ZEVRAN
Hmmm . . . Perhaps I should try roasting it a while longer?
I contemplate the prospect as I swallow a single slice of the glazed ham I've been cutting on the table. The taste itself: divine. Rich with the slightest, tangy hints of brown sugar and honey. A delightful pairing, fit to make the taste buds sing.
However, its tenderness could leave more to be desired.
Oh, well.
It is sufficient, I suppose.
I sigh and go back to my carving, eager to wrap up, so I can sit back and enjoy a fine meal with a glass of wine. The front door clicks open behind me not a minute later.
It's Serena.
She stares at me, her wide, teal eyes shifting back and forth between me and the skewered roast on the kitchen table.
When she seems to fully process the sight standing before her, she purses her lips and lowers her gaze. "I . . . concluded things with Hawke," she says, propping her scythe up beside the door.
That stops me. "Oh?" I put my knife down and pivot towards her more.
It is not what I expected to hear, I admit. But my alarm is overpowered by growing concern, intaking her troubled expression.
Serena nods. She walks over to pick up some letters off the nearby entrance table. "I just wanted to tell you that," she whispers, taking a handful over to the couch.
She plops down on the cushions and starts shuffling through them, nonchalantly, her gaze never leaving the parchment for an instant despite the text clearly not resonating within.
Hm.
It is clear she does not wish to discuss this further at the moment. But I can guess by her forced expression what may have happened well enough.
It is unfortunate, for many a reason. Her poor mood being one of them.
However, progress remains progress, and it would be a lie to say I'm not a tad relieved by that result. What is important now, though, is that I give her whatever space she needs, so she can continue making such decisions, going forward.
I frown and go back to refocusing on the ham, banishing any lingering curiosity to the back of my mind.
Yes.
One competitor down.
Now, what will happen with the other and myself, I wonder?
FENRIS
"Oh, good. You are up!" Hawke prances into my quarters as though it's his own.
I glare over at him from behind my desk, my head still throbbing from an infernal hangover.
He's been working us all ragged for the past week like this—appearing at the first sign of daylight to procure us for various missions, without giving us so much as a few hours to rest.
Why? I do not know.
Something clearly has happened between him, the assassin, and Serena. The strain around the three a thick, palpable cloud, evident for everyone to witness.
This viscous coping cycle he's adapted, though, has begun to become intolerable.
Last night alone, he had us out until the near brink of dawn, taking down Jeven and his so-called 'rebellion' in Darktown, on a favor for Aveline and Knight-Captain Cullen.
I assumed he would finally need a break afterward, to address the intensifying dark circles, forming under his eyes. So, I foolishly indulged in a lengthy round of cards and drinks with the others at the Hanged Man, following the mission. But it appears I was once again mistaken—horribly so.
"We're heading out to go check on the Bone Pit," he goes on, naïve to my internal, spiking frustration and thinning patience. "Dear old Hubert's freaking out again. He believes there might've been another attack. You in?"
I clench my jaw and fists.
He should've abandoned the Bone Pit long ago. That accursed place.
It should be clear by now he is never going to receive a lasting return on that investment. And yet, he wants us to run to its rescue once again? While we are all still healing or exhausted?
I struggle to not lash at him for the decision. To tell him that wanting to work to keep your mind off your troubles is one thing; leaping to aid a hopeless cause, while none of us are fit to fight, is another.
If I do argue with him on that, however, he'll just storm off to it on his own. And as worn out and annoyed as I am, I cannot let him do so alone.
So, all I do is grunt.
Against my better judgement.
"Lead the way," I grumble and stand up to grab Lethendralis.
The two of us then march out of the mansion, Hawke beaming and chattering the whole way, while dread continues to loom over my shoulders like a maelstrom, knowing further exhaustion and irritation awaits.
HAWKE
Every part of my body aches and feels heavier than if it's been replaced with chainmail.
I haven't been sleeping well the past few nights, if I have at all, so I can't say it's surprising. But it is making this trip to the Bone Pit drag on ten times longer than usual, and I wasn't excited about visiting again in the first place. Such is the life of an ambitious businessman.
Sluggish, bleary-eyed, and fighting a sleep-deprived migraine, hammering against the left side of my skull, I glimpse around at the rest of our group. Serena, Anders, and Zevran are jabbering on together behind me about Anders's old cat, Ser Pounce-a-lot—Fenris playing the ever scowling observer off to their right. Meanwhile, Varric accompanies me silently up front, perhaps taking mental notes of their conversation, for later use.
Serena laughs at something Zevran mutters under his breath, and my heart twinges.
The two of us have been trying to go back to normal, or as normal as our friendship has ever been. But the transition's been . . . difficult. It's obvious from our continuous strained expressions. The mirth's simply not quite there, for either of us. Not to mention the babbling messes we both become whenever we try to speak or look at each other. Zevran constantly being around, showing off how close they are while I'm still 'grieving', doesn't help the process either.
Maker, I just need to accept reality and move forward. Focus on our jobs, and maybe, maybe, we can forget any of this ever happened.
I sigh and look forward again, rubbing at my pulsating forehead. The pounding behind my left eye lingering like a stubborn hangover.
We round the last corner leading to the pit's main campsite. I'm not focusing too much, but then notice an orange light flicker up ahead. The scent of burning carrion follows.
I flinch and look up at the camp. Charred corpses and flames lie scattered everywhere. Their sight mirroring a forsaken battleground.
My stomach drops, tying into a tight knot as I take in the dead. Our dead. Men and women I recruited myself, who are now . . .
"Well, this isn't boding very well," Varric grumbles—the cheery atmosphere instantly dissipated.
I gulp down my tingling nerves and banish the spiraling confusion.
No. Now isn't the time to just stand here, doing nothing.
We have to figure out who or what did this. Fast.
Drawing out my sword, I tread further into the camp, the others trailing along behind me. The devastation continues all the way to the upper mines. Or what's left of them. Several have caved in, while others still burn with scattered flames.
Seeing no survivors up top, I wave for the others to follow me to the other mines down below. More rubble, corpses, and flames line the dirt slope, the blazes unwavering despite the unusual lack of kindling.
"What could've done all this?" I whisper, continuing to glance around to find something, anything that can provide a logical explanation.
We reach the bottom of the pit, and the sound of large, flapping wings encroach from behind. But they're . . . way too loud to be a bird or bat.
An ear-splitting screech comes from the same direction.
The lot of us turn just in time to witness a purple High Dragon breathe a line of fire across the path whence we came, cutting off our quickest escape route. The creature then lands in front of us with a bone-chilling quake, tilts its head back, and roars. Giving us a spectacular view of its dagger-sized chompers.
"I'll give you one guess!" Varric shouts, lifting Bianca up.
Our party scatters, barely dodging another burst of flames as the dragon breathes it out at us.
I swiftly sprint off to its side, around its left flank, while Fenris and Serena enclose on its right. We slice out at its bulky calves together. Meanwhile, Varric and Anders blast at it with everything they've got from a distance.
The beast flinches and swipes a claw down at me. I lift my greatsword in time to block, but its force against my blade is so strong, it makes me skid back, digging my heels deep into the sand.
An explosion echoes overhead then.
Smoke and flame billow off the right side of the creature's skull. Burning. Singeing. The dragon shrieks and stumbles away from it, retracting its claw in an effort to regain balance.
Another identical boom hits the right side of its torso next, giving it no pause for a break, making the dragon shrink even further away, closer to the adjacent mountain-face.
"Zev! So help me, next time you throw a bomb, yell so first!" Serena shouts from the other side of the beast. And although I can't see or hear him, hidden amongst the shadows, I can already imagine the assassin laughing or smirking at the scolding remark.
The dragon straightens out again once the flames relent. Its wound now a gory combination of broken scales and scorched, bloody flesh.
Not sparing us another look, it starts flapping its wings, taking off with a fierce gust of wind that threatens to blow us all back. A few rogue grains of sand catch in my eyes during the liftoff. While I struggle to rub them out, the dragon circles overhead. It re-positions itself atop a nearby hill, in front of another lower mine, then bellows out another resounding screech. A dozen familiar cheeps answer.
My eyes widen, and I quickly search for their source.
About twenty dragonlings bound out of a nearby mine to our left, branching out toward us in all directions like a massive, scaly wave.
Shit. This thing has babies?
I race to take on the first part of the horde, still somewhat blinded from the earlier sand. Serena, Zevran, and Fenris quickly join me, our blades striking out at them in a blur of a whirlwind together, taking down as many as we can before risking getting overwhelmed.
I've gotten rid of about five of them on my own, when four more scramble in my direction. One of which Varric strikes with a bolt to its head. The others . . . not so much.
"Damn it," I curse and spin around again toward them, decapitating a few, while ever more close in, continuing to pour out of the wretched mine like a flood.
I slay a few more of the offspring like this—never breaking, pushing beyond my limits—until one of the unharmed survivors latches onto the lower corner of my chestplate, refusing to let go.
I stop my swinging to elbow it off, then stab it straight through its back.
But another soon follows. This time clamping onto my right thigh, where I have less armor.
I wince as its blasted baby teeth sink under my skin, piercing through the thinner linings, equivalent to a bunch of tiny needles puncturing me all at once. "Maker take you!" I shout and skewer it.
It slumps to the ground, and I wobble on my feet.
The world blurs a moment.
My head and body grow laden, weak.
It takes everything I have to keep standing upright. To not pass out or collapse to my knees, in an a tingling, exhausted mess. The soreness of my limbs peaking to the point where it's hard to imagine lifting even one of them. Every movement far too sluggish or drained.
"Hawke!" Serena yells, and I jolt and look up at her, past the knackered haze.
She's just decapitated another one of the younglings thirty paces away. But rather than relishing in its defeat, as I've come to expect, she's running toward me, her eyes wide with panic.
A thunderous thump shakes the ground behind me, and my heart sinks.
I whirl around.
The High Dragon snaps out at me. I lift my greatsword to try to block, to defend, only for it to wrench it away with its blasted teeth. It spits it out off to the side like it's a toothpick, and I recoil, withdrawing a slow step back.
Something hits my farthest heel, and I tumble backwards. Falling.
Shit!
I try to reach out and catch myself. But I still hit the ground. Hard. My legs propped up over a dragonling corpse I'd carelessly forgotten.
The High Dragon leers down at me, its mass rivaling a tall building's, a searing flame building in the back of its throat.
My blood and body freeze in its imposing shadow.
I can't avoid this.
I know it.
But it doesn't make it any easier to swallow.
The beast opens its large maw wider, wider, and a bolt of lightning strikes the side of its face. It pivots toward the attacker and breathes the fireball directly at Serena—her arm still stretched out and sparking with fading magic.
"Serena!" I shout, cold terror ripping through me. More so than when it was just my life on the line.
Zevran tackles her, shoving them both off to the side as the blast hits. They disappear on the other side of the flames. Their conditions and exact locations unknown.
My minds stops.
I can't think.
Can't move.
Andraste, I can't even breathe.
Meanwhile, I hear Varric and Anders shout and redirect their shots at the dragon—the final young now slain, forgotten. The High Dragon shrinks away under their barrage, its earlier confidence a thing of the past.
But I'm still stuck to two minutes ago. Unable to look anywhere besides the unyielding wall of flames.
Serena races out into sight from beyond the barrier, and I can finally function again. Warm, relief pouring deep into my bones, mimicking a soak into a hot spring bath.
Until she charges the dragon.
Head-on.
Alone.
The bath water turning icy cold.
It snaps out at her upon her approach, but she dodges, slices its right cheek, and jumps onto the top of its head. She mounts herself right between its two horns, as if riding a horse, and I watch in numb-struck horror as it stretches its neck all the way up and starts swinging her around wildly, trying to shake her off.
Serena somehow remains straddled amid the terror-inducing flailing, which both begs and prevents me from moving. Every movement of theirs making it impossible for me to take in breath. Serena then lifts her scythe up and stabs downward, embedding her curved blade straight between the beast's eyes, piercing through the roof of its mouth.
The dragon shivers, stills, and collapses to the ground with an inelegant thud. Its fall shaking the entire hillside. Serena rolls off its head the second its jaw hits the soil, her scythe still raised and body poised into a quick crouching stance, raring to go.
A tense silence ensues.
The dust clouds settle.
My shoulders slump, realizing it's finally over. We're alive. That last bout far too heroic for my still racing heart.
Zevran stomps over to me amid the quiet and lifts me up by the collar. "You have a lot of nerve, looking so relieved, when you were the one to just endanger her, dear Champion," he snarls, glaring at me, malevolence radiating off each accented word that leaves his tongue.
My body tenses at the undeniable blood-lust in his light golden gaze. His calculating and merciless eyes back to that of the professional killer from several weeks ago.
"Zev, stop!" Serena rushes over, grabbing him by the shoulder.
He shrugs her off. "No!" he shouts. "We have all kept quiet long enough, but I will no longer! Your reckless actions could have gotten us all killed today, Champion. And what for? Your determination to work us all to the bone, on no rest?"
Both my jaw and stomach drop. The accusation sharp, precise. So much so it feels like a direct stab to the soul. "I-I—"
"Do not bother trying to deny it! This one-track mind of yours is exactly why you never stood a chance!"
Zevran huffs and shoves me back onto the ground.
Strutting past Serena, he stalks over to the dead high dragon, both of his hands balled up into fists by his sides.
Serena glances back and forth between the two of us, her mouth opening and closing, seeming to struggle to find words. She flashes me an apologetic look then runs after him, her scolding whispers continuing, even as he kneels down to start harvesting some of our 'trophy's' scales.
Fenris walks up to me while I continue to gawk at the two in the distance. The call out feeling like someone's thrown their drink in my face.
"I . . . have been acting foolish, haven't I?" I murmur, recognizing only now just how selfish and self-absorbed I've been, since our conversation.
Fenris hums, not voicing either opposition or agreement, gifting me my answer.
I sigh and bury my face in my hands.
"Despite his actions, he means well," he says.
I narrow my eyes at him. A part of me curious by the comment, but also almost offended. "Since when did your opinion of him change? I thought you hated him?"
Fenris frowns and glowers down at me. "Do not misunderstand. I still do not trust him. However . . . he has a point."
Great. If even Fenris is openly agreeing with him now, I must've really messed up.
I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose. Guilt only continuing to weigh down on me further, as I go back to shamefully watching the other two, arguing quietly beside the dead dragon.
Our dwindling campfire crackles before me. Its pitiful existence barely lights up even a small segment of the Bone Pit's lower outcropping anymore. A testament to just how long I've been sitting here by it, wallowing in my plaintive thoughts.
Most of the others turned in to rest long ago, shortly after our battle. A wise if not nerve-wracking call, due to everyone's pronounced exhaustion. But, despite my own ongoing reservations about staying here a second longer, surrounded by dragonling corpses . . . it's probably for the best.
I personally can hardly lift my arms or feet anymore—the weariness of the past several, restless nights finally caught up to me.
Yet, still, I can't seem to fall asleep, and I'm not even the one supposed to be up on guard duty!
I sigh, feeling all the more frustrated and disappointed with myself. The negative emotions piling on heavier than a mountain on my shoulders.
Quiet footsteps approach from off to my right, coming from the direction of the adjacent pit wall, where the others lie huddled together.
It's Zevran. The true guard on duty, and currently the last person in the world I want to be alone with, in fear of possible death.
He sits down on a rock on the opposite side of the flames, looking much calmer than he did before. Almost the pinnacle of composure and peace, actually.
At least that makes one of us . . .
I groan inwardly at the thought, loathing the internal recognition at my own horrid state.
"I . . . apologize for earlier," he says—his sudden words making me flinch. "I let my temper get the best of me. For that, I am sorry."
I don't dare look up at him. The tenseness of my posture prohibiting it. "It's alright. I understand." I gulp. "And . . . you were right. I have only been thinking about myself. This . . . situation . . . must be difficult for you to bear as well."
Zevran smirks and lowers his head. Providing all the answer I need, only increasing my guilt further.
"Tell me. Did you always predict this would be the outcome?" I ask, clenching my fists.
"I had an inkling, after we first spoke." He shrugs. "I tend to be a good judge of character . . . Not that I had any qualms against you and she together, but you are simply cast from different stone."
I frown.
That's not what I wanted to hear.
I already know just how different the two of us are. How although we—I—may want it, we might've made a terrible pairing. His unwavering assessment on it, though, doesn't make it taste any less bitter.
"Why didn't you come look for her sooner?" I go on, somewhat out of malice. "She's been waiting for you, all this time. Do you have any idea how much she's suffered, thinking you were dead?"
Zevran's gaze softens at that. "I wanted to come search for her sooner, but I couldn't," he says. "I was buried deep in my feud with the Crows. To leave before handling them would have only put us both pointlessly in danger. Not to mention, I hadn't the foggiest when this all began . . . I had sent letters to Vigil's Keep many a times at the start, but received no response. I wrongfully assumed that this meant all must be well, and she was simply off, busy pursuing darkspawn and such, as her duties often demand. It wasn't until many months later my informants notified me of her unprecedented disappearance."
He pauses, and his golden eyes grow dark, distant. As though recalling a gruesome memory, still haunting him from his past.
"I hired countless men to go out and search for her, for years, all across Thedas." He glares down at the fire, lost in the memory. "I even visited a few Dalish clans up North, when their investigations continuously came up fruitless . . . What a lot of good that did me," he scoffs, shaking his head. "Did you know the clans barely speak to one another? Apparently, they gather only once every ten years, if you can believe it. I would have thought their meetings would be far more frequent, what with their vocal emphasis on unity."
He sighs and leans back.
"But, I digress. I only had luck recently when Leliana wrote to me with the updated location of her clan. I dropped everything and came immediately, hoping to find at least a clue to her whereabouts. However, by then . . . Well, you already know the rest."
My chest tightens at the downtrodden expression on his face, his eyes squinting with unspoken grief and agony.
No.
He has no right.
He has no right to any of my sympathy.
And yet, why do I still feel it, nonetheless?
"Do you truly love her?" I growl, spitting the query out, without even thinking.
Zevran keeps staring down at the fire and smiles. The tenderness: overwhelming. Undeniable. Exuding a warmth I'd never expect from the flippant assassin.
I squeeze my fists even tighter, hating it.
Despising it. This warmth of his.
And with a reluctant sigh, I lower my head in defeat.
Fine. If that's the case, I . . . I can accept it. I can accept him, for her, if she's certain. But . . .
"If you break her heart again, I'll kill you," I warn, every ounce of me dripping with lethal venom.
Zevran chuckles. "I imagine there will be quite the line if that should ever happen. I may very well become the most wanted man in Thedas! A step up from only Antiva!"
I snicker and roll my eyes at the sentiment.
I'd be willing to bet my life savings on that.
The two of us then focus on the campfire, allowing the night's tranquil silence in to slowly accompany us.
