Theron and Alistair had just reached an agreement that it would be best if they remained camped for another day or two when the elderly healer emerged from Zevran’s tent, looking faintly tired, and her lips pressed into a thin line of annoyance.
"Did he make advances towards your bosom again?" The ex-Templar asked when Wynne joined them by the campfire.
"Surprisingly, no. If that isn’t evidence that he’s ill, I’m not sure what is."
"Did you find out what caused it?" Theron asked, remembering the ambush that had ended up with Zevran collapsing, feverish, just before the end of the scuffle.
"Not a poison, but given Zevran’s expertise with poisons I’d imagine he’d be immune to all but the rarest." Wynne sighed, glancing back towards the Antivan’s tent. "Perhaps a spell, but he’s still too delirious to recognise that I simply wanted to help. Even bedridden, he managed to shoo me out before I could figure out what spell had been used on him." The mage shook her head in the type of maternal disapproval Theron had been used to seeing from Keeper Marethari when faced with a sick child that insisted they weren’t. "It’s not me he wants to see." Wynne added, giving Theron a meaningful look. As if none of them had already heard as such.
"It seems like he’s that way towards everyone except me." The ranger commented, also shooting the tent a look. Getting the feverish blond back to camp had been… Interesting.
"Lucky." Alistair muttered. "You get to deal with the sick assassin." He added, smirking in a way that Theron doubted was sympathy.
"I’ll go see if he’s alright."
With that, the Dalish elf ducked into Zevran’s tent. The blond was asleep, a little surprising given how little time had passed since Wynne had left the tent, but he stirred as Theron walked closer. Sweat glimmered on his brow, which creased as the former Crow woke up and realised he wasn’t alone.
"It’s only me, lath.” Theron said calmly as he saw the blond automatically reach for a nearby dagger. Zevran blinked slowly, and withdrew his fingers from the dagger’s hilt. “How are you feeling?” The black-haired elf continued as he sat down on the bedroll beside Zevran.
"Tired." Was the soft, quiet answer as Zevran pushed himself up into a sitting position on shaking arms, just long enough to lean all his weight against the ranger. Theron sighed, but wrapped his arms around the blond and pulled him close, sweat on his leathers be damned. Zevran’s skin was almost burning hot, even as tiny, involuntary shivers chased each other down through his frame.
The two were quiet for a moment, before Zevran spoke up again.
”Lath… What does that mean?”
Theron glanced at the Antivan.
"Have you forgotten already?" He asked teasingly, which earned him a brief, tired chuckle.
"No, but I like hearing you say it. You don’t say it enough."
"It means love." The ranger answered, as Zevran rested his cheek against one armoured shoulder and closed his eyes.
"You smell nice." The former Crow muttered, and the Dalish elf bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling at the non sequitur.
"That’ll be the leather." He answered dryly. "Anyway, now that I’m here, can Wynne come back as well? She didn’t appreciate you being rude enough to kick her out of your tent before she was done."
Zevran smirked to himself, curling up against Theron as best he could with the furs as a barrier.
"The fussy old mage?"
"I think she would gut you if you said that to her face." Theron mused, running a hand slowly up and down Zevran’s spine, feeling where his shirt clung with sweat. "Or perhaps give you some foul-tasting potion."
"How violent." The blond tutted. "Are you sure that she is a healer?" He added.
"Yes." The ranger nodded, and Zevran sighed wearily.
"Fine. She has a remarkable bosom, anyway." He paused. "So long as you stay here."
Theron blinked, glad for a moment that the Antivan’s eyes remained closed, but then he continued to carefully hold Zevran, keep him relaxed.
"Mm. I won’t be going anywhere." He promised.