'A night with the Tiove twins who will screech like the aos sí when they learn I do not have the coin to pay them.' Zevran pictured the two women. Both with fine, pale hair long enough to wrap around his fist several times, but their comely faces and buxom figures didn't warm him; he pitched another pebble into the placid pool.

The sun inched downwards in a bright spray of orange and violet, but his black mood persisted. He had tried – unsuccessfully – for the last hour to buoy his spirits with thoughts of his homecoming: the brothels he would visit (until word got around he had unaccountably tithed away the andris the job might have earned him) or Taliesin's outrageous braggadocio while he himself sipped colorless aguardiente between bites of chilled, ripe melon and merely nodded agreeably in silent accompaniment to the tale the other man told.

A vehement repetition of the unspoken litany, 'They should have killed me,' served as a reminder of his sleepless vigil – daggers in hand – tensely awaiting the Wardens' reprisal for his ill-planned ambush. When the morning's commotion finally coerced him to emerge from the tent, his eyes stinging and unwashed skin itching persistently, Zevran found the Warden named Sandor still breaking his fast on a bowl of thick porridge, his dog – no, the Fereldans called them mabari – curled obediently at his feet. The mage's unwavering stare held him mute; the moment felt like minutes stretched to hours, until, distracted by a sound behind him (the qunari, as he disassembled the assassin's now abandoned tent) Zevran looked away. When he turned back, the elf was gone; his dog lapped energetically at his owner's untouched meal.

The Antivan spent the day under oppressively silent observation. The company had not seen a soul, even though theirs was a group to draw curious looks. They passed through cultivated fields with overripe spring wheat and barley going to seed, ignoring the uncanny emptiness as if it were routine. Forgotten rumors of the Crows' quebrado returned with an unpleasant twinge, providing an unwanted parallel to his own situation. 'A cage remains a cage, even when the door is opened.' He groped restlessly for another stone. 'They should have killed me,' as the rock made a subdued splash into the water. If he ran, the Grey Wardens would be provided with the excuse they needed to cut him down – and he knew if he stayed, he would be killed for his part in Teryn Loghain's plan.

Had it been pastureland, the corobane would have been uprooted long ago – no farmer wanted the poisonous plant around his livestock – but here it grew in great feathery clumps along the roadside. Even with the human Warden's eye on him, with the call of nature as his excuse, it had been a simple thing during the privacy they afforded him to quickly unearth and strip them of their red-streaked stems. They resembled wild carrots and would be unremarkable in the crate of turnips and other vegetables – and he doubted Alistair's ability to discern the hemlock's rank stench from that of a parsnip's. By comparison, given that the potatoes currently topping the bin sprouted questing white tendrils, his clandestine contribution would be welcome and even considered appetizing. He considered it fitting repayment for the Grey Wardens' illusion of clemency.

The flimsy excuse he used for his late afternoon departure was received with the same stony glare of distrust – but the Templar didn't stop him and now, lip curled into an arrogant sneer, the assassin waited impatiently for them to die. 'They should have killed me.'

The surface of the puddle broke; small ripples fanned out from the source and vanished as quickly as they appeared. It was a fish, Zevran saw as he crouched, astonished, peering down: a fish, no longer than the length of his forefinger, darting frantically back and forth. Agitated by his preoccupied fidgeting, the creature alternately mouthed the gravel, only to expel it with equal force, or nudged the stones towards several already established piles within the shallow basin.

It was a curious puzzle; his experience with fish was limited to eating them, but the Antivan knew they did not live in stagnant puddles in the middle of a forest. Were they like cows and sheep that fed on clumps of grass stubbornly taken root underwater? There was nothing like that here. Zevran supposed fish ate insects or… other fish? Did they have teeth? The large no doubt fed on the weak – perhaps this one was the last remaining survivor of a pool once teeming with tiny fry. Its presence might be a mystery, but one thing was true – it would not live for much longer, not with winter on fall's horizon.

He watched it swim. The creature finally calmed, although it still gave narrow berth to the receding shadow he cast. Eventually the fingerling stilled and simply floated, using only the occasional flick of a fin to steadily hold its position.

It was as tranquilly oblivious to its fate as any of his marks had ever been, but nature's cruelty bothered him.

Zevran departed at full dark; he intended to return to Antiva in as much style as the dead men's money would buy him, so the Wardens' camp still needed to be ransacked before he worked his way back to Denerim. The fish, spared its harsh future, floated sideways in the pool; its severed, sightless head seemingly following the assassin's progress until he was out of sight.

He could prowl Antiva City's alleyways blindfolded and still end up at his destination but the forest confounded him. It was the distressed barking that led him – as his own personal sense of direction couldn't – back to the camp. Nominally grateful for its guidance, the dog was a previously forgotten, but now additionally vexatious complication. As he detoured around another clump of low, thorny bushes, Zevran decided the animal might have earned itself a reprieve, if its loyalty outlived its owner. It probably wouldn't allow him near the elven mage's corpse, but extending its protectiveness to guarding against scavengers would just be a matter of centralizing where the bodies were.

The other obvious flaws in his plan grew more apparent the closer he came to the campsite, which was nothing more than a weak yellowish glow through the thick stand of pines in front of him. Travelling at night was out of the question; fumbling around in the dark woodland brought back… distasteful reminders of his time in Laurisilva. If the dog kept barking, it would eventually draw the wrong sort of attention: authorities of some sort, or bandits – and would certainly keep him from a restful night's sleep. He iterated his list again. 'A caldari until my aches are soothed, the tepidari until I am clean, a plate of oysters so fresh they snap closed with the lightest tap, that – a bottle of fino – and the Tiove twins when I return to Antiva City,' as he vaulted easily over a mossy log, which brought him to the pounded dirt path the group followed to the secluded grove to set up camp. The narrow break in the trees bathed him in welcoming light, but the tableau it illuminated froze him disbelievingly to the spot.

'Mahdotonta…'

The sight triggered a wave of self-loathing so chokingly strong he nearly turned and fled back into the forest, but it only took an eye blink to bury the emotion under unruffled nonchalance, while his heart hammered the lie in his chest.

Impossibly, the Grey Wardens lived. Past the haphazardly arranged tents, the overwrought mabari capered eagerly at his master's heels, the two involved in a rowdy rough-and-tumble that left both of them filthy. That Sandor should be playing a game with such carefree abandon… His vision tunneled, the assassin savagely willed the elven Warden to turn and look at him, to see him – anything to provoke this inevitable, final confrontation – when a hand clamped down on his upper arm. He reflexively tried to jerk free of the mailed grip, which only tightened in response.

"Zevran. You're back and you must be hungry. I bet you're starving."

Alistair half-dragged him the few steps to where Leliana tended the fire and released him with an abrupt shove. The Antivan let nothing of his suppressed tension show on his face, but his muscles trembled in anticipation. 'Soon. Soon we settle this.' He began cataloguing what he might use as makeshift weapons – a handful of dirt and pebbles, a brand from the fire, the fire itself – anything to lend him an unexpected advantage when the fight began.

"Alistair…"

"No, Leliana! His mabari wouldn't eat it! I know–"

'The dog. Of course, the dog.' The mental image of Alistair, extending the wooden spoon for the animal to sample as he stirred the group's supper nauseated him, for more than just the obvious reason. Such an amateurish mistake would have killed him in Antiva. The Crows were unforgiving of incompetence in their ranks.

"Lower your voice or Sandor will hear you! We agreed–" the woman warned with a significant tilt of her head.

"You agreed. I can always apologize afterwards." Over Leliana's squawked protest, Alistair ended the argument by drawing his sword. He pointed it at Zevran's midsection and spoke with forced casualness belied by his grim, narrow-eyed stare. "Don't worry; I made sure to save you some stew." The blade dipped marginally, indicating a bowl on the ground filled with a thick, brownish mixture, a layer of grease congealed into a cream-colored crust around its edge.

Zevran was cornered. "Ah… no. Thank you my friend, but no." he temporized smoothly. "Perhaps in time I will grow more accustomed to your cooking but I find the fortifying fare you served us this morning has, for the time being, sated my appetite in regards to sampling any more Fereldan cuisine." The assassin took a barely perceptible step backwards.

Alistair's lips narrowed to an angry slit at the glib response. "No? But it's a shame to let it go to waste." The Templar took a step forward to match the one the assassin had taken in subtle retreat, his sword once again pointing at the elf. "Really. I insist."

He should never have lingered to try and salvage his reputation, should have fled when he had the chance, should have taken Taliesin's aid when he offered it, never bid for the contract and maybe he should have believed… The regrets scurried through Zevran's mind like ruby-eyed sewer rats.

His exhaustion nagged remorselessly at him, along with a sudden, pervasive longing that this – all of this – be over and done with, finished beyond his capacity to care about the outcome. 'There is yet a third option,' a sly, inner voice wheedled. With a single bite, he would give everyone irrefutable proof he was what they all believed him to be: a treacherous liar, a worthless failure. His legacy to the Crows: to serve as a warning to those whose egos outstripped their skills in the macabre description of the slow, muscle weakening tremors, dimming vision and violent convulsions he suffered before he died, paralyzed and unable to breathe. Zevran stooped and stirred the stew with his finger, studying it with a scholar's intensity before finally plucking out a blanched orange slice. Valle di Cadore's cruelly mocking laughter echoed bitterly in his memory as he looked from Alistair to the red-haired woman. Leliana's pledged belief in his probable innocence was empty; she watched his movements as intently as the human Warden with no further mention of–

The thought dawned slowly, battering its way into his consciousness, although the intense surge of indefinable emotion that came with it flickered away as he tried to grasp it.

–summoning the mage to intervene, again, on his behalf. Zevran stood, lifting the root to his lips, going through the motions of chewing and swallowing. "There, you see, Grey Warden? Perfectly–"

Face contorted, the Antivan doubled over, his body shaking. Uncertainty flickered across Alistair's features, but before he could act, the elf straightened and with an easy chuckle, eeled out of reach of the other's blade.

"I have passed your test, no?" The poisoned offering was gripped tightly, deftly palmed and ready to be cast into the fire as soon as the humans' backs were turned. "The only harm that comes will be in what you choose to do to me now, Grey Warden."

The two stared at one another. It was Alistair who gave way, lashing out at the bowl with a furious kick that sent it flying. Liquid spattered against the tents; chunks of meat and vegetables oozed down the material, leaving behind glistening brown slug trails of gravy. With enough force to push his sword through its scabbard, the Templar sheathed his weapon and stalked past Zevran, his eyes reflecting yellow-orange flames as he passed, shouldering the elf roughly aside.

"It would be wiser not to make an enemy of him."

The woman's hand covered his clenched fist, a tentative touch. Zevran felt the first prickles of a cold sweat break out along his ribcage. He made a conscious effort not to pull away. "Sweet lady, even with my extensive and varied skillset, I cannot unmake what he already is."

"If that were true, he'd have killed you."

"Would he have indeed?"

"If you think–"

"So I am to believe I have simply been forgiven my part in the ambush that nearly claimed the lives of Ferelden's remaining Grey Wardens? That we will now travel about the countryside, the best of friends?" He scoffed. "I have faith in my friends, well enough. Faith that they will one day stab me in my back."

Leliana's hand tightened around his. The assassin felt the softened hemlock turn pulpy in his grip. "I know it's difficult for you to trust us, but–"

He let her talk, but only half-listened as she regurgitated what she knew about the Crows, as if her knowledge of their widespread propaganda forged a bond between the two of them and elevated her to the role of mediator between himself and the Wardens whose cause she now championed.

Instead, he gazed at a point just over her shoulder. The mabari had managed to wrestle Sandor to the ground. The animal held his wrist in its mouth and the two made a comical sight – every attempt the elven Warden made to stand was counterbalanced by the mabari's size and superior leverage.

Leliana's ongoing commentary recaptured his attention, startling him to harsh, unexpected laughter. "Truly?" He jerked his head in the direction of the mage. "You do not think he would himself jump at the chance to repay me for my duplicity? But perhaps that is what you mean by upset."

"Oh Zevran… I wish I could make you understand."

"Is it so very complicated?" The assassin's patience was abruptly at an end; the adrenaline sustaining him was beginning to ebb. "There are seven within shouting distance who would happily see me dead."

He had worked the tally of humans, dwarves and the qunari in his head and she confronted it with an innocent smile. "Seven?"

"I do not count the dog." he snapped back instantly.

The angry heat of his voice scalded her and she drew back, away from him, repulsed by the spiteful barb. Then her jaw firmed and she shot back, "Is your life in Antiva so worth going back to, if you succeed on your mission? Or is your life worth so little to you that you don't care if you fail?"

He gaped, open-mouthed, and groped for an appropriately snide remark, but she didn't allow him the satisfaction of having the last word, striding past and out into the black woods, her face shuttered of outward emotion, unlike Alistair's open scorn.

With no one left to vent his frustration on, Zevran hurled the crushed root into the fire. 'A night with the Tiove twins, a feast of maruca and orujo for everyone, even those who doubted me…' but then as now, there was no joy accompanying the thoughts.

He glanced over at Sandor, who in the interim had regained his feet. Their game appeared to be winding down and he watched the other elf run a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his good eye. It left behind a muddy palm print that darkened his forehead and bled into his hairline like an accidental inkblot. The mabari stood sentinel on the mage's blind, bandaged side and after a further attempt at ineffective personal grooming, the two also retreated into the forest.

'I survive.' More than he wanted when he came to Ferelden. More than he would have believed two days ago. More than he hoped for yesterday.

He could dismiss what Leliana had said – call them all a bunch of naïve fools for allowing an assassin in their midst – but everything came back to the blurted promise. Made under duress, certainly; a lie then and obviously a lie now. 'Why did I swear such an oath in the first place?' The hollow vow saved his life, for the hour or two he thought he needed to execute an escape, fulfilling his contract in the process. Yet here he still was, two days later: his clumsy plan thwarted by an animal's sensitivities and three opportunities squandered by remaining, now, in camp. 'Why, why, why, why…'

Smoke rose. It curled, twisted and dissipated – a ghostly breath enumerating all possible outcomes of this one, unexpected, impossible choice.

Learn.

Ignore.

Succeed.

Fail.

Despair.

Hope.

Flee.

Stay.

Trust.

Betray.

He stared into the fire; its flames slithered over the dry wood, cross-hatching the bottommost log with ochre lines, bright against its charred brown surface. Stared until he knew he'd be night blind, with unfamiliar sounds settling into his consciousness, registering as normal, but all still foreign to him: wind and leaf and bird and squirrel, with rustles and chirps and an eerie but gentle shush shush as if the world itself pled for quiet.

'Why…' He felt the weight lift from his shoulders, cast away like he'd discarded the poison hemlock, replaced by a comfortable, self-assured smile. 'Well, why not?'

Author's Note: Second Chances is one of the first things I wrote for Dragon Age: Origins, back before The Power of Blood began to take shape in my head. I don't know if I'd say it's vastly different from the original, but how about only remotely resembles? This story is based on a piece of dialogue that only female Wardens (female Cousland Wardens?) get regarding a second attempt on the Warden's life. David Gaider has said that it was originally intended for Zevran to try to kill the Warden three times (ambush, 2nd time, Taliesin confrontation) but it seemed to stretch the Warden's goodwill to allow him so many second chances (hence my clever title), so the middle one was cut – but that sliver of dialogue was never pulled. That Zevran would try immediately after the ambush never seemed unreasonable to me. This is the result. Thankfully, Perro knows what's best for everyone, and no one was harmed in the making of this stew.

I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).