A/N: Sooo I wrote up this whole long thing about why I split up narratives and begging for you guys to let me know what you think I should do, and then "Save" decided to crap out on me. Here it is, again.

The Situation: I understand that the way I tend to split narratives into two or three parts may create a disjointed reading experience for many of you, and that you would prefer narratives to be posted in whole, even if it meant less frequent updates. On the other hand, I also understand that some folks probably prefer more frequent updates, even at the cost of chapter size. However, I want to get a sense for the overall opinion of the reader base. If you're someone who clicks on a chapter only to go, "Gross, Alistair again? I thought we were done with him for a while!" this is probably worth reading through.

Full Disclosure: One of the most relevant reasons why I post this way has to do with safeguarding against my own bad tendencies. While I think I would prefer to post one whole narrative at a time (as I think that's how I might prefer to read this story, if I was on the other side of this), posting in fragments helps me keep up a steady cycle of writing and posting. I've mentioned to a few of you before in review replies that my current system is to write so that I'm two or three chapters ahead, and then only post things from earlier. That way I never feel stressed about "oh no I haven't posted anything in DAYS crap I need to write something!" Posting on an almost daily basis also makes me feel more comfortable because I never have to worry if I'm leaving the story in the cold.

Again, full disclosure... I'm very cautious here because I know what happens when I think a fanfic has become more trouble than it's worth. I get irritable, worn thin, and then just drop the story entirely. Basically, Bad Stuff. However, I think that I could probably handle avoiding that -- I would just post whole narratives at once, but only if I have another two stored up ahead of time. This would likely drop my updates to one or twice a week.

Any Solutions?: If you are a regular reader (or even a new or sporadic reader, I'm not picky) please please please let me know if you have an opinion either way, whether in a private message or a review or whatever. I'm wary of changing a system that's been working for me, but I am definitely willing to try if enough people would prefer the alternative. Worst comes to worst, I will switch back to my sloppy, informal method.

Anyways: Gross, Alistair again. ;)

Up next? Wynne.

Alistair

"We're livin' on the edge,
You can't help yourself from fallin'-
Livin' on the edge,
You can't help yourself at all."
- Living on the Edge; Aerosmith

Alistair slumped onto one of the lounge chairs. Most of the blood on his clothes had dried by now, but even if it hadn't, he couldn't care less. Even staying upright was a challenge: he wanted nothing more than to allow his body to fall over, to curl up there on those cushions and pass out. "That's one way to ruin a very fine evening," he muttered to himself, head craned all the way back against the stone wall behind the couch.

"You two gonna tell me what happened now?" Oghren grunted, plopping down on an ottoman. Alistair didn't have it in him to alert the sloshed dwarf that that wasn't a chair it was a footstool. He'd probably figured it out the first time he tumbled off of it onto the floor, anyway. Zevran leaned against a nearby pillar, the flickering candles above him casting sinister shadows drown his shoulders.

"Why don't you go ahead, Zevran. This is your territory, isn't it?" It was mean and uncalled for and Alistair didn't give a Chantry rat's ass. Zevran gave him a glare of unadulterated spite, something that had more than a little violence in it, but Alistair wasn't worried. If there was one thing left in the world that he had the energy for right now, it was taking out his jagged emotions on an assassin.

Any would do, really.

"Akana was the target of an attempted assassination," Zevran explained, finally taking his eyes off of Alistair's and looking towards Oghren, who stared blearily up at him.

The dwarf snorted. "Well that ain't nothing new. Doesn't explain the fuss, though. I mean, you tried it, and the girl didn't even take it personally. Surprised we haven't got a new friend from it-"

"This assassin came much closer to success than I did." There might have been a hint of wounded pride there, Alistair was sure of it, but more than that there was a cold wonder and even concern. "His blade was poisoned." Zevran's eyes flicked back over to him, and Alistair scowled. "This was not any ordinary poison, either."

"She's alive, ain't she?"

"Thanks only to the Blood Mage, Sylvia, who accompanied us back to the estate tonight."

"Wait, a Blood Mage saved her? Can they even do that?" Oghren scratched at his beard, and finding a crumb of something in it, proceeded to pop the morsel into his mouth. That had to be at least in the top twenty things Alistair wished he could un-see.

"Apparently they can. The poison thins its victim's blood, so that it runs even quicker than water. Akana lost pints of blood from a small wound in less than a handful of minutes. The Blood Mage controlled it, somehow, and willed her blood back into her body. Which does not, I might add, explain the fact that the poison didn't still kill her."

"Akana's a tough girl," Oghren shrugged, and Alistair wanted very badly to side with him. How easy it would be to let it roll of his back, lump it in with a "Yeah she's great, amazing, the best" and be done with it. But he'd been there. He was still covered in her blood, and he knew that the nightmare of her bleeding out while he could do nothing to stop it was going to haunt him forever. It'd been worse, somehow, than with the Archdemon. At least that would have been a worthy death, something they saw coming: not being taken down by just one man and a knife between the ribs. Not when she should have been safe.

"Mmph." Zevran was not convinced. "Well, Akana is alive, as you have seen. That is what is most important, of course. However, afterwards, there was a stand-off with the Royal Guards, Queen Anora, and the Knight-Commander of the Templars himself. They wished to take the Apostate into custody-"

"-mother-humping sons of-" Oghren started.

"-and Akana disagreed. Just when it seemed that the guards and the Templar would leave her no choice, Akana recruited the woman in the Grey Wardens. The mage hasn't said much since. And, so, here we are."

"So Wynne and Akana..." Oghren jerked a thumb towards the closed door at the other end of the lounge. Alistair closed his eyes, hands balling into fists.

"Wynne has never been particularly forgiving when it comes to Blood Mages," Zevran replied coolly. Alistair snickered under his breath. Well, that was one way to put it. As sweet and kind as the healer was, all that seemed to evaporate whenever they faced anyone wielding Blood Magic. If she only knew that Akana had chugged a vial of dragon's blood in order to gain the same deadly capabilities as Haven's Reavers.

Or the pact we made with Morrigan-

Alistair swallowed hard.

There was the sound of someone walking down the hall, and Alistair lifted his head long enough to see Leliana walking towards them. Her brow was deeply furrowed, and she hadn't bothered to change out of her dress -- dried blood splattered across the bare skin of her chest and the fabric alike. The other two men also acknowledged her approach.

"Are they...?" Leliana nodded her head towards the closed door across the room.

"Yeh," Oghren answered for them.

"I see," she said quietly. "Do you think we should get Sten?"

"No." Alistair answered definitively, perhaps even a little harshly, because then everyone was looking at him. "The guy's probably sleeping, and you know how he is." Putting on his best Beresaad voice, he continued: "The battle is over, there is no danger. Why have you summoned me?" Alistair shook his head lightly. "Let him be."

"Yes, but..." Leliana looked down at her hands, wringing them together. She didn't finish the thought, but she didn't have to: they could all feel it perfectly well, filling the space between them: Shouldn't we all be here? It asked. Shouldn't we all be together, maybe for the last time?

No one said anything, and Leliana didn't bring it up again. She sat down on one of the high-backed chairs not far away, and began to fret at the cuff of one of her sleeves.

They waited. Alistair wasn't sure if it was hours or minutes, but it went on forever. He felt the urge to start yelling senselessly, like he had before in the Chantry when things were too quiet, but bit his tongue. He was still biting when they heard the shout.

"You cannot be SERIOUS Akana! Come to your senses, you foolish girl!" Though certainly stifled by the heavy door, the words were clear in the utmost silence between them. Each of them winced, and Alistair drew a sharp intake of breath. He'd never heard Wynne yell like that, and much less at Akana. Her voice quickly dropped back down low enough that they didn't hear any more.

More time passed.

Finally, Zevran shifted his weight, and broke the stillness. "Leliana?"

She looked up sharply, seemingly eager to have something to focus on that wasn't waiting for another shout. "Yes?"

"Have you ever heard of Blackheart's Nectar?" Alistair hadn't, and he had no idea what some sort of booze or whatever it was had to do with the situation at hand. He was about to say so, when Leliana responded.

"You mean the poison?"

Good thing he hadn't opened his mouth.

"Yes," Zevran nodded. "What do you know of it?"

Leliana blinked for a moment, and then looked up, as if the words to the story were written on the ceiling. Alistair checked. They were not.

"Blackheart was the most deadly assassin to ever live. It's unclear whether Blackheart was a man or a woman, or of what race, because no one looked upon Blackheart and lived. Blackheart's Nectar was his or her masterpiece, the most deadly killing agent ever crafted: a legendary poison so potent that no man could withstand its effects. Even a drop of it could fell a league of soldiers, making their blood run and bubble like heated oil. This alone caused an agonizing death, but the real danger lay in how it quickened the blood: even the smallest cut might be fatal, as nothing could staunch the flow." Leliana looked back down to Zevran, no longer staring upwards. "They say that it gave pause even to the Old Gods themselves, and a blade coated in it could bring death to the Immortal."

"Well said." Zevran withdrew something from inside of his shirt: a small bundle. As he began to unwrap it, Leliana spoke up again.

"But it's not real," she insisted, eyes carefully watching the Assassin's hands as he revealed the dagger that had been tucked into the cloth. "It's a myth."

"Mm," Zevran hummed under his breath, and then held the dagger to the light. He was touching it very carefully, not letting his bare skin meet the hilt. There was still blood on it -- Akana's blood -- and Alistair realized that it was the blade that had almost killed her. Why wasn't he surprised that Zevran had nicked it? "Unfortunately, my lovely story-teller, Blackheart's Nectar is quite real."

"Zevran, it's not possible-"

"One of the most closely guarded secrets of the Antivan Crows," Zevran spoke over her, and Leliana fell silent. "Is that they possess a single vial of the God-killing poison. The knowledge of how to craft such a toxin has long been lost, even to us."

"Humph," Oghren grunted. "What good is that? If it just sits there and never gets used, it's about as special as having a cup'f ogre-spit."

"If it's true," Alistair answered, sneering. "If it's true, I'm sure it's very special to them. Just like Andraste's Ashes are for the Chantry." Leliana narrowed her eyes at him, but Alistair continued. "They probably all gather around in their hooded cloaks and their tight leather pants and bow down pray to it."

Zevran's eyes glanced up at him, just above the dagger's curved blade. What Alistair saw wasn't anger or even irritation, only cool detachment. "You're quite right, Alistair. For the Crows, or any ring of assassins, a vial of the Nectar is an artifact with all the significance of a religious relic. Wars have been waged in its name, entire clans of the Thedosian underworld wiped out with hardly a ripple in the pages of history."

"Lovely. A heart-warming tale I'll be sure to pass on to my children and my children's children. Seeing as Akana almost died to an assassin and some poison tonight, I'll hold the story especially close to my heart. Thank you, Zevran." Alistair let his head slump back to the wall behind him with a painful thud.

"You miss the point," Zevran said, and now there was a twinge of annoyance in his tone.

"You're saying that you believe Blackheart's Nectar was used on Akana?" Leliana asked, speaking very slowly, the kind of tone one used with the mentally unstable or very small children.

"Yes. I am sure of it."

"Bloody-" Alistair groaned.

"Zevran, even if it was possible that someone had access to that type of poison, it couldn't have been Blackheart's Nectar. Akana wouldn't have survived," Leliana pressed.

"Yes. It's very... curious. This blade was covered in the stuff. It's decayed, now that it's mixed with blood, but when I first picked it from the marble, I could still see its moss-colored sheen. There was enough of it to kill twenty men, with ease, and yet Akana lived."

"Great," Alistair growled. He didn't like the sound of this Blackheart Nectar one bit, and listening to Zevran go on about how Akana shouldn't have survived wasn't improving his mood at all. "There's a certain Archdemon that I'm sure would love to hear your theory about how Akana should be dead right now. Why don't you run along to go tell it to him?"

Zevran paused, glaring at him. "I don't know about Grey Warden traditions or demons, let alone Archdemons. But I do know about poisons. This was Blackheart's Nectar. I am as thankful as anyone that Akana is alive, but we cannot blithely continue on as if nothing happened. Even if it is by some impossible fluke that she lived, perhaps some product of being a Grey Warden coupled with Syl's unconventional assistance, this was no regular assassination attempt. Whoever planned this had access to unimaginable resources."

"Okay, fine," Alistair spat, feeling like he was being prodded with an iron poker that'd been left overnight in the fire. "So what do you want to do about it, Zevran? You're the resident expert in trying to kill her. Maybe you can run off and compare notes-"

Something snapped behind the Assassin's eyes, and he didn't see the dagger leave Zevran's hand: he only heard the thunk as the blade sunk into the wall inches from his right ear. Before Alistair could get to his feet the elf was already on him, one hand curled around his throat, the other planted against the wall on the other side of his head, opposite the dagger.

"Zevran! Both of you! Stop it!" Leliana shouted, leaping to her feet.

"By Andraste's sagging tits, not in here!" Oghren grumbled, rubbing the sides of his head with both hands, but seeming otherwise unconcerned. "Go outside and do this."

Alistair grabbed Zevran's wrist, but the Assassin's hand tightened on his windpipe. He was still half in shock, and his body had sunken into the cushioned softness of the couch. "If I wanted to kill Akana," Zevran spat, and Alistair stopped struggling to listen, because his voice was so quiet it was little more than a tickle on Alistair's face, "I could have done it a hundred times over by now."

Even if Alistair had wanted to reply, he couldn't: he couldn't breathe, let alone get a snarky word in.

"If it weren't for fate or dumb luck, she would have died without even the comfort of sword in her hand. And you, you who have sworn to protect her, would rather lounge on a cozy seat and make jokes." His grip was like steel, and Alistair couldn't withstand it any more. He'd wanted to play chicken, wanted to remain as impassive as the Assassin himself so often did, wanted to appear unaffected; but Zevran's words lanced through him and he jerked forward. Alistair was stronger, strong enough that even from his sitting position he ripped Zevran's hand away, pushing the elf back.

Zevran easily caught himself, and the look in his eyes was murder.

"Who are you?!" Alistair half-shouted, half-coughed, throat sore and constricted. "Who in all of the Maker's creation are you to tell me-"

Leliana stepped between them, just as she had at the masquerade, only this was worse. She placed a hand on each chest, and Alistair had to restrain himself from swiping it away.

"Both of you! Think about where you are! This isn't the time or the place-"

Alistair didn't care. He didn't care, he was going to break his knuckles on Zevran's pretty little elf face-

"Eh, let 'em duke it out, Leliana," Oghren encouraged, excitement building in his voice now. If it was going to be an actual fight, he was eager for it. "They haven't got any weapons on 'em now, and it'll be good for both of 'em. They've got things to settle, and this was bound to happen sooner or later-"

"Oghren!" Leliana snapped. "No! You two are acting like children! If you want to carry on like this, fine, but not here and not now! How dare you." And that last line was filled with such disgust that it got through to him; and to Zevran too, from the looks of it. "You both wish to help Akana, yes? What do you think will happen when she comes out of that room? The last thing she needs to do is clean up whatever mess you make. You are both grown men: so act like it."

Properly scolded, both Zevran and Alistair stood down. Color was high in Leliana's cheeks, and Alistair could not meet her eyes. He turned away, fists still clenched, body quivering in fury. What did Zevran think he could do, anyway?! Run off and ask the first person he met who organized the hit tonight? That he should leave Akana in there with Wynne, be gone when she came out? Oh wouldn't he love that, then he could be there to swoop in, all pretend-caring and fake-charming and you can cry on my shoulder and Alistair wanted tear his throat out.

He attacked me! Alistair thought, in rage and disbelief. He attacked me, in the Arl's estate! He could be hanged for that! He should be hanged for that!

"Good," Leliana said. "Now get a hold of yourselves."

And of course the Bard was right but couldn't she see it? Couldn't she see how awful Zevran was? How was it that Alistair was the only one that noticed, the only one that cared? He walked over to where the dagger protruded from the wall, and yanked to out. Barely looking it over, he tossed it down on a nearby table, and with a snarl, sat back down. He didn't lean back this time though: he sat at the couch's edge, elbows bent on his knees.

"Party-pooper," the dwarf snorted, but there was a tiny bit of relief in it. He resettled on his ottoman, and tilted his head side to side, listening to the joints pop.

Zevran went back to his spot by the pillar, only this time he did not face any of them. He crossed his arms and stared intently at the door behind which Akana and Wynne were still having their meeting. Alistair glared darkly at the Assassin. This wasn't over.

And as he thought it, he knew that the elf was thinking the same thing.

Next time, Leliana won't be there to stand between us.

Alistair welcomed that day.