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How beautiful you are!
God!
How real you are.
Katoss was in a deep and restless slumber. His body was uncovered, clad only in a thin loincloth, yet his skin glistened with sweat. He was shivering, caught in the throes of a fever, and from time to time he'd thrash around and moan in pain.
Zevran sat by his side. He was curled up in a ball, clutching his knees, his eyes misty and fixed on his beloved. He reached out and gently brushed a wet lock of hair away from Katoss's forehead. It was a small, pointless gesture, but at least it gave him something to do. Something that made him feel like he's useful.
His throat was dry and scratchy. Screaming in futility tended to have such an effect. Every time Zevran swallowed – and he did it often, when his tears came rushing and threatening to choke him – the pain burned and debilitated him. He wanted to rage, to yell, to break stuff. He wanted to pour his pain out, to make everyone around him feel as desperate and helpless as he did. But he couldn't move, his body was limp and hollow, the flame of his life having faded to a dying ember in the black hole where his heart had once beat.
Dalish magic was potent. Helped by Wynne and Morrigan, the elves had managed to patch up Katoss's wounds, restoring his skin to the porcelain perfection Zevran had enjoyed during so many nights of passion. And yet, despite Katoss looking just as beautiful as always, Zevran could not unsee the blood that had doused his beloved's body, nor could he forget the strips of flesh hanging from his bones. He shuddered and closed his eyes, praying for the darkness behind his lids to swallow these horrid memories, to wash out the bile.
Heavy footsteps echoed behind him. It was Alistair. He stood behind Zevran, silent and grim. Zevran said nothing, he didn't even turn to look at him. After a minute of suffocating silence, Alistair finally spoke.
“How is he?” He asked quietly.
“Can you not see for yourself? He sleeps still,” Zevran replied, barely able to recognise the dull hoarse voice that came out of him as his own. “The healers gave him something to drink. He won't wake up until tomorrow at the earliest.”
Alistair nodded. He stood awkwardly, with one hand lightly tapping against his leg. He said nothing – he likely didn't know what – and after several more minutes of silence, Zevran began to find his presence incredibly grating. The soft tapping sounds were too cheerful, too irreverent, like a crude profanity cutting through the velvet stillness of a temple. It took all of Zevran's willpower not to draw his dagger out and slice Alistair's fingers off.
„Don't you have somewhere else to be?“ He snapped at the Warden. “Why are you here?”
“I-I ...” Alistair was startled. “I'm sorry. I suppose you'd like to be left alone.”
“What I want is for Katoss to be awake, and happy, and healthy,” Zevran said. “But yes, I would appreciate it if you left. I am in no mood for company.”
He turned to face Alistair and saw that he was still covered in blood. Katoss's blood. Alistair had been the one who'd carried Katoss back to the Dalish camp, after that ambush. Tears started pooling once more, and Zevran clenched his jaw. How could he allow it, how could he have been so careless?! His beloved Katoss, so perfect, so delicate … a treasure to be cherished, protected, and Zevran had failed him.
The beast had appeared out of nowhere, a grey blur of fangs and claws. Before they could even react, it had knocked Katoss down on the ground and had mercilessly torn into him. Katoss hadn't even had time to scream in agony. He'd fought back with all his strength, but what could he do against a monster driven by bloodlust? It took Zevran and Alistair's combined efforts to pull the wolf away. After a hard battle, the beast was slain … but so was his beloved.
Wynne's words still rang in his ears, as clear as if she was standing there with him. While Alistair and Zevran were kneeling down by Katoss, desperately searching for a pulse, she spoke, her words dripping with horror.
„They carry the illness in their bite ...“
His hands balled into fists. Weak, weak, weak, he was weak and useless, but it was Katoss who had to pay for his mistakes! Enraged, Zevran began to punch his legs. His thighs flared in pain, and he hit them harder. Perhaps if he broke his skin, if he bled, he could atone just a little bit, and the guilt would recede.
It wasn't fair! Katoss, his Katoss, this child of the sun who lived to laugh, to dance, who found joy in everything, was now branded with the curse of the wolf. He, who deserved light and warmth and love, now had his life stolen from him.
“Zevran.” Alistair grabbed his wrists, gentle but firm. “Stop it. Please. This isn't helping anyone.”
The vigour that had possessed him evaporated, and Zevran slumped to the ground, now nothing but a pathetic sobbing mess. Alistair hovered over him, silently watching him. He made no effort to soothe him. Perhaps he didn't know what to do, or perhaps he thought it was best for Zevran to work through his grief. It didn't matter anyway, Zevran didn't want his pity.
He wept until he had no more tears left, until he became hollow once more. He laid on the ground, staring at Katoss. His love was thrashing still, and moaning quietly. Zevran slowly sat up and looked up at Alistair.
„You spoke with Zathrian, yes?“ He asked. “Can't he do something?”
„I'm afraid he can't. He said that the symptoms can take a while to show,“ Alistair replied. “But … look, I think you should prepare yourself for the worst.”
“And what is the worst?” Zevran asked, raising his voice. “Is it that Katoss might become a werewolf? Or perhaps, Alistair, you are referring to something else?”
Alistair took a step back and gave him a sad and defiant look.
“You're going to make me say it, aren't you?” He sighed and continued with a tired voice. “A lot of people believe that death is preferable to this kind of life. That it's a mercy.”
„Well, I disagree!“ Zevran declared, tossing his head back. “He will be fine. I know this, because I will make it so that he's fine. I will go and find this Witherfang, and I will kill it. Once it's dead, Katoss will be healed.”
„You don't know that, Zevran. That's just a legend, we have no guarantee it will work.“ Alistair sighed again. “I'm really sorry. You know, I care for Katoss too-”
„Obviously you do not, seeing how unwavering you are in your decision to take his life!“
Alistair's face turned dark red. For a moment, he looked as if he was going to hit Zevran. When he spoke, his voice was firm.
“You're upset, and speaking without thinking.” He squared his shoulders. “I will be leaving for the ruins in an hour. You want to join me, I gather, but I would advise you to stay here.”
Zevran looked at his beloved. He reached out and brushed some hair away from Katoss's face, then leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. When he pulled back, he could swear he saw Katoss's mouth curve into a faint smile. The tiniest spark of hope lit up in his chest.
„I'll come,“ Zevran said and stood up. “I can do nothing here but feed the monster that is my grief. I am no healer, Alistair, nor am I a priest to pray for my Katoss's well-being. What I am is a killer, and all I know is death.” He took his daggers out and raised them in front of his face. He stared at his reflection in the blade, distorted, looking almost demonic, and smiled. “Fortunately for us, death is the only thing I need to know right now.”