The night was delightfully warm, filled with the scent of newly bloomed flowers and the essence of green that could only be associated with spring. Trees that had been long bare stretched above Fenris's head with fresh leaves and unripened berries. After a harsh winter spent in camps that moved from cave to cave, the freedom of being amid nature and unfettered by smothering furs was a welcome change. He felt like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon.

He sat by a fire further back from the main camp, giving him some semblance of separateness. By now, most of the revolutionaries knew enough to leave him in peace, preferring the company of more genial folk to his surly demeanor. He had tried at first to overcome his natural reticence to mages, but no matter how friendly they were, none could shield him from their magic and the constant prickling of his skin provoked by their presence. It wasn't their fault, and he knew this, but he shied away from close contact, unable to bear his markings' reactions.

Varric and Isabela often joined him for dinner, perhaps needing a break from the endless talk of tactics and strategy among the apostates. Fenris never participated in these discussions. His role was that of sword-arm, not of leadership; he left that to Hawke and Anders. The other companions were more active, often giving advice whether or not it was wanted. Fenris could not guess their motives for remaining with the mages. Except for Merrill, none of them had a real reason for staying, except for their friendship with Hawke. He suspected they were all so accustomed to following the driving force that was Marian, it had simply become a way of life. Follow Hawke and all would be well, or at least, definitely interesting.

In the six months since they had fled Kirkwall, they had been constantly on the move, gathering fleeing apostates as they went. Circles everywhere across Thedas were in disarray, some already destroyed in battles between mage and templar. Apostates roamed the countryside, trying to stay one step ahead of their pursuers. Many struggled to locate Hawke, to join the fight for their freedom. This proved difficult, however, as Hawke and her growing band of revolutionaries kept their locations as secret as possible. It surprised Fenris that she was able to do so successfully, but Hawke had the uncanny ability to inspire fervent loyalty, and the templars had failed to locate a betrayer.

Fenris knew why he was here. The others assumed it was because Fenris felt obligated to Hawke for her help in defeating Danarius, but they were wrong. Fenris had never truly felt at home anywhere, not even at the ramshackle, desiccated manor where he had resided in Kirkwall. Even now, this camp in the middle of the forest was not home, nor had the caves of the Sundermount been during the wet winter. But being with Hawke, Varric, Isabela, and even Merrill and Anders, was as close to feeling home as he could get. Thus, he stayed.

He didn't want to admit to himself that he was waiting, even though it was present in so many of his actions: the way he would prowl the outskirts of camp at night, his attention to each traveller they encountered, his sharpened gaze whenever Isabela would tell stories of Antiva. He knew that to hope was to be disappointed, and he had certainly been disappointed enough. Why exactly should three nights from many months ago matter so much? And why did his dreams echo the soft, heavily-accented promise spoken by a devious assassin? He cursed himself daily for his weakness, for his longing to feel more than the bitterness that was his constant companion.

He looked up as Isabela approached, carrying two plates of stew. Handing him one, she plopped down beside him on the rough log on which he sat.

"I thought I would find you here." She spooned a mouthful of stew into her mouth and grimaced. "I never thought I would say this, but I actually miss fish."

Fenris shrugged and ate slowly, barely noticing the taste of venison mixed with vegetables. He was accustomed to eating whatever he was given and wasn't bothered by the lack of variety they experienced. He missed wine however, good quality wine, not the watered-down vintage they occasionally acquired on the run.

"Has Hawke announced our next mission?" he asked. They had been at this location for a week while Hawke sent out scouts and gathered information.

"Nope. Still waiting for the scouts to return. If we don't move on soon, I'm going to die of boredom." Isabela finished her meal and set the bowl on the ground. "Sure you don't want to spend an evening in my tent, sweet thing? I know I'm not Hawke, but I don't need magic to light your fire." She gave Fenris her most charming smile.

Fenris gritted his teeth at the memory of his early flirtation with Hawke. Varric had discovered it and made sure the rest of the crew knew it also. Once Hawke had made her choice of Anders clear, Fenris had backed off, but the others still had their fun teasing him about it. He was relieved none of them knew about the nights he had spent with the Antivan assassin. Not that anything had happened... not really.

"I'm not interested, Isabela." Abruptly, he stood and leaving his empty bowl by the fire, moved off before she had time to twist her full lips into a pout. There was no lack of men among the revolutionaries to choose from, but Isabela seemed bent on getting him into her bed. He was growing weary of her sidelong glances from beneath dark, sweeping lashes and the way she sashayed her curvy hips whenever she had the opportunity to walk in front of him. Fenris had nothing against women, but Isabela's manipulative personality held no appeal for him.

He melted into the trees and began slowly circling the large camp, keeping to the periphery and checking for unwanted trespassers. The mages had set various glyphs around the camp that would paralyze intruders, and Fenris knew the location of every one. He was careful as he weaved through them, bare feet easily picking a path around rocks and twigs. Hawke had often commented with amusement that Fenris could move so silently, it was as if he were really a ghost, even when his lyrium wasn't activated. Fenris refrained from telling her he often wondered if he was a ghost. Since Danarius's death, he had often felt like one: a silent shadow with no roots, no purpose, and no sense of self. He had won his freedom, but what now? He didn't even know who he was beyond a magister's ex-slave and Hawke's friend.

He paused on a small ledge to look down on the main clearing of the camp, dominated by a large stump that served as a table. Anders and Hawke leaned over the uneven surface of the wood, examining a crude map drawn roughly on a large piece of parchment. A few other mages were standing with them, talking excitedly and gesturing at several areas of the map. They were planning their next move, no doubt. Hawke had announced a week ago that she was tired of running and ready to take the offensive. She had not mentioned her goal, but Fenris suspected the scouts had been sent out to survey a Circle, although he had no idea which one. Both Markham and Ansburg were within a few days travel, and both were home to Circles that had become prisons after the disaster in Kirkwall.

Distant shouts caught his attention, and he drew his Blade of Mercy as he swiftly descended to the clearing. Just as he reached Hawke's side, a cluster of five men emerged from the forest toting a sledge between them. It had been roughly made, consisting of branches and hides tied together with twine. A huddled figure lay lifelessly, covered by furs, which did little to hide the splashes of blood that stained the hide beneath the body. As they approached the stump in the middle of the camp, the sharp scent of blood tickled Fenris's nose.

"We found him alone in the forest a half-day's walk from here," explained Rolf, one of Hawke's confidants and leaders. His companions settled the sledge on the ground, and Anders knelt to pull aside the coverings. "He had been set upon by a large pack of wolves. They had almost done him in by the time we got there, but we killed the brutes and brought him back with us." He gave Hawke an apologetic grimace. "I know we aren't supposed to bring outsiders here, but none of us are healers, Hawke, and I couldn't leave him to die."

Marian patted his arm. "It's okay, Rolf. You did the right thing." She bent over Anders's shoulder at a surprised grunt from her lover. "Anders?"

"Love, I think we know this man. Or should I say elf?"

A strange tingle brought goose bumps to Fenris's tanned skin that had nothing to do with his tattoos. He brushed aside one of Rolf's companions and knelt beside Anders, hands twitching as his heart began to pound.

The figure was barely recognizable beneath the crimson-soaked leather armor. His blond hair lay in clumps caked with dried blood from which two pointed ears protruded, and a large, bruised bite dominated his neck. Fresh blood oozed from the gaping wound, but as horrible as it was to see, it wasn't what Fenris's eyes sought. Reaching out, he gently turned the elf's chin to one side, exposing a cheek delicately adorned with three sinuous lines.

Anders slapped away Fenris hand impatiently. "I have no idea what Zevran Arainai is doing here, but he's not going to last long like this, Marian. Can we get him to our tent?"

"Of course." Marian was already gesturing at Rolf, and the men took up the sledge once more and dragged it into Hawke's tent. A wave of dizziness washed over Fenris as he stood, and he was painfully aware of how fast his heart was racing. He's here. Did he come… for me? His feet moved without coherent thought, and he was at the tent entrance before he realized where he was going. Before he could pull aside the flap, Hawke reappeared, one hand pressed firmly against Fenris's chest.

"Uh, uh. Anders and I need peace and quiet to do this, Fenris. Thank you for making sure he wasn't a danger to us, but I can assure you Zevran means us no harm. Besides, he's hardly in any condition to attack us even if he wanted to."

Fenris blinked slowly, struggling to bring his shocked mind up to speed. "But…." But what? They don't know about Zevran's conversations with you, and they don't know about his… promise.

"Fenris?" Hawke frowned, a familiar furrow crinkling the skin between her brows as she returned his confused gaze.

"Of course." He swallowed and turned sharply on a bare heel, not allowing himself to look back as he walked away.

The next few hours passed with grating slowness, and Fenris kept watch by the campfire, sitting on a log far across the clearing from Hawke's tent. He had tried to pass the time by sharpening his blade but gave up when he kept dropping the whetstone. His fingers felt like they had lost all connection with his brain, and they twitched ceaselessly with little spasms that unnerved him more than the thoughts running through his head. He hated himself for his weakness, for the images that flashed within the depths of his mind: silky hair spilling over a slender shoulder, teeth glistening behind a wide, saucy grin, the slide of a finger against his wrist as a goblet is passed, warm lips pressed against his own.

"Pfft." He made an angry swipe with a steel-tipped hand as if to brush away annoying cobwebs and stood abruptly. His soles slapped the dirt with uncharacteristic disquiet as he strode toward Hawke's tent, back stiff with determination. Let them think what they will.

His hand grabbed the flap, but before he could open it, it was torn out of his grasp. Startled, he backpedaled as Hawke emerged from the tent with dark circles under her eyes and shoulders drooping as if carrying a heavy weight.

"Hawke?" He did not reach out to her. Touching a mage, any mage, was anathema to him. He abhorred the hum of magic against his skin, the mingling of Fade with lyrium that left him feeling unclean, regardless of the intent of the mage. It was not Hawke's fault; it simply was. It didn't mean he wasn't concerned.

"Sorry, Fenris. Just exhausted." She managed a weak smile. "But Zevran will live, and that's the important thing."

"He is… all right?"

"He will be." Hawke rubbed at the sweat on her forehead. "It was a close one. Thank the Maker for Anders." She glanced back at the tent for a moment with softened eyes. Fenris's lips thinned, but she didn't notice, and he cleared his expression as she turned back to him. "Zevran will be weak and feverish for a few days, but he should recover within a week."

"You and Anders must be tired. I will keep watch over him if you wish."

Hawke blinked in surprise but couldn't repress a sigh of relief. "You know, that would actually be wonderful if you could. I need rest, and I know Anders does too. The scouts I sent out were the same party that brought Zevran back, but their report can wait until morning. I'll go make up another tent for Anders and me, and Zevran can use ours until he's better." She started to stretch out a hand, a gesture of thanks, but stopped short as she remembered his preferences. "Thank you for doing this. If anything changes with Zevran's condition, just let us know." She headed off to find an empty tent, and Fenris took a deep breath before ducking under the tent flap.

Anders was facing the bedroll at the back corner with his hands pressed against his lower back, and Fenris heard the pop of spine as the mage stretched. Being in such close proximity to Anders made the back of his neck itch, the kind of itch that warned of imminent danger. He could sense the spirit within the man, feel it along the lines of lyrium embedded in his skin, and it was like tiny worms crawling through his veins. Repressing a shudder with willpower built from years of associating with Anders, he grunted to announce his entrance.

Anders turned to face him, and in spite of his antipathy toward the mage, Fenris flinched with pity. Anders's face was chiseled with deep shadows that accentuated the paleness of his skin. His lips were bleeding where he had bitten them in concentration, and his eyes were hollow with exhaustion. Even the ridiculous feathers of his coat seemed to droop in imitation of the lanky locks of hair framing his lined face.

"Hawke asked me to keep watch over him while you go rest."

Anders quirked one eyebrow. "You want to stay with Zevran?" He rubbed at the nape of his neck tiredly, working blunt fingers into the stiff tendons there. "Well, it certainly won't hurt anything, and Marian and I could use some sleep." He met Fenris's eyes almost tentatively. "Uh… thanks."

"You're welcome." Fenris stepped to one side, carefully avoiding even a brush with Anders's robes as the mage made his way out.

"If you need us, just wake us up." Anders glanced sidelong at Fenris from beneath lowered lids as he glided out, but thankfully said no more than that. The two of them had maintained an uneasy truce since Kirkwall, but Fenris never made any attempt to hide his dislike of Anders, and the mage had stopped trying to rectify the strained relationship. It is better this way. No pretense of friendship where none exists.

There was a second bedroll lying next to the one Zevran lay upon, and Fenris seated himself cross-legged next to the injured assassin. Finally alone in the tent, he allowed his eyes to examine Zevran's condition for himself.

They had removed his armor and undershirt and cleaned the blood from his skin and hair as much as possible. It was the first time Fenris had seen Zevran shirtless, and his gaze roamed over the muscled torso with interest. More dark tattoos outlined the curve of a pectoral and swirled gracefully over the taut abdomen to disappear beneath the loose trousers. Zevran's skin was smooth and golden from his years in Antiva, where Fenris knew the sun blazed hot year-round. There were several old scars: one half-hidden by the tattoo below his breast and another at his side below the last rib. A new, jagged claw mark swelled above his navel, but it was clean and uninfected.

The cheek that lacked a tattoo had a nasty bruise spread across the bronze skin, but his face was otherwise unmarred and just as beautiful as Fenris remembered. The word, beautiful, skittered around his brain, and he tried to squelch the thought before finally giving up. Zevran was beautiful, in the timeless manner of all elves, and his hair was even longer than Fenris remembered, although still stained with blood. It was a different shade of red that caught his attention, however, to the point where he sucked in his breath in shock.

For in that moment, Zevran stirred, drawing one arm from beneath the fur that covered his lower half. As his hand sprawled out to the side, Fenris's gaze was drawn to a string that wound three times around Zevran's slender wrist and was tied off with a careful knot. It was bright red, as red as the string that had wrapped the box of chocolate Zevran had offered to Fenris long ago, the same string Fenris had left behind in Kirkwall as token and message both.

The claws of his gauntlet creaked as he reached out one finger to caress the string and wonder at its presence. As he stretched out beside Zevran on the other bedroll, he kept his hand near the assassin's, not touching, simply there… close. As the flames died and the light faded to glowing embers, he remained awake, thinking of a rainy night and the taste of chocolate on his tongue.

A/N: This story is special to me because I've really wanted to write an older, more mature Zevran. This Zevran never had a relationship with the Warden, but he learned the value of friendship from her all the same. Many thanks to Zevgirl for her wisdom in improving my story! Reviews are welcome and treasured. If you wish to read the prequel, it is called Three Nights in Kirkwall and can be found under my profile.