As usual, I own little. Just a reminder of the rating for this chapter, and reviews are always welcome.

Chapter Two – Snow

Under the grey sky the road swept west, twisting between the rain-wet hills until the wind was freighted with the brisk cold of the high mountains. Darrian led them at a gruelingly fast pace, and when the sun finally slid away behind banked clouds, he let the ache in his calves and shoulders take away the memory of Shianni on her knees, her dress bunched up around her thighs, and the air all thick with blood.

The night came in fast and cold, and Wynne made stew sprinkled with herbs and when he shrugged, she grabbed his wrist and placed a heaped bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. Later, he lay sleepless and twisting while the wind thrummed at the walls of the tent. He rolled over again and swore out loud.

"Come on, son. You need to get dressed."

"Father." He swallowed, gritted his teeth, and said, "I don't want this."

"I know." Father touched his shoulder and smiled. "It's difficult, and it's strange, and you don't know her."

"It's not even that," he snapped angrily. "No one asked me. Asked either of us."

The Joining had followed, though, and he had left them behind, the arl's son drowning in his own blood and Soris ashen and Shianni clinging to him. He remembered the taste of the darkspawn blood, and how it had burned down his throat and into his heart and filled his dreams with the scream of the dragon.

"You," Alistair said, and dragged in a shaken breath. "I thought…Maker above, Darrian. I saw you. You were bleeding so much. You're alright?"

"I think so," he answered. "I think…I don't know. Are you..?"

"He must have been there," Alistair said, and his voice cracked. "Duncan, he must...he must have, during the battle, and I…well, we were up there, and…"

He did not know what else to do, and when Alistair's eyes shimmered, he reached out and hauled the other Warden into a rough hug. "I know," he said, and pressed his forehead against Alistair's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He burrowed under the blankets and tried to will himself into sleep, and when it finally took him, his dreams were empty.

Darrian emerged into the chill grey dawn and when the dog ploughed into him and nearly took him off his feet, he laughed. He wrapped his arms around the dog's strong neck and let the dog's warmth seep into him. He saw Leliana and Alistair beside the firepit, both of them chattering. Further away, he noticed Zevran, sitting with his legs crossed and both blades loosened from his weapon belt. The dagger was across his knees, and Darrian watched the smooth, elegant motion of the assassin's hands as he cleaned the blade.

He remembered Denerim, and the summer there two years past, when the streets had stayed lively and thronged and full of music until well after moonrise. There had been dancing, and he had finally slipped away from the others and into the stifling shadows between the houses.

He remembered fumbling hands and harsh breathing and pleasure that was over far too quickly. Slim, muscled thighs around his hips, and the other boy's mouth against his, open and pliant. It had been hurried and rough and he had found long scrapes on his shoulders afterwards.

"Where were you?" Soris stumbled against him and grinned. His face was flushed and his red hair was damp. "That friend of Shianni's…what's her name? Can't remember. She was looking for you. Wanted a dance."

His arms felt too empty and his lips were swollen and his clothes were disheveled, his shirt patched with sweat. "Just a dance?"

Soris laughed. "Probably not. Want me to say I haven't seen you?"

The dog's nose brushed his face, and he flinched.

"My Grey Warden," Zevran said mildly, and he noticed that the assassin had moved, silently, as he often seemed to. "Whatever are you thinking about?"

"Nothing suitable for your delicate ears."

The assassin laughed, lilting and amused. "I've been called many things, my Grey Warden. Never that."

Darrian looked up at him, looked at the soft fall of his golden hair, at the way his shirt opened at the throat. "I'm not entirely surprised."

"No? Am I so easy to read?"

"No," Darrian said, thoughtfully. "You're not."

Six days later the snow began to fall, and Darrian cupped his hands and watched as the tiny flakes gathered between his fingers. Tall stands of pine trees rose on both sides of the valley, bristling with ice. The nights were full of screaming wind and needling cold, and even wrapped in furs, he often woke shivering and startled. The road wound between the peaks, deep with the wind-driven snow, and each day's march left him wrung through. He ordered the others on faster, and faster still when the afternoon sky turned dark and threatening. Each breath between chapped lips was dry and cold, and the drag of the snow beneath his boots made him ache. He ignored Wynne's urging to slow down, and snapped, "This whole valley's too open. You planning on staying awake all night just to make sure the rest of us don't freeze to death?"

Ice clung to the smooth sides of the rocks where the road rose up and over a crest, and the footing there was treacherous. He stumbled, and the steadying hand he flung out jarred against the stone. The night closed in, pressing and dark, and by the time he called a halt and beckoned the others under the broad curve of an overhang, his feet were soaked and nearly numb.

He listened to the wind as it cut through the high clefts of the rocks above. He could hear the others, Leliana humming something, and Alistair's voice as he gently teased the dog. He ate, swallowing down mouthfuls of hard biscuit until his throat closed up. He turned his shoulders against the rock and felt the cold, seeping and inexorable.

"You know," Zevran murmured, "I never thought I would be looking forward to reaching a city that is built underground."

"No."

The assassin turned so that his shoulder was against Darrian's. "Perhaps the next time you need to cross all of Ferelden in search of allies, you could leave me behind somewhere a touch warmer?"

He closed his eyes against the brittle play of the wind, and when the assassin stayed silent, he leaned into the solid press of his shoulder. "I'll try."

The night faded away, and when Zevran surfaced from odd, blurred dreams, he breathed in the knifing cold. Overhead, he saw that the clouds had fled, leaving behind the pale burn of the late stars. He twisted himself away from the stone and realised that his shoulder was aching, and inside his boots, his feet were stiff.

"Did you sleep?" the Warden asked, and his voice was strained.

"As if on a bed clad in the most luxuriant silken sheets."

"Liar."

"Oh? You can observe how I might sleep in such a situation, if you wish to put my words to the test."

The Warden groaned. "And here I was hoping the weather might have dampened your enthusiasm."

"Never." He rolled his shoulders. He glanced down the shadowed curve of the overhang and saw Wynne as she stirred, her face pallid beneath the white fall of her hair, and Morrigan, swathed in her cape. "Did you dream?"

"No."

He looked at the Warden, sharply, and saw how his mouth flexed down, how his eyebrows met, and knew he was lying again. "Oh."

"Tell me about Antiva."

"Oh?" He summoned a grin, and tipped his head back against the stone. "I have already told you so many stories of my Antiva."

"You've told me about how you killed people. You've told me about the Crows. Tell me about your home."

"My home?" He thought again of Rinna, and how she had twisted above him, beneath him, how her teasing soft mouth had whispered his name. How she had come to him in the darkness, in those four small rooms, and how he had buried himself in her until the world disappeared.

"Dance with me tomorrow."

He rolled over, taking her with him. Her knees landed either side of his hips, and he grinned up at her, at the way the candlelight swam in her loose hair. "Of course I will."

"Did you speak to your master?"

"Yes, my beauty, and I thought we agreed to speak of nothing but ourselves in this room."

She grinned and nipped at the tips of his ears, at the hollow of his throat. "I am excitable sometimes. Forgive me?"

"Oh, perhaps."

"Only perhaps?" Her smile widened, and she kissed him, deep and demanding. "Whatever might I do to convince you?"

He slid his hands down to the swell of her hips. "I will think of something, I'm sure."

"Antiva City is always warm, always full of the flowers in the summer," he said, and was slightly surprised when his voice stayed steady. "It is busy and full of colour, and we smile more than your people here in Ferelden."

"I said tell me about it, not point out how much better it is than here," Darrian said, drily. "You miss it."

"I suppose I do. Do you miss your home?"

"Sometimes. Why did you leave?"

"We are given little choice," he said, and it was almost true. "We go where we are sent."

"I want to go, master."

"Why?"

Because she was dead, and because there was nothing left. Because the inside of his mouth felt like sand, and because he had seen her bleed out her life in front of him. Because Taliesen had tried to touch him afterwards, and he had spun away, and when Taliesen had tried again, he had caught the other Crow's hand hard enough to bruise.

"Because I have proved myself, and I am good enough."

"Zevran?"

"Mmm?"

The Warden said nothing, only turned until his arm was against Zevran's again. Wordlessly, he tipped his head against Zevran's shoulder, and the assassin felt him breathing, warm and measured.

The mountains rose high and ice-clad beneath the sky. Fitful gusts winnowed last night's snowfall into driving white plumes. The road wound between the crags and flattened out somewhere below. A grey evening five days later found them camped in a scooped-out hollow of rock that was small and cramped and mercifully kept the worst of the screaming wind at bay.

Darrian set his shoulders against the slope of a half-fallen pine and glared at the tumbling snow. Somewhere behind, he could hear the others as they bustled about with tents and bowls and armour and weapons. He waited out the dusk alone until the ribbon of the sky above was dark.

"I don't want to know," he said when he heard someone's boots creaking against the snow. "Not even if there's an entire legion of darkspawn."

"What about an entire legion of barely-clad voluptuous ladies?" Zevran asked.

"Send them to Alistair," he muttered, but could not quite hide his smirk. "I'm sure even he could do more good with them than I could. Besides, barely-clad ladies would be frostbitten at best."

"There you go again, with your logic and your practicality." Zevran stopped in front of him, arms folded and one eyebrow arched.

For a long moment, Darrian simply looked at him, looked at his awful pallor, looked at the way ice crystals clung to the loose strands of his golden hair. "You look dreadful."

"And here I thought it was my imagination." Almost thoughtfully, Zevran raised one hand, brushed his thumb across the corner of Darrian's mouth. "You're tired, my Warden."

"Yes." Darrian wanted to catch the assassin's hand, wanted to tug his gloves off and feel the pressure of his skin. "Zevran, if this is…"

One of the assassin's hands slipped into his hair, and Zevran's fingers cradled the back of his head. Absurdly, Darrian wondered if his heart was going to hammer clean out of his chest. When Zevran kissed him, he shivered and grabbed at the assassin's head until he could slide his fingers through thick blond hair. He felt the assassin laugh, and the movement of his lips turned pliant and warm and damp.

Darrian pulled away, aware suddenly of how swollen and heavy his tongue felt, how his breath was pluming around him, how the assassin's gloved hands were still against his face. He wanted to spin them both around and push Zevran against the tree and bury himself in his arms and forget about the cold and the world.

He made himself stop, made himself look into the assassin's face. "Zevran, do you want this?"

"Oh, I thought that would be obvious by now, my Warden."

"Do you?"

Zevran's mouth covered his again, and he groaned. He let himself go, let himself fall into it, the fierce, seeking pleasure of it. The assassin's hands swept up and tangled at the nape of his neck. He worked his arms around Zevran's waist and pulled him closer.

"I read you quite correctly, then, my Warden?"

"You did." Darrian ran his thumbs along the assassin's jaw. "You always have."

"Oh, I don't know. I will admit that most of the time I am simply admiring you."

He laughed. He leaned his forehead against Zevran's shoulder, and when the assassin stroked up and down the line of his neck, he sighed. "You feel good."

"Good," Zevran murmured, and tipped Darrian's head up for another kiss, deep and lingering. His other hand wandered down Darrian's chest, and the Warden sighed.

"That's not fair."

Zevran paused, his fingers lightly curled over Darrian's belt before they dipped lower. "Why?"

"Because it's too cold to do anything else. At least properly."

"Oh? Might I take that as a suggestion that you at least do wish to...do other things?"

The teasing pressure of Zevran's hand turned his mind blank. He swallowed, and managed to mutter, "Of course I do."

Zevran kissed the side of his neck, nipped at the tip of his ear. "Good."

He breathed in too quickly, and the cold seared into his mouth. He slid his hands down the assassin's sides, ran them over the lines and buckles of his leathers. He cupped Zevran's hips and hauled him closer again.

Part of him acknowledged the injustice of it, of how they were easily a day or so from Orzammar, and the assassin had chosen now to make his interest all the clearer? The pleased half of him noted how well the assassin's hips fit against his, how Zevran's tongue tangled with his, wet and wanting and close to frantic.

"Zevran," he murmured against the side of the other elf's neck. "It's very cold."

One slender hand slid up the inside of his thigh. "Is it?"

Darrian grinned and somehow pried himself away from the assassin. He led Zevran across the swathe of the ice-hard ground and into the darkness of the tent and fumbled his way across the buckles and straps that crossed the assassin's chest. He heard Zevran's pleased murmur, and then felt his hands, agile and fast. They shed leathers and weapons and boots and Darrian lit the small lantern before he hauled the assassin under the blankets. He was shivering, and against him, the assassin was all chill skin and slightly damp clothes.

"Next time," Zevran muttered against his chin. "Next time I seduce you, I am going to ensure that we are somewhere inside, and warm, and properly lit."

"Next time?"

"Well, you can hardly expect to appreciate everything I can offer when we can barely see each other, can you?"

He laughed, a little strained, and threaded his hands through Zevran's hair. The nape of his neck was cold, so Darrian cupped his hands over the soft skin there. "That's a promise, is it?"

"It is, my Warden."

He let his legs open around the assassin's waist, and when his slipped his hands around the back of Zevran's thighs, he heard that low, pleased laugh again. Zevran's hips rocked forward and Darrian surged to meet him until the friction between them was maddening and delicious all at once. Blindly, he sought the assassin's mouth, and groaned when Zevran's hands framed his face.

"This isn't fair."

"Oh? You brought me in here, my Warden."

His fingers bumped against Zevran's chin, and slowly, he explored the assassin's face. He found smooth skin and the sharp press of his cheekbones, and the soft movement of his mouth beneath. He let his hand wander down the assassin's throat until he brushed the collar of his shirt. The small lantern flame swam in the Crow's golden hair.

Zevran's hand dipped under his waistband, and he hissed. The Crow's other hand tugged the laces open. Zevran's fingers wrapped around him, deliberate and stroking and Darrian arched into him. Greedily, he claimed the assassin's mouth again and again. Zevran's pace quickened, and Darrian thrust up into the wonderful, aching pressure of his hand. Too soon – far too soon – it was too much, and the shuddering heat of his climax made him cry out.

He sank onto the damp blankets, aware of the rapid beat of his heart, and the weight of the assassin above him, and the astonishing lassitude that clung to him.

"Zevran?"

"Mmm?"

"Sorry."

The Crow laughed. "Not to fret, my dear Warden. It has been a long time for you?"

"With the help of anyone else's hand? Since before Ostagar."

He lingered a moment longer, his eyes half-closed, listening to the measured sound of Zevran's breathing against his throat. Gracelessly, Darrian wrapped his arms around Zevran's shoulders and pitched them both over so that the Crow was sprawled underneath him. He shucked the blankets up and over them both and busied himself with Zevran's laces. When the assassin lifted his hips, he eased his breeches and smallclothes down and leaned in to kiss the jut of Zevran's hipbone.

Teasingly slowly, he took Zevran into his mouth until he heard the assassin's sharp inhalation. Deliberately, he closed one hand around the base of Zevran's rigid length and stroked. Not hurrying, Darrian worked him with his fingers and his mouth until the assassin arched, his hands combing and pressing through Darrian's loose hair. Zevran groaned something, and then muttered, "Oh."

Darrian grinned and rested his face against the warm, trembling inside of the assassin's thigh. "Oh?"

"I do not care to be outdone, my Warden."

"No?"

"No, and take that smug look off that lovely face."

Darrian ignored him and smoothed his thumbs across the assassin's hips. In the fluttering lamplight, he could see the twining, dark twists of the assassin's tattoos, vanishing up under the loose hem of his shirt. "So what do you intend to do about it?"

"Right now?" Zevran smiled wickedly. "Absolutely nothing. It is too cold, my Warden, and the night wanes."

Darrian rolled off him. He tugged the blankets up again and shivered. "And to think you once called me a tease."

"You were half-dressed and covered in sweat from sparring. If that isn't deliberately planned, then I do not know what else to call it, my Warden."

He laughed. "Next time, then?"

"Next time," Zevran echoed, and caught the Warden's face between his hands. He pressed his mouth to Darrian's, bruising and merciless and challenging. "And next time, I expect nothing less than a locked door and your undivided attention, my Warden."

The gates of Orzammar rose up from the side of the mountain. On both sides, torches twisted, batted almost flat by the wind. Darrian kicked his heels against the stone, aware that his feet were almost numb, that his hands were cramping inside his gloves. Somewhere behind, the snow was wet and red with the blood of Loghain's messengers, and for once, he found that he did not care, not when the cold was making the bones of his face ache.

Inside, the stone was warm beneath his feet, and he wondered why that troubled him. He looked up at the arch of the rock above, and suppressed a shiver. He nudged Zevran and murmured, "How deep is this city?"

Zevran leaned on the edge of the stone. Somewhere far below, lava rolled between the gaps in the stone, blurred with heat and livid. "I find that I do not wish to guess."

"So," Alistair said, and mopped at the sweat that gleamed across his forehead. "Plan? Do we have one?"

"Right now?" Darrian grinned mirthlessly. He remembered how the guards at the doors had motioned them inside, how the passageway had sloped down and down again. How the sudden heat had made him glad, before he had noticed the press of the stone on all sides. "We wait, I suppose. See if this Lord Harrowmont will see us."

"The Proving," Alistair said, and frowned.

"I know. I don't like it either. It seems a lot of effort just to see the man who might be king."

"I suppose there's no other way." Alistair scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Wouldn't it be nice to get somewhere, just once, and have things be easy?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

Alistair turned, and when he made his way across the flat spread of the stone, Darrian followed him, very aware of the assassin's presence at his other shoulder. Voices and sounds carried strangely here, he decided, bouncing off the curving arches above or else muffled by the distance and the press of the heat. He trailed Alistair back through the market, past merchants shouting prices for weapons and food and the blaze of gems trapped in gold and silver.

At the tavern, he wrapped his hands around a tankard and noticed the wary silence, noticed how the dwarves watched them, sidelong or openly. Zevran sat beside him, the solid press of his thigh warm and tempting, and Darrian's thoughts ran wild. He remembered how well Zevran's body had fit above his, how the hot press of the assassin's mouth had stolen words and breath and the inclination to do anything else except feel.

He lasted out the afternoon – or whatever it was down here, since he was no longer sure – half aware of the others as they talked about small, unimportant things, books and stories and Alistair teasing Shale with riddles.

"You see?" Alistair said, and smiled. "He's not even listening to me."

Darrian blinked, and blurted out, "Yes, I am."

Leliana laughed. "Your mind is not with us at all, and you are a terrible liar."

"Actually," he said, and when he felt Zevran's hand on the inside of his knee, he shivered. "I was thinking about something I agreed to."