A/N: I was too lazy to replay DA:O and get a few facts straight, so here's yet another random chapter. Based off Sarel's comments that the Veil in the Brecilian Forest is weaker as compared to other places.

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age: Origins or any of their colourful characters. Bioware does. But I sure as heck idolize David Gaider & his writing team.

#04: Nature of the Beast

Does love always

Lead to sorrow?

----Across Time, Sky of Illusions, FictionJunction/Kajiura Yuki (translated lyrics)

Zevran stared at the opulent room. He'd never quite adjusted to the truth: that he was now leader of the Antivan Crows, and there were precious few who could challenge him at this point. There were plenty of assassination attempts, of course, but Zevran had proved too wily to be fooled.

The ascension had not been easy. He'd had to hide in Antiva City and dodge everyone connected to the Crows – and that was easily more than half the city's population. Zevran had held assassins at knifepoint – easily overwhelming them with his skill – and extracted information crucial to his goal. Then, he'd formed a plan. Utilizing what the bard had taught him (he called it "disguise"; Leliana had called it "a different form of invisibility"), he'd disguised himself as a client and negotiated his way to meet with the Crows' head. Then he'd drawn a blade, reverted to the stealth mode that he was more comfortable with, and murdered the leaders. It was amazing how 'innocence' and 'client' went hand in hand. He'd slain all those holding positions of power – and then appointed new ones in their place. Those who tried to kill him, however, were swiftly dispatched. Many bowed to his otherworldly prowess (he was amused to learn that some younger assassins said he "fought like a bleedin' archdemon".), and still others obeyed out of sheer terror. Zevran was fine with either, so long as obedience was ensured.

Bed offers had been numerous, amounting into over a hundred sovereigns. Zevran's sexual experience was vast, and this made him skilled at pleasuring others, no matter the gender. He accepted only the highest bids, though, bleeding many merchants dry. But they'd returned, addicted to the satisfaction that only he could give them. Still, sex – and sometimes more – though it were, his heart never quite fell for anyone else. Surana had been right in guessing she would be the last woman to hold his heart prisoner – he was still imprisoned by her. And he didn't mind, though sometimes he still wanted to bawl like a child. As leader, only the gravest requests were brought to him, and so he had much free time. Often, Zevran honoured Surana by reminiscing about their short time together. Sometimes he wept. Other times, he smiled. And there were also times when he'd take out the gifts she'd showered him with after falling for him.

Today he was fingering a pair of worn Dalish gloves.

These gloves were made of supple leather and lined with soft rabbit fur. Certainly not as fine as his mother's gloves had been, but it still held much significance. Zevran slipped them on. Out of habit he didn't wear them: he hadn't worn them since he'd left Ferelden's court. The last time he'd worn them was during the final battle to end the Blight. He felt his guts twist as he recalled that time.

Zevran shook his head. No.

Today he would remember the happier times. Well, given the impending Blight and the chaos befouling all their allies, nothing they'd experienced could rightfully be called "happy", but Zevran felt that it was in times of crisis that people learned to find happiness in small things. As Surana had quoted, "it is in times of trouble that we should seize moments of levity."

She'd rephrased a sentence the Circle's first enchanter had spoken. Irving, was it? Zevran had thought the wizened old man wise. He rather liked Irving for the mage's obvious sarcasm towards Greagoir.

But that was not the point.

Zevran never knew where she'd taken the gloves from. He did, however, associate them with the Dalish clan that they'd come across in the Brecilian Forest. This was several days after Surana had accepted him into her band of misfits; at that point, they had only conversed a few times, and he had yet to realize what the feeling in his gut was. He closed his eyes, conjuring the image of the bald Zathrian and his assistant, Lanaya. Then, gradually, the rest of the clan came into view.

xXx

From their camp, Surana had taken only Zevran – it seemed better for a group of elves to converse with the Dalish - and ventured into the Brecillian Forest in search of the clan. They did find the Dalish, and subsequently the two left to search for Witherfang. They trekked in silence, neither bothering to comment on the occasional battles and the ever-shifting paths of the haunted forest.

After several clashes with the werewolves and darkspawn, Surana and Zevran were a little worse for wear. Zevran had two broken ribs and a deep gash on his leg. Surana had healed them to the best of her ability, but his wounds itched under their bandages, but the fact that Surana hadn't received any severe damage satisfied him somewhat.

As he allowed himself to wallow in self-pity for a few minutes, Zevran noticed Surana's labored breathing. In concern, he glanced at her: she was pale. Beads of sweat rolled down her brow as she pressed her lips together. The mage looked pained, and try as he might, the assassin could find no obvious wound on her body. She seemed determined to forge on, though, and the few attempts to convince her to stop for a rest were in vain.

xXx

Behind the Grand Oak was a camp. The duo approached it warily. "It's deserted," Surana said quietly.

"Looks new," Zevran observed.

Surana observed the camp in pensive silence. Something was out of place. Zevran read that much from her hollow – and exhausted - look. But he was feeling impossibly drowsy, and before long, he had slipped into unconsciousness.

Zevran knew this, for the blackness was a gap in his memory. The next thing he remembered was Surana calling his name and shaking him awake. He opened his eyes to see the worried expression on her face switch seamlessly to one of relief. Confusion reigned in his mind.

"A demon," Surana answered his unspoken questions, "they prey on unsuspecting travellers."

"Then I must thank you for saving my life yet again," he said gratefully, and rose. She followed suit, and had barely taken two steps across the bridge before she fell. Alarmed, Zevran leapt into the shallow stream and caught her just before her head hit the water.

"What's wrong?" the assassin exclaimed, cradling her in shock.

"Head," she gasped desperately, "hurts..."

The pain was agonziing enough that it had incapacitated the mage. Surana closed her eyes against the migraine. Zevran rose, carrying her in his arms, and made his way towards the Dalish camp.

She clutched weakly at his arms. "We need to find Witherfang, Zevran," she whispered in frustration, "don't go back..."

He didn't care about finding Witherfang, not when the mage's breathing was labored and a thin film of sweat coated her clammy skin. As she slipped deeper into unconsciousness, Surana began to speak – whether from delirium or mere dreaming Zevran didn't know – but he couldn't understand her words. They were spoken too softly and too rapidly. He didn't bother to focus on them, either. All he cared about was getting her back to camp, and perhaps having Zathrian look at her for them.

He made it to the first crossroad when Surana suddenly woke. Her eyes snapped open, and she touched Zevran's chest, causing him to stop. "You're awake," the assassin said softly. "Can you walk?" When she consented, he let her stand. She leaned against him for a moment, exhaling slowly. Then she pulled away from him, as if embarrassed to display that moment of weakness.

"It's the forest, no?" Zevran pressed as he eyed her. She looked well enough, considering that she'd just passed out from a migraine not too long ago. Pale and shaken, but not endangered whatsoever. Surana nodded.

"I am sorry," he offered. To his surprise, he meant it.

She was duly astounded. "Why are you apologizing?"

"The demon, from earlier. I should have known better than to let my guard down in that camp."

Surana put two and two together. She shook her head, throwing both her hands up in the air. "No, it's not the demon. It's" - she waved a hand desperately around her - "the entire forest."

It was Zevran's turn to be bewildered.

Surana saw that, and she sighed. "You wouldn't understand, but I'll try to explain. The forest... it's seen too much death. And the Veil is weak here."

"Sarel said something like that."

She nodded. "He did. Demons pass from the Fade here much more easily than in other places... and I draw my powers from the Fade, like all mages do," Surana said wearily, "the demons are aware of my presence here, and it's an uphill battle for me. I have to stop them from possessing me. I don't want to become an abomination, but I feel like I can't move in this place without risking becoming one. It's like I have one foot in the Fade and the other foot in the forest... it hurts." She cupped her head in both hands, squeezing her eyes shut.

Surana was right. Zevran didn't understand. But he did comprehend one thing: that being in this forest pained her, and she wanted to get this over and done with quickly. Still, the assassin doubted it was as easy as merely finding Witherfang and slaying it. He wanted to help her – anything to prove his loyalty, and perhaps more – but he didn't know what he could do.

Eventually he threw all caution to the wind and followed instinct. Stepping forward, he held her in his arms. "Then I'll do this if it hurts," Zevran said, embracing the elven mage sincerely, "and I'll hold you until it doesn't hurt anymore." Her hands hesitated, falling from her head. Noticing her lack of response, he probed, "or should I not?"

She stiffened, and then gingerly wrapped her arms around his waist. "No. By all means."

And despite the lives and hopes that lay on their shoulders, Zevran wished this moment would last forever. It felt right.

xXx

It was their first night back in camp, after breaking the curse Zathrian had laid upon the humans. Surana had refused to kill Witherfang after learning the whole truth, choosing instead to force Zathrian to break the curse. After all, magic, she said, was dangerous only to those who were not strong enough to control it. And the Dalish Keeper was one such person.

Zevran slipped into Surana's tent after dinner for the first time, a bowl of stew in hand. She'd been sleeping for the better part of a day, and after he recounted their journey, no one blamed her for it. "Dinner?" he asked, handing the bowl to her.

She flushed. "Thanks."

They lapsed into an awkward silence, neither one looking at the other. Surana picked at Alistair's Ferelden lamb stew, reluctant to stuff the bland food down her throat. After a long while, Zevran made to leave, but Surana grabbed his wrist. "Wait, please."

He stared at her questioningly.

She dug under her bed, and extracted a pair of gloves. "For you," she mumbled, thrusting them out to him, all the while not meeting his gaze.

Zevran took them with a hint of surprise. "Dalish... gloves?" He turned them over, the shock blossoming across his face. "But these are just like my mother's! Ah, thank you." His tone was suave, but not without sincerity.

Her face was as red as an apple. She closed her eyes briefly and rose. "Time for you to go, then." He was practically pushed out of her tent, and she sealed the flap as soon as he was out. Alistair – the only one who'd noticed his emergence - gave him an odd look, one that was caught between suspicion and satisfaction that he'd been kicked out of the mage's tent.

Zevran purposefully wore a gleeful smile and tried on the gloves as Alistair watched. The ex-templar was no fool; he just wanted to goad the Chantry boy a little. The assassin flexed his fingers, temporarily astonished at how comfortable the gloves were. They were clearly of excellent make. Oddly enough, they also felt cold, as if someone had washed them in water not long ago. Where in the forest had Surana found these? Zevran met Alistair's eye and grinned at the envious expression that flashed across his face. Quickly the assassin slipped into his tent, where he scrutinized the gloves in the hopes of obtaining some clue to their origin.

He found nothing, save for a faded bloodstain at the cuff.

The gloves were also curiously shiny, as if they had been polished.

Zevran wondered if Surana had looted the gloves from a corpse, realized they were Dalish gloves, and subsequently cleaned them before giving the gloves to him. It was not impossible; the mage had been fiddling with something when he'd first entered. Might it have been these?

The thought made him smile.

Then he frowned. An Antivan Crow should not have such feelings. He had sold the illusion of love long ago. Such a thing couldn't exist in an assassin's life – not when death was all that he lived to deliver. Zevran decided he would wait. He would bid his time, fortify his heart, and hope that in time... this queasy emotion would fade.