The world narrowed; he was blind to all but the shadowed shape of the woman lying next to him. Had she— surely not—
He must have misheard her. He must have.
The lie sounded so hollow, buffeting about in his head. His heartbeat was thunderous.
"What?" He tried belatedly to stop the word before it croaked out of his throat, but it was far too late. There had been a chance of ignoring the question, feigning sleep, anything, but he heard the clear panic lacing his tone. No doubt Keelin had as well.
"Zev?" Of course, she sounded concerned. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing back a rush of sour bile. "Is something— what's wrong?"
Where to begin? There was suddenly so much, so very wrong, and he was drowning in it. He scrambled for purchase, for anything to pull him from this maelstrom, and then there was a hand on his cheek, startling, and the unexpected light of a very small wisp making him blink owlishly.
Keelin.
"Andraste's grace, Zevran," she said urgently, peering at him with wide, nervous eyes. "What is it? Breathe, please."
Instincts, still new and raw, screamed at him— do not frighten her, you cowardly son of a whore— and he sucked in a deep, shuddering breath through his nose. She was a dear woman, so sweet, and just as her fretting looked about to begin in earnest, the stupidest question imaginable came tumbling from his lips.
"When did I call you Rinna?" The name made his gut clench, and he could see her face so clearly, twisted and ashen in death.
"In the alienage—" Keelin was frowning, one hand pressed soothingly against his cheek while the other stroked his brow. He had seen mothers tend to sick children in such a way, banishing fevers and chills with tenderness, and just like a small child, he wanted nothing more than to bury his face in her breast and forget the world. "After that demon knocked you out, you called me rinna as you woke. What does it mean?"
In that filthy orphanage, where ghosts of memory had flitted about his edges. Even abandoned and in squalor, foreign and unknown, it had smelled like fear and desperate children. He'd detested the whole alienage, but that cursed place had been so much worse, and the host of demons determined to burn him and Keelin to crispy elven bits (as well as Leliana, Alistair, and that unfortunate blind templar) hadn't precisely helped matters either.
He remembered the exact moment a fiery, clawed fist had cuffed him so hard he'd thought his head was going to rip from his shoulders. He also remembered searing pain, and the darkness that followed, and the cool touch of a poultice drawing him back into the land of the living sometime later. The idea that he had spoken so foolishly, that he had mistaken Keelin—
"I am sorry," he rasped, his throat still tight. He would not lie to her, no matter how simple a thing it might be to create some false, sentimental meaning for Rinna's name. She— they— both Keelin and Rinna— deserved better than that. "It was a mistake. Rinna… Rinna was a woman I knew before I left Antiva. She was the reason I left."
It was Keelin's turn to stiffen, muscles tensing, and Zevran forced the words to come quicker before his lover could draw any conclusions. She had made it clear to him quite early in their acquaintance that his past dalliances were of little consequence, and she had hardly been a blushing virgin either, but to be called another woman's name…
The truth. That was all he could offer. "No, my darling girl, it's not how it sounds. Do you remember the stories I told you of my missions with the Crows? And the final mission, before I came here?"
"You never told me of your last mission." Beyond the concern, the affection, and the anxiety, Zevran saw a spark of shrewdness glinting in his lady's pale eyes. She was, for all her kindness and gentle allure, so dreadfully clever. "Do you mean to tell me now?"
The thought was a little sickening, but he was cornered. Now, while she was plunging headfirst into a greater threat than he ever wished to fathom, already wracked with guilt she should have never been made to suffer under, he was about to lay his own darkness at her feet. He should have told her when she'd first asked, or after she'd accepted his earring— perhaps, Maker's breath, perhaps this ghost would not still tear at him so if he had simply told her.
"Yes," he said softly, resisting the urge to hide behind the slender hands that still lingered on his cheeks. "You are… you have been a better friend than I have ever known, and there is no reason to be silent."
She waited, patient and still in the faint green light, and Zevran swallowed thickly. "There is a reason I accepted this mission in Ferelden, far away from home, and it had nothing to do with any thought that I might leave the Crows. Meeting you, after all, was quite an accident." Very carefully, he reached up and caught a lock of her hair between his fingers, caressing it softly with his thumb. He might be a cowardly son of a whore, but he could not bear to look her in the face.
"My last mission before this one… did not end well." He had the words, somewhere, but they were elusive and as sharp as razors. He paused, studying the golden strands nearly the same colour as his own, and tried to ignore the lancing pain in his stomach.
She allowed him a long, quiet moment, but it could not last forever. Her voice, when it finally shook him from his dawdling, was apprehensive. "What happened?"
What happened? He'd been a gutless, brainless fool, and an incredible woman had paid the price. "You must understand," he continued evenly, remembering shorter, glossy hair the honey brown of aged rum. "Until that day I was cocky and arrogant. I was the best Crow in Antiva, I believed, and I bragged of my conquests often… both as an assassin and lover."
There was a part of him that almost wished for a dig at his expense, simply to break the utter seriousness, but instead Keelin laid her head on his chest, the tips of her fingers slowly stroking along his cheek. "Then what, Zev?"
Spared the weight of her gaze, he found his tongue a bit more easily. "One of the Crow masters grew tired of my boasting." Efrain Galo, that vicious sack of horseshit. Zevran would never forget, never forgive, and one day he would cut out the bastard's black heart. "My bid for an incredibly difficult mark was accepted, much to my surprise: a wealthy merchant with many guards and completely silent.
"Taliesen agreed to be part of my team—" Keelin made a small, displeased sound, but otherwise remained quiet. "As well as an elven lass named Rinna. She was… she was a marvel. Tough, smooth, wicked. Eyes that gleamed like justice. Everything I thought I desired."
He paused, surprised at his own admission. Rinna… Rinna had been a bloody marvel, but to imagine his life without Keelin—
"Did you love her?" Had he? It was… from what he had discovered so far, love was a convoluted mess of a thing. Perhaps he had loved her.
Daring too much, but aching for some tether all the same, Zevran pressed a fleeting kiss against the wrist still beside his face. Keelin did not shy away, but he did not allow himself to hope. She did not yet know the whole of it. "Rinna was special. I had closed off my heart, I thought, but she touched something within me. It frightened me.
"When Taliesen revealed to me that Rinna had accepted a bribe from the merchant, told him of our plan, I readily agreed that she needed to pay the price, and allowed Taliesen to kill her." The fingers on his cheek ceased their slow stroking, but the touched remained. That was something. "Rinna begged me not to. On her knees, with tears in her eyes, she told me that she loved me and had not betrayed us. I laughed in her face and told her even if it were true, I didn't care."
He heard the flat tenor creeping into his voice, the barest hint of the coldness he had shown Rinna, and suddenly found himself on the receiving end of a fierce, steel blue glare. Maker, was this the end? Was it too much—
"That wasn't true," she said, gripping his jaw. It took a moment for his stunned mind to catch up, but blessedly his lover did not seem angry. She was… stern, but not angry, and whatever walls he had begun to rebuild quickly crumbled.
"No—" His voice was too rough, and he did not want to feel this pain again, but it stung with every beat of his heart like an infected wound. "No, but I convinced myself it was. Taliesen cut her throat—" It had been the dead of night when they'd woken her, with Taliesen dragging her by her honey brown hair from her bedroll. She'd shrieked and fought like a hellcat, but in the end it was two-on-one, and they'd had the time to prepare. "And I watched her bleed as she stared up at me. I spat on her for betraying the Crows."
It had been agony to watch her die, to see the fire in her eyes fade away until she was no different than any other corpse. But the relief he had felt— it shamed him more than he could endure. "When Taliesen and I finally assassinated the merchant we found the source of his information. Rinna had not betrayed us after all."
There were tears on Keelin's cheeks— silent, glittering things. He had never wept for Rinna, and he likely never would, but it was strangely comforting that someone finally had. Someone untarnished by her murder would remember her name. "I am so sorry, Zevran."
He nodded, immensely grateful that she did not protest when he closed his eyes. "I… I wanted to tell the Crows what we had done, our mistake. Taliesen convinced me not to. He said it would be a foolish waste. So we reported that Rinna had died in the attempt."
Don't be a damned idiot, Zevran. Do we all need to suffer for the sake of your guilty conscience? It was a regrettable mistake, granted, but death happens…
"We needn't have bothered. The Crows knew what we had done. The master who disliked me told me so to my face. He said the Crows knew… and they didn't care. And one day, my turn would come."
You thought to keep secrets from the House of Crows, you incompetent cretins? Did you think we would care? You are meat made to hold blades, and each of you stupid enough to die is simply less fat left to trim…
The quiet was dense, crowded by ghosts, but if he tried hard enough Zevran could almost imagine this was any other night… any other peaceful silence they had shared.
Outside, the wind was picking up, whistling high through the sheltering trees and slipping unwelcome through the tent seams. The cool draft shook him from his brooding and made Keelin shiver against him; he swore almost inaudibly before shifting over to lie on his side, tucking her snugly between his own heat and the blankets. The wisp wavered, following its creator as she allowed the move and curled close into his embrace.
"You asked me once—" He spoke mostly into the softness of her hair, but it did not muffle his words nearly so much as he would have preferred. "Why I wanted to leave the Crows. In truth, what I wanted was to die." Her fingers tightened where they rested against his shoulder, and she may have drawn distressed breath, but he soldiered on. "What better way than to throw myself at one of the fabled Grey Wardens, hm? And then… this happened. And here I am."
A kiss pressed against his throat was unexpected, but the feeling of more tears falling on his skin made him frown. Mourning Rinna was one thing, but he would not bear weeping on his account.
His protest went unvoiced, however, as Keelin began to speak. "That is an awful tale." The words vibrated through him, thick with more care than he'd ever known. "I don't— I am so very sorry, my love."
She knows was the first panicked thought that tore through his mind, but no. His darling girl was simply far braver than he, as she had always been. The endearment, so unreservedly sincere, did not turn his stomach to ice as he had feared it might, but it did set his heart pounding.
His reprehensible mistake, the depths of his shame, Rinna— Keelin knew of all that. Zevran had no other secrets worth knowing, and he suddenly felt entirely bare. So empty.
So utterly free.
"I— It…" He stuttered, light-headed, but the words came regardless. "It feels good to speak of it to someone. I swore I never would. Whatever it was I sought by leaving Antiva, I think I have found it." My love. "I owe you a great deal."
Slender arms wound around him like living rope, making a fine attempt at squeezing the air from his lungs even without calling on her magical strength. "You owe me nothing, Zev," she said fiercely, kissing him again just over the thrum of his pulse. "I… am glad to have you with me."
A long night of lovemaking and tearful, heartfelt confessions might sound romantic, and it certainly was often played as such in Leliana's tales, but the reality was much… crankier, come morning. Physically, Zevran felt only the slightest buzz of fatigue in his muscles, but mentally he was a ruin. He lacked the fortitude to deal with niceties, at least for the moment, which left either scouting ahead or clinging to Keelin like a limpet if he wanted to avoid testing his patience.
Both options had their drawbacks, but his lover looked dead on her feet, and the absence of anyone besides their familiar company meant he could offer her his arm without fear of weakening the image of a fearless, limitless Grey Warden. In Denerim, Keelin had attempted to remain wisely stalwart, but such hardness was taxing. Here though, among these companions drawn together solely by their connection to her… here she could be mortal.
"Ah, careful now," he said teasingly, slipping one arm around her waist as her trudging steps began to drift dangerously. The road, incredibly, was even muddier than it had been the day before, but at least the sun was shining. It wouldn't do to spoil such a promising morning by tumbling into a ditch. "Keep moving westward, bonita, and mind your feet."
"I'm fine," she grumbled, elbow jabbing him lightly in the ribs, but she did not pull away. "But you're fretting and mocking, and I'm not sure which is worse."
There was a low whuffing sound, then the soft, drooling muzzle of a mabari brushed his hand where it rested on his lady's hip. Tucked into his belt, his gloves offered no protection from the mess of spit now painted across his skin, but Keelin's pleased murmur was more important than such mild discomfort.
"Hello there, Ser Dog—" Zevran rolled his eyes indulgently as Keelin scratched the beast under its collar. At least it was better than Alistair's failed attempts to label the poor beast Barkspawn, of all things. "Are you fretting after me as well? The pair of you are being silly, you know."
"Perhaps," he replied on behalf of both himself and the dog, and leaned in until his lips brushed her ear, nearly purring at the thrill the sight of her earring evoked. Resting was out of the question, of course, but he could try to lighten her mood at least. "But you simply look so tired, my dear. Hmm… do you know what you need?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her lips twitch into a wan little smile. "This I have to hear. What do I need, besides a good night's rest and a dead archdemon?"
He disliked the mention of their looming menace while he was attempting levity, but it let it never be said that Zevran Arainai baulked at such a challenge. The dog whined, as if the reminder of darkspawn and Old Gods was just as unwelcome for its peace of mind, and loped off ahead to walk near the Sten.
"Oh," Keelin whispered, and he felt her shoulders sag ever so slightly, but she did not call the hound back. "I just— I'm trying not to be morbid. Really."
"It's all right." Pressing a kiss against her cheek, Zevran squinted up into the pale, sickly sunlight where it filtered through the haze of clouds. He might never be safe to show his face in Antiva again, but he would revel in the chance to bring Keelin somewhere warm one day, letting the heat of true sun gild her hair and darken her freckles. To shroud himself in such optimism felt strange, but he had no other recourse besides giving into useless dread. "You certainly—"
A buzzing drone began to sound from some distance ahead, resonant and insistent as it approached through the tree line. Their company tensed, and when the great cloud of insects appeared a moment later, shifting and swirling until replaced by Morrigan's human form, the witch's expression did nothing to soothe the unease.
"Much of the land ahead has been blighted," she announced, tucking loosened strands of hair back into her bun. "What animals remain are vicious things, driven mad by sickness. There is also a fresh bandit encampment less than a league westward."
Bandits and blighted beasts were little more than a nuisance, usually, but now was not the time to grow complacent. Some lucky highwayman's axe could prove just as deadly as an ogre's grip, in the proper circumstances.
Beside him, Keelin sighed, but a bit of her dark exhaustion seemed to fade. "It's rarely dull, at least."
Despite everything else, he couldn't help but laugh.
It gnawed at him, a mild but growing concern as each day of their travel passed, that pockets of tainted corruption surrounded them with not a true darkspawn to be seen. He was not so much of a fool that he kept silent with this particular observation, either— Keelin merely nodded at him, her eyes going muted and nearly unfocused as she answered.
"It's hard to be certain," she said, carefully stepping around the bodies of yet more blight wolves. He offered his hand, and she took it with a grateful glance. "I can sense the taint all around us, but the archdemon—"
"I can hardly hear anything else." Alistair's voice was rough, and the man had the same far-off expression that had been plaguing Keelin. His helm was tucked under one arm, and his gauntlets darkened with toxic blood. "Especially at night. The noise… it's thunderous."
Keelin nodded again, and the Wardens shared a silent, significant look. "Something is changing," she said eventually, acknowledging the attention of the rest of their companions with a glance around. "I'm hoping we will find some answers once we reach Redcliffe."
A tainted Old God did not sing its orders in his mind, but Zevran knew when a situation smelled foul. This trek to Redcliffe was beginning to reek.
Zevran hissed, but kept his tongue in his head despite the urge to curse a blue streak at the incompetent healer prodding at the pulsing gash torn across his hairline. It was more than a little temping to dismiss the woman outright and instead wait for Wynne to finish with the swathes of gravely injured soldiers and villagers filling any available space in Redcliffe Castle. He had promised Keelin, however, to have himself examined on the small chance it was more serious than a few bruises and scrapes. The unexpected mess they'd found in Redcliffe had disturbed her more than she cared to admit, doubtlessly with good reason. There was little about the situation that did not scream of a swiftly approaching climax... and certainly not in the way he preferred, either.
He was far from death's icy embrace, he was sure, but his lover was deep in talks with the nobility and her fellow Wardens. The last thing he wished was to trouble her with something so paltry as his own minor injuries, if he could avoid it. Thus he endured the pathetic poking and cold hands, holding the poultice against his head when he was instructed, and amused himself with the thought that Oghren was the next patient on this woman's list.
The dwarf was laid out on a makeshift pallet just next to Zevran's seat, with the heavy breastplate already stripped from his filthy body, and his eyes flashing feverish with the lingering tendrils of berserker rage and the addling effects of the swelling egg on his own head. Yes, Oghren seemed a perfect candidate for this woman's tender care.
"You'll be fine, ser," she said finally, and Zevran dredged up just enough charm to smile blandly at her in thanks. Oghren grunted as the healer moved to kneel beside him, almost a giggle, and Zevran took the opportunity to make himself scarce.
The main hall was quieter when he entered than it had been when they'd first arrived. Glancing around the sparse crowd, Zevran tightened the buckles of his cuirass and deposited the majority of his poultice in a pile of dirty bandages lying near a pair of empty pallets. A bit of the elfroot mash still clung to his wound, and the numbing sensation was actually rather welcome.
Eamon was on his dais, speaking intently to the half dozen armoured knights standing before him, but none of the Wardens was anywhere to be seen. Besides Oghren and Wynne, he seemed to have lost track of the rest of their party as well. Wretched, bleeding Redcliffe.
He hailed down a guardsman, and was told the Wardens had retired to their chambers for the evening. Apparently, they planned to make all haste back to Denerim at first light— the armies were being readied for a forced march, the horde was descending on the city with the archdemon at its head, and Zevran needed to speak with Keelin immediately. This… this was what he had felt lurking. They had been outplayed by a damned dragon.
He was directed towards a familiar stretch of corridor in one of the castle's upper floors, not far from the room he and Keelin had shared during their first stay in Redcliffe. Passing that room, the very first they had shared intimately, despite his uneasiness the memory was sweet enough to send a twist of warmth through him.
Coming around a final bend, following the path as it had been described, Zevran mentally cursed bewildered guardsmen— the door he found was partially ajar, but the woman who turned to him as he slipped inside was not his Warden.
"Morrigan," he greeted, perhaps somewhat brusquely, before reining himself. "Beg pardon, dear woman, but do you know where Keelin's room might be? I seem to be turned around."
The witch's golden eyes looked quite feral by the roaring hearth, and Zevran had the distinct impression he was being weighed and measured. It wasn't nearly as sexy as it could have been, in vastly different circumstances.
"'Tis her room you've found," Morrigan said after a long, appraising moment. "She is no doubt speaking with Riordan and Alistair regarding the coming battle. Then she and I have grave matters to discuss."
His hackles began to rise, not in anger but suspicion. Keeping his gaze firmly on the witch, Zevran padded farther into the room. "Well then, that does sound rather foreboding. I've this strange inkling that there is something you know… something you've known. About the archdemon?"
There was a crackle, not from the fire but in the air, and Zevran recognised the warning. Keeping his arms loose at his sides, he stopped his slow approach. "I know many things," Morrigan replied flatly. "Stay, Zevran. Your presence may assist my efforts, and certainly you will agree with my premise. I seek to vastly improve her chances of surviving this battle."
Damn it all.
There were sinister secrets woven through her words, as always, but danger and promise as well. Zevran did not relax for an instant. "You have my attention."
"Good." Something vaguely akin to a smile graced Morrigan's face ever so briefly. It was not a comfort. "Now silence. The Warden comes."
Keelin did appear shortly thereafter, and Zevran nearly forgot about Morrigan's ominous presence when he caught sight of his lover's ashen face and shaking hands. He went to her without hesitation, cupping her cheek with one hand and feeling her shiver.
"What is it," he murmured, keeping his voice soothing and calm. "What's happened?"
For his efforts, he was rewarded with an armful of utterly mute woman. Keelin curled herself against him, as she had done far too often in grief these past weeks, and he embraced her tightly in return.
He was rather focused on the rapid pulse of her heartbeat, fluttering like that of a frightened doe, but he did not miss the quiet clearing of Morrigan's throat before the witch began to speak. "You have spoken with Riordan then?"
Keelin went rigid in his arms, and Zevran was nearly grinding his teeth at his own ignorance. Something crucial was occurring, and he riled at being kept so long in the dark.
"What—" Stepping back, but keeping one hand pressed against his chest, his lady regarded their visitor with confusion. "Morrigan? Is something wrong?"
The witch shifted her stance, arms crossed beneath her bosom, and raised her dark brows. "You already know something is quite wrong indeed, my friend. Had you planned to tell your lover of the terrible knowledge you've gained tonight? Of the sacrifice required?"
Dread settled cold and heavy in his gut. The horde's feint to Denerim had only been part of the menace he'd sensed.
"How did you—" As the hand withdrew, taking Keelin a faltering step farther from him, Zevran felt all the warmth in his body dragged along with it. Sacrifice. Sacrifice. "How long have you known? You called me sister— Andraste's blood, why did you not tell me?"
That prompted the smallest flinch from Morrigan, almost unnoticeable. "I could not be sure that you, or more likely Alistair, would believe me. Would it have made a difference to the duty laid out before you now?"
That was more than enough. Ignoring Morrigan's command for silence, Zevran frowned at both women and raised his voice. "Duty," he said questioningly, and his frustration flared to anger as his lover turned her face from him. "Sacrifice? What terrible knowledge does she speak of, Keelin?"
After a long, uneasy moment, it became painfully clear Keelin would not look at him, would not answer; Morrigan had no such compunctions. "The death of the archdemon," she replied, drumming long fingers slowly over her own forearm. "Demands the life of a Grey Warden. Without a Warden's sacrifice, at the moment of the killing blow, the beast will simply be reborn in another body."
The life— No.
"What's your bargain, then?" He heard his voice, the fierce sound of it, but the words themselves spilled out of their own volition. Of course the witch had a bargain to offer. She would not be there otherwise. "What is required? Speak and you shall have it, no matter the cost."
"Zevran—" Now his darling had the strength to face him, when he was ready to sell his soul— sell a thousand souls— to spare them such a sacrifice. "Stop, please. You— a bargain? What are you talking about?"
"I have a solution to offer; the loop in your hole. Old, powerful magic." Morrigan moved from the fire, perching on the end of the great sprawling bed, but there was only one detail Zevran cared for. What will save her? "A ritual meant to keep the corruption of the archdemon from burning your very essence away. I simply need you to convince Alistair that such a thing should be done to save you both. I require his cooperation."
His palms were itching; there were all manner of ways he could convince Alistair of the importance of such a task, regardless of the particulars. He might have even voiced such a notion, had Keelin not turned to him with a look of sharpest warning.
"Do not think it." Her words were pitched low and grave with command. "I would never, ever forgive you."
It wasn't magic, probably, but his beloved Keelin did know him rather well. It chafed, in this particular instance.
"We have precious little time for squabbling," Morrigan said, but the thread of disdain he had expected was absent from her level tone. "I do not require the lifeblood of a hundred innocents or anything so dire, but what I ask is rather… delicate. Believe what you will, but I do consider you my friend, sister; saving your life is truly among my goals."
Keelin buried her face in her hands, and despite his frustration— truly, why was this a question at all— Zevran did not stop himself from going to her again. She allowed his hesitant embrace, and with his cheek resting lightly on her hair, he found some measure of calm.
Forcing himself to take in a deep breath, he turned his attention back to the witch. "What sort of ritual is it, then?"
That was… not what he'd expected.
Having detailed her proposal, Morrigan yielded to their request for a few moments of privacy, slipping into the corridor to await Keelin's decision. Now, with the click of the door's latch leaving just the pair of them together, Zevran knew precisely what he must do.
"Please," he said quietly, squeezing her soft, blessed body close to his for a moment before stepping back and sinking to his knees. Shame held no sway over him when the price of failure was so high. "I am begging you, my darling girl. Please do this, for me."
"Zevran—" Her fingers brushing gently through his hair, that soothing touch… it felt too much like an apology. Like refusal.
"No." Gripping her hips, he glared up at her heartbroken expression, his voice cracking with mounting fury. "Don't deny me this! Don't promise me a future and then snatch it away! I, brasca, I am begging you— I can't—" He fought to keep his thoughts clear enough for the Common Tongue, words stumbling over each other. "Maker's mercy, please, mi amora. Do not... do not steal my hope from me now, when the odds are already so grim. Please."
Nails dug into his scalp, pulling at his clotted wound, but the pain was welcome. It meant she was not fleeing from him— not yet, anyway.
Her eyes met his, searching, and he held nothing back. Never in his life had it been so vital to lay himself bare, and damn the consequences. Eventually, she spoke. "A child with the soul of an Old God. If that…" He felt her shudder, but then something glimmered in her gaze. It was raw emotion, a strange look he could not place, but somehow it all but stopped his heart.
"Fine," she whispered, and his chest began hammering madly. "I will… for you, Zevran, I will speak to Alistair. I will try."
AN: Maker's balls, I'm making myself tense. Ugh.