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[orionlancasterr]

Oliver Cousland - Grey Warden - Reaver

Oliver had visited Antiva once as a child. He’d not liked the scorching hot sun and had spent most of the summer splayed out on the tile floor of the apartment complaining about it. If his parents knew he’d be dancing in it’s capitol city fifteen years later, with an Antivan Crow no less, they’d be turning in their graves but Zevran made the sun bearable. The music and the wine helped.

“What are you thinking about, Amor?” Zevran asked, brushing the back of his hand against Ollies’ cheek.

It was a simple gesture that made his eyes flutter. He’d never been so sweet- so syrupy slow. In the far back of his mind he knew he had to be somewhere. That there was something urgent happening elsewhere but in the circle of his lovers arms, in the bright Antivan sun he could not remember what it was.

“I think I forgot to do something,” He murmured.

Zevran only smiled. He spun them around the deck and Oliver let him.

“The best part about ending a war,” Zev pulled Oliver close to his face, “Is that there is nothing to worry about after the armor is put away.”

He kissed him and the anxiety slipped away. They stayed like that for a long while, half asleep and swaying. Draped across each other like they’d been here a hundred times before.

Yet, there was that nagging feeling again, tugging at his mind. Images of a stone corridor playing just past where he could grasp. He untangled himself from Zevran’s limbs. The weight of the afternoon weighing heavy on his shoulders as he made his way back into the apartment. Footsteps followed. Something was very wrong, the world spun with each step and everything was fuzzy at the edges.

“Makers breath, I feel like shit.” He muttered and reached for the pitcher of water on the end table.

“Perhaps you just need to rest,” Zevran responded.

Oliver filled his hands with water and drank, hoping the coolness would steady him. It did not. Fingers worked circles into his shoulders and he scrubbed his face with wet hands. Nausea rippled through his body. The music off the end of the balcony was getting annoying and the sun made the air miserable and that horrible, nagging thought of forgetting something was drowning out everything that had been good. He dug his fingers into his eyes until white splotches erupted in his vision.

“I need to focus!” He half shouted.

“You need to calm down.” Zevran responded, holding Olivers chin in his hand.

He brushed his thumb along his bottom lip, an easy smile slipping back onto his face. “It’s been a long day, yes? Let’s go lay down.”

“This makes a lot of sense, actually,” A familiar voice sounded behind him.

He turned from Zevran’s touch to find Valen and an unknown mage standing in the center of the room. The two of them felt sharper than the rest of the room. Valen was looking around, taking in the lived in apartment they stood in as if he’d never been there before but Oliver was sure they’d invited their friends since buying it.

“I almost feel bad about this one,” The mage said, eyes fixated on them.

“You don’t have to feel bad, you could stay here with us.” Zevran said.

The nausea was pounding again. Valen was frowning, his blades loose in his hands. He knew that stance. It only worked because he was fast as hell. That relaxed posture and the always shifting eyes.

“I don’t think we can. Ollie,” he was talking over the other elves shoulder to him “who killed the archdemon, certainly you’d remember that right?”

“Why does that matter?” Zevran asked.

“We’re in the fade. You’re kissing a spirit, none of this is real.” This was the unknown mage.

Oliver stared at them. A slight, baby faced elf with a matter-of-fact expression and a nasty purple bruise blooming on their eye. He’d seen them before. They’d been chest to chest with a templar a head taller and 60 pounds heavier yelling something about apprentices in the stone hallway of Kinloch Hold.

A wave of nausea hit him, made the room spin. It wasn’t real.

“A spirit?” He asked the mage who nodded in response.

“A demon.” Zevran corrected and lunged for Valen.

Valen was quicker and lept out of the way, dropping into a low crouch. Zevran stumbled and caught in the wall his uncharacteristic moment of clumsiness leaving space for Valen to drive his blade up into his chest. It was Zevran’s turn to dodge, turning himself to the side and slashing instead at the young mage who looked more like a fish out of water than anything. Their slow reflexes earned them a gash on their cheek and an expletive thrown haphazardly into the room. Oliver just watched. Blood splattered the tile. Zevran spat and writhed as Valen wrapped his arm around his throat. Zev- no the demon, swung his blades around desperately. More like a trapped animal than a man and as Oliver stepped closer it glowered.

“You wouldn’t harm me.” It stated as fact.

A bold assumption but he had watched Zevran die a hundred times before, nightmare after nightmare. What was one more time.

“Oliver, damnit I can’t hold him forever!” Valen snarled.

He twisted it’s arm behind it’s back, wrenching the dagger from its hand and leaned ever closer until their foreheads pressed together. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he whispered, studying it’s eyes. They were a perfect replication. “There is not a person that I love that I have not seen die a hundred times before.”

He drove his dagger under the demons ribcage. There was no blood. There was no cracking of bone or ripping of skin only a guttural hiss to remind him that it was never Zevran even if the light in its eyes died the same as a persons.

They were no longer standing in a homey antivan kitchen. The band had long ago stopped playing and the air was cool against his skin. None of it had been real. Not one moment.

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