Thanks to my dear friend ShebasDawn for her help with this chapter - thanks to her, it's finally free of errors. If there are any left, that's my fault - I have a bad habit to change things after she finishes editing, and I'm an extremely efficent and prolific grammar-wrecker. xD

(note: I also decided to change meters and centimeters for inches and yards, but it will take some time (read = months or years xD) till all chapters are corrected, so pls forgive me this inconsistency.)

Failed To Fail

He shifted his weight from his right leg to his left and suppressed a yawn. The guard shot an annoyed look at him, but didn't say anything. Damn these nobles, leaving him to wait so long. It had to have been at least an hour. What did he care for their civil war or that Plight or whatever it was? He just wanted to do his mission. Or fail. Whatever would be easier to accomplish.

Finally, the guard gave him a sign that he could go in. He straightened up, and walked in with a proud smile on his lips.

"The Antivan Crows send their regards," he said with a slight bow of his head, and in one quick glance checked the room and the people in it. One of them he had already met – it was Arl Howe, the contractor. A rat, he thought. One of those that were, for some strange reason, always convinced that they deserved to be on top, and would do whatever it took to get there. They rarely succeeded, though, and usually ended up as seconds for bigger predators, more dangerous – and more capable of hiding their true nature. Such as this other guy, for example, this self-proclaimed regent. Much more interesting. Betrayed the whole army and let them die, including his son-in-law. And then sold it as a service to the kingdom. Or so he heard.

"An assassin?"

The man's voice was full of disgust. Zevran had to suppress a smile. Oh yes, he had seen this kind before. Babbling about honour, but quite ready to forget it for a moment or two, when necessary.

"I understand your dissent, My Lord. And normally I would not suggest something so contemptible. But allow me to say, My Lord, that against the Grey Wardens, we will need the very best," the rat guy said cajolingly. Although it was not really necessary. It was quite clear what the result would be. He decided to rile the other guy a bit more. He doubted this guy would go as far as to send a complaint to his Masters in Antiva.

"Then you made the right decision. For us Crows, to be the best is a question of our honour. And, as honour is not cheap, we are also the most expensive," he said with a slight chuckle.

If looks could kill, he would already be dead. He relished his little victory, and didn't drop his gaze. After a short tense moment, the regent turned away.

"Just have it done."

He bowed, partially to hide his scornful smile, and backed away. The rat guy left too, waving for him to follow. They went into what was obviously the rat guy's own study. An elven servant – very nice bosom, but bit short legs – brought them some brandy, then quickly backed away in a low bow. For a moment, they sat quietly, drinking brandy and trying to judge each other.

"I don't have to say how sensitive this task is," said the rat guy finally. "The Grey Wardens must die, but nobody must even suspect that it was murder. They are little more than recruits, so it should not be difficult to make it seem as if they were killed by some common bandits."

"I understand, ser. That can be easily arranged, of course. Of how many targets we are speaking?"

"Two," the guy admitted unwillingly.

Two? The mighty regent of Ferelden was so afraid of two recruits that he needed the Antivan Crows to get rid of them? He had clearly overestimated the guy. How annoying. It seemed he wouldn't be able to fail, after all.

"Though they will probably have some supporters. The last reports say they are travelling with an apostate mage, and it is possible they have already recruited other people. Do not underestimate them."

That sounded slightly more exciting… for a fresh apprentice. He gave the man another confident smile. "Of course, ser. You do not need to worry. The Antivan Crows never fail."

Unfortunately.

oOo

Someone was shaking him.

"Zev. Zev! Are you all right?"

He looked up into a pair of bright purple eyes, and once again realized that purple was the most beautiful colour in the world. But right now, those eyes were looking at him full of genuine concern. He quickly collected himself and flashed one of his trademark smiles.

"Of course I am. What do you mean? And what are you doing here? Can't sleep? Not that I want to complain, of course - at least I can stare at you luridly again - but I didn't hear you coming."

"Didn't hear me coming? I've been here for quite some time, you know. Talking to you. Or, more precisely, I tried to talk to you. It was rather one-sided, see. You were too busy staring luridly at the fire to even notice. If I were some evil darkspawn, I could have already eaten you and you wouldn't even know."

"Oh? But you can still do that, my dear... now that you have my full attention, it would be much more enjoyable, even. I could show you the tastiest bits, you know..."

The boy chuckled and sat down next to him. "I will remember that when we run thin on supplies again. Especially supplies for Rask."

"So… what did you want to talk about?"

"You."

He almost made another lascivious comment, but when he caught Airam's look he thought better of it. Worried, but also stern. And slightly suspicious. What had happened?

"Me? What for? Is something wrong?"

"Well, that's exactly the question I wanted to ask you. What's wrong, Zev? Are you ill? Do you hurt somewhere? Or is it… something else, related to the Crows, perhaps? And what can I do to help?"

It did not happen often – it was, in fact, extremely rare – that he, the infamous Zevran Arainai, was unable to come up with a quick and smart reply to anything. And those few occasions it did happen almost always included this boy.

"I'm quite fine. Thank you for your concern; it is appreciated, but not necess-"

"Don't give me that crap. Don't forget who you're talking to."

He gulped, too shocked for any reaction. What was wrong? And what did he mean by that? In the four months since he had been allowed to live, he had never heard such harsh words, at least not from Airam, and he didn't really care that much for the others. He must have messed up really big this time, to make him so angry. His face probably gave up some of his worries, because the boy's look suddenly softened, and his lips twitched into a slight smile.

"Zev. I mean I'm just as good at these games as you are, you know. Or you should, by now. Even at your best, you cannot fool me. I'm not Alistair, thank you. And right now? You're at your worst, I'd say. So why don't you just tell me what's wrong?"

He was still confused, still uncertain what he was expected to say. "What makes you think that something's wrong?"

"What makes me think so? Oh, well, let's see…" the boy furrowed his brow in mock musing, voice thick with irony. "Could it be because you suddenly behave like some unholy walking corpse? Hm… yes… yes, I think that's probably it."

"Well, I will not argue about the unholy part, but–"

"Before, you never stopped talking; honestly, you were worse than Wynne."

"Why, thank you so much," he said in a mock hurt tone, "such fine compliments."

The boy chuckled. "You're welcome. All right, I admit, it was a bit more fun."

"Ah, one always likes it when one's efforts are acknowledged."

"Yeah, well, only you don't talk anymore, do you? The last few days, you've hardly opened your mouth. Worse, you don't even reply when people talk to you. You just… stare. During our travels and even during our fights - your body is with us, but your mind is clearly somewhere else. Like yesterday. When you cut off the head of that silly bandit in one smooth move with a completely blank expression, it was… scary. And later, you walked right into a tree, because you obviously didn't notice it–"

"Don't start with that again. Didn't you have enough laughs yesterday? I tripped."

"Sure. You tripped over your own legs. How reassuring. Why would anyone doubt it, right? Or now. Maker's breath, Zev, it was one of the creepiest things I've seen during our happy little hike across Ferelden. The infamous Antivan Crow, quiet, unmoving, not reacting to what's happening around him… and during his night watch, I might add."

"I dozed off. Look, I'm sorry I fell asleep on my watch. It won't happen again."

"Do you often sleep with your eyes open?"

"I–" He closed his mouth. What could be said to that? Oh gods, had he really lost control after only four months? How Taliesen would laugh if he saw him.

"So please, tell me what's worrying you. We're friends. Aren't we? Whatever it is, I will try to help you. And I won't even tease you about it. Oh well, maybe just a little bit. The way you hit that tree was quite hilarious, you know." The boy gave him a very sweet and innocent smile, but his eyes were still worried.

As if it was that easy. He'd need to know that himself first, no? It wouldn't do to tell him 'ah, you know, I'm not sure, but I think I feel something towards you, but the problem is I'm just not sure if it's love, or friendship, or the worship of a devoted follower to his demigod, or just bewilderment…'

"I didn't realize I was that bad… don't worry, it's nothing much. I guess I'm just exhausted. I haven't been able to get much sleep recently, because of… uh, bad dreams. Full of big black birds? I'm sorry I worried you. Really. All I need is to get some proper sleep, and I'll be fine. Give me a day or two to rest, and I'll be back to good old insufferable Zevran again. I promise."

"So you're not telling me. Fine. Fine. Have it your way."

Part of him was very happy and proud that his little Grey Warden was not fooled. But when he looked into the boy's eyes, his heart sank. Airam was furious, that was obvious – but he was also hurt. Disappointed. He must think Zevran didn't trust him enough. When the truth was, he didn't trust himself anymore.

"You want two days, and two days you shall get. But I warn you, Zevran. If you are not back to normal on the third day, I'll leave you in the nearest Chantry till you are healed completely, no matter how many weeks or even months it takes. Or maybe I'll just leave you there forever."

"My, my. Such cruel threats. Quite unfitting to that angelic face of yours, you know. And didn't I hear you say we were friends?"

"Of course we are, you ingrate! A cloistered life would do you much good."

They both burst into laughter. He was relieved to see those beautiful eyes sparkle with joy and mischief again. Though it was also rather worrying, because he knew his little Warden never made empty threats. Like that time, when a group of Loghain mercenaries attacked them and one of them said…

"Zeev-raan. You are drifting a-gaaa-in." A mocking, singsong voice brought him back to reality.

"What? No, no, I'm not, I, um, I just…"

"Ah, just shut up and go to sleep, will you? I'll take over from here. No – not a word. I don't share your eagerness to get eaten alive by smelly darkspawn, see. There are some sleeping potions in my tent. Take some, and have a proper rest."

"But–"

"Off with you, now. Unless you really do want a few months of cloistered life."

"All right, I'm going, I'm going!" He started to back away in a deep bow, dodging aside when Airam threw a piece of wood at him, missing his head by inches.

"Still having problems with hitting moving targets, I see? Tomorrow–"

"Good night, Zev."

He went to Airam's tent and took a sleeping potion – not that it would help him with his trouble, but better not to provoke his little Warden anymore. It made him feel miserable. Why couldn't he come up with something better? It was Airam who had the bad dreams – bad enough to make him scream aloud in his sleep, waking up in a cold sweat unless he took the potions. And now he would have one less, thanks to his clumsy excuse, and no chance to get new ones until they got somewhere they could stay long enough that Wynne could make them. And that wouldn't happen for at least two more weeks. He felt even more miserable because his own dreams definitely were not nightmares, and although he also sometimes woke up wet, it wasn't from sweat.

This little Warden… always doing and saying the most impossible things. Giving up his medicine… to help whom exactly? An assassin who tried his best to kill him. He did not become infamous by being sloppy, after all. He was a Crow, and one of the best, as well – not yet a Master, but just one step away from it. And so he had carefully checked all the preparations…

The wagon was knocked over, broken carts and barrels scattered around. Some of his crew were dressed in peasant clothes, lying on the ground and pretending to be dead or heavily wounded merchants. Others were to pretend to be the mercenaries attacking them. The rest of them were already positioned on the ridges of the hills looming over the path. Yes, it was perfect. All that remained was to wait for his prey to fall into his trap.

His lips twitched. He had been watching his targets for days now, and knew that it would work. Always so willing to help, always so honourable and heroic. They would not refuse, or even suspect, the unhappy merchants who were attacked by mercenaries. But what else could be expected from a bunch of naïve kids? Following a kid that was obviously the youngest and weakest of them all? When they had somehow managed to set free the qunari prisoner, he wondered if things would become more interesting, but no. Even he let the kid command. How disappointing. Sure, they were strong enough to deal with a few bandits or a pack of wolves, but if they couldn't manage even that much, there would be no point in assassinating them, no? But against his crew? They didn't stand a chance. He had picked each of them himself; they were some of the most promising young Crows there were.

"Oh, please, please, hurry! They will kill them!"

Ah. So here they were. He watched them with a scornful smile as they rushed after Genna, unsuspecting just as he expected. The boy stopped, looking merely mildly interested, when Genna calmly stood by his side. But not scared. For some reason, that irritated him to no end. Not afraid, was he? Well then, he would have to teach him to be afraid, right? He raised his hand, and his men stepped out. The boy still didn't look impressed, not even when the huge trunk crashed down on the very spot he was standing just a second ago. Pretty good reflexes, he would give him that. But that wasn't enough, not against a flock of Crows.

"The Grey Warden dies here!"

Not 'the Grey Wardens die', no. Singular, not plural. He often thought about it, later. Why was he trying so hard to impress some kid he had been paid to kill, a kid he thought to be ridiculously silly? Why didn't he care about who would take down Alistair, when they were both Grey Wardens and his targets? Was it because of the boy's unusual looks? Or perhaps because of the boy's silly effort to help everyone in that stupid little village, although he must have known that it would be destroyed soon? Or because he was the only elf in their little group? There was no answer. But whatever the reason was, he wanted to take him down himself. His people knew him well enough to understand, and turned to the others…

But they never had time to do anything. He had taken maybe two steps, before the boy appeared right in front of him. The next second, he was paralyzed and then lifted slightly into the air, his body pierced by rays of light, again and again and again. The pain was agonizing, making him unable to move, or even take a breath. Completely helpless, he watched as the boy froze Genna to the bone, and the qunari scattered her to pieces with one blow; how the other Warden, with the dog at his side, took down the other three; he watched in horror as the black-haired witch turned into a huge spider, tearing through his men as if they were just flies; and the little red-haired priest bringing down those on the slopes, her arrows never missing their targets. The boy, still standing right next to him, was helping her with his spells. How? Why? When did they learn to fight like this?

Of course. They wouldn't fight their best against a few wolves, would they? Hiding their trump cards. Perhaps they were not that pathetic after all. But it didn't matter, not anymore. He was dying. His wish had been granted, after all. Finally. He closed his eyes, smiling.

The next thing he knew, he was staring into the eyes of the Angel of Death. Black, deep, dangerous eyes. But the white hand on his cheek was not cold, but warm and gentle. And the Angel of Death would not have dark violet hair, would he?

"Good, he's awake."

Awake? Who, him? Awake, like not dead? Why was there that Angel, then? He tried to focus, to remember what happened. Then he saw the shattered ice on the ground… They were going to ambush those pathetic Grey Wardens, and Genna was their decoy; Genna led them to their trap and then… and this was not an angel at all. It was that silly kid – his target that he had failed to kill. Memories instantly returned, accompanied with an almost unbearable pain in his whole body.

"Oh. I hoped I'd wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as it were," he murmured, more to himself than to his captors. He quickly assessed his situation. He was not tied, but in his state, and surrounded by the Grey Wardens and their companions, he wouldn't have a chance to so much as lift his pinkie, let alone escape or attack them. He looked up into those eyes again and a cold shiver ran down his spine. Maker, what eyes! He had never felt so… exposed before, so vulnerable. As if his whole soul, his whole being, had been stripped down, revealing all he tried so hard to hide… It made him want to scream and to cower from them, from their piercing gaze. Instead, he smiled a little. Showing his terror to his enemy? Not a chance. He was defeated, but he would not be humiliated.

"But I see you haven't killed me yet."

"That can be easily rectified."

"I have no doubts of that. But if you kept me alive, you apparently did it for some reason, yes? Probably interrogation, am I right? So, let me spare your time and tell you anything you'd like to know."

"You're rather glib for someone in your position."

The boy's face was still grim, but he could hear the smirk in his voice. So, he found this amusing, this strange Angel of Death? Then perhaps he should amuse him more. He might have wanted to die in the battle, but he did not really look forward to being slain while helplessly lying on the ground like some mangy old dog.

"Ah, yes, it is my way, I'm often told. My name is Zevran, Zev to my friends. I am an Antivan Crow and I was hired to kill the surviving Grey Wardens, a task I failed at completely –"

"Antivan what?"

"They're an order of assassins. It is said that they are the best, as well as the most expensive. Someone went to great expense to make sure you and Alistair died." It was the priest who answered, looking down at him with increased interest. The boy was not impressed, however.

"I'm surprised you haven't heard of us. We are rather infamous," he said, trying to keep annoyance out of his voice.

"Not for being good assassins, I see." There was that smirk in his voice again.

"Oh, great, is that what you Fereldans do, mock your prisoners? Such cruel torture," he snapped, more sarcastically than he intended, but this kid was so irritating; who in the Void did he think he was? Looking down on the Crows just because he defeated a few of their assassins; he must be incredibly stupid.

"Challenging me to show you some real torture, are you?" Something flashed in those eyes, something so cold it took all the strength he still had left just to not start quivering with fear. And he didn't miss that stress, implying that the foolishness was not in the challenge itself, but in challenging him. Who in the Void was this boy? Was he really the Angel of Death? Or perhaps some demigod offspring of a forgotten Old God? He dropped his gaze, but before he could come up with some smart reply, the boy continued.

"Who hired you?"

"A rather menacing guy from Denerim. Loghain, I think his name was. Though he was only paying for it. The idea, or so I understood at least, came from the rat guy… I mean, Arl Howe."

"So. First he sends some clumsy guards, now inept assassins. What are we to expect the next time, a bunch of grandmothers threatening us with their walking sticks?" The other Warden laughed coldly and glared at him as if it was his fault.

"Did he at least pay you well for it?" the boy asked.

"I'm afraid he didn't pay me at all. He would have paid the Crows if I succeeded, and he would have had to pay a really nice sum, but I would only get scraps of that. Which makes me as poor as a Chantry mouse, I'm afraid."

He was looking directly into those dangerous eyes again, trying to sound as innocent, and convincing, and amusing, as possible. But the little Warden was still unimpressed.

"And where are you supposed to meet him again?"

"I am not. I am supposed to report to my Masters. They will inform him. If I failed–"

"If you failed?"

Finally, there was that smirk in his voice again. That was something he could work with. Carefully, now. This could be his last chance. He chuckled. "Ah, what can I say? I'm an eternal optimist. Though right now, my chances to succeed are rather slim, yes?"

He held his breath for a moment, looking into those eyes to see if he hadn't overdone it. But, strange as it was, it worked – the kid was amused. His eyes did not seem to be so cold anymore. Encouraged, he decided to test his luck once again.

"So, if you are done with the interrogation, and do not have any other questions, I might have a proposal for you, if you're willing to hear it. I assure you that you will not regret it." He determinedly kept looking into the boy's eyes, ignoring the frowning of the other Warden and the witch.

"Oh, I'm listening," the boy's voice was positively amused now.

"Well, I was hired to kill you and I failed, so my life is forfeit. Even if, by some miracle, I would succeed now, the Crows would probably still kill me, just on principle, for failing the first time. They are very fussy about their image and all that 'Crows-always-fulfil-their-mission-or-die-in-the-attempt', see. And as I am still alive, and I'd prefer to stay that way... Why don't you let me serve you instead? I know it doesn't seem so right now, but I can be pretty useful."

The other companions, especially the other Warden, loudly protested at this, but the boy still looked amused, and now the smile reached his beautiful bright purple eyes. Wait, purple? Weren't they bottomless black pits just a moment ago? Was his mind playing tricks on him? But he hadn't been hit on the head, had he? Or was it just the light? Anyway, it was a good sign, right? Had to be. Perhaps he would talk himself out of this after all.

"You must think I'm royally stupid."

"I think you're royally tough to kill. I only hope you are stupid," he said, before he could stop himself. Oh Maker. Did he really say that aloud? "Wait, that was a joke, just a joke! L-let me rephrase that. I hope you're a man who takes chances every now and then, yes?"

"A chance that you will finish your mission later? No, I don't think so."

Ouch. That hurt, that did. Just when he thought he had won, that he had the kid where he wanted him. More painful than those light beams that hurt his body before. Pity. He would have liked to live… to find out more about this little demigod. He dropped his gaze and sighed.

"So, you're going to kill me. Ah well. Fair is fair, I guess. Just don't do anything barbaric afterwards, like eating my remains, yes? That's all I ask. I have nightmares about that sometimes, you know."

"I was rather thinking of giving you a new mission."

He was ready for pretty much anything – except that. Was the boy mocking him? The game was fun and interesting, but it was over and he had lost; time to end it. Speechless, he looked up into the boy's eyes again.

"Kill Loghain."

"Kill Log… ah. No. No, I have to refuse your offer, interesting as it is. Truly, I cannot accept it, given the circumstances. It wouldn't be right."

"Wouldn't be right? Why? Aren't you an assassin? I could give you more than scraps, you know. It probably won't be as much as Loghain paid, but it would be all yours. Or are you just… too inept to do it?"

He couldn't really mean it, could he? "I might be an assassin, and I might be able to kill this Loghain for you. But death would still await me. And not a quick one, if I might add. Failing a mission is one thing, but killing the contractor instead of the target? That would be unheard-of treachery. Worthy of a very, very slow death. So if I am to die, I would prefer an honest death at least."

"An assassin speaking about honesty," the other Warden muttered, quite annoyed. "What are you waiting for? Just end it already!"

But the boy ignored his friend. He was looking at him thoughtfully, their eyes still locked together.

"All right, forget it," he said at last.

So here it was. In a few more seconds, he would be dead. No escaping it this time. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. Strange. He'd always thought that he would enjoy following it closely, as the life would flow away from him. Now that the moment had come, he didn't feel like it, after all. Yet, he wasn't afraid. It was what he'd hoped for. He waited, but the finishing blow didn't come.

"I guess I accept your offer, then."

He must have imagined he heard those words. It could not possibly be true. But judging by the angry protests of the others, it probably was. He looked up again. The boy was… smiling? "But – I thought… Is… is this a joke? It is rather strange one, but I will laugh if you insist…"

"Do you want to live or not?"

"Yes… Yes I… do…?" He was not able to keep his pretence any longer, and his voice was weak, trembling with confusion and uncertainty. He was still half expecting a finishing blow, but instead the boy held out his hand. And smiled again. He accepted the hand, noticing how small and delicate and very white it seemed compared to his own. The boy pulled him up.

His body still hurt quite a lot and he felt shaken and unstable on his legs, but he had lived through worse. He took a deep breath to calm down, then bowed his head.

"Here do I swear fealty and service to you, Grey Warden, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until you choose to release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Zevran Arainai of the Crows."

There was a moment of surprised silence as he finished. Even the other Warden was quiet for once. It seemed they hadn't expected that. And he couldn't blame them – he didn't see that coming, either. What in the world made him say it? He had probably read it somewhere, maybe even years ago, and forgotten all about it up until this moment. It sounded strange even to him; how could he expect this little demigod Warden to believe it? He felt the scornful stare of the witch on him and felt like a complete idiot. Thank the Maker he wasn't the type that blushed.

The boy was the first one to recover. "And I, Airam Surana of the Grey Wardens, hear it, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance." The boy chuckled. "Did I say it right? That's the first time I've done that, you know. I feel like some crazy old king, or something."

He always had to laugh when he thought about that. If his oath was surprising, Airam's reply was totally shocking, leaving Alistair staring at him with an open mouth. He remembered how it crossed his mind that the two of them must have read the same book, and the strange feeling it stirred in him. He still called Airam "Your Majesty" sometimes, partly to tease him when the boy acted too haughty. And partly because he wanted the boy to remember it forever, as clearly and fondly as he himself did.

He remembered how confused he had been. How desperately he had been trying to figure out what the catch was. Because there had to be one, obviously. The boy acted as if they had known each other all their life. Nobody would trust an assassin who had tried to kill them only hours before, just because of a few words, right?

He expected that he would be tied up and further interrogated later. Instead, he was bandaged and healed as much as it was possible in the field, and merrily introduced to everyone else. And when they had finally set up camp and cooked dinner after hours of walking, the first questions his new master asked, after passing him a bowl of stew, were, "So, you're from Antiva? What's it like there?" After which he decided that he was going to try again, after all. Those black, piercing eyes were probably hallucinations caused by his injuries. These pathetic fools had been successful just because of sheer luck.

He was lying under his blankets – that crazy kid had actually apologized for not having another tent – listening for any suspicious sounds, thinking about what he should do now. Finish it or not? Fighting was not the only way to end someone's life. In fact, for him, it was always the least preferred way. They had taken his weapons and armour – they were not complete idiots, it seemed – but a Crow was never unarmed.

Later, when everyone was asleep, he quietly opened his eyes. Alistair was sitting by the fire, occasionally shooting hateful glances in his direction. Very slowly, he crept out of the blankets, trying not to disarrange them, so they would look as if he was still lying there. He was a master at this; he had gotten himself out of much more desperate situations than this. Sure enough, Alistair didn't notice anything. He practically melded into the shadows as he crept towards the boy's tent. What he was going to do once he got there, he didn't know. He told himself that he was going to finish it – that he didn't have any weapons was not a problem. They shouldn't have been so trusting. Especially the boy. Now he was going to pay the price. Perhaps the crazy kid thought that the dog would stop him? How naïve. Any Crow apprentice would be able to sneak past a dog. But, if he was really going to finish the mission, why was Alistair still alive?

A few more steps and he was in the tent. The boy was sleeping. He knelt beside him, watching him, listening to his regular breaths. How could he sleep like that with an infamous assassin in his camp? Now he was going to pay the price, he repeated to himself. But he didn't move. He knew he should kill him. It was the perfect chance. Then he'd slip out of the tent, kill Alistair, and by the end of the week, he'd be in Denerim and could inform the cell there. Maybe he'd stay there for a couple of days before he sailed home; he had heard of an enterprise with a very promising name, 'The Wonders of Thedas'.

Home. Where there was no fog, no ground frost, where women didn't wear ridiculous woollen dresses and mufflers. He'd be famous; the only one who had ever killed a Grey Warden. He'd become a Master. He'd have enough money to buy those marvellous leather boots, or even a complete set, together with a leather vest and trousers. In fact, as a Master, he'd probably get a nice discount. And he'd have his own apprentices that would obey his every whim.

The only obstacle was this boy. Smiling at assassins, the crazy kid.

Master Crow. Master Crow. Infamous. Rich. With his own apprentices to raise and train to his liking. And to break, a cold voice whispered in his brain. Yes, that as well. To break, to hurt, to humiliate, or to kill them, whatever he liked. Just for the fun of it. Master Crow.

The only obstacle was this crazy kid. He held out his hand – only to gently stroke his hair.

Smiling at assassins, damn him.

He cursed under his breath. Perhaps he was an idiot, but he would not do it. Not this time. Not this boy. Quietly, he got up, and was almost out of the tent when he heard a soft chuckle behind him.

"You really think I'm royally stupid, don't you?"

He stopped on the spot. Oh great. But it was his own fault, his own stupidity. Now it was him who was going to die. Rustle of blankets, quiet steps. He didn't try to run away. It would be pointless, anyway; the boy could kill him with one spell before he got out of the tent.

"I knew you wouldn't do it," the boy whispered in his ear.

For a few moments, the world stopped. "But what if I had?" he whispered.

"Indeed. What if you had?" The boy laughed a small, mirthless laugh.

He felt the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, but he didn't push it away.

"I'd fail my mission, wouldn't I? I wouldn't have the pleasure of fighting darkspawn and the Archdemon, and all the other nice and cute thingies we meet during our happy little hike. Wouldn't I miss it? But what can I do, eh? I can't fail, even when I sleep. I'm that awesome."

He was shaking uncontrollably now, his nerves so vexed he almost started to cry hysterically. What, what was that boy saying? Why? Did he know? But how could he?

"Don't try it again."

"Kill you?" His voice was hoarse, barely audible.

"Well, that, too." The boy chuckled again.

Then, before he could ask, the boy took his hand off his shoulder. "Let's go. I'll take you to your bedroll. If you go alone, Alistair will think you were successful, and will kill you before checking."

Sure enough, Alistair was in front of the tent, with his sword drawn. So was the dog, who growled angrily the moment they stepped out. Not at him; at the boy. He heard Alistair furiously complaining; it seemed that it was all set up by the boy - that the boy expected him to come to his tent. But he was still too shaken, too dizzy from those last words to listen, or to care; it took all his willpower just to not collapse.

And so the boy actually had to help him back to his bedroll and tuck his blankets around him, smiling again, damn him.

"You passed the test, Zevran Arainai of the Crows. Congratulations. And welcome aboard."

And just like that, his old life had ended. Years of training, all gone to the Void just because of this crazy kid. Airam behaved as if the case was closed, never doubting his loyalty, never showing any sign of anxiety when around him. Not that he wasn't aware of possible danger – he really wasn't stupid. Yet it seemed the boy had simply decided to trust him. It was bewildering. Unnerving. For four months now, he had been trying to figure out the reasons for this "trust and friendship", to find out what it was that the boy really wanted from him. Friendship and trust, yeah right. Less than illusions. Empty words. That's what his whole life had taught him.

Every day was more confusing than the last. During the day, the boy was sensible - a quite levelheaded leader and a formidable opponent in battle, though not much of a tactician; usually he'd just rush forward and attack the strongest enemy he could see. Who ever heard of a mage fighting like that? And then in the evening they'd set up camp and poof – the leader of the saviours of Ferelden was gone; instead, there was boy who was a bit shy, always eager to talk, to ask questions - oh, so many questions… And whatever his answer, the boy never doubted it, always trusting him. Not that he lied - he didn't; perhaps he omitted a thing or two sometimes, as much for the boy's sake as for his own - but that was not the point. The point was, it was not normal to believe everything that an assassin told you, yes?

Sometimes he suspected that Airam knew only too well how confusing all this was for him, and did it on purpose, whatever that might be. During their talks he often carefully studied the boy's face, his eyes, for any sign of calculation, but there wasn't any. Only a hint of… understanding? As if something like that was possible. Although, perhaps… Inquiring as he was, even nosy sometimes, Airam never talked about his own past and family. There were a few hints that something bad had happened to him before he had been taken to the Tower of Magi, but usually he carefully avoided the topic. Only once, after being pestered for a whole evening by Leliana, had he said that he barely had any memories of his life before the Tower, and those few he did have, he'd love to forget. It made him curious, and he had many theories about it, each crazier than the previous one. The others were not any wiser, and so far the boy remained almost a complete mystery.

And there was another problem, though that one was not so unexpected. Several days after he had been so shockingly welcomed aboard, he had started to have wild fantasies about the Warden. But so far, the boy had resisted everything he had tried - he didn't seem to mind his jokes and lecherous comments, he'd even responded in the same way, but he obviously never took it seriously. Unlike Alistair, who would blush fiercely at even the slightest dirty joke; Zevran was sure that in the privacy of his own tent the poor guy was replaying all the images it invoked. But for his little Warden it was just a game, a reason to laugh, nothing more. It was quite frustrating, until he found out that the reason why Airam was so immune to his skills in seduction was that the crazy kid thought that he was ugly, even repulsive, and therefore certain that nobody normal could be interested in him.

All right, perhaps he was not perfect; if you focused on the details, his skin was a bit too white, his ears a bit too small, and his hair a bit too violet to fit Antivan standards of beauty… or Fereldan standards… and most surely Dalish standards. But all together it really gave him the looks of an angel. Mmmm, he'd love to see if he could make that pale skin blush… Although it didn't seem possible, at least not in the near future. The first time Zevran had complimented him, the boy had been not only surprised, but disappointed, even disgusted, by what he considered to be a blatant lie told just to cajole him. Not that he didn't want to cajole him, but it wasn't a lie, either. Weren't there any mirrors in the Tower?

Well, it in fact seemed quite possible, if the way Airam cut his hair was any sign. The crazy kid hated his hair most of all and cut it as short as possible – rather unceremoniously, without even one glance in the mirror. He almost had a heart attack when he first saw it. It took him two months – and that meant two more cuts – to persuade this crazy kid to let him do it instead; and even then he only gave in because Leliana assured him that the nobles wouldn't take him seriously if he looked as if he had a sparrow's nest on his head.

Yet he was sure that if he tried a little harder, he would be able to bed the crazy kid. In fact, he had even made a bet with Leliana that he would. But… and that was the strangest part, perhaps… for whatever reason, he could not gather the courage to do so. On the contrary – sometimes he felt more afraid of the possibility that the boy would say yes; somehow, it would seem… inappropriate, almost sacrilegious. As much as he wanted it, he felt he wasn't worthy, and knew he would hate himself afterwards for spoiling this boy.

What a stupid sentiment for a Crow. That he'd miss a chance to seduce someone so beautiful just because of some strange respect, or admiration or whatever that feeling was, was awesomely ridiculous. The great Zevran Arainai, the best lover in Antiva – losing his mind because of some crazy… and beautiful… and dangerous… and sweet… and so utterly impossible kid.

It was almost… Almost, as if he… was in…?

Oh gods. Just listen to him. How had his life become such a mess in such a short time? How did he become so soft? Sometimes he wasn't even sure who he really was anymore. The more he thought about it, the more lost he felt. Till the point where he had walked into a tree, damn it.

And now he was supposed to solve it all and be "back to normal" in only two days. When he didn't even know what "normal" was anymore.

He sighed. Perhaps he should see if that damn dwarven merchant had some Chantry robes that would fit him.

Did you recognize Zevran's oath? It's Pipin's oath to Denethor in Lord of the Rings. :)