Zevran awoke slowly, groggily.
That was his first indication something was wrong; he never awoke slowly. He'd been a child when he'd learned to spring instantly to awareness at the first sound, the first movement, the first hint of light or the presence of another.
Something was desperately, dreadfully wrong.
The next thing he became aware of was voices. Alistair, Shale and Wynne. And yes, there was the Sten as well, giving a low, rumbling groan and demanding to know what had happened.
He opened his eyes as the cool breeze of rejuvenating energy brushed over him, and quickly he waved his hand, shooing Wynne off even though his thoughts were too jumbled for speech. Go, the gesture said. Save your power for those who need it more.
"Wynne?" Alistair's voice, tense and anxious. "She's not waking."
"What?" His voice was sharp with concern, even as Zevran himself rolled quickly to his feet, suddenly alert. He knew of only one woman who could bring that particular note of concern to the Alistair's voice.
"What happened?" He heard Leliana inquire muzzily somewhere behind him. Zevran might have wondered the same himself, except that his attention was riveted upon the still form lying on the ground, her skin ashen and her lips nearly blue.
"¡Sangre de Andraste!" He didn't remember moving, but the next thing he knew, he was on his knees beside her, opposite Alistair. Conall gave a concerned whine and made room for him, snuffling at Rìona's temple. As Wynne shuffled wearily back toward them, clearly exhausted, Zevran felt frantically at her throat for the shallow fluttering of her pulse.
And then Wynne was there, laying a hand upon his Warden's chest.
"She lives, but she's very weak. I feel the child as well, and it's the stronger presence right now. Whatever affected us when the shade sapped our energies appears to have spared it."
"I have seen this sort of thing before." Zevran leaned close to Rìona and felt her slow breath upon his ear. "Certain poisons, or suffocation... but I see no evidence of such a thing."
"None of the rest of you looked like this, when you were out." Zevran tried not to notice the way Alistair's hand shook as he stroked Rìona's hair back from her face while he spoke. "Or maybe you did," he corrected himself. "I didn't really have time to notice. We were investigating the campsite, and then suddenly the rest of you were on the ground and it was just me and Wynne and Shale."
Alistair drew back, and Zevran felt a pulse of—something—flow from the templar, dispelling any lingering dark magic. A moment later, another wave of Wynne's rejuvenating energy washed over them all. Then the Circle mage moaned softly and Leliana caught her as she began to sink to the ground.
"I'm all right," Wynne said weakly, her voice a bit peevish. "The battle with the shade was taxing, though. The spirit inside me helped prevent me from falling to its spell, and now the spirit is weary. But we can't linger here, in this... deathtrap."
For the first time since waking, Zevran looked around, taking notice of his surroundings. The campsite, which had seemed so inviting when they had begun to investigate it, was a ruin of skeletal tent-frames and the bare, bleached bones of hapless travelers, who had stumbled upon what had clearly been a cleverly constructed illusion.
"Right." Alistair looked down and rubbed briefly at the rune-marked ring he wore on his right hand, as he often did when he was deep in thought. Drawing a deep breath, he took charge.
"Sten, Shale, take our packs." His tone was firm; if he had any misgivings about being in command, they didn't show. "Not just Rìona's and Wynne's, but mine and Zevran's, too. If they're too unwieldy, Sten, give one to Leliana. Er... Zev, Rìona's a little smaller and lighter than Wynne. You'll carry her, I'll carry Wynne. I don't anticipate we can go that way for long, but let's try to get at least a half-mile to a mile between ourselves and this place; then we'll make camp for the day."
"Perhaps I should carry one of the females," Sten offered unexpectedly. "I will no doubt be able to bear the weight easier than an elf."
Alistair appeared to think about it for a moment, then shook his head. "Thank you, Sten, but I want you taking the lead with Conall. If we get attacked by werewolves, I'm counting on your sword to give us enough time to set Rìona and Wynne down without actually just... dropping them. If we do get attacked, we set them down and form a circle around them, keep them safe. Understood?"
Zevran found himself wishing his Warden was awake to see it, the moment her beloved took control of matters. It was as though the templar was suddenly an entirely different man than the one Zevran had first come to know in those early days after his failed attempt to kill them. She would be proud. Strangely, Zevran himself felt much the same. It was a relief, to see Alistair making himself into someone worthy to stand beside her.
Sitting so near him, Zevran saw—if no one else did—the moment of hesitation Alistair had as he gave them each their assignments. He hadn't wanted to assign Zevran to carry Rìona. He'd wanted to be possessive, and keep her to himself. But he set such petty considerations aside, and instead made the rational, sensible choice. He behaved as a commander, rather than a besotted boy.
Yes. Their Warden would be very proud, indeed.
They went much further than a mile. A short time after they set out, Wynne declared herself able to walk, and thus Zevran and Alistair were able to trade off carrying Rìona. It was nearly two hours before Wynne began to stagger again, and Alistair commanded they make camp for the night.
Leliana immediately spread a bedroll out on the ground and Alistair laid his precious burden upon it. He then instructed Sten and Shale to begin erecting tents, and told Leliana to prepare the campfire and begin working on supper. Zevran tensed as Alistair's eyes fell upon him, certain Alistair would assign him a task as well, but instead he said nothing as Zevran knelt at Rìona's side.
Wynne had to shoo Conall away to make room for herself, for he had laid down and pressed himself against Rìona's still form. The color was back in her lips, but her skin was still alarmingly pallid. Wynne sent a pulse of energy into her and nodded, sighing in relief.
"She's stronger. I don't think she's in any danger; she's just taking much longer to recover than the rest of us."
"Why?" Alistair beat Zevran to the question.
"I can't say for certain." Wynne frowned down at Rìona in puzzlement. "If I had to guess, I would say it had something to do with her babe. The shade was sapping all our life energies. Perhaps, because of the presence of the child, the shade sensed more life energy from the Warden and thus drew more from her. Or—and I can't imagine how this would be possible—perhaps the shade tried to sap the babe as well, and somehow Rìona substituted her own energy to protect her child."
"So what do we do for her now?" Again, it was Alistair who asked, and Zevran let him, even though he wondered the same thing himself. It wasn't his place to ask.
The mage gave a slightly helpless shrug. "I'd say keep her warm and let her rest. It's late afternoon, anyway. It's possible she'll sleep through the night. After I've had a few hours to regain my strength, if she doesn't seem to be recovering quickly enough, I'll cast another rejuvenation spell to help matters along. If she doesn't rouse by morning, we'll reassess the matter."
They were all exhausted from their ordeal—even Sten looked drained—and so Alistair asked Shale if she would object to keeping watch alone for the night. The golem decided to forego her normal insults about the frailties of fleshy creatures and graciously acquiesced. Wynne retired to her tent before the sun had even set fully.
Aware that he had done nothing to aid in their endeavors to prepare camp for the evening, Zevran forced himself to abandon his vigil at the Warden's side to take charge of cleaning and organizing camp after supper, so that Leliana and the Sten could go to their rest. It was another indication of his exhaustion that the Sten requested help with the harder-to-reach ties and buckles of his armor. Unlike the rest of them, for whom it had become part of the daily routine to request and render that sorts of assistance, normally the qunari declined such services when they were offered and struggled through it alone.
It was another sign of how narrow their escape had been that no one sat beside the fire to clean and oil their weapons and armor, as was usually their habit in the evening. It was fortunate, Zevran supposed, that they'd fought nothing which bled today, in their hunt for the werewolves' lair.
When Zevran returned from washing the cookpot in a nearby stream and gathering another armful of firewood, he found Alistair unbuckling Rìona's armor, struggling to get her limp body out of the leather and chainmail encasement.
"I'm trying to decide if she'll be warmer in her tent, or here by the fire," he explained as Zevran fed logs to the fire.
"Beside the fire." He gave the templar an even look. "Particularly if she has someone laying beside her, keeping her warm on the side opposite the fire, yes?"
"That's... a good thought. Thank you."
Without permission, Zevran ducked into Alistair's tent and emerged with his bedroll and an armful of the furs they had used to keep warm throughout the long winter months. He noted with amusement that the scent of musk was heavy upon them. So that was how the templar spent his cold and lonely nights. Wisely, however, he said nothing. Instead, Zevran knelt beside Rìona and began helping Alistair with her buckles. He waited for the templar to protest, but apparently Alistair had decided the imperative of the moment was simply to do whatever it took to keep their Warden warm and comfortable.
They did not speak, as they worked together to remove her armor and bundle her in furs and blankets. Alistair nodded his thanks and spread out his bedroll beside her, then began pulling at the ties which secured his pauldrons in the front. Zevran wordlessly stepped behind him and unfastened the ties laced to his arming doublet in back.
The silence was becoming strained, and so Zevran exerted himself to fill it. "It occurs to me we really ought to see about acquiring a squire for you at some point in our endeavors. This armor you wear is most inconvenient, mi amigo."
The templar chuckled. "I can just see it. Rìona manages to recruit a volunteer to follow us around carrying my pack and help me with my armor, and then it's all, 'mind the darkspawn blood, lad' and 'try to keep out of the way of the bandit arrows.' Don't get me wrong, I'd be thrilled, but somehow I doubt the position would be filled for long. One way or the other."
"You may have a point," Zevran acknowledged as he began to unbuckle the rerebraces, couters and vambraces. Theoretically Alistair could remove these arm coverings himself, but it was difficult work to do it one-handed, and frankly—in Zevran's opinion—ridiculous to watch him try.
"We had squires at the monastery, of a sort." Once the opening to make conversation was offered, apparently Alistair wasn't inclined to let it go to waste. "The junior initiates always helped the senior initiates, which frankly the senior initiates used as an opportunity to make their lives even more miserable. Because, of course, being stuck in that place wasn't misery enough."
"That is common in many places, yes?" Zevran shrugged. "We had such habits among the Crows, also. I think, in such conditions of unwilling service and entrapment, many see the only way to cope with the misery is to pass it around."
"I suppose you're right." Alistair shook his head. "I guess we have at least one thing in common, after all."
"I would not go that far." Zevran's mouth twisted in a wry smile as he stepped around the templar to remove the armor from his other arm. "Unless your older initiates frequently made the younger initiates draw lots to see who would be that week's, ah, entertainment. Some weeks, the entertainment died."
"Maker!" Zevran focused on a buckle whose strap was fraying, making it difficult to loosen, and did not look up. He had no interest in sympathy, or in hearing outraged protestations. To his surprise, though, Alistair offered none.
"I'm so used to feeling sorry for myself about being sent to the monastery that I guess I don't stop to think how much worse it might have been," he said after a moment.
"It could have been far worse for me, as well." Zevran kept his tone light. "Shall I tell you what happened to the brothel boys who were not bought by the Crows? If we are looking for common ground, my friend, I do not think it will be found in our pasts, yes?"
Simultaneously, they looked in the direction of their sleeping Warden.
"Right." Alistair seemed to consider pursuing that thought for a moment. Then, instead, he returned to the more neutral topic. "So, armor. I wonder how Sten manages? Maybe it's some unique design of that armor of his. For that matter, I wonder how Duncan did it."
"The mentor you speak of sometimes?"
"Yes. He traveled a lot, and he didn't always take his squire with him, if he thought there was a chance he'd run into darkspawn."
Zevran stepped away when he'd loosened the last buckle, murmuring de nada when the templar thanked him. He retreated to the fire, stirring it and adding more wood to be certain Rìona was kept warm enough. When Zevran glanced across the way, Alistair had finished removing his leg armor and cuirass. He settled on his bedroll and pressed gingerly against her, dragging a blanket across them both. He seemed at a loss as to what to do with his arm and finally settled on draping it cautiously over her waist... as though he were afraid of being accused of taking liberties, Zevran thought, chuckling to himself.
Zevran had assumed their conversation to be over, once the intimacy of removing Rìona's armor and helping Alistair with his own was done. But as Zevran reached for his own buckles—much easier to manage than if he were wearing plate, yes, but still somewhat awkward at times—Alistair spoke again.
"Sorry. I should have offered to help you as well. Usually you go to Leliana for that, these days, so I didn't think... I'm a bit preoccupied tonight. Anyway, sorry."
For some reason the apology, the consideration, made Zevran uncomfortable, and he sought refuge in flirtation. "If you ever wish to get me out of my armor, amigo, you need only ask."
Predictably, the templar blushed and looked away, falling silent. Inexplicably, the silence was worse, as though now that the two of them had begun conversing, it was better to continue than to stop. Zevran hadn't anticipated that.
"Tell me more of this mentor of yours."
"Duncan?" Alistair looked startled. "Oh, well... Rìona says he was ruthless, that he used people. I guess I can't really argue that point; I've seen some of the things he'd done. But he was always kind to me. He was the first person to ever care about what I wanted. He saved me from from a situation I didn't know how to get myself out of. What about you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Any... mentors, companions, friends... from Antiva that you miss?"
"Yes." One word. Nothing more. Zevran though that would end Alistair's questioning.
It didn't.
"There was a woman, wasn't there?" he pressed. "In the temple, the Guardian of the Sacred Ashes mentioned a woman."
The templar was not the person he ever imagined this particular question coming from. He'd anticipated it for weeks, after the temple, but Rìona had never asked. He could see it in her eyes, that she wanted to. But he had refused to speak of his past to her once; she would not ask again.
He and Alistair had no such implicit understanding, and so the templar plunged into territory their Warden had carefully skirted.
Zevran should have resented the question, and refused to answer. He should have shut the templar up with a scathing reply, preferably one which tweaked his virginal sensibilities. He should have retreated to his tent and lay there thinking about it the rest of the night, rather than seating himself by the fire, watching Alistair hold their Warden, and confiding.
Staring into the flames, Zevran told him the tale of the elven woman who had died at his feet as he mocked her declarations of love and innocence. He told him of discovering how hollow and worthless his life in Antiva had become, and how he'd sought his own death by accepting the contract on the Grey Wardens, only to find salvation instead.
"Her name was Rinna." The templars eyes widened a little at that, and Zevran nodded once. "Yes. You begin to understand a little. When I learned the name of the Grey Warden, my mark, I knew I was meant to find my death at her hand in atonement for what I had done, what I had allowed to be done, to a woman I..."
"Loved." It wasn't a question.
Zevran scoffed. "I am an assassin. Raised by whores and trained to know only murder. What do I know of such things?"
"More than you're willing to admit, I suspect."
He could not answer that. He felt exposed and vulnerable, as though he were standing in a crowded marketplace with no armor or weapons and a heavy purse at his belt. The templar's insights were not what Zevran would have expected from him, when they first met. Again, he was struck by the change.
For one trained to fight defensively, Alistair knew surprisingly well how to slide a blade in at the moment one was most disarmed.
The templar stroked their Warden's hair again, glancing at her as he asked, "Why did you step aside for me?"
Zevran looked away. He was not a jealous man, but it was too much, to see the tenderness in the way Alistair touched her and know that the templar was worthy of her, after all.
"Because it would not be fair, to step back and expect no one to fill the void."
They passed the night in silent vigil, waiting for her to awaken. Zevran knew he would not sleep until he had seen with his own eyes that she was well. It was a bittersweet thing, to see her eyes open and immediately fly to the templar, finding herself nestled in his arms, and made even more so by the expression in Alistair's eyes as he gazed at her in relief.
There was a strange symmetry to it, like the matched and balanced blades Zevran wielded in battle. The templar and his Warden, they were the light pair, contrasted to the dark companions of his prior days. Then, Zevran willingly sat by and watched another man slit the throat of the woman he loved. Now, he watched unwillingly, as the templar's hand came up to caress her face, and knew she would never come to harm by that hand.
He had done the right thing, stepping aside for Alistair. And yet he did not like this feeling, of being on the outside looking in. He wondered if Taliesen had felt that way, when Zevran and Rinna began falling in love and excluding him more and more. Had that been the source of his spite toward Rinna?
That, Zevran decided adamantly, would not repeat itself. He would leave them, before he allowed it to get to that point.
But for now, he would sit on the outside and watch, and hope it became easier.