A/N: The last section of "Deals, Debts, and Devils." Bit more Akana/Zevran development. I'm sure everyone's tired enough of the dream scenes for now, anyway. I'll wait a little while before inflicting more. ;)

Up next will be the first chapter from Leliana's perspective. It's another lengthy one, and will probably have to be cut up into at least two chunks before it's palatable.

By the way: if there is any kind of scene in particular anyone WANTS to see, send me a message or let me know in a review. It doesn't mean it'll definitely happen -- or that if it does, that it'll be particularly soon in the storyline -- but I figure I should throw anyone willing to read this far in some sort of bone, right? Also, if you take the time to make a review and would like me to read over your DA:O fic, I will gladly return the gesture and toss you a review. Just lemme know anything in particular you'd like me to look at!

Akana

"No, no. No, see, this is a really shit idea. You know why? Because it's really obviously a shit idea."
- Jim, 28 Days Later


Akana came close to consciousness, almost waking, the dreams slipping back. But they weren't really dreams, were they? They were memories. It didn't feel like she was the one sorting through them either; like another being was turning pages, reading her mind like a book. It blame her for her actions, though -- simply felt what she felt. If anything, she had to pity It: she wouldn't wish that anguish on very many people (though she would lie and claim to be above wishing it on her enemies).

But then she was more comfortable, warmer too, and sleep washed up around her once more, pulling her back.

The wind was chill on her face, but Akana still felt like she was being burned alive by flames that lay underneath her skin and boiled her blood. The Warden leaned her elbows against the stone railing of the balcony. It'd been something like half an hour since she'd left Alistair. She wondered if he'd gone to Morrigan yet.

The pine trees below gave off a foresty, inviting scent. Then again, anywhere seemed more inviting then where she was now, literally and metaphorically. She sighed, the lonely sound carried away on the night's breeze.

A footstep behind her: Akana looked quickly over her shoulder. Zevran stood in the archway. He could have easily passed without her noticing; even the small sound of his arrival had been a courtesy towards her, announcing his presence. It was the Assassin's politer, subtler way of clearing his throat.

"My Lady?" His voice was tentative, seeming almost apologetic at having found her in such an unguarded state. Even Yorick was nowhere to be found -- Akana had told him to go keep an eye on Oghren (an activity the Mabari loved), because sometimes the dog just reminded her too much of Alistair. "Am I troubling you?"

Ever gracious, for a backstabber, Akana thought, but there was no real anger in it. Besides, she'd come to learn that it was the same quality that made Zevran so good at his craft. He was ever observant of what people were thinking and feeling: not unlike Wynne, really, though the Healer would have despised the comparison.

"No," Akana answered, more than a bit untruthfully. She did not often get the chance to sulk. Everyone seemed to think that she was too uncomplicated to feel the weight of the burden upon her back. They'd assumed that because she did her best not to show how deeply she was affected, that she wasn't affected, possessed of too thick a skin and too narrowly-focused a mind to take time to feel it all.

She'd let them believe it, because it made things easier, especially at first. It was an idea they could rally behind, especially when Alistair made it clear that he would not lead, and everyone was always at each other's throats. Until, of course, she realized what it meant: she couldn't let the act down now, could never let show the fractures slowly eroding her foundation of resolve. Akana's companions had trapped her in her role as the somewhat reckless warrior who, once she had sunk her teeth into something, never, ever let go. And she was just as culpable: she'd let them do it, after all.

Not that there wasn't truth in it. Of course there was -- otherwise it would not have been so perfectly damning, so utterly without escape. She'd believed it herself.

"Ah, but I see that I am." Still, he did not go, and Akana glanced over at him. He wasn't in his armor, the supple leather that he wore into combat. Nor could she see any weapons on him, though that hardly meant anything. She could see him struggling with himself: fighting the urge to excuse himself gracefully. But why? Akana had no doubt that Zevran cared about her, in his way. It went further even than the constant offers of massages and other manners of sensual delights. Still, he did not tend to involve himself in the emotional messes of others. The Warden continued to stare at him in a way that she supposed was probably unnerving, but she didn't really care enough to lessen its intensity. "My Lady, if you do not mind my asking-"

"I do mind, Zevran." Bluntness was a trait she was known for: iciness was not.

"Well, then I truly must insist on asking." He walked towards her, and she reluctantly turned her body to face him, now leaning her back against the railing. She contemplated whether or not it would take more energy to let him stay and answer his questions, or convince him to bugger off. For now, she'd try the path of least resistance. "What are you doing here?'

"Gathering troops to march to Denerim," she responded dully, knowing that he was looking for more of an answer than that.

Zevran was not deterred. He did, however, change tactics. "Why are you alone?" His brow furrowed and his mouth pulled into a frown.

"What do you mean?"

"Akana..." He said her name softly, lovingly, like a close friend might. Her heart jumped into her throat, her eyes prickling with shame and heartache, and she looked at the balcony floor. Zevran took another stride towards her, but stopped while he was still out of reach. She wasn't sure if it was for his benefit or hers. "There is a rumor passing along the lower halls that a Grey Warden must sacrifice his or her life in order to slay the Archdemon."

She didn't answer him, just went right on staring at the ground.

"Then it is true," Zevran said quietly, melancholy. "I'm so sorry, my-"

"Zevran." She did not look up.

He immediately stopped. "Yes?"

"The woman you loved. What would you give, to take back what you'd done? To save her?" It was wrong for her to ask, wrong and selfish and totally uncalled for and it didn't really fit the situation-

"Anything," Zevran replied. "My still beating heart. The still beating hearts' of countless innocents. Perhaps now things have changed, but I cannot think of a price I would not have paid in the time that I lived as a ghost -- up until I began my travels with you and your company. And even still there are many, many terrible things I would do if it meant righting that wrong." Akana could feel his eyes on her, and refused to meet them. He stepped closer still, approaching her like she was a skittish animal, liable to flee. "Where is Alistair?"

She willed herself not to move, not flinch, but she did and gods-damn Zevran's sharp eyes.

"This is... foolish," Zevran said, tone taking on a sour note, and that did make her look up. Was the Assassin about to scold her? She could expect such from Wynne, or Morrigan, or Sten, in less words- but him? Never. He never judged her. "Whatever you two are arguing over, it's not worth this. You have no idea what you stand to lose. You should be together, tonight especially."

"What makes you think we're arguing?"

"Because if you weren't, you'd be quartered away somewhere making love like the world was ending tomorrow, which for one of you it will."

Akana closed her eyes, tried not to think of what must be happening as they spoke. Tried not to think of the terms she and Alistair had parted on before it. Tried.

"It's more than that, Zevran."

"I'm sure it seems that way now, my Lady, but-"

Akana turned on him, and reaching out lightning quick. He might have dodged otherwise, but he was surprised, and she was able to grab two fistfuls of his shirt. She dragged him to her, his eyes wide in shock, and-

And realized she had no idea what this had accomplished.

But her pulse was thundering in her ears and all she could hear was his voice. Anything, he'd said. He'd do anything. She stared at his eyes and the scar on the side of his face that lay just under his tattoo and his mouth, his lips, his teeth...

It hurt so bad, everything hurt so bad, and anything-anything-anything to make the pain stop-

Akana let him go.

It took him a moment to regain function over his voice, and in that time she'd turned away from him again, looking back out at the forest. "I thought for a second that you were going to toss me from the balcony."

"Me too." Both of them were lying, and it was pretty obvious what they'd really thought she was going to do.

"You asked me if I'd save the woman I loved, had I the chance."

"Go away."

"Why did you ask me that, Akana?"

"Go away."

"This isn't just about you two being noble over who slays the Archdemon, is it?"

"Go away."

"What won't Alistair do?" Now he didn't just sound inquisitive, he sounded angry. Furious, even, in his own steel-cold way. She moved to roughly push him away, but it was sloppy and he evaded it so smoothly that he might as well have been shifting his weight. "Would he not kill the demon for you? No, but certainly he would -- not that you'd ever let him, of course. So what is it?"

Akana didn't answer him, chose silence. It was a last resort, but they both knew that he couldn't pry anything out of her that she wasn't willing to give up.

"Perhaps I'll have a chat with our Most Honorable Templar myself, then." And Akana knew that he was probably at least half bluffing, tugging at her strings, but she couldn't be sure. So when he moved to leave she finally growled a real response.

"He's doing it."

"Doing what?"

"Saving me."

"Explain."

Maker, Akana groaned inwardly. When did I stop being their leader, above reproach or question?

Probably around the same time that everyone realized she was going to dead this time tomorrow.

"I can't."

"Maybe Alistair can."

"Please," Akana begged, and her voice cracked. "Please. Just trust me. I can't- I can't hold us all together any more than I am-" And there it was, the gasping, croaking sound that she hadn't heard come from her own mouth since her mother died. She dug her shortly cropped fingernails into the flesh of her forehead, covering her eyes with her palms, not caring when she drew blood. She would not cry. Would not. Forced herself not to. "If you don't want me to be alone tonight then just stay, Maker damn you, Maker damn you all."

Akana shook with the power it took to hold in the sob that was battling so hard to be free. If she let it out, though, it would never end, and gods, what a fool she'd be, crying here in front of Zevran like a stupid little girl.

She could see him in her mind: perfectly poised and taut, like a cat that'd spotted something startling. But then she heard the whisper of fabric, and he cursed lightly under his breath -- at himself -- and moved towards her. "I apologize, my Lady. I had no right."

I don't care, she wanted to say, or It doesn't matter, or Don't worry about it. Instead she just shook her head, not trusting herself to speak, still swallowing down every bit of despair so that none of it could leak out and shame her further. He cursed again, letting the wind take this one. "You are the best of us, Lady."

And this comment surprised her so much that, heavens fall from the sky, she laughed. Well, it was more of a disgruntled snort, but it was there. Zevran seemed to recognize his chance, and took it.

"What?" He asked, a hint of a smile in his voice.

"...the best of the present company, maybe..." Her words were still thick, but they were no longer on the edge of hysteria. Slowly, she moved her hands down, until they were grasping the railing. Of course she held on so tightly that her knuckles went pale (and a part of the stone even cracked and crumbled under her grip), but it was better than trying to push her fingers into her own skull.

"Of that we could have no doubt. But truly: everyone underestimates you. At first I wondered if it was me who was blind-"

"-no you didn't," she interjected, smirking.

"-you're entirely correct, that is a lie. I thought everyone else was crazy from the beginning." He half-leaned against the railing, his body turned towards her though he mostly stared out at the dark horizon, following her gaze. "They see in you what they wish to see: a savior, a friend, a comrade, a General. It is the witch, perhaps, whose vision is least clouded. Even so, she sees a tool above all, and it distresses her to know that you are more, even to her."

Akana did not want to talk about Morrigan.

"And you?" Damn the neediness in her voice: she hadn't meant to sound so fragile, so weak. "What do you see?" Akana added, trying to steel her voice, throw in a defiant smirk, but it failed, and miserably. She still didn't face him.

Zevran looked back towards her. Gently, the tips of his fingers moving as lightly and airily as eyelashes, he dabbed at the blood she'd drawn from her temples. Akana wasn't sure how to interpret the small act of kindness, and just stood there stoicly. Like a dumb animal, she chided herself, but there were plenty of worse (and truer) things that she could be called.

"Shall I spare you the usual, then? That you are beautiful, fierce, irresistible?" He smirked, and pulled his hand away, rubbing his fingers against his thumb until the drops of blood he'd collected were little more than faint stains on his skin. "The truth is that you are all these things they see in you, but you are also more than the sum of those parts. They take it for granted that you are the one leading them against this Blight. Which isn't to say they take you for granted, necessarily: they would each die for you, and I do no disinclude myself in this."

Zevran sighed quietly, as if searching for more proper words. Akana listened, feeling a stillness settle inside of her that is almost like tranquility, or as close as one could reasonably get, given the circumstances. "Forgive me the unforgivable in this understatement, my Lady, but they forget that what you are doing -- routing the Blight -- is hard. That it wears on you more than it could ever wear on them, save maybe for Alistair." She flashed him a skeptical look. Zevran lifted his hands as if to ward off an attack, don't shoot the messenger! "I didn't say it wasn't absurd."

"You're saying that I just make it look easy, is all," Akana replied dryly. Zevran smiled at her, all charm and unexpected understanding.

"You'll not pull me down into the mire of humor, where the point I'm making is lost in jests. Not so easily, not tonight. Though yes, you do make it look almost effortless -- so much so that your companions assume that you are guided but nothing other than some incorruptible destiny, making it simply not possible for you to fail."

"You don't believe in fate? I thought you were a poet."

Zevran's eyebrows raised, as if surprised that she remembered. "Perhaps I do. But I've also seen the choices you've had to make. I do not allow myself to forget that you prevail because you are clever and strong, not because some Higher Power is leading you by the hand. I've seen the signs -- small signs, my Lady, but they are there -- that you are not as above it all as everyone seems to think."

Akana arched an eyebrow. "Signs of weakness, then."

"No!" The sudden force in his voice caught her off guard. He recalculated, lowered his tone, but the sense of urgency was still there. "Not weakness. Just reminders that you are mortal, Akana. You are not some marching statue, already bled dry of your life but still plodding on because you must. You are a loving, breathing, passionate woman set against an impossible task. And you are succeeding."

"We'll see about that," Akana said low under her breath, but it was a sorry attempt to cover up just how grateful she was to hear the words. She'd thought that no one noticed, but maybe she'd been wrong. It seemed a shame that she'd only just realized that she'd had someone who saw past the mask of bravado all along; now, when it was probably too late to do any good.

"Only a madman could doubt you, having seen what I've seen."

"Only a madman would follow me, having seen what you've seen."

Zevran inclined his head in the barest of nods, as if ceding the point. Akana knew he was being accommodating: she'd argue him into the dirt if he let her, and he would not let the conversation devolve into that.

The wind picked up then, slipping through hair and clothing alike. She welcomed its refreshing bite, but it also made the loneliness inside of her keen terribly for the familiar warmth of her fellow Grey Warden. Using Zevran as a substitute, on any level, would damn her in more ways than one... even if she knew that he'd do so readily, discreetly, and what was more, adeptly.

Akana closed her eyes. It wasn't fair that things only got harder just before the end. At this point everything should have been set, finite, not drowned in moral ambiguity. "Do or die" she could handle, or even "do and die" as the case might be. "Convince your lover to sleep with a woman he doesn't trust in order to conceive a child who will become a vessel for an Archdemon's soul, or die" was a little different.

His hand passed over one of hers, hesitant and cautious, hovering more than actually making contact. She turned her palm up, giving him back a tiny squeeze, before allowing herself to hold his hand. It felt different than Alistair's: the temperature slightly cooler, the skin softer, the fingers narrower. There were callouses, but they were in different places. Idly, Zevran caressed the back of her knuckles with his thumb.

This seemed friendly, not at all devious or sexual, but what would Alistair think was practically a mantra to her now, and she couldn't say she liked the idea of him seeing it. The irony of being worried about holding Zevran's hand while Alistair was, well, doing whatever he was doing with Morrigan, was not lost on her.

Rather than trying to analyze it, rather than wasting what might be the last hours of her life fretting over something so trivial, Akana just accepted it. If some god wanted to strike her down for it, all she could hope was that he had the sense to do it after this Archdemon business was through.

Without words, and with only that slight physical connection, they shared a piece of the night: everything changing from bitter to bittersweet.

A distant rapping sound jarred the images, and suddenly rather than seeing a forest it was like she was looking at the reflection of one in a pool of vibrating water. Akana rolled over, felt herself coming awake, and reached out for Alistair. The dream still lingered enough that maybe, maybe holding him now could make it better somehow, like going back in time and having him there then.

But instead of brushing the well-known planes of his body, a shoulder or the stretch of his back, she felt something else entirely. Warm, short fur, large: Yorick snuffled happily at her face. Akana pet him for a moment, but looked around for Alistair. He was nowhere to be found, and the room was in such disarray that it might as well have been robbed and ransacked.

The knock at the door came again, followed by Leliana's voice: "Akana? Alistair?"

Akana meant to tell her to come back later, but all that came out was a pained groan as the delayed sensation of a particularly awful hangover hit her.

"Are you decent?" Leliana's voice came.

"No," Akana half-shouted, flopping back to the bed. "Not decent at all. I'm going to need at least another week of sleep until-"

The Bard invited herself in.