Chapter five in the Fracture series of linked one-shots, again posted separately as well due to its theme.

The first scene – a flashback, in fact – was inspired by the exceedingly talented aimo's fanart of the cloaked and ambiguous PC bandaging Zevran's arm while he seems to want something else besides that… If you haven't yet come across her wonderful art, check it out at aimostudio dot com or search for it on deviantart. With the great amount of cloaked-PC artwork she has, you won't be disappointed even if your own characters don't look like the ones she's drawing now!

Cue drama, because decision and confrontation time is here!

o.O.o

Bandages

o.O.o

In a sense, the signs should have become clear much sooner than this.

Nimue seemed to have a penchant for attracting odd companions and always struggled to make everyone feel welcome – or, at the very least, keep them from trying to rip each other's throats out, which was a more difficult task than one might imagine. Morrigan, they had been forced to take along, because they were in need of someone to guide them out of the Wilds; and risking offending Flemeth was something even Alistair could admit wasn't a good idea. Their warhound, they had encountered soon after, and Nimue promptly decided to keep him, partly because she found him fascinating and partly because she couldn't resist the puppy eyes he gave her.

Leliana, while having a peculiar reason for joining their little entourage, was a peaceful presence who introduced Nimue to any matter of art and provided a nice, peaceful counterbalance to Morrigan – even though both mages seemed to share the opinion that, somewhere along the line, Leliana's devotion to the Maker had crossed the boundaries of fanaticism. Still, it was peculiar to witness that Nimue could remain on cordial – if wary – terms with the cleric, yet she seemed more interested in Morrigan's views on matters most of the time. Sten's one motivation seemed to be duty, which no one questioned, in light of his prowess.

But no matter why they had chosen to come along, each of them had a valid reason to come along and could be trusted to a degree – even Morrigan, who seemed to be willing to obey her mother for whatever reason the ancient witch had given her, even while complaining every step of the way.

Zevran was another story entirely.

Yes, it was good to keep your enemies close and Nimue did give valid reasons for sparing his life – adding later on that Loghain had been the one to give the order to kill them, making it pointless to hate the instrument of his plans – but, from the very beginning (once he got revived, that is), the elf's expression always changed very subtly when he looked at the junior Grey Warden.

Like she was a mystery prize in a contest that he was determined to have for his own, whatever that might take.

Perhaps he used that same look on Leliana and Morrigan (Wynne had not yet joined their party and – despite the subsequent flirtations that made their target and unsuspecting listeners highly uncomfortable – Alistair never saw the elf look at her like this, maybe because with her, it was more of a game). But if Alistair's observations were correct – Morrigan would have a lot to say on that account, no doubt – whenever it was possible for Nimue to be the prime target, she became it.

The night they had recruited the assassin, Nimue took some of their healing tools and a share of food and actually approached the man as if this were a common occurrence for her. The others were resting after having set up the camp or eating Leliana's excellent omelet, but Alistair remained wary of their leader's actions.

"She has a good heart to do this, and who better than her to break the ice, no?" Leliana said when he brought this up, handing him his share of the food.

Only Rabbit seemed to agree the tiniest bit with him, keeping an eye on Zevran, but otherwise confident in Nimue's ability to judge people. After all, if his Master could tame the charcoal witch, she could no doubt control the shadow warrior.

Even if he did lose points with Rabbit for telling stories of dog-treatment in his land.

Nimue, on the other hand, wasn't yet convinced how this could actually work, but knew that she would have to speak with the assassin sooner or later and choose the former. Their conversation was to set the tone of their relationship for a while.

"I have some poultices and bandages for whatever injuries you still have." she said as she handed him the bowl of food the elf hadn't yet decided to go take. In truth, there had been certain doubts about whether the others would actually allow him to partake in their food for the time-being. It was a good peace-making instrument on Nimue's side, this gesture.

However, too much charity also had a downside; the assassin gave a wry sort of smirk, very different from the carefree and confident smiles of hours past.

"An inventive punishment, that, bringing that up only after a lengthy journey." After reviving him, only the most life-threatening of his wounds had been healed, ensuring that he was able to walk… but not without pain. Of course, that might have to do with the fact that Morrigan had been the one administering the poultices, being a little more skilled than the other mage at healing, while the rest of them scavenged the dead assassins for whatever they might need.

Consequently, it also could have something to do with Morrigan's impatience with his consistent flattery.

"There wasn't any time for it back then." Nimue noted, refusing to be guilt-tripped as she unfolded the bandages. "Besides, you did try to kill me."

Ah, that argument again. The assassin tsked ruefully, shaking his head a little. "It isn't very productive for our future cooperation if we dwell on who tried to kill who, fair Warden."

"Neither would forgetting it be. I don't intend to dwell on it, if it puts you at ease. I have a grudge against the mind that came up with the order, the hand that sought out the sword, but not the weapon itself." Now that was an interesting analogy; who knew that she had a mind for metaphors? Perhaps she liked poetry as well… hopefully a certain kind of it… "Eat something, I'll try to fix this a bit with magic. I don't know how much good it'll do, though." She could ruin her lips if she kept biting them like that, which would be an utmost shame.

"And so your ulterior motive reveals itself at long last." The mage looked up, a little confused, which was a wonderful addition to the act. "There's no need to be ashamed of a yearning for physical contact, my dear. All you have to do is ask."

Her left eye twitched just a little and my but could she emphasize the cold color of her eyes with that look. "I am neither dear nor yours. And you should know in advance that if you disrupt my concentration again, I might accidentally stop your heart instead of healing your arm."

Now she was just setting herself up. "You hardly require magic for that, with such beauty at your disposal."

"Zevran, I've already received a sarcastic opinion on sparing your life courtesy of Morrigan and Alistair keeps looking at me as if I've grown a second head." the mage noted flatly, just to make the situation clear. "Even Leliana isn't as enthusiastic about your presence as she wished to be. If you alienate me, you'll only have Rabbit supporting the alternative of you traveling with us."

Having just the dog on his side would indeed be a sad state of things, especially when it had been established that this was his chief contender for the position of honorary bed-warmer for the lady. Alistair didn't count, from what he had seen; even if he hadn't been revealed as a templar, Zevran would have guessed that he was a virgin just by looking at him. And since it didn't seem that their leader was smitten with him, well, that sort of eliminated his chances.

"I am curious about why you would choose to name a giant mabari after a small rodent." Giving her a bit of room by temporarily steering the conversation elsewhere might be beneficial on the long run; whatever Taliesin might claim, Zevran did occasionally have good plans, even if they usually tended to involve sex. Besides, he was actually curious. "It hardly seems traditional, with this dog-worship you Fereldans seem to practice."

A small scoff nearly managed to disguise the small smile passing through her eyes, but Zevran was trained to notice details. Twice as much when they involved the expressions of targets. "Blame Alistair. When we found the dog and chose to keep him, Alistair remarked that mages should have cats to sit on their broomsticks or a rabbit to pull out of a hat." Thankfully, he hadn't suggested that they also turned people into frogs, otherwise that might have stuck. "We haven't been able to get him to respond to any other name since."

"You allowed another to name your mabari?" And the dog had accepted it? Knowing what he did about the hounds, Zevran had enough cause to raise his eyebrows just a little. Perhaps he had underestimated their templar's cunning and influence somewhat. "You must be close indeed."

"We're friends." Or not. Nimue didn't say it defensively or curtly, merely stating a fact.

That was what she thought, obviously, even now, the assassin could feel whenever Alistair glanced at them and the frequency had increased ever since Nimue had begun bandaging his arm carefully.

"If that were so, he wouldn't keep looking at us to determine what exactly is going on. No, don't look now." Fortunately, the mage managed to stop the reflex and continued with her work only after a surprised look and a motionless instant. "There is no cause for alarm… but Alistair certainly seems to think so." Now this could yet be fun. The all-too-wide smile of a gambler who knew the odds were on his side at the moment appeared on Zevran's face. "Not very subtle, is he?"

Nimue actually snorted a little bit, effectively voicing her opinion on the matter. "Neither are you. Now, please stop fidgeting or this'll get all tangled." she added, twisting a bandage to get it unfolded.

"A little tangling isn't entirely undesirable, is it? So harsh, these cold glances of yours." the assassin said, entirely undeterred by them. They did say that the frosty ones were usually hiding an inferno behind their mask… "And yet they leave a man burning with desire."

"I can set you on fire, if you prefer." Nimue suggested, her fingers trembling just a little. He wasn't even her type, Maker damn it, if she had one, considering her lack of any experience in this department. But she knew she had liked Jowan's dark hair, despite viewing him as more of a brother than an actual man and found temperance more agreeable than brazen words. But before she squished it with her rationality, something within her posed this argument. "In fact, I'm better at that than healing. But, seriously, please hold still." Perhaps that might work better than attempting to employ similar strategies. "I don't have the patience to start over."

"You might not know much healing magic, but you know much about conventional healing for a Circle mage." Zevran commented a little later as she continued her surprisingly tender administrations. A shame they were accompanied with the entirely platonic focus she would have awarded any patient, including the warhound.

"Accidents happen even in the tower."

"I'm sure there are tales worth telling there. Such as this." There was a small line near her right eyebrow, perhaps the makings of a scar or simply a minor wound yet to be healed. The mage froze into a rigid stance when he traced the outline of the injury with a single finger, carefully not making contact with the line itself.

"It happens when your best friend who insists that he isn't a blood mage turns out to be a liar." So that was why she had chosen not to heal it. A reminder, then. Interesting. "Now remove the hand, please, or have it removed." she added patiently when the offending hand showed every intention of either twirling a strand of her hair or continuing its path along her cheek. The latter applied, but it was a brief contact, quickly ended.

While Zevran's arsenal of innocent smiles wasn't particularly wide, he could manage a teasing one quite easily. "It is a mere innocent touch, my Warden." Again, that little twitch, even if she didn't voice her irked sentiments. "If your coldness is spent on outrage over such gestures, I can almost imagine the passion you'd unleash at a different caress…"

"Are you always going to be like this?" Exasperated words showed clearly whose victory this was.

"Certainly not." The smile widened, which was enough to convince Nimue that he was lying through his teeth. In fact, he wasn't. "Only until you choose to revel your suppressed desire for me and consent to let me fulfill every carnal fantasy you didn't even know you had."

"You're impossible." And he had drawn much too close to her, the glimmer in his eyes suggesting that he had more than a few fantasies of his own. It was also surprising that simply dropping one's voice to a sensual whisper could be enough to make even a person as sexually repressed (that would be Zevran's assessment) as her notice the implication without any delay.

"Quite the contrary, my dear." His voice had become a purr, sensual but not yet satisfied. The hand that had intended to linger on the exposed skin of her cheek was now sliding along the fabric of her sleeve with the lingering precision of someone looking for the smallest rip to resume the unhindered contact. "All you have to do is say the word…"

"How did you come to be an assassin?" Nimue asked instead of smacking the hand away, which would have hardly helped things – at least, so she thought, and her assessment of people and situations was generally good. "You mentioned being bought as a child. Tell me a little about yourself."

"Such cruelty." Despite the grin he flashed the mage, Zevran was actually surprised that she had remembered the throwaway comment on his reasons for wishing to be free of the Crows and not dismissed it as a ploy to gain her sympathy.

"Please." Moreover, she seemed genuinely interested, because the word didn't come out with the difficulty of a particularly stubborn tooth refusing to be pulled out of its throne.

"Mmm, now there's a way to ensnare your unsuspecting victim. Are you certain you don't wish to use it in an entirely different context?"

Her delectable lips formed a thin line, but otherwise, she remained unfazed. "Completely."

Zevran allowed himself a dramatic sigh. This could yet prove to be a challenge. "Very well, but I get to stare at you luridly in the meantime." If you're good at something, never do it for free, after all.

o.O.o

Out of a need to justify herself at least a little and do something productive, Nimue actually half-heartedly looked for some elfroot, managing to find a batch or two. It was a common enough herb and useful for health poultices, so it wasn't as if she had to devote her attention entirely to it.

Rabbit ran around excitedly, his superior sense of smell helping tremendously with this. They encountered very little activity in the nighttime forest, especially since Nimue was using a small levitating ball of light to show them the way. Most creatures were frightened away by this, or had the sense not to investigate something that, in their eyes, was a blatant method of ensnaring an unsuspecting prey.

But the hound, with its superior intelligence, could sense that his elf hadn't taken him along simply to enjoy his company, despite this being a regular occurrence among them. She was distressed, obviously, and unconcerned with actually gathering food or those plants of hers that made him sneeze at times and didn't taste too good but soothed any wound.

Was it because the shadow warrior had made a claim on her in front of the whole pack?

"Partially." his elf replied, with her smile betraying the lie. Rabbit had learned to approve of the shadow warrior, because his elf always smelled like a waterfall when with him, vibrant and full of life. Before, she had been only a river, quiet, steady, but without any peace.

But it was better to have the order of things established and, after all, and it didn't seem as though his elf intended to mate with anyone else, even the cheese knight (Rabbit had tried other monikers for him, but somehow, this just seemed right). In any case, it didn't seem as though he had the intention of challenging the shadow warrior for the right to mate with his elf, which was either a sign of submission or weakness. Or respect, well, if the rules of humans were to be abided by.

His elf gave a small laugh. "Now there's an idea; have them fight for me. But they already do, just not each other. That's enough for now."

Rabbit could respect that, but he did stand by the decision that it was for her to confirm the claim rather than give the cheese knight hope. He still remembered the smell of the forest after a harsh summer storm on his elf after she had met the broken ash-sword in her former home, the surprise and the hurt, something the cheese knight seemed to remind her of.

While his elf said nothing to that, Rabbit was quite certain that the silence counted as a confirmation. Twice as much when it turned out that the cheese knight was waiting for his elf to return, a little further away from the camp than usual, ignoring the vigilant Shale, who needed no sleep and thus was almost always on watch duty. Another reason for that was that she didn't really trust the inferior senses of organics to detect enemies properly.

Rabbit's elf tensed as she stopped, almost shifting into the stance she usually used before an attack. However, she didn't move into a position preparing for that kind of confrontation.

"So… I guess that answers the question I was hoping to ask you." Alistair began, torn between looking at her and trying to discern her thoughts or not looking at her at all, because it would most certainly mean another wound. "You know, for an assassin with lifelong training in stealth and all that, Zev certainly isn't the subtlest of guys, right?" It was hardly a good joke, but certainly the best he could muster up now.

The image of the elf kissing her with almost indecent passion, as if it were the most natural thing in the world and holding her close enough to be considered intimate were it not for the presence of clothing separating them was too freshly burned into his eyes.

"I… yes. I suppose you could say that. Alistair, I intended to tell you…"

"But I stopped you with that silly stunt with the rose." The templar nodded, things falling into context for him at last. Nimue, with her considerate attitude, had spent so much time trying not to hurt him… and the plan had backfired spectacularly. "I see now. I should have realized. I mean, Morrigan's been giving me the evil eye for some time and Leliana always got a bit evasive when I asked… well, never mind now. They didn't tell me anything."

Morrigan must have been laughing herself silly in the privacy of her tent. Just another reason to hate her, then.

"I had hoped to tell you myself." Nimue's voice was softer as usual, filled with bleak regret. Yes, things could have ended a bit better. "I really didn't want you to find out like this…"

"I know. But…I'm just trying to understand your point of view here, Nimue." Because though he would always watch over her and protect her – how ironic, considering what she was and what he had been trained to be – it just seemed so contrary to her logical nature to do this. "Even if I didn't lo- like you," he amended quickly, before the eyes watching him warily could widen, "I'd be concerned about another Warden striking up a relationship of this nature with a man who was contracted to kill us both."

"I understand your concern."

"Do you?" While Alistair didn't doubt that the assassin felt some attachment to Nimue – because, as he must have already (the very thought made the templar feel like killing a few genlocks) bedded the mage, he still remained at her side and continued on as if nothing had happened – there was no telling what he might do if Loghain's people caught up with them again or if (Maker forbid) more and better prepared Crows would show up. "You're taking a great risk here and I'm not sure you actually understand the extent of it. I'm willing to believe Zevran's story. Maker, I'm actually even willing to believe that you have a point about his usefulness. But… how can you ever believe that what you have is genuine and not some kind of elaborate ploy to kill you?"

"He's had plenty of chances already, Alistair. If you constantly worry about dying, you might never live." Lowering her eyes, Nimue delved deeper into herself and gave another reason. "I've never had the opportunity to choose what I actually wanted – even when I was little, I had to compromise because of what I am."

"And this is what you want? You…" The thought was almost like a fatal blow, but as a knight and someone trained to take wounds with dignity and strength (as befitted a noble's ward, his childhood tutors would always say) he was resolved to be able to take it. Even if such resolution was a lie. "Do you love him?"

Never before had Nimue blinked so much in the span of a few seconds. Curiously, though the question would have surprised her even when she had had a straight answer, now there were many conflicting thoughts springing up in regards to that.

"I… how would I know such a thing?" She had never felt love for anyone, save for the entirely sisterly affection for Jowan, which had been dulled by pain and betrayal.

"I don't really know. You just… know, somehow. It sort of sneaks upon you, unexpected." Just like he had stumbled into her, despite the Blight and the killing. Or perhaps because of it; without the Blight, Duncan wouldn't have ventured to the Circle tower and saved her from the punishment she would most certainly have endured at the hands of the templars. "Like laundry day."

"I'm a mage… and an elf." But those were titles, words to cling to as the darkness fell upon them. It didn't mean that much in the grand scheme of things, especially since both were to their great advantage.

"You're a Grey Warden and a friend. And… the most wonderful woman I've ever met." Perhaps he should have said so earlier, because the words did seem to have some effect on her, even though her expression was filled with the one positive emotion Alistair wasn't looking for in her – pity – and the darker tones of regret. "Not that that does me much good, since you're obviously taken. Zev's a lucky bastard."

"It was never my intention to hurt you."

"It's all right. I… I'm okay with it. Really." Nimue still didn't look convinced, which was entirely justified. It was probably another great low for Alistair that he wished, for a brief, insane moment, that he was as brazen as Zevran or even as near-delusionally self-confident as Oghren and try to win her back with some suave phrases. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. "If it wasn't meant to be… then it wasn't meant to be! That's all there is to it."

It wasn't true, not in the least, but even he had noticed the slight change for the better in her general attitude during the last few weeks and couldn't bear to disrupt it, despite his own unhappiness at the development.

"Will you accept being my friend, at least?"

And one of Alistair's beliefs in the Chantry doctrine was shattered in that moment, because he came to realize that pity, not hatred, could be the most painful of sentiments.

"Always, Nimue." The mage shifted at the words, discomfort passing through her, because even she understood what he was in fact saying. "Always."

"Thank you for understanding." the elf said instead of anything else.

Alistair stifled a grimace. "Oh, I wouldn't go that far. But I… hope he makes you happy."

"He already does." Even pity sometimes didn't pull punches.

"Well. I guess that just about settles it, doesn't it?"

"Yes. Yes, I suppose. I'll give you your rose back."

"No, keep it." Alistair said before she could move towards her tent. Nimue glanced back, puzzled. "Everything I said is true."

And perhaps it was worth it all (he hoped) just to see that look of surprise on her face subside to a smile, not loving or pitying or mocking, but genuine and kind, as her true self was. Even if she had hesitated at the question of love where the answer would have once upon a time been no, just as she would have claimed not to trust the assassin straight after recruiting him. But the happiness in her suggested otherwise. At the very least, it was that damnable maybe once again.

Rabbit, tired of the general lack of excitement, had taken his usual spot near the fire. Alistair chose to join him for the time being, at least until his shift was over, watching ruefully as Nimue disappeared into her tent. There was a brief muffled movement inside, but then all sounds stilled. Nevertheless, Alistair was quite certain that Zevran had already managed to sneak inside and would no longer have a care about disrupting the peace, as it were, now that the cat was out of the bag.

"Lucky bastard." the templar muttered to himself. Funny how being a literal bastard had always meant getting the short end of the stick for him and being a figurative one seemed the way to go when it came to getting what one wanted.

The warhound at his side gave him a tired look that could be the equivalent of a raised eyebrow. Giving up without a fight and he expected Rabbit's elf to mate with him? He'd better stick to the cheese; at least there, the knight was highly vicious with or without a fork as his weapon. It also helped that the cheese didn't have the mental capacity to choose its potential consumer.

If his judgment was right about one thing, though, it was the sneaking part – Rabbit could tell, because the smell of spice and cold steel coming from his elf's tent was familiar to him.

By now, Nimue was utterly used to the fact that she could hardly ever tell when Leliana or Zevran would suddenly appear with footsteps light enough not to even bend a patch of grass, let alone the fact that the assassin had very easily acquired the habit of entering her tent whenever it pleased him as if it were his own.

"That went as well as could be expected." she said, more to herself, because, in a gesture that suggested that he clearly believed the matter to be resolved and thus of no further concern, Zevran proceeded to eliminate whatever small distance between them the tent allowed by practically pulling her forward.

"Of course it did. Your excellent taste speaks for itself."

Nimue made a sound that could charitably be called a laugh or – perhaps more realistically – an amused snort. "How modest of you."

"Mm, not at all… it really does…" Nimue finally realized that he was speaking literally this time, because having one's neck licked was a particularly unmistakable sensation. In addition, one of his hands had already found the clasp of her belt with practiced ease and was steadily working at undoing it. "You spoil me with such delicious…" The belt gave away, meaning that finishing that particular thought became highly unnecessary.

"Maybe I should stop, then, before you become unbearable…" Judging by the way she was adapting to the situation – again, with routine ease, because this was now indeed a regular occurrence – and easily working her way around whatever armor he was still wearing, she would do so with utmost reluctance.

"Cruel, cruel temptress… and a sly one as well, getting me addicted and then attempting to withhold my pleasure." At least it was a very half-hearted threat, because reacquainting himself with the wonders her robes concealed after the anguishing separation of several hours was something he would most definitely sorely miss.

"Addicted, are you?"

The question was rewarded with a triumphant if mischievous grin, because Zevran had employed a feat of a true thief's skill on her clothing, leaving her hair as the only thing that could possibly give her any semblance of modesty by covering her. Good thing that it wasn't long enough for that purpose; modesty was entirely overrated.

"It is only fair that I achieve the same with you, of course."

"You're welcome to try." The attempt had already begun, actually.

But it was always good to have one's efforts appreciated. "A willing victim it is. Now, I do believe you owe me a reward for my assistance earlier on, fair Warden."

"I thought that the assistance and the reward amounted to the same thing, actually." She still remembered the one moment when it seemed that her mind had been rendered utterly unreceptive to anything except the touch of his lips, something she had believed only a concussion capable of.

"Oh-ho, what a cynical pragmatist you are tonight. That will most certainly not do."

But she, having traded too many words entirely for the course of a single night, silenced him with a kiss that would have answered Alistair's question and repeated Wynne's worries, made Leliana smile and Oghren giggle in an entirely wrong fashion. However, as none of them were present, it only served to bring about another few hours of precious bliss and plant the seeds of doubt and confusion into both of their minds.