The last update before Christmas is a Fracture chapter! Again posted separately, because it can be considered a one-shot.

Things get somewhat resolved, but fear not, this certainly isn't the end – there are things to come yet.

o.O.o

Entrapment

o.O.o

With no further need to disguise the nature of his relationship with Nimue in any way came many advantages, but also certain trials that had to be passed.

Certainly there were those that disapproved of their dalliance that his Warden was too polite to send to hell with regards to this, but they were highly unlikely to take action. It surprised Zevran greatly, then, that Alistair himself chose to approach him the very day after Nimue had explained things to him.

It was peculiar, really, watching the templar finally gather his courage and step forth without a pretext, almost as if waiting to be addressed instead of wishing to speak. Naturally, all this happened when Nimue herself was gone from the camp, dealing with some task or another. The assassin didn't even bother stopping his dagger-sharpening for the sake of this doubtless enlightening conversation, because he could already imagine its contents vividly.

"Ah. Judging by your pained expression, either you are recovering from Oghren's home brew or the lovely Nimue told you something not to your liking. If it is the former, I'm afraid I cannot help you." Of course it wasn't, but it never hurt to lighten the mood somewhat before these inevitable confrontations.

Maker and Creators both, one speech after another, first Wynne as the protective parent, now Alistair as the forsaken lover. At least the mage had a legitimate claim on the position, seeing as she was Nimue's superior as far as mages were concerned and obviously had some personal experience with relationships and disappointment. But the templar, who had never even tried to make a claim on the young mage, for him to do so now… it was a laughable move, really, especially when it would change nothing.

Nimue had decided.

"She trusts you more than I imagined." Every word came out grudgingly, with the undertone that clearly implied that the trust wasn't shared. Zevran privately wondered if the sentiment would be different if their positions were reversed and he had been the one left pining over their leader's smooth thighs. "It isn't like her to trust this easily. I don't know if you tricked her somehow or if she's actually…" Exasperation taking hold, Alistair chose to cut things short and, for once, get straight to the point. "I can't claim to understand it."

Of course he didn't understand, he who had tasted freedom before having it taken from him for a brief time, who had been raised higher than any of them, with more happiness than most of them had ever known. Because now should come the moment when the pair brought together by circumstances realize their deep affection for one another and discover their true love for one another.

"Someone with your wide experience with women would know that not all of them prefer to wait around for knights in shining armor to save them from dragons. Personally, I prefer that. It gives them such fire, wouldn't you say?"

Then again, the only flames Nimue had unleashed in front of her earliest companion were apparently the ones she could summon to her fingertips with a surge of arcane power. And with things as they were, it was doubtful that Alistair would experience any other too soon.

"You wouldn't, though, I forget. A shame." Unless, of course, that was remedied. The templar was by no means an unattractive man, even if his regular bouts of bemoaning his own terrible fate did get tiresome after a while. "There is always time to learn, though, my friend, so should you ever find yourself interested…"

And, predictably, the man didn't even wait for Zevran to finish the offer before drawing back with a grimace one usually attributed to broodmothers giving birth.

"Does Nimue even know you still act like this?" he demanded, the inborn prudishness alarm all Fereldans seemed to possess going haywire. "Because obviously, having just her doesn't seem to be enough for you."

How amusing, that even their virtuous templar would immediately assume that he knew exactly what was being offered. For shame, Zevran thought, that the mighty could fall and the innocent be corrupted so easily. Hypocrisy was a nasty thing in anyone, especially these Chantry mice.

"There's no need to be so touchy on the matter, my friend; a simple no will suffice. And Nimue is aware of things, yes. You may believe what you wish, but I have no intention of using pretense to secure her – well, affections, I suppose." Such things would quickly wane and if – if – there was the possibility that… no. Their fair Warden had chosen him because she had no wish to entangle herself emotionally. That her kisses had begun to burn was merely a result of closure regarding their now-petulant templar. "That is a word you would use, yes? It would cause all sorts of problems should she grow tired of me."

What Zevran didn't add was that he did intend to assure that such a thing didn't happen, at least not soon. It didn't seem that there would be any need, but… he was a little close to the pretty little bird to let it fly away when fancy struck it. All that was necessary was to never give her the impression that a cage was being prepared for her.

Alistair himself remained unconvinced and thoroughly clench-jawed, which didn't suit his youthful appearance the slightest bit. For a moment, the assassin was actually reminded of Loghain, but the general hadn't appeared on the verge of having his mind explode from information overload during their brief meeting.

"This is what she wants? What you intend to give her? Just… momentary amusement?"

Zevran laughed openly, because he finally understood why Nimue had been so reluctant to see the young templar's affection for her. Some part of her had understood that the object of Alistair's affections wasn't truly she herself; it was a blurred vision of her seen through rose-tinted glasses, with all her edges smoothed out. Just like he couldn't wrap his mind around her willingness to explore the possibilities of blood magic (because the Chantry claimed it was evil, of course) snd he couldn't understand why she regarded kind-voiced Chantry devotees with cold eyes (because she remembered how easily the coin could be flipped).

This decision had obviously caused the wheels in his head to nearly overload.

"You say that like it's such a horrible thing! Is it this hard to comprehend that the fair Warden would resist your sophisticated charms, Alistair?" Apparently, it was. Well, now that that soul-searching was over with, perhaps it was best to speed things along and give their honored templar the chance to have his own closure regarding his pining over Nimue and move on. "Or – ah, I understand. This is the part where you, as the man who truly cares for her, threaten to kill me should I hurt her. Am I right?"

It did seem to get Alistair back on track, though credit had to be given to the fact that he didn't give into the baiting.

"That's unnecessary; she'd get to you before I could. I love Nimue." He said it so flatly, with such utter matter-of-fact certainty that Zevran wondered why he hadn't ever mustered the courage to blurt it out at her with similar grace and poise. "I told her as much, but she chose you nonetheless. I can't claim to understand why, but she trusts you… maybe even cares for you."

Of course, maybe she had been willing to trust him weeks ago. And there had been no trace of doubt or hesitation in the vision Alistair still couldn't shake, even though the intimate embrace had been initiated by the other elf.

"Just remember that if you let her go, I will be there for her. And I'll make certain you won't get a second chance to have her." Alistair had hoped to find some comfort in saying these things, but there was none. In addition, once again, things were hardly going according to plan; the assassin was still grinning in an almost impish manner, breezing through the words as if they were nothing. "You find this funny?"

"I apologize, I truly do, but you sounded so melodramatic as you said that." The sad thing was, it was obvious their princeling believed these things. More the fool he, obviously, but it was unfortunate. Zevran decided to be merciful in victory, just this once, since it didn't cost him anything. Also, it didn't mean forfeiting anything by speaking the truth. "Do not be concerned for our lovely leader. I am hers, just as I promised, unless she decides otherwise."

And it was no longer until but unless and, sadly once more, the significance of that didn't draw on Alistair just then.

o.O.o

The moments when she was free of Zevran's presence when in camp became rare afterwards, not that Nimue was complaining too much. In general, things had remained very much the same, save for the nightly company. Perhaps Alistair's attitude towards her had become somewhat cooler and more formal, but she had eventually learned not to dwell on the pained glances he sometimes sent her way when there was no mistaking her relationship with the assassin – and, contrary to expectation, that was relatively often.

A month had passed since things had changed, as peacefully as it could, given the circumstances and the nature of their quest. The unrest she felt was coming from her. Wynne's prior prediction, which seemed to be lifetimes ago, kept echoing in her mind loudly at times. And that was more often than she would wish nowadays. She herself had made a promise to be selfish, to try to live before perishing… and now, the steel of that promise was beginning to crack.

Nimue didn't know why she even entertained such doubts, seeing as she had every reason to be content with the way her mess of a love life (as she would always say) remained consistently nonexistent. As she recognized no such emotion, she could not be feeling it. But the warmth dozens of kisses and many more touches inspired under her skin could no longer be attributed to merely lust, which had been sated to the point of being spoiled.

She felt… content even when not lying in the embrace of her lover, even when not entertaining thoughts of that near future.

This intensified most when that future became the present… and it frightened her, though in a different way than her affection for Alistair had. Months ago, she would have been perfectly content with merely knowing another's touch. Now that no longer seemed enough to some part of her that had been sealed ever since the moment she had realized that there would never be anyone for her, be it lover, friend or family, with her being a mage.

A friend, she had considered Zevran for quite a while, and had actually mentioned as such when they had been resting at the Gnawed Noble's tavern in Denerim. She could recall the scene vividly even now and decided to take that as the starting point for her analysis, if there was yet the chance to analyze the mishmash that was giving her a superior headache.

It had been a dark and stormy night, as stories often claimed, with everyone who was within the city walls scurried away in their little homes. The visitors to the city had to content themselves with the taverns, which they did without delay or fuss. The upscale establishment owed them a debt of gratitude, after all, for the services provided for the City Watch. Everyone save Morrigan had been present; the witch had promptly refused to take part in such foolishness as drinking and friendly banter and disappeared into the night in animal form, giving only the fleeting promise to Nimue that she would be back in the morning.

Oghren was making use of his prowess as a berserker and a drinker to out-drink all the other patrons, a way to pay for all of his consumed alcohol, no doubt. Leliana and Wynne were drinking beer together (the mage was an unlikely expert on the beverage) while discussing Chantry doctrine and laws about magic. Sten and Shale were apparently having an unofficial competition about who could scare more humans away with a simple stare, while Alistair juggled keeping count of things, fighting over his dinner with Rabbit and unconvincingly trying to disguise his glances to where Nimue was seated.

Zevran, considering sitting with a glass of water and a book in her hand (of all things) a grave offense against the honorable establishment, gallantly took over the duty of chastising their leader, especially since no one else seemed willing to disturb her or sober enough to make a good argument of things.

"For shame, such a beautiful woman sitting alone, and not with a glass of wine in her hand." the assassin said, gracefully almost swinging into the chair nearest to her. With her neck-high robe, Nimue could have been mistaken for a Chantry sister, really, which would most definitely not do. After all, Zevran wasn't in a hurry to have her make any vows of chastity. It would be a shame to have to break a promise, after all. "This isn't your first trip to a tavern, is it?"

Looking up from her book, Nimue brushed pale hair out of her face with a mild smile. Obviously, the mayhem wasn't growing on her yet.

"I could still count the number on one hand, I think." She did close the tome, though, seeing that this wasn't going to be a mere one-sentence conversation.

"I think I understand now why you shun our dear lay sister in favor of Morrigan's company. The Chantry, with its laws about magic, has taken much from you." Leliana, though meaning well, represented the living embodiment of the doctrine that had dictated her whole life. On the other hand, Morrigan was an extreme embodiment of the reckless freedom and no rules to limit a person that anyone living in a cage for a while had to appreciate.

The wonderful thing was, the mage trusted him to the degree that she didn't slip on a mask of politeness and actually spoke her mind. "Yes. Don't get me wrong, I adore having magic." she said, giving another reason to support the argument. "But… at times I wish I had been born in Tevinter."

"Such sadness is surely a great crime against the Maker." And whoever had believed that locking up such wonder and beauty was right deserved a dagger or two between the ribs. "They will pay him their dues, in the end."

"I was surprised to hear you are religious. When Alistair asked, you said you pray… though I suppose you could have just been messing with him." Nimue mused, looking at the templar herself for a brief instant. By chance, their eyes met and the man looked away rather bashfully. Nimue didn't really notice; truthfully, she didn't even seem to gather that the templar appeared a little intoxicated, giggling over his own drink in a way that would befit a girl half his age more.

"It is rather easy to do that." Zevran admitted, remembering those moments fondly. While he considered it beneath him to try and discredit the young Warden's credibility as a warrior and a capable addition to their team with regards to his immaturity (Alistair himself clearly had no such reservations, though perhaps his reasons were just the slightest bit valid), he was entitled to a bit of fun. "I do pray, at times, though my words would likely sound downright sacrilegious to our Chantry mouse. This doesn't bother you, I hope."

"Why would it?" Nimue blinked. She had nothing against the Maker himself; the thing she resented was the Chantry itself, not its ideals or its god. She would never worship him or consider herself his instrument, but she was able to respect his ideology. Which was more than his followers had done for her people, really.

The smile she was receiving widened just a little. "Glad I am to hear it. And you might resent me for this, but I am grateful that you weren't born in Tevinter." Not only because that would have meant that their meeting would never have taken place, of course. "Though you could try to display your allegiance to their philosophies by donning their fashions." That she wore her hair unbound and only a little braided was the first step. Now, if only she got rid of all the excessive fabric… "I seem to remember these most fashionable robes back at the Wonders of Thedas, just cut out for you…"

Nimue clearly remembered that trip all too well, because her sudden lack of pallor wasn't merely a trick of the light. She did manage to admirably cover it up with a laugh, though. "I'll have to remember not to get drunk tonight, since you seem to be having bright ideas."

She considered such ideas bright, then? Again, just a little wider, the grin she got. It was a dare, a challenge, and most certainly laden with mischief. Progress was progress.

"Come now, you should try a bit, at least." Zevran was even willing to share part of his own drink, with the requisite paper umbrella on it. An Antivan had to have standards, after all. "Mages are forbidden from drinking alcohol, I gather? Wynne mentioned that it might cause you to lose control. And not in the good way."

"I guess that's why the Tranquil are immune to possession; they don't have emotions to spiral out of control." Nimue decided to be daring, for once, and actually accepted the offered drink. She did, however, take great care with the small sip she took, because an unfamiliar colored substance wasn't something to ingest lightly. Still, it was almost spicy, not entirely unpleasant and certainly an experience. An acquired taste, maybe.

Sort of like these little dances of theirs, so to speak.

"That sounds reasonable. But really, one glass should be all right." Out of nowhere, the elf managed to produce a wineglass and a fresh bottle. Though it didn't seem to have been tampered with, Nimue was on her toes by this point. Seeing that, the assassin most courteously took the first sip and didn't seem any worse for the wear. He did grimace just a little, however. "It isn't quality brew, for certain, and a little bit won't hurt even someone with low alcohol tolerance. It might at least help you relax."

"Don't I seem relaxed?" Was that even a question, with the book and the glass of water? It positively reeked of self-loathing.

"Not nearly enough." Actually, it was doubtful she would ever relax sufficiently, but Zevran made it his mission to push the limits on that account. After all, mages were probably more liable to losing control if they remained tense. "Darkspawn do not attack us at every moment and your bodyguard seems a little preoccupied with holding his own liquor to lecture you on that account."

Over at the betting table, Alistair seemed to have struck up a highly meaningful conversation with the mabari warhound. Judging by the hand gesticulations involved, Zevran correctly assumed that the man was drowning his sorrows over not being able to confess his undying love to Nimue and had found an eternal friend in Rabbit, who was a great listener and offered unquestionably fine advice on the topic of his mistress.

Nimue merely rolled her eyes, pointedly not looking at the wreck her templar was becoming. "Alistair isn't my bodyguard."

A single eyebrow rose just the right fraction of an inch to convey both delicate doubt and something a little more aggressive – the mage had learned to recognize the combination by then. "Oh? Is the post still open then?" Along with the subtle movement of the chair towards hers, bordering on her personal space but still only waiting for the door to be answered rather than bursting in.

The knocking, Nimue chose to acknowledge with a patient smile. "Maybe. Do you have a resume?"

"Hmm, I'm not entirely certain citing specific recommendations would be beneficial…" After all, each of the times he had been forced to pose as a bodyguard, his true target had been the one who was to appear as his employer. In this one case, Zevran was willing to make an exception, though, on the condition that he could guard her body very thoroughly. "I'm sure I could accommodate your requests nonetheless."

At the very least, he appeared to have cheered her up substantially, enough to earn a reward in the form of her lilting laughter. "I'll make certain to put your application on file. And I do appreciate the offer." Nimue added on a more serious note. Ironically, that was when her features softened and she truly seemed at ease. "No one's ever offered to protect me before; it's a quaint concept."

"You handle yourself too well, my dear, that is the problem. These Fereldans don't know how to appreciate a woman who can fight off ogres while armed only with a large wooden stick. That is their logic, not mine, mind you." Zevran added before she could possibly take offense to the comment about her staff. It was a pretty stick, at least.

"I gathered that. You've actually made me very interested in Antiva – and other places as well. I think… if I happen to survive, by some miracle, that I'd like to see them. Some of them, at least. Would…" Nimue swallowed and almost dismissed her own thought by biting her own tongue. It had already made her audience attentive, though, if the silence was anything to go by, so she couldn't exactly back out now. "Would it be asking too much if I presumed you wouldn't mind coming with me?"

Now this was unquestionable progress, even though the direction of it was a little different than Zevran would have preferred. With the door answered, he leaned back on his chair almost as if it were a throne, setting the drink aside. "My ears must deceive me, for I was sure I heard you request my company on a quest of personal discovery, dear lady."

"No, I'm being serious." She even glossed over the opportunity to respond with a quip of her own and kept holding his gaze with earnest certainty. For a second there, Zevran almost wasn't able to maintain eye contact with such unhidden trust. "I'm still somewhat useless when it comes to… practical matters, you could say?" Their trip to the marketplace had proven that; without the mabari warhound scaring off pickpockets, she would no doubt have been robbed blind. "I would have asked Leliana, but I wouldn't want her to…" Here Nimue's lips thinned, pressed together as they were. "Get the wrong idea."

Aah, she had noticed. Perhaps not in the sense he had, but she wasn't entirely ignorant to how she affected the perceptions of her companions. Having sufficient courtesy not to delve into a matter she wasn't comfortable discussing – not that there was much to discuss – Zevran's fingers drummed on the table near her their discarded drinks in an almost blasé manner.

"And you aren't worried that I might get some ideas of my own? Travelling alone with our beautiful sorceress, by her own suggestion, no less." That grin, though, was anything but disinterested. "That does let the mind wander, you know."

This time, Nimue didn't roll her eyes. Even unpredictability could eventually become predictable, if one knew what to watch for. "You'd get ideas no matter how I presented the idea to you. Besides, you are my friend now, but I am open to future possibilities." she added, partly to assuage him, partly to silence the voice in her head that would have claimed it to be a lie otherwise.

The drumming fingers stilled with the stealthy precision of a fox waiting to strike at a lost chicken. Though Zevran was somewhat familiar with the sensation of air being knocked out of one's lungs, a single word had never succeeded in such an endeavor before.

"Friend, you say?" Maker knew it wasn't what he wanted – no, it wasn't all he wanted of her – but being offered such a thing without the need to bait and wait and strike was…

He wasn't drunk enough to be feeling mushy, Maker damn it; and Zevran Arainai certainly didn't get mushy even when drunk. It was an alien sensation.

"Yes." When serious, Nimue tended to employ simplicity. That she averted her eyes just for a moment was a testament to sincerity. "I do trust you, you know." At first, she had thought they would get along well because they'd have some kind of connection, being both elves and forced into their lives. After having travelled together for so long, her opinion couldn't be more different. "I think… you wouldn't judge me, no matter what decision I'd make." she confessed, and the mask of the Warden cracked in two. "That means a lot to me."

Mere words that could stab deeper than any blade had ever reached. The assassin in Zevran protested against the foolishness of allowing such empty syllables thrown together affect him. It was meaningless, empty, because, in the end, so was she. Perhaps that was the moment which cemented his loyalty to the woman, despite this, because she had given them meaning and overcame this impulse with her own conviction.

"As long as you do not die on me, I intend to hold you to that word, carina." Though she might not have understood the word, Nimue made no move to shrug off the arm that had skillfully wrapped itself around her birdlike shoulders, trapping her in place.

Instead, she gave a thoughtful frown, much altered from the one leaking worry all over the place. "Now I see I'll have some more studying to do before that time comes. You'll have to teach me the language as well."

"That might take a while even with a sharp wit such as yours." Of course, if teaching her other things to do with her tongue were in question… but something prevented Zevran from suggesting this, because it might (it wouldn't, but it might) ruin this wonderful chance to… he didn't even know what, really. But he knew a chance when he saw one.

"There will be enough time for that. Lots of world to cover." It was a paraphrase, but suitable for a more peaceful moment than that when it had been told to Nimue.

The realization that she was offering to do all this with him alone – and perhaps that pesky warhound, honorary bedwarmer as he still was (though not for long if Zevran had his way) – was somehow worth more than any treasure he might have received in return for her head.

With that settled, the assassin very reluctantly relinquished the hold over his prize, only to offer an outstretched hand for another kind of bond.

"A promise, then? Between friends?" The word was foreign to him and highly unfitting for the woman in front of him, but complaining had no place in this arrangement.

Especially when Nimue took the hand without a moment's hesitation. "Agreed. You have my word, on my honor as a Grey Warden."

It was a bit off-putting that she worded it as such, not using her honor as a mage (though that was dubious in the eyes of most people), an elf (humans would hardly consider that even close to actual honor) or a friend (which was too fragile a bond right now, so it was understandable).

Despite shaking the hand, Zevran offered a resigned sigh. "I suppose I can settle for that for the time being."

It had the desired effect; Nimue smiled. "I'm grateful." For what, she didn't elaborate.

"We will have to add a condition about you wearing Tevinter robes on those travels, of course." It was time to drop the seriousness a little, before the words cut a little too deeply and passed even through the shroud of Rinna's shadow. It was too soon, too much and too… her. "To fit among the locals."

But her mask didn't resume; not even when he kissed her hand with a laugh after receiving a better answer than expected. "Maybe."

In the camp, at the present time, Nimue recalled that first touch of his lips with a shudder, which was nowhere near disgust and everywhere in the clash between fear and pleasure.

She had bound them together, entirely willingly, creating the perfect trap for herself. Because all that she was, Zevran had chosen to acknowledge and accept and understand, which was more than she had ever hoped for in a companion. Picking up the pieces of her shattered mask was harder than she had imagined, especially when there was nothing to hold them in place when they were smashed away, again and again, by her own desire to do so and by… this.

That night, there was no trace of maybe in her touch or her embrace. Nimue Surana had decided on yes, and Maker damn all those who would punish her for it. After all, in the end, the penalty for finally answering Alistair's question (at least to herself) could come not from them, but from this love of hers just as easily.