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They keep him in camp. Understandable, of course, considering he had tried to kill them, but Zevran thinks the Qunari bodyguard standing near him is a bit much. That, and the way the elf mage keeps staring at him. She’s small, quiet, and when he meets her gaze, she looks away and covers her ears. It’s strange.This whole entire… camp is strange. They do not trust him, but it is not just that.There are no songs. No smiles. There is only something grim, fatalistic, hanging in the air. It prickles at Zevran’s skin, and his mind wanders to Antiva. There had been other activities, of course, but that was not necessary to making a place lively. Here, it is dead. Hostile.The Warden had been the same. Practical, cold. Realistic. As if she’s lived many Blights before. Perhaps it is by her example that they continue on with their journey.There’s a sharp whistle. The mage girl stands, whistling back, and she grabs her staff immediately as the brush parts to reveal the party. Zevran’s eyebrows rise when Alistair is the first one he notices, staggering into camp. At first, he thinks the boy’s gotten himself into trouble, before realizing it’s the woman he’s helping walk that is the burden.The Grey Warden pushes onward, her hair falling from the knot its twisted into. Her arm is wrapped around her chest, and she inhales painfully, but she seems determined not to slow, and Zevran rises to his feet, curious.Her hand is dark with red, and there is the same sanguine dripping from her mouth as she inhales. The mabari barks, and she reaches down, rubbing the hound's head. Armour clanks as Alistair tugs her, and the Warden lets out a strangled shout. "Wynne managed to keep it stable for now, but—""Aleria, bring me a lyrium potion."“There was a looter’s ambush near Sulcher’s Pass," Leliana spits, ripping off her helmet. Rusty handprints stick to the side of the metal and she glances down at her palm, fingers rolling into a tight fist. "They were looking for innocent merchants.”“She took the halberd meant for me,” Alistair says, his grip on his comrade’s arm tightening. The Warden glares at him. “It’s true. I have a shield, don’t I?”“Slow,” she hisses out. “Next time, pay attention.”Wynne ignores them both and instead looks to the other mage who hastily hands her a flask. “We need to lay her out. Aleria—”“Of course, Senior Enchanter.” The Grey Warden does not go down easily. She insists she’s fine. There is blood down the side of her face from a superficial cut in her hairline that joins the blood from her mouth. The mage girl is the one who gives the final shove that sends her into a bedroll, and then they are taking apart the chest plate that has dented, and Zevran winces at the phantom swing that connects to his ribcage. His Qunari bodyguard watches, unmoved, but there is a displeased frown working its way on his face.“It’s not fine, Sister,” the girl says, crouched by the bedroll. Her hands glow as Alistair pulls the leather vest apart. The Warden squirms, trying to cover herself, but Wynne crouches down, splaying the woman open. Gently: “I can take over, Senior Enchanter. Please, rest.”"Are you sure?""I am. Leliana, if you could." Wynne removes her own hand and immediately tries to find a seat by the fire, slouching onto a fallen log and leaning forward onto her knees. In her place, the bard slips downwards, pinning the Warden's arm down. “How do you feel?”“Fine.” Aleria shakes her head as the woman wheezes. “Leave me.”“Stop fighting! It'll be over faster if you just listen to me." At once, the Warden's body goes still, and the mage girl's head jerks back in shock. Leliana and Alistair raise their hands tentatively, glancing at each other, and through the crowd of bodies, Zevran watches the quick rise and fall of the Warden's chest, the way her eyes stare sightlessly wide at the sky. A strange swell in his chest, he wants to open his mouth to speak, but snaps it shut just as quickly, jerking his gaze away. "Senior Enchanter?”“I’ve already administered a common antidote. It did nothing besides slow the effects. It must be a rarer toxin.” Lifting her head, Wynne reaches for her satchel, withdrawing a few flasks and offering the one filled with red to the others. “Give her this. It’ll buy us time.”They bustle. Wynne rises and returns to her patient’s side after downing the lyrium potion. Alistair fusses, his gauntlets and shield discarded in the dirt. Leliana retreats to where the Qunari stands, unstrapping her bracers and shaking out her wrists. As she does so, she sends Zevran a scrying glance, and his eyebrows knit together, head cocking.“I’ve always heard the Crows were masters of poisons,” she comments coolly. “If the Warden kept you alive, there must be a reason, yes?”A beat. Two.“You’re not as innocent as you pretend, sweet Leliana,” Zevran mutters. The redhead only smiles grimly, and he shoves himself to his feet, groaning. “If I may interject,” he announces across the clearing, “I could help. Poisons, antidotes. All of that is my specialty.”At this, the commotion quietens. Alistair’s eyes snap to the prisoner, and Zevran wonders if he notices he grabs the hilt of his sword. “Why? Shouldn’t you be grateful?”“I am not,” Zevran answers steadily, stepping forward. “After all, if our fearless leader dies, who stops you from running me through with that sword there?”The Qunari shifts, silent, but he does not move to stop the Crow as he walks towards the campfire. Wynne and Alistair tense, and in the distance, he sees the witch Morrigan, sitting against a stump near her own fire, her golden eyes gleaming like an owl eying her prey. The young mage, however, does not move. Her back is to him, her ears twitching. Then, her hands move again, a gauzy blur of magic over her sister's body as if no word had been spoken.“Let him try,” Leliana says, and it is not to those reaching for their weapons. She stares at Zevran, soft and curious in the fire light. She must approve of what she sees, because she turns to the mage girl—Aleria—and enforces in that gentle, pleading tone of hers that Zevran’s realized takes a stronger woman to say no to. “She saved him. Now let him save your sister.”A tense moment passes. Zevran chances another step forward. Aleria’s magic flares, and the Warden groans. “No. No, he’ll try to kill her.”“Stop…”“If you do not let him do this, your sister will die either way.”“Aleria.”“She won’t.” Spinning around, Aleria glowers in his direction. “Wynne and I can find the antidote on our own.”The Warden sits up, grabbing her arm. “Don’t be so stubborn.” She inhales shakily, her face shining with sweat. Alistair lets go of his sword. He crouches down, and urges her to lay back down, but she shoves off his hand, digging her fingers deeper. “You want me to live so badly? You listen to me.”Zevran approaches slowly, his boots silent against the soft dirt. Alistair's glare pins into his brow, but he only has eyes for the mage girl. Bowing her head, she pulls the Warden's hand away and holds that stiff, shaking hand in her own, running a thumb over blanching knuckles. She nods to herself, swallowing, and the Grey Warden finally collapses, knees jerking in pain.“Fine,” Aleria says, but it sounds anything but. She stands and turns around, and her eyes widen at how much closer he is, but she does well to conceal it. “Let him try.”Zevran dips his head in thanks before he slides a strand of pale hair back behind his ear. He is used to animosity. To hatred. He is a man who does not belong anywhere, and he does not belong here, in the cold heart of this camp.So he goes forward, towards the bedroll, the heat of the fire behind him, and when he is within a few paces of the squirming Grey Warden, her sister stops him. She is short, slim, and no warrior. But she is brave. She stops him with the tip of her staff against his chest, and he feels the warmth of it through the leather.He can see the Warden’s hand spasming as it falls to the bedroll. Her eyes are squeezed shut, pale lips parted as she gasps for air. Her legs twitch. It is a pathetic sight.“You step even a toe out of line, I will send an arcane bolt through your heart.”Turning his wry stare towards Aleria, Zevran forces a sly smile onto his face. “You have my word.”.The toxin is most alike the ones used by the Crows, which Zevran does not think help his case in whether or not he’s trying to kill their leader, but he ignores the stares at his back and the smell of dinner as he works. It would be best, he thinks, if he does not tell anyone unless they ask. After all, it is not wholly like the poisons he has used before. It was stalled by the common antidote earlier, which makes him think that the recipe, or the poison itself, was shoddily made or modified. Should he be insulted?He is a little insulted.The Warden sleeps, although her dreams are feverish and violent, and Zevran works alongside her, careful to monitor her should her condition suddenly plummet. Wynne and Aleria take turns keeping watch, but both had surrendered to their exhaustion and hunger respectively, retreating momentarily with a promise to return.Even though it’s small, Zevran likes the bit of freedom he’s gained. Sten no longer guards him, and instead stands watch at the border of the camp. He has access to walk around, stretching his legs when he has to ask for access to Wynne’s herb supplies. And of course, he is near the Grey Warden, and as much as he loathes to admit it, he feels safer around her. More secure. Despite how much that thought makes Zevran’s stomach turn, he can’t deny the warmth it brings, too. To know that she argued down Alistair to keep him.
“Tie him up and take him back to camp. He’ll be useful.”
“You’re giving him another chance? He tried to kill us. What’s stopping him from trying again, or running back to Loghain?”
“Self-preservation. He moves an inch out of line, Sten will run him through with his sword.”
Zevran sighs. The Warden shifts, her eyes slipping open, but unseeing, and against any order of his own, his hand reaches to pull away the hair sticking to her sweaty face. Her lips twitch, and her brow furrows at his touch, her head lolling towards his hand. Her lips ghost the flesh of his thumb, and he pulls away quickly, taking the concentrator agent and pouring it into his concoction of mortared herbs.Her mouth parts, a quiet tangle of words slipping between her lips, and he stalls, his mind racing. The words sound familiar, but he can’t decipher them fully. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her, and her head rolls away from him, the cord of her throat pulsing. A vein that would gush with blood should he run his blade too harshly over her silky skin.His knife hasn’t seen flesh in days.“Zevran?” Glancing over his shoulder, he notes dusky orange hair first. Aleria falls to her knees next to him, extending a bowl of stew. She doesn’t look him in the eye, and a pang of guilt slams into his stomach. “Dinner.”“Thank you, my sweet.” Taking the offer, he sets it aside immediately and instead lifts the mortar. “If you could lift her chin and keep her still, the antidote is finished. Then, we must rest her on her side. One of the side effects is nausea, and I do not think either of us want to see her choke on her own vomit. Gruesome death, I admit.”“No, of course.” Immediately, Aleria moves to her sister’s head and her hands glow with tendrils of magic, no doubt ready to aid the antidote in circulating the Warden’s system. Shifting closer, Zevran’s fingers dig into the stone bowl, suddenly cold in his hands as he tips the antidote in, wipes at the rivulets that spill down the side of her face.A part of him doubts. A part of him wonders what if he had slipped in deathroot instead of elfroot.The Warden coughs, her glassy eyes widening, and she convulses, her body wrenching and twisting. Zevran pushes her onto her side, and Aleria reaches for a wet rag. Resting a hand on her lower back, Zevran keeps her on her side as she retches, blood splattering across the packed dirt.Green and yellow bile spill out of her mouth. It is wave after wave, a horrible symphony of noise, until she is dry heaving, and then she is quiet. Zevran keeps his hand on the woman’s shoulder, and his knees shift against the ground as she curls in on herself, face scrunching up in agony. Aleria rubs the tears away from her sister’s cheeks, and her lower lip trembles. Zevran looks away.“The antidote will expel the poison,” he says, drawing back. “While she recovers, we should move to her tent.”“She will live?”“I believe so. If you could call your other Grey Warden…” But Aleria is already ahead of him, and said man walks over, his eyes narrowed, luckily swordless. Zevran turns to the injured woman, gently touching her jaw. She does not respond, but she is breathing deeper than before. He clicks his tongue. “I will watch her. This is no normal poison. She may need another dose.”“How do you know?”“I’ve seen it before.” Alistair stops near them, and he glances over his shoulder. “Ah, good. Would you use those big strong muscles of yours, Alistair, and bring her to her tent?” He does not move, and Zevran resists the urge to roll his eyes. “My friend, if I had wanted to kill her, would you not agree that this was an opportune time to do so?”“She’ll be okay,” Aleria insists. It does not soothe Alistair’s temper. He wants to hear it from Zevran’s mouth, and even then, he will not believe.That’s fine. Zevran’s just fine with not being trusted with the truth. The truth is rarely soft and sweet like lies are.But the Grey Warden before him is an easy target, and Zevran has no desire to hurt a man who cares for his friend.“She will need to rest,” he repeats. “But she will recover. Just give her time.” A beat.Then, Alistair reaches to scoop the Grey Warden into his arms. She awakens a little at the movement—terribly light sleeper, that one—and mutters something. She starts to try to get out of Alistair’s arms, and just as suddenly falls limp as a doll. Arching an eyebrow, Zevran turn to the mage girl, who looks at the ground, the air around her hand warping subtly and he suppresses a smirk. “A health potion or two would not hurt to wake up to, either.”“I’ll take care of that,” she says eagerly. “Let’s go, Alistair. We can take first watch together.” Her hand rests on his upper arm, her eyes round and transparent and kind. There is not a single falsehood in that girl’s soul. She cannot lie, and so she runs.Zevran pities her. Zevran envies her.He drinks his cold soup on the edge of camp, where his tent is situated, with no one to stand guard around him, and when he is done, he returns his bowl by the low burning fire and ducks into his tent.The camp is cold. Quiet. Everyone tucks in, too exhausted by the day.It is in the pit of the night when he hears a harsh scream, raw and hoarse. Zevran starts from his uneasy sleep, raising his head, and he crawls forward, poking his head out into the night. The air is cool against his cheeks, and he sweeps the camp for an intruder.Sten remains unperturbed, standing guard. The Warden? Had something happened?Gaze fixing on a familiar tent, he reaches for the knife tucked into his boot just as a figure stumbles out, and he nearly jumps to his feet when he recognizes who it is. The Warden wipes at her mouth, nearly falls as she walks towards another tent. Zevran is in the middle of a warning—the poison is not fully flushed out, and it weakens her—but then there is a quiet sob from another tent, and he cannot bring himself to stop her.She manages to reach her sister’s tent and disappears. Within moments, the night is silent..The Warden sleeps for the entirety of the next day. Zevran is trusted enough to be in the tent alone with her, and he listens to her breathing while he cleans his sword. The colour has returned to her face, and her fever broke in the morning. Alistair had mentioned that the Taint had meant that the body repaired itself quicker than the average human, but Zevran’s still surprised at the swiftness in which she wakes.He doesn’t notice it at first. Perhaps his skills are rusty.“You should’ve let me die.” The blankets shift as she tries to sit up. She looks terrible, her hair falling all around her face, and her eyes terribly puffy. She does not look at him. Her fingers are still shaking. Zevran tries to ignore it. “I know you thought about it.”“You must be parched.” He grabs the waterskin nearby, uncorking it and setting his blade aside. “You’ve been out for a day. It’s… well into the afternoon. Closer to supper than lunch,” he adds helpfully. “Why are you here?”“To pay back my debt. Terribly hard to do so if you’re dead.” He nudges the waterskin into her hands, wraps her fingers around the neck of it. “Drink. You’re still weak from the poison.”“I’m fine,” she mumbles, but she obeys nonetheless. The lines in her face ease a little, and she slouches forward, looking down at the waterskin. “You should’ve killed me.”"Zevran laughs. “You are the one who persuaded them.""So, they wouldn't kill you for trying.""Well, do not worry. There is still ample time yet.”She takes a tentative sip, and her entire body tenses. It's a moment before she attempts to drink again. When she speaks again, her voice is smoother, quieter. “It would've been easy to disappear.” Her finger traces the stitching of the waterskin. “Deathroot. Simple.” She moves too quickly and flinches, her hand coming to her ribs. Tempering her breathing, the Warden looks up at him. His heart twists. “Where is Aleria?”Zevran tucks the memory of the night before into the corner of his brain. “Training with Wynne outside. Would you like me to tell her you’re awake?” The Warden opens her mouth, then snaps it shut again. Her eyebrows furrow, and she looks away, jaw clenching. Then: “No. Not yet.”Zevran, cross-legged, folds his hands in his laps. She chugs more water.The silence is not uncomfortable. She asks if there’s something to eat. Zevran offers her a piece of stale bread, and goes back to cleaning his knife. The blankets shift when she crosses her knees, eating quietly and watching him.Zevran peeks through his lashes at the woman. She doesn’t look away when he meets her stare, and only blinks. He looks down, and cannot help but notice his lips twitching into a slight smile in the reflection of his steel.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The Warden takes Zevran with her on her next forward scouting mission. It’s the first time he’s seen her in action since his ambush that got him stuck in such a lovely predicament, and he wonders if his memory is rose-tinted or if the Warden had always been the weakest member of her party.She is an amateurish fighter, and slow, but brave. Even the easiest scrap has her bleeding from a gash on her arm, a bruise under her eye. How convenient, he thinks, that the last health potion goes to her sister who barely got so much as a rough shove, and not to herself after being tackled into a rotting fence.“Keep yourself in good shape,” the Grey Warden says. She wipes at the blood spilling out the corner of her lip, and spits to the ground. “If our healer goes down, we’re in trouble.”“I could still heal you.” Aleria stands amongst the dead, palming at a staff she had picked up off the ground as the Warden kicks over a dead body, searching the armour for supplies. She rips off breast plates, digs her hands into pouches and satchels. “That scuffle barely tired me.”“Superficial injuries. Better if we waited for someone who truly needs it. Like Alistair.”Behind Zevran, Alistair rips a staff out of a dead emissary’s hand. “I heard that. Aleria, see if you like this one better.”Zevran meanders over to the Warden’s side, idly glancing at the corpses strewn in the drying dirt. The rain had slowed them down on their way to Redcliffe, and they’ve been pushing themselves to make up for lost time. Zevran hopes that the welcome will be more warm than their anticipating. Alistair, surprisingly, has the connections for once. He doesn’t know whether or not he should be happy about that, but he does hope that the boy can negotiate a hot bath. A nice bed.He sighs. His back misses a good feather bed. Still, there are more important things to worry about than his own comfort.He stops a bit behind the Grey Warden. “Are you alright?” She looks up at him, squinting through a black eye Zevran watched her receive when she hadn’t ducked fast enough out of a stray genlock’s punch. She rolls the darkspawn husk she’s looting over and moves on. “If I do recall, you’d been in quite a predicament earlier.”“It caught me off guard,” she mutters. “And landed blow after blow on you before I came along,” Zevran agrees lightly, trailing after her. She stops, glancing at him. The side of her face is alight with red and yellow and green, a whole array of blood and bruising. From this close, he even makes out the faded scar by her eyebrow.Her mouth opens, as if she wishes to protest. Zevran watches his own fingers ghost her brow before she is looking down again.Fire burns up his arm, and he jerks back, surprised by himself. The Grey Warden makes no comment.His hand rolls into a tight fist and through a stiff smile, he says, “Your sister is right. Although I have no arcane talent of my own, I’m sure such minor injuries are not out of her depth.”“I’m fine.” Then, she steps over a discarded sword to a hidden clearing. He follows.Just in case. There’s more plush grass, tree roots rippling beneath the dirt. Here, it is cooler, and the air smells cleaner as the bushes rustle back into place behind Zevran. Over her shoulder, his mark speaks, “Aleria. There’s elfroot here.”“Coming!”Pulling out a small dagger, the Grey Warden falls to a crouch. Zevran mirrors her, his arms resting over his knees, watching. Harvesting the herbs in silence, she winces when she moves too suddenly or her face twitches and something flares up in pain, and he absently wonders how many aches nest deep within her body. Their journey is incessant. It’s good fortune that they have not one but two healers with them.So, it’s peculiar, he thinks, the cause of her hurts and how long they linger. The Warden is peculiar. If she had been so terrible at fighting, how had he failed to kill her? He had woken up with her sword pointing at his throat, and all his men dead.Was it her companions? Leliana is fearsome enough, and Sten is three warriors in a single man. The witch. Well, there’s not much to be said on that front. But they had been outnumbered. Overwhelmed.Had he been misled?The Warden wraps the elfroot into a bundle with a spare piece of twine, her slender fingers making quick work of a knot, and she hands it wordlessly over her shoulder. Aleria appears, takes it without comment, storing it into her pouch, but Zevran glances over his shoulder and finds a worried glare meeting his.He shakes his head.It’s no good if their leader falls.“At least use a poultice on that eye,” the girl says. “It looks terrible.”The Grey Warden turns to face the mage standing behind her. A flicker passes over her eyes. Zevran thinks she will reject the offer. Then: “Fine.”“Thank the Maker. You’re so stubborn. Come, sit.”Over his shoulder, he hears their little mage berating her sister as they go farther and farther. That there shouldn’t be a need to play a hero, and to stop being so careless. Zevran rises. Perhaps Alistair would be more enthralling conversation than the realization that the woman he’s swore an oath to is not the battle goddess he’d thought. At least, he’d be fun to tease.Boots sink into the mud, and he scowls distastefully, following the set of foot prints back to the battlegrounds. He minds his step, careful not to trip on any branches. It’d do no good if one of their capable fighters splits his head open.. Wynne had the Grey Warden trapped in her tent, the glow of magic spilling from the seams, but has since released her to rest. The sun is well below the tree line. Dinner passes by as a quiet affair, and then the night falls upon them all. Zevran isn’t tired, and he tends to the fire lazily, poking at the embers while Alistair throws a stick with the hound. The sound of wood crashing into the brush whispers over the sound of the fire.It is peaceful. Leliana hums to herself as she braids Aleria’s hair nearby. The mage girl herself reads, the crisp noise of a page turning coming every once in a while from her direction.But Zevran is bored, and he rises to his feet. If he is not under watch for simply breathing within this camp, why must he contain himself to the hearth? He explores the bounds of his freedom now that a guard no longer stands outside his tent. He walks the perimeter, ignoring Alistair’s wary eye, and nods to Sten although he doesn’t say much back at him.He has a sneaking suspicion the Qunari does not like him.The Warden’s tent is quiet, and he eyes it out of the corner of his eye before continuing on when the sound of faint voices catch his attention.Glancing around, he slips towards the source, his footsteps growing quieter as the shadows fall around him. Stealth comes naturally to him, and it is not long before he is around the perimeter of another fire that costs long, flickering shadows. One figure paces, but the other remains still. The smell of poultices and the tang of blood lingers in the air as he nears. Ducking behind a tree, Zevran’s eyes find the Warden’s back easily, standing on one side of the fire, Morrigan on the other. The witch's face is contorted, repulsed.“Imagine my surprise when I find that the woman that had fearlessly led that pathetic group of men through the Korcari Wilds has wilted into nothing more than a damsel in distress. A pathetic display that betrays why my mother had ever entrusted you.”“Is that any of your concern?” the Warden intones flatly. “Do I not stand before you, alive?”“All I see is barely a walking corpse. What would he say, I wonder, if Nelaros saw you in such a state?” The gold catches the light as Morrigan holds a ring up to the fire. “Tell me. You are a formidable fighter. Is it him that stalls your blade? Who was he?”A beat of silence. Then: “When did you take that from me?”Morrigan scoffs. “Sentimentality makes one careless.”“If that is what you wish to call it.” The Warden’s voice is colder than Zevran has ever heard it. It is enough to send a strange shock to his legs, and root him there. If he twitches wrong, he is sure she will hear him. “What do you want, Morrigan? I am here. I am not begging or complaining about this lot in my life. I grit my teeth, and bare my burden. What more do you wish of me?”“The darkspawn do not care if you are a threat or not. If you can wield a blade or not. They will attempt to cut you down all the same.” An irritated sniff. “If you wish to die, say so clearly. A simple spell would do the trick. ‘Tis pitiful otherwise to watch you kill yourself burdening the others with your selfishness.”“Because you care so dearly over such things. You’ll thrust my duty upon Alistair, and wash your hands of me,” the Warden snaps bitterly. “Why tell me? If you feel so strongly about this, then you should have killed me already.”“And what would you have me tell your sister?”“Tell her bandits killed me. That I have killed myself.” “You would have me lie to her.”“I would have you do nothing. I only offer the answer to a question you asked of me.” The Warden’s shadow flickers and fades as she walks away from the fire before pausing. “She is a good person, Morrigan. Do you know how rare that is?”“It does not exist.”She lets out a slow, even breath. “Nelaros was good, too. How cruel is it that people such as I live and he does not?” “Why should that matter?”“I am not whatever you think I am. Whatever your mother thinks is I am. I cannot save anyone.”“So you would let your grief incinerate you into inaction, into self slaughter so you can be free when there are others who depend on you. Is that what the Grey Wardens preach?” Morrigan’s owl eyes glint in the fire. The other shadow darkens when its owner nears the fire.
There is a pause. Tabris debates her words silently. Zevran can hear it. Then, in a slow, measured tone: “I am no Grey Warden. Find another who will rise at your attempts in inciting a squabble. Return my husband’s ring, and we will never speak on this again.”“If you wish for his ring, you must earn it.”The Warden does not speak for a long time. When she does, Zevran’s blood runs like ice. “You are not even fit to touch what he has touched, shemlen witch.”He waits until her shadow passes over him, and watches as Morrigan lets out a frustrated noise, kicking a rock into the fire before spinning around into the tent.The Warden does not return to hers. She instead pulls her cloak tight around her throat, and veers off into the forest. Footsteps falling rapidly, ignoring whatever Alistair calls after her, she rushes heavily through the brush, leaving a clear trail of boot marks. It is with a fervor Zevran has seen before, one he recognizes. A blatant abandon that surges in the chest—that desperation to escape. He, without caring if Morrigan hears him, turns and follows. The path is narrow and unplanned, but she does not have such a head start that Zevran loses her track. When he comes too close, he slows himself down, ears pricked for noise, but the Warden herself is not trying to be quiet. Her pace is swift, sure against the dirt.Then, he finds her already sitting by the most pitiful stream he’s ever come across which he thinks is saying something considering how the rest of Ferelden is. It barely trickles, but the Warden stares at the flow distantly. She does not move, and Zevran half-thinks she’s gone catatonic until he snaps a branch underfoot. A rock comes flying at him at a remarkable speed that has him flinching back on reflex. “Zevran.” Straightening up, the Warden lowers her throwing hand and her eyes catch the moonlight. “I apologize. It was not you who I thought had come after me.”“Expecting another midnight suitor?” he teases, coming out from the brush and picking his way over to her. “You left without your swords. Unwise to do so, is it not?”“Yes. I suppose.” Crouching down by the water again, she tucks her cloak underneath her and then sits. “Are you alright?”“You shouldn’t have troubled yourself. I just needed some time to think about what to do next.”“You had left camp in a quite of flurry. I would like to make sure you are well. Should you fall, a head start away from the others is the most gracious parting gift you could leave me.” Stopping beside her, Zevran eyes the stream. It’s not even longer than the length of his foot. Just water trickling over smooth pebbles towards an unseen destination. “Wynne healed me,” she answers. “The rest, she said, would be best left to time.”“Ah, yes.” Sitting cross legged, he leans back on his hands. “The best medicine of all, and the most frustrating one.”“Speaking from experience?” Monotonously. “The Alienage was cold. Miserable most of the time.” She picks up a stone by her leg and throws it. It lands somewhere beyond where he can see, but he hears the way the bushes rattle. “Small and narrow. Not enough space, too many people. I was hungry every winter. Sometimes during the summer, too.” Another pebble goes flying.“Yet, you are still homesick.”Her eyes meet his. There is no glower twisting her lips, her brow does not bear a tight knot of frustration. Instead, the Warden stares at him in a quiet manner, tired and hurt and defeated. “Are you not?”“Of course I am. The thought of never returning makes me think of Antiva constantly.”She runs her thumb over the smooth surface of the next stone she finds. “If you could kill me to return, would you?”“As it stands, I have already failed my contract,” he begins but she shakes her head.“No, what I mean is if there was a possibility a Crow came to you, told you that to murder me would mean that you would be able to return to Antiva, that all was forgiven,” she says, “would you?”He blinks. When he doesn’t answer right away, the Grey Warden nods and Zevran searches for words quickly. He feels like he’s slipping away from something he doesn’t understand. “Do not get the wrong idea, I am thankful that you spared me—”“But Antiva is your home. Yes, I know. It’s alright.” Lips pulling into a flat line, the Grey Warden tosses the stone into the stream with a ploink. “You’re not any different from the others.”“Except you.” At this, she deflates, hanging her head and glaring into the stone bank. Zevran mirrors her position, craning his head to gauge her reaction.“I have no home anymore,” is all she says, brushing aside some rocks. Something black refracts the moonlight, and the Grey Warden pinches the sharp point between her fingers gingerly. Zevran frowns. “This is what I have been forced to be. If I die on the battlefield, then that is where I wish to be buried.”She gestures for him to give her his hand. When he places it palm up on his knee, she places an obsidian arrowhead gently in the center of his hand before picking up a stone on the other side of her and returning back to tossing.They fall into silence for a long while. Zevran, memorizing the sharp edge of the arrowhead with his finger, judges the distance she gets with her throws. “Could you not return to the Alienage?” he asks after the last rock splintered the nearest tree.“It is easier with one less mouth to feed,” she tells him. “Then what will you do after this is over?”“After this is over?” Confused, she looks at him. It splinters him, the genuine befuddlement marring her face. “I will be dead.”“And if you are not?”“Then, I do not know. I hadn’t thought about it.”“What of travelling? Exploring the world. Visiting Antiva,” he proposes. “It is a beautiful, warm place. Nothing like this harsh Ferelden.”A scoff: “And you would show me around, I presume.”“If you’d wish it.”She hums. It’s a slow, deep sound. It reminds Zevran of an ocean song, one he cannot remember but knows as familiar. How many days he had spent, sitting at the docks and listening to the waves crash upon one another.His heart aches with longing.“Antiva would be good,” she says after a while. “Anything is better than Denerim in the heart of winter.”That night, Zevran sees a new side of the Grey Warden. He tucks the memory into his chest, and keeps it safe. The arrowhead, he tucks into his pouch, and he is careful when he reaches within. .
At Recliffe, the Grey Warden’s sword is wet with black when the fighting ends. The decapitated head rolls at her feet, and she kicks it away.Alistair looks green. Even Morrigan seems unsettled. Zevran slowly sheathes his dagger. The battle felt like it barely started before it finished. There is a body still gurgling wetly, groaning through a broken jaw. The Grey Warden walks to the corpse, and slams her boot into the darkspawn’s skull, silencing it with a sickening crunch. She turns to them. “Is anyone injured?”“I think you killed them all before we could even touch them, my dear,” Zevran says. She pulls off her glove, wiping at her face and grimacing when black smears her finger. There is long, distant look in her gaze, and her hand is limp as it falls to her side, a swinging pendulum of death.Then, she is looking at them, through him, and her mouth is pressed into a thin, unfeeling line. “Let’s go. Bann Teagan will be waiting for us.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Lake Calenhad is quiet in the early dawn. Zevran walks the shore of it, minding the brush and odd twig here and there. Redcliffe is still littered with bodies, and the smell of smoke lingers, but the sky is clear. The sun shimmers like silk ribbon across the surface of the water, and the only company is the sound of the lapping waves, the chirping of the morning birds.The Grey Warden bathing along the shoreline where the brush is thickest.Zevran sees her silhouette, gilded, submerged in water to her nose. Her eyes are shut, and her hair gleams like dark copper, tendrils of a hot fire. The water dapples her back as she stands higher in the water. She’s entirely naked, and Zevran slows to a stop. Interest and curiosity keep him rooted, but a small decent part of him knows that if she catches him staring, a sword in his eye is a more than likely conclusion to his brilliant life story.But he can’t help himself. Never has he seen their fearless leader quite so vulnerable. She runs her hands through her hair, and touches each scar, tracing the edge of each one as if reliving the memory. The one that curves her shoulder, her right ear where the entire end has been ripped into a jagged edge.And her newest one, along her ribs. A thin line made even and pale with magic, but still. It marks her horizontally across her side, ending just at the swell of her breast. “Should I be surprised you, of all people, are the one who finds me here?”Her voice, strong and clear, rings across the distance between them. The Grey Warden turns to him, pulling her hair over her shoulder.Zevran has never seen her hair down before. It glides down her neck in long, long, infinitely long sheets, enough that he could submerge his face into the sea of it as he takes her, a giant fan beneath her head as she grips at his shoulders, he cradles her jaw, pants and whispers into her nicked ear about all the things that could be done, should be done to her eager body…“Would you like to join me?”He blinks. “If I’m intruding on your morning ritual, I’d rather not. Those things are rather important to people like us, yes?”“People like us?” It almost sounds like she’s amused. “That implies that we have something in common.”“I would think so,” Zevran says. “Wouldn’t you?”“Come join me,” she orders. “The water is cold. Good for people like us.”He does not need to be told twice. He strips down as she sinks beneath the surface of the water, some semblance of privacy. Folding his leather and his small clothes in a neat pile, he sets it aside hers. She’s left a dagger tucked into the fold of her pants, and a gleaming gold ring sits atop her tunic. He arches a curious eyebrow as he pulls off his boots, and the corners of his lips twitch as he stands up and turns towards the lake. The Warden is nowhere in sight but the bubbles give her place away and he wades into the water.It is indeed chilly, but it fights the heat that has gathered in his stomach as he wades towards the Grey Warden who resurfaces, wiping the hair out of her face. It floats like a halo around her shoulders as she migrates deeper towards the centre of the basin, and Zevran swims closer, his muscles melting into the icy water.His feet can still touch the bottom as the Grey Warden turns to him, and the sunlight frames her face so breathtakingly his chest tightens like a noose.“You don’t think it’s improper for us to be here like this?” “You mentioned before to Wynne that you find Ferelden chaste.” She brings water over her face. “I thought this might be a more comfortable setting for you.”“She is quite a stick in the mud,” he agrees, running his hands through the water, feeling the currents run between his fingers. He hasn’t swam since that evening with Taliesen and Rinna, years ago. Not like this. Not with someone else. “I wasn’t aware you had heard me speak. You had been more than occupied with peeling your sister off of Bann Teagan.”“Yes, that.” Her lips press together, voice twinging with annoyance. “That is something.”Zevran laughs at her expression. “It’s not such a terrible thing is it?”“It’s none of my business.” Tilting back, she floats along the surface of the lake by her back, hands spread out and waving slowly, feet kicking lazily. Amused, Zevran wades closer and mimics the position next to her, the undercurrent running soothingly along the curve of his back.“You would deny your sister love?” he asks.“I’m aware of how it looks if it goes any further,” she answers. “You have never been to Denerim, correct?”“Yes.”“Good. You wouldn’t like it there. Besides the Alienage, the rest of the city is horrible. It’s filthy, and smells like wet dog.”“More than the rest of Ferelden?”“You’d be surprised. And the food was nothing to brag about. But it was where my mother taught Aleria and I how to swim.” Zevran peeks an eye open to watch his companion. She stares at the sky, unfocused. “Doubt she remembers that anymore.”“Your mother?”The Warden shakes her head. “Aleria was only four when the Circle took her. It was for the better. When I was older, I realized I wouldn’t want her to live like I did, even if it meant we were far apart. We exchanged letters. We tried to stay close.” A beat. “Hard to. She was growing up to be a stranger, and I stopped answering one day. Eventually, it was too strange to even begin again.”“Why?”The Warden does not answer, floating underneath the endless canvas of the sky. The water laps at his cheek as he turns to look at her only to find her staring back at him. He stretches out his fingers to brush hers. “It is difficult to say what had happened at the Alienage,” she says quietly. “She would write about the food she ate, childish rumors she heard, the spells she was learning. What could I say in response? That I had not eaten since two days before, and that another one of my neighbors had been killed. There was a short time when I knew more than her, but it had escaped so quickly. The world had kept on turning, but it was as if I was trying to run backwards against it.”Unbidden, the flash of a girl’s terrified face appears in his memory. Zevran looks up at the clouds.“I think I know what you mean.”Her fingers hook on his. “Hm.”A silence befalls the two, drifting along the glass surface of Calenhad. They are never pulled far away from another. When the currents decide to split them up, one of them tightens their hold on the other. The sun begins to warm on Zevran’s face, and he hums pleasantly. It’s not as hot as it would be in Antiva. The wind is still cool, and it carries the faint promise of rain. Although he misses the intense gold, there is something silky and gently beautiful about the pale grey light here.“You never answered my question.”“Question?” He opens his eyes and searches his brain before realizing. “Well. Searching for you was not my intention. It was just a very beneficial, if not surprising, end.”“Do you like long walks on the beach?”“Ah, my dear Grey Warden, you know me so well.” Zevran straightens himself up. He sets his feet down on the lake bottom, letting go of the Warden’s hand and she lifts her head, bringing herself upright. “For as hedonistic life was before I met you, I do admit that swimming was never what I chose for pleasure. I thought Ferelden would be too cold for such a thing, but you’re starting to change my mind.”Her lips twist into a semblance of a smirk, meandering closer. “I can imagine what you chose to do, Zevran. Vividly.” She stretches her arms over her head, letting out a relaxed sigh and tilting this way and that. Her collarbones glisten from the lake water, and his throat dries when his eyes fall along the delicate divot of her throat.“Is it an image where you and I ravish one another?” he says hopefully. The Warden blinks at him, unimpressed, and Zevran grins as she lets her arms fall back into the water. “You wouldn’t be the first mark I seduced. Do not think yourself weaker for it, either, my lady. I happen to just be very skilled in certain schools of thought. Pleasure being one of them."“Top of your class, I'm sure. Don’t let Wynne hear you say that.”Zevran chuckles, leaning forward to pick hair slicked to her face. The Warden’s cheek twitches when his thumb brushes it. “She will disapprove, like she does with most things I say.” She pushes his hand away, back into the water. “Would it pain you so much to not provoke her?”“What fun is there in that?”“When she won’t set your broken bones, we’ll see how fun it is,” she comments idly. “If you enjoy getting under people’s skin, perhaps we should find you another hobby.”“Perhaps.” Zevran wonders how best to get under her skin as the woman sighs, although her eyes glow almost warmly at him. “But I do not often stray from what I’m best at.”“And Alistair?”“Now, he’s just easy to tease. His ears go red when he’s flustered.” “Have you told him that?”“I have not. I dare not show all my cards, my dear. Especially if it is a winning hand.” He cocks his head. From here, inches away, he can even smell the soap clinging to her skin. It reminds him of warm cotton sheets, and he aches to sink his nose into her, put his mouth on her somewhere. “Everyone has a tell, after all.”Her nose bumps against his chin when she looks up at him and she draws back. He wonders how she'd react if he held her still by her waist. Tell her she need not back away from him. “What’s yours?”“Well, now, I don’t give away my secrets for free.” His hands, simmering hot, hover around her hips, and he clenches and flexes his hands, trying not to just grab her and drag her beneath the water with him. Instead, he very, very evenly utters, “How will you conduct your payment, my dear?”The Grey Warden’s eyes, transparent and cold, absorb the sunlight as her lips part. Her brow scrunches, and Zevran can see the tiny scar near her right eyebrow, the way her long eyelashes brush her skin. A quivering breath escapes, and then she leans up and forward, her fingers wrapping around his wrists, so tightly he cannot tell if it is her or him that is trembling. Zevran’s throat tightens, and he slants his head, dipping closer and closer.She squeezes his arms, and he freezes. He thinks of the gold ring. He thinks of the faceless Nelaros. He thinks of husband and his thoughts flit through all that could’ve happened to him. The Warden cannot be disloyal. It is not in her nature.He must be dead. Zevran has seen widows in his time, bedded them, heard them whisper another name into his ear. He knows the mark of grief as well as the back of his hand, and he knows it the moment the water ripples against his bare chest, when her breath pushes against his lips but no mouth touches his own, that the Warden’s heart is lost to him.“They’ll be expecting us,” she murmurs.Ice drowns him suddenly, a heavy suffocating feeling invading his chest cavity as she pulls back and away. The knot in his chest hardens into stone as she blinks away the pain. Then, she looks up at him, and there is nothing there. Nothing but the Void and his reflection. Zevran tries to dig his feet into the mud, but when she lets go of his wrists, he is suddenly drifting. Drifting through Lake Calenhad, through mud trails and darkspawn. Through this foreign country.He is angry and he doesn’t know why. “I’ll meet you back at the castle,” the Grey Warden says. Her lips are arranged in a flat, unfeeling line, and she turns, lake water trailing the curve of her spine.The water laps against his skin as she begins to trudge towards the shore.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
First Enchanter Irving brings an elven girl to Kinloch Hold from the Denerim Alienage. It is raining sharply, melting freshly layered snow into a miserable slush. They track the mess into the office despite the towel in Irving’s hand dabbing at his face.She is shivering, hiding in the folds of his robes with tight fists, and Senior Enchanter Uldred arches an eyebrow at the benign, smiling man who seems to ignore the way the fabric is twisting around his knees. He sets an unopened envelope down onto the library desk and scowls.“This is Senior Enchanter Uldred. He will be a lecturer in your classes.” Two pairs of eyes find him.“Were you expecting a welcome party?” he asks dryly. “I don’t know whether to be appalled by how undignified that is, or impressed by the stupidity of you falling off your horse, Irving.”“She displays signs of incredible talent. With no training at all, she healed my crushed foot and the horse’s twisted leg perfectly,” Irving says, unbothered, and setting a hand on the head of the girl. “Whether how I acted in the moment is worthy of First Enchanter can be debated upon later. What matters now is that her mother has consented to her being inducted into the Circle.”Uldred is impressed, but he does not show it. Healing magic is complicated, requires a deep study of the human anatomy. To do so naturally for such complex injuries is almost unheard of. He turns to the small girl. “What is your name, girl?” “Aleria Surana,” she answers, her fists slowly loosening around Irving’s robes. She steps a little bit away and Uldred observes her stature. She looks underfed. Probably younger than she truly is. Sad state of the world for elves, but the reality. But for a mage, there is a discipline in the way she holds herself that cannot be trained. Many young would-be mages pass through the front doors of Kinloch Hold. Some willing, others unwilling. Over time, he has trained his intuition, honed in on the signs of an apprentice who will pass their Harrowing. Uldred takes the paper knife resting beside the envelope.He ignores the burn of the blade tip dragging across his palm, as well as the warm trickling of his blood and offers his hand towards the little elf. Her eyes are wide, transparent with her shock.“Your first assessment.”With Irving's encouraging nod, small hands envelope Uldred’s larger one. A cool, soothing wave washes over his skin and sinks deep into the cut, before the pain disappears altogether and the wound is sealed.Years later, there will be another elf. Taller, angrier. Eyes narrowed with disgust. Her hair the shade of burning blood as she stands before him with a sword poised to strike. Then, he sees it. Those round eyes and delicate hands stopping her. “He is already dead, Sister. Please.” Little Elf turns to him. Her lips tremble, her eyes unbearably wet. Uldred sees grief. Funny. They had never gotten along. Perhaps it’d been the wrong foot they got off on, or the fact that Uldred is disagreeable with most of the mages in Kinloch Hold, but outside of classes, Surana would steer clear of him should they cross in the halls.Still, he has watched her grow in his classroom, and change throughout the years. He had fixed her casting form. Marked her essays.He feels his body fall from behind the bars of his mind. The demon’s strength is escaping him like a water barrel with a hole at the bottom, and as a chill encroaches on his deformed body, he hears rather than sees the footsteps approaching his corpse. “An abomination,” a man murmurs. “If we’d been any later, the Templars would’ve been right to call for the Annulment.”“It is good that you came then,” Little Elf comments sharply. The sound of robes shifting echo like a very muffled, very distant memory, and a distinct, tingling feeling begins to fester in his palm. A soft hand is holding his own, he realizes. “Aleria.”“Let him suffer no more," she pleads. A faint, pale glow hums in his sluggish blood. "Senior Enchanter, I… thank you... for everything you taught me.”The coldness comes rapidly, seeping into his bones, but it does not hurt. When Uldred closes his eyes, the pain disappears.