Love Abounds

CONTENT:
Rating: Mature
Flavor: Adventure/Drama
Language: yes
Violence: no
Nudity: no
Sex: no
Other: none

Author's Notes:

oh darn, i guess i should have called THIS one 'Dalish.' :/ well, it just popped up out of nowhere. and i apparently read the dalish dictionary wrong :X but nevertheless... Made Up Crap - MUC(tm) - to the rescue!

and i like lethallin much better than vhenan. i fall back on my defense where the front page of my bio distinctly states that i stray from canon and wiki info and everything else! and has done for YEARS! a decade, even! (omg, im old.)

but can we get "dah'ren" as a semi-official term of endearment from youngster to elder? it just makes so much sense.

Love Abounds

==#==

Zevran minced around the Dalish winter camp. The weather had broken, and he had discovered something even worse than snow - melted snow, and the resulting mud. His Antivan Leather Boots deserved so much better than this!

He had thought to get some fine Dalish snow boots. However, they didn't just have a store full of these to sell. Each pair was made as needed, crafted by hand from the skins and pelts the Hunters brought in. Zevran had brought in his fair share, but it took weeks to properly cure and tan the hides, to do the stitchwork.

There simply wasn't time. The Wardens' group was leaving while the thaw held.

Zevran came to the aravel of Nytraeve, the elder seamstress, or whatever title the Dalish had for such.

"Good morrow," he called to her, the most formal greeting he knew, since his Dalish was still lacking.

"Andaran atish'an," Nytraeve answered. "Be welcome. And close the flap; it's cold!"

Zevran came inside, after hooking off his muddy boots on the aravel's steps. He settled into the carpet of furs, feet tucked under for warmth.

"Have some tea?" she offered.

"No, thank you." He found tea made from bark instead of leaves quite disagreeable.

"What brings you to my aravel, then, young Hunter?"

"Well... I was hoping you could teach me some more of the Dalish language."

She nodded and picked up the fur cap she had been working on. "Something in particular you want to say? To a certain someone, perhaps?"

Zevran blinked. "I didn't... Why would you assume so?"

Nytraeve chuckled. "I've known plenty of young people, Zevran. I used to be one, you know."

"Well...," he drawled. "Is true. I need to tell a 'certain someone' where to stick a large, uncomfortable rock."

"What?"

The Antivan burst out laughing.

"You are a bad elf! You're going to make me drop a stitch."

"You? Hardly. Such professional skill, such steady hands. Besides, I'm sure you've heard it all before."

She snorted. "You can stop milking the halla and just get on with what you really meant to say."

"We call that 'buttering you up."

"Hmm. An interesting turn of phrase. But stop changing the subject."

Zevran plucked at the wolf fur, drawing a tuft through his fingers in a repetitive motion. "Can I trust you to keep this in confidence?"

"Who is old Nytraeve going to tell?"

"Oh, I don't know. Your grandchildren, your entire crafting circle, your whole tribe..."

"Ah, very well. I give you my word."

"I need... well, suppose I wanted to tell someone... that I love them. For example."

"Well, da'len, there are many types of love."

"Da-len, that is something you call a friend," he ventured.

"See, one type of love, there. Da'len is how an elder addresses a younger person. Like a child. But not just children, you understand."

"A child, an apprentice... someone you teach."

"Or at my age, everyone."

"I wasn't going to mention that." Zevran grinned.

"Ah, you!"

"But then how does a child address an elder."

"Da'ren."

"Hmm... like hahren?"

She nodded. "Then there's familial love, spiritual love, love of good food or other enjoyments..."

Zevran pursed his lips. Love abounds, it seemed. And so much of it beyond his reach.

"I suspect you are thinking more of romantic love, or arduous pursuits, hm?"

"What do you say to someone who is your everything?"

Nytraeve's brows went up. "Zevran, are you sure? It's not a romantic entanglement for fun, for pleasure... just for now?"

"No, not this one."

Nytraeve studied him.

He found himself tugging too hard at his clump of fur, so he let go and smoothed it back down. "I have heard the word 'lethallen'? Or is it 'lethallin'?"

She nodded slowly. "Those are words we use to address our life mate."

"It is... he is male, if that makes a difference."

Nytraeve waved it off. "Male, female... we are not all so different in all ways."

"Are not all your men Hunters? And Dalish women are crafters? Save for your mages."

She shook her head. "Each has their own nature. True, most Hunters are male, but it isn't one's stag purse that makes it so." Nytraeve trapped her forehead. "It's what's in here. The inner spirit."

"The fighting spirit."

"Or the creative spirit. Or the poetic spirit. The spirit moves the flesh. Not the other way around."

He tilted his head. "So what is the difference between 'letallen' and 'lethallin'?"

She frowned. "Zevran, those refer to a person you are soul-bound to."

He looked up. "Nytraeve... I assure you, he is the one true person for me." He thought a moment. "It is not someone from your tribe I am trying to seduce, if that is your concern."

"Ah." She ducked her head and returned to her stitching. "Lethallen means 'beloved of my heart.' Lethallin means 'beloved, my strength.' And Lethallan means 'beloved, my spirit.' "

Zevran pondered these phrases. Any and all of them could apply to his beloved. Twin hearts, that beat as one. The strength Bannon had - not just physical - to save Zevran from the Crows. And his soul. That deep bright spark that had illuminated the darkness within Zevran, that had rekindled his own spark. He nodded. "Thank you."

"To tell him directly, the words are simple: Ar lath ma."

"Ar lath ma," Zevran repeated softly. His heart felt lighter. A small smile graced his lips. "Thank you, Nytraeve, dah'ren. How can I repay you? I could kiss you!"

"Gah, no!" She mock-fended him off. "I'd rather you bring me a hot meal."

"Hmph." He tried not to take that personally. "Your loss! And shouldn't you get up and out of your aravel? Take meals with your tribe?"

"Bah!"

"I wouldn't dream of depriving you of such things by waiting on you hand and foot."

She laughed. "All right, all right. Get you gone, you wild young thing. You have distracted me far too much. I may have to tell you, ta maslen darg hin enasalin mala!"

Zevran mock-gasped. "Such language! I will have to remember that one!" He rose and bowed. "Ma serannas, dah'ren."

"Dareth shiral, dah'len."

==#==

Zevran had his gear packed, and he stood waiting by the bags the mule would carry. The Dalish began gathering around in an informal group to see them off.

Alistair was talking to Keeper Lanaya and Elora, the halla keeper. The Templar had been spending time with those two, helping to tend the herd. He was good with animals, it seemed, having been raised by dogs... or raising dogs? A kennel boy at any rate. Tending animals was in his blood.

It had been awkward at first, him being the only human around. But he was a Grey Warden, and the Dalish hadn't forgotten the way he had helped break the infectious curse of the werewolves. Many of them owed their lives to the Wardens. Besides, Alistair was as inoffensive as toast. Who could hate him for long? Besides Morrigan.

Zevran's lip turned as if he'd bitten into something rotten. He'd missed his chance to knife the witch in the back on the roof of Fort Drakon, and a failed mission sat uneasy with him - threat of dire punishment or no.

Soon Alistair led the mule over, and Zevran helped him pack the beast.

Bannon and Shianni arrived a few minutes later, along with Dakorien and his Hunter proteges.

"Did you get your things?" Bannon was asking his cousin. "Where's your pack?"

"I'm not going with you."

Alistair and Zevran turned. Shianni, going full Dalish? Zevran hadn't expected that.

Bannon was also caught off guard. "What do you mean?"

"I've been thinking. There's so much the Dalish can teach me, and I want to learn. Why go home now? I can leave in the spring." She grinned. "Dakorien is going to train me with the bow, and help me build up my strength to learn the dar'misaan."

"Dakareyoukiddingme?" Bannon shot the handsome Dalish Hunter a look. Dakorien smiled back, and Bannon looked like he wanted to punch him in the mouth.

Alistair coughed, "DiplomaCOUGHcy."

Bannon shot a patently fake sweet smile at the Hunter, then tugged Shianni closer to their circle by the mule. "Really, Shinni? I don't think you should be hanging out with that guy."

"Why not?"

"He doesn't like city elves, for one thing."

"Well, that's not true. Not any more." She shook her head. "We met at the battle in Denerim. He's very impressed by me." Her eyes sparkled along with her smile.

"And... he's... Well, he's..." Bannon struggled to put into words how much Dakorien rubbed him the wrong way. "He's a wild elf."

"Mm hm," said Shianni, her lips pressed tightly in a secret smile.

Zevran looked over at the elf in question. Wow. He moves fast.

"Shianni!" Bannon scolded. "You shouldn't-! You wouldn't!?"

She just rolled her eyes at him. "Goodbye, cousin," she sang, drawing out the words as she mock-pushed him away and turned to rejoin the Dalish.

"But-But-But-," Bannon stuttered. "But!" He shot one last daggerful glare at Dakorien.

Zevran sniggered, and Bannon whirled on him. "What the hell is so funny?"

Both Zevran and Alistair were caught out and tried to make straight faces. "Alistair was just telling me a marvelous joke."

"Yeah!" the Templar chimed in immediately. "Wait, what?"

"We can't just leave her here with... him," Bannon growled.

"She's a grown woman," Alistair said with a broad shrug.

"She can take care of herself," Zevran added. "Besides, the elders will keep an eye on her."

"Gaaaaah!" was all Bannon could say.

Hadn't Dakorien talked to him? To try to bury the hatchet, as they say? Well, it was too late, now.

They said their farewells to the Dalish, and Zevran and Alistair practically dragged Bannon off.

==X==

Dalish Translations:

Ma serannas: My thanks

Dareth shiral: Safe journey

Ta maslen darg hin enasalin mala: (translation unavailable ;p)

Dar'misaan: the Dalish longsword