Friday Night Drunk Writing Circle

The storm blew in with very little warning. What had begun as a dark line on the horizon as they rode by the sea, swept over them with a supernatural ferocity. Rain came down in sheets, soaking Tierney to the bone as they led the horses to the mouth of a cave hidden between an outcropping of rocks. By the time the animals were secured, she was horribly drenched, the heavy fur of her cowl weighted down with rainwater. At least the wool shirt she wore beneath the leather jerkin kept her warm as she dragged her bags from her saddle and left them to dry against the cave wall before turning her attention to making a fire. Surely there would be something of use, she thought, pushing her sodden hair from her face as she looked around for anything that might find a new purpose as kindling.

All she found, however, were rocks and rocks and more rocks.

Picking one up, she tossed it in her frustration.

"Tierney."

She turned at the sound of her name, hands planted on her hips, to find Stroud watching her closely. A saddle was balanced on his shoulder, his skin pale even in the shadow of the cave entrance, and she rushed forward.

"Here—let me," she said as she reached for the saddle, not quite meeting his eye as her face burned. "You're still injured."

He angled away from her. "I've suffered worse," he told her softly as he took a step away. "I can handle a saddle."

"Yes, but if you tear your stitches out, I'll be the one sewing you back up again," she huffed.

His eyes cut in her direction as he said nothing for a moment, setting the saddle carefully down on the cave floor. She didn't fail to miss the slight wince as he did so, her stomach turning. As he straightened, he turned to walk past her. "I wouldn't impose upon you a second time."

Tierney sucked in a breath. "You know that's not what I meant." Scrubbing a hand across her forehead, she dropped the other in defeat. "We're out of elfroot, our other provisions are low, you're injured," she waved a hand at the rest of the cave, "and there's nothing to start a fire with."

The blue of his eyes were as stormy as the sky as he watched her, preternaturally still. She could tell he was trying to read her face and fought not to turn away under such scrutiny.

"What are you truly worried about?"

She let out a rough laugh. "Darkspawn?" She jerked her chin at him. "Infection?" Holding out her arms as her voice echoed against the cave walls, her tone turned bitter. "Freezing to death in fucking Orlais."

The corners of his mustache twitched and she couldn't quite tell if he was amused or irritated.

Closing the distance between them, he stopped in front of her, forcing her to look up at him. Her chin jutted out as she raised it, jaw clenching against the trembling she could feel starting in her hands. Pinning them beneath her arms, she waited for him to speak.

"You've handled darkspawn as well as any senior warden," he said, his eyes pinning her. "You know as well as I there is a low risk of infection at this stage and we shall hardly freeze to death in summer." He searched her face. "So, tell me, what are you truly worried about?"

Swallowing, she looked away.

His hand brushed her cheek, pushing a strand of wet hair behind her ear as he whispered, "Tierney…"

She closed her eyes at the sound her name, leaning into his warm palm. Dragging in a breath, she forced herself to look at him, her voice soft. "Tell me this business with the wardens has nothing to do with that hole in the sky."

Thumb pausing on her cheekbone, he seemed torn for a moment. "I won't lie to you."

Letting out a strangled noise, half akin to a whimper, she sawyed toward him. His hand slipped around the back of her head, tilting it, so he could press his forehead to hers. She reached up, fingers circling his wrist as she leaned into him, the trembling spreading to her entire body.

"Please." The word was hardly spoken as it was breathed.

He shook his head gently, the end of his nose brushing hers. "I don't know for sure, but I can hardly see how it isn't connected. Somehow." Raising his head, he looked down into her face with an expression she couldn't quite read. "Perhaps it is time you return to Kirkwall."

"No." Her answer was swift, her hands tightening around his wrist as she met his eyes squarely. "I started this with you and I'll see it through."

"Whatever it is they're doing," he said. "It's likely to be much worse than I thought."

"Probably," she replied glibly. "It usually is when I'm involved."

His nostrils flared as he suppressed a laugh. "I can think of one thing that's been made better for your involvement."

It was her turn to say nothing.

Raising up on her toes, she kissed his cheek as she place her hands on chest. Her lips twisted when they met the cold metal of his breast plate. Reaching for the buckles at the side, she tugged him closer. "C'mon, I can't dry your clothes with this thing on."

It’s a deep night by the time the room quiets. Dark, save stray bedside candles. Evelyn is sore and exhausted, but despite that she can find no rest at all. The satins and silks of the bed are perfectly cool and too chilling all at once. Beside her, Zevran sleeps already. His body is relaxed, breathing even. Shimmering hair spread across the pillows, the tanned line of his shoulder peeking out from under the covers. Together for the last time.

She was never meant to tell him that fact. Still does not mean to.

Except the assassin is asleep, and she is not, and as superstitious as it is, there’s little consequence of rash words. Evelyn blows out the last of the candles.

“I am to die tomorrow,” she whispers into the darkness, unseeing eyes trained on the ceiling. “I thought best to keep it from you.”

Zevran remains still on his side of the bed. It would be foolish to expect anything else. It’s foolish to speak to a sleeping man, too, Evelyn reminds herself bitterly.

“Defeating the Archdemon requires Warden sacrifice,” she explains anyway, “It’s the greatest honor for one of our order. I can’t let it be Alistair.”

He will rise as king from ashes and blight. With vengeance done, the Cousland name means nothing at all.

“I was not meant to tell you about that,” Evelyn admits in hushed tones. “You have been a good friend to me and I’m thankful.”

A strange tightness settles in her throat. It’s a night of secrets, and she should not take these to the grave.

“I suppose it’s true. I love you.”

Evelyn’s eyes burn, the good and the bad both, but it’s only right to say the words at least now. If it’s while he sleeps, it’s all the better.

“Don’t mourn me long,” she says at last, despite herself, and foolishly adds, “Please don’t tell anyone I said that.”

A ridiculous correction to the unconscious man. As another useless notion, Evelyn wonders if the irony would be enough to steal a smile from him. It’s better left unanswered.

Zevran remains blessedly unmoving between the sheets and cushions.

There’s nothing else left to say. Evelyn pulls her blanket higher and settles into the dark. Her eyelashes flutter closed, offering no different view than before. Only the dark, the pleasant touch of satin to her bare skin and the faint warmth of Zevran by her side, for the last time. Shuffling closer to that warmth, Evelyn drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

"It's barely a fever, Fenris," Anders complained as Fenris piled another blanket on top of him. "I'm not dying!" Fenris ignored him completely and crossed the small room to pull yet another blanket out of a battered wooden chest. Anders was burning up, his eyes glassy and skin pallid, greasy, sweat-soaked hair clinging to his forehead and cheeks. Yet he was as mouthy as ever, protesting and struggling any time Fenris attempted to tend to him. And Fenris could not be said to have a compassionate bedside manner.

"If you can stand on your own and walk across the room, you may do so. But seeing as you cannot, you will sleep," Fenris retorted, and he tucked the next blanket around Anders' slim form. He brushed the back of his hand across Anders' sweaty brow and tucked a strand of damp hair behind the shell of his ear.

"You're a tyrant," Anders complained. He closed his eyes and sank into his bed, buried under blankets and head propped up on several thin, tattered pillows. He coughed weakly, the sound wet and rattling. It didn't sound good, and Fenris cursed himself for his uselessness. He kept his hand on Anders' brow and hoped it offered some comfort.

"We can spare the time for you to recover your strength," Fenris said. He'd find time for Anders to get better. He'd make time, if he must. But Anders would get better. He must. Anders' mouth twisted up into something like a pained smile, and his eyes fluttered open.

"That was almost considerate," he teased. "Who are you and what have you done with Fenris?"

Merrill hummed and put a hand on Anders' cheek, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead, tender. Fenris disliked how much it endeared him, those simple shows of affection they'd all picked up on after they all got involved.

"It's all the magic he's been using," Merrill said. "Too much can make you freeze. We need to give him more blankets."

Anders groaned softly, tilting his head back. "I don't need all that, really," he muttered as he tried to hide his face from them.

Isabela snorted. "So you don't want to be all covered up and cozy and comfortable? Really?"

Anders doubted for a moment and rubbed his face into the pillow harder. "Ugh. I didn't say that. Fine."

Fenris helped Isabela and Merrill to move the blankets he had in his mansion to bring to Anders' spot in the bed. They were all moth-eaten and a bit musty, but Merrill straightened them out and waved them around to get the worse of the smell out before wrapping them over Anders' all too thin body.

"You work yourself too hard, mage," Fenris said softly, tucking his hair behind his ear as he was bundled up in a smattering of fancy blankets of various colors, Fenris to his left while Isabela and Merrill were cuddled up to his right.

Anders scoffed. "Someone has to," he muttered. "If we don't heal the miners, no one will. It'd be an injustice."

Isabela sighed, long suffering, and scratched her nails against his scalp until he hummed, pleased. "You're too selfless ever since you started sharing your brain with that guy, Anders. You could do with some rest."

"This is more than enough," Anders said. "And big talk, for a woman that returned to a city where a bunch of big scary Qunari wanted her dead."

Isabela laughed. "I knew Hawke wouldn't give me over," she said. "Just played my cards right, really."

"And you missed us," Merrill said, pressing her face into Isabela's shoulder, like a cat demanding attention. Isabela reached her hand not in Anders' hair to rub at her arm in soothing circles.

"Yeah, yeah," she said dismissively, like it couldn't be true.