PART IX

All eyes abandoned Zevran as Wynne's tent flap rustled and lifted. The mage emerged, the lines of her face etched in an exhausted hand. "He's awake. Alistair, spoon up a bowl of whatever stew you've got going and hand it to me, would you?"

Zevran had stepped forward without realizing it the moment he heard Wynne push the tent flap aside. Wynne paused and studied him, her gray eyes cool. Then she nodded at Alistair to hand the soup bowl to Zevran and stepped to the side, holding the flap open behind her. "Take that inside. I think you should go see him now, Zevran. He's been asking about you."

"Has he? How exciting." Zevran felt his fingers clutch a little more than necessary at the warm bowl in his hands, but he kept his voice casual and ducked his head into the tent. Wynne let it fall behind him without warning, and he scooted forward as the flap hit his back. The world around him fell silent, the sounds of the camp muffled as if they came from across the sea.

Soris was a brown lump by Daen's head, having resumed his position as Daen's pillow. His back had been wiped clean of the blood that had stained it previously, and his head was held high and his mouth open in a canine's wide-mouthed, tongue-lolling grin. He looked up at Zevran and wagged his stub of a tail briefly. He seemed to be very interested in the bowl in Zevran's hands.

Daen lay against the dog with what seemed like every blanket and piece of clothing Wynne could find in camp tucked up to his chin. Zevran even recognized one of Leliana's most treasured possessions, a fine silk scarf dyed a rich amethyst and embroidered with pure gold thread, stuck into the pile. That particular item never failed to enliven its owner's face, but even its magic could not erase the hollowness under Daen's cheekbones and the tired bruises below his eyes.

He appeared asleep, but his ink black eyes opened when Zevran's shadow cut across his face and his pale lips spread into a wan smile. A calloused hand, bare from fingertips to the sinews of his shoulder, emerged from under the layers of blanket and reached upwards. Although it trembled from the exertion, the motion was unhesitant and direct.

Zevran took the hand and knelt by Daen's side. He was warm, as warm as the bowl of stew balanced forgotten in Zevran's opposite hand. Daen smiled up at him, his eyes like flecks of obsidian at the bottom of a well, and his face ragged, but awake. And alive. Zevran felt a brief pressure on his hand, weak and nowhere near the cocksure strength he had felt in the past. Daen might as well have reached into Zevran's chest and squeezed his heart.

"Could use...one of those...massages now."

Daen's exuberant tenor, always the first thing Zevran listened for in the heat of battle, emerged from cracked lips like it came from a genlock's throat. It was the first time Zevran had heard him speak in a while, and he couldn't tell if his heart had jumped from the shock of unfamiliarity or from something else entirely.

The smile on Daen's face widened, and his eyes sparked to life. Zevran had seen that look before, gazing down at him and proffering a gloved hand, palm open to accept the oath Zevran had just sworn and simultaneously offering Zevran's life back to him. Zevran had taken it without a second thought. Then, the motion had been like a falconer's signal to his bird to come roost on his arm, and Zevran flew to him eagerly. It was not such a terrible thing to become, perched by Daen's side with daggers at the ready for the Warden's next command. He would still be an assassin—that was who he was, after all—but at least he would not be a Crow.

"You need only ask, my dear Warden. Although I am tempted to withhold those, to teach you not to just drink everything that Oghren hands you! You very nearly served us to the Archdemon on a very shiny silver platter. Can you imagine all of Ferelden's forces, stuck with Alistair at the head, hmm?" Zevran laughed lightly. "We would be trounced in moments. And pantsless. I must compliment you on your fine choice with the bleeding and the twitching, however. Very dramatic."

Daen chuckled. "Oh...heard...you were...little dramatic...yourself. Think my aunt told me...story like it once. Just needed a poncy white horse."

"Alas, our darling Wynne cannot keep a secret to herself. It is a good thing I love her for so much more than that little fault of hers." Zevran shrugged and averted his eyes to just below Daen's chin. "You...did give her a bit of a scare, however." His voice was lower and more monotonous than he had intended it to be. He loosened his grip on Daen's hand slightly, just enough to let himself breathe a little.

Zevran could only catch Daen's face on his periphery, but it was enough to see the Warden's smile fade into uncertainty with the change in pressure on his bare hand. Their hands lay together, but apart, the faintest whisper of air passing between their palms.

"After all that...still willing to...stay? With me?"

What are you asking? Where else would I go?

For despite Alistair's suspicion and constant quizzing, Zevran hadn't thought of himself as a Crow at all in the last few months. It was not because he was no longer strictly a part of them, but because he no longer killed with the desperation to see a contract through, or with the knowledge that this was the only way he could survive. It was no longer his life. Nor was it to be his death.

No one changed overnight. He had a feeling that there was a part of himself that would never change—could never change. There was too much in his past to completely cast him anew. What he did not know was how much of himself was capable of changing.

And he had enough reason to make him believe that, despite everything, he could.

He set the cooling bowl of grey stew down and covered the hand he already held with his freed one. The sound of the dog eagerly slurping up the bowl's contents barely registered in his ears.

"Never doubt it," he said, and did not let go.

Note: Happy Valentine's. cielshadow17 and Tobyk947, thank you so much for your kind words. Until next time. -K