I just…forgot.”“Thinking of someone in particular?” “You might say that.”The man gave Zevran’s arm a compassionate squeeze. “You need to talk about it?”Zevran shook his head but his tongue had other ideas. “I don’t know where she is. She should have contacted me by now if…” Zevran took a deep breath. “If she were still alive. It’s been years since we were separated.” It was the first time he’d admitted out loud that Mercy might be dead. Zevran wiped at his face and was disgusted to discover that he was crying.