Cherry didn't want to go back inside. She turned, stepping close to him, pressing herself further into that something between them, heavy as the humidity that thickened the air, electric whenever their hands brushed, their own summer storm brewing for weeks now, finally making land. She took the risk first—rising on her toes, fingers twisted in the front of his shirt, she pulled his lips down to hers, and kissed him.

His hands found her waist before she could even spare a thought to how he might respond, his lips parting against hers as he pulled her close against his broad chest. She pulled back, grinning into the slight space between them and meeting his eyes, and said, "My house isn't that far."

Mark didn't say anything to that, only looked at her, his eyes dark in the soft lights that decorated the tavern's awning. He might say no, just to be contrary, just to pretend she hadn't pushed past the solitary image of himself he presented to the rest of the world, but—there! The sweet, almost shy smile broke across his features, the one that kept her coming back no matter how disgruntled he was when she arrived. She stepped away from him, holding out her hand, and he laughed, warm and deep, as he grasped it.

"Lets go, adventurer," she said, and pulled him into the rain.

Cherry's back met the solid wood of her front door, and her lips met the warmth of Mark's. He crowded her against the door, his hands hot against the small of her back where they slipped beneath her top. The rain still fell warm and heavy down on them, so she reluctantly freed one of her own hands from the back of his neck and scrabbled for the doorknob. It swung open behind them, and they stumbled through with quiet huffs of laughter. Cherry stepped away to shut the door and cast an eye out for Bubblegum, whose soft hops she could just hear over the rain.

"You have no furniture," Mark said. He sounded amused—she couldn't see his face, but she was sure he had an eyebrow raised.

"I've had a lot on my plate," Cherry said, leaning around him to look into the empty darkness of what should be her kitchen. She'd only been here a few months, and in that time she'd had so much to do—diving work for the lab, clearing monsters out of the cavern, learning to grow crops and build bee houses and tap trees until she had just enough money to buy herself a few chickens and cows. It took time. Besides, had he seen the prices at Joko's furniture store?

She stepped away from the kitchen, pulled her top over her head, and said, "I have a bed."

She laughed as Mark lifted her, lips moving across her neck as he carried her the few feet to the bed. He set her down, surprisingly gentle, and Cherry gripped his shirt again and pulled him down after her, gratified by the weight of him on top of her. Their lips met again, and her hands wandered, rucking up his soaked T-shirt and sliding across the expanse of his back. She sighed against his mouth when he cupped her breast over her bra—she might have worn something prettier, something with lace, maybe, if she'd known they'd end up here, not that he seemed to care—

This time Mark pulled back, leveraging himself onto an elbow so he could look down at her. It was hard to make out his expression in the dark, but there was a gravity to the way he paused, to the part of his lips as he watched her. He said, in a gravelly whisper that rumbled a slow heat through her body, "I've been thinking about this a while."

"Yeah?" He was difficult to read, sometimes, even in the light, but the words struck her as vulnerable, the sweet follow-up without the leave-me-alone that came before. She cupped his cheek, and felt his slight nod more than she saw it. "Me too."

Naishe whirls around and gazes at him. Candlelight dimly reflects off his golden hair and brown skin. He is reclining upon one of the velvet cushions beside her husband—her late husband, that is, as of, oh, fifteen minutes ago. Naishe’s face pulls into a broad grin, and she laughs, ecstatic.

She’s never been worth a damn thing in this world, not to her mother, not to Luis, and not to herself. But here is a man who thinks her worth killing for.

“What’s the rush, beautiful?” he asks with a lazy stretch.

“I hated him,” she says, hot and fast. “I hate him, I’ll always hate him—and as much as I’d love to come over there and thank you properly, over and over again—”

Zevran laughs, low and husky, and Naishe is at his side in an instant. She grips his hand. It’s steady, and strong, and only now she realizes her hands are shaking.

“… I’ve never wanted to run more than I do right now,” she tells him. “I want to run and never stop running. I never want to be in a room like this again. Fucking torture chamber. Never!”

“Then run,” Zevran whispers. He nods at her, urgently, his brown eyes gazing into hers. “I cannot; my cage is of a different sort. But you, run!”

They kiss, impassioned. His words stir something up in her chest, something that aches like when she first was sent away from home, and she breaks away with a smile.

“Where do I go?”

“Leave the city,” Zevran tells her. “Take these with you.” He pulls his daggers from his belt and hands them to her.

“Zev.”

“You know how to use them.”

“Thanks to you,” she says, clutching the gifts. “Won’t you come with me?”

“I cannot my dear,” he tells her. “But you can. That is why I did this, don’t you see?”

She does. She feels tears prickling at her eyes—not for herself, but for Zevran. He understands her. They’ve both been discounted by society, treated as currency, as tools. She won’t waste his efforts, but she wishes desperately he could come with her.

“I’ll ask about you, if ever I am in Antiva City.”

“I am… a dangerous man to ask after.”

Zevran brushes her hair from her face. The moment of their goodbye is drawing upon them, and both of them feel it at the same time: a monumental change in their lives, something that will reverberate for better or worse. They share a final kiss.

“I promise, I promise you, we will see each other again.”

“Be well, Zevran Arainai.”

“And you. Run, Naishe. Run.”

-

Leaving everything behind is not easy, but it is necessary.

She realizes loyalty cannot be bought when the Siren’s Call leaves her at a port in Llomerryn.

Alone. For the first time in her life, well and truly alone. And better for it, too. Good riddance to the lot of them.

Now she has nothing except the daggers Zevran Arainai gave her. These she keeps close at all times, and she practices with them daily, carving out her own personal fighting style, until calluses form over the palms of her hands.

These skills earn her respect and coin. She’s quick, smart, and deadly. She leverages all three into opportunity, and lands on a new ship, where her quicksilver tongue earns her a new name: Isabela.

Years tick by. Disrespect foments resentment, and she kills the first man who pushes her too far. As luck would have it, he is a captain of a ship, and she steps into command like she was born for it.

She takes the Siren’s Call back.

"Never," he replies, and she's coaxed a smile out of him despite his worry. It's easy to remember why he loved her--loves her--and trusts her, too. So, having surpassed that slightest bit of resistance with her support, he lets it all pour out in a flood of words.

Everything from Rinnala's betrayal to his contract in Ferelden, to his time during the Blight and Taliesen's death. Everything from the fight against the Crows, to his year spent at Quinta de Talpa, and his travels throughout all of Antiva and beyond. He tells her everything, good and bad, without omission.

It must be some surprise to her; he’s become so honest and vulnerable. But it’s deliberate, and he barrels into it with a certain recklessness because it has been hard-won.

Most of all, he talks about the Warden, like a thread weaving through every single piece of his life. Making his story coherent. Stitching the broken bits whole.

"I must admit, I didn't think him your type then, and I certainly don't now," Isabela says when he's done.

They're lounging on the bed together, barely dressed. Her hair is fanned out across her pillow and she makes a face, features pulling into a delicate pout.

"Please tell me he's not as grim and somber as he seems. Frankly, I’m still surprised he was alright with you and I meeting. Unless..." She sits up, and peers at him, blouse falling over her shoulders. "Unless he doesn't know?"

"He knows," Zevran murmurs against her knee. “He knew who I was when he married me.”

“Good.” Content to hear it, Isabela leans back with a smile. "What a waste it’d be otherwise. I mean, for you as well. Don't change for anyone, Zevran. I mean it. There are far too many miserable marriages in the world. I should know."

For a moment both of them reflect on those words. But they speak to a life long past, and not worth revisiting. After a moment Zevran just sighs with the most lovestruck look she's ever seen him sport.

"Ah, I'd love for you to get to know him as I do..." He strokes her leg gently, hanging onto her, though it is clear his mind is drifting. "He would never ask me to change. He doesn't want to impede me in any way. He sees the depths of me, good and bad, and asks for nothing. I never imagined... Isabela, he makes it so easy, so simple and calm. So you see, because of that, I can give him everything. Because he-"

"Oh, enough!"

Yanking her legs back she tucks them beneath herself and tackles him with a hug, affectionate but very much exasperated.

"You talk about your husband too much, Zevran! No one will ever want to sleep with you!"

Zevran draws in a sharp breath, then he collapses into laughter.

As they laugh and cling to one another, he’s infinitely glad he saved her all those years ago. He’s glad she’s here now. He's glad for every note in his story, from the highest to the lowest.