#f!warden/zevran

[todisturbtheuniverse]

FIC: A Pretty Lie

Rating: G Pairing: f!Mahariel/Zevran Word Count: 2,454 Summary: Zevran has traveled with the party for a week now, and despite Mahariel's reassurances to Alistair, she hasn't let her guard down. Her trust is put to the test when she sustains a wound that won't heal...and Zevran offers to help. Also on: AO3 Notes: Back on my Dragon Age bullshit: played Veilguard twice, decided the whole series needed a replay, returned to Origins/Zevran hell. I missed this Thedas place.

Hours had passed, and still, the wound stung. That boded ill. The healing poultices that Lyna carried, made by her own hand, had always done the trick before, numbing the pain and closing the wound quickly. She wondered what filth had been on that bandit's blade.

She filled a small bucket from the cold, clear stream near their campsite and carried it to the spot she'd prepared on the bank: a large burlap sack to protect from the cold and damp; her wound kit, all the pockets that she might need unfolded; fresh linen, cut in useful lengths for more bandaging; her weapons, axe and dagger, never far out of reach. She set the bucket down on level ground beside the cloth, and then sat down herself.

Her feet gave a little throb of relief. They never seemed to stop aching, these days. She'd roamed far and wide with her clan, but not at this pace, not without respite. But the Blight was on their heels; there was no time to rest.

Carefully, she peeled up the edge of the bandage, dismayed to find the wound still bleeding. She ladled a bit of water from the bucket and poured it over the gash. With some of the blood washed away, she could see that the wound had widened since that afternoon, the edges ragged.

"And here I thought I would have to carry out my chores in lonely solitude. You, dear Warden, are a sight for sore eyes."

By the Dread Wolf, she hadn't even heard footsteps. She covered her wound with a clean bandage and silently admonished herself. She could not let down her guard, not even for a moment. These were not the forests and wilds of her youth; these were ugly, desolate places, danger waiting around every corner.

Danger like this new stray, Zevran, who sauntered up to the stream lugging a bag and a bucket, as guileless as if he hadn't tried to kill her a mere week ago.

Alistair thought she was mad for taking him in. Sometimes she, too, wondered about her own judgment. Her reasoning had convinced her fellow warden, at least for now: the Crow had sung his secrets very willingly and readily, had sworn an oath, and had proved incapable of overpowering four of them on the road even with all of his hirelings. What chance of success did he have here, alone, if he still intended to kill her?

He could have done it, just now, if he'd kept his mouth shut a little longer. He hadn't, which Lyna told herself counted for something.

Instead of carrying out an assassination, Zevran set down his bag and bucket. The bag clanked a little with the impact. He untied a length of burlap from around his neck—he'd been wearing it like a cape—and spread it on the ground beside hers. She'd assigned him several camp chores, hoping it would at least give her a break from Alistair and Morrigan's constant squabbling over whose turn it was to do the washing. Hoping, too, that it would reveal some character flaw, some impatience or bitterness, that would show her more of who he was—or at least keep him too busy, too tired, to plan her death.

Zevran had not complained. He had taken up the tasks assigned to him with good grace, and she'd been left watching him out of the corner of her eye, wondering if this would finally be the decision that proved her undoing.

"Stay with us long enough," she said finally, "and you will crave lonely solitude."

He chuckled good-naturedly, laying out the battered plates and cups. "Do you speak of the relentless attacks on the road? Or perhaps your companions, bickering over how to properly roast a rabbit?"

"Either," she said. "Both."

He flashed a sidelong smile at her, as if she'd amused him, and she told herself to harden her heart. It was not easy. His warm charm had undoubtedly saved him from many scrapes before, and he was not hard on the eyes: the moonlight gilded his blond hair, cast intriguing light and shadow on his well-muscled shoulders and arms, and even in the relative darkness, his eyes sparkled like the glint of a copper piece polished to full shine.

"It's still bothering you?" he asked, now looking at her arm, where she still held the bandage to the wound.

"It should have started closing by now, with the poultice I used earlier," she told him. "It just won't stop bleeding."

"Might I have a closer look?"

She hesitated, studying his face. He looked back at her, meeting her eyes without flinching. There was no trickery in that gaze that she could see—but what did she know of the world? Until the disaster at Ostagar, until the long, bitter weeks on the road, she had never known how sheltered she'd been.

"Why?" she asked guardedly.

"Your poultices are good." At her raised eyebrow, he shrugged. "I looked them over. They should act quickly on a normal wound. On a poisoned wound, though, they would only stave off the inevitable, not heal."

Was this just an excuse to close the gap between them, to get close enough to strike quickly and without warning? Would the wound make her too slow—just a hair too slow—to scoop up her axe and dagger and defend herself?

Just then, there was a rustle in the bushes, and Assan pranced happily into the open. He carried a bone in his mouth, which he settled down to chew, his back end on Lyna's burlap sack. Instantly, some of her fear eased. She'd seen the mabari tear a man's throat out; if Zevran made one false move, Assan would spring to action.

Besides, Zevran was mostly unarmed. Only a small, utilitarian knife hung at his belt, sheathed. He'd left his daggers back at the campsite.

"Ah, a chaperone," Zevran sighed, and tsked at Assan. "I will only sully your lady's honor with her enthusiastic permission, this I swear."

Assan pointedly ignored him, though he did pull back his lip to show a bit more tooth than was strictly necessary as he gnawed on his bone.

Lyna, too, ignored the comment. She held out her arm to Zevran. "You have experience with poisons, then?"

"Am I a Crow," Zevran said, with a wide grin, "or not?" He shuffled a little closer, just enough to take her left hand gently in his, and peeled away the bandage to inspect the wound.

She tensed; she could not help it. She was still afraid of him, despite his warmth and flirtations, despite his oath. She did not know if she would ever stop being afraid of him.

But he held her hand so delicately, and when he leaned over her arm to inspect her wound, she felt the ghost of his breath on the back of her wrist. She had not felt another's touch very much at all since leaving her clan, and this was…nice. To feel taken care of.

If only she could be certain exactly how he would "take care of" her.

"No clotting," he murmured, frowning; a wrinkle formed between his brows. She hadn't yet seen him look quite so focused, so serious. "You have a fresh bandage?"

She picked up a short length of linen from the pile beside her. He took it from her and pressed it, hard, to the wound. She hissed; the pain sharpened significantly when pressure was applied.

The hand still holding hers squeezed, lightly, as if to comfort her. She didn't know what to make of that.

He looked up at her. "Describe the pain?"

"Sharp," she said. "Worse when water touches it, or with pressure."

"Radiating?" he asked. "Do you feel it when you flex your fingers, or make a fist?"

She did both; his fingers moved with hers, captured against her palm by her own. "No," she said, shaking her head.

"Any headache? Dry eyes?"

"No," she said again. "What would that—"

"Ah, good," he said. "You will live."

"What does that mean?" she asked, trying not to betray her alarm. Assan stopped chewing, lifted his head, and gave a low growl.

"Keep pressure on this," he told her, indicating the wound and bandage, and took his hands away. "Relax," he added, this directed at Assan.

With her free hand, telling herself she could still reach her dagger plenty quickly, she applied the same pressure he had. He, meanwhile, unbuckled a little leather pouch from where it was fastened at his hip. He flipped the metal buckle on the front open and began to carefully rummage through the contents. She heard soft, gentle clinking, like glass bottles brushing one another. Assan watched with curious eyes, but he'd stopped growling.

"There are a few poisons that could produce such an effect," he told her. "The worst of them would have spread by now. That one would be beyond my power to fix." He pulled a tiny vial from the pouch and held it up, squinting; reading the slip of parchment affixed to it, perhaps. "This, though, is just the aftereffect of a very strong acidic coating. Keeps the wound open, the blood from coagulating. Not nice, but rarely a death sentence."

"And that vial is…?"

He lowered it and patted the pouch. "I keep treatments and antidotes handy for all the common poisons, just in case. This one will neutralize the acid, encourage clotting, and allow that excellent poultice of yours to do its work."

"That's clever," she said, impressed.

He had the nerve to wink at her. "I have many talents, I promise you. All at your disposal."

She had to suppress a groan. He laid it on awfully thick, but she was only flesh and blood, after all; she was not immune to that brief, wicked look in his eye, like he was sharing a joke only the two of them knew, like she would laugh at the punchline.

"Lucky me," she said. "I…suppose you should apply it, then. If you can spare some of your supplies."

"We can always find more," he said. The wicked gleam was gone; he eyed her thoughtfully instead. "From the right buyer, for the right price."

"I'm sure we can arrange that."

Lyna glanced at Assan, but he had gone back to his bone, clearly unperturbed by whatever the vials contained. Zevran gestured for her to lift the bandage; she did, this time without hesitation. Quickly, he unstoppered the vial and let three small drops of the thick amber liquid fall to the wound. Instantly, some of the sharp sting eased. She let out a breath of relief.

"You thought it might be poison," he said. There was nothing accusatory in his tone; he merely stated facts. He stoppered the vial again. It was still three-quarters full.

"It crossed my mind," she admitted. "There's writing on the vial, but I don't know Antivan."

She reached for another length of bandage. He brushed her hand aside and picked up the bandage himself; with practiced hands, he spread the healing poultice over the wound—the bleeding had already slowed—and wrapped her arm with just the right amount of pressure.

"That was a risk," Zevran commented. Before she could respond, he showed her the vial. "Coagulante/acido—roughly, a coagulant that also neutralizes acid."

"Ma melava halani," she replied. He cocked his head to one side, frowning a little. "It was a risk," she clarified, "but you helped me. And so, my risk teaches me something, as all risks do."

"Ma melava halani," he repeated, slowly, carefully. "That sounds…very beautiful."

"You don't know any Elven?"

"Very little. Andaran atish'an, ma serannas—that sort of thing."

"Perhaps you can teach me Antivan," she said, and began to pack up her wound kit. "And I can teach you what Elven I know. So much of it is lost, but…" She cleared her throat, letting the grief of missing her clan pass through her. "Andaran atish'an—enter this place in peace—is very formal, used with outsiders, primarily. We would say aneth ara to one another, instead."

He packed his kit of antidotes away and resumed the business of setting out the dishes for washing. "We would say buon giorno—good afternoon—for most of the day. Or ciao, bella, more informally, for both hello and goodbye."

"Ciao, bella," she repeated.

"Well, bello, if you are addressing me," he said, with another of those terrible grins. "Bella is for a beautiful woman, like yourself."

"Flatterer," she said, folding her wound kit back up.

"Only if it is untrue," he said mildly, "and it is not."

He got to his feet, picked up his bucket, and went to fill it at the stream. She tucked her wound kit away in her pack and scratched behind Assan's ear; he tilted his massive head into her touch, panting happily. Zevran returned with the bucket, got out the scrubbing brush and soap, and began the thankless task of cleaning the dinner dishes. She hesitated for only a handful of seconds before pulling her own scrubbing brush out of her pack and picking up one of the dishes.

"Many hands make light work," she said, only a little irritably, in response to the look he cast at her. "Or so they say."

"Mmm," he said, smiling. "Flattery will get me far in this camp, I see."

She rolled her eyes. "You know, if you know the ingredients, I could probably help you make some of the antidotes," she said. "I'm not bad at herbalism."

"A woman of many talents," he remarked. "You will have this archdemon defeated next week, I'm sure."

She laughed, because he sounded so warm, so certain, even if it was a pretty lie. She let her guard down, just a little. He taught her more Antivan as they scrubbed the dishes; she gave him pieces of Elven in return, watched the quiet delight on his face when he correctly mimicked her pronunciation. Assan eventually gave up his work on the bone and began to snore.

As with every city elf Lyna had met, she wondered. What was Zevran's story? The whole story? He'd told her, on hands and knees, at her mercy, that the Crows had bought him as a child—another pretty lie, the better to play on her sympathies, creating the possibility of a second chance for his blade to strike true? Or just a callous truth, one that rightly made her heart ache, imagining one of her people bought and shaped into a killer?

She did not think that this was a trick, but only time would tell.

[qwiqwiaqwi]

ah, grey warden you're so romantic

[gaiah]

ZevWarden Week Day 5: Bodies and Minds

[maiwong1]

Day 7:Family,lost and found

Do not ask why Grey Warden can get pregnant and be mom just i think zevran is too vigorous&she is strong

ps.i think daughter must be a mage too

[the-jennisms]

Finished the couples that I have for the current roster of dragon age games. Will add two more after I finally get my hands on VG. (Also decided to make a non angsty version of Anders and hawke lol)

Finally finished (more or less) the couples for my dragon age playthroughs. May tinker with them later but for now- *jazz hands* Kione De Riva with her short king and Jin Mercar with his girl boss.

[heylavellan]

anon period ended a few weeks ago for the Dragon Age Poly Exchange, and i'm finally getting around to sharing what exactly i got up to! my main work was Two of Your Finest Vints, a lovely kremdoribull fic! but i also had fun writing some treats. i had so much fun writing these!! and if you have time, check out the entire collection!

Two of Your Finest Vints - E, The Iron Bull/Krem/Dorian. Bull and Krem shared a platonic bond deeper than friendship. But when they met Dorian Pavus, they both realised they wanted him. Like sensible people, the only solution is to share.

Red Skies at Night - M, m!Hawke/Isabela/Merrill. After fighting a dragon, Hawke gets badly injured. Isabela takes her girlfriend Merrill to check in on her boyfriend. Also, t4t4t!!!

From Ferelden, With Love - G, f!Cousland/Nathaniel Howe/Anora. After all they've been through, they found their way back to each other. And despite it all, they still love.

Sharing is Caring - M, Zevran/m!Amell/Nathaniel Howe. Nathaniel simply wanted to inform Daylen's partner that he had been injured. He didn't expect Zevran's response. Epistolary fic.

[shivunin]

In Peace

(Arianwen Tabris/Zevran Arainai | 1,846 Words | Fluff | AO3 Link | CW: brief references to sex, implied/past suicidal thoughts)

Summary: Zevran and Tabris have developed a nightly routine; it surprises him to realize how much he dislikes the idea of breaking it

When Zevran had first seen Arianwen, they’d been trying to kill each other. 

This was not especially odd, he found out later. Statistically speaking, Arianwen was thinking of killing most of the people she met, if she was not already actually attacking them. Zevran was no exception in this; it mattered little that he had been trying to die at the time, and she only obliging his death wish. She had spun through the crowd like dancing death, her face lit with a heady glee. In that moment, Zevran had thought that if he was to die here on some nameless road in Ferelden’s nethers, at least there would be beauty in his death.

Zevran would never have guessed then that she could sleep so sweetly draped across his chest—she had certainly never done so before this night. He certainly would not have guessed that she snored so loudly. It would not have occurred to him to wonder on that first day, Zevran supposed, given that he’d been fighting for his life.

Still—the snoring did come as a surprise. She was usually very quiet when she slept on her side—or perhaps it was simply that her face was closer to his ear now, and thus much louder than he was used to. 

His Warden slept with her hair braided, though in a looser plait than she usually wore during the day. Zevran passed a hand over it softly, hoping to wake her enough to make her shift aside. Instead, every muscle in her body that had been soft and liquid went taut at once, entirely alert between one heartbeat and the next. 

“Nothing is wrong,” he whispered at once. The alternative was a knife thrown through the wall of his tent, most likely, and he had so recently patched the last hole she’d made. 

Arianwen rolled away from him despite his quiet words. When she sat up, her dark silhouette was cut against the lighter blue of his tent, body alert and aware. It was plain that she was listening for some disturbance beyond their tent, so Zevran said nothing more. He propped himself up on his elbows instead, feeling the wash of cooler air against his loose tunic when the blanket fell away from him. 

The sky had not lightened outside, but the fire was banked; they were in the deepest part of the night, perhaps an hour or two from the start of her watch. It had become a routine of sorts for her to stay in his tent until then, though she usually returned to her own tent when she was finished. Zevran was not certain if this tradition of hers was some concession to propriety (unlikely) or the delicate sensibilities of some of their traveling fellows (even less likely) or if she simply had no interest in waking up beside him when dawn came. 

Knowing her as he did now, he supposed it was most likely some fourth reason that had nothing to do with any of the other things. Perhaps she lovingly polished each of her blades alone in her tent until daybreak. He would not put it past her. But, he realized as she moved to stand, this routine might be more easily broken than expected.

And…perhaps he had grown more attached to it than he might have thought.

“Wait,” he said, his voice abrupt in the quiet of the night. Arianwen paused on her knees. 

“What?” she whispered. “I thought you were sleeping.”

Zevran found her hand in the dark on the second try. It was braced on her knee, but she allowed him to pull it away and press it to his mouth instead. Could he tell her not to go? It didn’t seem right, but he could not immediately determine why. She had surprised him by staying when he’d made it clear he had no interest in lovemaking tonight. They had spent plenty of nights together and apart since they’d begun doing whatever it was they were doing. None of the nights together had not featured some sort of…well. 

It surprised him now to realize that it had been pleasant to feel her against him as he’d fallen asleep, even if he would have gladly gone without the noise. 

“I do seem to recall you sleeping, too,” he told her. “Quite comfortably, in fact.”

He could feel her expression in the silence that followed. It would be the one in which her brows furrowed and she looked at him sidelong, as if trying to weigh whether he was making a joke or not. 

“You woke me. Did you not…” she trailed off, taking her hand from his. Zevran peered into the darkness, making no sense of her expression and trying nonetheless. 

“I did not mean to,” he told her truthfully. 

She moved—he could not see how—and a moment later he felt her breath on his cheek. 

“What do you need?” she asked. 

Zevran turned his head, nose brushing against the curve of her cheek. Her face was the only part of her not obviously scarred, he had found. Her cheek was very soft against his skin, the fine hairs there tickling softly. When he leaned his cheek against hers, she didn’t waver an inch.

“There is nothing that I need,” he told her, emphasizing the last word, “but I would very much like for us to go back to sleep. Together.” 

Slowly, one of her hands came to rest on his knee. Her index finger tapped once, twice. This was a tell: she was thinking very hard. Zevran privately thought that he might be the only one in the world who would know when she was bluffing at cards, should she ever play them. Her face was impossible to read at first glance, but the rest of her body spilled her secrets easily enough. Months on the road had taught him this as they’d taught him everything else he knew about her. 

Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Some decision was being made, some calculus of factors entirely beyond him. She had done this before she’d told him to keep his earring, too. The verdict had not been in his favor then. He wondered if he would fare so poorly now, too. 

Zevran thought of the weight of her body over his chest, of the way she’d looped leg and arm over him while they’d slept. He thought of the ragged sounds she made in her sleep when the nightmares came, of the way she wrapped herself around him when the foul dreams woke her in the night. 

He thought of how the leather and steel scent of her comforted him when his own dark dreams paced close and set shining teeth at his throat. The smell of leather reminds me of home, he’d told her months ago. It reminded Zevran of her now, too, until the three were all twined together as one. He did not want her to go—not yet. He had grown accustomed to sleeping beside her until the moment before she needed to leave. 

“Arianwen,” he said, and felt the falter in her tapping. “Mi vida. Come to bed.” 

Her sigh rustled his hair. 

“I should never have told you I like the way you say my name,” she told him, but he could hear that he’d swayed her already. Only a little more and they could go back to sleep. A few hours more—only a few, but they mattered. He wanted every single moment he could coax out of her. He wasn’t above fighting dirty for them. 

“Surely you do have no desire to lace up your boots and stumble through the dark of the whole clearing only to climb into your cold bedroll alone,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her cheek. “My dearest Arianwen. Surely not that.”

The blankets over him shifted when she slid beneath them again. The tip of her braid trailed over his arm. A victory—and it felt like one, for all that it had been a battle of words rather than blades. 

“If you are sure I won’t keep you up,” she said doubtfully. “I’ll stay. Until watch.”

Keep him up—was that what she’d been worried about? 

Zevran frowned as she settled in beside him again, less than an inch separating their bodies. He lowered himself back onto his bedroll and reached for her hip. 

“Come closer,” he told her. “It is cold.”

Tabris came, settling against him stiffly, then relaxing by degrees. Zevran kissed the top of her head and she relaxed further still. After a moment, she tugged the blankets more fully over both of them.

“You wanted me to stay just so you could be warm,” she murmured, though there was no heat to the words. Already, he could feel her slipping into sleep. She fell asleep easily enough, his Warden, though she woke at the slightest provocation. Zevran ignored the surge of affection at the thought, though it grew more difficult to disregard when she slipped an arm around his waist. 

“Yes, of course,” he agreed. She made a soft noise, rousing at the words. 

“Say’t again,” Arianwen said. 

“Say what?” he asked. 

Arianwen squeezed him slightly and tucked herself more fully against his shoulder. There was a scar beneath the place where her ear rested, a very thin line just below the joint of his shoulder. She’d stabbed him there all those months ago when they’d first met. One evening, when they’d been dozing in the afterglow, he had casually pointed the silvered line of scar tissue out to her. Tabris had scowled at him and gone all stiff—he still had no idea why—and she’d made a point of not holding him like this for weeks afterward. What a relief it had been when she’d forgotten again. 

By day, she was quick and dangerous and sharp. He liked that about her, he’d found. But he liked her like this, too, somnolent and warm against him in the night. This—her head on his shoulder, her arm around his waist—this was his alone. 

There had been very, very few things in Zevran’s life that had belonged to him alone. He had gone without sleep, without affection, without comfort for so long that he knew better than to disregard such things when they were offered openly. No—such things were the sort one held onto with both hands, even if it took some extra coaxing in the dead of night. 

“You know what,” she told him. 

Zevran smiled to himself, allowing his eyes to slip closed again. 

“Goodnight, Arianwen,” he said. 

“”Night, Zevran,” she echoed, her voice slow. “Until watch.”

“Until watch,” he agreed, and paused. “Arianwen.”

She made a soft sound, neither sigh nor purr nor moan, and melted against him. Zevran lay awake for some time after, his eyes shut tight, his hands as still as he could make them. She did not snore, and he did not wake her. 

Tabris’s watch came and went. 

They both slept soundly through it.

(For Day 5 of Zevwarden Week: Bodies and Minds. Thanks again to @zevraholics for organizing!)

[inquisimer]

i carried my own ashes to the mountains

for day 1 of @zevraholics' Zevwarden week 2023, tradition and trying new things - some pre-ship Nika and Zevran, a discussion of what will come of her return to Orzammar.

pairing: f!Brosca & Zevran word count: 1200 rating: general audiences tags: hurt/comfort, platonic relationships, fluff, a hint of pining if you squint

Nika stared at her reflection, warped and hazy in the frozen puddle outside their camp. A few hundred yards back through the trees their tents formed a half-circle around the fire. Beyond that loomed the peaks of the Frostback Mountains and within them, the gates to Orzammar.

Orzammar. Nearly three years gone since she’d left and going back now felt as intimidating as leaving with Duncan had then. Her fingertips traced over the faded brand on her cheek, newly bisected by a long, fresh scar. One of three—souvenirs from their battle with the dragon in Haven. Between that, and the weight on her shoulders, and the harsh cynicism regret had etched into her, she wondered if anyone in Orzammar would recognize the rebellious little casteless who dared defy their laws.

Part of her hoped they wouldn’t. Then she wouldn’t be alone in seeing a stranger in her face.

“Reminiscing, chapparita?”

A twig snapped under Zevran’s weight and Nika’s hand fell from her cheek as she glanced at him over her shoulder. She shrugged.

“Something like that, I suppose.”

Zevran hummed his doubt. Of all her companions, he would know. When they stumbled across his ill-conceived trap, she was still fresh-faced and sun-blind, lost without the cavernous Stone to ground her. She'd nearly shanked him in her anger. But his eyes shone with the wild desperation of someone who had absolutely nothing left to lose—he would have welcomed her blade, and it was a look so familiar that to see it in another shocked the rage right out of her.

He repaid her mercy with a curious devotion, sitting up with her through the coldest, darkest watches and fording paths when their inane quests took them through wilderness where even the smallest plants stood well above Nika's head. Bit by bit, he came to know her history, wheedling it out of her as none of the others had even tried to.

Things weren’t so different between the Carta and the Crows. Antiva's operation was larger and more storied, of course, but both were ruthless and cutthroat to a fault and you were only worth as much as the success of your last job. Nika didn't know many assassins, but she knew how they worked, and nothing builds trust like a mutually assured dagger in the back.

Zevran leaned against a tree and regarded her with a knowing look.

"You are apprehensive about returning to Orzammar."

"Am not."

He huffed, an aborted laugh that fogged the air around his mouth. "Dear Warden, there are at least seven paths that could have gotten us here sooner. And don't tell me you don't know of them," he added, for she'd opened her mouth to do exactly that. "I showed you how to read the map myself."

She rolled her eyes. "And?"

"And I think you should know that you do not need to run off into the woods with your woes." Zevran squatted at her side and tilted her face toward him with a knuckle on her chin. "You do not need to hide from me, chapparita. Not after everything."

"I know it's just..." Nika pursed her lips. "It's stupid. I just need a few moments to get it together."

"If it causes you distress, it cannot possibly be stupid."

"Yes it can," Nika grumped. "I get distressed by stupid things all the time. Rain and wagons. Broken lockpicks. Alistair."

"While amusing, this deflection won't save you." Zevran caught one of her hands and traced the calloused lines of her palm. "What troubles you so about returning home?"

"Home?" Nika scoffed. "Hardly a home. A place of origin, perhaps. But there was too much anger and never enough food to really call it a home."

"But you have family there, yes? Your sister and the young man...Lester?"

Nika's gut twisted. "Leske. And Rica, yes, they're still there. Or at least, I think they are. Some of the rumors coming up from Orzammar make me think there may well be nothing but carnage when we get there."

"Is that what troubles you, then?"

"Mmm not really. The city can tear itself to shreds for all I care, 'slong as Rica and Leske got out."

"Not worried about the city, not really worried about your family." Zevran tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Your reception upon return, then?"

Nika scrunched up her face. She really was quite transparent these days—if Behraht had been able to read her that well, she'd've never been allowed in the Carta, no matter how well Rica cleaned up. She glanced down at her griffon-stamped chestplate and sighed.

"I'm not the same person who left Dust Town," she finally said. "You know—you were there for most of the changing, the struggling, the growing."

"Not too much growing," Zevran teased, waving his hand over her head. She swatted at it and stuck her tongue out at him.

"The thing is, the time and the experience and even being a Warden—it won't matter to the people down there. You can't change your lot in life in Orzammar, so..."

She brought her fingers back to her marked cheek and Zevran’s gaze followed. "Once a brand, always a brand," she said bitterly. "I'm not even sure they'll listen to the treaties, not if I'm the one asking."

In the silence that followed, Nika stewed. She could feel Zevran considering her, but she didn’t want his comfort or his pity. Not when she had to walk back on the way the surface had changed her perspective. Not when she needed to be as cold and cruel as she’d ever been, to survive a return to Orzammar.

Gentle fingers caught her chin once more and this time the pad of Zevran’s thumb ghosted over the raised skin of her brand.

“They know you by this, as you were. But that is not who you are any longer so: have you considered…changing it?”

“How can I? It’s as much a part of me as my nose.”

“You misunderstand. I am not suggesting you attempt to remove it, anymore than I would suggest expunging your history before the Wardens.” Zevran dropped his hand to her shoulder and gently squeezed. “But the rest of you has changed on this venture. Should your face not change as well?”

Nika went very still. Her eyes darted back to the frozen puddle and the stranger reflected there. She imagined dark ink spiraling out around the blocky lines of the brand, weaving in and around the scar tissue, softening the hard border of the burden she’d worn like a prize all her life, just as this journey had softened all of her sharp edges.

In her heart, the idea slotted into place, so right that it immediately drew her out of her anxious melancholy. With eager eyes, she grabbed Zevran by the wrists.

“Can we do it now? Right now?”

A soft, warm smile crinkled the corners of Zevran’s eyes, a hint of wistfulness keeping it from catching at his mouth proper. But it swiftly gave way to his usual grin and he lifted her small frame effortlessly, swinging her onto his back.

“Of course, chapparita. We can begin whenever you like.”

[heniareth]

ZevWarden Week 2023

Day 5: Bodies and Minds

Blank

Wordcount: 1,738 | Rating: Teens and Up

Old battle wounds do not only extend to the body. One morning, Zevran wakes up and his Warden is gone.

WARNING FOR:

- not medically accurate dementia

- angst

(Read down below or here on AO3)

Bright light. So bright it hurt her eyes. For a moment, she couldn't see.

But she could hear. And feel.

Somebody next to her. Warm, soft skin, soft hair. Dark lines.

Love.

What was his name?

Love.

That was not his name.

Pain in her left leg when she moved. When had that happened? Tightness in the skin of her face, on the right side, bumps and ridges and grooves. So unlike the left side of her face. Almost up to her eyes. That was bad. When had that happened?

What was his name?

Not knowing was bad.

Not knowing made her nervous.

Slowly, she crept out—bed, she crept out of the bed—and left. She was in a long, high—hallway, she was in a hallway. Walking hurt, in her left leg.

What was his name?

She looked, outside. A bright sliver of something, brighter than the brightest light, was on the earth far away. She had to look away, it was so bright.

She wanted to take a closer look.

What was his name?

-

Zevran awoke early, as he always did. And this is why he was so surprised to see the bed empty next to him.

His Warden normally did not get up before him, and when she did, she was sleepy enough to wake him in the process. She always told him that 58 was not old, not yet at least—her own father had made it to proud 73 years of age—but surely this heavy sleep was as good a sign as any of his encroaching senilitude, was it not?

Be that as it may, she would return in but a moment. Zevran stretched out long, felt something in his shoulder pop, and curled up under the warm blanket, feeling very much like a cat rolling into a tight ball on a sunlit porch.

And so he lay there, dozing, for quite a while.

And Astala didn't return.

Unease started to creep into his mind. He turned around, saw that the sun was already a hand and a half's width over the horizon, and stood up. It was not like his Warden to be up this early. It was not like her to-

It was not like her to leave her cane in the corner she had left it in the day before.

Zevran retrieved the cane as icy dread slowly trickled into his veins. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. His Warden could not comfortably go anywhere without her cane. What had happened? Where was she?

The house was empty; the garden lay likewise still. It currently was only the two of them. There was nobody who might have seen her leave. There was only one thing to do.

Zevran grabbed his daggers, a waterskin, and a hat. So armed, he set out to find his Warden. She could not have gotten very far. Why had he wasted so much valuable time dozing?

-

She walked and walked. It took her so long to walk. A crunch at each step, small rolling needles poking up, the bright green, soft, and sharp where it was brown.

She went up. Up to where the bright was getting higher. Up to where the world seemed to end.

She passed by one tall, brown, rough and solid with green on top. She walked around it. For a moment, it was less bright. It smelled strong. It glimmered golden.

What was his name?

She went up, further up.

The air was less bright now. There was wind. And knee-tall not-trees brushing against her. She was going up, up to where she had seen the bright bright sun rise up. The wind blew through her clothes. It was cold.

She reached the edge, where the world ended, and looked down.

There was white there, and blue, and it moved. And it roared. Like it was hungry.

Suddenly, she had to sit down.

Her leg hurt. It went down deep in front of her. Too deep. It was wet now too. Birds cried. The roar was deafening. It sounded almost like-

Like-

Suddenly, panic seized her. She stumbled backwards, away, away from that noise! Heart hammering in her chest, she turned.

When she turned, she saw only endless waving and little white in between dark and round.

Where was she?

What was this?

What was his name?

-

Zevran looked, left, right, and saw no trace of his wife. If only the Crows had taught him how to track a person in the wilderness! Where to now? He had to find her, before something happened. She had gotten more distant, less present for days at a time, bht he had hoped... he had hoped it would go away again, like it always did every spring once the anniversary of the Archdemon's death passed. Was she conscious of her actions? Where was she?

Left, right, scouring the landscape for any sign of his wife's brightly colored clothing.

Something white and dark caught his eye.

She had not taken her cane. Could she still be in her nightgown? Zevran was already setting in motion before he could answer that question, before he could properly contemplate it. And in that direction lay the cliffs- Sweet Mother of Mercy!

Zevran broke out into a run.

-

She turned.

What was his name?

She turned.

Where was she?

She saw nothing but wide and bright and nowhere to go, and she didn't know where she wanted to go, and she didn't know anything! What was going on? What was happening? Why was it so loud, why didn't it stop, where was her mama, where was she!?

What was his name?

Whose name?

"Amore!"

She turned to look.

There was somebody. Running. Running towards her!

She stumbled backwards, stumbled. Fell.

Soft and rough and hurtful below her.

What was his name?

He was running towards her. He was not bright. His hair was nice. Yes, she liked his hair.

Should she run?

Maybe she should run.

She should probably run.

Or, maybe, this was the one whose name she was searching for. Why didn't she know his name?

She gasped, suddenly. Something was very very wrong with her.

He was running towards her!

She scrambled to her feet, dashed to the side. The running man missed her by far too little.

"Amore, wait!"

She ran.

He didn't.

Instead, he called after her: "Amore! Amore, please. Stay still for a moment, my Warden!"

Her leg hurt. She stopped and turned towards him.

Slowly, the running man approached her his hair was dancing. It was nice. He didn't look happy, he looked scared. He had a stick in his hand.

Why was he scared?

What was his name?

Was it his name?

"Amore." The running man had reached her and stretched his hand out, but didn't touch her. "Where were you going, my Warden? And not even dressed."

She looked at him. What... what could she?

"My Warden?" He carefully touched her. "Are you alright?"

"Alright," she repeated. "Alright, alright."

But she was not! She was not alright! Something was wrong!

"Alright, alright, alright."

The running man looked down. "It does not seem like that to me, my love."

Love.

"Love."

The running man looked at her again, and he looked better.

"Love," she said again.

It was not his name. But it was good.

"You do remember me." The running man smiled and held his hand out. "Will you come home with me, amore?"

Did she? Would she? Where to?

She wasn't sure.

She looked at the running man, hand outstretched.

"Love?" she asked.

"Yes," he said with a smile.

She took his hand and followed him.

-

Zevran sat on the edge of the bed, nursing the same drink he had poured himself hours ago, and tried not to cry again.

She had followed him home. So far, so good. She had called him love, but he was no longer sure she recognized him. She was still far away and not present. Her left hip was swollen, and it evidently brought her great pain. When he had tried to alleviate the inflamation, however, or clean the wounds on her feet—how had she made all the way up to the cliff without shoes?—she had fought back, and even bitten him. Right now, she was asleep, but he couldn't leave her unattended even now. He had... he had not known what to do. He was out of his depth.

He needed help.

Perinella would surely come. So would Virel, and Eidela, but he could not rip his children out of the life they had built for themselves for forever. It was a temporary solution at best, and did not even address the real problem.

He wanted his Warden back.

Zevran felt the burn of tears in his eyes, took another sip from his drink, and cursed the Archdemon one more time.

The month Astala had spent lying in bed, not knowing where she was, who she was, and not recognizing anybody, had been one of the worst time in his life. Wynne had tended to her. He had felt completely useles. But there had been slow improvements, and his Warden had gotten better, until she had regained much of her old self. And what she had not regained had soon filled up with new life.

Now, however? This had been the most lost he had ever seen her since then, and he did not know how to bring her back. Or if she even could be brought back.

There was nothing he could do.

Nothing except take things as they came. He had always been good at that, had he not?

The things the Crows could prepare you for. Zevran chuckled to himself without humor and stood up. He had some letters to write. His children needed to know. Who knew what the next days would hold, and the next months. Who knew if Astala would ever‐

"Love?"

Zevran turned immediately. Astala was still lying on their bed, lifting only her head to look for him.

Zevran set down his glass and set out to answer.

"Zevran."

It was truly remarkable how a simple word, how the mere sound of his name on her lips could drive tears into his eyes once again. Zevran said nothing, stepped to her side and made no attempt at hiding his tears. That was his name.

She knew his name.

-

This story came into my house and beat me to a pulp. Hope you enjoyed

@zevraholics thank you for giving me the opportunity to make myself tear up!!

[antivan-beau]

to eat the flaring sunbeam

Zevran/Female Cousland, T, 2896 words (complete)

They haven't known each other long, but Beatrice and Zevran could die any day here in the Brecilian Forest. Zevran's massage offer and what could come next aren't complicated. Right? In which two intelligent people are careful with each other's feelings, while doing their best to look super fucking casual about it all.

Read on AO3.

For Zevwarden Week 2023 - Day 1: “Tradition and Trying New Things.” @zevraholics

An unorthodox take on "tradition and trying new things," but it takes an upset to the flow of battle to bring Beatrice and Zevran closer. And damn is "explicit communication about being friends with benefits" a new thing for both an assassin and a noblewoman.

[loveydoveykirk]

replaying da:o they really need to give us a companion earlier in the game bc i spend so much time w alistair i just end up romancing him every single time

[elfcollector]

drown pain effectively

rating: Teen

relationships: Zevran / Warden, platonic Warden / Morrigan and Warden / Alistair

warnings: Panic attacks, implied violence

summary:  Alia Tabris finds herself panicking while infiltrating the Arl of Denerim's estate to save Queen Anora, haunted by memories that she hasn't dared to share. The others needn't understand to help, however.

"My friend, you need to breathe."

Zevran curses himself almost before he can process why — some part of his mind processing, past the Crow training that demands he focus only on the job, that Morrigan calls only one person her friend, and that is Alia. And that means, of course, that Alia is not breathing.

He turns on his heel, hears Alistair follow suit only a moment later, and sees that his Warden is bent and leaning against the wall, one hand pressed to the stone while the other grabs at her knee to keep her small body upright. Morrigan bends beside her, unfamiliar affection and concern in her dark eyes. Alistair rushes to Alia's side after only a moment, while Zevran glances quickly back towards the door they entered through, then across the others in this hallway. No one around to see this, now. It would be dangerous for all of them — especially Alia — if any of the humans at Arl Howe's estate saw one of their supposed guards in this state.

"Lia — Lia, what's going on?" Alistair's voice is a degree too loud and two degrees too frantic, but not half as sick as the worry making a home in Zevran's chest, now that he doesn't have anything to distract. He moves closer, hovering just beside Morrigan, not sure if he should be closer. He feels wrong - footed, ill with concern and the word he avoids thinking, unsure of what kind of closeness is his right. She wears his earring, had asked if it was a proposal, but to love and be loved is so new. He isn't sure how to be useful to her this way, instead of simply killing all who are fool enough to oppose her.

"I — I can't — fuck ——" The Warden gasps, breath shuddering. "I didn't — realize it would b - be so — ba — bad being back in th - this fucking estate."

"Back?" Zevran and Morrigan ask at once. Alia crumples further into the wall, Morrigan barely catching her. Her face is pale, lips nearing purple.

"I can't —— I can't...." Her voice breaks like rotted wood, this pain damp and old; her hyperventilation gives way to quiet, desperate sobs. Practiced, like she knows she's not allowed to cry too loud.

"Alia, what do you mean 'back?'" Alistair presses, and Zevran scowls and pushes past him, closer, gripping Alia carefully around the waist to help her straighten. It doesn't work — having two supporting her, instead of just Morrigan at her elbow, seems to steal her strength, and she goes near - limp in his arms.

Morrigan voices the offense Zevran feels. "Alistair, now more than ever you ought to at least pretend at anything resembling intelligence or tact."

"Hey, what —"

"Both of you, be quiet," Zevran hisses, gently tugging Alia from Morrigan's arms and properly into his. She looks down at nothing, trembling, eyes wide and unseeing. He knows so little of her past, despite how much of his she's seen — she was born in the Alienage, yes; she'd broken into tiny pieces when she realized the Alienage was being purged, nearly vomited into the shitty Denerim alley he'd tugged her into before her horror could draw attention to the hunted Warden. He's seen the simple ring she keeps on a chain under her clothes, tucked against her heart, has not asked what it means or why she grips it so tightly, holds it to her lips when she thinks no one is looking. He'd watched her heart break and her teeth bare when the Spirit asked if she'd failed a stranger called Shianni. Alia has experienced great harm, long before he knew her, long before he could kill the ones who hurt her. He wonders what she has experienced here, and if the person who did it yet lives.

He's keenly aware of the fact that every moment they stay here is a moment a guard or servant might wander into this hallway, might put Alia at yet more risk. "Alia. My dear Warden, look at my face." She shakes her head. "You are strong. You can bear it." She raises her head. Her eyes don't focus, but it's a start. He tries to school his voice gentle. "We need to move to an empty room so the humans don't see you. Do you think you can tell us which is empty?"

Her eyes widen, lips parting to reply; nothing escapes. She has the keenest senses of them for when others are nearby — training or magic or both, he doesn't know. Her eyes close again, brows screwing shut; after a beat, she nods towards one of the doors. Morrigan takes Alia back into her willowy arms as Zevran moves closer, checking only briefly; he trusts Alia, no matter how panicked she may be. Within only a moment, Alia's been guided into the empty storage room. Alistair closes it behind them and stands there, like a guard. Morrigan releases the Warden — hesitantly, Zevran notes — back into Zevran's arms, but hovers close. Alia manages to stay upright this time, even when Zevran's hands find her biceps and slide down to tangle their fingers together.

"Breathe with me?" he says.

He inhales slowly, not breaking eye contact once he has it — she tries to follow the instruction without needing to think about it. Someone has done this with her before, Zevran thinks. A parent, a sibling, a lover. Did someone hold her like this, after whatever suffering was inflicted on her at this place? Her breathing is still stuttering and desperate, too fast, but his breath seems to help. Her hands leave his, raising and clinging clumsily to his body while his resettle on her waist. Morrigan and Alistair watch, saying nothing.

"Are you with me, Alia?" Zevran asks after some time, when she seems calmer. She nods, not seeming sure, her eyes wide but no longer darting.

"I — I'm here. I'm here." Her voice breaks once more, head ducking as the tears start back. "In this fucking place."

None of them ask this time. "You're not alone," Zevran says instead.

She crumples further, but then says, "Yeah. Yeah. I'm — okay. I'm okay." Another ragged inhale. "You're all okay. I can — protect you. Everyone."

Zevran doesn't understand, but he nods anyway. "You're very strong. And so are we all, yes? It would take a great deal more than mere human guards and yet another human despot to harm us."

She actually laughs at that, breathless and guilty, but it's something. The earring glints when she cards her scarred hands through her hair. Zevran feels something shift in him and can't name what.

"I — please help me," she says softly, looking down. Zevran sees Morrigan and Alistair stiffen just barely. She's never asked any of them for help before. "I'll — I'll be strong. I'll keep it together. But I — I'll need help. I hate this place." The shame in her voice is as thick as the desperation. It's strong to ask for this, he thinks, but it must not feel that way. Maker knows he couldn't do it. "I won't — f - fuck up. I promise. Help me and I won't."

"We're all in this together," Alistair says the same time Morrigan says, "We shall."

Alia's eyes raise back to Zevran's, searching, desperate. Tears still run down her cheeks. Something inside him is screaming in a way he doesn't understand. He thinks he might crack at any moment. He says, "Of course, my Warden."

[gaiah]

ZevWarden week day 4: Work and Pleasure

[m-m-m-myysurana]

ZevWardenWeek 2023

A Cage We Share - Chapter 11.

So this isn't for any particular prompt, but all the ZevWarden goodness got me thinking about my old fic, and lo and behold a chapter appeared! It had been mostly written many moons ago so I finally got around to finishing it off.

Enjoy! <3

[jackals-ships]

also sometimes i sit and think about how God Damn Insane dao was for some parts. ive seen ppl get Weird abt "you only like it to feel superior-" well first off i am better than you so mark that down but also. jfc-

[shivunin]

A Good Fight

(Arianwen Tabris/Zevran Arainai | 2,440 Words | AO3 Link | CW: Mild sexual references/sexual tension)

Summary: Things that annoy Tabris: frivolous conversation and being the butt of a joke. Why, then, can she not get the insufferable Crow out of her mind?

“May I rest my head on your bosom?” the Crow asked somewhere behind Tabris. “I might cry.”

Tabris grimaced, casting a look at Alistair. He echoed her glance, nose wrinkled. It galled her to agree with him, but plainly they were in accord when it came to this.

“You can cry well away from my bosom, I’m certain,” the mage said severely. 

“Reconsidering keeping him around yet?” Alistair asked in a low voice, bending closer. 

Wen pressed her lips together, eyes narrowed, and glanced behind her at the other two. Zevran gazed at Wynne soulfully, one hand pressed to his chest. Wynne was grimacing, staff thumping into the dust of the road as they climbed the hill. 

“Did I tell you I was an orphan?” the former Crow went on, his voice sorrowful. “I never knew my mother.”

“Egad,” Wynne said, disgust as plain in her voice as it was in the lines of her body. “I give up.” 

She sped up, outstripping Zevran and both Wardens. Arianwen watched the mage go, shaking her head, and glanced behind her again. 

Zevran caught her eyes at once and winked. Wen stared back, lips still pressed into a tight line. 

“Maybe I am,” she told Alistair, and turned away again. 

Before them, the harried mage left small clouds of dust above the road. The late afternoon light diffused there, giving the road an odd sort of dreamlike quality. 

“Could still give killing him a shot,” Alistair muttered. 

“What was that? I could not hear you over the sound of all that armor,” Zevran said, abruptly behind them. Arianwen took a large step to the left and carried on. 

“Oh, nothing,” Alistair said. Wen could feel him looking at her, but she ignored the desperate glance. “We, ah…thought your conversation was interesting. That’s all.”

“Ah—so I suppose you also have an opinion about murder, then?” 

There was something under the words. Some sort of…double meaning, hidden undercurrent. Ugh. Wen hated plenty of things, but trying to understand what someone meant when it wasn’t what they actually said ranked highly on the list. 

“Let’s not,” she said. 

“Not what? I am afraid I do not understand you.”

If he started talking about her bosom, she’d just stab him, Wen decided. When she sped up, the assassin matched her. 

“Talk.”

“Pardon? I did not catch what you said.”

“I, ah—wouldn’t push your luck, there,” Alistair said, jogging for several steps until he drew even with the pair of them. “She’s got a short temper.”

“Yes, I had determined as much,” Zevran said. “And how lovely she looks when she is thinking of death.”

Wen stepped directly into his path and stopped moving, forcing the assassin to stop in his tracks or dodge to the side. He chose the former, still smiling broadly, though he stopped only an inch or two away. Arianwen met his eyes squarely, thinking. 

She didn’t think she wanted to kill him. The man was decent enough at what he did. Fighting him had been the best part of fighting any of the Crows. Actually, he’d been her favorite person to fight since they’d left Ostagar. There was something fluid about the way he moved that—well. Fascinated her, actually. She liked watching him. 

No—no, she didn’t want to kill him. What would be the point now? It certainly wasn’t as if she cared that Wynne, of all people, was annoyed. Actually, she should be thanking him. For once, the mage hadn’t been hovering over her shoulder and asking questions. 

“I don’t think so,” she said, to the dust in the air as much as she was speaking to either man, and turned to continue up the hill without any additional elaboration. 

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Zevran said behind her. 

“We aren’t friends, assassin,” Alistair said stiffly, but added in a quieter voice: “Best to avoid prodding at her when she’s already tired.”

“Mmm,” Zevran allowed. Wen gritted her teeth, irritated again, but he went on a moment later. “I shall take your advice very seriously, Warden.” 

Wen glanced behind her one more time, expecting the same cocky grin or perhaps another wink. Instead, she found a flash of something she didn’t expect: 

Exhaustion. Hiding in the corner of his eyes, in the subtle roll of his shoulders.

Ah. That was harder to ignore. 

Wen closed her eyes, willing herself to keep walking. It would be easy. It would be better. He was so annoying; maybe he’d stop talking if he was too tired to manage. 

As soon as she reached the top of the hill, she swung her pack from her shoulder and sat back against a fence. 

Not for him. Obviously not. 

But—maybe it was time for a break. That was all. Redcliffe was almost in sight and they’d probably be busy as soon as they got there. Best they sit and rest now before they no longer had the choice. 

She certainly, pointedly did not breathe easier when the Crow sat to her left with an audible sigh of relief. 

|

“Are you quite certain you are ready for this?” the assassin asked. 

Wen, who’d deposited the last of her armor to the side of the clearing, nodded curtly. She’d have to be a fool to think he had nothing to teach her. Whenever possible, she did try not to be a fool.

“I need to know all I can. Show me, if you want to.”

The outskirts of the Brecilian rose around them, trees already towering higher than she’d ever seen them before. This place was odd and old, breaking the monotony of carefully planted fields and abandoned villages. She didn’t feel like herself here. It was as if she’d slipped off her skin and found it ill-fitting upon its return. Or—perhaps something hung watching in the air here. Something that saw her, that waited and knew. 

She couldn’t say she liked it. 

“If I want to?” Zevran flipped the knife in his hand once, neatly. “And here you have been asking so politely, Warden. How could I say no?”

“You’ve just said it,” Wen replied, taking a slow, smooth step to the side. “Obviously you know how.” 

“Tch,” he began to circle with her—taking her measure, she thought. Some of the glossy humor fell away, baring the steel beneath. “So literal.”

Wen huffed, refusing to be dragged into a conversation. She’d get distracted by talking and then he’d strike. She knew exactly how this worked. 

“First and foremost,” he said, “I have seen you fight. You are very skilled, yes? But you are not careful.”

Wen felt her eyebrows climb. Zevran feinted, she sidestepped, and they resumed pacing each other. 

“Are you suggesting I get thicker armor?” she asked. 

He laughed, a deeper thing than his usual chuckle. Wen narrowed her eyes. 

“You have been spending too much time with Alistair. No—I am suggesting you learn to be quieter,” he said, and moved—it was like his body had become liquid for a moment, flowing so close that she was forced onto her back foot. A blow in the right spot and she was stumbling back, struggling to halt her momentum enough to guard herself. 

To her surprise, he did not press his advantage. He took a step back instead, watching her with an odd look on his face. Wen scowled and rolled her shoulders, loosening the muscles that had gone taut. 

“I’m plenty quiet.”

“Not quiet enough to be an assassin—and that is what you asked me to teach you, yes?”

Wen pursed her lips. She had asked him. She’d wanted to know how he moved the way he did, but she certainly couldn’t ask him for that. It had been plenty easy to imagine what he’d say in response. 

“Fight me, then,” she said, and dropped her knife. It sank into the soft earth point-down, which meant she’d have to be very thorough when she cleaned and oiled it later. At the moment, she didn’t really care. 

Zevran cocked an eyebrow at her, but stepped back to set his knife aside. 

“Are you quite certain? Surely you would like some sort of explanation first.”

“No,” she told him. “I’m too literal for that.”

Zevran tipped his head back and laughed. 

As soon as his eyes were closed, she struck. It ought to have been a glancing blow, only a soft slap to his shoulder to get his attention. The strike never landed. Instead, he flowed away from her and spun, planting a hand on her back and pushing. Wen was ready for it this time. Her weight shifted hard to her back foot, but she did not waver.  

“Good,” he said from behind her, but when she reached back to grasp his arm Zevran was already gone. 

Arianwen spun slowly, listening. He must have gone up; there was nothing closer than the branches to hide behind. Her heart thudded in her ears, distracting her. Where was he? That rustle in the bushes had the rhythm of a squirrel, the scratching at the bark to her right was certainly a bird, and the crunch in the leaves behind her—

Zevran dropped from above and locked her into his arms before she had a chance to strike back. 

“As I was saying,” he told her. “Not very careful.”

Arianwen tried to kick him to little avail. Zevran laughed into her ear, his mouth briefly brushing against the point of it. An odd tingling sensation spread from that point to her cheeks, burning as it went. What was this? Some sort of poison?

Arianwen planted her feet, gripped his arms where they wrapped around her, and flipped Zevran over her head. His eyes were wide when she straddled his chest, a knife already pressed against the hollow of his throat. She could feel his pulse against her knuckles, could feel his breath whenever his ribs expanded between her thighs, and—what was this? 

“What did you just do?” she snarled. Zevran’s brows lifted. 

“I caught you,” he said. 

“Not that. You—” 

She pressed her lips together all at once, her face hot, and climbed off of him. If there had been some way for Arianwen to scratch the sensation from her skin with bared nails, she would have done it immediately. It lived somewhere deeper than her skin, entirely beyond the reach of fingertips or knives. 

Had he ever touched her skin to skin before? She could not think. 

“Well? Teach me,” she demanded, taking several steps away from him. The distance, such as it was, did not help.

Zevran rose more slowly, dusting himself off. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. It was—speculative. Like he was weighing her against something in his mind. 

“Or was that it?” she asked. 

“No, no—I was merely thinking how best to show you what I mean,” he said. There was some hidden meaning to his words. She could feel it. 

Wen frowned at him, eyes narrowing. What was he actually saying? 

“Let us begin again,” he said, spreading his arms. Wen took a deep breath, wishing away the odd burning at the back of her neck and the tips of her ears. 

“Let’s,” she gritted out, her heart beating curiously fast, and raised her fists.

|

“Are you awake yet?” Zevran murmured. 

“No,” Wen told him, hand skimming over his loose, night-rumpled hair. Zevran grunted and pressed his face more firmly against her bare chest. 

“It should not surprise me when you make jokes,” he said. His lips pressed against the skin over her heart. “And yet…”

“Oh, ha ha,” Wen said, rolling her eyes. “If you’re going to be a pest, you can get off.”

“Oh?” he angled his head until he could look at her, morning light glinting across one golden eye. “Can I?” 

“Andraste’s tits,” she muttered, squirming without any real effort to dislodge him. 

“Yours are finer by far, I assure you,” he informed her solemnly, pressing a kiss to the nearest of them. 

Arianwen rolled her eyes, but threaded her hand through his hair again. Some of the tangles smoothed under her touch, but not enough. He’d still need to comb it when he rose for the day. 

She tried very, very hard to pretend that she couldn’t hear the army moving outside their tent. 

“Zevran,” she began, her voice soft, and he lifted his head to look at her. 

What could she tell him? That there were even odds she would die today? That she was grateful? What more could she possibly tell him now? 

“It will be a very good fight, yes?” he said, as if he knew what she was thinking. “Your favorite thing.”

Tabris pressed her mouth closed, searching his face for meaning. She found none. There was only the warmth of his eyes, the comfort of his body pressed to hers. The clamor of steel rose beyond their flimsy canvas walls. Time was almost up. It would be a good fight, yes. If there was anything she loved, it was a good fight. 

Arianwen loved Zevran more.

She’d planned to leave him behind, where the fighting was less heavy, but she already knew she wouldn’t be able to bear it. How could she fight through the city, never knowing if he’d been struck by a stray arrow or felled by an ogre? She could not protect him and seek the archdemon both. At least if they were together—at least they would both know. At least neither of them would have to wonder.

Until the end, then, and perhaps whatever came next. At least she knew she wouldn’t be alone. 

“Yes,” she said, passing her fingers through his hair one last time. Her hand fell to a stop at his cheek, thumb tracing the bottom point of his tattoo. 

“You will remember what I taught you, yes?” 

He lifted himself onto an elbow and leaned forward to kiss her. It had been meant as a glancing thing, she thought. It ran deeper than that in the end, desperate hands on shoulders and teeth and tongues and heat. She didn’t want to lose him. She raged at the world, for giving them to each other right on the doorstep of ruin. 

“Always,” Wen told Zevran, and clutched him to her when he would have risen to go. He endured this for several moments longer, his breathing uneven, before he pressed a kiss to her cheek and moved away. 

When she pushed the blankets aside to stand, his was the hand that pulled her to her feet.

(For Zevwarden Week Day 6: Favorite Things and Pet Peeves. Thanks again @zevraholics!)