A Warm Burrow

As much as the big cities of the central continent had their many wares and useful supplies it always seemed that everything went to hell when they passed through them. Sabriel had always felt wary whenever Zevran told her he'd have to slip away for a night or two along their journey but it never came to a head quite like it did that night.

In the darkest hours before dawn Sabriel had awoken, tense and with a cold sweat as the deep pangs of a heavy weight hit her in the stomach. Death. People had died this night, and if her last shiver was any indication it was getting closer. By the time she had dressed and took up her sword there was a soft knock at the door; a familiar rapping that she and Zevran had agreed upon whenever these side jobs occurred. She was halfway to the door when he simply fell in once the heavy wood had given way under his weight and was lucky enough to catch him before he landed. He reeked of blood and the sour stench of sickness. Through hoarse breath she caught the name of a poison, a few herbs in his pack that would battle the symptoms before he had fallen limp in her arms.

Getting him to the bed had been a feat in itself but the adrenaline was more than enough to wake Sabriel from whatever lingering hold sleep had on her. Nearly flying around the room she did what she could to mend her friend. First, the herbs he mentioned were gathered from his pack and brewed into a sweet and bitter tea. Murmuring soothingly as she held his head up in the crook of her arm she patiently waited for him between shaking fits and fever to swallow each mouthful of liquid until the cup was empty. There was little she could do now for the poison but the rest of her injuries would be simpler.

Bloody armour was peeled gingerly back from sore and sticky skin. Eyes darting from one wound to another she shook her head in wonder when the entirety of his injuries were revealed. "Honestly Zev, this is too much..." A shaking sigh, a pass of her hand over her brow was all she allowed herself before she set to work. With one hand she held a soft cloth damp with warm water. This she worked carefully over his skin to clean the wounds and mop up the blood; her other hand followed shortly behind wreathed in a golden glow. Brow furrowed in concentration, Sabriel's lips moved wordlessly reciting Charter mark after mark to mend, to heal, to rebuild and sooth and ever so slowly Zevran's injuries started to close up.

It went slowly that way for hours, Sabriel forced to sit back and breathe for a couple of minutes when the strain of the magic grew too much. But then she'd catch a hiccup in his breathing, a pained gasp and her efforts resumed. Water washed away blood, the warmth of her hand and the hum of her magic took the bite and ache of his wounds away until the sound of his gasping faded into gentled sighs. By the time his fever broke Sabriel had given up using magic entirely and was simply cleaning him; drawing the sweat of his sickness off of him with each slow pull of cloth over bronzed skin until she heard him breathe deeply in sleep. "Honestly," she murmured as she leaned over to pull the blankets up and over the sleeping elf, pausing a moment before she lowered her lips to his forehead, "What am I going to do with you, Zev?"

---

There was no evidence of what she had done immediately after Zevran awoke the next morning. None except the Lady Abhorsen slouched over the edge of the bed where she'd fallen asleep in the chair beside the elf, and a note in her fingers. It simply read, "You idiot."