Horse reacted more than he; the poor beast stomping, snorting, pawing at where Nyla stood only moments ago. Crows tugged at Horse's reins and she pulled against them, startled and searching for her mistress.

In witnessing the creature's grief, Zevran felt his own more keenly, and he looked away to stare at the back of his new Master.

After an uncomfortable ride strewn across the back of a horse, the Master Ghita paraded him through Antiva City. People were silent apart from the occasional whisper, and he kept his head held high and eyes forward, as there was nothing worth seeing.

The House of Crows wanted to see his end; they won the battle, they won the war, and there was nothing left of him to care.

As they approached the house of Master Ghita, she took his cloak, placing it on a pike to display at the entrance to her grounds. He chanced to glance back at it, tattered ends flapping in the breeze, crow skull standing more proudly than he could. It stung for a moment, and he felt nothing.

"You," Master Ghita pointed, "and you. If anyone touches this, break their arms."

Body shattered on impact. Blue, sunlit water became dark blue, became grey... the need for breath wracked through her, and water drew into her twitching form. Bubbles drifted upwards from her nose and open mouth.

"Let me save him."

"Cousland."

"Please, let me save him. I can save him."

"I feel you, Cousland," she crooned, and then she showed herself. White, soft, light. She took the pain away. "Poor, sweet quickling."

"Let me save him," Nyla pleaded, and the warm light surrounded her. A gentle, comforting presence. "What are we?"

"Hope."

Vaguely aware of floating upward, of soft sand beneath her as she washed ashore, Nyla writhed as bones mended and snapped back into place, skin knitted back together. It didn't hurt, but it wasn't comfortable.

That's wrong, Cousland. Get rid of it.

Water purged from her, lungs shrinking as pressure released. With a painful first breath, her back arched, gloved hands clawed at the metal adorning her chest. The second breath came a little easier, though her skin tingled and prickled painfully.

Hours passed. Breathing, feeling, staring at fluffy white clouds in a blue sky. With eyes heavy and tired, she sat up and grasped her ear, feeling her earring in its place where it belonged. A small blessing which made her smile, and she chuckled, realizing herself to be more like Wynne than she ever wanted to be. Years ago, during the blight, Wynne claimed to be on borrowed time with a weakened spirit within her. How much time am I borrowing? Nyla wondered, crawling toward the cliffside to curl on her side and rest in the shade. Enough time to save him.

Washed and then dressed in a blue silk shirt and black leather pants, hair styled, decorated as one would a prized mistress, all endured under the watchful stare of eight armed guards; had he the capacity to feel humiliated, he may have. He should have fought, despite the odds. He may have won or lost, either way the torment would be over; it simply did not occur to him at the time. Next time.

In the main hall of the House Vescovi, soon-to-be Grandmaster Ghita Vescovi displayed him in a tall cage barely wide enough to sit, like a pet bird; pretty to look at. People came and went, the news of his captivity spreading fast. Some merely looked and moved on; those who had been inconvenienced by his actions had more to say. Zevran didn't listen. He didn't care, too busy avoiding thoughts of his wife who had died that morning; this was something he absolutely didn't want to feel.

As the hours passed and the sun set, the doors locked, leaving him under the watch of six guards, and subject to Master Ghita's torment.

"You look pretty, for a man," Ghita ran a hand along the bars as she circled his cage. "Tell me about her. Your Swan."

He kept his eyes downcast, having no desire to tell her, though several painful answers came to mind. She knew me. She loved me. She was my treasure.

"You can do as I say," Ghita spoke coolly, continuing with a sigh, "or you can bore me and be executed."

"Do it," Zevran muttered. "You will get no satisfaction from me."

"You would rather die?" Ghita laughed. "Then you will live forever in this cage, boy."

"To what purpose?" Zevran asked, glaring at her.

"I need to see you suffer," she snapped. "What else would I do? Torture you? What good would it do to torture one trained in pain tolerance? I wouldn't honor you with the distraction."

Zevran smiled, tilting his head at her, "I cannot help noticing this is quite personal for you, no?"

"Betrayer," she purred. "How dare you, after all the Crows have done for you, whoreson."

"How dare I," he replied, with a shake of his head. "Forget it. You don't know any better.

"Killing us, tormenting us, driving our houses to extinction. " Leaning closer to the cage she snarled, "Killing our swans."

"Lost your lover?" Zevran chuckled. "Should not have formed such an attachment if you couldn't handle losing it."

"This, from one with no allies? One who had completed the trial of handfasting, and now stares at me through empty eyes?" She smirked, shaking her head. "You will stay in this cage, Shadow. Enjoy all the comforts you wish you could have given her."

Zevran pointed his eyes forward, sharp pain wracking through his chest for a moment, passing quickly away.

"Good," Master Ghita laughed and turned to walk away. "That is what I wanted to see."

After a long, dreamless sleep, Nyla woke to see the sunrise. She sat for a few minutes, just feeling life. Feeling the newfound sense of safety that came with gaining her spirit friend. Stripping off shredded leathers, she stood in her smalls, looking out on the ocean and avoiding thoughts of how her leathers happened to become shredded. Drowning, her greatest fear, was as she had always imagined; pain, and darkness.

Taking inventory, her pack had been reduced to a cloth on two straps. Checking her armor's hip pocket, she pulled out some fifteen small blades and held them in her fist. The only things she had left of any use were her metal chestplate, the fancy double edged sword she never used, and the wrist mechanisms she overused. Anything else, she tossed into the sea to be carried away.

Warm winds, bright blue sky, sunshine, sand between her toes; so this was what it was like to stand around in one's smalls on a beach. So unlike Ferelden, with its grey skies and frigid sands. Even the seagulls songs seemed full of merriment, as opposed to a lamentation. Nyla loved Antiva, so far, it just lacked in Zevran. He would look lovely in his smalls on a beach. Or nothing at all. Preferably wet, with stringy, saltwater hair falling in his eyes.

Her heart leaped into her throat, imaginings fading away and reality setting in. He believes I'm dead. With a startled breath, she rubbed her arms and shoulders to prove to herself that she wasn't. Easy, Cousland, the dead don't get to rub themselves down on a beach in Antiva.

"Oh shit," Nyla breathed, speaking to the sky as if the Maker would hear her. "What am I?"

She had no time for fear or confusion, and it seemed rather boring to bother with it with Zevran waiting for her. With her few belongings in hand, her eyes traced the stones along the face of the cliff. No fucking way you're climbing that, Cousland.

Walking along the beach in her smalls, Nyla had her first stroke of luck, finding a small, one-roomed cottage with nobody within. Breaking in proved easy, climbing through an unlocked window.

The space was clean, sparsely decorated, most every surface made of wood. She found it easy on the eyes, cozy, but wouldn't want to live somewhere likely to combust in the mere presence of an oil lamp. Fresh food, though room temperature, sat on the table; the residents would likely return soon. She proceeded without a care, ready to kill should they wander in and take issue with her intrusion.

"Bread and fucking meat!" She giggled, filling her mouth with a bit of flatbread and then a bit of meat mixed with greens. Antivan food is so much different, is it Zevran? She thought, right before being overcome with more heat and flavor than she knew how to handle.

"Maker's…" she scrunched her face, flapped her hands through the air, and desperately stuffed her mouth full of flatbread. She squeaked, with nose running and tears spilling from her eyes. So wrong!

Antivan food wasn't delicious. It was cruel. Like pepper that wanted you to die. Pouring from a pitcher of purple liquid with bits of fruit in it, she tossed back an entire glass. One thing she knew for certain, she fucking loved this drink, whatever it was.

"Okay," she sighed shaking her head with a sniffle, and eating more flatbread as she wandered to a bureau. No women's clothing, she grabbed a pair of britches; belt too big, she tied the leather around her waist with a knot and rolled the cuffs to reach her calves. Mechanisms around her wrists, she pulled on a brown cotton shirt that wanted to fall right off her shoulders, she tsked, rolling up the sleeves. It disgusted her, having the scent of another man all around her.

After finding an empty sack to hold her few belongings, she slid on a hooded cloak, three inches of fabric dragged on the floor behind her. Headed toward the door, a floorboard knocked beneath her foot. Getting on hands and knees, she sought the board, pressing with her fingers. Pulling up the loose board revealed a small sack of coin which she pocketed.

Stepping outside, Nyla wondered how inappropriate she would appear with no shoes. Perhaps it would come off as normal? Continuing along the beach, she remained close to the rocks to take cover in case of passersby; it would be a shame for her to get away with robbing someone and then have to kill them for discovering her with their stuff. Nyla had walked a fair bit before realizing a degree of inebriation; the purple drink had tasted nothing of alcohol, and her suspicion of Antivan food intensified. Is nothing fucking safe here?

Walking on sand proved taxing, her calves sore, the bottoms of her feet too hot, though she stepped in shade when the opportunity arose. In the distance she could see the edge of the rocks and a wide beach. When she reached the end, peering around the corner she saw only a gentle incline, no people. The Zevran in her mind said to go before dark, the rest of her insisted to wait until dark. Listen to the head-Zevran, Cousland, and remember the urchins.

Pulling the drawstring of her sack tight, she slung it over her head and it rested at the small of her back beneath her cloak; urchins would not be stealing what little she had. The peace of being on the beach did not prepare her for the chaos of Antiva City; late afternoon, and people still bustled about as if it were morning. No one so much as glanced at her, and she remained hidden beneath the hood of her cloak. So much chaos. It's alright, Cousland. Just keep walking.

"Maker's fucking grapes," she whispered in awe of the foul stench on the air. She spat on the ground and looked around for the source of this evil. It didn't take long for her to spot it; the fabled Antivan Leather Factory. She looked up, eyes flicking to each building, wondering where Zevran used to live. Not that it mattered; every building looked the same.

She yearned for him. They should have been together, holding hands, wearing nice clothes and enjoying a vacation. She should absolutely not have been walking around in some other man's clothing after having risen from the dead to wander the streets of Antiva City. Easy, Cousland. Find something to wear.

Fuming, she walked on, her teary gaze landing on a pair of leather boots as she passed a shop window; she would buy him his fancy Antivan leather boots, someday. The pair she had pulled off a dead man several years back weren't good enough. With a sore heart, she slipped into an alleyway and waited. So lonely, she only wanted to be held. Maker, she missed him, didn't even know if he lived- He's alive, Cousland. You are alive. This is all you need.

Nyla cleared her throat, sniffled, and placed her focus on the crowd passing on the main drag. After a time, she spotted a large breasted woman, thicker around the middle than she, thighs more voluptuous. Nyla frowned; if she were still all muscle and curve, she would have armor. She remembered with a smile, a conversation she had with Zevran back when he first found her four months prior. Before they had become lovers.

"You used to be… ample. Now you are slight. So very small."

"I am not small." Nyla batted at him, scrunching her eyebrows.

"I can tell in seeing you, you have stopped eating. You have less muscle. You are wasted away and you are just…" he shook his head and tsked in mock sadness, "So so little."

"I am not little!" She growled with a pout. "You're trying to anger me."

"Ohhh. Nyla does not wish to be little, but the fact does not change." He tilted his head at her and purred with a smile, "But you are still so very lovely." He elbowed her, giggling at her shy smile, the way she bit her lips, her cheeks heated. "Look at blushing Warden! You always did fall for every bit of flattery."

Nyla stepped out from the alleyway having spotted a woman with a small frame and large bust. Following her, Nyla drew closer over time, and as she walked some six feet behind her, discovered the stranger to be quite tall. Biting back the urge to swear, Nyla stopped, her breath catching in her throat; Zevran's cloak and mask on a pike.

Her heart beat hard in her chest, cheeks pink and tears in her eyes. The woman she had followed approached the entrance of the large building, which reminded her of a Ferelden chantry. Keep it together, Cousland. Find something to wear. He's in there waiting.

Looking away, she wiped the sweat from her brow, and that's when she saw her; the woman wearing her new armor. Brown leather, a mask hiding all but her eyes, hooded with a cape; Nyla strode toward her, eyes pointed forward. The moment Nya passed the woman, she turned around, grabbed the back of her hair and smacked her into the side of a stone building. Nyla dragged her along to the side of it, and sat still for a moment, wondering if she had been seen. Nothing happened, so she began to dress.

A bit long in the sleeves, a little tight at the bust, it would have to do. Nyla liked the worn-in leather, the way the mask fit over her mouth and nose and didn't inhibit breathing. The cloak was a slick leather, treated for water resistance.

Nyla felt her victim for a pulse and then ended her by snapping her neck. No remorse, no second thoughts; there was a chance Nyla could be identified by the woman, so she eliminated the risk.

So this was how Crows were made. Kill or be killed. Compassion, hesitation, mercy could be your undoing.

Walking toward the building, she glanced at Zevran's displayed cloak as if it were a thing of little consequence, though she wanted it in her fucking hands. She would wear it proudly, taunt them with it. Perhaps it still smelled of him. Stay focused, Cousland.

She mimicked their walk; more of a stalk, less like a straight-backed noble. She lowered her eyebrows, narrowed her eyes, frowned beneath her mask.

Crossing the threshold was the hard part, struggling with a fear of everyone suddenly noticing her and drawing blades. On the contrary, they appeared rather lax. The threat of the Black Shadow gone, they assumed no challenge to their authority.

Nyla's gaze zeroed in on him from across the room, sitting in his cage, straight-backed and on his heels, palms resting on his thighs. Cobalt blue silk complemented his golden skin and hair; breathtaking. Dragging her hard stare from him, she approached casually, unapologetically knocking a few shoulders as she made her way across the room. Stopping next to him, she stood tall with hands on her hips, staring down her nose a mere six feet from him. Notice me, love.

His hard gaze pointed forward, not even a sidelong glance at her. With her heart beating hard in her chest, she clenched her jaw, it took everything in her to simply not start killing in search of the key to this cage.

What was she to do? Simply bring up conversation? Would he believe anything she said? She paced toward him, humming a tune as if to herself. When it attracted no attention, she let the hum become words; a silent song for him.

Zevran, only vaguely aware of his surroundings, remained lost in the torment of his thoughts; Ghita's punishment far more effective than she could know.

Inopportune time for a handfasting, indeed. It had consumed four days of their lives. Four beautiful days they had needed to be running and planning. Zevran had no way of knowing it would take four days, and he truly believed everything would work out even as he noticed the passage of time. So much regret.

If he hadn't left without her, they wouldn't have been overrun, she wouldn't have died. If he hadn't disguised her, if the veil had slipped away a few moments sooner, they wouldn't have killed her. If he hadn't married her in the first place, she wouldn't be dead; life was a fickle whore.

How lovely she looked in those moments, running toward him for the rescue. So fierce. Hard stare, arm raised bearing a weapon crafted by her skilled hands. She truly was a better rider without stirrups and a saddle. Better balanced, more confident; he should have believed her. Why hadn't he believed her? Why hadn't he trusted her more? She was no fragile, incapable thing, and he had treated her as such, grown too desperate, clinging to her so hard she slipped from his grasp. Fool Zevran, you learn too slow.

A soft song caught his attention, and he clenched his jaw. How many times had he sung that song for her?

"Eres todo lo que pedía. Lo que mi alma vacía quería sentir." You're everything I've asked for. What my empty soul wanted to feel. Nyla sauntered around him, hands clasped behind her back.

He remembered clearly, the last time he had sung it for her. In Highever as he washed her hair. When he had insisted upon sleeping on the grave of everything she held dear; even after this, she trusted him. Mi amor was so soft.

"Y cada vez que miro al pasado, es que entiendo que a tu lado, siempre pertenecí." Everytime I look at the past, I understand that by your side, I always belonged.

His heart beat painfully hard within his chest, the source of the song right behind him making his skin crawl; it sounded so much like her. Please, stop this.

"Esto es en verdad. Lo puedo sentir. Se que mi lugar es junto a ti." This is true. I can feel it. I know that my place is next to you.

Zevran clenched his fists, closing teary eyes; why was this happening to him? Had they spied so thoroughly they heard him singing for her? Please, stop this.

"Ya no tengo corazón ni ojos para nadie." I don't have a heart nor eyes for anyone else. Nyla crouched down in front of him; a bold move. "Solo para ti." Only for you.

Tears slipped down his cheeks as he glared at big, dark eyes, and forgot to breathe.

The bars between them infuriated her; she needed him in her fucking arms. They didn't have long, she knew better than to linger, but she needed him to receive her message. She looked to her right, a casual gesture with her left hand pushing her hood back just enough to expose her ear.

A golden, jeweled earring sparkled, and for just a few moments, a white glow shone through her eyes and through cracks in her skin. He gritted his teeth, clenched his fists. This woman had his wife's eyes, her voice, his earring… but who was she?

Nyla stood and grumbled, "Demasiado caliente en aquí." Too hot in here.

He grabbed the bars of his cage, keeping his eyes off of her lest he bring attention to her. Message received. She was alive and coming for him… but what the fuck was she?