"Zev?"
Nyla stretched, sighed, sat up in bed. So parched, so hungry, she looked over to the bedside table, and snatched up the glass of water. Plenty of food by the bed. Fresh fruit, nuts, cheese, dried, shredded meat, Nyla ate ravenously, moving the covers to see if she had been scarred; she tsked with the disappointment of discovering flawless skin. Born noble, always adventuring with a healer chasing her around, when would she get to have a scar? Not the superficial ones she had scattered over her body; a good one - but not on her face.
With food and water in her belly, her mind cleared. She sighed, looked around the room. Stained glass windows confused one of the time. It was day, and she wondered when he would be back. Pausing with a half-eaten ziziphus hovering in front of her wide open mouth, her heart leaped into her throat. She set the fruit back on its tray.
"I love you." He kissed her fingers, tears dripping down the back of her hand. She smiled with a soft sigh, squinting in the light gleaming in his golden hair.
Eyebrows scrunched, Nyla trembled, wide eyes surveyed the room for any sign of him. Anything to prove it had just been a dream… a pack or a piece of armor… she saw nothing.
"You are very pretty, Nyla. Eres preciosa." He stroked her hair, sniffled, leaned in for just one more kiss. "I will come back for you, esposa."
Pressing a palm to her heart, she stared in awe at the space around her. Heart breaking, lips quivering; Zevran, her husband, had left her behind, and she never thought he would. The creaking hinges of the door caught her attention.
"Wynne?" Nyla, wearing only her smalls, pulled a blanket to cover herself. "Is he gone?"
"He stayed a few days. Left yesterday afternoon after he was sure you were well," Wynne replied with a furrowed brow. "All those prattling on about emotional and reactive women need to meet that man."
Nyla nodded with a tearful chuckle. "Does he expect me not to follow him?"
"He asked me to keep you here. I said you may stay here until his return."
"Fool man," she whispered, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand with a sniffle. "Did he leave a message for me?"
"He did." Wynne approached Nyla with a parcel in her arms. "And I had your leathers repaired for you."
"What did he say?" Nyla asked softly. Curling her lips inward, her shoulders shook for a few moments of silent tears before she steadied herself.
"Fiona is waiting to see you. He wants you to speak with her and then try to find something useful in the library. For your cure."
Nyla sniffled, dragging herself from the bed, pulling at the strings around the brown paper containing her armor. "I can't sit here and hope my fool husband succeeds in picking off every Crow one at a time."
"I know," Wynne crooned. "Do you have anything in mind?"
"No," Nyla replied breathlessly, continuing as she dressed. "He's afraid, Wynne. Had I been awake to speak with him, he wouldn't have behaved so impulsively."
Leaving his wife behind had felt wrong, continued to feel wrong, and so much harder than he had imagined. He fucking missed her, expecting to see her to his left each time he looked. He never wanted to sleep apart from her for the rest of his days; a mere five nights after wedding her, he was alone on a bedroll aching from her absence. He considered going back and swearing to never leave again, but no. This was necessary.
How could he do this with someone on his heel? A constant eye behind himself to be sure she followed, meanwhile looking ahead to be sure they weren't seen; he didn't have enough eyes or knives… he was only one man. He couldn't fight the world and protect her from it at the same time.
Just a day ago she was within reach, and he kissed her soft lips, petted her, committed her scent to memory, the tender brush of his nose against hers. Not one moment wasted, and he needed more of them desperately. Why was he so surprised? The moment he met her his life was ruined, infinitely more beautiful, and for fucks sake, he had her... and that was why he left.
As he traveled onward, Zevran wondered how many times had he laughed at one weeping over a lost love. Clinging to the dead, their faces contorted with pained wails which fell on deaf ears. Zevran had been so cruel, so unsympathetic, and he looked at his own desire to weep knowing himself to be a monster; this was a near intolerable pain.
Was it the Maker's will he should hold her to his chest time and time again, helpless and praying for just one more moment with her? Was this recompense for his transgressions?
No. This would not be his fate. Better to take the hurt to Antiva, make them pay for what they had done, and stop them doing it again. How? One master at a time. One house at a time, reducing them to nothing. Again and again, for as long as it fucking took.
What would Antiva do without their Crows? Who fucking cares?
A gift from Wynne which would please Zevran to no end; a black cloak. Time would not be wasted slinking through back streets. Walking briskly toward the stables, the cloak fluttered around Nyla's ankles, hiding her as she kept an eye out for danger, doubting she would notice any lest it charged straight toward her with weapons drawn.
"Keep the saddle," she spoke softly from behind her veil, and the horsemaster wouldn't take her coin.
It made sense; she had a fine saddle. A frivolous thing to slow her down, only there to secure the packs she would not be hauling. With naught but food and a few essentials in the pack beneath her cloak, she sped from the stables, reins in hand, a map held tight in her fist. Every path marked, every camp planned; an itinerary they had created before they even left Ferelden, for her benefit, as he already knew the way. Zevran must have believed the day-long head start would deter her, or he would have taken their map. Maker willing, he followed their predetermined path and she would catch him.
Fifteen minutes of galloping, ten minutes trotting, a pattern repeated until dusk when Horse began to exhaust. Nyla dismounted and walked alongside her. She would gain ground on him quickly; whether it be on the road or in the bedroom, he couldn't outlast a Warden.
Why he wanted to fight alone remained abundantly clear; to preserve the gift life had offered him. Someone who loved him, to be protected at all costs.
Nyla's husband, miracle that he was, saw abundance everywhere he looked, a habit borne by a heart starved. Nyla knew pain and longed for happiness, Zevran only sought less pain, and never expected it; a way of being so ingrained within him, he didn't even know it was there.
Of course he was afraid. Of course he made choices he thought would preserve his only source of real happiness.
She spent the Blight with him, pulling him apart, clawing his wounds open with her attention and care, displaying love, taunting him with nourishment sorely needed and then leaving him lonely and aching. Neglecting him for so many years would always remain a sore spot in her heart, one she would sooth with relentless expression of her love. He believed she would allow him to fight alone, and it only proved he didn't yet understand.
Antiva would take six days on horseback. He had a day's head start. She had five days.
On the second night, sleep would not come, so Zevran sung a soft tune for her. She may not have been there to hear, but it comforted him to imagine she felt him calling out to her. It helped to quell the loneliness, and if he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could almost feel her near.
He couldn't fool himself of her presence for long; if she were near, she would have touched him. Lips on the back of his neck, hands in his hair, gentle caresses on his shoulders, nibbling his jaw, curling her toes against the tops of his feet. The brush of her nose against his, always followed up by a tender smile. The way she would hold him in her arms on a whim. The way she rested so peacefully wrapped in his.
A harsh realization; in his journey to ending their problem, he had no way of knowing how she fared. She had to be feeling equal loneliness, equal longing. He had left her alone. To save her.
The rationale did nothing to sooth the ache, it only served to twist his heart in beholding the tragedy of it; in order to have her, he couldn't have her.
On the third night, Nyla stopped at what looked like scattered remnants of a campsite; a campsite they should have shared. How fucking hard did she have to travel to catch up with him? At least she knew she hadn't passed him up. Hit with a sense of urgency, she tried to move on, but Horse would not budge, stubbornly demanding rest.
"Come on, Horse," she sighed, dismounting. "I'll walk beside you."
Horse shook her head, the reins pulled from Nyla's grasp.
"Really? I've outlasted a fucking horse." She growled, paced the campsite, then laid on a flattened patch of grass, imagining this was where he had slept. "You're probably right, Horse," she huffed, tucking her pack beneath her head.
Nyla couldn't be frustrated or angry with Zevran. How could she when all he ever wanted was to do right by her? There was an innocence to him, in the way he remained inexperienced in the ways of love and partnership, and still tried.
A slap in the face, realizing he couldn't trust her completely. She wanted complete trust, but how could she expect it of him when he had little sense of where trust should be offered? Nyla had a lifetime of learning the nuances of where others fit in her life. She knew how to have friends, how to help and how to ask for it; how to partner.
Zevran knew only how to survive alone and never learned to thrive with another; he thrived alone. She had offered him more than he knew how to handle, and Nyla wept into her hands in realizing it. While the thought brought her grief, they had their lifetimes to learn together. She would show him. Over and over, one interaction at a time. One loving gesture at a time. One instance of coming through for him at a time. He would thrive. She would show him.
Heart slowing, body resting, a sudden bout of fear and frustration washed over her and she curled her fists into the grass. Why did he fucking think he could take down the entire House of Crows? Sneaking around Antiva in the shadows, killing one at a time. If he wanted to return to her soon, he would have to kill thousands per fucking day. Poor, desperate fool of a man! She pulled a fistful of grass and threw it, weeping silently as she looked at the night sky.
The Crows were a military force. Thousands upon thousands. Eight Talons, countless houses beneath them. So many Crows there was no way to count them, and if Zevran had put any thought into this at all, he would know the only reasonable way to stop the Crows from pursuing them would be to become one of them. Become Talon.
Nyla sat up with a startled intake of air. He should become one of them! Imagine all the good he could do! Stop them from tormenting children, rule with compassion... Zevran would do things right!
"Maker, damn it, Horse!" She huffed, laying back down. Knowing they needed rest, she had no rational arguments, and even if she did, she would be speaking to a horse. "Damn it!"
On the fourth night, Zevran remembered and settled into what it was like to travel alone. The silence, getting lost in one's head, the boredom. Loneliness.
He occupied his thoughts with her. Maker, what did he used to think about before he had a Nyla? Fuck. Who was he kidding? Even before he had her, she was on the forefront of his mind; tracking, chasing, killing. From the day he met her, his thoughts hadn't left her. She was his sole focus throughout the Blight. Protect her. Save her. Know her. Even after the blight, wandering city streets throughout Thedas. How would the Warden look in red? Would she enjoy this cheese? This wine? This fruit? Would she complain of the heat the way he whined incessantly about the cold? He still hadn't shown her the sparkling jewel that was Antiva.
Maker's breath, she better not have followed him. Likely she was still recovering, a vague awareness of his absence. Oblivious to his goodbye, she smiled, drifting in and out of consciousness, humming sweetly from his kisses, brushing her gentle fingers along the tears on his cheeks. Maker willing, she would remember his heartfelt goodbye.
On the fifth day, Nyla trotted along the coast of Antiva, her map showing herself to be in the city of Bastion. Having seen several travelers on horseback, she lost any hope of finding a trail. Easy to find a trail of one on horseback in Ferelden, given how uncommon they were. In the northern states, horses were apparently as common as dogs in Ferelden.
"Alright, horse." Nyla dismounted and took a moment to rub Horse's forehead. "I feel you tiring out on me. I'll give you a break."
Walking along, she threw her cloak aside, retrieved her ration, and slung her pack back in place. A shame, she thought, that Zevran wasn't there to point out the places he had been. She sorely wanted to hear of his memories, hear his stories, hold him when they became heavy, smile in understanding when he laughed at his own tragic tales.
Being without him made her feel gratitude for the time she had him. Oh, how he fawned over her, claiming he knew nothing of love. His sense of humor so fine tuned, it often took her long moments of thought to get the nuances of how hilarious something had been; layers of the joke unfolding as she laughed, making her laugh harder. Nyla smiled, remembering his certain look of expectation as he waited for her to get it, the satisfied smile when she did.
She could see the water from the streets of Salle, and in the distance she could see an island. Llomerynn, according to her map. Throwing her cloak aside, she put back half of her ration to save. Food had become scarce, and she didn't want to take the time to find a market.
"Where is your Shadow, Swan?" A masculine voice purred.
A rough hand landed on the back of her neck, and she grabbed his wrist and turned. The only sound that came from him was the snap of his wrist. Nyla stood behind him, his arm bent and pressed against his back, she flicked her wrist; enough to expose a dagger without throwing it.
"The Shadow is mine," she growled close to his ear, teeth bared. Rage surged through her, and with great satisfaction, she dragged her blade hard across his throat.
Letting his body hit the ground, she ignored the gasps of passersby. Stepping unceremoniously over the dead, Nyla continued on, closing her cloak to hide the emblem on her chestplate. Foolish of her to forget she wore a fucking shining label. She had been sighted, she had killed in the middle of a city, and that couldn't be good. Grasping Horse by the mane, Nyla hopped from her left foot and swung her right leg over Horse's back.
Tapping Horse with her heels twice, they barreled through the streets, out of the city, and back onto the coast, galloping along the sea cliffs.
"Maker's breath," she whispered with a smile, eyes wide in beholding the beauty of the sun sparkling on a bright blue sea.
She had only ever seen the cold, grey waters of Ferelden. Maker, she would have spent a lifetime swimming if it looked like this. Looking out, she could see the south end of Rivain, a mere speck in the distance. Nyla smiled; she had entered Rialto, birthplace of her beloved.
"Zevran…" She looked to her right and a little behind. Her smile faltered and chest ached; there was no Zevran, only a cloud of dust containing some ten on horseback in the distance. She ran harder, reaching behind herself and into her pack to prepare a gaatlok block.
Zevran knew it would only be a matter of time before he had been overrun… he hadn't expected it to be the moment he entered Rialto. They must have had warning of his coming; they had never shown up in such force, and so prepared.
Knocked from his mount by another on horseback, his mouth bloodied and right arm sore, he stood with blades drawn, heart pounding. Surrounded. A half circle of some twelve Crows before him with bows drawn, the cliff's edge not fifteen feet behind him. A woman approached, long dark hair, bright blue eyes, a slanted scar across her lips; she stood tall with daggers ready.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Black Shadow. Master Ghita, at your service." A woman purred in Antivan, taunting with a flourishing bow. "Have you lost your Swan?"
He said nothing, only glowered, weighing his options. There were, after all, only twelve. Bows, though. Bows were a problem.
"Has she died, perhaps?" She smirked, tilting her head at him. "Accidentally stabbed?"
He clenched his jaw and glared, with a strong want for her blood on his hands.
"Do you imagine we have taken eyes off of you, Zevran Arainai?" Ghita crooned, pointing a dagger at him. "Have you come to take your revenge?"
Ghita took a few steps closer; she was being cocky, and Zevran was a patient man. And still alive; why?
"So silent," she stepped a little closer, taunting him with her tone and her smile. "Is the Shadow lost in his grief?"
"What do you want?" Zevran glowered.
"Ohh… he sounds pretty, too. My preference is to have you alive." She shrugged, and continued, flashing her canines, "But your head will do."
"Someone comes!" A voice rang out, and all but the Master Ghita turned their heads.
"Choose now, Shadow. You, or your head, are coming back to Antiva City." She scowled, stepping closer; her fatal mistake.
Nyla recognized him in the distance, the outline of his mask perched atop his head, a wide circle of Crows around him. She held a gaatlok block tight in her fist, and with a snarl, gave Horse and encouraging hollar. Her veil flapped against her skin, cloak fluttering behind her; she stared hard at Zevran, saw him dash forward. It seemed he had a hostage, and for some reason the Crows gave a shit about that, as they set their weapons on the ground.
Nyla drew closer, arm held up, and then Zevran saw his wife, chased by her own dozen or so of Crows. Chestplate gleaming in the sun, veil fluttering; she had finally got a fucking cloak which floated glamorously in her wake. Beautiful, but an unfortunate, momentary distraction which afforded the Master Ghita enough time to throw him over her head, and scramble for her weapons.
With Nyla nearly upon them, he saw her arm held up, he knew precisely what she was up to, and he smiled. Zevran took a deep breath as she let the block fly, and it burst with a loud crack and a cloud of smoke. Nyla, still barreling toward him, leaned down with arm extended.
Zevran stood, reached for her, had a firm grasp on her arm. She pulled, he swung a leg up on the horse's back, someone grabbed his cloak. It all seemed to happen so slowly. Horse rearing back, sending them both tumbling into the smoke and throngs of scrambling, coughing Crows. He stood, Nyla's back against his, he wrapped his cloak around his face and squinted, the smoke dispersing more quickly than it had in the narrow city streets.
They had their window. The window had closed. Through watering eyes, Zevran couldn't see his weapons, or any other. They were fucked, and they found each other's hands to hold as they stood surrounded, back to back, with sharp things pointed from every direction; what was left of the gaatlok block kicked and sent sailing off of the sea cliff's edge.
"Impressive, Swan," Ghita panted, flipping her hair from her face. "Kill her, tie him."
"No!" Zevran spoke quickly, squeezing tight to Nyla's hands. "Set her free, and I will be your willing slave, Master Ghita."
Nyla's heart beat hard in her chest. It couldn't end like this; he had to have some better plan. She kept her mouth shut, pursed her lips, clenched her jaw, swallowed lest she weep at the tender brushing of his thumb along her fingers.
"Hmm…" Ghita stared at him for a moment, pacing through the throngs of Crows surrounding them. Meeting his eyes with a bow of her head she spoke, "Tie him, release her when we are beyond sight."
Their fingers pulled apart, Nyla's fists tight at her sides as three blades pressed against the bare skin of her neck; one at each side, one at the base of her skull, leaving her reluctant to swallow.
"Turn her around. Let her watch." Ghita smirked, eyes raking over Zevran as they tied a rope tight around his torso, and wrapped him.
Nyla turned around slowly, blades tracing her every movement, refusing to flinch as one nicked her skin. She met his gaze, golden-brown eyes, soft, and resolute.
"Don't come for me, esposa," he spoke, betraying nothing of the hurt that twisted at his gut.
"You, former Crow, married this woman?" Ghita chuckled, shaking her head. "You know better."
Zevran held Nyla's gaze and spoke softly, "Promise me."
"I promise," Nyla croaked, trembling; surely he knew it was a lie. She flexed her fingers, teeth clenched, watching them tie off the rope wrapped around him from shoulder to waist.
"Te amo, Nyla."
"I love you," she responded breathlessly. "Always."
Ghita held the rope as one would a leash and pulled on it. "Come. We leave now. Toss the Swan in the water where she belongs, hmm?"
"No!" Zevran pulled against the rope, moving toward his wife as they grabbed her arms. "Lying bitch, this is not our way!"
"Heel, slave," Gita snarled, jerking the rope, sending him tumbling backward. "I am not foolish enough to believe she wouldn't come for you."
"This isn't over!" Nyla bellowed, feet scrambling in the dust for purchase, fighting their grasp to no avail. "I love you!"
"No!" He tried to stand, settling on his knees, struggling fruitlessly against the ropes binding him. "No!"
"I love you. I will find you." Nyla stopped thrashing, and her veil slipped away, caught in the wind to land in Ghita's grasp. Meeting his eyes she repeated, "Zevran, I love you."
"Wait!" Ghita called out, taking a step forward.
"Nyla!" He shouted, long and loud, getting a final glimpse of the woman who had the gall to marry him; her lips parted, eyes soft and afraid, fixated on him as they dropped her off the sea cliff. Even if she survived the fall, she couldn't swim, anyway. Staring at the blue sky, all grew silent apart from the sound of the sea, gulls flying overhead, the wind in his ears. He whispered her name to the sky, closing his eyes tight. Maker, why have you forsaken us?
"Who was the Swan?" Ghita knelt in front of him and snarled, "Was she the fucking Hero?"
He could only nod. He felt nothing.
"There are few good women in the world, slave, and you let me kill one of them." She kicked him in the chest, knocking him over. "Get up, you piece of shit."
Wind in her ears, she curled up small, eyes shut tight.
Maker, this can't be how it ends.
Maker, let me save him.
Please, I can save him.
Let me-