Stanzas in a Love Song
1 – A Merciful Whim
It would be nice to be able to say Rácain had spared Zevran out of some nobility of feeling, a gesture of mercy. Would be rather more heroic, for certain, and make a much lovelier tale. But as Zevran himself would happily tell you, life hardly ever matches the heroism of the tales.
No, ze didn't spare him out of mercy. Rather, it was done out of a whim.
It was difficult being the only elf on a team of mix-matched shemlen, a rather taciturn qunari, and a dog. The dog, of them all, made the best company, but as smart as he was, Balgaire could hardly hold a conversation. And how Rácain did miss conversation. Sure, from time to time, ze's teammates would indulge hir, but rarely for long, and their chats were hardly the stuff of legend. No, the team was rather a quiet lot, each drifting to their own special corner of the camp at end of day. It was nothing like the warmth and comfort of the Sabrae clan, a rather loud and merry gathering most days.
Ze missed that; the feeling of camaraderie, of belonging, of ending a hard day with laughter and discussion and the closeness of the clan, sitting scrunched together with the other hunters, listening to Hahren Paival's stories, or to Keeper Marethari's tales. Even those whom Rácain did not get on with so well, they were still clan, still family, and ze would defend them to the death.
But here, out in the wilds, among these shems who were practically strangers, Rácain felt so – alone. The camp was cold, and distant, spread out amongst the trees, to each their own. And speaking to them, more often than not, brought conflict and pain rather than any form of bond. Just thinking of Leliana's comments about the elves in Orlais, Rácain's blood went hot. Yes, they were a team, and ze was rather fond of them, but – it just… wasn't the same.
Until, on what seemed to be just another day on the road, they were ambushed.
It was Rácain who took on the blond elf who appeared to be the leader. The others took after his accomplices; Alistair taking charge at those lying in wait behind the fallen wagon, Leliana taking up her bow, aiming at the archers on the cliff, Balgaire running off towards those still at a distance.
They fought valiantly, if hopelessly. In a matter of minutes, all of them were done for, killed – except for the blond elf. Rácain had had plenty of chances to end him, to be sure… almost too many. He hadn't seemed to be trying very hard at all, especially not for being, presumably, a seasoned killer. One weakness open too many, and the assassin stood with his chest completely unprotected, sword reared back to strike, his other arm flung out at his side – almost daring the Warden to take his life.
He'd taken the opening, but instead of meeting the man's skin with the sharp end of his blade, he swung the dagger around and hit him hard with the pommel, just below the rib cage. He was out immediately.
After the fighting was done, Rácain found hirself approaching hir would-be killer. Still knocked out cold, laying belly-down on the ground, his face turned so that the tattoo on his cheek could be seen. Alistair, standing at Rácain's side, seemed half ready to approach and end his life, just waiting for the Warden's signal. But…
Rácain found hirself staring at that mark, upon the elf's cheek. It was a simple thing. Hardly anything like the intricate blood writing done by the Dalish, which Rácain wore upon hir own face. Most likely, this flat ear didn't even know about blood writing, or the Creators, and the mark probably was not dedicated to any of them.
But ze could not shake the feeling of looking upon a comrade, a clan-mate, at the sight of this fallen man, wearing such a mark upon his face. An elf. An elf who had tried to kill hir and hir's friends. Someone who might just try to finish the job if given half the chance.
Almost without thought, Rácain prodded the elf into waking. He did so slowly, with many a groan, opening his eyes to reveal twin golden suns. When he spoke, his warm, lilting voice lit a fire in Rácain's heart, a blistering heat that brought with it foolish, naïve desires.
Of course, the man began bargaining for his life, with a deceptive calm others might take as false bravado. Having seen him in battle, Rácain hirself wondered if it was more akin to a detachment to life, a desire to live not for wanting to, but for being used to the concept. Still, with every word, heartfelt or no, Rácain wanted – needed – to agree.
Alistair, of course, thought it was foolish. Probably it was. Leliana was for mercy, as usual, due to her own Maker-given morals. Both of them, at least, were acting from a rational place, but Rácain – there was nothing rational about this.
It was completely emotional, and ridiculous. This flat ear wasn't even Dalish, clearly, he was a stranger from some far off land, raised with shems and probably more like them than any elf Rácain had known. But ze could not shake the feeling, the want, to be wrong. To have this stranger be more akin to Rácain's own people, to the family ze had left behind.
Ze wanted more than anything not to be alone anymore. And when presented with the choice to remain only with strangers from foreign lands, with shemlen whose own ignorance made Rácain wonder if they weren't more trouble than they were worth – or, to have an elf, another of his people, join the team, … if an elf who had tried to murder him and couldn't be trusted not to try again?
Ze found the answer to be obvious. For the chance to have even a glimpse of clan life again, Rácain would suffer much more than inviting an assassin into their midst. So it was that Zevran Araini was spared – not out of mercy, or nobility, but the selfish desire for company, for a friend who might understand.
In the months to come, Rácain would find Zevran to be many things, but hir desire for a friend at least was more than fulfilled.