whatever you want, I'll give it to you

Another long day of training, of looking over volunteers, of sending out Nathaniel and Sigrun to recruit -- Velanna is terrible except among passing Dalish clans, and most of those are so small that taking one of their people seems unnecessarily cruel. Anders might have done, but the messenger she sent has yet to return with any replies.

There will be a Joining later this week, once the latest recruits come back with their vials of darkspawn blood. Ysalwen is not looking forward to it. Too many die, each and every time. (Even one feels like too many. But so it goes.)

And tonight, of course, she's lit candles at the desk in her bedroom, poring over the books and papers liberated by Leliana, Zevran, and at least one of Leliana's friends. It's a lot of material, and some of it is written in languages she doesn't speak, or dialects that are far older than what is currently spoken. It's a job to translate it, and then a second job to sift the translations for answers, for facts, for corroborations and not wild tales, for --

The air in the room feels different, suddenly. She drops her quill, gathering magic to herself for a sudden icy blast and --

Then she leaps out of her chair, turning around and flinging herself at the blond man clad in leather armor. "Zev! You're back! I thought you'd be evading Crows until I could meet you in Antiva!"

Zevran smiles, looking more worn than when they last met, but still so incredibly beautiful to her eyes. (And his own. On good days.)

"Ah, my sweet, I found it impossible to leave you alone for so long! And since you were here and the latest Master I wrote you about is dead, I thought, what better place to rest my weary bones than here! Among Wardens! You will protect me, will you not, amora? You and all of your terribly brave followers. Especially that dwarf, yes? I like her. She has spirit!"

Liranan, meanwhile, has heaved himself off the hearth, licked Zevran's hand in greeting, and taken himself out of the bedroom to go look about in the kitchens for food. He will be there all night. It's honestly safer down there. Some things a mabari does not need to know.

Ysalwen remains silent through all of this, looking up at Zevran's face and running her fingers across the new lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. There's a new scar near his hairline, and she tugs his head down so she can kiss it, quick and light.

"I'll call for a bath, I think, seeing as you're a mess, and my shoulders ache. It should be big enough to share."

And a good, solid bath will give her plenty of time to start sating her skin hunger. Even if more adventurous doings will wait until afterwards. In what she hopes will be their bed until it's time and past time for them to leave again.

"I'm so tired of being alone."

"Ah, my sweet," Zevran murmurs, tracing her face with his own fingertips now, as if to make sure all of her is still there. "The things you say to me."

*******

It's the first time either of them has slept well, truly well, in months.

No one in the room -- nor Liranan, either, begging for treats down in the kitchen into the wee hours of the morning -- is at all surprised.