A/N: since I can't thank you personally, thanks very much for the encouragement, Judy! You're a real one :D

§

§

A part of Zevran wanted to introduce himself to Aneirin with his proper name, and the other, larger majority was screaming at him to use a pseudonym. After all, who was Aneirin, anyway? An elf of that age, no vallaslin, hanging about in the forest? It wasn't entirely unlikely that he was a Crow.

He let the others go ahead of him. Alistair and Leliana stepped up first; Morrigan's brief introduction came next, and Rhodri rounded things off.

"I remember you," Aneirin chuckled at her. "You were the last child they brought to the Circle before I ran away. You followed the Tranquil around like a little duck. That was you, wasn't it? 'The littlest Tranquil?'"

Zevran's fingers twitched; he let his fingers dance over the pommel of his hip-dagger.

"It was," Rhodri answered defensively, drawing herself up to her full height, "and the Tranquil mages were very good to me right up until I left the Circle this year."

"Rhodri…" Wynne said warningly.

Aneirin gave a sad smile and held his hands up. "It's all right, Wynne. Forgive me– Rhodri, was it? I didn't mean to offend. I remember the scenes fondly, but I do realise it was an unbecoming name to give a small child. You've certainly outgrown it now."

From the bottom of Zevran's periphery, Rhodri's hand clenched her robe. "I have not," she growled softly.

Aneirin cleared his throat, looking distinctly uneasy now. "... Well, I'm sorry to hear that," he said after a moment, and quickly turned to Zevran. "Ah, forgive me, I didn't catch your name."

"Zevran, of Crow House Arainai," he replied smoothly. "Now turned co-adventurer. How do you do?"

Ooh, and if there had been a way to freeze time so he could drink in the way that man's eyes widened at that, Zevran would have. He would have to try drawing it later; perhaps he could even tattoo it onto himself.

"A pleasure, I'm sure," the fellow croaked. Without another word, Aneirin ushered a glaring Wynne, and the templar and bard loitering beside her, to the campfire. The rest of them trailed after him.

Aneirin sat down on a log by the fire and summoned water into a pot. "I had thought to apologise for not having spare cups, but it looks as though you have been journeying for quite some time."

"Some months," Wynne nodded, joining him on the log and rummaging in her satchel. "Oh, my cup's gone right to the bottom of the bag again…"

The young man gave a fond pat to an identical satchel by his feet. "It always amazed me how much these Circle bags could hold. Irving told me the only magic to it was clever design, but I suspected it was something more. I'm glad I thought to take mine with me when I escaped."

Wynne, having located the elusive cup, handed it to Aneirin and sighed. "I still wonder how you managed to do it. The Templars swore up and down that their eyes hadn't left the doors the night you disappeared."

Aneirin chewed on his smile as he filled the cup with leaves. "I hope you like wedgegrass tea. Anyone else who would like some, hand me your cups." He waved his hand once and a shower of ice fell neatly into Wynne's cup; another wave, and the contents were steaming, and the tea went back to Wynne. "They only expect mages to escape. Never a thought to anyone else who might give it a try."

Wynne frowned. "You disguised yourself? As a Templar, I suppose. I am surprised nobody caught you."

"Oh," Aneirin laughed and shook his head. "Oh, no. Not a Templar." He lifted one hand, and Wynne's mouth fell open as his fingers proceeded to sprout sleek, white feathers.

Off to Zevran's left, Morrigan observed the display with some of the worst-concealed intrigue Zevran had seen from her so far. There she sat on a nearby stump, clutching a drink she had prepared herself with tight fingers, watching that man over the rim of the cup like he had found a way to kill Alistair without anyone knowing. Aneirin looked up in time to catch a glimpse of her eyeing him and gave her a brief, smouldering smirk. Morrigan scowled and looked away.

"A shapeshifter," Wynne uttered weakly. "But how? The topic is barely even touched-upon in the Circle."

Aneirin looked back at her and with a wiggle of his fingers, the feathers were gone. "There was a book," he said with a smile. "A black, leather-bound grimoire. It was written in a mixture of Ancient and Modern Tevene, had just about every kind of forbidden magic in it. Shapeshifting, necromancy… whoever wrote it even had a ritual for prolonging her life by raising daughters and stealing their bodies…" Aneirin shook his head. "Those poor girls had no idea what was waiting for them when they became women."

An unexplained urge compelled Zevran to steal a glance at Morrigan, who had gone ashen-faced. Her hands shook; she carefully set the cup on the ground and shoved her wrists awkwardly between her knees. Something else, he wasn't sure it was, either, prompted him to try and catch her eye. It wasn't his heart sinking per se; Maker knew Zevran didn't have a heart to sink in the first place. No, it must have been something sexual.

That didn't sit right either, though, did it. Sexual anything in him seemed tied to the one person for now, and Morrigan wasn't it. In which case, it had to be a mysterious third thing. Why did he always make life so hard for himself?

Ah! No, it was perfectly obvious: Zevran was concerned for his safety. Suppose that black book Rhodri had taken from the Circle had belonged to Morrigan's mother. What then? After all, Morrigan had confirmed more than once that her mother was the Witch of the Wilds. To be raised like a pig for slaughter at the hands of one of Thedas' most powerful women, only to be intentionally sent from her… that had to be some matter of concern for all present. At some point, once they were all out of this wretched forest, Zevran would have to mention it to Rhodri.

Morrigan's eyes snapped up to meet his, and it occurred to Zevran, as she watched him like she was preparing to disembowel him if he didn't immediately look elsewhere, that the most immediate danger was right in front of him. He smiled– carefully– and decided that now had never been a better time to meticulously examine his boots.

"I read that thing from cover to cover," Aneirin continued. "We always had a steady colony of ants coming into the kitchen, if you remember, so I tracked them over time and was able to shift into one. I'd only meant to use the spell when I was craving a little fresh air or food, but something…" he shrugged, "switched in me after that last fight we had. I realised I was never meant to be in the Circle after all. And so I shifted that evening and escaped unseen."

Wynne exhaled shakily and wiped under her eyes. "I remember that argument. I berated you over something trivial. I cannot even remember what it was about, now."

"Keeping my eyes on my hands when casting nullification enchantments," he said softly.

"You remembered," Wynne murmured. "Of course you did. Those things stick with children. I failed you, Aneirin." She shook her head. "I was always so harsh with you, paid no regard to your background or your needs. You tried so many times to make me listen, but I pushed you away."

Zevran was not biting his lips over the drama of the scene. Nor was he in the process of gauging Rhodri's reaction to this outpouring of regret. Even if it did undoubtedly strike a chord of some sort. He wasn't looking, not moving his–

No, he was looking. Definitely looking. He was looking, with his two nosy little eyes, at Rhodri's hard, shuttered-off expression, and because he still hadn't looked away, he witnessed it harden further still as Aneirin took Wynne's hand and gave it a squeeze.

Zevran could do that, in theory. He had a hand, and Rhodri had a hand– in fact, they both had two hands each, and he could have taken both of hers into both of his. There was no reason to do it– when was there ever a reason to do something so mindless as non-strategic touching? But there was an unshakeable confidence brewing that had Zevran mimicked Aneirin's action, Rhodri's face would soften. What would happen after that was anyone's guess, though, and it didn't bear thinking about. None of it had warranted consideration to begin with. Zevran clasped his hands and sandwiched them between his knees.

Aneirin sat there for Maker-knew-how-long, comforting his distraught former taskmistress that aside from his brutal skewering at the hands of the Templars, and the crushing loneliness that living alone in the forest had brought, he was without a doubt on the right path now. Here, in the forest, amid the perennially wet greenery and murderous co-habitants, Aneirin enjoyed contact now and then with the Dalish, and otherwise had learned to enjoy his own company. Zevran presumed this meant he had begun talking to himself unironically, and had found in himself a complimentary audience.

Morrigan, however, remained fascinated through it all. If she had ever regarded anyone with such interest, Zevran was yet to see it. Rhodri's expression was frozen in a mask of impassivity (and hand touching was off the table); Alistair and Leliana switched between reaching for each other and reaching for Wynne, and it was exhausting.

At some point, the soothings from Aneirin and warm encouragements from Wynne that this poor man return to the Circle (Morrigan looked ready to murder Wynne for it, which was most delightful) had reached their natural conclusion, and the matter turned to what must have been the most obvious question for Aneirin: why, in the name of the Maker and his cherished bride, were Wynne "and her friends" out in the Brecilian Forest?

Zevran smiled thinly, unable to keep himself from uttering, "I ask myself that question every morning I wake up here." Rhodri snorted at that, and Zevran blessed the Maker for his brief lapse in inhibition. She took it upon herself, as a good leader ought, to explain the situation, which Aneirin took in with enough nods to dislocate something.

"Quite a task you have ahead of you, there," he said after a moment. "Zathrian told me he had been constantly keeping the werewolves away from the clan for hundreds of years–"

"Sorry, hundreds?" Alistair squinted at him. "I didn't hear that right, did I?"

"You did," Aneirin confirmed. "Many say that Zathrian is the first of the Dalish to become immortal again, and he certainly looks well for several hundred years old." He shrugged with one shoulder. "Well, if you're out to pursue the werewolves, you should know that you're off course."

"Oh?" Rhodri said. "Do you know where they usually live?"

He pointed back in the direction they had come. "Down that way and further out to the right, there are ruins. That is where I have seen them retreat. I can take you nearby, if you wish, but I would rather not confront the werewolves myself."

Wynne accepted the offer with thanks before Rhodri could say anything, and to Zevran's astonishment, Morrigan had looked to be a close contender to get her approval in as well. And, once the others had all agreed, the Grey Warden who was nominated to make those decisions added her appreciation to the chorus.

At the request of the Senior Enchanter, the party elected to set up in Aneirin's camp for the rapidly-approaching evening, with plans to leave tomorrow morning. Zevran could have sworn he saw Morrigan smile.

§

A squeaky kissing sound from behind had Zevran looking over his shoulder from his watch station that evening.

"... Ah."

Leliana snorted at Zevran and gave him a playfully pointed look as she marched up and plopped down on the ground beside him. "That's a lovely way to greet a friend. I'm happy to see you, too."

He touched a hand to his chest. "Dear lady, did I say I was disappointed?"

"You look a bit put out."

"Hah. Perhaps I simply have an uninviting expression at rest, hmm?"

Leliana smirked. "I see you're taking a leaf out of Rhodri's book. Speaking of which–"

"My dear Leliana," Zevran chuckled hollowly, "surely there is nothing of interest in that topic now."

"Listen, Zevran," Leliana sighed and rested a hand on his shoulder. "My friend. Mon râleur. It cannot go on like this. It is agonising!"

"Go on like what? Like it always has?" He raised an eyebrow. "You did not seem so troubled by it when I first joined the party."

"If you felt the same way then as you do now, you hid it much better. I didn't know you were interested in her until Honnleath." She tapped his shoulder impatiently, completely oblivious to the fact that Zevran's stomach had just passed through all natural barriers and left his body for the wide open spaces of the Brecilian Forest, never to be seen again. "But that isn't the point! The point is that now is the time to do something about it!"

Zevran rubbed his brow. "Leliana…"

"No-no-no," she nudged him in the ribs. "No putting it off. It is my duty to keep you on track, as the only other member of the Warden Lovers Club I just made up."

"You are the sole member," he replied tiredly.

"I am with that attitude," she retorted. "What is it that's holding you back? Should I speak to Rhodri for you? I can tell her, if you're nervous."

At this point, there was no real wisdom in attempting to obfuscate any longer. Leliana had tried uncountable times to cajole information out of him already, and now that she was getting the taste for intrigue, it seemed even more unlikely that she would back down now.

"You say that as though she has not already been informed."

"I– what?"

Zevran pursed his lips and gave her a withering look. The copper dropped; Leliana's face exploded into a mortifying, infuriating blend of shock and pity, discomfiting enough to make his frown scrunch his brow.

"I'm sorry Zevran," she whispered. The hand on his shoulder shifted until her arm was fully around him, and Zevran didn't quite have it in him to push her away.

"Oh, I had no idea. I was so sure she had such a tender spot for you."

Zevran's stomach lurched violently enough to surprise him. He stitched on a smile and winked at Leliana.

"Not to worry, my dear," he purred. "Maker knows with all of these beasts, neither of us have the time for such things. But do not hesitate to tell me all of the juicy details of your escapades with that handsome Fereldan man you keep taking into your tent of an evening!" He waggled his eyebrows. "You have attracted the attention of quite a few bears in recent nights, you two."

Credit where it was due, as jarringly saccharine as Leliana could be, she certainly knew how to play along when needed. That mildly bruised look to her was gone in a flash, replaced with a saucy smile he was sure he had only recently employed himself. His stomach settled.

Leliana flickered her eyebrows and gave his shoulder a conspiratorial squeeze. "It's funny, you know. I noticed that every time we get ambushed by bears, it's always been around the time I do this one thing with my tongue…"

§

To everyone's astonishment, and no doubt her own, Morrigan was the first one awake before dawn the next morning. Zevran's usual position of second riser (after relentless early-bird Rhodri) had now been bumped down to third, and for such a small change in the circumstances, it was remarkably irritating.

Not because such an event cut out the handful of minutes in the day where they were alone together. It was some other reason– a very obvious one, to be sure– that Zevran didn't have available at that moment.

Morrigan, however, appeared in fine form. She and Aneirin were sitting there in front of the firepit, nursing a cup of tea and a sandwich each. Morrigan dissected him with her eyes whenever he spoke, and she visibly (to Zevran, at least) struggled to maintain a cool, sphinxlike facade when her turn to speak came. Her eyes snapped onto Zevran as he made his way from his tent over to where they sat, visibly narrowing with every step he took.

And Zevran, forever blessed with detailed memories of Morrigan's spider form chewing the neck out of a live wolf last week, decided at that moment that breakfast was unnecessary. With a polite wave to the two of them, he made a beeline for the edge of the clearing, where Rhodri would be finishing the second watch shift.

He cleared his throat as he approached. "Well, my Grey Warden," he called out to her, "it seems the forest has not changed since I handed watch duty over to you."

In the space of that sentence, Rhodri had looked over her shoulder, beamed and made a delighted little 'Mmm!' at him, and, just as Zevran's stomach had started to jitter, she dove into her satchel and pulled out two cups (two? Had she been expecting him?) and a bag.

"Zev, good morning! How was your night?" She paused as she went to open the bag. "Ah, I nearly didn't ask– tea for you?"

He didn't dare indulge the curiosity by asking about the cup; Zevran nodded appreciatively. "Please."

She nodded, patted the spot beside her, and set to work on the tea. "Come and sit, come and sit. So you slept well? For what little time you had, anyway."

"Oh, no trouble there at all." He plonked himself down cross-legged and accepted the steaming cup she offered with thanks. "I see Morrigan is enjoying herself with this Aneirin fellow."

"Mmm," Rhodri nodded. "I haven't heard her so happy since she was harvesting organs from that bat with the three kidneys. Remember that?"

"Ah," Zevran smiled. "She almost forgot to frown at Alistair the whole day."

"She did!"

"Mmm."

"Mm."

The silence was comfortable. A handful of topics that could be broached floated on the periphery of Zevran's mind: expectations of the day; thoughts on Witherfang; checking on the progress of Rhodri's latest magical experimentation (a long-lastinger frost-free freezing spell). And, as the sound of Aneirin's gentle laugh breezed through the quiet, Zevran's mind looped back to thoughts of that damned book. And, it had to be said, of Flemeth turning up without warning, in the form of a house-sized spider, and sucking the juices out of every last one of them with her fangs.

"Tell me, Rhodri," he said before he could stop himself and question the wisdom of the enquiry, "that book Aneirin had read– the grimoire, I think it was called. Do you suppose it could have been the book you found in the Circle?"

Rhodri sighed heavily enough that he was tempted to backtrack and apologise. And then she… chuckled?

"You're a smart man, Zev," she said. "Yes, it was Flemeth's grimoire. The Circle has no books like that. Officially, it doesn't even believe in shapeshifters. All the cultures that practise it have an oral tradition, which the Circle dismisses as hearsay."

Zevran took a moment to picture a mass bowel evacuation among the Templars as they witnessed Morrigan dissolving into a swarm of bees. How effervescent. "Someone like our lovely witch would give them a shock," he mused, half to himself and half to his company.

Rhodri shrugged with a half-smile. "Perhaps she would. But then, if the Circle doesn't believe in shapeshifters, they'd never know it was her. They could well encounter shapeshifters all the time, but they just squash or shoo them like they would any other animal."

He snorted. "My goodness, what a thought."

"In any case," Rhodri pushed on gravely, "Morrigan and I have already spoken about it. When she feels the danger can no longer be ignored, we will take action."

"'Take… action.'" Zevran chuckled weakly. "That sounds rather dangerous."

"It's very dangerous," Rhodri nodded. "In the same way taking action against the Crows would be if they tried to take you away. But Morrigan is one of us, and we mustn't fail her."

Don't swoon, just get on with it.

"Just so, my dear Warden," he conceded, adding, "though if this Flemeth woman turns me into a toad, I expect Morrigan to do her utmost to change me back."

Rhodri laughed. "She will. And if she doesn't manage to do it, I'll catch flies for you and carry you around in a little tub of water until we find someone who can. I'll even keep the water warm. Does that sound fair?"

The mention of liquid finally reminded Zevran that he had a cup of tea in his hand that would need warming if he put off drinking it any longer. He smiled and took a sip of the lukewarm stuff. "A better deal than most toads can expect," he said. "I humbly accept."

§

Aneirin, by his own account, was one of two permanently- settled residents in this part of the Brecilian forest. The ramshackle bridges and other infrastructure in various states of decrepitude were all remnants of long-bygone eras, when the Forest had been a well-populated gateway to the port city of Gwaren in one direction, and to the rest of Ferelden in the other. Its excellent location (Aneirin's words, Zevran reminded himself, not his own) and abundance of natural resources (also not Zevran's words) had apparently made itself a very desirable place to everyone.

When Zevran gave into the urge and enquired who, precisely, 'everyone' was, Aneirin gave a detailed history of the clashes between the invading Tevinters and peaceful Dalish, and the occasional Barbarians who were passing by and opted to throw in on the chaos. The ongoing fights eventually led to the Veil being torn open, and all manner of horrid spirits and creatures eloped from the Fade to plague the forest (and thus Zevran, for as long as he was there) to the present day.

"The only part I am having trouble believing is the idea that any Northerner willingly left the warm, sparkling beaches to come to the icy forests of the South," Zevran mused aloud.

To his right, Rhodri nodded emphatically and mumbled a stream of Tevene. Zevran caught the words 'complete truth', and smiled to himself.

Aneirin raised an eyebrow at the two of them. "I am sure many would want to come and enjoy the fresh air here–"

"See?" Alistair bumped his shoulder into Rhodri's. "I told you the air's better here."

Rhodri snorted. "If the forest air is so wonderful, why does the fog keep blocking us at every turn?" She threw a hand in the direction of the path ahead, where a curtain of fog was creeping over the path and blocking the view of everything beyond. "Never had this problem on the Plaia Familias."

Aneirin squinted, his voice dropping to a growl. "Oh, by the Gods, not this again."

Wynne watched him worriedly. "Aneirin?"

He replied by way of rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "This has been going on for years. One of these days I'm going to feed him to the trees, I swear on his head…" He pointed to a rather-less-worn path off to the right that veered out of the path of the fog. "Come on, let's go."

"Ah… go where, exactly?" Rhodri asked cautiously. "Will we need to be prepared to fight?"

"Eh? Oh!" Aneirin shook his head again. "No, no, you won't need to do anything. I just need to pay a quick visit to someone to confirm my suspicions."

"Which are…?"

"You'll see in a moment. Just over this hill, and– yes, here he is…"

Zevran couldn't help wondering if he was simply a dull sort of fellow for not immediately realising who this 'he' was. There were no animals nearby, and no other people to speak of either. It was just them, and the trees–

Oh, the bloody trees.

Sure enough, one particularly large tree, with bronze leaves and a large enough space in its ribcage to serve as a city penitentiary, was turning around to look at them. Its mouth– if a gap in the wood could be called as much, pulled up in a smile.

Its voice boomed in a slow drawl as it addressed them, "Greetings to thee once again. Thou knowst about my acorn, then?"

Rhodri's face went blank. She put an arm around Leliana and pulled her closer.

"Leli, darling," she said calmly, "that mushroom omelette you cooked this morning–"

"I did not drug us, Rhodri, if that is what you are about to ask," Leliana cut her off, laughing.\.

"Are you quite sure?"

"I am quite sure."

Aneirin had been good enough to pause and let the rest of the party marvel over the tree, not taking his eyes off Morrigan as she mused aloud, "'Tis a rhyming tree. One can only imagine what sort of spirit is involved here."

"Perhaps a poet's soul's in me. Does that make me a poet-tree?" The tree laughed at its own little ditty; whether the laughs of Rhodri, Wynne, and Alistair were equally as genuine remained to be seen– Zevran guessed they were– but it appeared to appreciate the reception nonetheless. At the very least, the tree didn't seem to mark Morrigan's eyeroll. Apparently there was a point where nature could cease to amaze the witch, and that point, it seemed, was when nature started to behave like Alistair.

Aneirin was quick to step in again. "So the Hermit took your acorn again, Grand Oak, I take it?"

The Grand Oak let out a dolorous groan. "That is the thief, the one I seek. It is he who made my future bleak!"

"Right," he sighed. "I don't know why he's always going after your nuts. Well, time to pay the neighbour a visit. See you in a little while, Grand Oak."

"Go, please, reclaim it from that man. I shall await, do what thou can."

"I will, I will." Aneirin beckoned them down yet another winding path. "Come on, the Hermit lives this way."

Once they were out of earshot from the tree (presumably; how well did they hear?), Aneirin spoke again. "This happens every single month. The Hermit comes and steals the Grand Oak's acorn, and he panics and floods the forest with mist until I bring it back to him."

Morrigan tsked. "An obsession with his own seed. Truly, 'tis the same for all males."

"Not only the males," Rhodri protested, dropping a protective hand to the lower part of her belly. "I wouldn't want anyone taking my things, either."

"You do not make seed, Warden."

"I don't need to make seed," Rhodri replied simply. "I have the other half of the equation, and I wouldn't want some neighbour regularly pilfering it."

Alistair laughed. "But occasionally pilfering? What about that?"

"No pilfering," she shook her head firmly. "How rude, thinking nothing of stealing a person's bits and pieces. The shamelessness of it. And if you're going to split hairs, Serah, let me pre-empt you by saying that I wouldn't want a non-neighbour to steal them either!"

The conversation was funny. It was funny. It was an absurd banter about the casual theft of reproductive organs, and there was no need for Zevran's brain to make his own reproductive organs keenly aware that Rhodri was talking about hers. He was not thinking about that. No blood whatsoever was rushing to any strategic areas of his. The conversation was funny and oh, Maker take him he was about to die he was about to die–

Rhodri leapt a foot in the air as a shriek of laughter burst out of Zevran. He ascribed it mostly to the fact that he had, at long last, lost what was left of his mind. Though it had to be said, it was also partly because there was something funny about picturing a petty thief filching a critical body part like someone taking a pie left to cool on the window sill.

Mortified, he slapped a hand over his mouth to at least physically contain the noise and prayed for the Maker to smile on him and have the ground swallow him up. Take him in his prime, at his prettiest and most useful so someone might remember him fondly despite his proclivity to make an utter fool of himself.

With the noise dampened, Rhodri gave her head a triumphant little wobble and smiled at the unimpressed-looking witch.

"You see, Morrigan?" she said. "Zevran thinks I'm funny."

Morrigan rolled her eyes. "So does Alistair. The indictments get more and more damning."

Rhodri's mouth was already shaping the first syllable of her protest when Aneirin called for attention again.

He held up a hand. "If you'd all kindly wait here a moment, I'll go and speak to my… neighbour."

A shield, summoned by Rhodri, rose up over the party as Aneirin continued down into a small clearing around the corner, and Zevran had never been more grateful for the fact that said shields did nothing to repel sound as an impassioned kerfuffle started up.

"It's you!" came a reedy man's voice. "Bloody robber, back again! Get away with you–"

"You stole the Grand Oak's acorn! Again! I can't go anywhere without walking into mist– give me that thing–"

"Not the beard! Ow! Ow, not fair! Not fair!"

"Stop stealing nuts– give me that damned acorn– every month you take that nut–"

"You're supposed to ask a question– this is completely against the rules!"

"Aht aht! Don't you try that illusion malarkey on me! You think you're the only apostate living in this forest?"

"Oh-h-h, POOH TO YOU! Take it, then, and leave me in peace!"

There was a rustle and a disgusted noise from Aneirin. "Urgh. What do you keep in this thing?"

"That was my sandwich! Don't crush it!"

"It's soggy!"

"Well, bread doesn't stay dry forever, you know!"

"Oh, you grot. You bloody grot. I suppose I'll see you next month to do all this again."

"Mayhap you will, mayhap you won't..."

One set of footfalls sounded, crushing the fallen leaves in heavy stomps as they drew closer. Aneirin came back into view holding a single acorn, and his fingertips were green and dripping.

"I need to find a stream to wash my hands in," he said through gritted teeth. "That sandwich was even older than I thought."

§

Things were looking a whole lot brighter– and, more importantly, a whole lot clearer– once the Grand Oak's acorn was returned to him. The party moved unobstructed and untroubled. No wolves, no bears, nothing but people. Just the way Zevran liked it.

At some point, Zevran wasn't sure of the time, Aneirin drew to a stop, and the rest of the party followed suit. He gestured at a rather well-trodden path hugging the edge of an exposed slope that disappeared around a corner into Maker-knew-what.

"Following this path along will take you the last little way to the ruins where I suspect the werewolves dwell," he said to them. "I am not one for fighting, if I may be honest, and would rather leave you to it from here."

Unable to resist himself, Zevran stole a glance in Morrigan's direction, just in time to see disappointment flash over her face. He looked away again before she could catch him and murder him with her eyes.

Wynne nodded. "I understand, Aneirin. Then we part ways, I suppose."

"We do," he nodded, and reached around to the back of his neck, unhooking something. "But first, I have something for you, Wynne." He held out a piece of amber-coloured material (resin, perhaps? Sap?) hanging off a long piece of leather strap, took Wynne's hand, and pressed it into her palm.

"Here," he said gently. "This is the hardened sap of a tree native to this forest. I found it on the ground the day the Templars skewered me, and have always kept it as a sort of lucky charm. Take it. Hopefully it will serve you as well as it's served for me all these years."

Wynne accepted the necklace with a smile whose warmth Zevran had seen previously reserved for Alistair and Leliana, and slipped it over her head. With free hands now, she clasped his hands in hers and squeezed them tightly.

"I am grateful, Aneirin," she said affectionately. "I am… so pleased to have made your acquaintance. Not being able to apologise for failing you has been my greatest regret in life, and it is…" she sighed. "Wonderful to see you doing so well."

Aneirin smiled and nodded. "You know, my years in the Circle were not a complete waste. I learned more than I let on. You did teach me, Wynne, even if you didn't know it."

They shared a silence between them, and the rest of the group held its breath as if to keep the unspoken spell from breaking before it was due to. Mercifully, they kept it brief, and with another nod to each other, Aneirin departed– giving Morrigan a rather hungry look as he went, no less. It could never be said the party kept company with dull people, in any case.

Rhodri gave a satisfied-sounding sigh as she stood at the front of the group again (had she been so bothered that Aneirin went first?).

"Well," she said, "on we go, then, sic?"

Zevran grinned as he took his place to her left. "On we go," he echoed with an eyebrow waggle.

And on they went.

Well, until they made it down to the corner and turned it. Naturally, one could only go on for a short way uninterrupted when one had a job to do, and in this case, the interruption was one sole werewolf, who was limping towards them. Around its neck sat a colourful scarf, which Zevran guessed to be of Dalish make.

Ah, and of course, behind the approaching werewolf the lair was now visible in the background. Was it a trap? Sending out the one with a gammy leg and a familiar article of clothing to court sympathy seemed a bit of an unwise tactic given the Warden's attitude during the last encounter, but if one was out of options, one was out of options.

The werewolf spoke in a pained growl, "P-please… wait. I am… not the mindless beast you think…"

Rhodri was quick to replace her pitying look with a raised brow.

"No," she said evenly. "I am aware that you're a werewolf."

"I am, though I was not always," it gasped. "The watch-wolves, they said Zathrian sent you. You… seek Witherfang."

"I do. You have seen him?"

"Yes. But…" the werewolf clutched at its chest and gave an agonised groan. "It is not as you think. I have no time to explain. Please… do something for me."

Rhodri summoned a shield over herself and the party, and drew a little closer. "What would you ask of me?"

The werewolf pulled the scarf off its neck and lay it at Rhodri's feet. "Pass on a message from me to my husband. His name is Athras. Tell him–"

"Athras?" Rhodri repeated, her eyes wide now. "Are you Danyla?"

"Yes. Tell Athras I love him, and that I am dead and with the gods. I beg you…"

"No, no," Rhodri shook her head. "There will be no death for you. Your husband and daughter are waiting for you in the camp."

"It is too late," the werewolf cried. "The curse is too far gone… the pain is too much… please, end it for me…"

"No," Rhodri slashed a hand through the air. "No, we are about to find a cure. You will hold on a little longer, for them." With a flick of her wrist, the werewolf collapsed before it could begin to object. She stuffed a hand in her satchel and pulled out another set of robes.

"Someone help me, please," she requested, bending down and picking up the floppy wolf. "I'll tie her to me and carry her, and once we find this cure we can give it to her first and take her home."

Zevran stepped forward with a grin and received the robe. At this point, making a body sling for injured individuals was becoming something of a new skill of his. He would have to brush up on his knots at this rate. If only Isabela were travelling with them!

When Danyla was secured in place, Rhodri nodded appreciatively to Zevran, and then gestured at the ruins. "On we go."

"On we go," Zevran echoed. "I hope."