Chapter 19
The Healing Touch

Lyra burned.

She stood on a desolate plain, baked dry by the unforgiving sun. Harsh light beamed down, without the shadowed relief from tree or cloud. She squinted, her heart hammering as she scanned the horizon. Nothing could be seen, but the sense of dread that welled within went beyond rational explanation.

Fear overwhelmed her, steeping her tongue with the acrid taste of metal. She staggered backward, spinning and tearing across the hardened ground in her desperation to flee.

An unholy scream jarred her bones as the Archdemon's wings beat the air. She sobbed, her aching muscles firing with adrenaline. Something caught her heel, sending her spinning into the dirt with a pain-filled gasp. Gravel scraped her palms as she scrabbled on hands and knees, sheer panic fueling her terror-filled escape attempt.

The warm wind buffeted her as it passed overhead, and with a terrible whap the Archdemon's wing knocked her flat, stealing her breath. The creature flew on ahead of her, swooping around to land on the murdered earth. Panting, she scrambled to her feet, whipping around to run in the other direction. Her side was in flames, her arm gone numb. She cradled her wrist as she pushed herself faster... she had to get away!

The ground trembled beneath her feet, and Lyra slowed as a dark wave crested the horizon. Any hope of escape melted away as an ocean of Darkspawn flowed toward her, their foul advance blackening the landscape.

"She's on fire..." Alistair's voice echoed through the bitter air. Lyra cried his name, pleading for him to come and fight at her side. How could she hope to win against such an army? Shaking hands fumbled for her daggers, but they were missing from their sheaths. She was unarmed - defenseless.

"Hold her down," the Archdemon's voice echoed... oddly, it was female, and sounded vaguely familiar - but she couldn't place it. Terror iced her veins as the creature flew at her, pinning her to the earth with knifelike claws. The monster loomed, reptilian eyes unblinking as she thrashed, kicking and flailing. It reared back, sucking in gouts of air as it prepared to incinerate her with its fiery breath.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as Lyra squeezed her eyes shut, preparing for her end.

.oOo.

Alistair reeled back with a grunt of pain, his hands clapped to his nose. Stars swam in his vision - Lyra had kicked him in the face. He clamped his eyes shut, breathing through his teeth as he waited for the sparks to clear from his head.

"She won't stop fighting!" Leliana gasped as Lyra writhed on the bed. The sister was doing her best to hold Lyra's arms down, and Alistair had braved her legs. Maker's breath, he thought as he drew his hand away, hoping not to see blood. There was none, so he dove back in with grim determination.

Mother Hannah was pale. "She must be calmed before I can help her!" she insisted loudly over Lyra's cries of agony.

"We're trying," Alistair growled through clenched teeth. Bann Teagan and Arlessa Isolde stared at the scene from the doorway, like witnesses to a blight wolf attack. Morbid as it was, they couldn't seem to look away.

Suddenly Lyra stilled, and the room held a collective breath as the girl's muscles slackened. Alistair let go of her legs and backed up quickly, in case she lashed out again. At Alistair's nod, Leliana released Lyra's arms.

Mother Hannah darted a look between them, then whispered, "Is that a good idea? Shouldn't you be holding her while I change the bandage?"

"She's been wandering the Fade all night," Alistair sighed. "You can't imagine the horrors Grey Wardens dream of, Revered Mother. I wouldn't be surprised if she thought we were Darkspawn attacking her. If the nightmare has left her now, you should be able to do your work without our help. If you hurry."

Mother Hannah eyed the quiet girl suspiciously, but then crept forward to cut away the bandages. Alistair nearly cried when he saw her skin... chalk white, marbled with blue and purple, the skin festering and leaking greenish pus.

The Revered Mother reached her hand out to Leliana. Their joined hands arched over Lyra's body as they chanted, praying for healing. Alistair watched, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. Imploring Him doesn't seem to be helping, he snarked to himself.

Mother Hannah pressed a hot cloth to Lyra's ribs. Lyra barely moved through the treatment, making no protest as Mother Hannah packed a new poultice into the wound and wrapped it shut with fresh linen. Her arm didn't look as bad as her side, but the skin was still putrid.

"Is that helping, Mother Hannah?" Alistair asked anxiously.

"It is the best I have, my son," she returned in a crisp voice.

Which is a nice way of saying no, it's really not, Alistair thought. Balling his fists, he strode from the room and slammed one hand against the granite wall of the hallway, clenching his eyes shut as silent sobs wracked his body. Maker, why? You can't take her from me...

But Alistair knew just how untrue those words were. The Maker could take Lyra, and perhaps He would. I was so worried about the Darkspawn, or the abominations...and it's a damned poisoned arrow that kills her. A sudden idea interrupted his dark thoughts, and he quickly strode the length of the hall, down the stairs, past the kitchens, through the courtyard, and down the dark steps into the dungeons.

The void-stricken elf lounged upon the floor of his cell, his elbows resting on upraised knees as he rested against the dank wall, staring into nothingness. Alistair's hands circled the bars, unspent rage hardening his muscles and blurring his vision. How he wished he could drive his fist through the elf's teeth. Beat him bloody, twist his arms back and pop the shoulders from their sockets, just to hear him scream.

The elf looked up. "How is our beautiful flower?" he asked, rising to his feet. He risked one step toward the bars, but the look in Alistair's eye must have changed his mind about approaching. Alistair said nothing, though his knuckles went white as he struggled to master his temper.

"She cannot be dead. Not yet," the elf said lightly, but there was fear behind his eyes. "The poison takes a full twenty-four hours to complete its course."

"Pray that she lives," Alistair snarled. "I have hours of agony to visit upon you if she dies. I think I'll begin by stabbing you with a blade coated in your own poison. Shades, even if we find the antidote I might do it anyway, just for fun."

The elf clucked his tongue. "Your rage is magnificent to behold. We will have to speak of this, sometime when you do not wish to flay me alive." He brought a hand to his chin and studied Alistair thoughtfully. "I have never seen anyone quite so angry. You would make a fantastic berserker, and quite a handsome one, at that. I can see you now... shirtless, your muscles glistening with oil as you swing your giant sword above your head. They would speak of you in the tales for centuries."

Alistair opened his mouth, flabbergasted, then snapped it shut again and stomped out of the dungeon to vent his wrath on the practice dummies in the yard.

.oOo.

Leliana's chin slipped toward her chest. When it fell with a jerk, she startled awake, swallowing as she thumbed a bit of drool from the corner of her mouth. Sand-coated eyes blinked, a headache threatening. With a sigh, she dropped her head into her hands.

Lyra was slipping away... this was plain to see. Mother Hannah's treatments were doing nothing, and they all knew it. Alistair had stormed out - probably to pace the halls, Leliana thought sadly.

She reached for Lyra's hand, her heart weeping. Years as a spy had hardened Leliana to most things, but death by poison was not one of them. Whenever possible, she'd done her own killing cleanly and quickly. No one should linger in such agony. Though I can't wish her dead, she thought, smoothing her thumb over the girl's palm. Not while there is still a chance. Lyra was too young, too innocent to go like this. But beyond that, she was too necessary. What will Alistair do without her? Leliana wondered. Lyra's death could have very practical consequences on the whole world... without her, Leliana had grave doubts as to whether the Blight would be stopped.

Faith, she chastised herself. Trust in Him.

Closing her eyes, she focused on the Chant, searching for the words that would reach His ears.

But despite her pious efforts, her mind wandered, flitting from subject to subject. She wondered where Morrigan was, if she'd discovered anything that might help. It could be that any moment, the witch would fling open the doors, victory in her eyes as she declared that Lyra's cure had been found.

But not likely. Leliana chewed her lip.

Sten was cloistered in his room; and Maker only knew whether he cared about Lyra's fate. She'd gone to tell him of their return, and received little more than a grunt in response.

From his corner, Kestrel whined, and Leliana offered him a halfhearted smile. "Poor soul," she murmured. "You love her, don't you?"

Kestrel's tail thumped, though he didn't lift his head from his paws.

Leliana twined her fingers with Lyra's. "As does Alistair... and as do I," she whispered, her heart wilting.

It was a love that had come upon Leliana unexpectedly, one that had snuck up and smacked her in the face. But not like the love she'd borne for Marjolaine... no. Lyra was her sister. In the short time she'd known the young Wardens, she'd come to admire them both greatly, and not since Orlais had she felt such closeness with any of her comrades. Alistair was like a younger brother - someone to joke with, tease, someone whose back she was glad to watch. It broke her heart to think that he might lose Lyra now, when they'd only just begun to discover what they were capable of giving one another.

Lyra especially had needed caring, had been so vulnerable in the wake of her losses, despite her obvious desire to be strong. That need had appealed to Leliana, and she'd flown like a moth to a flame. Seeing Lyra come to life again had been wonderful; the girl going from reticent and untrusting to shared confidences and easy laughter. Maker, please... She blinked back tears. It had been so long since Leliana had found a true friend.

Her eyes stung, and Leliana scrubbed them furiously, frustrated that she was having such trouble staying awake. Their night in Kinloch Hold was still dragging her down.

An unexpected chuckle graced her lips as she remembered the comical look on Lyra's face when the abomination's head had exploded and rained gore over all of them. Her mind wandered back through the evening, reliving the anxieties and the triumphs. Alistair, joking about Wynne being able to blow his head off with her staff. Wynne, healing them and keeping them refreshed...

Wynne!

Leliana stood up so quickly she knocked the chair out from beneath her. Kestrel growled at her in disapproval, then padded across the room to nuzzle his mistress's hand.

For the first time in hours, hope blazed in Leliana's breast. She raced from the room, praying that Bann Teagan kept horses.

.oOo.

Alistair was destroying a wooden post with a trainee sword when Leliana flew down the castle steps, running full out toward the stables. His heart withered in dread, and he tore after her.

"What is it, Leliana? Is she..." his throat closed, the words choking him.

"Alistair! I'm going to get Wynne! Stay with her, tell her help is coming!" Leliana called.

Alistair slowed, dumbfounded. Of course! The mages were probably camped on the road less than ten miles from Redcliffe Castle. If anyone could heal Lyra, surely Wynne could!

Hope flared like a torch. He returned the practice blade to a rack on the armory wall before leaping up the steps to the castle, taking them two at a time in his hurry to reach Lyra.

.oOo.

Alistair's knee jiggled as he perched on a velvet chair. Nervous eyes glanced toward the shuttered windows. Though they didn't yet glow with the promise of sunrise, the edgings were no longer midnight black.

Lyra was running out of time.

With a groan, Alistair slumped in his chair, his head tipping backward. Never in his life could he remember being so exhausted. He'd dozed a bit as the hours crept by, but each time he'd found himself in the Fade, fear for Lyra's well-being had snapped his lids open again.

If anyone had ever hovered on the brink of death, it was Lyra in this moment. The fever dreams were no more; she'd not moved for hours as the life drained from her body. Her skin had taken on a waxy pallor, her dark braids unnatural against such alabaster fairness. Like a life-sized doll waiting to be played with, her features seemed too still to be alive. When her breathing had become too shallow even to lift her chest, Alistair had begun compulsively checking for a heartbeat. There was one... barely.

Hurry, Leliana, he fretted.

A few minutes, or perhaps an hour later - he was never certain, time had taken on such a strange feel - there were footsteps in the hall, and the door was pushed open.

"Wynne," Alistair croaked in a broken voice as he stood. "Sweet Maker, thank you for coming."

The mage was wrapped in a sturdy russet cloak, which she shrugged from her slender shoulders and draped over a chair with a smile. She made no other reply, saying only "Hot water, Leliana. And a small bowl."

Alistair had hardly noticed the bard trailing behind Wynne, but Leliana simply nodded and hurried back out. With a tiny blade and gentle, efficient hands, Wynne peeled the bandages from Lyra's flesh. The wound had putrefied even more, the edges blackened and rank.

Wynne's mouth pursed as she scraped Mother Hannah's poultice from Lyra's body. "Elfroot. Good for most things, but without the extra herbs worse than useless in this case." She dropped the bandages in a bin beside the wall, then found a leather pouch in her pack and set it at Lyra's side.

"Is that the cure?" Alistair peered at the palm-sized pouch. "The elf called the poison Soldier's Bane."

"Yes, Leliana told me," Wynne said. "It's a little known tincture, made popular in Antiva during the reign of King Alfonso, the only ruler mad enough to try and muster an army. Thousands were wiped out... but I digress. Alistair, I shall need your help if we are to counteract this."

"Uh... anything," he said.

"Lend me your strength?" Wynne asked, her eyes twinkling.

Alistair thrust his hands out. "Take it all."

Wynne chuckled. "That won't be necessary, my boy. But I will take some." Aged fingers closed around his, and Wynne's other hand laid gently atop Lyra's ribs. Just as in the tower, Alistair felt the strange sensation of being bled - but unlike their defeat of the Sloth demon, this healing seemed to require far less energy.

Lances of golden light speared outward from Wynne's fingers. Alistair's breath caught as he watched Lyra's skin slowly return to life, all signs of decay fading as the minutes passed. But before the wound knit itself shut, the light faded, and Alistair frowned. Surely the healer wasn't finished?

"Now," Wynne said. She held out her hand, and Leliana passed a clay bowl filled with steaming water - when had Leliana returned? - into her grasp. The pouch was shaken over it, a fine green dust drifting down to coat the liquid.

Wynne's fingers passed over the bowl with a murmured incantation, The dust sank, then absorbed and expanded. In seconds, a mash had sponged up, fragrant and herbal. "This will nullify the poison," Wynne told them. "Tomorrow I should be able to heal her completely, but she will need a day of bed rest to recover." She scooped her fingers into the bowl before daubing the herbs into the torn flesh.

"Her arm-" Leliana began.

"There is enough," Wynne said with a gentle smile. "I may be old, but I am not yet senile, my dear."

Leliana smiled sheepishly.

Alistair flopped into his chair, his energy sapped. Adrenaline and anxiety had kept him going, but seeing Lyra pulled away from death's door - coupled with Wynne's tapping of his reserves - did much to weigh down his weary lids. He shut his eyes, then found he couldn't open them. They burned with fatigue, and he fought off a yawn as he pried them back open, blinking tears.

"...staying with her for the rest of the night?" Wynne asked.

Alistair reeled forward as he came suddenly awake, his eyes flying wide. He'd heard only the second half of Wynne's inquiry. "Hng... um. Yes. I'll just... in the chair." Alistair stood, stretching his fingers toward the ceiling. Lyra's arm was neatly bound, as was her abdomen. It appeared they'd finished without him.

"Til morning, then," Wynne said softly. Leliana dropped a kiss on Lyra's forehead, then murmured a goodnight before following the healer out.

Alistair glanced at the window. Creamy light filtered through the cracks in the shutters, heralding the new day. He eyed the velvet chair where he'd done so much worrying, then went to Lyra's bed. Her color had improved already; her breathing had deepened, and pale roses bloomed in her cheeks. He lifted a hand to smooth her hair, his sleep-deprived mind giddy with relief at her recovery. To look at her, one would never know she had so recently been just inches from death.

The room wasn't all that cold, but he pulled up the goosedown blanket and tucked it around her up to her chest, gently settling her hands atop her stomach.

How sweet she was, lying there dreaming. A memory flitted through his mind... Lyra asleep in camp, her arm curled beneath her head as she had dozed through their preparations to leave for Redcliffe. Her braids lent her such a childlike innocence. The sleeping princess, he thought as he looked on her now.

On a whim, Alistair took a knee at her bedside. It was a silly fantasy, one that wouldn't actually accomplish anything, but... I'm an idiot, he thought as he lowered his mouth to hers. Her skin was cool, but warmed quickly beneath his touch.

Of course, nothing happened. Alistair backed away, feeling a touch foolish. But then Lyra drew a deep breath, a tiny smile curving the corners of her lips as she slumbered on.

Alistair's heart melted.

To the void with the chair. Yawning, he stretched himself out beside Lyra's sleeping form, weaving his fingers with hers before dropping into an exhausted sleep.

.oOo.

The sound of birdsong teased Lyra from the embrace of the Fade. Breathing in, she stretched her arms, then winced at the ache that shot through her ribs. In a flash, it all came back - the ambush, the crossbows, the bandits who'd waylaid them. She'd been wounded... and apparently cared for. Tentative fingers found the bandages on her arm and abdomen. Aside from being tired and sore, she felt fine. Her stomach protested, twisting in on itself as it implored her to fill it. Lyra blinked, looking around.

She'd been tucked into bed, in an actual bed. Lyra slid her feet along the sheets, savoring the feel of a mattress beneath her battered body. Pure luxury! Such things had gone under the heading of 'taken for granted' before. Were it not for the bandages winding 'round her body, she could almost imagine she'd accompanied her parents on a state visit.

Except, on those trips, she'd never woken to a beautiful man at her side.

Pivoting her head, Lyra drank in the sight of Alistair. He'd passed out on top of the coverlet still wearing his clothing, the fabric rumpled and creased, his hair mussed and his face lined with sleep. Unlike the previous morning's serenity, he seemed worried even as he dozed. A dent between his eyebrows displayed the anxiety that tensed his body, and as she shifted toward him his eyes flew open.

"Lyra'mhere," he slurred, pushing himself up hastily.

"Hey," she said softly. Reaching out to touch his face, she hissed in pain as both her arm and side flared up from the slight movement.

"Stay still. You had a bad night," he said. One hand lifted to smooth her hair. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," she said quickly, wanting to smooth the wrinkles from his forehead. "Truly, Alistair. I'm fine."

"You were shot," he admonished her. "Wynne healed you, but-"

"Wynne? From the tower?" Lyra frowned, wishing she hadn't been unconscious for so long. "What happened?"

He gathered her into his arms, brushing her nose with his as his forehead rested against hers. Lyra winced, but bit back her pain and adjusted her position, her heart rejoicing at being so close to him. "The arrows were poisoned. You almost didn't make it," Alistair continued quietly. "But then Leliana rode to get Wynne, and she arrived in the wee hours to cure you. You're supposed to stay in bed today, though."

"Alistair... I'm so sorry," Lyra said. She shifted a bit, her arm burning.

He guffawed. "Why are you sorry? Well, you did kick me in the face, so maybe you should be a little sorry. But other than that, you have nothing - absolutely nothing-" he laid a finger over her lips as she began to protest, "...to be sorry for."

"I exposed myself too much," she objected. "I shouldn't have gotten shot. Neither of you got shot."

"How many fights have you been in with crossbowmen?" he countered.

She sighed. "One, including yesterday."

"See? You're an expert now." He grinned at her in triumph.

She gave him a wry smile in return, then frowned. "I kicked you in the face?"

He chuckled.

The door opened then, startling them both as Wynne entered the room. Quick as a flash, Alistair let her go and rolled from the bed to land on the far side with a thump. Perplexed at this behavior, Lyra pushed herself up on an elbow to stare at him.

"Don't disturb her, Alistair," Wynne said in a bland voice, closing the door behind her. "She needs her rest, and so do you. Go ask Bann Teagan where you can sleep."

Alistair climbed to his feet, his cheeks red. Mumbling an apology, he slunk from the room, but poked his head back in and mouthed a silent message at Lyra when Wynne's back was turned. I'll be back, he gestured.

Okay, she returned, biting back a giggle as he closed the door.

Wynne sat in the chair beside the mattress. "Now, young lady. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Well, sore and tired, but fine," Lyra said.

"Somewhat tender, I imagine?" Wynne asked as she began to remove the bandages.

Lyra nodded, hissing slightly as the bandage tugged her raw skin. Wynne peeled the cloth away, and Lyra grimaced at the look of the wrapping. It was stained a sickly green and streaked with brown, the color of pus and old blood. Maker's breath... She shuddered to think of the poison her body must have struggled to fight off.

The skin was cratered, thin and fragile; the angry red of newly made flesh. From the looks of it, there would be scarring, but it would probably fade with time. It was nothing Lyra hadn't seen before, though after such a wound it usually took weeks to achieve this level of healing.

Wynne deposited the bandages into the bin, then unwrapped Lyra's arm. It looked better - not as much scarring, and the flesh was tighter. The mage laid her hands over the two wounds and lowered her head. Lyra relaxed as warmth flickered through her, tongues of heat lapping at her hurts. When it faded, Lyra dragged her eyes open once more, feeling sleepy.

"You were very lucky, young lady. I am glad to have gotten here in time to help you," Wynne said as she stood. "Now you should rest. Don't leave this bed today. You've been through a great deal. And if Alistair bothers you too much, throw him out on his ear."

"I will," Lyra grinned. Apparently, they were less subtle than she'd thought.

Wynne turned to go, then hesitated. Lyra waited, expecting her to speak, but a heartbeat later the mage merely gave her a brief smile and closed the door behind her.

A moment later, Alistair sneaked back into the room. "Did she heal you?" he asked.

"Yes, but..." She opened her arms. "Come kiss me better."

The smile that lit Alistair's face outshone the sun.

.oOo.

"I did try, you know." Morrigan lowered herself gingerly onto the bed.

Lyra nodded. "I know. Thank you."

Kestrel butted her hand. She was tempted to invite him up, but settled for scratching him behind the ears.

Morrigan traced the coverlet with her fingernail. "He was quite worried, you know."

"Kestrel?"

The witch rolled her eyes. "No. The dolt you seem to be so attracted to."

"Ah," Lyra said.

"Yes. 'Twas disgusting to behold." Morrigan stood and sauntered from the room. Lyra shook her head, amused at the witch's aversion to anything sentimental.

Alistair came in then, his hip bumping against the door as he balanced a breakfast tray in both hands. Leliana trailed behind, three cups of juice grouped in her fingers. "I want to tell you what I learned about the ambush," Leliana said earnestly.

"She needs to eat," Alistair protested. "Let her eat first."

"I can eat and listen." Lyra reached for the food as Alistair settled the tray across her knees, but his hand snagged the fork first.

"You're exhausted," he told her. "I'll feed you."

"Are you serious?" Lyra stared, wide-eyed as Alistair scooped up a bite of fried egg and smeared it over her toast. "You're not feeding me."

"Oh, you must not want anything right now," he said blithely. "Good thing I'm hungry." With exaggerated slowness, he brought the yolky toast toward his mouth.

"Give me that." Lyra grabbed, but Alistair's hand snaked away, his eyes sparkling with fun.

Lyra shoved the tray aside and lunged, forgetting that there were a dozen more perfectly good eggs and mountains of toast piled on the plate, not to mention bacon, fruit, and cheese. She crumpled back almost as quickly, her side blazing as she grunted in pain. "Damn it!"

"Alistair, don't tease her!" Leliana scolded. "Lyra, you've got to stay still!"

"Make him give me my food," Lyra whined petulantly as the aches calmed. "I'm wasting away here, and he's making it harder on me."

"Ungrateful." Alistair loosed a gusty sigh as he adjusted the tray back across her knees. "Do you know how many women would fall all over themselves to let me feed them?"

"Nope. And neither do you." Lyra mashed the toast into one of the eggs, soaking up the sunshine-yellow yolk.

"There's at least two. Three, maybe, if we count Chanter Rosamund. Of course, she wasn't eating at the time - and the falling might have been because I'd tied her bootlaces together."

Leliana snickered. "Charming. Sit, Alistair, you've got to be hungry as Lyra, and this will go quicker if you keep your mouth shut. Lyra, it was no simple ambush - they were assassins, and their ringleader is an Antivan Crow."

"Who are the Antivan Crows?" Lyra asked, distracted as she made room for Alistair on the bed. The copious amount of breakfast suddenly looked meager as Alistair began digging in at her side. Using her fork, she carved out two piles of eggs in an attempt to keep him honest.

"A guild of assassins. Very well respected, not just in Antiva, and with that respect comes expense. Hiring a Crow is not cheap. The client is guaranteed satisfaction, and it is a matter of honor for the Crows - they always complete the job."

"Which means they're coming back," Lyra muttered. "The ones who attacked us - are they all dead?"

"Well, they weren't all Crows - just the leader. And... no." Leliana perched on the bedside chair. "Zevran Arainai is his name, and he's currently in Arl Eamon's dungeon."

Lyra nodded slowly, her mouth full and her mind racing. She swallowed. "Who hired him?"

"He claims he was hired by Rendon Howe, though his ultimate contract was with Loghain."

"Mm." Such news should have been staggering, but the moment Leliana had said assassin, she'd suspected as much. It was a touch frightening, how inured she was becoming to revelations of Loghain's treachery, though her stomach did flip over on itself as she lifted her juice cup to her mouth. As soon as possible, they needed to get to Denerim... though what Lyra planned to do when they got there still felt nebulous. Would an honorable confrontation even work, in the face of such a heartless adversary?

"I didn't ask him much more. I thought you would want to be involved."

"Thank you, I would," Lyra said. "This afternoon."

.oOo.

"I like it." Alistair grinned as Leliana tucked a final strand of Lyra's hair into the woven crown on top of her head.

"It's fun, isn't it?" Leliana agreed. "All it needs now are some flowers. I'm tempted to send you down to the gardens to get some, Alistair." Trotting across the room, the sister tilted the mirror atop the vanity so Lyra could catch her reflection.

The Warden pursed her lips, her eyes judgemental. "It's nice..." she hedged. "...but I wouldn't want to wear it every day."

"Which is your kind way of saying it's far too girly, and it won't fit under your helmet," Leliana giggled. "Let me have my fun. It's been years since I did hair. Most women don't have length like yours. There's so much I can do with it!"

"You sound like Oriana," Lyra chuckled.

After breakfast, all three of them had napped, and now they waited for the assassin to be brought in for questioning. Lyra was dressed in a knee-length tunic of Isolde's, a dusty rose color with belled, elbow-length sleeves. Propped up by pillows, she reclined on the coverlet with her hands folded in her lap, her ankles crossed and her feet bare. Seeing her thus, with her hair arranged and in the simple dress, Alistair was enchanted. And she thinks she isn't pretty, he thought. He would spend the rest of his life changing her opinion of herself.

A soft rap on the door. "Come," Lyra called.

In strode Ser Perth, leading the elven assassin by the arm. His wrists were bound, though he walked freely. Alistair glowered. So far, the ruffian had done nothing to earn his life, aside from telling them what sort of poison needed to be counteracted. But if he hadn't poisoned her, none of this would have happened. It's hardly enough reason to keep him breathing.

The elf smiled confidently, his teeth white and straight in contrast to his golden face. Despite his night in the dungeon, his clothing was unrumpled, his face clean, his hair smooth. The tattoos on his cheek only accentuated his foreign look, as did the tips of his pointed ears. Alistair glanced at Lyra, who was studying this new arrival with keen-eyed interest. His glower deepened.

"Ah, you are awake, lovely flower. I am filled with happiness at the sight of your smiling face and your beautiful blue eyes," Zevran said, his accent sizzling over the words.

Lyra's brows rose. But then she settled herself on the bed, her eyes stern and unimpressed, which loosened the tension in Alistair's shoulders by a few clicks. "Leliana tells us you are an Antivan Crow, hired by Loghain to murder myself and my compatriot," she said.

"Sad, but true," the elf sighed. "However, you proved too much for me. I have heard of the legendary fighting skills of the Grey Wardens, but I must admit I was not prepared for the likes of you and your handsome companion."

Alistair's jaw tightened as he knuckled the arms of his chair.

"I'm rather happy you failed," Lyra said.

"So would I be, in your shoes. For me, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, doesn't it? Getting captured by a target seems a tad detrimental to one's budding assassin career."

"Yes, it takes talent to foul up that badly," Alistair jeered.

Zevran chuckled. "Is that what you Fereldans do? Mock your prisoners? Such cruelty," he said lightly.

"What will happen now? Loghain will want to hear back from you, to know the job is completed," Lyra said.

Zevran shook his head. "I was contracted for a service. Whether or not I complete it is between Loghain and the Crows - and, the Crows and myself. I was not to see Loghain again. If I had succeeded, I would have returned home, and the Crows would have informed Loghain of the results, if he didn't already know. If I had failed, I would be dead - or I should be, at least, as far as the Crows are concerned. No need to see Loghain, then."

"How much were you paid to kill us?" Alistair demanded, hoping this would remind Lyra that the elf had, indeed, almost killed her.

"I wasn't paid anything, although the Crows were paid quite handsomely, from what I understand. Which does make me about as poor as a Chantry mouse, come to think of it. Being an Antivan Crow is not for the ambitious, to be perfectly honest."

"Then why are you one?" Lyra asked, crossing her arms. Alistair scowled. Now she sounded interested. Throughout, she'd remained passive, her hands folded and her eyes intent as she listened to his responses. She's treating this too casually, Alistair complained to himself.

The elf considered. "Aside from a distinct lack of ambition, I suppose it's because I wasn't given much of a choice. The Crows bought me young. I was a bargain, too, or so I'm led to believe. But don't let my sad story influence you. The Crows aren't so bad. They keep one well supplied... wine, women, men... whatever you happen to fancy." He shot a coy smile at Alistair, who shifted in discomfort while glaring daggers. "Though the whole severance package is garbage, let me tell you," the elf continued. "If you are considering joining, I would really think twice about it."

"Thanks, I'll take that under advisement," Lyra drawled.

"You seem like a bright girl. I'm sure you have... other options." The words spun out like silk.

Alistair clenched his teeth.

Lyra's eyes darted toward him, but were back on the assassin a breath later. "Why are you telling us all of this?"

The elf laughed. "Why not? I wasn't paid for silence... not that I offered it for sale, precisely."

"Your lack of loyalty astounds me," Lyra observed.

Zevran pursed his lips, seeming to think about this for a moment before replying. "Loyalty... is an interesting concept. If you wish, and you're done interrogating me, we can discuss it further."

Leliana shrugged. Lyra slid another glance toward Alistair, who would have reduced the elf to a pile of ash with his stare alone. "What's your name?"

"Zevran Arainai, at your service." The assassin attempted a bow, but Ser Perth's grip did not slacken, and instead he inclined his head. "And though I would wish to call you nothing but beautiful, what name may I whisper as I fall asleep each night?"

A twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Whisper whatever you like, I don't care. My name is Lyra."

"Ahh... elegant. Simple. As lovely as the curve of your cheek, as breathtaking as an Antivan sunset. You are well-named, bella flor."

"And you are full of pretty words," Lyra said. "So, go on. We were about to discuss loyalty."

"Well, here's the thing." Zevran began to lower himself onto a bench across from the bed, his head turning toward Ser Perth in exasperation when the knight did not release his arm. With a roll of his eyes, Zevran straightened again. "I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will. Thing is... I like living. And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. So... let me serve you instead," he said matter-of-factly.

"HA! As if we would agree to that. You'd kill us in our sleep," Alistair snapped.

"No, I would not. To be completely honest, I was never given much choice about joining the Crows. They bought me on the slave market when I was a child. I think I've paid my worth back to them, plus ten-fold. The only way out, however, is to sign up with someone they can't touch. Even if I did kill you now, they might just kill me on principal, for failing the first time. Honestly, I'd rather take my chances with you."

"We don't need your services," Alistair bit out.

But Lyra leaned forward. "What could you do for us?" she asked.

Alistair gaped at her. Is she serious?!

Zevran brightened. "I am skilled at many things - from fighting to stealth to picking locks. I could warn you, should the Antivan Crows attempt something more... sophisticated, now that my attempts have failed. I could also... stand around and look pretty, if you prefer. Warm your bed. Fend off unwanted suitors."

Alistair growled, and from the floor, so did Kestrel.

"No?" Zevran seemed amused. "Well, I have other uses. I'll even shine armor. You won't find a better deal," he appealed.

A taut moment of silence as the elf and the Warden looked at each other. Lyra sucked her lower lip between her teeth, her head tilting as she narrowed her eyes a bit. "Fine. You'll travel with us," she said finally.

"What?" Alistair yelped. "You want to take the assassin with us now? Lyra, the man nearly killed you!"

"Yes, but he failed. Thanks to you. And he could be really useful," Lyra pointed out.

"Indeed I can, my flower. You will see just how useful I can be," the elf said with a knowing smile. "Now, may I be untied, please?" Zevran held up his wrists.

She shook her head. "Not yet. When we leave Redcliffe, we'll work out a traveling arrangement. For now, you'll go back to your cell."

"Fair enough. I look forward to speaking with you more, bella flor." The assassin's eyes gleamed with wickedness as Ser Perth guided him from the room.

The moment the door closed, Alistair jumped from his chair and began to pace. "How can you even think about letting that slimy whoreson come with us? He's an assassin! A cold-blooded murderer who'd strangle you as soon as... as... dance with you!" Alistair raved.

"I like his spirit," Leliana said.

Alistair came to a halt, a disbelieving look on his face as he shook one finger at her. "You... you... you..." he sputtered, words failing him.

"Alistair." Lyra's tone brooked no nonsense. He stopped to shoot her a wounded look. "Alistair, I'm fine."

"But you didn't see. You didn't see yourself lying there, nearly... nearly..." Alistair knelt by her bed and dropped his forehead on the coverlet. "Lyra, if he comes with us I'll never sleep again."

He heard her sigh as gentle fingers threaded his hair. "We'll watch him very carefully. Maybe we can hobble him, I don't know. But I think he can help us. Weren't you moved at all by what he said? About being bought as a child, and not having a choice about joining the Crows?"

"Most of what I heard was warm your bed," Alistair snarked as he sat up.

Lyra caught his face in her hands and leaned down to press her forehead to his. "There's only one man I want in my bed, Alistair Theirin. And you know exactly who it is," she whispered, before she leaned in to kiss him tenderly.

"Well, just... keep it that way," he mumbled against her lips.