Author's Note: It's good to be back! Life has gotten pretty crazy in the last several weeks; I've recently picked up a few new clients, and my schedule is positively packed for the entire month of December. Somehow I've been able to sneak in a few hours here and there to scribble away at my writing, and this is the latest result. I have every intention of completing this story, but I want to warn my lovely readers that updates may be slow going depending on just how insane my life continues to be. Please bare with me, I know how frustrating it is to be reading a fanfic only to have it die halfway through!

I mostly rated this story M for adult content that could potentially be added later, once I decide exactly how I want to handle certain aspects of it. Better safe than sorry in my opinion.

As always, please let me know what you think, the good, the bad and the ugly. One of the reasons I do these stories is to practice my writing (the other being that I'm hopelessly in love with the characters Bioware has created) and constructive feedback is always appreciated.

Other than that, I hope you all enjoy!

To Conspire With an Antivan - Chapter 1

"Ah! An excellent job!" The Antivan called as he threw the body of their last adversary off of his blades and to the ground, "Truly there is nothing like a battle between former brothers in arms to make one feel alive, no?"

"Well, that's one way to put it," Hawke answered sardonically. Grimacing, she wiped the blood off her staff on a nearby corpse. "Though if all you wanted was something to reinforce your appreciation of life, might I suggest a walk along the beach, maybe a good old life-affirming sunrise next time? This seems like an awful lot of unnecessary shoulder rubbing with death if you ask me."

She looked around, finally able to take in the aftermath of the bloodbath that had been their confrontation with the Crows. More than a dozen bodies littered the ground of the camp, among them the remains of their leader, Nuncio. The Antivan, a charismatic elf named Zevran, had gone to great lengths to ensure he was the one to bring about the commander's end, and had done so with a flamboyant gusto the likes of which Hawke doubted she would ever witness again.

"Quick in a fight with an even quicker tongue, it is no wonder they call you the Champion, my friend," Zevran mused, tilting his blonde head to one side while he smirked and narrowed his gaze, sheathing his blades as he did so.

Hawke ignored the elf's comment as she turned toward her friends, though she could still feel Zevran's sharp eyes on her back from across the clearing. It sent an involuntary shiver up her spine, though she couldn't tell if it was because he disturbed or fascinated her. In truth the rogue was a bit unnerving to be around, what with his jovial approach to murdering his own former allies. She would be lying to herself, however, if she said he wasn't attractive or ridiculously charming, certainly on first impressions.

As much as Hawke would have liked to deny it, their new acquaintance was causing an unmistakable flutter in the pit of her stomach, which concerned her to no end. Only one other person had caused such a reaction before. Someone stoic and sagacious, with an enthralling wit and a sinfully rich voice which always left her hanging from his every word. That is, when he deigned to speak to her of course. This someone had also been capable of turning Hawke into a lovestruck imbecile who thought she had somehow proven herself worthy of his affection, even despite his deep-seated prejudice of what she was. Quite an impressive skill, and an effective one at that, as it had earned him full access to her bed and breeches for a single evening's tryst which was still painfully fresh in her memory. Admittedly she knew she would have gladly allowed many more nights just like it, had he not made it clear he considered their coupling a horrendous mistake before storming out into the night and crushing any hopes she may have harbored that he cared for her as she did him. With this past limited, and quite frankly disastrous, experience taken in to consideration, Hawke felt justified in being wary around anyone who made her feel anything similar to what Fenris regretfully still managed to.

An all too familiar wave of embarrassment and hurt washed over her at the thought of him, threatening to send the so-called "Champion of Kirkwall" into one of the melancholic moods she had so far been successful in hiding from her companions. Hawke shook herself hard. Now was not the time to re-open old wounds. She needed to know her friends were still standing and in more or less one piece before she would allow the bitterness she felt to creep into her veins and take root.

"You really are pathetic," she scolded herself silently, setting her jaw in determination, "Three years later, and you're still sulking. Just wait until you're home for the dramatics, then you can have a nice hot bath and mope all you want."

She forced herself to focus on the others who had come with her, knowing it would be a poor way to thank them for their help if she allowed them to keel over because she was too busy dwelling in the past. Her healing spells might not be able to hold a candle to Anders', but she could at least patch them up enough so they could hobble down Sundermount and back to Kirkwall if necessary.

Luckily upon first inspection it seemed no such assistance was needed. Varric had perched himself on an overturned barrel, muttering under his breath about the gore he was already collecting on his new boots as he brushed them clean with a rag. Isabela was casually wiping away blood which was not her own from her face, joining Zevran (who she apparently had some sordid history with - Hawke was certain she did not want to know) and chatting happily about how she would need a stiff drink once they made it back to the Hanged Man. Hawke gave a small sigh of relief. The two of them were obviously no worse for wear if their immediate concerns were so petty. It was only then that she permitted herself to find their final companion, purposefully seeking him out last so as not to seem over-eager, and instantly kicked herself for not looking sooner.

Fenris stood off from the rest of the group, as silent as ever despite the trail of blood seeping out from underneath the hand he held against his left shoulder. The sheer amount of crimson staining his armor and skin made it obvious whatever wound he was concealing was deep and had been open for some time. Hawke had no doubt the elf had been injured within the first few minutes of the scrap, only to brush off the new gash to keep fighting as he had foolishly done so many times before. She could never decide if she felt such perseverance was admirable or idiotic. Her temper flaring, Hawke stalked over to the elf, who noticed and watched her approach with a grimace which suggested her presence made him feel physically ill.

"Were you planning on telling me you were hurt any time soon?" she asked, coming to a halt in front of him with her hands on her hips à la Leandra Hawke. "Or were you waiting to pass out from blood loss for dramatic effect?"

"It is nothing," he said gruffly, going out of his way to avoid eye contact with her by hiding behind the thick sheet of his hair.

"Andraste's ass its nothing, you're bleeding like a stuck boar! Now let me take a look at it before it gets infected."

"That is not necessary."

"It most certainly is necessary. Give me your arm!"

"No."

"Why in the bloody Void not?"

"I do not want you to heal me, Hawke."

"Oh come off it, Fenris," she said, rolling her eyes while a soft green glow engulfed her hand. "I know I'm no Anders, but he isn't here and this needs to be healed before it gets any worse. It'll only hurt for a moment if you'd just stay still. Stop acting like a child and let me help yo-"

Hawke gave a start and a small, nearly inaudible gasp as something sharp bit at her skin, a brilliant blue light flashing to life in front of her. Before she had time to react, her hand was caught mid-reach between herself and Fenris' injured shoulder, pulled away to the side and held in a vice-like grip which dug the points of his gauntlet into her wrist. His grasp relaxed the instant she reacted to the pain, relieving most of the pressure and removing the stab of the metal completely, though he did not forgo his hold of her limb. She tried to cover up the initial shock at his aggression and the discomfort he had caused her, doing her best to hide it behind a defiant glare before lifting her face to meet his.

"I said no," he growled quietly, green eyes flashing with some unreadable emotion even as the lyrium veins in his skin quickly cooled and died.

"FINE!" Hawke spat, wrenching her hand from his with far more force than was needed. She spun on her heel to turn her back on him, hands trembling as she fumbled with the fastening of a leather pouch at her hip. After a bit of frustrated searching she pulled a small red vial from its depths, only to shove it unceremoniously into Fenris' chest without looking back at him, wincing as her bare knuckles made contact with the metal of his breastplate. A few moments passed with the two of them frozen in pointed silence before she felt his body shift behind her, raising his hand slowly to the center of his sternum and her fist. Hawke pulled away the instant she felt cool flesh brush against her own to close around the glass, least her traitorous heart beat loud enough against her ribs to expose how he still was able to affect her, even when acting the complete ass.

"Drink that when you decide you don't want to bleed to death," she said with half-hearted snark, her chest tightening painfully at the possibility, "Unless you think my elfroot potions are beneath you as well."

She stormed away without another word, unwilling to wait for whatever boorish comment he would have poised on the tip of his tongue to wound her with further. Moving as far from him as she could without leaving the camp and thereby abandoning those of her companions she was not currently furious with, Hawke threw herself down onto a wide crate by the entrance of one of the Crow's tents, her staff tossed carelessly to the ground beside her. She cradled her head in her hands with a huff, focusing on Varric and Isabela whilst going out of her way to avoid having Fenris anywhere near her line of sight. The two rogues had started fiddling with a few promising looking chests which were scattered among the dead assassins, no doubt hoping to find spoils from their fight that could be fenced in the Lowtown market for a few extra sovereigns.

It did not take long for Hawke's conscience to begin gnawing at her, chastising her for her decision to stomp off without making sure the potion had mended the elf's wound properly. She knew she should at least glance over towards him, if for nothing other than to set her own mind at ease, but her irritation only feed her resolve to do no such thing. If Fenris was so determined not to be tainted by her magic to preserve his precious pride then by all means, let him drop dead. What did it matter to her, anyway?

"More than you care to admit," a firm voice in the back of her head said, "and you know it, Marian."

Hawke groaned, acquiescing defeat, and dropped her face into her palms again. She had not been surprised that Fenris, being the hard-headed, arrogant bastard he was, had refused her help at first. He always had been slow to concede to the fact that he needed assistance in anything. What had really stung her self-esteem was finding out in such a forceful display that the elf was so wary of her intentions he would rather carry an open wound than permit her to use even the smallest bit of magic on him. It did not help Hawke's bruised ego that Anders, Anders of all people, someone she knew Fenris utterly loathed, had been allowed to heal him without so much as a sneer more times than she could ever hope to remember. She cringed, willing herself not to speculate on what horrible things Fenris must think about her if he would choose a so-called abomination's aid over her own. And yet Hawke knew, even after coming to this painful realization, that she would continue to humiliate herself again and again as she tried to piece together some semblance of a relationship between herself and the former slave. Maker, why did she insist on constantly torturing herself?

"May I join you?" A smooth, accented voice asked, breaking her train of thought and causing her heart to stutter, "Or am I intruding on a private moment?"

Hawke lifted her head from her hands and glanced up into warm amber eyes. Zevran stood waiting a few feet in front of her, the same smirk from earlier firmly in place on his lips with one brow raised in question.

"Oh, no," Hawke lied, pushing herself to one side of the crate and motioning to the newly emptied space, "feel free."

"My thanks, Champion," Zevran said gratefully as he lowered himself next to Hawke on the makeshift bench. Once settled, the Antivan closed his eyes, leaning back to cradle his head in one hand against the support beam of the tent behind them. They sat in silence for a while, Hawke doing her best not to think of Fenris so as to avoid any further dejection in her expression. Eager for a distraction from her thoughts of the warrior, she focused her attention on a flock of gulls hovering above the surf as they sought out their midday meal, the pounding of the waves on the coast below them drowning out their shrill calls.

"It is quite relaxing, isn't it?"

Hawke pulled her gaze from the sea birds to find Zevran's eyes open and trained intently on her.

"What, the whole slaughtering mercenaries thing?" she asked, only half convinced her answer would be wrong when it came to this particular man. Zevran gave a hearty chuckle at her suggestion, eyes glinting as a half-smile curled the corner of his mouth.

"As much as my behavior in our short time together may suggest, Champion, not everything in my life revolves quite so heavily around death."

"You can't blame me for assuming," she said, earning herself another laugh from the elf, "What were you referring to, then?"

"The ocean," he said with reverence, closing his eyes as he took in a deep breath, "The salt in the air, the cool breeze off the sea and the roar of the waves. There is nothing so calming in all of Thedas. Of course, having the pleasure of a beautiful woman such as yourself by my side only adds to the experience."

"I see," Hawke said, snorting in an attempt to hide the pleasurable jolt his words caused. "You can skip the blatant flattery, Zevran, what do you want?"

"What do you mean?"

"In my experience, compliments are normally followed by requests for me to track down some poor sod's favorite long-lost pie tin or some other such rubbish. I've had a long day, so if it's all the same to you, let's just skip to the part where you ask me to do whatever it is you want me to do and I'm too much of a push over to say no."

"My dear Champion -"

"It's Hawke."

"Hawke," Zevran nodded in willing compliance, sitting himself forward to turn himself to face her, "I only say that you are beautiful because it is so. I do not seek any such favors for simply speaking the truth."

"Is that so?" Hawke asked in an attempt to appear nonchalant, though she was sure the crack in her voice made her fluster quite clear. One of her fingers instinctively found its home in a ringlet of her hair, twisting the dark stands upon themselves as she always did when she found herself out of her element. Feeling the tell-tale warmth rise in her cheeks, she sent a silent prayer to the Maker that her face had managed to stay a relatively normal shade of pink and not heat to flaming scarlet.

"Si, Bella, of course," he said with an air of incredulity, as though the point should be obvious to her, "Zevran Arainai is many things; former assassin, thief, conspirator and, depending on who you ask, a terrible lecher, but never a liar. At least when it comes to simple confessions of beauty, that is."

"You certainly have no qualms when it comes to being honest about yourself," Hawke said, smiling at the elf despite the last remnants of unease she felt regarding him. The smug grin and flash of white teeth he offered in response were all that was needed to cause every one of these lingering qualms to vanish. Hawke was no fool, however; she could see there was a motivation other than simple flirtations behind Zevran's casual smile and cajolery as easily as the nose on his face. Exactly what kind of game the Antivan was playing at, or if she would regret her non-existent resistance to it when whatever he was scheming came to a head, Hawke could not tell - though she found herself caring very little. If worst came to worst, she reasoned, she would end up right back where she had started, and if she got to enjoy a bit of convincing adulation along the way then all the better. If nothing else, it would help restore some of the wind in her sails Fenris had so effectively deflated over the years.

"Thank-you for that, I suppose," she said, unsure of how best to continue their conversation from this point, "The compliment, I mean."

The assassin waved off her gratitude with his hand. "Please, my friend, I need no thanks."

Hawke only half heard what the man had said, as when his arm came into view her attention was stolen by a long wound plastered with dried blood. The lesion stretched from the joint of the elf's wrist down the length of his arm, stopping just shy of his elbow. Without thinking she grabbed his wrist as gently as she could to pull it towards herself, realizing all too late he may be just as open to her assistance as Fenris had been.

"How did this happen?" she asked, surprised at the lack of resistance he offered her as she turned the limb over to get a closer look at the gash, pulling him closer to her in the process. The skin which was not torn was smooth as silk, and the rest of him gave off the pleasant smell of exotic spices and fine brandy. Hawke had to bite her tongue to keep from sighing at the exquisite aroma.

"Ah, that is courtesy of Nuncio. A final parting gift between friends, it would seem," Zevran said easily, unperturbed by her touch or their sudden closer proximity to one another.

"It needs to be taken care of, sooner rather than later," Hawke said, parroting the advice she had given Fenris not ten minutes ago while she carefully brushed away a few loose flakes of blood from Zevran's skin, "It's not very deep, but the last thing you want is for it to start festering, especially since it takes up most of your arm. I have a friend in Darktown who can patch this up in no time. I'll take you to him if you would like."

"Is there no way to treat it now?"

"I'd offer you an elfroot potion, but I just gave our last one to Fenris for his shoulder."

"Ah, yes, the branded elf. I overheard the argument you had with him earlier," he said. The former Crow miraculously chose that time to look towards Fenris, missing the renewed rise of color in Hawke's face. "He is a rather sullen fellow, is he not?"

She turned to follow Zevran's gaze, her eyes falling on Fenris for the first time since their spat. 'Sullen' didn't even begin to scratch the surface of the warrior's current mood. If she had been asked to describe it to someone, Hawke would have chosen 'positively livid'. He stood in nearly the exact same spot she had left him in earlier, shoulders ram-rod straight and fists balled. He was glaring at the closest corpse with ire which would suggest the body had uttered an appalling insult to his honor only moments ago. Eventually Fenris raised his eyes to meet hers from across the clearing, though he dropped his gaze from her instantly, his already stony expression growing impossibly harder as he did so.

"Fenris can be... difficult, yes," Hawke said with a sigh, looking away from the elf so as to avoid the temptation to return to him for a second doomed attempt at making him see reason. "But he is a good man, not to mention a damn fine fighter. He's saved mine and my friends' lives on a weekly basis for years now."

"It seems foolish of him to reject your offer of ensuring his own is allowed to continue, then," Zevran said, returning to his original position with his back in Fenris' direction. When Hawke gave a puzzled look at his remark, he continued, "You offered to heal him, did you not? And yet he reacts as though you were conspiring to poison him."

"He probably feels that it's about the same thing," Hawke thought miserably, recalling his harsh refusal of her help before explaining, in as vague terms as possible, "Fenris has had – uncomfortable experiences when it comes to magic."

"I see," Zevran said simply, thankfully uninterested in a more detailed explanation which Hawke would not have been willing to provide, "I wonder, then, if I might not be able to take advantage of his missed opportunity?"

"Excuse me?" Hawke asked, trying to decipher just what the Antivan was implying and whether or not she should be offended. He answered her with a gesture towards his still injured arm, causing Hawke to feel both relieved and incredibly stupid at the same time. Of course he had meant healing, how much of a simpleton was she?

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather have my friend look at it?" she asked hesitantly, a hint of nervousness she hoped only she could hear in her voice. She couldn't deny the fact that her confidence in her abilities had been shaken by Fenris' actions. "Anders really is much better at healing than I am – it's far from my strongest skill."

"My dear Hawke, if your healing abilities possess merely a fraction of the strength your spells from our – disagreement – with the Crows had, then I would not be surprised to see you bring someone back from the dead!"

"Now you really are trying to flatter me."

"Naturally."

"Oh, all right then, give me your arm, and hold still." She held out her hand and Zevran complied, placing his injured arm into her own as she conjured up the familiar green glow, trying not to allow the feel of his skin to divert her attention from the task at hand. The last thing she needed was to lose focus now and prove Fenris' hesitations valid by making some easily avoided mistake.

"This will hurt a bit. It may be magic, but your nerves still work, unfortunately."

"Duly noted."

She felt the muscles under his skin tense ever so slightly as she made contact with her spell, only to have him relax back into the cradle of her arm. She worked quickly, aware that in order to avoid the most discomfort for the man she needed to finish before the flesh became over-exposed to the tug and pull of her magic. A few tense minutes later, Hawke was able to admire the result of her handy work while Zevran flexed and twisted his mended limb.

"It seems your healing is far too efficient," he said lightheartedly, eyes trained on his repaired arm, "Not even a scar to keep as a memento! What will I have to use as proof that I once fought by the side of Kirkwall's Champion?"

"I could write you out a letter of authenticity if you'd like," Hawke said, pulling out a rag from her pouch and wetting it with water from her canteen. "Or autograph your arm. 'To Zevran, the most disturbing bastard I've ever met. Hawke'."

"I may just take you up on that offer," Zevran said, taking the damp cloth from her to clean off the rest of the blood still coating his arm. Hawke felt her stomach do the smallest of flips as his hand brushed her own and another whiff of spices drifted past her.

"You have my thanks once more, Hawke," he said sincerely when he had finished, handing the rag back to her after wringing it out. "You have been most charitable."

"It was just a healing spell."

"It was far more than the spell, my friend. You must realize that there are dreadfully few people who would so willingly help a stranger, let alone fight by his side and tend to his wounds in the aftermath. Your kindness is a tragic rarity in this world."

Hawke could not be sure whether or not she had imagined it, but she could have sworn she'd seen something in the elf's ever smooth, confident expression falter for the briefest of moments as he spoke. No sooner had the change presented itself to her however than it had disappeared behind tan skin and warm eyes, leaving her gawking at the man beside her. Zevran either did not notice or care that she was staring, choosing instead to look over his shoulder at the others in their group.

"Isabela and the dwarf have finished collecting their spoils," he said, nodding toward the two rogues whose packs were now significantly fuller than they had been when they first reached the camp. "And it seems that your Fenris is growing most impatient."

Hawke couldn't help but snort at the Antivan's words as she looked to the white-haired elf, who had somehow managed to become even surlier in the short time between when she had first glanced at him and now. Fenris looked up, almost as if he had sensed her eyes on him, only to snarl at the attention and mutter something she knew would be in Arcanum and unfit to be repeated in polite company.

"My Fenris," she laughed inwardly, doing her best to ignore how her heart clenched at the suggestion, "as if he would even let me close enough."

"Let's not keep them waiting then," she said instead, rising from the crate and retrieving her staff from the sand. Zevran nodded in agreement, standing as the two of them made their way to her companions' sides.

"Here, Hawke," the dwarf said upon their arrival, his arm outstretched as he passed her a burlap sack whose contents made a muffled clinking noise. "They had a few lyrium potions on them. Figured you could make better use of them than I could. Your cut of the coin we found is in there too."

"Thanks, Varric. Planning on winning it all back from me tonight at Diamondback as usual?"

"But of course!"

"What about you, Zevran?" Isabela asked, slinging her pack over her shoulder and resting her free hand at her hip. "Care to join us tonight? It's been far too long since I've robbed you blind at cards."

"A tempting offer. If I remember correctly, Isabela, the last time we played I wound up tied to a bed in one of the Pearl's rooms with nothing to my name but my smalls. Do you intend to leave me in such a state once more?"

"If you're stupid enough to bet your armor and then some again."

"Then I would not miss it for the world," Zevran said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. Hawke was sure she would have soon begun to feel uncomfortable with where their conversation was headed, had her train of thought not been interrupted.

"We are to associate with an assassin now?" Fenris asked, the sudden harshness of his voice nearly making Hawke jump out of her skin. He had joined them silently, and now stood behind and between Hawke and Zevran, glaring at the former Crow with an intensity fit to set the man on fire. Hawke saw, with a mixture of relief and annoyance at his earlier antics, that his arm was once again whole. "Does our party not contain enough miscreants as it is?"

"Oh relax, Broody," Varric said, easily brushing off the elf's vitriol. "If the man's as bad at cards as it sounds, you might actually win some coin for once."

"So it's settled! We'll see you at eight o'clock," Isabela said, beaming as she took hold of Zevran's shoulder and marched him down the path which led back to Kirkwall rather abruptly, chattering excitedly about a hat shop in Lowtown she wanted to show him. Fenris glared after them, not bothering to disguise his contempt while Varric eyed him with amusement.

"Something about Rivaini's friend rub you the wrong way, elf? It's the tattoos, isn't it? Don't worry, he's got nothing on you. Isabela says his don't even glow, can you imagine?"

"The Crow is of little consequence to me, dwarf."

"Then why are you acting like such a tit?" Hawke asked angrily, more to herself than anyone in particular. She had apparently not been as subtle as she thought, however, as Varric snorted into his gloved hand, failing miserably at playing it off as a cough while Fenris finally pulled his focus from the retreating couple to glare at her instead.

"I'm merely wondering whether it is wise to place ourselves in the company of a man such as him."

"And why is that?"

"I do not believe his - motivations – are honorable."

"Isabela trusts him, Fenris, and I trust Isabela. That's good enough for me."

"Yes, a wonderful plan," he snapped, eyes darkening, "Place your confidence in a whore whose disloyalty is the reason you were nearly run through by the Arishok. Pure brilliance."

Hawke felt her temper rise, burning at the back of her throat as a multitude of potential retorts raced through her head, begging to be thrown in his face. She could feel her fingernails digging into the flesh of her palm, and tasted blood as she caught the inside of her cheek in her clenched jaw. The small stabs of pain distracted her long enough to allow a few deep, slow breaths, effectively tamping down her frustration. Rather than sling insults, she settled for a loud sigh.

"I'm not having this argument," she said firmly, "Not now, not ever. If Zevran comes, he bloody well comes. He's not going to hurt anyone by playing cards and drinking piss poor ale."

"Well, that is unless he and Rivaini share the same hobby of starting bar brawls once they're three sheets to the wind."

"Helpful, Varric, thank you," Hawke said, shaking her head as she started on the path Isabela and Zevran had left down minutes earlier, "I'm going home for a bath and a bit of sanity now, if it's all the same to you lot."

"We'll be seeing you at eight then, Hawke!" she heard Varric shout, ignoring him as she trudged along the sandy trail, far too eager for a moment's peace before the night's card game to be bothered to look back.