the elf is old, once-blond hair now nearly white, skin leathery but body still lithe and strong. alistair might not even recognize him, if not for the inked curves along the side of his face and the way he carries himself, just as cocky and deadly as he’s always been.
alistair asks the barkeep to send the elf a drink on him, and hopes that zevran still likes that rivaini wine he brought out at camp so long ago.
when the wine is sent over, zevran arches an eyebrow in pleased surprise. the barkeep gestures in alistair’s direction, and zevran glances over, cocking his head interestedly. alistair knows he bears little resemblance to the warden zevran traveled with twenty-some years ago. he’s scruffier, hair longer and face scarred. he lost an eye fighting some darkspawn years back, and he wears an eyepatch now.
the appraising look zevran gives him, however, suggests that the changes are not for the worse. he slides onto the stool next to alistair and raises his glass.
“to whom do i owe the pleasure?”
alistair chuckles a bit, self-conscious in a way he hasn’t felt in a very long time.
“an old friend,” he says, and clinks his glass with zevran’s. “tell me, zevran, what have you been up to since the fifth blight?”
his voice hasn’t changed as much as his appearance, and he watches as shocked recognition sweeps over zevran’s face.
and then, a broad smile, and a firm, warm hand clasped over his arm.