This story wasn't actually planned but I *had* to write it (the thoughts were in my mind for two days and one night and I couldn't even sleep). So - it's the epilogue now.

Many thanks Korina1982 for beta-reading! Also - thanks again for reading and reviewing my story, Melysande. :)


Epilogue: Sûl's Last Winter

He could not sleep. With open eyes he lay in the big tent, between all the others. Of course, he had noticed that he was not there. He had not heard Zevran saying a word all day. Silent, withdrawn and absent-minded the blond elf had appeared, quite differently from how he had known him otherwise. But whom he had known? The boy who had hurled all these terrible words at him, certainly not. And if that was really a part of Zevran, he did not want to know him anymore. At least he told himself that way. But his heart ... that was of quite a different opinion. It ached with concern, where he might be, what he was doing out there in the rain, certainly still feverish and sick...

Sûl got up and slipped out of the tent. The night was cloudy and rainy. He could hardly see the next Aravel. He went to the family's aravel in the hope of finding Zevran asleep there. But it was empty. He looked around in the whole camp and could find him nowhere. Sighing, the Dalish returned back to his sleeping place. His fatigue finally knocked him into a fitful sleep.

Then the morning dawned. They broke the tent and wanted to go off. Not only Sûl, also Morneryn, Tathar, the girls Shannon and Hilija were searching for Zevran. They asked the guards about him. "Enough," the old Keeper finally said. "He has gone, I do not think he will return." Einiora looked sad but decisive. "We have to start out." Sûl knew she was right. No one would find a lad like Zevran if he did not want to be found.


The southern Drylands were an ideal location during the rainy season. During the summer the land was barren and desolate, the water holes dried up. Now it was pleasantly warm, it was raining off and on, but less than in the south; and there were plenty of edible plants, huntable game.

Sûl had always liked the winter months. He enjoyed the special climate, the atmosphere on the edge of the great desert. But this winter he could not return to his usual light-heartedness. The anger towards Zevran was soon gone. Instead, he felt every day how much he missed the other elf. And the self-blame began... Again and again he thought of their last conversation. The Dalish was sure that he had done something wrong. That it had been his words that had scared his friend away. He would still be here, he would have stayed with us, with me, if only I had not been so stupid ...

Stupid? But how could he have guessed... How would he know that Zevran would react in such a horrific way to the word "love"? What did he know about the other boy? It just happened, aimlessly, that he had admired him, adored him, fallen in love... But he knew nothing about his past. He had always had the feeling there was more, that Vhenan might have been right to be skeptical. But he had never dared to ask questions, pursued by a stupid fear he would destroy something - the friendship or his own illusion.

Grief and pain made the winter days seem long and dull. There were also nightmares in which he saw Zevran in danger - seriously ill or injured, and he was rooted to the ground and could not run to his friend to help him. His parents noticed that something was wrong with him. They tried repeatedly to start a conversation with him, he fended off everything. His mother regularly invited girls from the village for dinner. She would never understand, even if he ever tried to explain...

Vhenan came to him one morning as he sat outside the tent, listlessly carving a piece of wood. His breakfast had, as in all previous weeks, barely been touched. He had only swallowed a few bites, out of courtesy to his parents to not worry so much about him. His sister sat next to him. She took his hand which was holding the knife, and pressed it gently. "You miss him, right?"

Sûl could not answer. This contact, the sympathetic tone had opened a sluice. He felt a violent lurch in his heart, his throat closed up, his eyes filled with tears that ran down the cheeks, he started shaking. Vhenan took the carving and the knife out of her brother's hands, knelt before him and embraced him silently until he had finished weeping. Then she stroked one of the tears from his cheeks with her thumb. She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something, but there was nothing left to say. The siblings understood each other in their grief.

And they did not. Because it was something else, to lose the man one loves in an accident, compared to being convinced he had gone because of one's own stupidity. He could not forgive himself. And what was worse - he felt he had not only led himself, but also the other elf to their doom. The life of an elf in the city could never be a good one, he was convinced of that all the more by his own experience. And was this not the reason for Zevran to release him and to flee to them? Perhaps the other was already dead .. He should have been more focused on him, should have to been more sensitive and careful with his words and feelings. But what was the use of such thoughts? It was too late.


The winter passed. The pain, the sorrow had not abated over all those months. He spoke to no one, just strictly did any work he had been told. He could feel no joy, sunlight hurt his eyes. When the clan returned to the summer camp, it became unbearable. Everything was a reminder of him. He saw him at the guard posts, at the waterhole, in the camp between the tents. It cut of his air supply.

What kind of prospects would he have? One day, he would probably have to take a woman whom he could not love. This idea did not only seem to be cruel for himself but also for the woman. Or to flee again to the city? Searching for him? Even if he would find him, Zevran would rebuff him, he was sure. But it was more likely that he would again be taken up by slave traders.

None of these ideas seemed worth living to the young Dalish. And since he could not longer bear the pain, there was soon only one thought, just one path he saw before him. And the last question that worried him were the stories he had been told as a child. Perhaps they should only give the children a fright, perhaps they were nothing more than superstition, but if they were true... If it was really true that Falon'Din looked away from those who chose their death voluntarily, then he would be helpless, at the demons' mercy in the beyond...

Sûl pretended he would search for wood and took his carving knife along. His goal was the river, which had become broad and turbulent at the end of the rainy season . First he cut off his thick black braids and threw them into the water. Then he took off his armor. It was valuable, perhaps someone else could still use it... "Falon'Din guide me. Friend of the dead, deliver me," he whispered. Tears were running down his cheeks as he stitched the signs in his body.


Preview - Antivan Episodes

The story of Zevran's childhood is finished. But it will still take more than six years, until Zevran goes to Ferelden with the order to kill the Grey Wardens. What happened in that time?

What becomes of the Manicos and the Lorenzos?

How will the relationship between Zevran and Taliesen develop?

Will Antonio remain the master of the Arainai cell?

But most of all - how, where and when will Zevran meet Rinna?

You want to know how my story about Zevran's childhood and youth goes on? Then read the Antivan Episodes. Coming soon on fanfiction net. ;)