#zevwen

“What a terrible fate, mi vida,” he said solemnly, his eyes twinkling, “to embrace a beautiful woman all night long. Such a thing you ask of me.”

Wen rolled her eyes at him, but pressed herself closer anyway. Zevran obliged, kissing her forehead and squeezing her tightly for a long moment. 

Yes—if she was going to die tomorrow, then this was what she wanted. To be held, to be here in this tiny world with only him. She’d count herself lucky if this was what she got to feel before the end, if she still got to wake up with him beside her when the cold dawn came. 

“Goodnight,” she told him; I love you, she did not quite say. The words hummed on her tongue a moment anyway, until she could tuck them away again. 

After, she told herself. After everything. That would be a better time to say them—if he felt the same. Perhaps she would ask him after tomorrow.

She thought the words anyway, then and again in the morning when she woke to find that he was still wrapped around her. 

I love you, she thought, imprinting each sensation, every texture into her mind with all of the intensity she could muster. I did not know that I could, but I love you. I do not know how or why, but I love you and I don’t think I want to stop.  

When she’d finally looked her fill, Tabris rose to face the day. 

She was grateful that the blood had woken her before she'd lost much more of it, and more grateful still for the hole in the cavern ceiling. In parts of the Deep Roads, it was impossible to keep track of day and night except by winding clock. In one of those spots, she would surely be at a loss to guess how long it had been. At least now, she knew by the stars visible through the ceiling that she had likely been gone for less than a full day. It had been afternoon when she'd left the others behind to scout this particular section alone. Surely the blood would have dried if she'd been gone longer than a day.

"Your temper will get you killed," Alistair had told her once, before she'd begrudgingly decided that they could be friends. "If you even care. You can't run away from everything, you know."

Wen could almost hear his disapproval now, dangling by one leg above the Deep Roads as she was. Sometimes, her recollections sounded an awful lot like ringing in her ears, but she knew she was just remembering him. Alone, silently, she could admit that she missed him. Missed all of them, Leliana and Morrigan and Shale and Sten and…Well, of course she missed Zevran more than anyone, but she would have taken any of her friends right now. She wouldn't have stormed away from any of them to explore on her own, she knew that.

Every part of her was stiff from the fall, from the crags she'd struck on the way down. Wen locked her teeth together until her jaw popped, shut her groans within, and curled upward to see how bad the damage was. Even this small movement immediately jostled the broken leg, sending a jolt of pain from her calf to the space behind her eyes.

The howling broke free from behind her teeth, filling the hollows of the cave and echoing, spreading, jangling against every one of her wrecked nerves.

The situation was this: the loose buckle of her boot had caught against an outcropping of rock. She had used the momentum to swing herself into the empty space beneath it, turning her ankle so her foot wouldn't slip out of the boot. Then, her calf had wedged between two adjacent rocks and…

Snap.

Wen turned her face toward the distant bottom of this cave and was sick, the scant contents of her stomach disappearing swiftly into the darkness below.

She could not free herself alone. She acknowledged this when she was finally done, lifting an aching arm to clear her face of the still-dripping blood and her own sick. She wished she could make her own way out of this; it had been her irritation with the newest Warden recruits that had driven her away, and she did not yet believe them competent enough to stage a rescue. If they even came to look for her.

Wen groaned again, curling upward just enough to look at the rocks she'd been caught between. She ought to be dead. The likelihood of finding even this much to catch herself against had been improbably small.

"I know it is a tempting idea, but you are not allowed to get yourself killed before I find my way back," Zevran had told her the last time he'd left for Antiva. He said something similar every time, and she told him the same. He'd cradled her cheek in his hand and smiled at her in that strange, fond way he had, and she'd told him to stop being a fool.

Well, she told him she'd kill anyone who hurt him if he didn't get there first. This amounted to something similar in her eyes.

"I promise," she said aloud now, as she had then. When she'd said it the last time, her voice had not been choked with pain.

Everything was agony. She knew it would be worse if she actually got herself free. All the blood that wasn't flowing now would have to make its sluggish way back through her body, waking all the deadened nerves to the pain she couldn't currently feel. Wen had developed a high tolerance for pain, but even she would not be able to withstand it long enough to climb. This particular leg had been injured badly before, nearly killing her, and it had never really stopped hurting since. This misadventure (foolish mistake, she thought sharply) would surely only make it worse.

By some miracle, her waterskin had neither been torn from her belt nor damaged in the fall. With numb fingertips, she scrabbled for the cap and tipped the barest sip of water between her lips. Some trickled down, falling through the drying smears of blood on her cheek and dampening her hair, but she managed to swallow the majority of it.

Save the rest, Wen thought, nearly dropping the cap twice before she managed to return it to its place at her side.

She'd promised Zevran she wouldn't get herself killed while he was gone. She kept her promises to him, always. She would get out of this, however she must.

What were her options? This new crop of Wardens had not yet found her. Either she had fallen too far for them to easily track, they were still waiting for her to come back, or…something had befallen them in her absence. No explanation boded well, she thought, but pushed the notion away. She could not fret over them now. There was no time.

But—of course. Of course.

Wen swallowed again, tasting copper on her tongue, and pressed two badly bruised fingertips between her lips.

Come on, Princess, she thought, and whistled. The whistle echoed as her cries had, stretching up, up, toward the hole in the cavern ceiling and beyond.

Nothing.

Princess, please, she thought, and even she was forced to admit that there was a tinge of desperation to her thoughts. She whistled once more, attempting the rhythm her spider had answered to so many dozens of times before. Please.

Even this small effort had exhausted her. Wen closed her eyes and let her hands fall again, her whole body swaying slightly at the shift in weight. It was cold in the cavern. She had felt colder, but her body seemed to bear this less capably than she would have expected. Blood loss, she thought, removed from the idea, and let herself hang there for a moment without trying to think any further. Perhaps if she rested, she could try again. Perhaps.

A skittering rose gradually, so quietly that she did not at first realize it was anything more than the distant sound of creatures in the depths. It was not until the sound approached more closely that Wen opened her eyes and knew salvation had come.

Slowly, Princess came into focus. It should trouble Wen how long this took, and how long it took after that to recognize her own loyal spider. As it was, she could only feel an odd, swimming sort of relief.

"There you are," she choked out, arms dangling past her head toward the abyss.

Princess chittered, eyes swiveling to take in her predicament. Blood dripped again, and she closed her left eye so it would not blind her as it fell.

"I'm stuck," Wen explained, in case this was not immediately obvious. "Can you…ah. Find someone? Sigrun?"

Princess swayed, legs gracefully bracing her against her own silk. She did not move toward the ceiling, to which her silk extended. After a moment, she crept up several feet and swayed more forcefully, abruptly throwing herself at the rock where Wen hung suspended.

"No," Wen said, struggling to angle her head enough to look up at the spider she'd raised from a little hatchling to the massive creature that loomed over her now.

"Up," she said, enunciating the word as best she could, and pointed at the small patch of stars.

Usually, Princess understood her better than this. Of all Wen's creatures, she took to new directions the quickest. Wen might almost have sworn the spider was near-sentient herself, capable of complex thoughts and feelings even if she was not yet capable of speech. Wen was still working on solving that problem when she was not being foolishly urged to take the new Wardens off and train them—as if she had ever been any good at such things.

Princess descended the rock, leaning closer to Wen's broken leg and twisted boot. Wen could not see her past her own body now, but she knew quite well when the spider prodded at something up there. She wailed for a second time before she gathered herself enough to clap a soiled hand over her mouth to make the sound stop.

The giant spider retreated slightly, chittering at Wen's leg before crawling to the side and peering down at her again. In the shadows, her multifaceted eyes glimmered like polished jet.

"Princess—I could die down h—" Wen sucked in a breath, then tried again. "I'm hurt. I need help. Please, find someone you know and bring them here."

Princess did not move. Her carapace shifted closer to Wen's torso, and then her waving pedipalps. She felt along Wen's stomach, as she had not since she was very small. Wen blinked, trying to see through the haze in her eyes, and began to doubt herself.

Had she been mistaken somehow? She knew Princess's markings like she knew her own skin, but—everything was muddled, confused. Perhaps she had been wrong. Perhaps this was not her spider, but another of the thousands that made their homes in the Deep Roads. Only Princess would care if Wen lived or died, and the others…

The others would do as all creatures did: precisely what they must do in order to survive.

"Princess?" Wen felt, abruptly exhausted and tense at the same time. "Princess. Get help."

She did not see the spider move, only felt the moment the fangs punctured through her armor and sank into her thigh. Paralysis followed swiftly on the heels of the pain, a dead zone sweeping through her flesh in a slowly spreading wave. It caught her chest, her arms, and her face first; her legs followed slowly after, the numbness creeping along with what sluggish blood still managed to climb into them.

The spider crawled around her dangling torso, wrapping it swiftly in silk, and connected the growing cocoon to the silk she'd initially descended down. The silk grew, wrapping firmly around Wen's arms and stomach and waist, gripping her in its inexorable hold.

Arianwen had been wrong. Worse, she had been stupid. She'd failed Zevran, she'd broken her promise to him, she'd—

A tug, the angle different than she might have expected from a spider seeking prey. Wen not turn her head anymore, only her eyes. She could not tell what it was doing. She'd seen such creatures gnaw off the legs of nugs and deepstalkers caught in traps before. She had supposed it would do the same to her, but—no. No, it was pulling her free.

When the leg was removed at last from the rocks it had broken between, there came a dizzying spin through open air. Wen could not feel the break itself. She couldn't feel very much, in fact, save her dizziness and nausea.

Princess did not reappear, but slowly Wen saw the place she had been hanging from drift into the distance below her. She was ascending. She must be; she could not tell, though. Her head was wrong and her body was a haze she could neither feel nor see through the thick layer of sticky silk and she…

Whatever she might have thought then, it slipped from her into a different sort of darkness. Wen fell with it.

|

"Are you actually awake this time?"

An accented voice. Antivan. One she knew.

Wen could not open her eyes. Or—no. Something was covering them, wrapped around her face. She took a breath, reaching for whatever blinded her, but her hands did not move. Something was wrong with her leg. Something was wrong with her—everything. When she tried to speak, only a whistling sort of groan came out.

"Ah. You are awake. They did not think it would happen so quickly, but I believe I know you better than the healer does. If she can come back sooner, she will, I told them. She is stubborn that way, you see."

Fingertips brushed over her cheek. She felt them, though it was an odd and fuzzy sort of sensation.

"You are so very stubborn," Zevran went on quietly. "Always. I am glad it is so, mi vida, or perhaps you would not be in this room with me now."

Something heavy in her mind dragged her down again. When she fell this time, she could still feel his touch on her cheek and carried with her the knowledge that she was safe.

|

Sunlight, piercing and altogether too bright.

Arianwen threw up a hand and made an indistinct noise, turning her face away from the onslaught.

"Ah, there she is," Zevran said.

The soft hush of heavy curtains pulled over a metal rod. The light lessened, then vanished, and she was left blinking afterimages from her eyes in a now-dim room. Where was she? Not Vigil's Keep. She knew every corner of the place and this was not among them

"You are in Denerim, in the palace," Zevran said, as if he'd known what she was thinking. Wen turned toward his voice, but could not see him past the sunlight burned into her eyes.

"Alistair insisted," Zevran went on. "Rather foolish of him, to care so publicly for the Warden-Commander. I have had to chase off two assassins already at least. You may expect more when you return home."

He came into view, settling into the chair at her bedside and grinning broadly. There were circles under his eyes, a tired slump to his shoulders, and a red mark on his cheek. He had been sleeping there moments ago, she supposed, with his head laid on his hand. Had not wanted to lie down and leave them both more vulnerable. Ridiculous man. He probably hadn't slept for days.

"He ought to try a little harder with his palace security," Zevran went on, reaching for her hand. "I told him as much."

Wen coughed and lay back against the pillows, dizzy. She could remember why she was here, though not when or how she had been brought to this place. The last thing she remembered—really remembered—was Princess dragging her toward the stars.

"Princess?" she asked. Zevran cocked a brow at her and leaned forward, resting his chin on his joined knuckles.

"You are unconscious for well over a week and the first thing you ask about is your spider? It must be you after all. Those who bet that you were replaced with a clever copy will be disappointed."

Wen snorted, tried to push herself up into something resembling a sitting position, and failed.

"Your spider is well, and terrorizing Vigil's Keep as we speak," Zevran went on, watching her. "I am told she laid a clutch of eggs shortly after she dragged you to your camp. Where, might I ask, were any of your many lieutenants and officers? Why were you wandering the Deep Roads alone?"

Ah. Yes.

He was not one to lecture, necessarily, but Zevran always made his feelings very clear when he thought she'd been careless. Wen sighed and closed her eyes, waiting.

"Perhaps you had a clever idea for a prank, or were looking for flowers. Hm? Or maybe you wanted to see how far you could fall before you learned to fly. Which is it?"

He knew very well she'd never so much as considered pranking someone, let alone picking flowers from the Deep Roads, of all places.

"Zevran," she said, and felt the sharp twinge of pain when she tried to roll over.

"Where does it hurt? I will call the healer," he said at the strangled sound she made. Already, he was on his feet and turning for the door.

"No," she said, and held out a hand to him.

The sun had begun to creep around the edges of the curtains like a child reluctant to join a crowded room. Its light reflected from the pale walls limned his head in gold, as if each strand of hair had stolen its luminescence for itself. He turned to look down at her, and she saw the exhaustion and horror tucked away in the corner of his eyes.

Yes. That was what she'd thought.

"No," she repeated. "Come here."

Zevran watched for a long while, then took her hand and sat on the small patch of bed left empty at her side. They looked at each other for a long moment, neither saying anything at all.

His hand was warm.

"You may not be able to use your legs for some time," he told her. "The one is badly damaged. The other does not respond to her tests. It took your spider a very long time to bring you back. They did not administer the antivenin until some hours had passed."

"Come here," she said again, and tugged him until he settled against her more firmly.

"Will you order me away if I say that I am very angry with you?"

"No."

"I am very angry with you."

"I know."

They lay in silence for some time. One of her legs ached terribly. The other felt like nothing at all, though she could see the shape of it beneath the sheet. It would be a dreadful thing, healing. It often was.

At least she'd kept her promise to him. She lived yet. He could be as angry with her as he liked, though she would be surprised if it held after the fear and worry dwindled. It was his way to prod and mock when he wished to express his frustration, not to hold that sort of grudge.

Or—not against her, in any case.

Wen turned her head and kissed the silk of his hair, pressing her cheek against it after. He smelled like the sea and days-old clothes and too little sleep. Alistair must have sent for him from Antiva, or wherever he'd been last. She must have been in very bad shape if they had taken her here, even if the excursion had not been so far from the city.

Later. She would think of these things later.

"I'm sorry," she told him; words she gave to almost nobody. Zevran huffed.

"I do not forgive you," he said, and she might have smiled at him if she were inclined to such things.

"You don't have to," she told him. Sleep tugged at her again. Insistent thing.

"I will make certain your spider has a goat to eat every week for the rest of her life," Zevran murmured into her shoulder. "Your Princess. I am glad she was there."

It sang to her even now, sweet fingers sinking into her mind. She had thought it would be a horrible thing, the Calling. She had thought it would be like the nightmares, like the itch she felt in her hands when darkspawn were near. It was neither of those things—it was, instead, like the sound of friends in a room nearby, the music of voices which she would hear better if only she opened the door. Her hands ached for earth under her hands, for the movement of rock beneath her. If she could cast away her consciousness and crawl into a tunnel now, she knew she would do it without questioning. 

That was why the lot of them were leaving for the Deep Roads now. Right now.

Still alone in her quarters, Wen growled to drown out the sound of that seductive hum and slipped the last thing—a lovely pair of knives, a gift from her husband—into the pack with the rest. Holding the handles had not given her a tenth of the satisfaction she felt when she held him, but it was the only substitute she had.

The rest of the Wardens waited for her by the gates. She couldn’t—she couldn’t leave them to face this alone. Wen scrubbed her hands over her face, clawing away the signs of her tears, and took two sharp breaths. When she left the bedroom, she was the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, hair tied sharply back, armor immaculate. She had not disliked living here; the place was as she’d made it, as she’d demanded it be. It would have been easy to spend more years here—she had thought she’d have more years. 

Wen had thought she would make it to thirty-five at least. She had not thought she would fall so far short of such an easy goal. 

She left the dressing gown Zevran had given her across the foot of the bed, left his clothes in the wardrobe, left behind the memories of their time there together. When he came back, he would see them and know that she hadn’t wanted to leave without him. He would know; she was certain of this. 

“All ready?” she asked, looking over the assembly of Wardens before her. 

There were plenty of them leaving with her; only a few would stay back as long as they could. The eldest of them, the most experienced, those who had been Wardens longest would all be leaving with her. Only the youngest, the freshest, would stay behind. They heard the Calling, too, but it was a faint and thready thing. She could hope for no better, she supposed.

Nathaniel held out her gloves for her and she took them, sliding her hands neatly into the leather and fastening the buckles that would hold them on while she rode to Orzammar. 

“Ready enough,” he told her. “Horses are saddled, packs are stowed. Only thing left is you.”

“Right,” she said. 

Still, she hesitated. 

“The letter—” he began in a quieter voice. 

Wen lifted a hand and he stopped speaking immediately, though his eyes saw too much when he looked at her. They always had. 

“Let’s go,” she told him, handing her things off to be added to the cart pulled in the rear. She stepped forward and her Wardens turned from their conversations, moved as one to face her. 

“We go to the Deep Roads,” she told them; they already knew this, but she told them again anyway. “We go not to abandon this place or to give ourselves to the Calling. We go to fight, to follow rumors of a cure. If there is a way to end the Blight, we will find it.”

As speeches went, it was not much, but they raised their fists and cheered as if she’d just delivered the most eloquent of orations Wen nodded to them and strode down the ramp to her horse, a grey thing prancing past the others. A widowmaker, she’d been warned when she bought him. He had carried her faithfully this far, though; she could not fault his service, nor his trust in her. 

Wen held out her hand to be inspected, passed Widow the carrot she’d tucked away in her pocket, and swung herself up into the saddle. She didn’t look behind her at Vigil’s Keep as she rode away. 

Wen pressed her lips together, eyes narrowed, and glanced behind her at the other two. Zevran gazed at Wynne soulfully, one hand pressed to his chest. Wynne was grimacing, staff thumping into the dust of the road as they climbed the hill. 

“Did I tell you I was an orphan?” the former Crow went on, his voice sorrowful. “I never knew my mother.”

“Egad,” Wynne said, disgust as plain in her voice as it was in the lines of her body. “I give up.” 

She sped up, outstripping Zevran and both Wardens. Arianwen watched the mage go, shaking her head, and glanced behind her again. 

Zevran caught her eyes at once and winked. Wen stared back, lips still pressed into a tight line. 

“Maybe I am,” she told Alistair, and turned away again. 

Before them, the harried mage left small clouds of dust above the road. The late afternoon light diffused there, giving the road an odd sort of dreamlike quality. 

“Could still give killing him a shot,” Alistair muttered. 

“What was that? I could not hear you over the sound of all that armor,” Zevran said, abruptly behind them. Arianwen took a large step to the left and carried on. 

“Oh, nothing,” Alistair said. Wen could feel him looking at her, but she ignored the desperate glance. “We, ah…thought your conversation was interesting. That’s all.”

“Ah—so I suppose you also have an opinion about murder, then?” 

There was something under the words. Some sort of…double meaning, hidden undercurrent. Ugh. Wen hated plenty of things, but trying to understand what someone meant when it wasn’t what they actually said ranked highly on the list. 

“Let’s not,” she said. 

“Not what? I am afraid I do not understand you.”

If he started talking about her bosom, she’d just stab him, Wen decided. When she sped up, the assassin matched her. 

“Talk.”

“Pardon? I did not catch what you said.”

“I, ah—wouldn’t push your luck, there,” Alistair said, jogging for several steps until he drew even with the pair of them. “She’s got a short temper.”

“Yes, I had determined as much,” Zevran said. “And how lovely she looks when she is thinking of death.”

Wen stepped directly into his path and stopped moving, forcing the assassin to stop in his tracks or dodge to the side. He chose the former, still smiling broadly, though he stopped only an inch or two away. Arianwen met his eyes squarely, thinking. 

She didn’t think she wanted to kill him. The man was decent enough at what he did. Fighting him had been the best part of fighting any of the Crows. Actually, he’d been her favorite person to fight since they’d left Ostagar. There was something fluid about the way he moved that—well. Fascinated her, actually. She liked watching him. 

No—no, she didn’t want to kill him. What would be the point now? It certainly wasn’t as if she cared that Wynne, of all people, was annoyed. Actually, she should be thanking him. For once, the mage hadn’t been hovering over her shoulder and asking questions. 

“I don’t think so,” she said, to the dust in the air as much as she was speaking to either man, and turned to continue up the hill without any additional elaboration. 

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Zevran said behind her. 

“We aren’t friends, assassin,” Alistair said stiffly, but added in a quieter voice: “Best to avoid prodding at her when she’s already tired.”

“Mmm,” Zevran allowed. Wen gritted her teeth, irritated again, but he went on a moment later. “I shall take your advice very seriously, Warden.” 

Wen glanced behind her one more time, expecting the same cocky grin or perhaps another wink. Instead, she found a flash of something she didn’t expect: 

Exhaustion. Hiding in the corner of his eyes, in the subtle roll of his shoulders.

Ah. That was harder to ignore. 

Wen closed her eyes, willing herself to keep walking. It would be easy. It would be better. He was so annoying; maybe he’d stop talking if he was too tired to manage. 

As soon as she reached the top of the hill, she swung her pack from her shoulder and sat back against a fence. 

Not for him. Obviously not. 

But—maybe it was time for a break. That was all. Redcliffe was almost in sight and they’d probably be busy as soon as they got there. Best they sit and rest now before they no longer had the choice. 

She certainly, pointedly did not breathe easier when the Crow sat to her left with an audible sigh of relief. 

|

“Are you quite certain you are ready for this?” the assassin asked. 

Wen, who’d deposited the last of her armor to the side of the clearing, nodded curtly. She’d have to be a fool to think he had nothing to teach her. Whenever possible, she did try not to be a fool.

“I need to know all I can. Show me, if you want to.”

The outskirts of the Brecilian rose around them, trees already towering higher than she’d ever seen them before. This place was odd and old, breaking the monotony of carefully planted fields and abandoned villages. She didn’t feel like herself here. It was as if she’d slipped off her skin and found it ill-fitting upon its return. Or—perhaps something hung watching in the air here. Something that saw her, that waited and knew. 

She couldn’t say she liked it. 

“If I want to?” Zevran flipped the knife in his hand once, neatly. “And here you have been asking so politely, Warden. How could I say no?”

“You’ve just said it,” Wen replied, taking a slow, smooth step to the side. “Obviously you know how.” 

“Tch,” he began to circle with her—taking her measure, she thought. Some of the glossy humor fell away, baring the steel beneath. “So literal.”

Wen huffed, refusing to be dragged into a conversation. She’d get distracted by talking and then he’d strike. She knew exactly how this worked. 

“First and foremost,” he said, “I have seen you fight. You are very skilled, yes? But you are not careful.”

Wen felt her eyebrows climb. Zevran feinted, she sidestepped, and they resumed pacing each other. 

“Are you suggesting I get thicker armor?” she asked. 

He laughed, a deeper thing than his usual chuckle. Wen narrowed her eyes. 

“You have been spending too much time with Alistair. No—I am suggesting you learn to be quieter,” he said, and moved—it was like his body had become liquid for a moment, flowing so close that she was forced onto her back foot. A blow in the right spot and she was stumbling back, struggling to halt her momentum enough to guard herself. 

To her surprise, he did not press his advantage. He took a step back instead, watching her with an odd look on his face. Wen scowled and rolled her shoulders, loosening the muscles that had gone taut. 

“I’m plenty quiet.”

“Not quiet enough to be an assassin—and that is what you asked me to teach you, yes?”

Wen pursed her lips. She had asked him. She’d wanted to know how he moved the way he did, but she certainly couldn’t ask him for that. It had been plenty easy to imagine what he’d say in response. 

“Fight me, then,” she said, and dropped her knife. It sank into the soft earth point-down, which meant she’d have to be very thorough when she cleaned and oiled it later. At the moment, she didn’t really care. 

Zevran cocked an eyebrow at her, but stepped back to set his knife aside. 

“Are you quite certain? Surely you would like some sort of explanation first.”

“No,” she told him. “I’m too literal for that.”

Zevran tipped his head back and laughed. 

As soon as his eyes were closed, she struck. It ought to have been a glancing blow, only a soft slap to his shoulder to get his attention. The strike never landed. Instead, he flowed away from her and spun, planting a hand on her back and pushing. Wen was ready for it this time. Her weight shifted hard to her back foot, but she did not waver.  

“Good,” he said from behind her, but when she reached back to grasp his arm Zevran was already gone. 

Arianwen spun slowly, listening. He must have gone up; there was nothing closer than the branches to hide behind. Her heart thudded in her ears, distracting her. Where was he? That rustle in the bushes had the rhythm of a squirrel, the scratching at the bark to her right was certainly a bird, and the crunch in the leaves behind her—

Zevran dropped from above and locked her into his arms before she had a chance to strike back. 

“As I was saying,” he told her. “Not very careful.”

Arianwen tried to kick him to little avail. Zevran laughed into her ear, his mouth briefly brushing against the point of it. An odd tingling sensation spread from that point to her cheeks, burning as it went. What was this? Some sort of poison?

Arianwen planted her feet, gripped his arms where they wrapped around her, and flipped Zevran over her head. His eyes were wide when she straddled his chest, a knife already pressed against the hollow of his throat. She could feel his pulse against her knuckles, could feel his breath whenever his ribs expanded between her thighs, and—what was this? 

“What did you just do?” she snarled. Zevran’s brows lifted. 

“I caught you,” he said. 

“Not that. You—” 

She pressed her lips together all at once, her face hot, and climbed off of him. If there had been some way for Arianwen to scratch the sensation from her skin with bared nails, she would have done it immediately. It lived somewhere deeper than her skin, entirely beyond the reach of fingertips or knives. 

Had he ever touched her skin to skin before? She could not think. 

“Well? Teach me,” she demanded, taking several steps away from him. The distance, such as it was, did not help.

Zevran rose more slowly, dusting himself off. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. It was—speculative. Like he was weighing her against something in his mind. 

“Or was that it?” she asked. 

“No, no—I was merely thinking how best to show you what I mean,” he said. There was some hidden meaning to his words. She could feel it. 

Wen frowned at him, eyes narrowing. What was he actually saying? 

“Let us begin again,” he said, spreading his arms. Wen took a deep breath, wishing away the odd burning at the back of her neck and the tips of her ears. 

“Let’s,” she gritted out, her heart beating curiously fast, and raised her fists.

|

“Are you awake yet?” Zevran murmured. 

“No,” Wen told him, hand skimming over his loose, night-rumpled hair. Zevran grunted and pressed his face more firmly against her bare chest. 

“It should not surprise me when you make jokes,” he said. His lips pressed against the skin over her heart. “And yet…”

“Oh, ha ha,” Wen said, rolling her eyes. “If you’re going to be a pest, you can get off.”

“Oh?” he angled his head until he could look at her, morning light glinting across one golden eye. “Can I?” 

“Andraste’s tits,” she muttered, squirming without any real effort to dislodge him. 

“Yours are finer by far, I assure you,” he informed her solemnly, pressing a kiss to the nearest of them. 

Arianwen rolled her eyes, but threaded her hand through his hair again. Some of the tangles smoothed under her touch, but not enough. He’d still need to comb it when he rose for the day. 

She tried very, very hard to pretend that she couldn’t hear the army moving outside their tent. 

“Zevran,” she began, her voice soft, and he lifted his head to look at her. 

What could she tell him? That there were even odds she would die today? That she was grateful? What more could she possibly tell him now? 

“It will be a very good fight, yes?” he said, as if he knew what she was thinking. “Your favorite thing.”

Tabris pressed her mouth closed, searching his face for meaning. She found none. There was only the warmth of his eyes, the comfort of his body pressed to hers. The clamor of steel rose beyond their flimsy canvas walls. Time was almost up. It would be a good fight, yes. If there was anything she loved, it was a good fight. 

Arianwen loved Zevran more.

She’d planned to leave him behind, where the fighting was less heavy, but she already knew she wouldn’t be able to bear it. How could she fight through the city, never knowing if he’d been struck by a stray arrow or felled by an ogre? She could not protect him and seek the archdemon both. At least if they were together—at least they would both know. At least neither of them would have to wonder.

Until the end, then, and perhaps whatever came next. At least she knew she wouldn’t be alone. 

“Yes,” she said, passing her fingers through his hair one last time. Her hand fell to a stop at his cheek, thumb tracing the bottom point of his tattoo. 

“You will remember what I taught you, yes?” 

He lifted himself onto an elbow and leaned forward to kiss her. It had been meant as a glancing thing, she thought. It ran deeper than that in the end, desperate hands on shoulders and teeth and tongues and heat. She didn’t want to lose him. She raged at the world, for giving them to each other right on the doorstep of ruin. 

“Always,” Wen told Zevran, and clutched him to her when he would have risen to go. He endured this for several moments longer, his breathing uneven, before he pressed a kiss to her cheek and moved away. 

When she pushed the blankets aside to stand, his was the hand that pulled her to her feet.

Arianwen Tabris/Zevran:

Back to Back: (2,015 Words) When the party spends the evening in Redcliffe's castle, Wen and Zevran have little choice but to share a bed. He is surprised when she offers him an unexpected kindness.

By Word or Blade: (801 Words) Wen takes a wound and is irritated when Zevran insists on offering his help

Only a Kiss: (1215 Words, T) Arianwen has never been kissed; Zevran offers to correct this

Liar, Liar: (459 Words, Hurt/Comfort, T) While Zevran is feverish from an infection, Arianwen takes care of him

Hart of Hearts: (535 Words, Fluff, T); A moment of connection in the Brecilian Forest

Without a Name: (857 Words, T) In the aftermath of their kiss, Zevran watches Tabris and considers what comes next

Saccharine: The night Zevran and Tabris decide to be together; full AO3 fic here (explicit)

In the Quiet Dark: (1,633 Words) Arianwen grapples with desire

Forsythia: (478 Words, T) Arianwen eagerly anticipates Zevran's company at the end of the night, and muses on the strangeness of feeling anticipation at all.

And Eat It, Too: (1,257 Words, T) Arianwen admires cakes in the city; Zevran makes sure she gets what she wants

Siren's Call (Isabela/Arianwen Tabris/Zevran, 840 Words): Post-threesome, Wen tries to find the words to say goodbye to Isabela

Scars: (539 Words, M) Wen notices a scar that Zevran will not discuss. 

A Crossroads Passed: (901 Words, M-ish) Zevran attempts to convince himself that he does not have romantic feelings for Wen after they spend the whole night together for the first time.

Look At Me: (this and The Last Thread are collected into one fic on AO3 here) (973 Words, Hurt/Comfort, M) Wen leaves the Deep Roads with a bad infection, haunted by the ghosts of all who’ve died along the way.

The Last Thread and the Long Drop: (3.171 Words, Hurt/comfort, M); Arianwen is wounded. Zevran can only watch as she is sewn back together. 

From the Depths: (1,321 Words, T) Zevran delivers a piece of good news after Arianwen spends a week recuperating in Orzammar

Rest Now: (1,631 Words, Hurt/Comfort, M) Post-return to the alienage, Zevran urges Tabris to put down her blades and let herself rest

In Confidence: (2,392 Words) Arianwen shows Zevran the place where she grew up

Fang and Thorn: (883 Words, T) Arianwen decides what to do with her mother’s dagger

Breath of Life: (3,658 Words, M) Zevran confronts Taliesen and nearly loses his life in the process; Arianwen grapples with the idea of losing him forever; explicit version on AO3 here

Have This Dance: (928 Words, Fluff, T) Zevran and Wen find a moment of respite on the palace rooftop in Denerim

Vincit Omnes: (1,049 Words, T) Arianwen and Zevran finally admit they love each other.

A Good Fight: (2,440 Words) Across the span of their relationship, Zevran and Tabris argue.

Whatever May Come: (877 Words, T) Zevran and Arianwen share a quiet moment amidst the celebrations at the end of the Blight.

Breaking News: (297 Words) A reporter attempts to discuss the Temple of Sacred Ashes with the Warden-Commander and the researcher who located the place

The Heart Grown Fonder: (1,133 Words, T) Letters between Arianwen and Zevran about how they’re doing apart.

Regarding Spiders and Caves: (403 Words) A letter from Arianwen to Zevran regarding current events at the keep

Reunion: (1,528 Words, M) Zevran comes back from his travels; Arianwen plays a game

A Letter from Kirkwall: (506 Words, T) Zevran re: his absence from Amaranthine, set immediately after his role in Act Three of DA2

Lock and Key: (2,298 Words, Hurt/comfort, M); Zevran is captured by the Crows and tortured. Arianwen frees him.

Ferelden Silver: (2,035 Words) Zevran meets a Warden after the failed ambush on the road; many years later, he watches his betrothed while recovering from a grave wound

A Red, Red Rose: (1,952 Words, Fluff, T) A wedding scene

Dawn and Gold: (905 Words, Fluff, T) Tabris helps Zevran get ready for the day

At the Gates of Weisshaupt (Zevran/Arianwen Tabris, 1,098 Words): Tabris has been summoned to Weisshaupt. She and Zevran say goodbye at the gates.

A Sickly Song: (825 Words, Angst) Arianwen leaves Vigil's Keep for the last time

Misc/ Alistair & Wen:

Lightning Before Thunder (Adaia Tabria & Arianwen Tabris, 2,186 Words): As a child, Tabris sees the Templars in the alienage for the first time.

Hounds and Strays: (4,521 Words, T) A young Arianwen tries to protect a stray dog and fails; as an adult, Alistair realizes they share a connection to animals (the first thing they have in common)

Something to Cry About: (954 words, G) Following the events at Redcliffe, Arianwen begrudgingly admits that she might be friends with Alistair.

Shut-Eye: (996 words, G) Arianwen and Alistair discuss happiness on a sleepy night before the fire.

A Lament (1,632 Words, G) Arianwen visits her childhood home for the first time as a Warden

Letters to the Warden-Commander: ( Words) Assorted correspondence from Arianwen's desk

A Letter from the Nightingale: (991 Words) Leliana's letter to Arianwen during the events of Inquisition

“Are you alright?” Alistair murmured next to her. Tabris dropped her fork, grimacing, and set the plate aside. It clattered in indignation against a loose rock and fell silent sooner than she would have liked. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve been scraping your fork against the plate there for minutes on end. Just thought I’d—don’t give me that look! I’m only asking.”

Arianwen stopped glaring at him and glared at the fire instead, which was a poor replacement for looking across it at Zevran. 

All sorts of people lay together all the time and still the world went on turning. It was nothing; ought to be nothing important. She certainly shouldn’t feel any different than she had when she’d woken up yesterday. Wen ran sharp nails over her forearm, but it made little difference; this wasn’t that sort of itch. 

“Ugh,” she said, slinging her leg over the other side of the log and walking away without any more farewell than that. She didn’t have the words; had left them all behind in Zevran’s tent the night before, it would seem. 

Her own tent was dark and cool, a welcome contrast to the fire outside. When the flap of fabric fell closed behind her, Wen pulled the tie loose from her braid and combed the plait to loose waves with harsh fingers. Disarming took some time, her knife belt set less neatly in its place than usual, the knives in her boots cast aside with an equal lack of care. Her armor fell into a dark corner readily enough when she was done. She retrieved her final dagger from it the moment before it thudded against the bottom of her tent. Wen tucked the scabbard into her waistband and loosened the ties of her tunic, as if doing so would help her breathe more easily. 

She had just cleared her plate, but she was hungry. She needed to run, to climb, to fight. She wanted blood, the thrill of battle, wanted to bite into—

“Warden?’ 

Wen hissed between her teeth before she could stop herself, the exhale of relief whistling and sharp instead of the soft thing she supposed it ought to be. 

“You seemed as if you may want company,” Zevran said, his voice low. “Do you?”

“Yes,” she said, short and clipped. 

Firelight painted her tent with fingers of gold and red when he ducked inside, but when the fabric fell again the two of them were left in near-complete darkness. 

Touch me, she thought, and leave. Her hands flexed until they ached, then curled into fists at her sides. 

“Why did you come?” she asked him. 

The words felt almost detached from her, for they were nowhere near the things she wanted to say instead. 

A pause. She could almost feel him weighing his answer.

“Because,” he said at last, the words very slow, “I wanted to.”

She didn’t see him move, but she felt his callused fingertips when they trailed along her forearm. For a moment, she thought she might cry out at even so little contact. All day, she had been thinking of this and now—it was like an itch. She had been scratching at the absence of him all day and now she had finally dug her nails in deep enough to find relief, but too deeply for it not to hurt a little.

Arianwen pressed her hand over his, deepening the contact and stopping the gentle motion at once. 

“Then stay,” she said. 

When she breathed in, the air was sharp and too much. She wanted; she wanted far more than was safe. Knowing that she could have this almost made it worse—because who was she, to want to be touched? Who was she, that she couldn’t stand knowing she’d already forgotten the way his bare skin felt under her hands, the precise texture of his hair—who was she? She did not know. 

A stranger, she thought. 

“If you’d like,” she finished, because even now she would not say please, and he laughed somewhere before her in the dark. 

“Yes, I think I would,” Zevran said. When he touched her hair, he was gentler with it than she’d been, the touch a caress instead of a rebuke.

“I have never seen it loose before,” he murmured. 

His breath skimmed her cheek–too close. Not close enough. 

“You still haven’t.”

“I did for a moment—in the light,” he told her. Wen let go of his other hand and he found her jaw with it instead. His palms were warm and rough and perfect. She vowed never to tell him so and pressed her cheek against his hand instead.

“How lovely you are, mi vida,” he went on. 

His lips pressed against her ear, moving so slightly that she almost didn’t feel it at all. Wen reached between them and found the leather tie in his own hair. It came loose with little effort, but the tug it took to free his braids seemed somehow momentous. She had half-undressed him last night, but she had been too distracted then to think of doing this. It felt…intimate, somehow, as Zevran seeing her hair unbound had felt intimate. 

“More,” she said, and he laughed again. 

When he answered her, he murmured directly into her ear. 

“More flattery? I am sure that I can think of a few such things to say, my dearest Warden, but I did not think you were the t—”

“No,” she said, impatient. When she turned them both and tripped him onto her bedroll, he fell so easily that he must have done so on purpose. Arianwen did not care. She cared only that she could finally feel him pressed against her at last. A relief, though it was relief that did not lessen the need at all. 

“More,” she told him again, and caught his laughter on her tongue when she pressed her mouth to his. Zevran felt just as good as she remembered—better, perhaps, because she had already begun to doubt her own memory. He moved with her whenever she shifted, tilting his head when she angled hers, tucking his fingers beneath her collar when her fingers trailed across his cheekbone. 

“Impatient,” he murmured when she abandoned his mouth in favor of his neck, his voice low and breathless. Wen grunted in response and nipped at the warm skin there. His pulse thrummed against her mouth, frantic as her own heartbeat and twice as precious. She traced the skin with her tongue when she was finished, soothing the small hurt she’d set against his skin.

“Perhaps I am impatient, too,” he said. She did not know how he had grown so skilled at kissing her in the dark when he had only a night’s practice at it. She hovered on a dagger’s edge, much as she had the night before; unlike the night before, she knew she would not run from this. When it was almost too much to bear, she twisted a lock of his hair between her fingers and found herself anchored again. 

Zevran’s hand slipped lower, lower down her back. The knife she’d tucked behind her shifted slightly. 

“You should be more careful,” he said between kisses. “Leaving your blades where anybody can find them. Someone dangerous could take it, yes?”

Wen nudged his nose with hers, searching in the dark for what little she could see of his face. The faint light flashed in his eyes, there and gone in a heartbeat. 

“But not you,” she said. 

After a moment, he squeezed her hip. His hand slid away from the knife, tracing the length of her spine instead.

“Not me, no,” he agreed. She could feel his voice now as much as she had felt him not touching her earlier. She wanted his words and wanted them to stop in equal measure, but silence was the easy choice. It had always been kinder to her. 

Wen leaned forward to kiss him again. If she shut her eyes very tightly, she could feel his body wherever it touched hers, could focus more completely on his hair wrapped around her fingers, on his fingernails where they dragged lightly against the base of her skull. 

If she had left them open, she might have seen the way he looked at her all the while—might have known that he watched her as intently as she had not watched him before. 

In fact—she did not think of her dagger at all.

But this was not something she was ready to see. Instead, she squeezed her eyes shut as tight as they could go.

He did not think he was ill. That was what he’d considered first, of course, as he’d set his things down again and tucked himself against her. Every other part of him felt well enough, if slightly sore—she’d left the mark of her teeth over his breastbone and it stung slightly when he pressed his chest to her back. This seemed to be further proof that he was not unwell, in a way, if only by contrast. 

If he’d thought about it at all, Zevran might have thought that Arianwen would not like to be touched while she slept, that she might be disturbed by the experience. That was how she acted waking, after all—and made it very clear who was and who was not allowed to come near her. It was surprising, then, that she burrowed back into him and dragged his arm over her waist before she finally, actually fell asleep. 

This, then was the crux of the situation: 

Zevran had set out to make himself indispensable to her. It was the smart thing to do; this strategy had served him well and kept breath in his lungs for this long. But she had resisted his every attempt at charm, had only accepted what he was offering well after he’d begun to admit that he actually liked her as a person and would regret parting from her company. Zevran knew he cared about her–he was not a fool—but he had not thought that he felt…What did he feel? 

Tenderness, at the curve of her neck when her hair had been moved away from it. A quiet sort of gratitude at the comfort of her body pressed to his, at the simple gift of her space and company, offered with no expectation of—of any reciprocation besides what he wished to give. Attraction—the kind he was used to, for she was still bare as a drawn blade and he enjoyed the feel of his arm wrapped around her bare hip, the sight of her uncovered chest when it rose and fell with even breaths. 

All of those things were fine, he assured himself, and closed his eyes to press his nose into her hair. He was not getting too attached; this was only…companionship on the road. It was only a pleasant side benefit that he liked her as a person and she seemed to feel the same about him. There was nothing complicated about any of this. He was, of course, letting the afterglow affect his thoughts and ought to let the matter rest. 

Well—he rested, but the matter did not. 

When light broke through the seams of her tent in the morning, Arianwen stretched languorously against him and sighed, linking her fingers with his. Zevran was already awake, for no reason he could find but an exceptionally restful night’s sleep. 

“G’morning,” she told him, her voice rasping slightly, and she turned her head to look at him. 

Her eyes were like a sun-touched riverbed, moss twining over stone and silt. When the light hit them just so, he sometimes felt as if he could look and look at her for hours. 

It was terrifying. 

“Good morning, mi vida,” he told her, grasping for the familiar. His hand slid lower, skimming over her thigh, and he dipped his head to kiss her before she could say anything to alarm him further. 

This was just—this was only attraction, and companionship, and—what did he know of softer feelings? They were a fabrication, a pretty myth for fools, and Zevran was not a fool. He wanted her, and that was enough. It was. 

He tried to convey this through touch, but it didn’t seem to be working. Arianwen untangled their fingers and lifted her hand, tracing the line of his jaw with her callused thumb before threading her fingers through his hair. His heart lurched again and Zevran pressed himself more fully against her. It is only lust, he told himself, willing this thing to fit into a shape he recognized, it is only wanting. 

And—it was wanting in a sense, this awful new thing. But it wanted things he could not allow—it wanted to make her his own, wanted to go on waking up at her side, wanted touches that had nothing at all to do with sex, wanted a thousand things Zevran could never ask for, could never voice aloud, couldn’t even recognize. He had been lying to himself in pretending otherwise, and he was lying now when he assured himself that he knew what he was doing. 

No amount of touching, of kissing, of hearing her gasp into his ear, could unmake the way he was beginning to feel about her. 

The torturer, alarmed, snatched a blade from the table and hurled it into the darkness above the rafters. There was no sound; not the thud of the blade in flesh or wood, nor the sound of metal clattering to the ground. Half a second later, the blade whistled back down, thudding into the flesh of the cloaked figure’s arm. 

“Your aim is lacking,” the voice from above said.

“I said precisely the same thing, mi vida,” Zevran said, at long last allowing his head to fall back against the wooden back of the chair he was tied to, “I am sorry to say it, but there is a certain lack of professionalism at play here.”

“You shut up,” she said, and Zevran smiled, “I mean it. The smile, too. Flames, I could kill you.”

“It would not take much doing at the moment,” he told her. 

As they spoke, the torturer ripped the blade from their shoulder with a grunt of pain (a bad idea, that; anyone could have told them that it was wiser to leave the thing in place until a healer could take a look at it). 

“Show yourself, coward,” the torturer snarled, taking several more blades from the table and staring up at the ceiling. They turned slowly, as if trying to spot the shape of their assailant against the darkness of the ceiling.

If he’d been in a more charitable mood, Zevran might have told them it was pointless. 

Indeed, as he thought so, a low laugh came from above, and there was a clatter in the far corner, almost directly behind the torturer. The torturer spun, already throwing a blade toward the source of the noise. As soon as they turned, a cloaked figure dropped from the rafters soundlessly, thrust a dagger into the place where the torturer’s kidney ought to be, and vaulted back up into the ceiling again. 

“You know,” she said above him, “I think it’s more cowardly to beat a bound man. But that’s just me.”

A ring of keys fell from the ceiling and into Zevran’s lap. Of course; that was why she hadn’t killed his tormentor outright. She meant for him to do it instead. Balance, retribution; in her way, his Arianwen was all about balance. If he’d had the energy, Zevran would have thanked her for the effort and explained why he wouldn’t be doing that. It was hard to turn a key, after all, when most of one’s fingers were broken. 

He didn’t hear her move; he supposed the torturer didn’t, either, because Wen swung down, kicked the large human into the table, and vanished again before the fallen figure could get their bearings again. 

Something soft touched his wrist, bound behind him, and Zevran felt a quiet, shuddering breath at his back. She was going to be very cross with him as soon as she took care of their present company; Zevran winced at the thought, then hissed between his teeth when the motion reopened the slice over his eyebrow. 

This time, when Arianwen moved away from him, Zevran could hear her; that could only be on purpose. The torturer heard it too, and turned to face her as she cast off the deep blue cloak, variegated with grey and black around the hem. Arianwen stood before him revealed at last, her long braid hanging down her back, her armor blue and silver and gleaming in the light of the brazier. Zevran smiled; it was a fool’s smile, punch-drunk and high from his own relief, but…well. It was just so good to see her. It’d been too long. Too many days without feeling her at in his arms, too many days fighting himself to keep from returning to her side. 

“I was going to let him have you,” she said, “Or, if he allowed it, I was going to take my time. Fortunately for you, you’ve made me very, very angry. This’ll be quick.”

The torturer didn’t answer; they bent their head and ran, aiming right for her. Wen didn’t move for a long time—almost too long—and stepped aside at the last moment, exerting precisely as much effort as she needed to get out of the way. It looked, Zevran thought, turning his head as best he could to watch, like she simply floated away from him, like a feather in the breeze. The torturer rammed their injured shoulder into a column and let out a strangled shout. 

“Don’t worry,” Wen said to Zevran as she passed, “The building’s empty.”

“There were at least thirty—” he began, and interrupted himself with a cough. 

“As I said,” the Warden answered, casually lifting an iron from the fire and striding past, “The building is empty. Don’t worry. I’ll be quick.”

There were sounds that followed her statement, but he could not see their source. He didn’t need to know what she was doing, and he had the sense that not every time he closed his eyes lasted as long as a blink. Likely, that was not a good sign

“Zevran. Look at me, you fool.”

His eye fluttered open—the other seemed stuck shut—and Wen bent before him, her face beatific in its joy. Blood dripped from her ears and clumped in her hair, but she’d wiped her face clean, if the smears along her jaw were any clue. Zevran tried to smile up at her and was mostly successful. 

“I knew you would come.”

“You’re an idiot. I don’t know why I put up with you. That letter was—” she wound up the sentence with a sharp click of the teeth instead of any descriptors, but after a moment the blissful look crept back into her eyes. 

“Take your health potion like a good boy, hm? And I’ll haul you back to the safe house.”

Zevran might have made a crack about her wording, but as soon as he opened his mouth she pressed the cold glass rim of a vial in between his teeth and tipped it upside-down. The liquid was bitter and cold. Though there was a faint aftertaste of elfroot it was most certainly not a health potion.

“Wen—?” he gasped, and the room faded to black. 

|

Arianwen had been angry very often in her life. She enjoyed it, actually. There was a clarity of purpose to rage that most of the rest of life really seemed to lack. It was like…like crossing rooftops on a wire. Rage gave one a single clear path, and if one had the means to follow it things usually turned out alright in the end. 

But now—now her old friend turned on her, hounded her steps. 

Killing so many had been good enough in the moment, of course, but Zevran had needed to be unconscious for what came next, and she hadn’t wanted to give him the chance to talk her out of it. Now, all she could do was wait; there was nobody left to kill, and Zevran was not awake to argue with. As she paced the room, rage paced with her, shadowing her steps and clouding her concentration.

She crossed the room to open the window now, for the room was more or less empty of personality and furniture save an end table, a bed, and a chair. Zevran slept in the bed, his chest rising and falling easily. Few of his wounds would scar, not that he’d care about such things. He’d gained tattoos since she’d last seen him some…oh, had it been five months already? It felt like years. 

This waiting. 

Wen braced her hands on the windowsill, her fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm, and then she turned back to the bed. 

Maker damn him, she loved the man. She’d kill a dozen times as many for him with pleasure, but seeing him hurt like this was—it was—

“Mi vida,” he murmured to her left, and Wen spun on her heel to look at him, “And here I had thought you were some sort of dream.”

She crossed to the side of the bed, her heart in her throat. She ought to say…she ought to tell him what an idiot he was. She ought to tell him off; she’d certainly thought of doing so enough times. But words escaped her now, and when he lifted his hand from the bed it was to wipe the moisture from her cheek. 

“Ah,” he said, wincing when he lifted himself onto one elbow, “No, my Arianwen, no; do not cry for me. I cannot—”

“Why are you trying to get yourself killed?” she asked, and rage took her hand again, gave her the focus to keep talking. 

“I am not—” he began, frowning, but she interrupted him. 

“When will it be enough, Zev? Do you want to lead the Crows? Kill everyone who hurt you, who bought other kids like you? Do you want to be the King of Antiva? What? Because I can’t keep—can’t keep seeing you like this. If you need help, I will help; if you want me out of your life, then tell me to leave. But I can’t—”

She was crying again—so stupid. She hadn’t cried in years, and certainly never over him. He was staring at her with a sort of stunned horror that she might, if she’d had any sort of composure, have recognized better. It was the same face she was making, after all. 

Don’t leave me, she wanted to tell him; as she wanted to tell him every time he disappeared onto a boat. But she’d been too proud to force him into a cage when he wanted the sky, so she’d always turned away instead.

“What do you think I should do?” he asked. 

The hand wet with her tears fell away to the sheets of the bed. 

For one dizzy, breathless moment, she wished he’d stayed asleep a little longer, given her more time to find the right words. But she…she….

“I want you to marry me,” she said, and it was already too late to take back. His mouth fell open, lips moving as if to speak, but nothing came out. 

“Marry me,” she said again, grasping his hand in both of hers, “Tell me you want to live, and you want to live with me. Travel if you have to, but come home again. Live with me; be mine and let me be yours. I want a life, Zevran. I want a life for both of us.”

She searched his face, her heart racing harder than it had killing an entire house full of Crows on her way to her captured lover. Zevran stared at her, and slowly, slowly, a smile wrinkled the space on either side of his eyes. 

“Yes.”

Wen blinked and squeezed his hand. 

“Yes? You mean that? You’re not just—you aren’t going to take it back?”

“Maker’s pierced navel,” he said, struggling into a sitting position, “You do not believe me? And you were so persuasive, too.”

“No, I—” She clamped her mouth shut again and shook her head, “Yes, Zev?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes, of course, you beautiful murderess.” 

She didn’t mean to lunge for him; would’ve thought better of it if she’d had the wherewithal. But all at once she was in his arms, her own wrapped tight around his neck, and both of them rocked back with the force of it. 

“I love you,” she said into the salty skin of his neck, and kissed him there for good measure, “I love you. I love you.”

“I love you,” he murmured back, and inhaled sharply, “Ah—I should have known you would say something first.”

“I knew you wouldn’t want to force me,” she told him, but without any heat behind it. Her anger had faded away between one step and the next, gone in a breath and only a memory now. 

“If you’d died,” she told him, eyes squeezed shut, breathing him in, “I would’ve killed you.”

His laugh was uneven, a little breathless, and likely that meant she’d need to let go of him soon. But when his words came, they were certain. 

“Yes, I know,” Zevran said, “I love you for that, too.”