At the age of fourteen, Zevran underwent what the Crows call Los Ensayos de Resistencia. Every apprentice endured this stage of their training; some survived intact, and some were carried away as broken shells. For the Guild, it was the final culling, the test that separated the wheat from the chaff. If he persevered, the apprentice would receive a Master and begin his journey into whatever specialization had been deemed suited to him. Very few apprentices reached this point before the age of seventeen, but the Masters had decided Zevran was a promising asset. Perhaps they had also hoped to break the defiant, brazen spirit that had inspired layer upon layer of stripes on Zevran's tanned back.

During Los Ensayos, Zevran came to know pain as an entity with many faces and many touches. It could slice like a dagger, burn with a fierce flame, crush with relentless pressure, or puncture the skin like a myriad of needles. He refused to embrace it as some advised, secretly terrified that it would consume his soul if allowed. Instead, Zevran taught himself to separate it from his consciousness and face it as an enemy. When it attempted to strike him down, he would bare his teeth and laugh it into submission. When his tormentors pushed, he merely asked for more and screamed his defiance. By the end, he bore the scars but not the humility. Now, many years later, the most vile of those Masters who had unleashed agony upon him were dead, their last memory a savage grin of triumph and a flash of honey eyes.

The pain he felt now on waking was more of an echo: an ache in tendon, a sting in tissue, and a burn in his abdomen. He recognized the faint, warm tingle of the magic used to knit his wounds far sooner than nature would have dictated. With his eyes closed, he could still see the gaping jaws of the lead wolf and hear the howl of victory as he fell beneath the onslaught of the enraged pack. Not entirely a victory though, hmm? I took quite a few of your fellows down with me. Still, he had grown lax to have stumbled across so many predators without noticing the signs. My Masters would have taken such enjoyment to hear of Zevran Arainai succumbing to mere wolves.

He cracked his eyelids to see a rough canvas stretched above, firelight tossing shadows back and forth among the creases. A tent then. He shifted just a smidgeon, enough to assess his strength and determine if any bones were fractured. No breaks, but I am too weak to defend myself if need be. Remembering the feel of tearing teeth on his neck, he determined he had probably lost a significant amount of blood. A sliver of disquiet disturbed his thoughts; weakness meant vulnerability, a state he could not afford. His uneasiness increased when he heard a rustle of movement nearby.

"Drink."

That voice. In spite of his frailty, perhaps even more so because of it, a shiver ran down his spine. There was another wolf here, one he had hunted for some time, but it seemed the prey had found the hunter first. And he could not deny that the thought of this wolf's teeth on his exposed throat… well, it sent a thrill through him that had little to do with fear. In the next moment, a shadowy figure bent over him, head haloed in silver as firelight glinted off white strands of hair. Slim arms slid around his shoulders and hefted him into a more upright position as easily as if he were a sack of salt. Cold iron touched his dry lips, and he obeyed, wincing at the bitter taste of elfroot. He coughed, and the tankard was removed and his body gently lowered as if he were a child.

A chair scraped nearby and was drawn close to his cot. His neck ached to move, but Zevran turned it anyway to better see Fenris as the warrior sat with a grunt. Those eyes. Once, when he was still a fledgling assassin and awed by riches, he had been assigned to an Antivan prince, acting as his servant. The prince had a forgettable face, bland and set in a practiced grimace of boredom, but the jewel he wore about his neck caught even the most casual glance. The emerald had been cut in the shape of a teardrop and hung from a chain of gold. The color was the brilliance of green grass in spring, and it sparkled like the North Star on a clear winter night. He had never seen the like of that jewel until now, but the two orbs staring back him were filled with a life the emerald of his past had never known.

"You are as elusive as a halla in flight, mi querido." It hurt to talk. The tendons in his throat burned as they worked around the words, and it took a great deal of effort to remain focused. He could already feel his body slipping back into a healing sleep.

"Hawke is in flight. I merely follow." Fenris stretched out a finger to lightly touch the red string around Zevran's wrist. "You found the bottle I left."

"I keep my promises, whether they be for good or ill." He raised a shaky hand toward the string, but Fenris had already withdrawn his finger. Still skittish but here. Zevran allowed his eyes to drift closed with a slight curve of his lips. Perhaps he is as intrigued with me as I am with him? He could only hope.

"Rest now. I will remain here."

The words meant more than they would to most people. For an assassin, to be indisposed in a camp of strangers meant unacceptable vulnerability. Fenris's presence would provide the peace Zevran needed to sleep. He wished to express his gratitude, but exhaustion claimed him, pulling him deep into soothing darkness.


He dreamed. Cool air carried the taste of salt to his lips even as it dried the sweat on his naked skin. He stood upon a marble balcony that gleamed brightly in the midday sun, and twining vines of trumpet lilies permeated the humidity with their cloying scent. Uncaring of his nudity, he turned back the bedroom behind him, recognizing the lush opulence of a high-born lady's boudoir. He remembered this estate. Only two years ago, he had completed an expensive contract, which ended in the death of the unfortunate lady's husband. Undaunted, she had simply replaced her late sire's place in bed with Zevran.

He left the heat of Antiva's summer and entered the shaded interior of the bedroom. His lady lay propped on one elbow watching him, her dusky skin contrasting sharply with the white sheets.

"Mi amor, why do you linger under the hot sun when you could be relaxing in here with me?" Her lips curled into a sultry smile, and she patted the bed beside her with a hand adorned with gold bracelets.

Just as he had those years ago, his dream-self paused to take in her beauty, but even as his eyes appreciated, his heart rebelled. Was this all there was for Zevran Arainai? A beautiful body to occupy his time and fulfill his needs until they grew tired of one another? And then to move on to the next seduction, another set of lips to taste? He turned back to the balcony and closed his eyes in sorrow.

When he reopened them and turned around, he was no longer in a lavish manor but in the tiny loft above the harbor that he called home. Before him lay his own bedroom, spartan and rarely used, but his bed was far from empty. Reclining against the iron headboard was a tall elf clad in black leather that only accentuated the white of his shaggy hair. His legs were crossed at the ankle, and his eyes burned with a heat that traveled straight to Zevran's groin.

"You are late."

"Then I owe you restitution, yes?" This was a dream, and perhaps that explained the lack of surprise at finding Fenris in his bed. Even so, a vision from beyond the Veil failed to justify the gladness and the sheer sense of rightness at seeing the elf in his home.

When Fenris rose from the bed in a single fluid movement, Zevran went limp and allowed himself to be pressed roughly against the wall, delighting in the mouth that claimed his with a passion far surpassing anything experienced within the frigid beds of Antiva's villas. He moaned, but the soft heat beneath his lips faded to the nothingness of air. Zevran reached out a desperate hand in an effort to hold on to Fenris, but the warrior's lithe body dissipated into the mist, leaving Zevran cold and empty.


When he awoke, it wasn't Fenris sitting at his side. Straw-colored, braided hair framed high cheekbones and a strong, blunt jaw. The blue eyes were underscored with muted bruises displaying the lack of sleep, but they were as mesmerizing in their shrewdness as they had been when he had first seen them in Sundermount's cave.

"Serah Hawke." He winced at the unfamiliar rasp that accompanied his words instead of his usual fluid tenor.

"Zevran." She sighed and drew a damp cloth across his sweaty brow. "Do you always make such dramatic entrances?"

"I do like to make an impression, but usually it involves less blood and pain."

"You're lucky you're even alive. If the wolves hadn't already incapacitated you, my men might have killed you instead to protect our location." Her eyes narrowed. "Why are you here, Zevran?"

"Just happened to be in the area, my dear lady." He offered his most charming smile, even though he knew she wouldn't be swayed by anything he had to give.

"A rather isolated area to wander through, don't you think?" She crossed her arms across her chest, an unnecessary gesture from an already formidable woman. "The truth, Zevran. I value your friendship, but my people come first."

The truth is not mine to give. "My lady, I have nothing to offer except my word, but I am not here to harm your cause or to bring information to your pursuers. I cannot give you the truth just yet, but I swear to you on the love I once bore for my Warden, I will not betray your people. Perhaps I may even be of help?"

She cocked her head and regarded him thoughtfully. "You wish to join us?"

"For a time. If you wish me to leave, however, I will do so."

A burst of sunshine interrupted their conversation, and a tall, lanky mage entered the tent, carrying a covered iron pot. Muttering under his breath, he tied the entrance flap of the tent back with a leather thong, letting in a fresh breeze that smelled of green. Zevran breathed deeply, grateful for the relief from smoke and stale body odor.

"Good. Is he finally awake?" The other mage stooped over Zevran and placed a broad hand over his chest. A brief, blue glow emanated from between slender fingers as he made his own assessment.

"He wants to join us, Anders," said Hawke. "You know more about him than I do. Can he be trusted?"

"I only know what the Warden Commander told me, and she trusted him with her life, so I suppose he has some sense of honor. For an assassin." He pulled his hand away from Zevran and laid his palm over the elf's forehead. "How do you feel?"

"Weak as a babe and hungry as a Warden. Thank you for your… kind words." Zevran grinned, not in the least offended.

Anders chuckled. "No problem. You're going to need to rest here for a few days. You lost a lot of blood, and I can't heal that."

"I owe you both a debt of gratitude for rescuing me, and I promise to cause you no trouble."

"Glad to hear it," said Hawke. "Just know that I'll be keeping an eye on you until I discover the real reason you're here." She left without a backward glance.

"A charming woman." Zevran raised his eyebrows at the billow of her retreating robes.

"She's got a lot on her shoulders right now," said Anders, uncovering the pot he had brought with him. "Are you able to sit up and eat?"

Zevran pushed himself upright, grimacing at the lingering pain in his abdominal muscles and neck. "I am truly grateful for your assistance, mi amigo," he said softly.

"I know, Zevran." Anders poured the thick, meaty broth into a bowl and handed it to the elf. "You won't tell us why you're here?"

"I cannot. It would betray another's trust."

"Very well, but while you're here, you cooperate with our orders. Which means you stay in bed until I tell you it is okay to get up."

"May I at least get a bath?" Zevran made a disgusted face while waving a hand over his body. "I have always had a preference for cleanliness, and not even fresh air can wash away the odor of the sick."

"I'll ask Fenris to help you. Marian had to force him to leave you and get some sleep, you know. Broody bastard wouldn't leave your side."

"Indeed?" Zevran hid his delight behind a spoonful of soup.

"He probably doesn't trust you." Anders stood and pressed his hands to his lower back, stretching to relieve the stiffness. "Don't worry about it. He's always like that. He'll relax more after you've been here awhile." He bent and picked up the pot from the ground. "I'll be back later with some elfroot potion for you to drink. Eat that soup and get some rest." He left, his shadow briefly obliterating the warm sunlight as he stooped beneath the flap.

Zevran finished the soup and set the empty bowl beside his bed. Exhaustion was already pulling him back toward slumber, and he welcomed it with the knowledge that he was safe enough to rest easily without fear of attack. His last thought was of Fenris, refusing to leave the tent, and he smiled as the Fade drew him into its hazy world.

A/N: Thank you, Zevgirl, for all your help! And many thanks to everyone who is reading this. Enjoy!