Baldur, formerly of the House Aeducan and second son to the dwarf king, Endrin, was ashamed to admit that he was a mediocre warrior at best, especially since his race prided themselves on strength and prowess on the battlefield. His fighting style leaned more towards hacking and slashing until his opponent was either defeated or dead. He was a better negotiator, despite how infrequently he spoke unless necessary, but he was damned if he would order anyone into a battle that he wouldn't fight himself.
When he had to send Morrigan, the mage in his company, alone into the Fade to spiritually battle a demon at Redcliffe Castle, Baldur could only stand by her inert form helplessly, unable to attack a tangible enemy who was threatening his own. He had no family after the horrible betrayal from his beloved brother, Bhelen, so he protected the ragtag group he had collected fiercely.
The ties he had to the others felt tenuous at times, and Baldur feared they would sense his inner weakness and leave. Somehow, they still entered into battle at his side without question and followed him trustingly even when he was without direction. None of them made a point of questioning him when they passed the same damned tree thrice in the Brecilian Forest; Morrigan and Alistair were too caught up in their bickering; Leliana and Morrigan invested in the belief or disbelief of the Maker, while Alistair added in with comments from his own experience growing up in a Chantry as Baldur's Mabari, Bastion, barked excitedly the entire time.
Their banter was a comfort when Baldur might have otherwise lost himself to the sheer weight of the task ahead of him, charged by the Grey Warden Duncan to defeat an Archdemon – a powerful dragon that was commanding its evil minions, the darkspawn, to invade the lands of Ferelden in a catastrophe called the Blight. His burdens grew heavier and heavier with every promise to help anyone who asked, despite Morrigan's disgust and exasperation at his bleeding heart and Alistair's insistence that they focus solely on the darkspawn and Archdemon.
Gorim Saelac, who had been his second in command in Orzammar, had been wrong about him when he suggested Baldur would make a better king than his older brother, Trian. He would have been a terrible king, taking on everyone's burdens as his own and losing sight of the big picture until it reared up and bit him in the arse, catching him off-guard and woefully unprepared.
He never expected to have to survive by looting corpses and playing watch-out while his companion picked locks, thinking longingly of his well-worn books, warm bed, and skilled chefs at home. He was tired of tavern swill and suspicious-looking fungi foraged from the woods, but he was certain that giving into one moment of doubt or uncertainty would bring this whole venture crashing down around his ears. His armor weighed heavier with each step, sleeping on the hard ground with rocks as pillows and his stomach pinched with hunger even as it churned with bile for the day ahead. He was terrified of who would die next because he wasn't fast or strong or smart enough.
Baldur had lost track of his exact kill count, but he felt sick even considering the sheer number of people he had put to death since leaving Orzammar - only a fraction of which were darkspawn. Many dwarves had every kill from battle or tournaments tattooed into their flesh, but there wouldn't be room enough to fit his own tattoos were he so inclined. Too many of his quests were resolved with death or violence, quick results taking precedence over time and energy spent trying to reason with people who were too angry and fearful themselves.
He was tired of killing, but couldn't deny he was a deathly efficient executioner, becoming numbly use to the scatter of decaying bodies to mark the places his group had traveled through like gruesome landmarks. They were currently headed west after they had helped bolster the meager army of Redcliffe, made up of disheartened townsfolk and drunk soldiers, and fought against swarms of undead summoned by the demon Morrigan had defeated, but the cost had been much too high and the village nearly slaughtered in the process.
Alistair was maudlin and spoke little. He'd been close to Eamon Guerrin, the Arl of Redcliffe, who had taken him in as a child and raised him like one of his own for a time. The Arl's illness and his wife, Isolde's, death in order to save their son Connor from being possessed by the demon obviously weighed heavily on the other Grey Warden. They were currently on their way to Haven, a small village in the Frostback Mountains, in order to find the whereabouts of Brother Genitivi who supposedly had information on the Urn of Sacred Ashes – a relic said to cure the incurable and the Arl's only chance at recovery.
Most of their day had been spent traveling and sporadically hunting while on the road, relatively uneventful until a woman suddenly came running down the trail towards them, crying out for help. Baldur unsheathed his magically forged sword, Aodr, eager for a chance to help in a way that may not end in wasteful bloodshed for once.
Of course, the ambush was a good reminder that nothing Baldur planned ever went as he expected.
He realized he may have something of a savior complex when he blindly rushed after the woman without first consulting the others as she led the group down the trail to a confined, hidden valley that was littered with overturned caravans. Armed men appeared at the woman's back as she stopped and turned towards them with a smirk, her raised hand lit up with power.
Baldur hadn't known she was a blood mage when she approached their small group, which was currently comprised of a dwarf, Grey Warden, mage, rogue-turned-Chantry sister, and a war dog, while begging for assistance. Prior knowledge of her class still would not have mattered to him if she had been truly in need, however. The dwarf reached for his shield with a grim sigh as bandits revealed themselves like prairie dogs popping out of holes from behind hills and overturned wagons, surrounding their party with cocky expressions that spoke much of their amusement and ill-intent.
Morrigan and Leliana simultaneously hit the archers positioned at the hills on either side of the pass, their fire bolt and arrows meeting both of their targets unerringly. He and Alistair were a whirlwind of flashing iron and steel. Baldur knocked a man down with a vicious hit from his shield and Alistair gutted him neatly before taking off with Bastion after a pair who immediately realized the error of their ways and attempted to flee. Baldur let Alistair handle them, his long legs eating up the distance between them effortlessly as the dwarf dispatched the remaining bandits still on the trail. He saw a flash in the corner of his eye and heard the mage give an agonized, furious scream before she was silent, Morrigan's staff sizzling as she cast around for any survivors that may need persuading into the afterlife.
There were a few men alive on the ground, moaning from their injuries and overall seeming to regret their life choices.
"Leave them," Baldur ordered to the rest when they would have gone for the killing strike to ensure these people would never harass anyone else again. He knew mercy was a luxury that he couldn't afford, but he was tired from the extensive traveling by foot they'd been doing over all of Ferelden and soul-weary of the fighting and killing cycle he found himself caught up in over and over again.
"Does this seem like a more...planned attack then usual?" Alistair asked as he and Bastion joined Baldur on the path, his longsword and Bastion's jowls dripping with blood. "We should interrogate one of them to see if they were sent by someone after us specifically."
The previous bandits they had encountered on the road generally demanded gold or ransom, but these ones hadn't even bothered to go for their purses before outright attacking. Baldur nodded, spotting a man not too far off that was struggling to sit up, clutching his midsection where he either took a hit from Baldur's iron shield and likely had a cracked rib or two, or took the edge of his blade and would very likely bleed out anyway. Baldur didn't see any blood muddying the ground around the man – an elf, he realized upon closer inspection – so his injury was likely due to the former assumption and not the latter.
Leliana and Morrigan joined them and surrounded the elf, looking extremely intimidating with their weapons at the ready and Baldur and Alistair covered with splatters of blood from the fallen.
"Mmmmm...what? Oh..." the elf groaned when he saw their feet, slowly raising his blond head to survey their very, very unamused faces. "I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or," he amended, bemused, "not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven't killed me yet."
"That can be remedied," Baldur said shortly, shifting his grip on Aodr and widening his stance.
"Ohhh," the elf exclaimed in a smooth rumbling tone, seeming to shake off his disorientation enough to sound more pleased by Baldur's response than the threat warranted. Perhaps he had taken a hit to the head as well. "You're rather an aggressive little minx, aren't you? But if you're planning on interrogating me, let me save you some time and cut right to the point.
"My name is Zevran. I am a member of the Antivan Crows brought here with the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly." The elf, Zevran, spoke with a resigned sort of levity instead of fury or a defeatist outlook one would normally have in his position.
"I'm rather relieved that you failed then," Baldur said sardonically, easing his hostile stance slightly when he sensed Zevran had no intention of trying to lash out and finish what he'd started. He was barely even able to hold himself upright, but Baldur kept his distance incase the act was a feint and Zevran was palming a hidden dagger, waiting for the Warden to come into range.
"So would I be, in your shoes," Zevran agreed readily. "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 career as an assassin."
Baldur didn't have any particular prejudices against elves, unlike his brethren on the other side of the world in Ered Luin who had made their hatred for the fair folk into an art and way of life, much like the decades-old feud between elves and humans in Ferelden. His earlier dealings with the Dalish elves, before he had helped end the curse of Zathrian that was turning people into werewolves, had been limited to treatises and occasional visits from royal dignitaries that were mostly handled by his father or the Assembly. Dwarves generally had little interest in the affairs of others, and as a second son, Baldur had been just fine being overlooked during the rare meetings he did attend.
Bhelen, as a third son and even less visible in the courts than his older brothers, seemed to have taken the dismissal to heart.
"Who would send an assassin after the Grey Wardens?" Baldur asked, staring down at the elf in consternation.
"A rather taciturn fellow... Loghain, I think his name was."
Baldur and Alistair simultaneously tensed, and Alistair cursed beneath his breath. During the Battle of Ostagar against a thunderous hoard of darkspawn, Alistair and Baldur had fought their way into the Tower of Ishal to light a beacon signaling Teryn Loghain and his army to attack – a task at which Baldur and Alistair succeeded, but to no avail as Loghain had instead ordered his troops to retreat, abandoning the army of Ferelden, King Cailan, and the Grey Wardens including Duncan at the crucial moment when the darkspawn had converged upon them. The darkspawn retook the Tower, slaughtering the troops and mortally wounding the remaining two Grey Wardens. They only managed to escape being killed themselves thanks to the unexpected aid from Flemeth, called the Witch of the Wilds, or, simply, Morrigan's mother.
"Why is Loghain trying to kill us now?" Baldur demanded, frustrated all over again by the massacre and his mentor, Duncan's, untimely death thanks to Loghain's cowardice.
"The usual, I imagine. You threaten his power, yes?"
Baldur couldn't see how two Grey Wardens could be a source of concern for Loghain, unless he thought the people of Ferelden would believe their word over his own about what had really transpired in Ostagar.
"Why are you telling us all of this anyway?" Alistair said dubiously. "Don't you have any loyalty to Loghain?"
"To Loghain? No. I was contracted to perform a service, the details of which are between Loghain and the Crows. And between the Crows and myself, of course."
"So what are you going to do now?" Baldur asked, not liking the thought of allowing a contracted killer targeting him to walk free, but not seeing many other options.
"I suppose we can't just kill him?" Morrigan suggested, sounding bored but ready to take care of the problem as soon as Baldur said the word. Baldur frowned and narrowed his eyes at Zevran, who hadn't moved an inch, looking utterly content to languish there on the ground for as long as they kept him there.
"If I spare you, what's to stop you from coming after me again?"
"Well, here's the thing. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will. However, I enjoy living and you're obviously the type to give the Crows pause. So...let me serve you instead."
Baldur seemed taken aback by how readily the assassin planned to switch sides. "Do you not have any loyalty to the Crows either?" he demanded, knowing he wouldn't have accepted any of the others into his company if he thought they would betray him to the highest bidder.
"I am a very loyal person!" Zevran objected. "Up to the point where I'm expected to die for failing. I was never given a choice about joining the Crows. They bought me on the slave market as a child, although I hear I was purchased at a bargain, or so I am led to believe." Baldur couldn't comprehend that anyone could say such a horrifying statement with such joviality. "I believe I paid my worth to the Crows, plus ten fold."
"You're not seriously considering bringing the assassin along are you?" Alistair exclaimed in disbelief. "Although you do have a tendency of picking up strays..."
"Don't forget you were a cast-off too," Baldur said with a harsh bark that clearly took Alistair off guard. Baldur was also startled by the anger in his voice, but he found himself unwilling to apologize for defending his would-be assassin, cursing himself a fool and reluctant to explore why he was even considering allowing Zevran into their company.
"Harsh," Alistair murmured, wounded. "True, but...harsh."
"I can be very useful," Zevran added, as if to sweeten the deal. "I could warn you should the Crows attempt anything more sophisticated since their first attempt failed, as well as protect you and myself – not that you'll need any help in that regard. I am also accomplished at stealth and picking locks, and can even shine armor. Or I could stand around and look pretty, if you prefer. Warm your bed..."
Baldur blanched at the suggestion and then immediately felt his face turn red. He cursed the fact his beard didn't cover the entirety of his features, his blush no doubt visible from the moon.
"Really. I can go all night," Zevran continued when he heard no immediate objections, lascivious and shameless.
Baldur knew immediately this was going to be a bad idea, but he was all the more determined to keep interactions strictly business with Zevran and set him straight, so to speak.
"That won't be necessary," Baldur said roughly, appalled at the idea of Zevran trading the use of his own body for Baldur's protection. He was even more appalled at the spark of interest that flared up in his belly, viciously squashing the impulse with nearly overwhelming waves of shame and guilt that he would sink so low as to trade someone's life for sexual favors, regardless of how attractive that person might be.
He reached down and hauled Zevran to his feet instead, pleased to note the assassin didn't have any mortal wounds that would slow the group down and was able to stand under his own power.
"I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you until such a time that you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation. This I swear."
Baldur couldn't explain why that statement filled him with so much dread, and then found out why a moment later.
"May I say what a pleasure it was to be bested by one so handsome?" Zevran purred, and Baldur automatically glanced over at Alistair to gauge his reaction at being hit on by another man, even though it was far from the first time the other Grey Warden had been propositioned by a member of the same sex.
Alistair looked uncomfortable, but didn't respond, which wasn't like him. When Baldur turned his focus back to Zevran he was surprised to find the assassin looking directly at him.
"W-What?" Baldur spluttered, caught entirely wrong-footed and unable to recover from his disbelief quickly enough.
"Did I say handsome? I meant utterly gorgeous."
Zevran was definitely talking to him, his amber eyes going heavy-lidded and appraising as he shamelessly looked Baldur up and down with open interest. Baldur felt an unexpected flutter in his stomach and his breath hitched before he viciously tamped down the feeling. He suspected the flirtation was little more than a ploy to get into Baldur's good graces, and knowing the elf wasn't truly interested in him, but merely his strength and what he represented, eased some of the fire in his belly. Baldur glared menacingly and dismissed the complement as utterly preposterous. He was a dour-faced dwarf surrounded by his tall, attractive companions - one of which who could barely be said to have any clothing on at all.
"Welcome, Zevran," Leliana offered with her usual kind sincerity. "Having an Antivan Crow join us is a fine plan."
"Oh?" Zevran immediately perked up, flashing her a charming grin with perfectly straight white teeth. "You are another companion-to-be, then? I wasn't aware such loveliness existed amongst adventurers, surely."
"...Or maybe not," Leliana said shortly with a suspicious frown.
"We'll make camp here," Baldur interrupted, careful not to turn his back on Zevran quite yet as he addressed the others. Bastion sniffed suspiciously at Zevran's boot, but the elf seemed unbothered by the dog, and Bastion in turn snorted at him dismissively.
Apparently the elf passed inspection.
They made camp near the overturned caravans on top of a hill for the best vantage point, although a fair distance from the bodies of Zevran's companions.
"Do you... Is there some sort of ritual or burial you would like to do for them?" Baldur asked quietly, jutting his chin towards the trail below where they had left the scene of the ambush.
Zevran surprised him with a hearty laugh.
"Oh no. Those bastards are lucky I don't strip them bare and draw lewd images on their bodies. The only reason I don't is because I wouldn't want to look bad in front of my lovely host."
He winked at Baldur, who went immediately, damnably crimson, wishing desperately that he wasn't so painfully transparent.
"Aren't you a delight?" Zevran murmured, angling his head so he managed to look at Baldur through his pale lashes, even though Baldur was several hands shorter than he was.
Of all the idiotic...
Baldur was going to get himself killed thanks to all of these bewildering, inexplicable reactions Zevran was dragging out of him, plain and simple.
He straightened, his face still flushed, but his jaw was set and his heavy brow furrowed. He was gratified to note that Zevran mirrored his posture, his flirty expression turning politely interested even though Baldur suspected he was quite an accomplished actor. He had to be, in order to get close enough to his targets to kill them.
"I am taking a chance on you. I can't waste my time worrying that you'll stick a knife in my back in the middle of a fight or when I'm looking the other way. I don't know how much Loghain has told you about what I'm trying to accomplish going after the Archdemon, but I've given my life over to ending this Blight, and it is not yours to take. I'll pay you as much or more what Loghain did to kill me, and you may go with the promise that none of us will follow." Baldur spoke quietly, too low for anyone else to overhear.
"If you honestly, truly want to stay as a part of our group, I will take you at your word and not question your motives again. But I can't trust you only halfway. It has to be all or nothing."
Zevran actually appeared somewhat impressed and thoughtful, although Baldur already suspected the man couldn't have one serious conversation without throwing in something glib, a little like Alistair in that regard. They would no doubt drive each other - or him - mad in the interim.
"A pretty speech for a pretty dwarf, my lord," Zevran said with a slight bow that was more conceding than mocking, although a faint smile touched his lips. "But I have no interest in killing you. Honestly and truly. I think we could have...fun...together, with the bonus of slaying bad guys at the same time."
Zevran's tone was salacious, but Baldur chose to ignore the flirtation and the persistent heat in his cheeks that he hoped would fade eventually in their interactions. Baldur wasn't a prude, but he was - had been - sheltered, especially without the pressure to rule that his older brother Trian had faced. Baldur ached for his former naivety, the world much bigger and more evil than he could have imagined.
"This isn't a game or a lark, Zevran. We've come up against more horrors than you can even imagine, and I can't guarantee your safety or your life."
Zevran's golden eyes flashed with a dark, fleeting emotion, and his smile stiffened. "Believe me, Your Highness. I've seen horrors that you couldn't possibly imagine."
Baldur startled, staring at Zevran. He hadn't told anyone of who he'd been in Orzammar. There was a possibility Zevran had meant the title as a tease based on Baldur's bearing and position in the company, but he'd just as likely gotten information through the Antivan Crows. Loghain had known who he was in Orzammar, after all. There weren't many dwarf Wardens around, and he wasn't stealthy or covert by any means, so he was more surprised that they hadn't been found sooner.
"But let us not compare childhood trauma, hmm?" Zevran continued brightly, clapping a hand over Baldur's shoulder that seemed to burn through his armor. He was half-tempted to search for a poisoned needle slipped between the plates, but whether the elf killed him now or killed him later, Baldur had made his decision and would have to live with the consequences.
"I believe actions speak louder than words, so I will prove my trustworthiness to you in deeds and not give you reason to doubt me," Zevran promised soberly, sliding his hand away easily when Baldur frowned down at the offending digit in consternation.
"You may have a chance to prove yourself sooner rather than later. We tend to draw negative attention to ourselves by going against Loghain, as I'm sure you're aware of."
"I admit, as soon as I mentioned a dwarf Grey Warden and his entourage, I didn't have to spend a copper in bribes or alcohol to loosen tongues. Many I asked were only too willing to speaking of their interactions with you in addition to the direction you were headed. Predicting your route was painfully easy. If you'd like, I can show you how to hide your trail better so that you will not be so easy to find next time."
"Let them come," Baldur said darkly. "We hide from no one, certainly not Loghain, when we have much bigger problems than one man's ego. It will save us the effort of hunting him and anyone else who opposes us down."
"A man after my own heart!" Zevran exclaimed with delight and Baldur's lips quirked wryly.
"So now that is settled, tell me. Do we seal this deal with a kiss?"
Zevran suddenly seemed to be much closer into Baldur's space than he had been a moment ago, and Baldur recoiled abruptly, stepping back before he could stop himself from flinching.
"Ah. Guess not then," Zevran said amicably, still smiling but making no move to distance the space between them. "But maybe that stunning redhead would indulge me? She seemed to have a certain zest, that one."
Baldur had to swallow down a flare of possessive rage that shot through him at the thought of Zevran approaching Leliana, whether the Chantry sister was open to his advances or not. He wasn't in the habit of lying to himself, but never had he wanted to more when he realized the anger was jealousy over Zevran seducing and showing interest in anyone else, and not for Leliana herself.
His dismay must have shown on his face – Mahal damn it all - because Zevran's wily expression softened.
"I don't intend to step on toes if she's already spoken for," he said kindly, too kindly, and Baldur wanted to hit something.
"Leliana is a free agent. They all are," Baldur bit out, and then realized perhaps that wasn't true at all.
Despite the amount of time spent together, he knew next to nothing about any of the other's personal lives, just as they knew very little about his own. Alistair had only grudgingly told him about his upbringing and bastard parentage because there was a very likely chance someone would out him when they'd gone to find the Arl in Redcliffe. Who knew if he had a wife and kids at home, if any of them did? Even though there had been no mention of significant others or particular homesickness, that did not mean none existed.
They were all very secretive, that was to be sure. He felt almost hypocritical demanding Zevran's complete trust when clearly no one else had given their own fully, starting with Baldur himself. He was supposed to be a leader. He'd been born to be a leader - if not as king, then as a prince and commander or general at the very least.
Baldur's mood soured, and he found being caught under Zevran's too-keen gaze unbearable.
"Do as you will," he snapped, gathering himself and turning on his heel to take himself away from this conversation that had cast too much unwanted introspection upon himself. "We break at first light."
He refused to make eye contact with their newest member for the rest of the night, trying to busy himself by doing something useful, but his group was brutally efficient and after helping to clear out space for them to camp, Baldur had little to occupy himself with aside from cleaning the blood off his gear and sharpening Aodr, even though the enchanted blade was resilient to rust or dulling. Zevran thankfully kept out of the way, disappearing and reappearing with his own lighter bundle and claiming a space for himself set slightly away from the rest, but still within sight.
Leliana slipped away to scout the area for hidden enemies and traps while Alistair broke out their bedrolls and dinner rations. Morrigan started a fire and scavenged the area nearby for herbs and small prey with Bastion, her time spent living in the wilds invaluable compared to Baldur's relatively cushy former existence as royalty. He could hunt large game and move relatively heavy detritus out of way to clear spaces for sleeping or sitting, but he didn't know the first thing about living off the land or traveling based on the position of the sun or stars. He didn't even know which mushrooms were edible and which would kill him in the span of a heartbeat, trusting Morrigan not to poison them all regardless of how tempting the idea might be to her at times. His home had been deep within the stone and underground, food and goods readily supplied by those who traded on the surface, and aside from the usual small thieveries and coveting between brothers and cousins, he and his kin never wanted for anything.
Baldur got little rest that night. Alistair volunteered first watch to keep an eye on "that shifty-eyed elf," but twenty minutes of he and Zevran posturing quickly devolved into a rapid-fire trade of truly awful "your mother" jokes and an appearance of a well-worn deck of cards. Baldur already predicted the outcome of their low-stakes poker game even before Alistair startled the women with his flurry of swears and had a fireball thrown at his head for his trouble, which he barely ducked in time. Zevran laughed raucously and collected his meager winnings while Bastion barked his head off and tried to go chasing after the fireball.
Alistair was honest to a fault and had never once won a card game in-between Leliana's slight of hand, Morrigan's poker face and psychic ability, and Baldur's own shameless use of the resulting arguments and accusations of cheating to slip a few choice cards of his own. Trian had been even more temperamental and quick to violence when he suspected he had been swindled by either brother or their cousins during 'friendly' games, and Baldur, pained as he was to admit his family's shortcomings, perhaps wasn't as shocked as he should have been that Bhelen's own competitiveness had turned to fratricide.
Baldur had banned any sort of propriety bets between the group members, not wanting to risk bad blood and resentfulness that would jeopardize their entire mission, especially after the one time Morrigan had nearly lost a finger to Leliana's knife over a ruby the size of a child's fist one of them must have picked up on any of their numerous excursions.
He'd lay down what few rules they had between them for civility's sake tomorrow, if the assassin - former assassin? - was still there come morning.
Baldur half-wished he would be gone and take these awful, churning feelings with him. However, the thought of waking up and having Zevran not be there was almost more gut-wrenching than the pronouncement of his banishment and ousting from his family had been. Baldur couldn't even explain how the two situations could possibly compare in his mind - he had lost everything - but there it was.
His pulse quickened as he laid in his bedroll with Bastion trotting over to curl up near his feet. He mentally replayed his all too brief conversations with the elf, lingering on Zevran's striking features, the playful if tired lilt of his voice, and the strong line of his body. He felt guilty and skittish with the object of his thoughts mere feet away, flipping knives into a dead log at a distance while Alistair watched and frowned thoughtfully, their quiet conversation broken up with stifled yawns.
Baldur huddled deeper into his thin bedding, the removal of his outer armor, gauntlets, and helmet his only concession to comfort. He imagined, fleetingly, the press of a warm body sliding in behind his own, arms wrapping around his waist and pulling him against a strong, slender chest. His lips parted with a heavy, shuddering breath, and he held onto the image for one more longing moment before letting the utter insanity of the thought and the phantom warmth dissipate as Zevran and Alistair's voices finally quieted. Morrigan and Leliana were also silent as night sounds settled around them in the glow of their crackling fire.
Morning would come and undoubtedly bring with the dawn more death and destruction. Baldur just hoped at the end there would be the potential for light and life, assuming the Blight didn't destroy them all.