A/N: Welcome to the final instalment of The Griffon and the Crow. Thanks so much to everyone who has taken the time out of their busy, busy days to read and review and favourite and all that jazz :) We all know how reviews are like crack to us haha and you all provided me with a generous fix :) As per normal, I apologize if I translated anything wrong, and the translations themselves will be located at the bottom :D Enjoy! And don't forget to offer me more of a fix.

Part 5

Zevran

Swirling dresses, glancing hands, coveting eyes, and secretive smiles. All around him is a glittering throng; floor to ceiling mirrors, a dais to the front heavy with musical instruments and those that know how to play them, and more guests than Zevran thought would be in attendance. They swarm about him, never touching but always nearby. And the way they stare, his eyes slit and he watches carefully.

Long folds of heavy material drape his length in midnight black with a touch of red at the lapel. It is meant to by symbolmatic, a threat for what is to come. They stole into his home, made it their own, murdered his urchin, and took his Warden. Not a single Crow will find their way out tonight. His daggers have already sipped from their blood on this night.

The music lifts and bends, echoing through the grand room and all around him these people sway and curve around one another. It is like a giant orgy; breathing on one another, touching as they pass, feeling as they dance. He has no desire to join and his fingers calmly brush away the hands that slide beneath his coat. It is not the time for such frivolities. The man still has not been allowed out. The assassin remains in charge and his eyes are determined.

He shifts in the room, his stare landing on those he knows to be Crows. To those not a part of the acclaimed guild, they do not stand out. But Zevran knows what he's looking for and they seem to rise out of the crowd. There are quite a few more here than he anticipated. Perhaps earlier in the day that might have been cause for alarm, but it is then that his eyes swing to one Felix and Jemma, hidden away under such fancy outfits where he knows their weapons lay in wait. How they managed to get them in, he does not know. He had to slip the one that patted him down a tiny pinch of poison. His eyes immediately clouded over and he waved the former Crow in without question.

For the briefest moment, the three share a look but their gazes slide away before any could question such a thing. The woman - Jemma - had been most perturbed to find out that her Warden, Alessandro, was in the Crows pocket. The moment Zevran approached the three once he located them outside the Bone Pit, the delicate man paled and practically confessed to everything. He knew who Zevran was and did not make a sound when his dagger laid him in ruin. Jemma did not offer a single noise of complaint; betrayed by the man as they were.

It was only her soft request that stilled Zevran's hands. The letter written was to be sent to Ferelden immediately, alerting Alistair of the Warden Commander's capture. It would do nothing to save her that night, but it would ensure should they fail the Grey Wardens would declare war on the Crows. Perhaps Zevran would not be the one to cripple the order but maybe the Wardens would.

Jemma begged him to wait. To leave the letter with one she trusts to deliver it in case they fail. Zevran's lips turned down into a delicate scowl and he reminded her that the last man she trusted was in the service of the Crows. Her teeth shred into that lower pouting lip of hers and she swept her auburn hair back from her face. She assured him this one could be trusted. Her fiancé, she informed him. Another Warden; one that would not attend this party. The woman seemed almost chagrined, hoping to make up for her man's past regressions.

Zevran hesitated purely on the fact that if he succeeded tonight, he did not want Alistair swooping down on Antiva City. He'd competed enough with the man for the attentions of his Grey Warden - he did not need it here as well.

His eyes flit over Jemma once more. He promised her, should she betray him as well, the Crows themselves could not keep him away. The threat he offered made the woman lighten to a most delicate shade of white. Perhaps he had not been playing fair but he is beyond all niceties. The darkspawn would have another broodmother, he told her. He will personally drag her down to the roads themselves and proffer her up as a darkspawn bitch. Whether he dies or not is inconsequential because if they fail, it means his Warden is dead - truly this time.

Even Felix cowed under that threat, his eyes swinging to the woman he called Commander, trembling in her armor.

And now, they stand in the room, just as he does, watching the party unfold. As for his Warden, he does not know where to even begin to find her. He came here with the hope of slaying the guildmaster. Upon succession, his intent is to demand her back and to remove any that deny him his treasure from the face of the earth.

He strides the length of the room, skin itching at the back of his neck. And when he turns to investigate, he tenses, the man beneath the mask peeking out but for a second. There she stands, his Warden, surrounded by a small group of Crows.

Where they found her such a delectable gown and so quickly, he doesn't know. Yet, there she stands, draped in a forest green gown that falls to her feet. It rests just above her chest, exposing the milky skin of her shoulders and neck. His eyes land on a garish wound, just peeking out from beneath the seams- likely the source of all the blood in his home. The material positively clings to her figure and Zevran can see just how unhealthy his Warden has become in their time apart; rail thin and sickly pale. Her vallaslin seems to stand above her, floating off her body. Her eyes watch him, quite close in color to the dress, her sable hair flowing freely down her back, just the way he likes it. His Warden... Why does she simply stand there? He sees the bindings, tying her hands together behind her back. His brows furrow in thought. He could remember a time where no knot could fool her. And trust him, he tried. Every binding he strung her with, she wriggled free within moments, spoiling his fun, until she turned the ropes on him. He had not been able to free himself so quickly. Not that he applied much effort - where else would he wish to be than under those lips and hands?

For all purposes, she appears bored, other than the spark he sees to her eyes when their gazes finally meet. She flicks a glance up and drops her chin; a sign of something surely. When this ends they certainly need to work on their silent communication. So long as it follows a form not so silent.

A single step he takes, his boot silently coming down on the stone beneath his feet. And that single shift is all it takes. An arm drapes lovingly around her neck, fingers teasingly curling over her collarbone and dipping down low. Something unwinds within his stomach, stretching like a great cat at the sight of those digits hovering precariously close to her throat - a possessiveness he has never felt before.

To see her standing before him, alive and breathing - though he will not say well - and denied the right to speak with her is insufferable.

Those fingers curl over the pale column, taunting him with his distance. Zevran finally follows the line of arm, climbing it until he finds a human perched behind her with dark hair and pale eyes. He does not recognize this one - could this be the faceless man he heard speaking with Ilario?

Tiring of the game already, he weaves through the crowd, brushing off hands that grasp at him. More than once he is shunted off course, swept into a dance before he can extract himself and continue across the room. And every time he sets back on path, he meets her gaze.

Finally - finally! - he comes to a stop before them. His Warden is within reach but he keeps his arms limp at his sides, even though his fingers clench against the struggle to touch her - to ensure that she is truly standing there before him.

"Ah, mi amor, why must there always be blades between us?" he questions, hoping to steal away the grim line to her lips. Once, the blades were his, drawn against this luscious beauty and her manservant of a human. He'd grinned wickedly at her, as he does now, and sparked the deathly dance that he'd been so sure would end his own life. She knew the steps so well, twisting and weaving with that graceful body of hers, her blades barely glancing him at first. The dance went on and on, shamelessly flirting with him. She was so adept, he'd thought him the winner until that dangerous heel caught him in the jaw, followed by a solid strike of her hilt to the base of his neck. Never had he fallen so quickly, the light snuffed entirely from sight. And when he woke, it was night. Only the flicker of firelight suggested he yet lived. There she sat, his poisonous Warden, working that dagger so wickedly as she peeled an apple. It had been an interesting conversation that night and he knew at the end that he must have her. Such a magnificent creature! For who in their right mind would willingly bring an enemy assassin into their camp? He could not look away from the gleaming blade as it refracted the firelight, digging into the folds of apple, expertly slicing off a slice before she bit sensually into it. A message surely, that she could easily cleave off something just as important to him.

There it is, a flit of a smile and his heart startles at the sight of it. It is their reunion and he will not allow such trivialities keep them apart. Five months he has been without his goddess and he will not allow the Crows to take it from him.

"Such is the way of the griffon and the crow," she murmurs, grimacing when the man shifts behind her.

He bends at the waist, slanting forward, eyes darting over every face that stands behind her, committing them to memory. Quite an entourage she's gained. "They will fly again, do not fear."

Her lips spread into a large grin. "Fear? What, this?" she laughs openly now. "Please. I've been chewed up and spat out by an archdemon. If you all think a few birds will scare me, you'll have to try harder." She shrugs.

The group behind her shifts, hearing the threat in her words. They may think her a griffon, but she is the embodiment of the dragon; he simply awaits the strike.

The man behind her laughs, fingers caressing her throat - a jab at Zevran, surely. His Warden tips her head back, a strange look twisting her face. There's a quick wriggle - caught off guard by them all. Zevran simply shifts his weight to his back leg and waits, his fingers drifting to his hidden blades just in case. The man behind her seems intrigued by her small bends, until the ropes pool at her feet and she drops low, only swinging up at the last moment. Her fist rocks into the Crows jaw with such strength, he reels back, the hands of those behind him steadying him.

As for his Warden, she straightens, and slowly stalks back toward him. It's instinctual, his hand falling against the small of her back and the moment they connect, the world just feels right again. Colors settle around him, sounds return, and a strong, steady beat to his heart that he hasn't noticed missing.

"What took you so long, mi querida?" he chuckles, the tips of his fingers grazing across her bare shoulders.

She turns, those long fingers curling over his cheekbone, thumbing his tattoos. He tries not to shiver from her oh so sensual touch. She stretches up, hovering on her tiptoes. And the moment those lips seal over his, he startles. The heat from the quick flick of her tongue shatters the assassin and when she breaks away, staring up at him with those shining eyes, only the man remains. His fingers tense, struggling against snatching her and spilling her to the floor, even before their audience.

She brushes a gentler kiss and drops back down, reaching for the spare dagger he always carries at the small of his back.

"I had to wait to make sure they brought me to you," she comments as though her time spent in the tender care of the Crows was nothing.

His head falls back and he laughs. Here he was, an entire day, going mad with worry for her condition. And she was plotting. Of course she was. This is the woman that freed herself from Howe's dungeon with little more than a hairpin.

"They killed Drago," she whispers, her voice dark with the promise of pain.

"I am aware."

The Crow she hit straightens, glaring heatedly at them both, standing side by side. Striking, the two are; a pair of painted elves decked out in stunning outfits, with shining eyes, curving slightly into one another.

"I will kill you for that," the Crow snarls, his face darkening into a permanent scowl.

It's her turn to laugh, always a startling sound coming from her. So rarely does it spill from her lips before others. Even Zevran has only witnessed it a few times. "If an Old God can't kill me, what makes you think you can, seth'lin?"

His lips curls with contempt, but no further threats rise from them.

They seem to have attracted an audience - those that danced falling still as they watch with unashamed eyes. And mixed among the throng, Zevran can see the two Grey Wardens, hands slowly curling beneath their covers. It seems they are to keep to their word. At a quick count, it appears to be seven crows against the four of them. But with three Grey Wardens at his back, he suddenly feels as though this fight will go in his favor. There is more than one reason the guild does not battle the Grey Wardens.

Jemma was slightly nervous with his request for assistance. Grey Wardens cannot become invested in political struggles. Zevran sneered, curving over her with violence teeming on the edge of his voice. In very quiet words he reminded her that the Ferelden Warden Commander was taken hostage by the guild. It would not be a political attack but rather a rescue. The man she travels with even now was quite ecstatic. Another of Sevaka's conquests it would appear. And as Zevran watches them now, the lad is all but dancing on the spot, his hands cutting a swath as he touches the layers of material covering him. Surely, his blades lay beneath them. If he is not careful, he will give them both away. Not that it matters. The fight will happen. He will not let them walk free tonight.

He returns his gaze to the scene unfolding before him and one by one studies the men before him. Few elves are present, mostly 'shems' as his Warden would call them. Crows did not dare leave their homes unarmed, and even there, weapons were placed most strategically in case of an assault. The wrinkles in their garments are telling of what they carry. As with any of the guild, he can account for many daggers.

The man before them pauses, eyes climbing both their lengths as he suffers under his inner struggles. Zevran knows exactly what he is thinking - does he dare battle them together?

"Well, guildmaster?" his Warden questions, hands lifting from her sides to show that she is now armed. And an armed Warden is certainly much more dangerous.

Zevran falls still, his eyes snapping to the Crow before him. Surely, she is mistaken. The guildmaster himself would not so willingly enter a conflict as he has done tonight. But those pale eyes harden and land on Zevran, his lips curling most unattractively. How the former crow's fingers twitch at his sides. He should strike, now. But one does not become the guildmaster so easily. He reminds himself that the man before him is vicious and dangerous. Like a snake, he breathes deception. A tool, the look of uselessness he wears; it is a mask, just as apt as Zevran's.

And with the sudden introduction, the real man slides into place. The face of the guildmaster falls slack; all emotion blanked with a single breath. Zevran's does much the same. And both stare at one another with vacant eyes. The environment has shifted to something quite unpleasant and all the more dangerous. And those that surround them feel it, shifting in their fanciful shoes, coughing into their hands as they wait. He's quite certain it isn't the first time they have witnessed such events. The Crows have run Antiva for so long that they are truly the only force of strength left. Merchants with enough wealth may employ their own small armies but they are simply protection. It is the Crows that decide who lives and dies. And that is something that is about to be decided tonight.

He would have preferred a more… secretive location to have it out with the guildmaster, but the hand has been dealt. He must simply make the best of it. Some sort of silent signal sounds and before any of them can call for a stop, coats are ripped away and weapons are revealed. His Warden curves around his back, those fingers pulling the spare blades he kept in his boots. She is so quick, far more than even he or the other Crows. Before the others have even collected a breath, she dances forward, engaging the first Crow that dares strike out at her.

Zevran is no stranger to war. And such a thing is noisy and shameless. But the Crows have been taught to use silence as a tool. What one does not hear, one cannot identify. He hadn't realized how accustomed he became to the foolish battle cries the templar bellowed, or the incessant shouting Fereldan's insisted on braying as they clashed on the fields. So when the guildmaster lashes out, the quiet startles him. It is but a meeting of blades, clanging sharply.

The silence does not last long - not with the sudden startling of the crowd. Like animals, they rush for the exits, stampeding in a weight of sound that thunders through his ears. And with the emptying of the room, only two remain, diving into the fray with their longswords drawn. It appears there will be no proffering of the Commander to the darkspawn and Zevran spares a moment of relief before returning full focus to his own battle.

The guildmaster's attacks are as sudden as the snake he is, and just as poisonous, if the strange elixir running in thin lines down the steel is evidence of anything. His movements are quite quick and Zevran finds a challenge to them. He is quite certain the only thing keeping him alive currently is the sparring he and his Warden used to partake in on the coldest of nights to get the blood pumping.

A shadow shifts next to him and it distracts him long enough to catch sight of Sevaka tear into the neck of a Crow, a severe and twisted look set upon her face. So furious in battle, so exquisite. She is like a great cat the way she bends and attacks, never where they expect and always ending with their throat split upon her blade. She's stained in red, the dress quite the ruin, material gaping at her stomach where a well placed sliced tore through the dress but apparently left her unharmed.

An assault of heat rips through his arm and with a hiss, he startles back, alarmed to find his own blood running down his arm. Distracted, the guildmaster managed to land a blow to his arm. The searing sting does not relent. With a growl, he lunges back into the fight, his movements harsher and more determined. Foolish, he should not have allowed himself to become so distracted. His Warden will be there at the end, he does not fear such a thing, not with her Wardens there to defend her. But if he does not remain focused and intent on this task, the guildmaster will win and it will be his Warden grieving over him this time. And that is intolerable. He would not see either of them in pain, ever again, nor separated.

With the realization of all that is at stake, his flourishes grow quicker, a heat spreading through his body with his attacks. The guildmaster cannot win - it is unacceptable. With the shift in his strategy, the human's face shows the slightest flicker of emotion; fear. And Zevran feeds off that, using it to fuel his attacks. He keeps a distance from attacks and steps the Crows would have taught him. They will expect it. And instead he relies on all that he learned from his Warden.

His blade snaps down on the guildmaster's extended arms, knocking them toward the ground. The moment the human stumbles, Zevran shifts and snaps his knee under his jaw, spilling him backward. Dropping low, he pulls the man's legs out from underneath him, throwing him down to his back.

He falls so quickly and, determined to put an end to this immediately, Zevran drives his blades down to his chest, meeting only stone when the guildmaster flips out of the way, rolling across the stained floor.

A quick switch to defensive has him backing away with the sudden assault of the guildmaster once more. The room has fallen in silence once more - the guild's numbers now lesser by five. But he should not focus on such things.

His arms lift, blocking the next round of attacks and braving something he's never tried before. He ducks under the flurry of attacks and with a sharp breath, draws his blade across the midsection of the guildmaster.

The man hisses in pain and dances back, his fingers grazing against the spill of blood before those hardened eyes lift again.

"You can't kill me, Zev," the guildmaster laughs in a breathy voice.

"Zev to my friends," he goads. "Zevran to all others. You, guildmaster, are not a friend. And you are awfully cocky for one soaked in his own blood." For the second time, an emotion akin to fear smothers his face. Zevran clings to it, knowing words can be just as brutal as blades. "Why did you even come here?" he demands. "You cannot win this fight."

"I came because you named me!" he hisses before lunging forward once more, their blades meeting in a furious tangle.

Zevran manages to fall back just as the guildmaster's blade tears through the air by his face. As he shifts away, his eyes fall on Felix, standing close by and watching as eagerly as a child. In his hand, he holds his longsword closely. The decision is made quite quickly and Zevran leads the guildmaster closer to the Grey Warden.

He feints, leading the man forward. And just as he takes the chance, Zevran dodges and sweeps the blade away from Felix. The Grey Warden gives a startled cry as he struggles to regain his footing. As for Zevran, he is already turning. For a moment, he takes pleasure in the startled look slipping across the guildmaster's face, and then he swings out. The blade of the longsword slices through the silent air before finally cleaving through the thick column of the man's neck. Everything falls still, the battle suddenly falling to a stop. All turn to him, wide-eyed and open mouthed. All except his Warden, of course, who simply watches with bemusement.

She pushes away from her opponent and begins to stalk toward him. After a few steps, she snaps an arm back, burying her own dagger hilt deep into the chest of the one she had been facing off against. Both her opponent and the guildmaster make similar sounds, choking on the very air they breathe. And with a final look, they both fall limp, nothing more than sacks of flesh and bone now, leaking upon the stone floor.

Only one Crow remains, staring upon them with such an expression of disbelief. His Warden moves to finish him, but Zevran calls her to a stop. From over her shoulder, she watches him curiously, her dagger level to his throat.

"One must live, mi querida, if he is to spread word of the new guildmaster."

She blinks, the surprise in her face quite attractive. But she turns back to the Crow. Zevran cannot see what look mars her beautiful face but the poor man pales, nodding furiously before turning and scrambling from the room. He does not look back.

But she does. Amusing, how quickly all else fades away. Gone is the blood and gore and the sight of the lifeless bodies that pile upon the ground. Gone are the thinly armored Grey Wardens, watching the events unfold with bated breath. All that exists at this moment is the two of them.

He crosses the stretch of distance between them, his blade returned to his sheath with his first steps. And when they come together, both pause, staring down at one another, though they do not touch. Her head tips back and she regards him with such a faint smile. They are a mere foot apart, but to Zevran, it feels like an entire ocean separates them. He must have her in his arms, so why does he hesitate?

The answer comes to him as swiftly as the sweet scent of her breath. He is the guildmaster now. He did not stop to think about what that would mean; he simply wanted his Warden freed from their poisonous clutches. Now that he has both, he does not even know what it entails. A learning process, but what about his Warden?

It appears she tires of this distance before him, something that is just as shocking as the sudden assault of her weight. His arms lift to catch her the moment she slams into him and he staggers back to balance them. His heart slows when he drops his gaze down onto her, memorizing the oh so familiar curves to her face. His hands rise to cup her chilled cheeks, thumbing her vallaslin as she had done his ink. The faded grey colors curve around her eye and dip across her cheekbone, stretching toward those lips. Oh, those lips…

"Warden," that woman's voice rises next to them.

A growl falls from Zevran's mouth at the disruption and his Warden chuckles. He finds no humor in this. There are two too many people in this room for what he has on his mind. With her in his arms, he finds it difficult to think about whatever it was bothering him not moments ago.

Lowering back down to the ground, she tears her gaze from his and turns to the other Wardens. He does not appreciate the cold that settles over his chest with her distance. He simply longs to take her… somewhere. Surely, he can't take her back to his place, not until it has been cleaned. Drago still lies on the floor of his chambers. Perhaps the Bone Pit then. If they will still serve him. He nearly laughs aloud. Of course they will. They would not dare turn away the guildmaster. Hmm, this is something he can certainly get used to.

They are speaking in such hushed tones, Zevran cannot hear a single word. And he does not near them either. This is Grey Warden business and surely he has no place among them. Eventually, she slides another glance at him back over her shoulder and grimaces. His eyes narrow at this, his head tilting with question. She shakes her head then and turns bodily toward him.

She calls a single word back to them - "Tomorrow," before stepping up to him once more.

It should not be like this. There should not be this distance between them. And she watches him with the queerest look as though understanding that it all comes from him. The other Wardens slip away and Zevran takes her hand before pulling her out of the estate and through the streets, toward the Bone Pit, just as he desires.

-.-

Sevaka

For a moment, she did not think the tavern owner would give them a room, until a gentle whisper made way to his ear and suddenly they were given the best the man had to offer. Not that it mattered. The moment they cross into the room and the door clicks softly shut behind them, Zevran presses her against the nearest wall. Her breath hitches, heart startling like a bird. That is the only warning she is given before his face is so very close to hers. His lids drop closed just seconds before hers and then his mouth slants over her. Oh gods… for five months she has been without and she feels like an addict being given back her one addiction. The taste of him is like a honeyed elixir and it coats her throat. No matter that his tongue has found hers already and that he feeds from her like a starving man, she needs more.

She rises to the occasion, her arms sliding around his neck, fingers curling through that fair hair of his. Why it has taken him this long to claim her, she doesn't know, nor does she care. And now is not the time to think of such things. How many nights has she spent trying to remember the exact feel of this? There are so many little details she had forgotten, such as the press of his nose into her cheek, the way his tongue swirls elegantly around hers, or the slight noises he makes as though he, himself, cannot live without her. How could she once have thought that he did not care for her? Such fools they'd both been.

His hands curve around her hips, pressing her flat against the wall, his front dropping down over her. Those fingers shift to her back, finding the small arch that he uses to hold her against him. Yet, it still isn't quite enough. Five months and this is what he has to offer? Why hasn't he torn off this disaster of a dress and spilled her to the ground?

She breaks from the kiss, tearing away from his mouth. It takes quite a bit more effort than she thought it would.

"Zevran," she starts, her words swallowed by a fresh assault of his mouth. A hand lifts from her back and presses into the wall by her head, steadying him as he returns to his task at hand. Her head spins, her body slowly heating and driving her mad.

"Zev," she tries again, his name mumbled into his mouth. He shifts against her once more, his groin pressing flush against her. And for a moment, she forgets just what it is she wishes to ask him. He just tastes so sweet and the heat coming off him…

Oh Mythal… she arches into him, her leg hitching up over his thigh, hooking around it and pulling him even closer. Deciding to take matters into her own hands, her fingers fall to his coat, pushing it over those shoulders and shoving it down. It falls heavily to the ground, forgotten immediately. The shirt beneath is a tad more frustrating, riddled with buttons that do not plan on obeying to her fingers.

Finally she unhooks each of them and his shirt falls away, revealing the dusky skin she's spent many a night dreaming about. She breaks from him once more, her eyes taking it all in. She hadn't even been close in her memories. Such planes of muscles, such tempting skin, such art curling over him.

"Dulce," he whispers.

She misinterprets him, thinking he means to call her attention back to the task at hand. Her hand curves over his shoulder, tangling in his hair. She attempts to draw him back down to her, but he huffs a deep breath and steps away, placing her at an arm's distance. She blinks, unable to understand just what is happening.

"Dulce," he tries again. "Por favor, espere… tenemos que hablar."

She watches him from her stretch of wall, shaking her head. "I don't speak Antivan," she reminds him gently, not that she doesn't enjoy listening to the words. His accent is so thick when he speaks in his native language and something tightens in her stomach - a thread of pleasure.

His lids fall closed again and he pushes off the wall, clearly making an effort to collect his thoughts. "We must… talk," he tells her, the words awkward as though he's forgotten how to speak Common. At the end, those eyes open once more, pinning her to the wall.

She's not in the mood to talk and she knows he isn't as well. She can see it in the flush of his cheeks and wild eyes. She pushes off the wall, stalking toward him with purpose. He sees this and stumbles back, his words falling out in Antivan once more.

"Mi amor, I am the guildmaster now," he tells her. "Do you understand what this means?"

She pauses, the words clearing away the haze of desire until she can think straight. And then she shrugs. "It means you are the guildmaster."

"It means I am dangerous, mi querida," he recounts, his lids fluttering shut. Those shoulders round and he turns, his hand the only thing balancing him against the wall. "It means you will be in danger, if you remain here with me. They will come at me, through you."

She hears the words but they do not incite the same level of fear in her as it seems to in him. When she doesn't speak, he continues, obviously of the mind that she's giving this thought. Really, she's just waiting for him to clear his thoughts before they returned to business.

"I could not live with myself if something were to happen to you."

She knows he doesn't actually want her to leave. It would kill something in them both for one of them to walk away again. But the Zevran that stands before her now is quite different than the one that left Ferelden five months ago. He never would have shown her such emotion there. Perhaps she is not the only one to have changed.

A wicked smile curls her lips and she steals a step away from him, her words clear. "You're right," she tells him. "I'm just this dainty little Dalish elf. I have no way of protecting myself should these bad men come for me. I should probably leave then, return to -"

Hands are on her before she can even finish her sentence, a determined and hard mouth devouring hers to silence her oh so offensive words. Her shoulders shake with unrestrained laughter, even as his tongue continues to sweep through her mouth.

He is the one to break away from her. "Do not tease me so," he murmurs above her mouth.

"How can I not when you say such silly things," she laughs gently. "I did not come all this way to be scared off. I am a Grey Warden. I am quite capable of protecting myself." Yet the shadows in his eyes do not dissipate and eventually Sevaka sobers, meeting his stare full on. Her voice is serious this time. "If you wish me to leave, Zevran, just tell me." The words are bitter upon her tongue. She straightens her shoulders, preparing for the worst should he make this actual request of her.

He drops his head forward, his brow resting against hers. "I do not think I have it in me to ask that of you. Not after..."

"Good," she chirps. "Because I wasn't going anyways."

His laughter is brusque. "So cruel to subject me to such torture. How -"

"Zevran," she interrupts.

"Yes, dulce mia?" he murmurs, his brows darting toward the ceiling in question.

"It's been five months." That's all she says, it's all she needs to say.

His eyes flutter wide, his hands tensing around her arms. "It has been so long?"

She swallows, her eyes shifting away. "Have you… I mean, how long -"

He chuckles once more, his thumbs trailing the designs grafted to her collarbone. "It has been just as long, dulce mia. I thought you dead. I was not ready…"

"Then why did you look so surprised when I said how long it's been?"

Only half his mouth lifts into an unpleasant smirk. "I just assumed that perhaps you might have taken up with another in my absence."

"Taken up with…" her own eyes widen. "Alistair?" she laughs. "Oh gods, that boy wouldn't even know how to pleasure a human woman, let alone an elven one."

A smoldering heat sets into to her assassin's - her guildmaster's - eyes. "And how, I wonder, might you know that."

There's a thread of jealousy and threat to his voice and she shivers, allowing herself to enjoy the sound of it. "A woman always knows," is all she says before sinking into him once more.

"Shall I remind my griffon, then, what it is like to be pleasured by a master crow?"

She arches into him, loping her arms around his neck and drawing his mouth down to hers. "No, but you can remind me what it's like to be pleasured by Zevran."

.

..

- end

Por favor, espere… tenemos que hablar : Please wait, we must speak.

Mi querida - my dear.

Final A/N: So since this story is rated T or K or whatever, I couldn't end it with a steamy, hot, romantic scene. So! I am going to put together an M rated one shot for these two and it will be posted tomorrow. If you're interested, keep an eye open for it! Definitely will be M rated :D and oh, so worth the wait! Thanks again for stopping by and I do hope you enjoyed. TTFN!