This is an extended version of the story which was written for the lovely ShebasDawn as part of the CMDA Secret Santa exchange.
Thanks to A. Lion. Heart for her beta skills.
The Hanged Man wasn't much to look at from the outside… and it was even less so on the inside. Still, Zevran had spent time in worse locations, and the ale tasted as though it had been pilfered from a fine ship, so why not while away the hours in the company of this ragtag band who had intervened in the unpleasant business with Nuncio.
His new friends – and one old one – were eyeing him with the clear expectation that he begin his tale. The dwarf, Varric, had even produced an old battered journal from somewhere, half of which the pages were crinkled with repeated thumbing, and he now waited with a stub of charcoal poised between his fingers.
"The Hero and the King of Ferelden?" the elf repeated, mulling over the request that he divulge his experiences during the Blight. "Everyone knows their story."
"Not the story; your impression of them," the dwarf corrected.
"I only travelled with them for a time. The Hero of Ferelden had already achieved a great deal before I encountered him."
Stretching his legs out beneath the table, Hawke settled himself into his chair with a roll of his eyes. "He won't shut up until you give him something."
A commotion at the front of the tavern distracted the group. Amid the patrons gathered at the door, a young dwarf was pushing his way through with a crumpled letter clutched in his hand.
On seeing the boy, a flash of concern swept across Hawke's face and he jumped to his feet, letting out a whistle in signal. The boy immediately bounded towards the group and stumbled to a halt in front of Hawke.
"Enchantment!" The young dwarf declared with a beaming grin.
Hawke echoed the word with a smile and held his hand out for the letter. Once in his hands, he broke the seal and read through the contents with a deepening frown.
Isabela stretched in her chair. "Anything interesting, Hawke?"
He offered a grunt by way of explanation before seemingly appreciating that guttural sounds were not conducive to communicating fully. "I need to visit the Viscount's Keep."
Peering at the letter, Varric attempted to decipher any telltale marks which might further reveal its contents, but Hawke crushed the vellum in his palm and shoved it in a pocket.
"It doesn't seem to be anything serious," he elaborated. "Stay here and I'll be back soon." He clapped Varric on the shoulder with a grin. "I know you'd never forgive me for denying you the chance to pry whatever you can from our new friend here."
As Hawke took his leave – gently steering the dwarven boy in front of him – both Varric and Isabela returned their attention to Zevran.
"Oh, very well," the elf capitulated with a good-natured grumble. "From the beginning, yes?"
"What?! You're taking the assassin with us now? Does that really seem a good idea?"
Those were not the first words uttered to him by the Grey Wardens, but it was the remark Zevran remembered most clearly.
On hearing the protest, the vallaslin on the face of his would-be killer – Zevran was quite sure the Dalish was moments away from slitting his throat – wrinkled as the Warden frowned, a scowl darkening his face, before he straightened and whirled around in order to berate the man for his interruption.
Zevran, in truth, paid little heed to the exchange between the pair. As it was, 'exchange' was generous – the elven archer took command of the situation, belittling the man with a ferocity which would have cowed any warrior, much less one who clearly deferred to the elf.
The assassin's ambush had been a failure. How, Zevran could not understand. He had taken measures to ensure that the two Grey Wardens were sufficiently outnumbered. He had not known of the dark-haired woman – an apostate, he knew now – but even so, there was no reason why the three should have bested his mercenaries. Truly, these Grey Wardens deserved their fearsome reputation.
A sudden burst of laughter from the Dalish cut through the air and brought Zevran back to his current predicament. The Warden stepped away from the taller man and swung his head in the direction of the assassin.
"You live to see another day, flat ear. Thank the shemlen."
Behind the Warden, the man clenched his fists at his side. For all the pain that Zevran was in, it was clear that the man had not been arguing for sparing his life and that the assassin had somehow stumbled into the position of a pawn between the pair.
"Get him walking." The Dalish issued his order before turning on heel as he made to loot the number of corpses which now littered the small clearing.
The dark-haired woman made some snide comment – though Morrigan made so many comments that Zevran was hard pressed to remember all of them – but obeyed the instruction and approached the assassin, crouching down at his side. Any hopes of gentle healing were swiftly dashed however, as the woman reached out a finger and proceeded to prod at his ribs without prejudice.
Recoiling with a barely stifled groan, Zevran informed her between snatches of pained breaths that each of his men had been equipped with various potions, but the Witch shook her head as she muttered that he would not allow it. Looking over her shoulder, Zevran saw that the tall human continued to glare down at him, his arms folded across his chest, while he supervised the Witch's movements – or more accurately, the elf's lack of movements.
Seeing his gaze shift and interpreting upon whom the elf had focused, the woman gave a derisive snort. Not him, she had snapped, the other. Her mouth twisted into a thin smile as she explained that the Warden – that she referred to him as such should have been clue in itself – did not permit ineptitude to be rewarded. Injuries served as lessons. There would be no health potions.
The rustle of vellum being hastily turned as Varric wrote down all which the elf said abruptly halted and the dwarf raised his head, his brow pinched. "The Hero refused to heal you?"
"I think it is perhaps more accurate to state that he had simply agreed not to kill me," Zevran took a careful sip of his ale. "In that, he kept his word. Whatever else I might have assumed came with the agreement is my own misunderstanding."
"Hardly the stuff of legends."
Tutting, Isabela propped her feet against the edge of the table so that she might sit more comfortably. "As if you care. You'll change it anyway."
"For my audience, yes," Varric huffed. "Me, on the other hand: I like to know the facts."
Zevran regarded the dwarf coolly. "Do you wish me to stop?"
The dwarf grumbled beneath his breath but this was too good an opportunity to miss – even if it was not what he had expected – and Varric gestured with a flick of his wrist that the assassin should continue.
That the Warden had agreed to allow Zevran to live was clearly intended as a punishment – for Alistair. Yet what the Dalish Warden had no way of knowing was that the decision was as punishing for Zevran as it was the shemlen Warden for whom Theron Mahariel held so little respect.
Over time, as the pain from his injuries sustained during the ambush began to lessen, Zevran found that there was precious little distraction from the past he had so wished to escape from. Any attempts at conversation with either Theron or Morrigan were swiftly quashed, and Alistair simply would not bear the assassin to come anywhere near him.
Instead, the man maintained a constant vigil from afar. With so little else to entertain him, Zevran had come to view the surveillance as an unexpected source of amusement. It had not taken him long to realize that for all Alistair was a Grey Warden, he was impossibly naïve. Truly, a man should not be able to call himself such until he had at least some experience of life. As it was, Zevran took a perverse pleasure in embarrassing his supposed ally whenever the opportunity arose.
Tonight was no different. Busying himself with sorting through the meager belongings which he had been permitted to scavenge from the failed assassination, Zevran called over his shoulder.
"If you insist on watching me so, you may find I misinterpret your motives Alistair."
There was the usual chink of armor as the man readied himself. For what, Zevran was still to uncover – his skills lay in subterfuge, not full frontal assaults. What Alistair expected the elf to do was a mystery in itself.
"I watch you because I know what you are."
The elf chuckled beneath his breath. "Truly, Alistair?"
His amusement only served to rile the man further and he heard as Alistair took another step towards him – no doubt also reaching for his sword.
"You're a liar and a thief and a murderer…"
The accusations were nothing new – and ones that were not inaccurate – but to hear them spill from this Grey Warden was too much, even for Zevran's good humor.
"It is quite true that I am all these things, yes." Zevran interrupted sharply, twisting round to regard the man through narrowed eyes. "And more. It should be of little consequence to the likes of you, no?"
Alistair threw his head back as he gave vent to a hollow laugh. "The likes of me?
He did not know what it was about the sound, brittle in the cold night air, but the laughter rang in his head and the walls which Zevran had erected around all that had occurred with Rinna crumbled into dust, already eroded as they were by nightly contemplation. His temper flared.
"You too are a liar, thief, murderer, and all that which you are unable to bring yourself to say."
The man spluttered, caught between a sneering dismissal and a wordy retort. His indignation at being consigned to the same category in which he placed the elf was plain, even if his articulation of the fact was not.
"You deny you are a Grey Warden to those who most need your assistance; you do not protest when your leader steals from whoever crosses your path; you willingly kill any who oppose you…"
Alistair took a step towards the elf, his eyes flashing. "I have no choice," he rumbled in a menacing tone.
A sneer contorted the elf's lip. "When one of the legendry Grey Warden Order cannot follow his conscience, what right does he have to demand as much from a lowly member of the Antivan Crows?"
The man clenched his fists but even though he opened his mouth, there were no words.
"Take care to look to yourself before you judge those around you, Alistair."
Without a backward glance, Zevran strode from the camp towards a stream which lay a little distance away. He was intent on washing the grime and taint from his skin, regardless of whether the act met with Alistair's approval or not.
It was then that Zevran realized that he had not been followed.
The elf shot a questioning glance towards Varric, but the dwarf remained absorbed in writing down the tale – albeit shaking his head as he wrote – and so Zevran went on.
His life in the Crows had become unbearable – especially given the events surrounding Rinna – but Zevran was swiftly coming to realize that remaining in the company of this Theron Mahariel was far more hazardous to his life than dodging the wrath of the guild.
The Warden continued onwards, refusing to involve himself in any shemlen business unless it directly impacted on his goal of defeating the Blight. He made as many enemies as he did alliances, and his acquaintances – they could hardly be called companions – were treated with an unrelenting mistrust.
Now, Theron was travelling towards Denerim and Zevran was well aware that he would not be able to evade detection from the reach of the Crows – his failure to kill the Grey Wardens had undoubtedly made its way to the ear of the Regent and subsequently the Guild Master. His time with the Warden was at an end, one way or another.
Camp that night was a miserable affair, as always. Morrigan kept to herself in her makeshift site, while Alistair lay beside the fire, curled around his pack. A skirmish with some darkspawn earlier in the day had left the man with a slash just beneath his jaw. The Warden had sneered at the ineptitude of his brother-in-arms and refused to administer any of the potions from his carefully guarded supply. Neither Morrigan nor Zevran had seen fit to intervene, and Alistair had been left to devise his own treatment.
Approaching the Warden, who was occupied with preparing two rabbits which he had succeeded in snaring, Zevran cleared his throat.
"I have come to a decision. I think the time has come for me to go."
Theron gave no acknowledgement that he had heard. He was absorbed in removing the feet and head from his prizes and the sharp crack of metal against bone reverberated across the camp.
Throwing the limbs to one side, the Dalish at last grunted. "Didn't you swear an oath to serve me?"
"Ha, you did, as I'll remind you, have me at your mercy." Zevran kept his tone light - there was no point in antagonizing the elf further. "As I see it we have two options before us: either you kill me as you could have done when you caught me, or you recognize that we are incompatible and allow me to leave peacefully. What is it to be?"
With a practiced hand, Theron made an incision into the skin of the rabbit, careful not to pierce the stomach, and sliced upwards. Placing the knife at his side, he at last raised his head as his fingers began to deftly pull the skin from the flesh of the creature.
"If you want to die, I'm happy to oblige," he remarked with all the casualness of enquiring after the weather.
Zevran stared down at the Dalish. He had suspected as much – why else had he ensured his blades were sharpened and freshly laced with poison? – but he had not been fully prepared for the simple ease with which Theron greeted the change in circumstances.
"I think we need to talk. Right now."
The voice came from behind Zevran and the elf twisted round to find Alistair had risen from his place beside the fire. He pushed past the assassin and placed himself between the pair, glaring down at Theron.
A glower blazed across the elven Warden's features. "I don't think I like your tone."
"No? Well, here's a shocker for you; I don't care! I'm going to talk and you're going to listen."
From where Zevran stood, he could see the blood continuing to seep from the gash under Alistair's jaw, but the man's voice brokered no argument.
Theron too appeared to have noted the change in his fellow Warden. Discarding the rabbit carcass, he took a rag and wiped the gory wetness from his fingers as he stood up. "Very well, Alistair."
"Over here." Alistair made for the edge of the camp while Theron sauntered after him.
Watching as they retreated from him, Zevran weighed up his options. The intervention was unexpected and he had no idea how he should respond. Common sense dictated that he leave immediately, but he found himself rooted to the ground.
Alistair was more than double the height of the Dalish Warden and for the first time since Zevran had joined the group, it appeared that the man was taking full advantage of the fact as he loomed over the elf. His voice remained low so that his words were reserved for Theron alone, but it was clear from the wild gesticulations that Alistair had reached the end of his tolerance for the elf's behavior.
For his part, Theron seemed more amused than threatened. He offered some interjections to Alistair's tirade which appeared to enrage the man further – a deliberate act, no doubt. In time however, Alistair ran out of whatever accusations and condemnations he could throw at the other Warden, and Theron rolled his shoulders before returning to face Zevran.
The assassin readied himself for a confrontation but Theron held up a hand, requesting – it was too far to suggest he pleaded – that Zevran reconsider his decision.
Zevran blinked. The smirk of the Warden, accompanied by the insincerity of his words, warned him that this reprieve was not to be trusted. Yet his attention was not on Theron, but on Alistair who had retreated back to the fire. Sinking down, he had pulled his legs tight against his chest and now rested his head against his knees, shivering in the dank cold of the night.
Keeping his eyes trained on the man, Zevran heard himself murmur his agreement. "As it please you, my Warden."
"I remember you told me that Alistair saved your life," Isabela remarked softly. "I assumed it had been in a fight."
"I flattered myself that I had learned something of the Warden during our previous encounter," Zevran kept his eyes trained on the tankard in front of him, tracing the curving design engraved around the handle with the tip of his finger, "but I knew deep down that I could not have beaten him." A small smile surfaced on his face and he glanced up to catch the pirate's eye. "Perhaps this is your part to tell of the tale, my dear?"
The Pearl was an intoxicating haven of debauchery and salaciousness, and Isabela had very nearly taken her fill. Soon it would be time to move on to new shores, but for the moment the self-proclaimed Queen of the Eastern Seas was content to bide her time in the warmth of the brothel with a deck of cards in front of her and a pint of ale beside her.
The appearance of an old… acquaintance… and his companions had persuaded her that perhaps there was at least one more night of entertainment to be found in Denerim – aside from the fools who believed they could best her in a dueling match.
The skirmish – it could hardly be called a fight – had briefly captured the interest of the elf with those strange tattoos covering his whole face, but his attention had waned even before Isabela could offer to teach him her skills. He was now sampling the best that The Pearl had to offer – and from the sounds carrying from the back of the brothel, Isabela judged that he knew how to have a good time.
The same could not be said for the trio who accompanied him. Zevran sat opposite Isabela, nursing his drink, but no manner of conversation could entice him from the melancholy he steeped in. The other man – tall and blonde – sat at the next table accompanied by a dark haired woman. Neither spoke to one another; the dark haired woman had a permanent sneer and was sulking – Isabela wondered why she didn't just leave – while the man stared at his hands which were pressed flat against the table, his ears as red as the dawn.
Well, this would not do. Life was for living; a fact the pirate was surprised to discover Zevran had forgotten. She might not be able to change why he felt the way he did, but she could influence how he felt right now.
Taking up the forgotten cards, Isabela shuffled the deck with an expert hand. "Cards, Zev?"
Managing a weak grin, he shot her a look. "I make a rule never to cheat myself, Isabela. With only two of us, I fear that is exactly what will happen."
"Not if your friends join us." She leant across the table and flashed an enticing smile towards the pair. "Want to play?"
The dark haired woman growled a refusal, but the man looked up with a mild curiosity. His face was flushed – a fitting match with the tips of his ears – and Isabela could feel the waves of heat radiating from him. Maker, she had never met anyone who could be so completely embarrassed.
He swallowed as though his throat was parched – the empty tankard in front of him, accompanied by another two, had seemingly done little to sate his thirst. "I don't have coin."
Her gaze raked over the man, intending to suggest that there were other means of payment, when her sharp eye caught sight of the red and blistering rash which was creeping across his skin from beneath his jaw.
Without preamble, she caught hold of his chin and tilted his head upwards so that she might examine the rash with a greater scrutiny. Widow's Alibi; a slow acting poison, but the intensity of the infection suggested some additional ingredient which she could only hazard at.
Straightening, she treated the man to a hard look. "How long have you had this?"
He blinked and gave a little shrug. "A few weeks, maybe?"
She heard Zevran swear beneath his breath, muffled by the grate of wood against stone as the elf rose from his chair, but she took no heed. Instead, Isabela ordered that they return to her ship. Whatever else was happening amongst this group of strangers, the poison which was slowly but surely staking a claim over this man required immediate attention.
The dark-haired woman refused to become involved, but Zevran was quick to hustle Alistair – Isabela overheard the elf address him as such – out of the brothel and down to the docks. While the man remained capable of walking unaided, it did not escape Isabela's notice how he sank down on the bed in her cabin with a barely concealed sigh of relief, nor the fact that when she pressed her hand against his forehead in order to test his temperature, she found his skin to be slick with sweat.
It took some time to convince Alistair that it was in fact necessary that he remove his armor and even his undershirt, but once Isabela and Zevran had succeeded in wrestling the man down to his smalls – though not the kind of wrestling Isabela had initially hoped for when she first recognized Zev in The Pearl – the treatment process was relatively straight forward.
Rummaging about in the various drawers and chests packed into her cabin, the pirate sourced the components of what she hoped would be a sufficient antidote. While she occupied herself with concocting some paste – which smelled foul and would linger for weeks, even at sea – Zevran coaxed the man into accepting a sleeping draught. The application of the salve would be painful and there was nothing to be gained from feigning a brave face.
Once satisfied that Alistair was asleep, Zevran indicated that the pirate could begin her ministrations. Isabela first cleaned the still seeping wound with a liberal amount of alcohol before slathering the rash with the salve. On occasion the man let out a muffled whimper as the sensation of pain penetrated deep into the darkness in which he slept.
In time, however, the treatment was complete and all that was left to do was to wait to see how well the antidote might work.
The pirate stepped back and took a moment to admire her handiwork. Satisfied by a job well done, she turned to tidy the ingredients now strewn about her cabin but stopped when she discovered Zevran perched on one of the chests. He was perfectly still – loathe to disturb either her focus or Alistair's slumber – sitting cross-legged with his arms resting loosely against his thighs, his attention fixed on the form of the sleeping man.
Isabela reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Although the elf moved to cover her hand with his own, not once did his gaze leave the bed.
Lowering her head, she murmured in his ear. "Who is he, Zev?"
"A Grey Warden."
"No." Her gaze flitted back towards the man. "Who is he to you?"
"He saved my life once," the elf replied, his voice guarded. "It would be wrong not to return the favor, no?"
"I wouldn't know. I rarely concern myself with deciding what's right or wrong. And there was a time when you didn't either, Zev."
The elf muttered something beneath his breath which Isabela took to be entirely derogatory – and revealed more than she knew the assassin would have liked.
"Oh, sweet thing," she chided gently, "you know exactly what he is to you."
Tension flooded through the elf, and Isabela suddenly realized that Zevran was unsure of himself – and of what he could offer this man.
"Life is for living, Zev." She squeezed his shoulder again before letting her hand fall away. "You taught me that, remember?"
With that, Isabela decided that tidying could wait and took her leave from the cabin. Throughout the remainder of the night, she purposefully busied herself elsewhere on the ship and it was only at dawn when she finally ventured back below deck.
As expected – along with a little blind hope – the antidote had worked and there was a marked improvement in the man's health. Alistair would need to administer the remainder of the salve over the rash for the next few days, but both Isabela and Zevran agreed that the poison was unlikely to pose any further threat to his health.
Neither Zevran nor Isabela referred to the all too brief conversation of the night before.
Beginning to laugh beneath her breath, Isabela shook her head as she leant back in her chair. "Not that the little sod was grateful, mind you." She addressed Varric directly. "He thought there was something strange about waking up in a strange bed dressed only in his smalls. I told him, 'trust me, sweet thing, your smalls wouldn't still be on…"
Rolling his eyes, Varric cleared his throat in order to interrupt the tirade. "I see where this is going, Rivaini. Tell you what, if the story needs a little spicing up, I'll know where to come." Ignoring the playful pout of the pirate, he glanced back down at his journal and skimmed the last paragraph before looking towards Zevran. "Could the poison have killed him?"
"Perhaps, given enough time," the assassin conceded with a slight nod.
"Excellent."
The response from the dwarf – muttered beneath his breath as he hastily scribbled a note at the edge of the journal page – prompted a snort of laughter from Isabela. "Varric!"
Zevran only smiled. "It is all a part of the storytelling, my dear. As it was, the poison proved to be nothing more than a distraction. We should never have travelled so conspicuously within the walls of the city. It was foolishness."
A frown creased Isabela's brow. "I didn't hear any reports of trouble before I left…"
"This was afterwards." His gaze became unfocused as he recalled the details. "When we returned to the city for the Landsmeet. We believed we were at our strongest, yet we were at our most vulnerable."
The pirate studied Zevran from behind a closed expression. "The Regent or the Crows?"
"Oh, both Theron and Alistair enjoyed a brief time at the pleasure of the Regent," a humorless smile twisted the elf's mouth. "But first, it was the Crows."
The Grey Warden treaties were all fulfilled and the Landsmeet called. His time at the side of the Warden was drawing to an end, though perhaps it had come sooner than even Zevran had expected.
Walking through the Denerim backstreet which could only be accessed through a portcullis, Zevran had sensed the potential for a trap but had not acted on the instinct. Now, Taliesen stood in front of the small group, mercenaries surrounding them, and offered the elven assassin the opportunity to return to the Crows without disgrace.
"Of course, I'd need to be dead first," Theron pointed out, the challenge clear in his tone.
Zevran turned to stare at the Warden. "That's true. You would need to be dead."
Above them on the staircase, Taliesen let out a loud guffaw which echoed around the stone courtyard. "Now there is the Zevran I remember!"
The assassin ignored his old comrade and kept his focus on Theron. The Dalish made no effort to acknowledge him, eyes locked on Taliesen instead, but both Morrigan and Alistair were watching Zevran as they waited to see how this was to play out.
Sparing a darting glance in their direction, what the elf saw gave him pause. Where he had expected to see betrayed outrage leveled at him in Alistair's gaze, he found only a sad acceptance. Ah, so the man was not so naïve as he once was - and perhaps the assassin was a little more so. To encourage change in another and not expect to experience his own… Truly, Zevran had overestimated himself.
He looked back to Taliesen and moved away from the side of the Warden, advancing up the staircase. "I am no fool, old friend. You know me too well." He began to smile at the other Crow. "I'm glad it was you who came, Taliesen. This makes things… easier."
He had not intended for the other man to sense his intent, but perhaps his smile was closer to that of a grimace. The sight of the one whom Zevran had come to believe had goaded him into murdering Rinna threatened to steal his self-control.
The fight which followed was little more than a scuffle. It was far too late for Taliesen as Zevran covered the last few steps in a single bound, his blades already in his hands. Striking out at the man, the elven assassin dealt the fatal blow within moments. Behind him, he heard the clamor of metal against metal as the Grey Wardens both rounded on the nearest Crow while explosions erupted around the small courtyard as Morrigan demonstrated her elemental mastery. Many of the mercenaries were incapacitated before they could even raise their weapons. If the survivors had not the wit to play dead, they were granted a brutal end.
Silence descended over the courtyard – that no one had come to investigate told its own story of this impoverished district – yet Zevran remained where he stood over the body of his former accomplice. Staring unseeingly, splattered with the gore of his kill, the assassin waited. He had hoped there was a peace to be gained from finally putting right the wrong which he had committed to Rinna. Why could he not find it?
He felt a hand rest against his shoulder. "It's done, Zev. Finished."
"Truly, Alistair?" His voice sounded distant.
"If you let it be."
A slight tremor ran through the elf. It could not be that easy, surely…
"How much do you know of this?" Zevran forced out, unable to bring himself to make any further acknowledgement of the man.
"Only what you mumble in your sleep." Alistair sighed heavily, his hand slipping from the elf's shoulder. "Which, by the way, seems a really inconvenient trait for an assassin to have."
His throaty chuckle surprised even him, but then Zevran often found that his humor could be depended upon even in the darkest moments. "I do not often sleep when in the company of others, my dear Alistair."
"Should I be offended by that?" There was a teasing note to the question which did at last persuade Zevran to turn his head. When he met the other man's eye, he discovered Alistair was watching him with a strained smile. "Made you look," he added, weakly.
Zevran laughed; a proper laugh which shook free all the thoughts and feelings within him. Regret, remorse, satisfaction, loss all jostled together into a knotted mess that he had no hope of ever untangling. All that he could do was come to accept what had happened. Not immediately, no – it would take time. But the peace would come.
"Thank you, my friend," the elf murmured. "You are right; it is finished."
"Wait, wait, wait," Varric interrupted, his exasperation showing in the heavy downward strokes of the charcoal as he struggled to keep abreast of the story. "You told the Hero that he would need to be dead?"
Isabela threw up her hands with a groan. "That's what you're focused on?"
"Our friend here just admitted that he considered betraying the Hero and King!"
"But of course," Zevran interjected with a roll of his shoulders as he settled more comfortably in his chair. "There was indeed a moment where I considered it, but I could not follow through with it."
Varric settled a pointed look on Isabela. "See, Rivaini? It is possible to only consider doing something," he goaded. "You don't always have to follow through with the first bad idea you have."
His remarks earned Varric a black look from the pirate and he hastily hunched back over his journal, making some amendments to the latest paragraph.
"Get on with it, Varric," she scowled, drumming her fingers against the table. "We both know you really want to hear the truth in the rumors from the battle."
Zevran arched an eyebrow, looking between the pair. "Oh?"
Leaning across the table, Varric fixed an unwavering stare on the assassin. "Rumor has it," he began slowly, watching for the slightest telltale reaction, "that the King almost died in the Battle of Denerim. A blow to a head, so they say."
"Such injuries are not uncommon in the midst of battle, no?"
"Only for those not wearing the appropriate armor. Why wouldn't the King be wearing his helm?" Varric sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest as he prepared to interrogate the elf. "If he had been wearing it, it would have deflected much of the blow."
"The battle was fierce. We were lucky to escape with our lives, let alone have our armor remain intact."
"Or he removed it because he did not feel threatened." A glint appeared in Varric's eye as he seized on the point he had been building towards. "The Archdemon was right there. Why didn't the King feel threatened?"
For a moment, Zevran remained motionless. Then, the elf let out a long exhale. "Very well, my friend. You have some pages left to write upon, yes? Good. I will not repeat this part again."
Myth ruled over fact during the Landsmeet. The allure of a legitimate Theirin, as opposed to one only by marriage, proved impossible for the nobility of Ferelden to resist and Alistair was accepted as the true successor to his half-brother's throne. That was perhaps not surprising, Zevran conceded – especially given the assertiveness with which Alistair laid claim to the title. What was surprising, however, was the support which Theron Mahariel granted to the cause of his fellow Grey Warden.
Something was amiss.
Over the course of the next few days, Zevran wished desperately to speak alone with Alistair so that he might share his concerns with the man. Yet Theron, at one time pained to even converse with his brother-in-arms, now refused to leave the man's side for more than a few moments at a time. Morrigan had long since withdrawn entirely into herself and showed no interest in any matter, but whenever Zevran attempted to join the meetings between the two Wardens, he was refused. The elder Grey Warden, Riordan, was permitted to join the pair on occasion, but even then it was rare.
Yet with a will, there was always eventually a way. Zevran finally devised a means of creeping into the study where, wrapped in the shadows amidst the rafters, the assassin watched and listened to the endless debating over strategies and plans. Most of the discussions involved the logistics of managing the army in order to battle the Archdemon, yet it was the infrequent talk of what the future held which most convinced Zevran that something was very wrong. Still, he could uncover no real evidence for his suspicion.
The rumor of the Horde massing near Redcliffe prevented him from investigating further. Certainly, the race to Redcliffe left no opportunity to question anything. When the rumors proved baseless and the army were forced to retrace their steps to Denerim, any thought of a future were far from the head of even the most optimistic man. All focus had to be on the defeat of the creature - even if Morrigan had since abandoned their cause and fled.
So it was that Zevran found himself fighting alongside his friend and Theron within the city of Denerim. The battle was relentless. Hours upon hours saw them advance only a district or so at a time. Had they been intent on cleansing the city of the tainted monsters, every man's courage would have failed him. It was fortunate, then, that they were only intent on battling through as far as Fort Drakon.
Riordan was already lost to them. The sight of his body falling through the sky was one which haunted Zevran in a way that few other deaths had. He found it too simple a thing to imagine Alistair sharing the same fate.
Reaching the entrance to the fort, the three companions pushed through the initial defenses. Climbing through the levels, higher and higher, they attacked and defended in equal measure until at last they staggered out onto the rooftop.
Beside him, Zevran heard the roars of pain from both Alistair and Theron as they responded to the presence of the tainted creature now immediately ahead of them. Their shout were soon lost, however, in the screech which escaped from the beast as it rounded on them. All hope deserted Zevran.
In the end, the ballistae proved to be theri salvation. The combined power of the four machines ensured that the demon was kept under constant attack while the gathered armies of elves, dwarves and humans worked together to ensure that the Horde could not bring aid to its Master. At last, the creature lay broken and bleeding, its chest heaving as it roared its pain into the sky. Zevran could empathise, but he had little time to dwell on the fact thought; despite arriving on the rooftop as a trio, Theron had since disappeared in the subsequent melee of battle leaving Alistair and Zevran to face the darkest moments before victory was assured.
"Sword," Alistair coughed, throat thick with the stench and smoke of the battle. "Need… sword…"
His sword was embedded in the chest of an ogre behind them. The ogre had then fallen forward and impaled itself further on the weapon, rendering it inaccessible.
Zevran shook a few loose strands of hair from his eyes, panting. "Your part is done, Alistair. Call for Theron; he can kill the thing and claim the glory."
"No, Zev." The man pulled his helm from his head and threw the battered piece of armor to one side, heaving in a deep breath. "He never intended to kill it himself."
"It is to be my task, then?" The words were impertinent, but the sentiment was not: his tongue had know what was in his heart, even if it had not quite agreed.
Alistair regarded the elf with an amusement somewhat tinged with exasperation. "You would as well." He managed a crooked grin and shook his head. "But even if I'd let you, it wouldn't do any good. It has to be a Grey Warden. Don't ask why; it just does. Riordan is dead and I know Theron isn't coming, so it has to be me."
Be it the way the man had spoken, held himself, or some other slight thing which Zevran could not place, the elf nevertheless sensed that here at last was an answer to the recent strange behaviour of the Dalish Warden. "Alistair," his fingers closed harder against the man's gauntlet. "What happens to the one who strikes the blow against such a corrupt creature?"
The crooked grin evened into a wry smile. "Haven't you guessed yet, Zev?"
"A killing blow!" Zevran interpreted with a burst of anger. "You knew this and did not tell me? I will not allow it, Alistair. You cannot..."
"No one else can do it," his eyes flashed as his temper flared. "It has to be me. Either help me find a sword or..." He pulled away from the elf and spun around, facing in the opposite direction. When he next spoke, his voice had softened. "Just help me find a sword, OK? A well-crafted one," his tone regained some of its humour, "I don't want it bending as I kill the damned thing."
There was little else for Zevran to say. It was not often that Alistair asserted himself, but when he did there was nothing which could sway him from what decision he had advocated. It had been the same when he had spoken at the Landsmeet... and when defending Zevran against Theron's bloodlust those short months ago.
Bodies – tainted and otherwise – littered the ground around their feet. Zevran swept his gaze across the sprawling corpses, searching for the weapon which would end all this madness. In the hand of one of the Redcliffe men – the emblem of the Arling emblazoned on his chestplate – there was what Zevran recognized as a long sword forged from red steel. It would be sufficient.
"There." The elf moved towards the weapon and nudged at it with his foot. He made no effort to bend down, knowing that the weight of the weapon would prevent him from picking it up with ease. Instead, his hand tightened around the hilt of one of his daggers.
"Good enough," Alistair confirmed with a grunt. He stepped gingerly over the bodies of the men – although he had a marked disregard for any darkspawn corpses – and leant forward in order to carefully pry it out of the grip of the fallen soldier.
Zevran watched him for a moment. "Forgive me, my friend." In a fluid movement, the assassin stepped forward with his dagger raised and brought the blunt end of the hilt down hard against base of the man's skull.
It had been some time since Zevran had any real reason to indulge in the more deceptive aspects of his trade – darkspawn rarely required a subtle approach – but the instinctive talent he had for such work never faded. A small grunt escaped Alistair before he toppled forward, collapsing across the bodies which lay in front of him. He did not move.
Zevran waited only so long as it took to convince himself that the man would not in fact rise again before spinning round. He bellowed to all that could hear, and hoped that he had not damned them all. "Find Theron Mahariel!"
Varric waited. No one was ever going to believe this story, but the dwarf remained determined to note the rest of it down – preferably before Hawke returned and chaos erupted, as it was invariably wont to do around the Champion.
The only problem was that Zevran had stopped speaking.
The dwarf shot a look towards the assassin – he couldn't trust himself to speak. Once he opened his mouth, Varric knew he would have no chance of holding back the questions which just begged to be asked. However, it soon became clear that it would have made very little difference if the dwarf had even laughed outright let alone spoken. Zevran was distracted by something near the door of the tavern, his attention completely ensnared.
"What happened next?" he at last prompted the elf. "The Hero was found, obviously. But what about Maric's bastard…"
"I have a name, you know."
Both Varric and Isabela started, twisting in their seats to discover what Zevran was already aware of – Hawke had returned from his business at the Keep… and he had brought a new friend.
The King of Ferelden flashed the dwarf a disarming grin. "It's Alistair, just in case you didn't know." He glanced towards Isabela, acknowledging her with a small nod, but it was to Zevran that his attention was fully drawn. Taking a chair from a nearby table, he pulled it close beside the assassin and sank down next to… Well, Varric was still making his mind up just what the elf was to the King – though he was almost decided.
Hawke mirrored the movement on the other side of the table, reclaiming his seat beside Varric. Out of the corner of his mouth, he muttered to the dwarf, "you can thank me later."
There were not enough barrels of ale in Kirkwall to thank Hawke for this, but for the moment Varric ignored his friend. He was far more interested in observing the King and assassin who now sat opposite him. He noted the ease with which they sat together, the familiarity with which Alistair leant across Zevran and claimed the last mouthful of ale from the elf's tankard before gesturing to Corff the bartender to send more over, but what was most remarkable was the way in which the elf now sat entirely at peace.
Isabela too had noticed.
The corner of her mouth twitched. "Living life again, Zev?" she enquired with a mock casualness.
The assassin redirected his gaze from Alistair and towards the pirate. A thoroughly impish glint - wonderfully familiar and exactly what had been missing all those years ago – appeared in his eye and his tongue darted across his lower lip. "Living and loving, my dear Isabela."
Hearing the exchange – and evidently making up his own mind about what it alluded to – Alistair began to smile, but he offered no remark of his own and instead cleared his throat, returning his attention to Varric. "The Champion has told me you're something of a story teller."
"He wished to know my opinion of both you and the Hero," Zevran remarked, smirking slightly.
Alistair raised his eyes skyward. "Oh, well, I'm sure that was flattering." He exchanged a teasing look with the elf before leaning forward to confide in a low tone with Varric. "You know, not everything ends with the Blight. There's ten years worth of stories which Zev and I could tell you, if you're interested."
"Ten years?" Varric echoed faintly, glancing down at the tattered journal in front of him. Ten years. The blood drained from his face as a realization hit him. "I'm going to need a bigger journal."