Preface
I've always been a fan of Zevran, in part because he was glossed over in the first game. Out of all of the characters, he seemed to be capable of the most depth, and the fact that his backstory is sparse, I've taken the opportunity to flesh it out how I see fit. This is a character study and written with the premise that non-DA fans could enjoy the story without knowledge of Thedas.
When I originally started writing this in 2013, there actually was little to nothing written about Zevran, and it's only recently (post DA II, ca. 2015) that have I seen anything more than a small blip on his backstory, let alone anything about Taliesen and Rinna. So, I was happy to be left with a lot of running room to develop these characters. It turns out that Taliesen is implied to be from Tavinter and survived a shipwreck to get to Antiva, and Rinna is actually the bastard child of Prince Estefan. Even the guild master was eventually given a name (Eoman) and the House Arnainai. SO, this created minor writer's block for a while because I really wanted to create a story that was canon-esque, and now with this new information, I've had to tweak it so my characters are not so AU. Hopefully, the result is ok. There have been comics written about Antiva though, and my hope is that I have further embellished that world for those who have read the Dark Horse Comics. To me, I find Zevran too intelligent to have been effectively thrown to the wolves as a boy. He comes off as very cunning and manipulative in the game (I see him as a consummate liar even, putting up a front for others), but also deeply intuitive and sensitive, so I wanted to play with an origin concept that allows that sort of intelligence to be nurtured through a realistic struggle.
Please note I use a lot different language that is not common in the DA games. I did this to dive more into the Antivan culture. So, for example the use of the word Daedric instead of City Elf, which becomes an important distinction later in the story. I have also chosen to deliberately refer to humans as Shem because I like the idea of humans having a different name than 'human', and although Zevran never really related with his fellow elf, the story is written form an elf perspective. Have patience with the lingo – it will settle into a rhythm, I promise.
I would love you know what you think, so please review. I would ever be so grateful to hear your thoughts. Happy reading!
Part One, Chapter One
Zevran was born in a brothel deep in the heart of Antiva City. He was an only child surrounded by the folly of a prostitute's profession. Yet, if asked, he would say his childhood was a happy one. The children would often run up and down the open halls, hiding in cupboards, stealing from the clients, hassling the Mothers who cared for the women residing there. He would get a good swat if he got in the way, but adult business was a faraway concern to a child.
His mother died long before he could even call her name. To him, the Mothers were his mother, although they looked nothing like him. They all had greying brown locks. They were pudgy, soft and squishy. The other children were like dark-skinned siblings. They were mostly Shem, but it made no difference to them that he had fair complexion, white-blonde hair, or Daedric features. He could run fast and got away with treats most of the others could never get to if they wished. Life was good. It was all he knew.
Then an old man came to the brothel. He was not interested in renting a woman, and instead, he asked for all the boys to be lined up against a wall. The Mothers did as told, pointing at each with their name, rough age, and qualities as the elder passed. To Zevran, he was tall and wore a long white beard. Years of a hard life washed out into the wrinkles on his face and hands. The figure stopped at the boy's feet and peered down his narrow bridge into young golden eyes, asking the caretaker how old he was.
"Answer him," The Mother demanded.
"Seven," was Zevran's reply.
The man turned to the woman after some pause and dropped a coin into her hand.
From that point on, Zevran was no longer in the care of the brothel and its Mothers. Hastily, his few belongings were gathered, and the boy was ushered out the door and into the busy streets of Antiva City.
Still, even then his life became more interesting than tragic. The old man brought them to the outskirts of the City. It was a quaint villa filled to the brim with books and plants. A cat kept guard of the kitchen and there was a broad veranda on the top floor from which the boy could see most of the coastline. Zevran had never seen the ocean before and would prefer to spend as much time as he could on the balcony overlooking the distant water. He was given a bed in a small room off the main landing. It seemed this stranger might have adopted him, or so the boy thought.
Over time, he learned the old man's name was Master Philippe Naheeme. At first, Zevran was instructed to carry out only minor tasks – deliver messages, carry goods back from the market, clean the rooms he was allowed to venture into. Eventually, he learned to cook and tend the garden out back, whilst the maid lent to the Master was returned to his friend. The old man did not speak much to the boy other than to direct him to his next chore, and Zevran chose not to think much of it. He got a clean bed and plenty of food and fresh clothes as he was quickly outgrowing the rags he wore back in the City.
Many, many visitors came and went through Master Naheeme's home. Every day there seemed to be people at the door, and it was Zevran's job to see that their needs were met. He was ordered never to speak to any of them. To some, he was never allowed to even look at them in the eye for to do so was very disrespectful. He was to take their cloak or hood in silence, guide them to the sitting room near the front foyer, give them wine and then leave. Most of the time, he obeyed. However, sometimes he would sit just outside in the hallway and eavesdrop. His intention was not to deliberately listen in, but he was curious. He wondered who these people were and why they always came around in such secrecy.
They came at all hours of the day and night too, and the boy was expected to answer no matter the time. He began to recognize some of the visitors. There was a younger man, whom always dressed in dark brown. He had a deep scar on the left side of his chin. He was also one of the few that spoke warmly to the child, one day leaning over in the hallway and whispering, "Careful not to listen so closely this time unless you want your Master to catch you."
Caught off guard, the boy stayed away from the hall entirely, at least for a couple of days. His courage worked up again the next time the man visited. He asked, "What's your name?"
The man chuckled, "You may call me Vinter."
A broad smile crossed the child with this new friend.
Others were not so congenial. They saw him and openly sneered, questioning the old man why he would waste his time on the knife-ear. He would surely die from whatever the man proposed to do with him. They saw the lithe stature and narrow features he possessed like the housecat saw the mouse she hunted on lazy afternoons. He was easily discredited and spoken down to, for which the boy could not understand. All he did was take their coat and offer them a drink.
On days there were no guests calling at the door or chores to do around the villa, Zevran was told to sit with the old man in a small reading room near the rear of the house. In truth, the boy was already a bit too inquisitive and sometimes ventured into the archive late at night when the Master was fast asleep behind a dusty book. The tomes all carried a brand of academy to them. He pushed up the page the old man was reading and peered at the scrawl blankly. Turning a couple of leafs, he ultimately landed on a series of intricate drawings, mostly of various plants and shrubs he could not identify. None of these things were in their garden. But, the artwork was endless and lifelike. It enthralled him. So, one day as he sat on the floor of the library, the boy could not help himself as he slipped a book off the shelf and slowly opened the cover when he thought the elder was not paying attention.
"What are you doing?" The Master muttered behind the easel he was leaning on. For weeks, he was writing into his own tome, abandoning sheets of parchment to float around the room filled with his discarded thoughts and sketches.
The boy regretted his action and moved the book back to the shelf.
"I asked what you were doing."
The child stilled himself much like he did back at the brothel when he was finally caught with something he should not have. Biting his lower lip, he thought it better to not answer.
But the old man was not satisfied. He dropped the writing feather onto the table beside him and faced Zevran, "Speak when I ask you a question."
"I took a book off the shelf," he whispered.
"Why?"
The boy shrugged. He was bored, but he was not about to say that. The Master retrieved himself from the stool and walked over to him. Stern blue eyes flowed over the sandy mop below seemingly pinning the child to the floor. Slowly, he leaned over to the shelf and picked out the dark binder, noting petite outlines from where the thief touched it moments before.
Zevran was waiting for the blow to come, subconsciously wincing as the man pulled himself upright and flipped opened the cover.
He snorted, "You are interested in maps?"
The child sat on his hands and looked up. Shyly he nodded.
"Well, why did you nigh say something?" He huffed. The man turned back and dropped the book casually on the desk. Dust billowed out into the room. With a tired groan, he sat on his stool again motioning for the child to follow, "Come here. I will show you."
Suddenly, each day was charged with a lesson. The almanac he chose was by accident, but that choice resulted in Zevran having to memorize every single map in the bloody room. He could recognize none of the symbols, but that mattered little as he was taught to see the name and recognize it. Each place, each map had a special history too, and the Master rattled on for hours about who drew the atlas and why. Most were exploratory in nature and most were of the coastline. The old man would retell fables of pirates still travelling the waters to this day and the treasures they carried with them to and from various kingdoms to the South.
The boy learned that Antiva in was very wealthy kingdom. He should feel lucky to live in a place where there was no shortage of import or blight of disease. Most of their realm was surrounding by land, but there was a narrow window of ocean in the east to their name. The Arlethan Forest, also known as the Daelish Wood, hovered to the north and Qunari lands even farther. To the west lay Tevinter, and to the south Navarra and the Free Marches. They lived in the desert, which was dry and uninhabitable to most. Only the eastern country was comfortable with seasonal rain and good crops where the Pillar Mountains merged into the giant Weyrs River.
Other maps were of the inland terrain covering forests and mountain chains. Zevran asked what the Daelish Wood was and why most maps suddenly stopped at it borders.
"Because of the savages that live within, boy. Most who venture there never come back."
"Who are they?" His attention now peeked.
The Master chuckled a bit darkly, glancing down at him, "Your ancestors."
A daily routine began to form as the weeks and months went by. In the morning, Zevran made breakfast, fed the cat, plucked goods from the garden, dusted the main hallway, cleaned his room and the archive, made lunch, sat in the foyer whist the Master attended to guests, ran errands into the nearby village and retrieved dinner, tidied again, and then sat for lessons in the archive for the evening. On odd days, he was also required for laundry and any other chores that happened to crop up. And of course answer the door whenever anyone called, no matter the time. Most of the day was boring, and the child would spend his timing redrawing memorized images in the books he stared at the night before. He was intrigued by the notion of the Daelish. He had little reference for the term "ancestor" but thought it interesting that the Master would connect him with it.
The lessons eventually expanded beyond almanacs and story telling. The old man started to show him what the words in the books meant, telling the child to recite the phrases clearly as he went. Most of the prose had little context though, and the Master broke the words apart so he could more easily digest them. He seemed more excited to have a pupil than Zevran was to learn, and even when the younger began to protest his exhaustion in earnest, the elder would point at the text and order him to recite it again until correct. With this, the boy learned to read and write four languages in eight years.
The old man was beginning to have trouble walking and required a cane wherever he went. Zevran often travelled with him simply to carry things and help him up steps. They visited many stately places around the City from grand open palaces to more modest, but no less vibrant, villas to the Chantry. He felt humbled the first time he saw the Chantry. Zevran never saw walls so tall before, and the echo of the Sister's hymns sent a soothing shiver inside him. He was only allowed into the Great Hall while the Master spoke to whomever he was there to see, but that was enough to occupy the boy. He would walk down the edge of his enclosure, gaping toward the arched ceiling. Each alcove he traced opened into another room or nook with ornate stone statues. People stood about reading from ancient tomes, and a persistent hum pervaded the place. He could not tell what it was, but it felt familiar somehow.
Zevran was also required to get all of the supplies for the Master, usually on the way home from their weekly excursions. The first time the child was sent on this errand, he did not come back with all of the goods.
"I need everything on the list. Go back out there and retrieve them."
"But," he protested. "I nigh had enough coin."
"Of course you did," the old man scolded. "You paid too much, is all."
"I nigh can haggle. They throw me out if I haggle."
This was not a sufficient answer, and the pair was back out the door with the list in hand. It was a bit embarrassing to watch the elder approach the street merchant knowing he would be in for a quarrel. The boy spent a better part of thirty minutes arguing that he was being given a different price than the Shem just before him. And the merchant knew whom he was shopping for. So incensed, the trader nearly swiped the boy in the face and threatened to throw him off the merchant block for daring to mouth back. Yet, to Zevran's shock, only cheery hellos and banter flowed between Master and his nemesis, and soon enough, the youngster was called out from the alley he was hiding in to speak straight to the merchant.
"What was on the list?"
Bitterly, the child looked up to the clerk. The old man nudged him again and a sullen answer followed, "Barley."
The merchant sniggered and pulled out the stash Zevran amassed from their earlier encounter, "Eight ginny."
"Oh, come now. Certainly, we could find a better price," the old man chortled with a rare smile. He pointed down at the child, "He cost me too much on his shopping today, and I need the remainder for dinner, yes?"
For the first time in his short life, Zevran felt deeply insulted, jerking up to the old man in utter disbelief. He had no intention of costing anyone anything!
But the ploy seemed to work. The merchant glanced down at the boy whom now carried a pained and worried expression and sighed, "Six."
"Five."
"Fine."
The old man grinned and dug into his purse. As the two began to pull away into the alley, he tugged the child aside, "Did you see what I did?"
Anger seeped into view, as Zevran vehemently wanted to tell his elder all the ways in which he hated him. Instead, he managed a, "No."
"Merchantry is an art that requires finesse. You nigh can expect to be given a fair deal."
"But," he whined. "He gave someone else a better price. I was standing right there!"
"Yes," he nodded, a grandfatherly tone emerging beneath his bushy beard, "and how much did your dispute with the merchant buy you?"
He stood up again and motioned for home. The old man said such things took practice, and so each time Zevran ventured back out for various errands, he was purposely given less coin to buy what he needed. After a while, it became a game between them, and whenever he returned triumphant in childish exuberance from whatever deal/plea/sad expression he could muster for a better price, he was allowed to keep what he did not manage to spend.
This was first time the boy had coin all his own. He did not know what to do with it, in fact. Carefully, he would tuck the money away into the gloves his mother left for him, neatly tying up the wrist knots to form a makeshift purse. For safe keeping, of course.