Sorry for the wait for the update. I dithered over what to do with Zevran's scene later in this chapter. I decided to edit it down to keep within the ratings requirements. Poor Zev, he doesn't get to be an exhibitionist.

As always, everything belongs to Bioware.

Part 25

Zevran watched the real Moira disappear from view, his heart in his throat. The pain in his chest at leaving her was second only to watching the two of them together, having what he could only dream of. He'd rather stay imprisoned in this land of horror, where at least, the dream Moira's didn't look at him as if some part of his dreams were possible. This DreamMoira was pretty to look at, but didn't have the spark, the drive, the whatever it was that made him love her. But he could pretend. For awhile, at least.

He spotted one of her simulacra ducking a vicious swing of an axe by a Hurlock Alpha and rushed to defend her. He'd told her once it was his job, as the sidekick, to die for her. She never gave him the opportunity in real life; perhaps in this dream existence he could make it come true. Together, they fought the Alpha with Moira finishing it off with one last freezing spell. Moira turned to him, grinning triumphantly and Zevran captured the dream girl's mouth with his. Agony suddenly burned through his middle and he broke the kiss, shoving Moira away. He looked down to see the end of a hurlock's sword sticking out of his stomach and realized his legs weren't working any more. The sword was ripped out of his back and the hurlock headed for Moira and she frantically backed up away from it. Zenvran felt his knees give out only by the impact on the rest of his body. As he fell face first into the dusty ground, he saw the hurlock swing at Moira, who was apparently too low on lyrium to blast the thing and too far away from anyone else for her to be rescued. With his last strength, he managed to grab his dagger and throw it through the monster's throat, felling it. The last thing he saw was Moira running for Alistair's protection.

He came to in another clearing, blinking his eyes at the bright light of day. How was he still alive? "Get up, you lazy elf!" Alistair ordered him, grabbing his arm and pulling him into a sitting position. The assassin looked around, almost afraid to find out where he'd been shuffled off to this time.

"Where in the name of the Maker are we?" he asked.

"Did you hit your head that hard?" Alistair asked, squatting easily next to him. Zevran just looked at the king, remembering in exquisite detail kissing the real man. It was extremely preferable to the memory of being run through by a hurlock that was certain. Something of his memory must've shown on his face because the dreamAlistair began to look uncomfortable. "What? Do I have something on my face?"

Zevran grinned, "No, my dear Warden, your face is as lovely as ever." To his delight, Alistair flushed bright red, got up and practically sprinted away from the elf. He honestly did think Alistair was attractive, if you liked your men big and overly-protective. And if Moira hadn't been the one to spare his life, he'd have done his level best to relieve this former Chantry boy of his burden of inexperience. But ever since that clearing on that road in the Bannorn, that delicate elven mage had had the hard-bitten assassin wrapped around her tiniest finger, eclipsing even the handsome ex-Templar and the tempting badge of purity he used to wear as if it were hung round his neck.

For some reason, a new attack hadn't broken out yet in this particular dream setting. He wasn't entirely sure where their small group was, but it seemed as if everyone was there, including Oghren. It was then that he realized the event he was about to relive: the sharlocks' attack on the camp. As soon as everyone fell asleep, they'd be set upon by shrieks. The only thing that had saved them in real life had been Moira's blade and her seeming ability to be everywhere the fighting was hottest. He knew the simulated Moira had no such skills however.

The fight would not go well this time.

He rubbed his forehead. Whoever or whatever had picked these memories out of his mind had gotten everything subtly wrong. It was almost as if they didn't know Moira, or didn't understand the concept of her abilities. But if this was run by a demon, and Moira had told him everything she knew of demons, wouldn't they get this all right so that he'd be better tricked?

While he was thinking, his eyes had been unconsciously following Moira as she talked to everyone around the small campsite. He wanted to figure out the rules of this place. Not necessarily so he could leave, but so that he could turn it to his advantage. Get what he wanted out of the DreamMoiras and Alistairs, hollow though it might be. He ignored the small voice in the back of his mind that shouted, "You idiot! How is this better? They'd just be puppets! It won't be them!" His eyes widened as she grabbed Alistair by the hand and dragged him behind her into her tent. That definitely hadn't happened that night. Briefly, he debated with himself whether it was a good idea to intrude on them. He looked around the camp and saw Leliana looking at him expectantly.

"You're not going to join them?" her softly Orlesian accented voice asked him.

Stunned, Zevran stared at her. "Should I?"

She shrugged, "You usually do. Just try to keep the noise down." She smiled indulgently. He wondered at that, the real Leliana would be jealous and trying to join them. She and Moira never brought up the time they'd kissed, but both he and Alistair had seen it. Alistair had disappeared into the forest shortly after they'd separated and Zevran had had to admit his own armor had gotten more than uncomfortable in the hip region. Yes, the real Leliana would not have been this gracious if they'd all three tried to fit into that tent without her.

He knew the minute they all fell asleep, they'd be set upon, but it would be nice to get a little fun out of this nightmare he was stuck in. It could, after all, be a while before they slept. He stood up and crossed to stand in front of the tent, staring at the flap. It wasn't them, and they weren't real. How was this different than one of his fantasies?

Zevran opened the tent flap and stuck his head in. He froze at the scene in front of him. Moira lay flat on her back on her pallet, all her pale, rosy skin laid bare, her perfect breasts with their impertinent pink tips pointing into the chilly air. Alistair's ruddy skinned, heavily muscled torso covered most of her while his mouth suckled the tip of one insolently pert nipple. Zevran felt his heart beat speed up. He could clearly see where Alistair's hand was between her wide open thighs, his broad palm pressing down on the dark thatch of hair, his fingers exploring every inch of her, sliding in and out; she was visibly trembling from Alistair's very touch. One of Moira's hands was wound in the other man's hair, the other was out of sight beneath him. Alistair's shifting hips, and naked flexing muscular ass let Zevran know where Moira's other hand was. The assassin quickly crept the rest of the way in the tent and tied the flap shut behind him. When he turned back, Moira's hand left Alistair's hair and she held it out for him, Alistair was still tonguing her nipple but had turned to meet the assassin's eyes and smiled.

Cautiously, expecting rejection, he crawled to her, a position demanded by the low ceiling of the tent. He bent to kiss her and reached out with one hand to cup one of her breasts and slide his thumb over the sensitized nipple. He was rewarded by her low groan as well as Alistair's. He felt hands on the buckles and laces of his armor and looked up to find the other man had quit caressing Moira to help him out of his dragonscale. Looking at him, Zevran's breath caught in his throat. He knew that Alistair without a shirt was a truly breathtaking sight, but add in the bare muscular thighs and the fine dusting of pale golden hair that trailed down from the man's chest and over his manhood and the sight of Moira's hand still around Alistair's erection, stroking and squeezing, and Zevran felt his own leathers become distressingly uncomfortable. He wondered if that's what the man actually looked like or if this was just one of his fantasies made flesh. Zevran decided he didn't really care. He could die a happy man, shrieks be damned.

This had to be the fifteenth nightmare Alistair and Moira had waded through to find that irritating elf, Alistair thought. He very carefully avoided remembering Zevran's kiss and concentrated on the petite woman walking next to him. He recognized the camp up ahead as theirs during the Blight. He glanced at Moira who shrugged and squeezed his hand reassuringly. Her words, however, were anything but. "It's probably going to end up being the night we were attacked by shrieks."

He grinned at her, "I'd say that one ended pretty well for both of us, don't you?" Both exhilarated and terrified about the shrieks invading their camp, their home, and the thought of possibly losing each other, the two Grey Wardens had first made love that night. The other members of their group had assumed it had happened long before, but both had repeatedly resisted temptation until then. He knew that Zevran had known, however. How, he wasn't sure, the elf just seemed to have a sense about these things; or perhaps it was just a sense about Moira?

Alistair knew that he had been attracted to the elf mage from that first moment in Ostagar. Her tiny form uncowed by his being a Templar by training, if not by vows, she'd actually laughed at his jokes. She'd also kept him from losing his nerve and his sanity when, in one treacherous swoop, he'd lost everything and everyone he'd ever held dear - except for her.

They slowly entered camp and everyone stood to stare at them, not moving. "There are already copies of us here, aren't there," Alistair leaned down to whisper to Moira.

She nodded, her fingers tightening around his. She turned her head toward one of the tents, "Do you hear that?"

Alistair felt his face heat at what he heard, "I do NOT want to go into that tent."

Moira laughed, "From the sounds of things, there are two too many people in there already."

Alistair's free hand covered his face, "Maker's breath, are we going to have to drag that bloody assassin out of … a threesome? With US?"

Moira grinned wider, "What's the matter my love? Shy at how he imagined you?"

Alistair groaned, it was echoed by his own voice from the tent. If it was possible, he felt his face turn redder, "That is something I so do NOT want to think about." Utterly uncomfortable, Alistair stood in the middle of their former camp, the copies of their old friends staring at them curiously but making no movement toward them. Moira kept glancing toward the tent for some reason Alistair could discern. He supposed it was curiosity. He did feel a little himself, but told himself he had absolutely no desire to see what Zevran was up to.

Moira tugged him over to stand nearer the tent. Reluctantly, he followed, "What, you can't hear them clearly enough over there?" he pointed behind them.

She shook her head, "We're safe from changing again until the fight occurs, but I don't want to lose him. He leaves that tent, grab him."

Alistair made a face, "But what if he's ... naked."

The love of his life glared at him, "Grab him anyway."

The noises finally died down in the tent, replaced by sleepy murmurs. The tent flap jerked as someone untied it and a blonde head poked its way out followed by a set of muscular shoulders. Alistair stared at his doppelganger for a moment as the man scrambled to his feet. His double was shirtless, and clutching a pair of trousers he hadn't laced with one hand. He was also, somehow, better looking than Alistair felt he himself actually was, his shoulders were broader and he was definitely more muscular. The Moira who followed him out, however, paled next to the real one. She lacked the force of personality the Warden Commander held that enhanced her beauty. DreamMoira, clutching a man's shirt closed over her chest, bumped into dreamAlistair, moving him over a little. Zevran finally emerged, wearing nothing but trousers, thankfully laced, and a grin which disappeared upon seeing the real Moira and Alistair.

Before the lithe elf could run away, which is what the expression on his face indicated he was about to do, Moira yanked him toward her away from the fake girl. With her free hand she pulled Zevran close using the waistband of his pants. His face less than an inch from hers, Alistair did his best to swallow his jealousy as Moira growled at Zevran, "Don't you ever do that to me again!" And she closed the distance between them, kissing Zevran roughly and angrily.