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With the rustle of soft sheets and the brief shifting of pressure on the feather bed, Zevran slid easily into waking. He found his lover pressed against him–her arms curled tightly in between their chests–and smiled. Another man might have been bothered by his lover waking him, but not Zevran. These fleeting moments had grown to be one of the most cherished parts of his nights. Zevran pulled Saorise's sleeping form more snugly to his chest. How perfectly she fit against him, as if their bodies had been made specifically for embraces such as these.
Zevran yawned and, as he always did, took this quiet moment to drink in the sight of her. It was his routine, now, waking in the pre-dawn hours to watch his beloved sleep. As a Crow he had been trained to sleep lightly, relied on his ability to rise immediately into action to survive for so many years, and old habits were difficult to break. Even Saorise turning in her sleep was enough to have him awake and alert, albeit comfortably so, in this case. Meanwhile Saorise slept comfortably, unaware of the world outside of her dreams.
Zevran raised his hand, ran his fingers through the waves of Saorise's long hair. He watched her face, peaceful in sleep, and memorized her features. Her pale skin and white hair shone in the moonlight that filtered in from the window. His fingertips brushed over the ruin of her left eye, traced the puckered scar that ran down her face and tugged at the corner of her lip. He was grateful every day that their battle with the archdemon had taken only her eye, and not her life. She had asked him, once, if he still found her beautiful.
‘Mi vida,’ he'd said, ‘You won your scars battling the Blight itself. You are not only beautiful, bu t fierce .’ And, because he had seen the tears begin to well in her eyes, Zevran had added with a wink, ‘And ferocity is quite the turn-on, no ? ’ Honesty with a touch of humor, that was his way. He had turned her tears to laughter, and there was no joy greater. And he had meant what he said; she was still beautiful, desirable, clever, all the things she had been before that final battle.
Zevran's eyes settled next on the finely crafted golden hoop that she wore. It had been a gift he had given her all those years ago, back before she was the Hero of Ferelden. He'd lied when he gave it to her, tried to play off the gift as a mere token of appreciation. How foolish he’d been, and how easily Saorise had seen through that facade.
Zevran leaned his head down and kissed the tip of her ear. Saorise didn't stir. Her breathing remained rhythmic and calm. Slowly Zevran felt his own eyelids begin to droop, weighed down with the promise of sleep. His consciousness began to wander its way back toward unconsciousness, his beloved being the last thing he saw before drifting into his own gentle rest.