Zevran awoke the next morning feeling more rested than he had in weeks. He was usually a restless sleeper. Over many years, he'd trained himself to awaken at the slightest sound. It worried him that he'd slept so deeply. Though they were in a camp full of allies, his Warden was never short on enemies. And that was without the Crows hunting him. He couldn't recall the last time he'd slept without a dagger under his pillow.

He shifted on his side. Sore, which meant he hadn't moved at all the entire night. Curled into him, Arian slept on. Her hair lay in such a way that he could see her bruised nape. Zevran ran his finger over it. Such a tiny neck. He could snap it in a heartbeat if he wanted. How many times had he done just that to a lover of the night? How many times had he proven to himself how dangerous physical attachment could be?

Beams of sunlight filtered through a gap in the tent flaps, settling over the delicate feminine shoulder before him like golden dust. He smoothed his hand over that bit of soft skin, pressing his lips against it. Warm and alive. Magic hummed against his lips, as much a part of the elven girl in his arms as her lifeblood. A secret that only those closest to her knew of. The trust she gave him despite so many of his attempts on her life humbled him.

He lay still for a time, running his fingers over his Warden's skin, basking in her subtle scent, until the call of duty could no longer be denied. Regretfully - and as carefully as he could manage - he slipped from the bedroll without disturbing his lover, tucking the blankets and furs in around her to keep out the morning chill. As though sensing him leave, she shivered but did not wake.

Sometime in the night, Strezark had wandered into the tent. As soon as Zevran left the bedroll, the wolf padded over to its master and laid down beside her, glancing at the assassin with its haunting emerald eyes before resting its head on its master's hip. To keep her warm? Surely the wolf was not intelligent enough for such a thought. It was not a Mabari hound, after all, but if a dog could be considered as smart as a man, why couldn't a wolf be? That is, if it was actually a wolf.

It was a bizarre creature. A summoned thing that had never disappeared as it was meant to. Not an animal, for it lacked a mongrel's wild stench and a beast's manner. It did not eat or hunger. It did not sleep. In combat, it howled like an unnatural thing in a voice almost demonic. But, it was part of Arian's magic, and Zevran trusted the Warden with his life. He knew of her hatred for demons, and so he trusted that Strezark was just another curiosity.

Without making a sound, Zevran found Arian's medicinal pouch nearby. It was no challenge to find what he sought. His Warden had a strange proclivity for labeling everything. With some amusement, he considered that she would do well as a poison maker in Antiva. Those he knew also labeled everything with care, for a mislabeled vial could very well cost someone their life. He sifted through some wax-sealed packages and took out some pungent gauze labeled "Poultice - for burns".

Strezark did not stir when Zevran knelt beside Arian. Moving aside her hair, he peeled off some of the wax seals on the gauze and placed a few patches on the bruises and burns around her neck, lamenting that he'd allowed the filthy demons to mar her skin at all. She stirred at the cool sensation, her long lashes fluttering as she blinked open her eyes.

"Mmm...is it morning?" she murmured, reaching for him.

"Not yet," he lied. He caught her hand in his own and tucked it back under the furs.

"Are you leaving?"

"I must, my dear, but you can still sleep."

She drifted off before he finished saying so.

Content with the thought that his Warden was in no immediate peril, Zevran pulled on his clothes from last night. He winced, for the fabric was still damp and frozen. He considered chucking them and just walking through the camp naked. But, somehow he surmised his Warden might disapprove of such exhibitionism. He smiled, wondering what kind of looks he might draw from their other companions if he did as he wished.

As he was leaving, something caught his eye. A faint blue glow. He backtracked to a satchel on the ground, one he recognized as something the Warden wore often around her waist during travel. Something within was shining. Ever curious, he bent down to examine it. A lyrium potion, perhaps?

Reaching inside the worn leather, he was surprised when his fingers encountered the softness of flower petals rather than the hardness of a glass flask. What he pulled from the satchel was a perfectly preserved red rose, as beautiful as any he had ever seen. He brought it close, smelling it. Part flower, part Arian's special magic, the scent made him smile. What would she be doing with such a frivolous thing?

He imagined her picking it somewhere, thinking it so lovely that she cast a spell to keep it safe and alive. It seemed quite unlike her, but the thought was endearing. Clearly the flower meant something to her, for she'd kept it close. With as much care as he could manage, he placed the flower back in her satchel.

As he stood and saw Arian and Strezark curled up together, he felt a foreign longing to snuggle back under the covers with her. He overcame it only with the thought that they'd left a mess of clothes and food behind at the spring, and he wasn't comfortable leaving behind such an overwhelming amount of evidence for others to stumble upon. He respected Arian's wish for discretion. She worked too hard and denied herself too much to risk her reputation on a whim.

With a heavy sigh, he straightened his clothes and stepped out of the tent. Only to run right into the one person he hoped not to see that morning. His reflexes allowed him to duck out of the way just in time as Alistair nearly barreled into him.

It was odd, but Zevran had never quite been able to look at Alistair and think of him as a man in conversation. Despite his towering height, his uncanny good looks, and his warrior's build, he looked rather boyish and innocent, a demeanor that disappeared only when he wielded his sword in battle. Not even the heavy stubble on his cheeks and chin helped shake that.

In combat, he was a force to be reckoned with, a skilled warrior and fearsome opponent. But, when it came to their Warden, all of his courage seemed to wither and vanish, disappearing into an awkward kind of body language complete with a flushed collar, red ears, and what Zevran could only describe as "puppy dog eyes". Even now, he stood poised before her tent, his expression reminding Zevran of a boy about to tell his mother he'd been caught stealing at the market. His large hand was raised as though he'd been preparing to knock.

To knock. On a tent.

Zevran cleared his throat and tried to keep walking, a part of him hoping that -

"What were you doing in there?"

Well, shit.

Zevran steeled himself and turned, forcing his expression into a smile.

"Just checking on our Warden," he said. His Warden, but phrasing it that way wouldn't be appropriate. "She was not feeling well." Not a total lie, at least.

"Is she alright?"

Zevran understood the guilt in the younger man's voice. He'd turned her away last night without asking her about her injuries, after all.

"I've treated the wounds. It is nothing life-threatening. She is resting now."

Alistair looked him up and down, no doubt noting Zevran's missing boots and the way his undershirt was only partially tucked into his trousers. The witch Morrigan frequently teased Alistair about his intelligence - or lack thereof - but Zevran had never believed him to be dimwitted.

On the contrary, it often seemed to the assassin that the young Templar wore as much of a mask as Arian did at times. He was used to being the laid back joker in the group, one whom nobody really took seriously until the right moment. It was his "role", much like Zevran's was to be the trickster and seducer of men and women alike.

As foolish as Alistair was in matters of the heart, he was no idiot when it came to other things. The hurt in Alistair's silver eyes proved Zevran right on that count. He'd put two and two together quickly, and it was more than obvious that he didn't like where the conclusion pointed. His hand lowered to his side. He half turned, his jaw clenched as though he wanted to speak but couldn't.

Zevran didn't pity him. How could he, when the boy had done this to himself? But, as a man, an an ally, he respected him. He knew what it was to yearn for the Warden, how maddening that desire could be. Out of respect, he kept his silence. The assassin was many things, but he would never gloat in such a situation. He just wished Alistair would stop looking at him like a husband who just caught his wife fucking the stable boy.

"May I ask, what are your intentions towards her?" Alistair bit out.

"Intentions?" Zevran considered this a moment. While he preferred to be upfront and honest where possible, he doubted that the things that came immediately to mind in response to Alistair's question should be voiced aloud.

"You were after her life once..."

Zevran straightened. "And now I owe her a Blood Debt. You could say this has brought us..." he waved his hand in the air, "closer together."

"A Blood Debt? What does that entail exactly?"

The stab of guilt in Zevran's gut wasn't wanted or welcome. He'd done nothing that warranted such things. Arian belonged to no one, and what kind of man would he be if he left a gorgeous willing woman untended? Miffed, Zevran crossed his arms over his chest.

"As I told the Warden before. I am her man, without reservation. I will fight her battles and safeguard her life as long as there is breath in my body or until she chooses to release me of my vow."

"I don't see how that vow has anything to do with you walking out of her tent with your pants on backwards."

Zevran rubbed at his temple, biting back a smart retort he knew he'd later regret. For whatever reason, Arian cared for this man. On the principle of his vow, he had to go out of his way not to emasculate him if he could help it.

"Alistair, can I give you a piece of advice?"

The Templar glared at him, but said nothing.

"Life is short, my friend. In a blink, we could all be dead. Life is also more vengeful than an underpaid Antivan whore. If you live in fear of losing something, chances are that you will lose it."

"I've already lost it, I think," Alistair said, his voice gruff with emotion.

"If you've given up the chase so easily, did you really want her in the first place?"

Annoyed with himself for saying much more than he wanted to, Zevran turned and walked away. What was he doing, anyway? Encouraging more complications? Bolstering some healthy competition?

Surely, not.

And even if he was, why should that bother him? He'd never been a greedy man when it came to his lovers. He'd always told his partners they were free to pursue other entertainment if the mood struck. Sometimes, he even liked to watch. What was wrong with a little change to spice up the night?

As he made his way through the woods, he checked his frustration. So what if he'd encouraged Alistair? The boy was big and handsome, had a nice ass, and was well endowed from brief glimpses he'd gotten while bathing together. Wouldn't it be fun if he could convince the shy little Templar to join him and the Warden in their "exertions"? How many partners had he and Taliesin taken to bed together? Doing so always proved to be quite enjoyable. Three heads were better than two, six hands were better than four, and two cocks...well.

He stopped at the spring, glancing over the remaining food items and scattered clothes pooled by the rocks. Recollections of last night's frenzied lovemaking teased at his thoughts. How Arian ridden him like her warhorse, Astenos, her thighs clenching around him like a delicious vice. Her magic lingered in the air. As he lifted her tunic from the ground, he brought it to his nose to inhale her fragrance.

He remembered the way Arian's skin had looked in the moonlight, the way she smelled, tasted, the way her moans sounded in the steam. His belly clenched with the memories, and it was all he could do not to run back to her tent and make love to her all over again. He would exhaust her until all she could manage was to rest between his loving, to beg for a reprieve he may or may not grant.

Alone. Just him.

Because the second he imagined the Templar running his large calloused hands over her perfect tits, coaxing open her mouth and exploring it with his tongue as she moaned in need, whispering sweet nothings in her small pointed ear as he filled her with his seed -

The assassin had to bite his lip to keep from hissing out a vile curse. He smacked a nearby tree trunk with his fist, relishing the pain. The bruised flesh brought back some focus, at least. Maker, what had come over him? He was no jealous dandy. In fact, he was fairly certain the word "jealousy" wasn't even in his vocabulary. Countless lovers had tried to rile him up only to face bitter disappointment.

So, what in the Maker's name was wrong with him today?

He took his time gathering his things and cleaning up the mess at the spring. He did not want to return to the camp just yet, not when he was feeling so out of sorts. Perhaps the problem was that he was focusing too much on a single woman. Perhaps it was time to change the pace. He would bring it up with the Warden. Neither of them had discussed exclusivity, but he wanted her permission nonetheless. In his experience, it was best to be clear about such things.

He ran a hand through his shoulder-length blonde hair. As Taliesin might say, perhaps what he needed was a fine night on the town. There had been a few hotblooded wenches at the tavern in Redcliffe. Surely they'd be charmed by the man who had helped save their lives and their village from a horde of demons. A little booze, a few good ruts in the hay, and he should be right as rain.

With a plan in mind, his mood improved significantly. His step was lighter on the way back to camp, and by the time he entered his tent Zevran swore he was back to his normal self.