#seldaran

(Being on the run was less great, but, hey, you gotta look for the good in life, right?)

The night was cool, but not cool enough to make her cold--not with all the warm things around: the breeze from the ocean, the slowly-dwindling fire, the alcohol in her belly, and Fenris’ body pressed against the length of hers. She turned her head, and when her lips touched his shoulder, she pressed a kiss there with a happy little hum. He chuckled, and it was warm, too, a soul-nourishing sound. She would never tire of hearing it, of that she was certain.

His nose dragged along her hair, and he pressed a kiss of his own to the top of her head.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, though the words came out a bit malformed as she insisted on keeping her face against his skin, unwilling to lose that point of contact. “I’m glad you came with us.”

“As am I,” he said, “even if our company leaves something to be desired.”

She snorted and bit his shoulder for the comment. Not hard--honestly, she’d done harder when they had sex--but enough for him to get the gist. He just chuckled again, and she huffed.

“I heard that!” shouted their company, better known by the name of Anders, unnecessarily loud, given that he was mere feet away. Garrett laughed and made shushing sounds. “No, you shush! He’s shit-talking me again!”

“I am not shit-talking you, mage,” Fenris replied, at a much more reasonable tone. “Nor did I say your name. Perhaps I was speaking of Garrett.”

“Were you?” Garrett asked.

“No.”

“SEE?!” Anders shouted. Garrett put a hand over his mouth, but got licked for the trouble, prompting a quick retreat and accompanying sound of disgust.

“Anders, love, how old are you?”

Anders spat onto the ground. “Bleugh, sand!” He didn’t answer the question. “I hate sand.”

“More or less than you hate me?” Fenris asked.

“You’d come out of my mouth easier!”

At that response, Malia fell into a fit of giggles. Fenris, uncertain how to respond, stayed quiet for a moment. Garrett sighed, loudly and with his entire body. “Mage,” Fenris said, slowly, “are you drunk?”

Anders thought about it, then spat out more sand. “Yes.”

“Is that why the bottle was nearly empty when I got to it?” Garrett asked. “I thought it was Malia’s fault. She’s definitely a little drunk.”

“Love-drunk!” Malia piped up, entirely unhelpfully.

“It was good wine. Fenris has good taste in that, at least.”

“Uh-huh.” Garrett stood, then leaned down to pick Anders up. It took a couple tries--Garrett was strong, yes, but Anders was tall and uncooperative. “We’ll see you in the morning. It’s his bedtime. Be responsible, unlike this lump.” He patted Anders’ ass for emphasis, which only prompted Anders to pat his ass in retaliation.

“The bar is set low, then,” Fenris said. He and Malia bid Garrett and Anders goodnight, then continued to lay by the dying campfire.

“I have another bottle,” Malia confided, a touch too loud to be secretive, but they were alone on the beach now, with only wildlife to overhear. “They didn’t know. Wanna be irresponsible?”

Theron didn’t say anything. Not at first, when the Blight was still the most prominent thing in their minds. Zevran didn’t put it together then, even though enough of the pieces were present that he probably could have.

He didn’t put it together in the immediate aftermath, either. He first figured it out when they received a letter from Castor. ‘It wasn’t a cure. Just a trap.’ The words were worse than disappointing. Theron had held him close and cried, he remembered.

He’d put the pieces together then. There were few things that could affect Theron so, and while his love was not frightened by death, Zevran knew he was terrified of what the Blight, the taint, could do. He knew Grey Wardens were tainted, had been told (in whispers behind closed doors) that it was why only a Grey Warden could kill the Archdemon, understood that this form of the taint had saved Theron’s life... and doomed it.

It was before killing the Masters that Theron told him.

“Zev, mir elgara,” Theron said, quietly, into the dark as they lay in bed, “there is something you should know.”

“What is it, mi amor?” Zevran answered, trailing a comforting hand along Theron’s arm.

“I’m sick.”

Zevran’s hand stilled for only a moment, then continued its path. His heart squeezed itself into his throat, and he leaned in close enough to feel Theron’s living warmth against his face. “...I know, mi amor.”

“The taint...”

“Si, I know.” He reached out with both arms and brought Theron as close to his body as possible, like he could draw the taint into his own blood, too, so he might never be without his love. “I know. How long do you have?”

There was a long silence. “I don’t know. Alistair said... most Wardens have thirty years, give or take. But I--I was sick, even before the Joining. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know if I will have so long.”

Thirty years. That was longer than Zevran had dared hope for. He had been dreading this conversation more than necessary, perhaps. “Our friends are looking for a cure, are they not?”

“Daylen is.” How Theron knew what Daylen was up to--that, Zevran never could figure out, but Zevran had never managed to get along so well with Daylen. “I asked if Vir’era knew anything, but...”

Their little oracle could not know everything. It hurt that this would be the gap in his knowledge, and Zevran was not so prideful that he would pretend he did not hate that fact, but he could not be upset with Vir’era for it. After all, Vir’era was Blighted, too, in the same boat as Theron. If he knew anything helpful, he would say so.

Zevran kissed Theron, hard but brief. “I will stay by your side for as long as you will allow it, mi amor. This I have sworn before, but I will swear it again, as often as you need. I will search for a cure with you, if that is what you desire. The Crows might follow, but they will not stop me.”

Theron held Zevran’s face, staring in adoration. “Ar lath ma,” he whispered. “I love you, Zevran Arainai. We will finish our business with the Crows, first, and then we will help Daylen. We have time enough for that, I think.”

Time enough for that indeed. Zevran kissed his beloved, vowing silently to the Maker and the Creators (just in case) that, even when Theron’s time came, whatever the Calling entailed, he would stay by Theron’s side. Come Blight or blizzard, Zevran would be there.