He didn't think he'd be able to sleep. He lay awake a while, just watching Owen's sleeping face, and eventually must have drifted off. When he awoke again, the angle of light had changed enough that he judged it sometime in mid-afternoon. Owen's spell of silence had faded away; he could once again hear the faint sounds of others in the camp outside, along with the breeze in the trees.

His hand was still resting on Owen's. He considered pulling away, but the contact was... comforting.

Mouse barked, not too far away, and Owen stirred restlessly, then muttered something under his breath and opened his eyes. He smiled as soon as he saw Zevran, and his hand closed around the assassin's and squeezed slightly, before he drew it back and pushed himself up on one elbow, looking appraisingly at Zevran. "Hungry?" he asked. "We slept through lunch."

Zevran would have said no, but at the thought of food his stomach gave an audible rumble. Owen snorted and dug into his backpack again, finding more jerky and biscuits for them to share.

"Did you sleep at all?" the mage asked.

"A little," Zevran said. "So... now what?"

Owen glanced over at him. "That depends. Now that you're eaten, and rested, and had time to think – do you still wish to maintain your surrender? Or revoke it?" he asked, then held up one hand as Zevran started to open his mouth. "Do not answer immediately. Consider your answer while you eat."

Zevran nodded, and resumed chewing. His first impulse had been to say that, yes, of course he wanted to maintain his surrender. But... Owen was right, for it to mean anything, his answer deserved more consideration. He thought back over the period of time from when he'd finally become aware of Owen's interest in him, to now. His initial intrigue at realizing the mage wanted him, that he had been subtly flaunting himself before Zevran for some time. And not so subtly a time or two as well, he remembered, a smile twitching at his lips for a moment. He really had been distracted by his lust for the lovely Mara, not to have noticed the signals the male mage had been giving off all along. And then had come Owen's challenge, which intrigued him even more, and his resultant anxiety as he scrambled to decipher the mage's personality – when he had, he admitted in retrospect, paid not nearly enough attention to him prior to that point – and puzzle out just what it was he wanted.

He shivered, remembering the heated kisses Owen had teased him with, how effortlessly the man had brought him off in reward when he finally made sense of the mage's nature and offered himself to him. Then their three days together in Redcliffe, cautiously feeling their way together, Owen testing him even as he tested Owen, both of them courting each other. And that last night, when they'd effectively consummated the courtship... just the memory of it was enough to bring a stir of heat to his loins.

Owen still intrigued him, and he found the man's odd blend of dominance and gentleness fascinatingly attractive; a blend he'd never have thought truly possible, at least based on past experience. Small wonder it had taken him so long to solve the mage's challenge. He'd had forceful lovers before, and gentle ones, but never someone who so effortlessly embodied both. His master back in Antiva had come the closest, and with him it had been a studied gentleness, a matter of the master withholding the cruel side of his nature, keeping it in abeyance whenever he bedded Zevran. Owen, on the other hand – he couldn't imagine him being cruel. Acting cruel, yes, if the two of them needed or desired that, but it would be as much an act for the mage as his master's gentleness had been for him.

He wanted that. Someone he could trust not to intentionally hurt him. Someone in whose arms he could abandon himself, let down his defences, give up control, and still feel safe.

He finished his last bite of biscuit, and looked again at Owen.

"Yes. I still wish to maintain my surrender," he said, calmly.

Owen smiled, warmly and happily, and Zevran felt some of the inner tension he'd been knotted up with for days ease slightly.

Owen smiled, filled with relief. He hadn't lost the elf; there was still a chance for them to work things out. "Good," he said, softly.

"So... now what?" Zevran asked.

"Well, right now I think I need some cleaning up," Owen said. "I'm a mess – we both are. So I think the two of us are going to get up and go have a wash at the stream, then you're going to help me get this demon's nest my hair has tangled itself into back under control. And we need to do something about my hands," he added, grimacing at his chewed-up nails. "And then a proper meal, with everyone else."

He looked over at Zevran again. The elf was looking calmer than he had earlier, but Owen didn't let that fool him; he was certain it was a surface calm only, that underneath the assassin was still in turmoil. He remembered the look in Zevran's eyes earlier, when he'd mentioned his past hurt, and again, when he'd been unable to talk about it further. It was a look Owen had become familiar with, in the tower, after Uldred's failed rebellion. He'd seen it too often then, in the eyes of those who hadn't made it to the comparative safety of the storage vault with Mara and himself, those few who'd survived when the remainder of the tower was overrun by blood mages, abominations and demons. All of them had witnessed or undergone horrific things, and while they'd survived in body, they'd been broken inside, in varying ways and to different degrees.

Some of them had begun to heal, eventually. Some few had not. And some – thankfully very few – had taken their own lives afterwards, unwilling to live with their memories and nightmares. It had been hardest on the few mages who'd survived; to a man, they all feared sleeping, because sleeping took place in the Fade, and the Fade was where demons lived.

Zevran had had that same look, for a moment – of something wounded inside, bleeding where it couldn't be easily healed. But he would have to try; even if Zevran had rejected him, he would have had to try, though it would have been far harder to manage. For now, he would focus on simple, surface things; getting them both cleaned up, at least looking and acting whole again. In the longer term... well, he'd have to work on gaining the elf's trust first, until Zevran was ready and willing to talk about what had hurt him so profoundly. And then work on helping him to heal from it, and to live with whatever scars it left behind.

It made things at least a little easier that Zevran had passed control of himself over to Owen. It simplified things for the assassin – it removed the burden of responsibility for his own life and choices for a while. And simplified things for Owen, as well, since he could see to it that the elf ate properly, slept enough, looked after himself, kept busy, all under the guise of exercising his dominance over him.

"You can either fetch your own bathing things, or share mine," Owen told him. "But first – come here."

Zevran moved closer, knelt down beside the mage. Owen leaned over a little, slipped one hand up to twine into the elf's hair, and kissed him. Not a demanding or heated kiss, just a gentle one, acknowledging the assassin's decision to remain. They were both smiling when it ended.

"All right – time for both of us to get moving," Owen said.

"As you say," Zevran agreed.