PART VI

Zevran would later realize that, at some point in the journey back to the others, he stopped paying attention to how he and Leliana got back. He remembered Leliana shouting about rocks and low tree branches; but, other than that, all he truly remembered was the moment he laid eyes on the peaks and folds of canvas draped over skeletal frames, like a flock of geese tucked away at rest.

He was not one to pray to the Maker. But he felt safe in invoking Andraste, whose ashes he could scarcely believe were real and could have perhaps solved everything if Daen hadn't already wasted his precious pinch on that putto arl of Alistair's. If Andraste truly listened by the Maker's side, she would understand.

He pushed faces and questions aside, ducking straight into the tent and leaving Leliana to deal with them. Morrigan, apparently taking her turn at the Warden's side, looked up in surprise at Zevran's entrance. She held a length of cloth in her hands, in the middle of dipping it into a steaming mug of water. A medley of empty pots, cups, pans, and saucers were piled high near the back of Wynne's tent; the pungent odor of boiled elfroot mixed with sweat and dog pinched at his nose, all but grabbing him by his nostrils and forcing him to look downward.

Daen had always had a harsh, malnourished look to him, not much improved despite how ravenously he ate at every meal, but his body had at least filled and become a bit more sinewy with the constant walking and fighting. Those changes may as well have never happened. Daen's ashen skin was nearly translucent, and the bones in his face pressed upward like the frame of a tent beneath its coverings. His eyes were open, but dilated to such a degree that Zevran was sure he was incapable of seeing anything. Soris' flanks were stained a pale red, a testament to the limitations of elfroot. The faithful mabari lay in the same position he had been in when Zevran left. Zevran had no doubt that Soris had simply not moved at all.

Morrigan half-rose as Zevran stepped forward, her normally baleful eyes now rimmed with the red of sleepless worry. She said something, a question in her voice. Zevran nodded automatically without hearing. He could not look away from Daen.

In the corner of his eye, he saw his hands remove the glass vial from his beltpouch, the hard black pellets within clinking against the walls of the container with the sound of pins falling to the floor. He was moving through a dream, real and yet not; the glow of the remaining candles was too bright, washing everything in the tent in a yellowed haze. It reminded him of the Fade, where everything had seemed too bright and real to be anything but, until Daen had appeared in the middle of a Crow training room and whispered that it was a dream. And suddenly, it had seemed as if it could never have been anything but.

Zevran dropped to his knees and lifted Daen's head with one hand at the base of his skull. Morrigan must have noticed his eyebrows furrow at the sight of Daen's parched lips. "'Tis more difficult to give him water the more the time passes," she said. "If you have any ideas how to get the medicine into him, 'twould be nice to hear."

Zevran nodded again. "Where is the drinking water?"

Morrigan passed him a dented tin cup that Zevran recognized as Sten's, filled halfway with clear water. He raised it to his lips and inhaled the bitter green notes of elfroot as he took up a mouthful and passed the cup back to Morrigan. The elfroot nearly numbed his tongue—it must have been steeping for too long, and it was no wonder Daen did not want to drink any more.

"Oh please, not this," Morrigan groaned. "I'll step outside, shall I?" She stood up and left the tent.

Zevran barely noticed her shadow pass across his face on her way out. He tipped one of the pills into Daen's mouth and covered Daen's lips with his before the smaller elf could spit it out. His lips were rough and strange against Zevran's, and as hot as a lit candle. It was not the first time they had touched in this way, but it was not something they did frequently. Kissing was of course not a foreign concept to Zevran, but it was a tool that he had previously reserved for convincing particularly difficult marks of his affections. It had never seemed right to touch Daen in that way. And he had other parts of his body that Zevran was more than satisfied to press his mouth to.

Zevran lifted his head cautiously, and Daen coughed and water and a black pellet dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. "Brasca!" Zevran cursed. "You are not making this easier, amora." He carefully set Daen's head back down on Soris's flank and spent a fruitless and impatient second searching for the fallen pill. Giving up, he reached across Daen's body and plucked up the tin Morrigan had handed him earlier.

"Do not do that again," he directed to the blank-eyed Warden, not caring whether he could hear him or not. Zevran took up another mouthful of water, tipped the second pellet into Daen's mouth, and replaced his lips over Daen's.

Daen mumbled something that might have been a protest, and Zevran pressed him closer, sealing the distance between them. He finally felt Daen's throat finally contract beneath him, but he did not move for a few seconds to ensure that the antidote was gone.

When he raised his head again, Daen's eyes were closed and his face slack. His breathing seemed to be easier, and it was only after he had heard a few steady inhalations that he relaxed.

The antidote would take some time to undo the harm to Daen's body, but he dared to hope that he had made it in time. And if he had not, there was nothing more to do. Zevran exhaled, holding the Warden between his hands before shaking his head and laying the pale elf back down again.

Soris licked Zevran's hand and whined. Zevran scratched him behind his crooked ears absently and stood. "You have been a good boy, haven't you, my friend? Peace, now, it will soon all be over."

The assassin turned and left the tent without looking back.

Note:
Updates will be less frequent due to starting a new job. There will probably be an update from Beak and/or Clouds depending on circumstances on Sundays. Thanks for sticking with me.

Until next time. -K