A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 04.18.2010:

Kaioku/Sixthdeadlysin (Bioware boards/DeviantArt) drew artwork of Alley and Zev, and I dfsdfds love it. You can see it at: "tinyurl . com / y5du3bw" just take out the spaces and don't include the quotes. How awesome is that? :D And yes, Eddie, that last bit was supposed to be funny, at least in my sick dark way. ;) But I suppose you're used to my humor by now.

Onwards! Folks wanted a continuation from Zev's side, and so that's what you're getting. Also, Alley's name gets used for the first time. I think it should start sneaking its way in there, simply because if this is a "romance", things are getting a bit more personal, hey?

Reviews are loved forever! I need to get this thing up on AWN so I can write out replies! :)

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We all wear masks, and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing some of our own skin.
-- Andr Berthiaume

"...So," she rasped out dryly, still slumped into Zevran's half-embrace, her cheekbone digging painfully into hard leather armor -- and he was being awfully quiet, she noticed -- "...two elves, a Chantry-raised human, and a mabari walk into the most prestigious whorehouse in all of Denerim... and..."

The Warden coughed, suddenly, and her eyes went unfocused at the sight of her own fresh blood spattered on Zevran's armor. "And... Morrigan's going to kill me..."

* * *

Zevran would have found the comment amusing, had it not come from a pair of blood-flecked lips and been directly followed by a cough that sprayed a fine mist of scarlet across his armor. As it was? No. No, not very funny to him just now.

"Find Morrigan and Wynne," he snapped at Alistair and the dog both, finally dropping his daggers onto the bed, "and bring them here. Hurry!"

"But I--" Alistair started to protest, although Jethro merely whined worriedly once and then bounded off, already on the search.

"No. I had to run away for help last time, now it is your turn. Go!" Zevran's tone was stripped of all humor, hard and sharp like the edge of a knife. Taliesen would have recognized it immediately. Wisely, Alistair scrambled off the bed and out of the room after the dog without further prompting. He wasn't at all stupid like Morrigan liked to claim, but he was definitely overly-emotional, and Zevran knew that in situations like this one, that did little but get in the way.

Besides, he was already the one holding their Warden up. Shifting her around just so that Alistair could be the one to watch over his fellow recruit would be foolish and a waste of time.

"That bad, huh?" the Warden croaked out, and Zevran looked down, adjusting his hold on her elbows to slip one arm beneath hers and help support her against him. Moving her too much could cause more damage, depending on the internal wound, so they stayed on their knees, cooling Qunari corpse beside them.

As for her question, he didn't answer, which he knew was unfortunatly answer enough in itself.

"It isn't... my lungs," the Warden rasped slowly, words half-muffled against his armor, "no... air bubbles in the blood I coughed up. It's not my heart, or I'd be... dying." Zevran didn't realize he'd shifted his other arm, cradling the back of her head in his hand, until she added even quieter, as though speaking hurt more than just her throat, "...I'm not dying, Zevran."

He swallowed. "Of... of course you are not," the assassin tried to make his tone light, throw in a small laugh, but it failed miserably. Even to his own ears, it sounded more like he'd swallowed something wrong. "You are far too stubborn for that. I should know, after all."

"I can't yet," she muttered softly, and Zevran realized that she'd dropped her knives as well, finally, when she looped an arm loosely around his waist. For support, or for him? "Too much left to do... Arls to kill, Blights to stop... I know what Wynne means. There's always... always... something..." and another very small cough, which sounded suspiciously damp.

"...Help me move," the Warden rasped, "I think it's just... digging in like this."

"Very well," Zevran tried his best to keep the helplessness out of his voice. This was torture; he almost wished he had been the one to run off for help again. At least he'd be doing something to help, contributing somehow to her chances!

And so he helped her move, clenching his jaw tighter and tighter at every pained wrench. So many people had died in front of him over the years, by his own hand or otherwise, that he'd very rarely seen someone survive anything that should have killed them. This was twice from the same injury that his Warden courted death, and he couldn't help but feel that she was going to slip away at any moment, right out from his grasp.

If she made it this time, Zevran vowed to himself that she wouldn't leave the inn again until she was proclaimed healthy, even if he had to sit on her to ensure it. Although, he decided, if she survived he might just do that anyway... and she was welcome to try to beat him up for it, as long as it meant she was around to do so!

"And what about after the Arl and the Blight?" Zevran asked, once the Warden had been lowered back to sit upright against the headboard of the bed. Her arm hadn't moved from around his waist, and so he had little choice but to sink down beside her in the process, awkwardly facing her with his shoulder butted up against the wall. It was that or break away, which... granted, would have been as easy as straightening back up, but...

"I don't know," the other elf let her head roll back against the wall above the headboard, looking up at the ceiling. "Aren't you the one who's always saying we could all die doing this, anyway?"

"And now I take it all back. You are far too stubborn to die, after all," Zevran said it a bit more firmly than he'd intended, surprising even himself, and the hand he set on her shoulder squeezed unconsciously. You can't die. Please don't die. Traveling at the Warden's side was the closest to freedom he'd ever experienced in his entire life, and she was the only person in all of Thedas who'd ever saved him from anything. If she died now...

"Mnh," it wasn't quite an agreement, and the Warden's eyes closed, "yet, anyway."

A chill ran down and then back up Zevran's spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He knew that kind of talk far too intimately. "No," he bit out, "absolutely not."

The Warden cracked an eye back open, and looked at him. It was slightly glazed from the pain, but still sharp and aware. And yet, she said nothing. It spoke volumes to the Crow.

"You are not going to save the world from the Blight and then just... just go off somewhere and die, Alleyana!" Zevran snapped, gesturing sharply through the air, "I... it would--!" he was such a hypocrite, the taste of it bitter in his mouth, but he'd also never saved anyone before. His own death would have meant nothing to anyone in the world when he'd first thrown himself at the two Grey Wardens and their group, back on that dusty road. That she might choose to... it was wrong. Absolutely wrong. "...No. Truly? Why would you be so foolish?" his voice was suddenly absolutely, utterly bitter.

"I..." the Warden had opened both of her eyes and turned her head to look up at him at some point during all of this. "I am no martyr, Zevran," the pain in her voice worried him. Was her wound worsening, unseen beneath the skin? "But..." her expressions were often understated and subtle, but this one was difficult to place. Pain, yes, but was that... sadness? The Warden never looked sad. Grim, yes, determined, angry, tired...

The moment was over quickly, however, as she turned her head away and coughed a light sheen of blood into her gloved palm. She slumped sideways against him afterward, breathing shallowly. "...You're the only one I ever let do this, you know," her voice was as rough as ever, but... faint. Small.

"Do what?" Zevran stared down at the top of her head. His brief anger had waned, leaving him just feeling... tired.

"This," she mumbled quietly, "any of this. That weird arm-link thing you like doing now, the... the talking."

"Ah," he sighed, "deflection, is it? Very well. You speak to the others regularly, yes?" Zevran remembered her saying much the same to him, one time, and he wondered what her response would be.

"I listen," the Warden corrected, "I... prompt. I don't... talk. I just... figured you should know, in case you were wrong about me being too stubborn," she tightened her arm around his waist when he began to protest, cutting him off, "And now... you're the only one who's called me by name since I was conscripted. So... thank you, I guess."

"No thanks are needed," Zevran said very, very quietly. "Truly."

There was a moment in which both were quiet, and her arm didn't loosen around his waist, and if he closed his eyes Zevran thought he could perhaps pretend that this wasn't a dire situation they were in, and that perhaps--

But as always with these moments, it didn't last nearly long enough. Her arm loosened, and she slumped harder against him, and the Antivan felt his heart plummet to the floor beneath the bed.

He was checking her pulse with slightly-shaking fingertips against her throat when the others burst in through the open door. Finally.

-- --: -x- :-- --
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.
Never steal if you value your spleen.