Knot 10: An Unburied Regret

Zevran sat near the fire, as was his habit after supper. Frequently, this time was spent mending his gear or sharpening his blades, sometimes accompanied by a bit of chat, sometimes not. Tonight was one of the rare occasions that he had little to work on while the others went about their business, and he found himself examining the pair of Dalish gloves that Alessar had given to him.

The assassin hadn't understood at first; he was perfectly happy with the light, well-worn leather gloves he already had, and it took time to get a new pair of gloves properly broken in. Given the constant threat of werewolf attacks since they'd entered the forest proper, the story about his mother's gloves that he had told the Grey Warden in the Dalish camp had been last thing on his mind in the past couple of days. It was just another of those personal bits of trivia that he seemed to let slip with unsettling regularity around Alessar – he never meant to say so much, but the other elf was always so willing to listen... and listen, he clearly did.

It was not a new thing for Zevran to have his words scrutinized; he was quite used to that, in the subtle games of the Crows. The assassins constantly sought ways to undermine their fellows – their competitors – from defamation and slander to blackmail, and every shady variation in between. While the Crows might have presented a united front to outsiders, their internal workings were full of these obscure struggles for prominence and status. To keep one's thoughts and secrets safe, a successful Crow quickly learned how to speak at length and say nothing. Nowadays, when Zevran actually said something true and ungarnished, it was difficult for his audience to tell the difference, which was how he preferred it.

But Alessar presented a problem in that regard. The Warden seemed damnably determined to push through Zevran's defenses. Not to take him apart, certainly; the man seemed so harmless, and honestly good, that it was hard to imagine him trying to get past Zevran's guard just to betray him or cast him down. The assassin tried to keep that in mind, but sometimes the instincts he'd had to build up over the years were just too much to overcome. Why would anyone want to get at the truth, besides to use it against him?

The Antivan had already admitted the truth – all of it – behind his botched assassination attempt to Alessar. He still wasn't sure what had compelled him to speak of it, other than the Warden's gentle persistence, but it had been, as the saying went, as if a weight had been lifted from him. Perhaps that kind of truth was simply too heavy to bear on one's own. He had to wonder if, just maybe, that had been part of the point of the Guardian of the Ashes's questioning. They had, after all, heard each other's regrets and fears, which must have provoked some questions in their minds. Alessar had come to him to ask about Rinna; had he done the same for the others? For that matter, had anyone done that for him? All Zevran knew about "Shianni" was that she was a cousin of Alessar's with a fiery personality. He'd never asked his lover about the Guardian's question, because his own had been so painful, but perhaps... he should.

The idea of sharing a burden of pain was a strange one to him. The Crows did no such thing, certainly; one carried the weight of their own regrets, if they had any, entirely alone. Admitting such feelings would, again, leave one open to emotional back-stabbings, if not physical ones. And to ask someone if they wished to discuss their feelings? Laughable. Anyone offering that sort of consolation would be seen as either an inept manipulator, or a sentimental fool. Neither was the type to last long in the House of Crows.

But, as he had said several times to his new companions and to himself, he was no longer among the Crows. He had been trying, consciously, to change his way of thinking over the past months, and perhaps this was yet another opportunity to do that.

He ran his fingertips absently over the gloves' embroidery, the patterns already becoming familiar, as he glanced around the camp for Alessar. It took him a moment to spot the Warden, perhaps because he was sitting and doing something he seldom did – making poultices. They'd acquired so much elfroot from the Dalish, however, that both Wynne and Alessar would probably be kept busy for the next several nights preparing the stuff, in order to use the herbs before they lost their potency.

The other elf was alone at the moment, which was promising. Zevran rose from his seat and stretched (winking at Alistair when the motion drew his attention, much to the warrior's dismay) before tucking the gloves under his belt and making his way over to where Alessar was grinding elfroot into paste. He was tempted to try to sneak up on the man and give him a good scare, but considering the gravity of the conversation he hoped to start, it didn't seem appropriate. Instead, he let his footfalls be heard, and was rewarded with a smile as Alessar turned to see him.

"Zevran," the Warden said warmly in greeting. His flat Fereldan accent gave the name a distinctive lilt that Zevran had grown to appreciate, in day-to-day conversation or other, more... exciting... circumstances. "Come to lend a hand, or just laugh at the fact that my hands are green?"

Indeed, Alessar's pale hands were stained an herbal yellowy-green from the elfroot, and Zevran knew from previous experience that it would take a while for the color to wear off. Still, he had to laugh because the Warden was so droll about it. "Neither, I'm afraid," he replied as he sat down next to the other elf. Contrary to his words, he picked up a bundle of roots and began to break them into smaller pieces. It was helpful to Alessar, but it also gave him something to do with his hands, which very suddenly demanded to be occupied. Am I nervous? Truly? "Actually, I... had a question for you, of sorts."

"'Of sorts'?" The dark-haired elf looked up at him curiously, and... was there a hint of worry in his eyes?

Zevran felt a slight pang. Why had Alessar gone and made this complicated? But I should have known better, the assassin chided himself. He's a good boy, and good boys place far too much value on "love". Neither of them had raised the subject again since that night in Redcliffe, but they'd come back together under an awkward, unspoken truce, because avoiding each other was nearly impossible, and... Well, on Zevran's part, if he wanted to be honest with himself, he enjoyed Alessar's company far more than he ever hoped or expected to. So much so that it scared him a little, which was why they were in this uncomfortable situation in the first place...

"Well, it's more of an invitation to discussion, if you like," he said out loud, watching as the other elf relaxed slightly. "Although, if it's a topic you'd rather not discuss, I can certainly understand."

"Hmm, I can't imagine what you might want to talk about that, er... requires this kind of care," the Warden said with a nervous laugh. "What's on your mind?"

"I... was thinking of the Gauntlet, when we went to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes," Zevran said cautiously. "And the questions that were asked there."

Alessar's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "The questions the Guardian asked, you mean...?"

"Yes. Or, most specifically... the question he asked you, about your cousin." Seeing the look of confusion on the Warden's face, Zevran clarified, "I... simply wondered if... you might wish to talk about it? It seems to be something that troubles you, and... well, I get the impression that you listen to many of our troubles without sharing your own."

The other elf looked at him for a long moment with those clear blue eyes, perhaps trying to determine if Zevran really wanted to hear the story. "I... I don't know, I suppose I've never really discussed it with anyone," he finally replied with a sad smile. "After all this time, it just seems like this... thing... I've been carrying around, and I..." he faltered. "I don't even know if she's still alive, Zevran, her or anyone else in the Alienage..."

Zevran remembered Alessar's distress when they had learned of the purging of the Denerim Alienage. He had seemed more acutely worried than Zevran would have expected, almost afraid to have been seen there – which made the assassin wonder if the Warden had done something, or knew of something, that would have incurred the human authorities' wrath. Perhaps that was part of this tale...?

"We'll try to find out," the Antivan said quietly. "When we next go to Denerim. There must be a way to get news in and out of those walls, cielo."

Alessar nodded uncertainly. "I... suppose there must be, you're right." He seemed far from convinced, but he tried to smile anyway. "Thank you, Zevran. We'll have to do just that."

There was a minute of silence, punctuated by the quiet repetitive sounds of Alessar's wooden mortar and pestle. Zevran began to wonder if he'd missed the other elf's indication that the topic was, in fact, not up for discussion, but the Warden finally sighed softly and began to speak.

"The... day I was conscripted into the Grey Wardens... a lot of things happened," Alessar began. "That morning, the son of the Arl of Denerim, Bann Vaughan, came into the Alienage with a couple of his cronies. They... harassed some of the women, until Shianni..." The Warden smiled slightly and shook his head. "Andraste protect her, Shianni hit Vaughan over the head with a jug – knocked him right out. His friends had to carry him home."

Zevran whistled, impressed. "A dangerous, but admirable, thing to do," he murmured, starting to see the outlines of the trouble the Warden-to-be may have gotten into.

"Mm. I suppose we hoped that the... shame of it – in his eyes – would keep Vaughan quiet and away from the Alienage, but..."

"Let me guess, he came back for revenge?" the assassin supplied. Human nobles were so predictable.

"Yes," Alessar confirmed with a sigh. "He and his friends... took... several women. Including Shianni, and..." He was about to say more, then appeared to shy away from something.

Zevran wondered what the other elf was hiding. This tale seemed unfortunate enough as it was; what sort of fact would Alessar see fit to leave out? Could he have had something to do with the women's abduction, somehow? Zevran couldn't imagine how, but clearly something was missing in the telling. The Warden was a very poor liar when he was emotional, and it was obvious he was holding something back. But perhaps it would come out later. For now, Zevran simply nodded, watching Alessar intently.

"My cousin – Soris, not Shianni – my cousin and I wanted to do something, but when I tried to stop them, Vaughan..." The dark-haired elf winced in remembered pain. "He knocked me out. By the time I woke up, they were gone."

There was another long pause as Alessar seemed to gather his thoughts, or retrace old memories. He continued to pound the elfroot into paste, his hands seemingly working on their own, though Zevran noticed that their pace had increased, as if in subconscious agitation.

"The Alienage was in an uproar," the Warden finally continued, "as I'm sure you can imagine. But what could we do against the Arl's son? Still... it was too much to bear. Soris and I decided to try to rescue the women, with our hahren's blessing. There was another fellow in the Alienage who worked in the Arl's palace; he thought he could help us sneak in..."

"Disguised as servants, I imagine?" Zevran asked.

"Of course," Alessar agreed with a snort. "Although that really didn't last very long. We had to fight almost as soon as we entered the compound, and being spattered with blood is a poor disguise."

The assassin smiled thinly. "True enough. Did they realize they were under attack?"

"Not soon enough to make a difference," was Alessar's grim reply. "We struggled past the guards, and I think our anger and our pride was our armor. I... knew something of combat, thanks to my mother; Soris, not so much. But we made it through somehow, anyway."

Zevran nodded, remembering that the Warden had learned the foundation of his rogue skills from his long-dead mother. He tried to imagine what it would be like to wade through a guarded palace at a time when he barely grasped the fundamentals of proper bladework. It seemed daunting, especially as an all-out assault and not a more stealthy infiltration. Perhaps, as the other man said, anger could be enough of a shield. "You say you got through... You rescued the women?"

Alessar bit his lip, an uncharacteristically vulnerable expression for him. "We..." he faltered. "We were too late, for one of them. Some of the guards... killed her, for fighting back."

"Of course," Zevran muttered. "How outrageous of her to object to whatever a nobleman wants." He saw the Warden shudder slightly and regretted his blunt comment. "I... apologize, cielo, that was ill-spoken."

"No... you're right. I doubt they'd have treated a human servant that way," Alessar said darkly. "We killed those guards, although... I almost don't remember it." He rubbed at his temples with one hand. "Before then, I felt this kind of cold anger as we fought our way in, but after seeing that... it just became this haze... and anything human in armor was an enemy."

Zevran knew quite well how dangerous that state of rage was. Not from his own experience – that sort of emotional response had been trained out of him long ago – but from fighting against others in such a condition. "I can understand why, truly," he murmured solemnly, "but you were lucky to survive. Not to impugn your sword skills, my friend," he added quickly – oh, he knew all about that from experience! – "but that avenger mindset gets more people killed than it saves."

The Warden nodded, his eyes on his now thoroughly pounded elfroot paste. "Oh, I know. We were lucky. Pretty much the only enemies left at that point between us and the women were Vaughan and his cronies, and..." he shut his eyes tightly for a long moment.

This was obviously getting to the painful part, perhaps whatever it was that had happened to Shianni that the Guardian had asked about. Feeling a little awkward, Zevran put his hand on Alessar's shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, and gave him a little squeeze. It wasn't the sort of thing he was familiar with, not at all, but he simply felt like he needed to do something.

Alessar looked up at him with a small, grateful smile. "Thank you," he said softly before continuing his story. "We... found Vaughan and his companions... and... Shianni." His gaze returned to the wooden mortar. "They... they had... hurt her..."

The dark-haired elf's tension was clear; it was easy to guess what he really meant by "hurt". It wasn't hard to imagine a slighted noble taking the most humiliating kind of revenge on an elven woman who had dared to strike him. Zevran leaned a little closer to his lover, trying to offer a sense of support. It was... difficult for him to sympathize with Alessar's pain, although he was trying. He had seen things like this happen around him his entire life, and had become inured to it, but he knew Alessar had not, and besides that, Shianni was family to him. Maybe that made it feel much worse. He wouldn't know.

"That is what the Guardian spoke of, then?" the Antivan elf asked quietly.

Alessar nodded in reply. "If... if we had come sooner... Or fought harder, or maybe tried to be more subtle..."

"Cielo," Zevran said with a small smile, "I know you. I'm positive you fought as hard as you could. And subtlety... is not always a quick thing. That might have taken you even longer. You did the best you could, I am certain." That was nothing but the truth. When Alessar fought with real passion, he gave it his all. The assassin had seen him ignore what should have been crippling injuries in order to save innocents, or to protect his companions. He might have preferred to talk things out rather than fight, but if it came down to combat, he was definitely a foe worthy of respect.

"It's... just hard not to wonder," the Warden sighed. "Could we have saved them all...?"

"The field of 'if' is always more fertile than the field of 'is'," Zevran quoted an old Antivan proverb. "You could spend your life wondering at all the possibilities, cielo, and maybe you will... that is your right. But what has happened, happened. Now it should be dealt with, and put away," he said gently.

For just a fraction of a moment, Alessar looked angry, and the assassin wondered if he'd taken offense. But the Warden shook his head. "You're probably right," he admitted. "It's just... difficult."

"And why wouldn't it be?" Zevran acknowledged. "But perhaps... this is a start?" he suggested. Speaking like this about Rinna had helped him significantly, he realized now, but did Alessar feel the same way?

From the Warden's small, but grateful smile, he seemed to, at any rate. "Perhaps... Thank you, Zevran."

The Antivan might have normally replied to that with some witty deflection, but he didn't really feel the urge to at the moment. Truth to tell, he was quite interested now in what this conversation was revealing about Alessar. "I am glad to listen," he said with a smile, meaning it. "But you speak as if this tale is over, my friend. What else happened?"

"Ah..." The Warden's gaze turned hard. "What else? We killed Vaughan and his friends like the pigs they were."

Zevran had expected that, of course, but not Alessar's way of saying it. The Warden was usually a merciful soul... but some people, and some crimes, deserved little mercy. Or, as the assassin was fond of saying, some people simply needed killing.

But, killing a bann – the son of an arl! – was a sure death sentence for an elf. "Not that they didn't deserve it, but... that can't have gone over well," he murmured.

"Not at all," Alessar agreed with a bitter smile. "We hurried home with the women – the other two were fine, thank the Maker – and we'd barely explained what had happened when the palace guards showed up in the Alienage. I... took credit for it all, so that Soris wouldn't be arrested, as well, but then..." He looked up at the night sky, perhaps in thanks or in wonderment. "Then, there was Duncan, pulling out his Grey Wardens' Right of Conscription to take me away from Denerim."

"Duncan?" Zevran asked in surprise. "Well, you did say he recruited you, but why was he there?"

"Ah... I suppose I didn't mention it, did I? He had arrived earlier in the day, looking for recruits for the Wardens, but we had our own worries at the time." The Warden smiled sadly. "I suppose he got his recruit after all."

"Are you... glad?" the assassin asked curiously. Alessar's sense of duty seemed so clear-cut that the question had never occurred to him before. "To be a Grey Warden, I mean."

"There are moments when I wonder..." the other elf admitted, "but I think... perhaps it's the best thing for me. I felt too restless for the Alienage, and the things my mother taught me would have been wasted there, anyway. Now I'm doing something... important. Something larger than the Alienage, or even the city itself. It's... daunting, but... someone must do it, and there are only two of us left." He glanced up at Zevran with a small smile. "And if I can show humans, and other elves, what one of us can really do, that we deserve to be equals... well, that can't be a bad thing, I think."

Always with these high ideals, Zevran thought. Well, that was undeniably part of Alessar's charm, and he certainly wasn't going to be the one to discourage him. "Perhaps things could be different for the elves in Ferelden, after the Blight is defeated," he mused.

"I can hope, I suppose," Alessar said with a shrug. There was a note of defeat in his voice, as he realized how vast a change he was talking about.

The last thing Zevran wanted was for the Warden to lose the shine of optimism that made him stand out in even the dark cloud of a Blight. It would happen eventually, certainly... but it didn't need to be right now. He gave Alessar's shoulder a little shake. "Don't let us world-weary old cynics get you down, hmm?" he said with a grin.

That won a smile from the other elf. "I don't know, having a cynic around is probably a good idea, to balance things out. Although, I don't know if I want an old one..." he said with a thoughtful-looking frown, glancing sidelong at his companion.

"Oh! These unexpected cuts hurt the worst," Zevran complained. "Cynicism is like fine wine, my dear Warden, just ask Wynne."

"Hmm, maybe I should let her be my appointed cynic, then?" Now Alessar was grinning openly.

The assassin made a scoffing sound, though he was pleased to have lightened the mood. It fit in much better with his plans for later in the evening... "You could, I suppose," he said with mock-disdain as he leaned in closer to his lover. "But I doubt she would be able to–"

He proceeded to whisper a number of suggestions into Alessar's ear that caused said ear to gradually turn a delicate shade of pink. It was more difficult to make the Warden blush these days, which was mostly Zevran's doing in the first place, but... he was still happy to take up the challenge.

Author's Note:

Wow, how on earth did this get so long?! T_T;; Sorry. ^_^;; Yet another example how one idea in my notes (the Dalish gloves) morphed into something else entirely.

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.