This was my Secret Santa gift to 1smut_princess on People of Thedas, who asked for Zevran/F!Warden. Word of warning: this stars a Mahariel based on my Nya, and contains vague references to suicidal thoughts.

Many thanks to Sagacious Rage, for the beta.

Zevran stole up the stairs of Redcliffe Castle toward his Warden, two wine glasses crossed in one hand and a bottle of Eamon's private reserve in the other. He had to chuckle at the change Lyna had wrought in him. When sneaking about a noble's estate, he was usually armed with daggers, not wine. He could not yet say which was more dangerous.

"Fare you well, my friend. I do what I must now, and so shall you." Morrigan's voice invaded his thoughts. She sounded wounded, and weary, and then a wolf with golden eyes blew past him without stopping. The air snapped with spent magic as Zevran walked, somewhat puzzled, into Lyna's dark room.

"Zevran." Lyna looked startled to see him, and Zevran had the sinking feeling that he should not have come. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing a trace of tears across her tattoos. "How much of that did you hear?"

"Only enough to know that you quarrelled," Zevran said. He cocked an eyebrow. "I hope you didn't tell her what we did with her mirror."

Lyna managed a choked little laugh. "No, of course not," she said. She hugged her arms around herself. "I don't want to talk about it. Not yet. Is that all right?" Zevran nodded; he was not one to pry. She took a deep breath, and swallowed, and then nodded at the bottle in his hand. "Have you been raiding the Arl's pantry? Naughty thief, you."

Lyna crossed the room to him, and Zevran twirled his fingers and artfully offered her a glass. "You are about to try and save the world," he said. "Consider it his contribution."

Zevran pulled a knife from his pocket and freed the cork with the point. It came loose with a satisfying pop. Lyna grinned. "Your timing is flawless, as always," she said. He filled her cup, then his, and Lyna touched her glass to his. "To life, Zev."

"And love," he added. The word still felt strange on his tongue.

Lyna smiled at him over the rim of her glass and then took a long pull. After a moment her nose wrinkled. "Ugh, shem spirits are wretched."

Zevran did not to betray disappointment at her displeasure. "Alas, it is because it is poisoned," he said. "I have waited until after you beheaded my employer to assassinate you. I thought I was being clever."

He reached to take her glass but Lyna shook her head. She lifted her cup and drained it to the lees, making a bitter face at the dregs. Only then did she pass it off to him. After a moment Lyna shook her head, as if she could shake the taste out. "Let's get out of here," she said. "I can't stand being cooped up in all this stone."

Zevran sighed elaborately. "And here I was looking forward to our first night in a proper bed."

"Beds are for flat ears!" Lyna laughed and slipped away from him, and he set both glasses down on a dresser, one empty and one still full.

He followed after her, his eyes drifting down to admire the way her leather armor bounced against the tight muscles of her legs as she walked. Her pale skin flashed in the dark. Down the stairs and out a back door, she took his hand and squeezed it as they stepped out into the Arl's courtyard.

"Zevran..." Lyna began. She looked up at him. "Do you ever wish I hadn't spared your life?"

"No." Zevran frowned. He worried at her seriousness. "Why? Are you having a change of heart?" he asked lightly.

Lyna shook her head, his irony falling short. "Do you remember the night that Tamlen died?" she asked. He nodded, and she looked away. "I remember thinking it should have been me." She blew out a long breath and turned back to him. "I thought you might understand."

There was a moment, just before death, when fear of death turned to resignation, almost relief. Zevran had seen it a thousand times, on a cornered cat, on a mark. On Rinna. Now he could see that turn in her eyes, and he knew: Lyna would not survive the coming battle. The thought turned the air in his lungs to lead.

She released his hand and ran on ahead of him, stopping under a large olive tree. Its branches fractured the moonlight; in its shadow she looked like a ghost. Lyna held out her hands to him.

"I want you," she said. "Right here."

This was not the Warden that Zevran had come to know, but people often acted outside themselves around him, in these times. At the tip of his blade he had seen fearsome warriors fall to tears, and the most devout sister turn to coquetry. For a moment he hesitated, and Lyna tilted her head to the side.

"What, have you suddenly developed some fear of public display?" she asked, taking his hands and pulling him towards her. Her fingers tightened on his hands. Zevran did not know where it was written that she had to die. He wanted to cheer her, to tell her not to lose hope, to stay, but Zevran had only ever been good at two things, and counselling was not one of them.

He pushed her back against the olive tree.

The leaves murmured their complaint. Lyna kissed him, full and fierce, and Zevran could taste the sweet sting of wine on her tongue. She wrapped her legs around his hips. Warm and needful, she had never felt so vital. Lyna inclined her head and closed her eyes, her mouth half open as if in prayer.

Zevran could not count how many times he had performed these last rites for the condemned, this last toss for the soon departed, but this was different. He didn't want her to go. He couldn't make her stay but he could make it count, make it last, make every move and moment and aching thrust of his hips be filled with perfect solace. But her need was too great, his despair too desperate, and the fire burned too hot. Lyna whimpered and went boneless, and it was over before it started.

She sank to the ground and he sank with her, cradling her limp body in his arms. Lyna's breathing slowed, and she kissed him lightly on the temple, where the lines of his tattoos almost met.

"What will you do when this is over?" she asked, near his ear.

Zevran inhaled; she smelled like cut grass. He would always think of her when he smelled grass. "I should like to return to Antiva," he said. "Although the Crows will still be hunting me. If I am lucky I will kill them first." He raised a hand to stroke her hair. "You should come with me, if you like. Rialto Bay is lovely this time of year."

"I would like that," Lyna said. She lifted her chin and gave him a half smile, but Zevran could not bear to smile, then, and Lyna's eyes went glossy and her lip began to tremble.

"A Warden has to die to kill the Archdemon," she told him, finally. "We were only just told. Morrigan wanted to change that but I..." Lyna swallowed. "I didn't think it was right."

"It doesn't have to be you," Zevran tried.

Lyna shook her head sharply. "I won't let anyone else die for me." She bit her lip but she couldn't stop herself; she began to cry. "Zevran, I'm so sorry." Lyna grasped at his arms. "Please know that I don't want to leave you."

Then don't, he thought helplessly, but Zevran held himself from saying it. He would not have his needs be another burden on her. Lyna wiped her eyes and looked up at the castle. "I can't go back in there," she said. Her voice was brittle enough to break. She pressed her face into his chest. "Stay with me?"

If she had asked for all the stars and the moon, he would have given them to her. "Always," Zevran said. He wrapped his arms around her.

Zevran held her until she went heavy with sleep on his shoulder. He could not hold her close enough. Years later, long after she had gone and his life had changed again, Zevran was still holding her, close to the chest and close to his heart.