A blazing inferno, the flames forming the faces of past lovers whose lives had been ended so swiftly. Their eyes burned into Zevran's soul, screaming for the mercy he had never given. The elf could only remain in the center of this whirling pillar of pain. He was on his knees, clutching his head with his eyes closed. He heard her voice then, the creamy voice of the elven warden who he'd grown to care so much for. Do not kill him. He has information. Do not kill him. He could prove useful. Do not kill him. I trust him. Zevran was reminded painfully of the poisons he'd concocted for the warden, intending to finish his job. Yet he had not. He'd never so much as look at her bowl of lamb stew with the intent to poison her. After all, Allistar's cooking was poison enough. A scream. He looked up into the flames. There she was, a hand reaching out as she screamed, falling. He tried to stand, to run to her, to save her, to call out to her, but could do nothing but watch as she was swallowed up into the flames. The heat, the unbearable heat, it was too much. The elf allowed himself to fall onto his back, giving up the fight. After all, there was no longer a cause to resist: his warden had fallen to the flames meant to torture him and he had done nothing to save her.
Wynne stood and went to the flap of the tent, calling out for the warden. Zevran's fever had spiked yet again, and his convulsions had stopped. It was almost as though he had given up, which was the worst thing he could do.
She is gone from me; I cannot fight any longer. Flames take me, for she is with the Maker.
A look into the mind of our beloved Zevran, as his body and mind are ravaged by the curse. What will become of our dear elf?