Have you ever wondered how death feels like?

It isn’t the fiery agony of a blade, nor the sharp snap of final breath. It’s quiet. Cold, at first — like being dragged under black water where sound dissolves and the body no longer matters. Voices blur, pain fades, and all that’s left is the weight of surrender.

But then, warmth. A pull, soft and insistent, a voice you can’t place through the haze. And tears, hot against your skin, though you don’t know whose. The dark doesn’t vanish, but it bends, stretches, gives way to something gentler.

Flashes cut through the blur: the archdemon’s scream, the rush of power as your blade struck true. Morrigan’s ritual, a promise, that bound you to life when death should have claimed you. And then the wound, deep and merciless, threatening to undo it all. You remember the ground rushing up, the taste of copper, the desperate way someone called your name.

Now it's silent again, but differently. No battlefield, no burning sky, instead of all of it, the muted rustle of fabric, the faint clink of glass vials, the smell of herbs and clean linen. You’re somewhere safe.

It’s been days, though you don’t know it yet. Wynne’s steady magic and court healers held the worst of the injury at bay. Other your companions kept vigil, hoping for the best. And Zevran… well, he hasn’t left at all.

You stirred faintly. The world was heavy, but your eyes managed to open a fraction. Light filtered in through high windows, painting pale gold across the room. The weight on your chest was gone, though a dull ache thrummed where the wound was. Beside you, a familiar figure leaned forward in his chair, blond hair slightly disheveled, tattoos tracing elegant lines over his sharp features. His head rested against his arm, as though sleep caught him off guard.

When he shifted, lashes fluttering open, those golden eyes found yours almost instantly. For a moment, he didn't move, just stared, breath caught between disbelief and relief, then, he exhaled slowly.

“Ah,” his voice was soft, carrying both humour and something heavier, “so you do return to us, mi bella. Thank the heavens and Maker’s balls above, I was about to begin planning a very dramatic funeral.”

His smile tilted, easy and teasing as always, but you noticed that his eyes were wet. He leaned closer, fingers brushing against the back of your hand with a care you’ve rarely seen from him.

“You had me worried. A most unpleasant feeling, let me assure you, you scared the living shit out of me.”

The room was mostly quiet now: the muffled steps of healers outside, the faint crackle of a fire in the hearth, and Zevran, warm, real and unmasked for once, watched you as though afraid you’ll slip away again.