Disclaimer: BioWare owns Dragon Age: Origins and related characters/settings. Some dialogues and settings were taken directly from the game and modified to fit this scene.

This will be a collection of oneshots, in no particular order, between Zevran and the Warden. Just an idea I had based on the premise of this excerpt from Neil Gaiman's Fragile Things:

"She seems so cool, so focused, so quiet, yet her eyes remain fixed upon the horizon. You think you know all there is to know about her immediately upon meeting her, but everything you think you know is wrong. Passion flows through her like a river of blood.

"She only looked away for a moment, and the mask slipped, and you fell. All your tomorrows start here."

"One word, Ma'am," he said, coming back from the fire; limping, because of the pain "One word. All you've been saying is quite right, I shouldn't wonder. I'm a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won't deny any of what you said. But there's one more thing to be said, even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things—trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones."

—From The Silver Chair by C. S. Lewis

Suppose We Have Only Dreamed

Being able to conjure a single, defining image of someone was rare, and Zevran smiled as a vivid picture of the Warden materialized in his mind's eye. When he thought of her—really thought of her, not just imagined her wet or naked or doing that—he always pictured her the same way. She was standing atop a rise, looking out at the sunset. The light set her dark auburn hair on fire and bathed her in its golden glow. Her shadow stretched long and thin behind her, growing ever longer as the sun continued its descent until, eventually, it reached his boots and he looked up. Seeming to notice his stare, the Warden glanced over her shoulder and flashed him a grin before returning her gaze to the horizon.

And in that moment—in her crooked smile, in the brief locking of their gaze—Zevran felt he could see her for all that she was. The Warden: dutiful and strong, the Woman: beautiful and compassionate, the Friend: generous and loyal, the Lover: passionate and exciting. He could see her determination and her indecision. Her hesitance at the strategy table turning to confidence on the battlefield. The dichotomy between her duty as a Warden and her desires as an individual.

Keeping his eyes closed, the assassin found himself thinking back to their first encounter.

"Good morning, Sunshine."

Zevran's eyes creaked open painfully. The female Warden was crouching before him, observing him with something like a detached curiosity. The other Warden—the man whose shield had collided rather painfully with Zevran's chest moments earlier—stood to her right, arms crossed and a menacing scowl on his face. The mage and the dog were watching him intently from some distance away.

"I rather thought I would wake up dead," he half-joked. "Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven't killed me yet."

"That could easily be rectified," she replied, a knife flashing into her hand.

So she was going to kill him. Looking down the length of the Warden's blade, Zevran was faced with the enormity of the decision he had made. Upon waking, he had foolishly entertained the notion that perhaps he might yet escape with his life. He should have known better. This was what he had signed up for, wasn't it?

"Of that I have no doubt," he swallowed, keeping up the appearance of nonchalance. "You are most skilled—"

"Relax." Some of his alarm at seeing the blade must have registered on his face, for the Warden smirked. "No point in killing you before questioning you."

She nodded to her companions, who adopted increasingly guarded stances. "Your hands are losing circulation," she explained, indicating the bluish tinge to the skin on his fingers. A quick flick of her knife loosened the ropes binding his wrists, but not before he noticed the frown she cast in the other Warden's direction.

Once his hands were free, the Warden tossed him a waterskin from her pack.

"Who are you?"

Zevran took his time answering, making a show of uncorking the flask and taking a drink. She waited patiently, seeming to expect no less, and he found himself thinking that she was a remarkably attractive woman, despite the blood covering her thigh and the bruise blooming under one eye. Pride at having managed to inflict even some damage on the famous Grey Warden allowed for the return of his customary glibness.

"My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends," he began. "I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly," he added.

The Warden quirked an eyebrow. "I'm rather glad you failed."

"So would I be, in your shoes," Zevran conceded. "For me, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, doesn't it? Getting captured by a target seems a tad detrimental to one's budding assassin career."

"Seems you chose the wrong career path."

"Ah. These things you say, they must drive the men back home simply wild!"

He watched with interest as her expression went from amused to detached to… sad? And back to detached before settling, once again, on amused.

"You have no idea."

Fascinating.

"Who hired you to kill us?"

"A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I think his name was?" Zevran studied her closely, but the Warden's expression gave nothing else away.

A glance at her male companion showed that neither of them were particularly surprised.

"But you are not loyal to Loghain."

It was more a statement than a question, and Zevran considered the possibility that she knew more about the Crows and how they operated than she let on.

"Loyalty is an interesting concept." Somewhat discomfited to see the Warden cross her arms, he nevertheless decided to press on. "If you wish, and you're done interrogating me, we can discuss it further."

"You must think she's royally stupid," the man snorted, shifting his bulk so that his weapons and armour clinked portentously.

"Not at all," he smirked. "I do, however, think she is royally tough to kill. And utterly gorgeous. Not that I think you'll respond to simple flattery," Zevran added, turning back to her, "but there are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess."

"Why would we ever want your services, elf?" the dark haired witch drawled, stepping forward to glower at him. "You tried to kill us."

"Why? Because I am skilled at many things, from fighting to stealth to picking locks. I could also warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more… sophisticated… now that my attempts have failed. I could also stand around and look pretty, if you prefer—"

The man snorted again.

"—Warm your bed? Fend off unwanted suitors? Besides," he added, "You can't take these sorts of things personally in your line of work, can you?"

Amusement flickered across the Warden's face again. She appraised him for some time, though she seemed to be looking through him rather than at him, and Zevran found himself feeling slightly disappointed that her eyes failed to wander over his rather handsome features. Elves were supposed to be remarkably attractive to humans, were they not?

Long moments later, just as Zevran was opening his mouth to draw her attention back to him, the Warden's eyes snapped back into focus. With a curt nod, she extended her hand and helped him to his feet.

"All your tomorrows start here."

And they had. Though his addition to the party had been met with everything from cool indifference to open hostility, Zevran found he fit in rather well with the mismatched set of companions and the we-could-die-at-any-moment lifestyle they led. He was an asset to their group, certainly, but he had also been quick to realize that he lived better in the Warden's company. Traveling with her gave him a purpose, a reason to try, and what could be more worthy than fighting to end the Blight?

Whatever it is I sought by leaving Antiva, I think I have found it.

The assassin's smile widened as he recalled the frustration his inability to typecast the Warden had caused. Within moments of meeting her, Zevran had been certain he'd had the woman figured out. The longer he knew her, however, the less she fit into any designated pigeonhole and the more difficult she was to categorize.

"It occurs to me," he said, falling into step beside the Warden, "that, of your companions, yours is the only name I do not know. What shall I call you, my beautiful, benevolent benefactor?"

"The alliteration has a sort of ring to it," she joked.

Zevran remained silent, observing her from the corner of his eye.

Sighing, she stopped to face him. She was sizing him up again, wondering whether she could trust him. For that, he couldn't blame her. He met her gaze evenly, allowing her time to consider. And, after what seemed like an inordinate length of time, she relented.

"Munyn," she said, finally. "You may call me Munyn."

He'd since refrained from using her given name, however. Partly because her other companions referred to her only as "Warden," but mostly because she had been reluctant to trust him with it. He had not wished to overstep any boundaries she may have set.

Some time later it occurred to him that perhaps he should have addressed her by name from the start. "Warden" only acknowledged one facet of the remarkable woman he had come to admire, the same way his attempt at placing her within certain schemas had only acknowledged singular aspects of her character. He now understood that it was the Warden in her entirety that so captivated him; the Warden in her entirety that he had come to… care for.

So when Zevran felt a soft touch on his arm, he was quick to grasp the Warden's hand and press it to his lips. His words were lost against her leather clad fingers—neither were in a position to offer more than the present, after all—but Zevran was accustomed to taking his pleasures where they could be found, and he had every intention of making the most of their… arrangement for as long as he could.

I am with you until the end.