(Marvey: I was hoping no one would call me on that. Alas, it seems I'll have to change the word to something less punchy after all. Bleh.)

97. Facing Phantoms

When the immortal guardian of this so-called holy relic had mentioned a series of tests of faith… Zevran had been expecting singing of the Chant, or walking through fire, or some other ridiculous proof of faith in the Maker, such as it was. He had not been expecting riddles.

Zevran refrained himself from fidgeting while they waited for the girls to go down the line of ghostly riddlers. Alistair and Finian were not so well trained, and thus fidgeted with abandon. Between the two of them, Zevran suspected they were sufficiently restless to make all these ghostly figures roll over in their respective graves.

Though… honestly, the assassin had doubts that these specters were the historical figures they claimed to be. Why would great generals and Andraste's enemies linger beyond the Veil, just to stand around and ask silly questions of wayward pilgrims?

It was a good trick, though. How the guardian had known about her… well, there was obviously some sort of magic afoot. Perhaps not a miracle sent from the Maker, but something gave breath to illusions here.

Perhaps there was a certain something on the air? If only he could bottle it… he could probably make a fortune off whatever it was on the Tevinter black market. The thought made him smile, and he turned that expression toward the two restless Wardens.

"Anyone up for a game of cards? Preferably the kind where we are required to strip?"

"Zevran!" Alistair hissed. "This is Andraste's resting place!"

"And… your point?"

"Just… no. There will be no stripping in Andraste's resting place. All right?"

Zevran sighed theatrically, making Fin smile, at the least. "Oh very well. Though it seems to me that, were I to be stuck on a mountaintop for several thousand years, I would not mind a bit of excitement, no?"

Finian wheezed a laugh. The other elf was not back to his full strength, after the incident with the dragon a couple days back, but at least he was able to walk around again. It had been the worst kind of surprise, seeing that his Warden could, in fact, be harmed, demon's luck notwithstanding. But Wynne was good at what she did, and a couple days of bed rest had gotten the Warden back into fighting shape quite quickly.

Well, mostly. Something… had happened to the elf's voice while he'd been killing the dragon, pulling the smooth strength right out of it and reducing it to a crackling shadow of its former self. The Warden rarely spoke at all now, and that was just tragic. Part of Zevran hoped the Ashes weren't just legend, if only so he could use their supposedly miraculous powers to heal the elf and hear him properly again. Admittedly, he'd gotten fond of the sound of Finian humming softly as he prepared for bed, and the bright, thoughtless way he laughed, and, yes, the way he purred when touched in the right way.

It would be a pity for the cosmos to lose those lovely sounds; that was all.

There was a final rush of noise from the side of the chamber, and the door unlocked with a whir of gears.

Wynne sighed. "At last. For a moment there, I had worried."

"I don't know," Leliana said cheerfully. "I think it was fun."

"Agreed," Meila said with a soft smile. "Being able to see such notable historic figures, and to hear their voices... It's… positively transcendent."

"Were you surprised to see Shartan among Her guardians?"

"I admit that I was, and grateful I am that I had the chance to see it." Zevran had never seen the Dalish elf grin as freely as she did now. Clearly, something in this whole experience had touched her. "We may not be followers of your Maker, but Andraste was clearly a good woman who did much for both our peoples."

"That She was," Leliana agreed, and the look that passed between them crackled with warmth and tension. Really, if they did not resolve it soon by themselves, Zevran was seriously considering locking them in a small room together and throwing away the key.

Except that Leliana could pick locks. Hm. Maybe a pit without a ladder? Then again, Meila was an uncanny climber. Well, he would have time to think of an appropriate plan to facilitate their imminent dispersal of sexual tension later.

For now, the six of them walked through the open doorway, Alistair going first with his shield raised. One never did know when one required to fight for one's life during a test of faith, after all. It seemed to Zevran that killing a dragon and its cult of pretenders should suffice, but there it was.

There were figures in the next room, but none of them moved to attack. When the first stepped into the light cast by the temple's high windows, Alistair dropped both sword and shield in a clatter. In fact, at the sight of the graying, bearded human in engraved plate armor, everyone but Leliana and himself froze in place, stunned.

Alistair was the one to give a name to the figure. "Duncan?" he whispered, fearful and hopeful at the same time, and Zevran understood, having heard enough of the Grey Wardens' story to put a person to the name.

"This is a trick," Meila breathed, raising her bow. "He could not have survived that battle. This is a demon in Duncan's form." Smart girl.

"I am no demon," the phantom spoke in a slow, rich voice. "But neither am I here in the flesh. I'm sorry, Alistair, but this cannot be the happy reunion I know you must wish for."

"Then… what is this supposed to be, exactly?" How the man could sound both sardonic and near tears was beyond Zevran's ability to understand.

"A redemption, of sorts. Come, Alistair, we've much to discuss." The old man backed out the light, and as if caught in a spell, Alistair followed him, his expression drawn with grief.

The others made to follow, obviously still suspicious, but then another figure slid into the light in their path. He was a fair-haired elf, clad in green leathers and face covered in tattoos. His eyes locked right on a shocked Meila.

"Hello, lethallan."

The afforementioned archer's legs promptly buckled, though Leliana and Zevran managed to keep her upright.

"Another trick. You're dead. I killed you myself."

"I know, and I don't know that I can ever thank you for that. You have to forgive yourself, lethallan… I never blamed you for any of it."

While he drew her away, another stepped in. This one was an elderly elf with grey hair and simple clothes.

"Valendrian?" Finian's voice cracked. "No, not you…"

So that was the way of it, was it? Seeing his Warden's pain, Zevran was swiftly losing patience for this particular stunt. What part of faith in the Maker required being haunted by old ghosts?

When a tattoo-faced dwarf approached Leliana, and a mageling who could be no more than nine reduced Wynne to near tears, Zevran readied himself. He could see the last figure slipping through the shadows toward the light, and there was little doubt in his mind what form it would take.

Sure enough, Crow armor… raven hair… and those damned eyes. So disbelieving last time he'd seen them, full of enough pain and betrayal for him to start out on this fool's errand in the first place.

"Do not even think about it," he growled at the phantom, his fists gripping his daggers hard.

"Zevran." Damn it, did they have to use her voice, too? "It's all right."

She was speaking in their native tongue, so Zevran gladly switched to it, not trying to wonder how a Ferelden illusion could speak Antivan. "Do not think that I will open up to you simply because you wear her face. I do not know what you are, but you are not Rinna."

It had been a long time since he'd said her name out loud, he thought.

"You are right, Zevran." Still, the earnestness in her eyes did not abate. "But neither am I the illusion you think I am. I am something in between."

"Ridiculous."

"Are you really so closed to the possibility of something greater, Zevran? Of something wonderful? Would it really be so bad if I were Rinna?"

"And what would you expect me to do if you were? Throw myself at your feet and beg forgiveness? Weep? What good would that do? My regret does not undo what happened, nor does the false forgiveness of a phantom."

"If that is the case, and you have accepted that it cannot be undone, then why does it still haunt you?"

That… was not a question he was prepared to face.

"You came to this country, Zevran, to seek something that we in the Crows were never taught to seek… redemption, in the only way a Crow can understand. It was a foolish plan—just like you to run off to a foreign country on a whim of passion—and it was never what I would have wanted you to do. Why did you do it, Zev?"

The words were getting to him. This was not his Rinna, but the words she voiced were exactly what the true Rinna would have said, had Zevran not let Taliesen slit her throat.

"I think you know the answer to that."

"Tell me anyway."

Zevran swallowed, his hands finally dropping from his daggers. "I wanted to die."

"And this is what you call accepting the past? How is my death made any better by yours?"

He shook his head, denying the truth of the words.

"It is a Crow's way of thought," she continued. "A death for a death, always in the most costly of absolutes. The ironic expendability of our own lives… programming so deep we never even realize it. Zev, I always knew that something like this could happen."

"That does not make it right nor forgiveable. I never wanted this!"

"Of course you did not! Who would? But we were Crows, first among all else, and it was just an inevitable part of our nature."

Zevran shook his head and paced away. "Stop it, phantom. You are far too philosophical about this."

"Did you not expect the same from us someday? From Taliesen? From me? Who do you think is leading the hunt for you even now? We do what we do. It is our way."

"It is no longer mine!" Zevran growled, spinning on the illusion.

And she smiled, a pleased, sultry smile that had always twisted his heart, near the end. "And why not, Zevran?"

"Because I am no longer a Crow!"

It was the first time he'd really, truly acknowledged that fact. It was a realization that had been long in coming, and he suddenly felt set adrift by those seven simple words. If he was no longer a Crow… then what was he?

He forced a laugh, understanding. "So this is the game, is it? Revelation, yes? Is that what you came for, phantom?"

"It may have to do." Rinna's form stepped forward, and he matched the movement with a step back. If he had to see the illusion touch him, it would undo him, he just knew. "You do not need to forget about what happened, Zevran, nor even forgive yourself, if you're not ready to. But you must accept that there are many kinds of redemption. Look at the path you are on. Is it not just the littlest bit wondrous, that you are here? Now? With these people? Are you a Crow here, or something else?"

"I… honestly cannot say. I do not know."

"And I think just knowing that will save you a great deal of misery." Her smile turned bright, and his heart ached. "That's all I would have wanted, Zevran. For you to find real happiness, away from the bonds that bound us both. It was a fate neither of us were ever aware of… but why not take advantage of everything it has to offer?" She waved over at where Finian was turning away from his own ghost. "And I do mean everything!"

And that was pure Rinna, right there. Zevran choked down a lump in his throat. "You would have just wanted to watch."

"And why not? He's cute." She winked, her form starting to blur and turn misty. "At the least, I am leaving you in good hands."

"Better than you would ever have imagined, my dear."

"Oh, now I really wish I could watch." She was almost gone now, and Zevran was rather proud that he did not reach out for her, watching her leave his life again. "Goodbye, Zevran."

"Farewell, Rinna."

She faded away, and Zevran fought down a shiver to chase away the heaviness that drooped around him. A light touch on his cheek helped pull him out of it, and he turned to look into Fin's worried brown eyes. Tear-streaked and still haunted by whatever ghost this place had conjured up for him, his lover's eyes only spoke a question of concern for Zevran.

Zevran's chest constricted. Again, his lover genuinely cared, silently ensuring that he was all right while refraining from prying. It was eerie, sometimes, how perceptive his Warden was.

Zevran held Fin's hand with his own. "I will tell you about her later," he promised, gaining a solemn nod from the other elf. No exciting adventure this, for Finian to laugh over: it was one he'd never felt capable of revisiting. Now, though, he felt like maybe he could.

The pair pulled away from one another to find that the rest of the party was similarly collecting themselves. Leliana was wiping tears from her eyes, while Wynne was being consoled by Meila, of all people. Of all of them, Alistair seemed to have taken his little session the most positively, grim determination setting his jaw in a way that Zevran had never really seen on the man.

Still, the room crackled with new wonder, and hope, and whatever other things the various revelations had been able to pull out of people.

Alistair retrieved his sword and shield and took the lead into the next room.

And was promptly shot in both shoulders by a pair of arrows.

Zevran's weapons were out in an instant. Wynne's protective blue glow briefly surrounded them, and the party charged forward, ready to face whatever the Gauntlet had for them.

Though Zevran doubted any of them had expected to face… themselves.

The assassin noticed the ghostly form of a charging ex-Templar first. Rage was written across the phantom's face. Their own Alistair stepped forward to meet his double, deflecting that first blow with his shield. The ghostly Alistair was aggressive, though, and bashed at the other's defense, not letting him get a blow in. Zevran took particular glee in doing that for him. He slid up behind the ghostly warrior and slid his sword into the soft spot in the armor's armpit.

Hm. It certainly felt real enough. Were these illusions or not?

Phantom-Alistair spun, sweeping his sword around to chop Zevran's head right off, but the assassin had easily anticipated as much, and ducked. The real Alistair shoved at the ghost from behind, and Zevran punched his dagger up into the ghost's knee while he stumbled past.

"Zevran, why do you know all the weak spots in my armor?" the real Alistair panted, giving the Crow a sour look.

"For such a case as this, obviously," Zevran returned with a smirk, even as he spotted a shadow moving behind Alistair. "The more pertinent question, however, is whether he does as well." Zev nodded a head toward the shadow, giving the Templar enough time to turn and deflect a flurry of slices that might have been quite a devastating backstab. Zevran's own double emerged, face twisted in an unflattering charicature of glee as he dodged under Alistair's guard.

Zevran didn't have time to watch, though. Phantom-Alistair had recovered, and turned his full attention to Zevran. The elf was encouraged to note that the ghost limped. That was a good sign… it meant they could be hurt.

The ghost's next swing was strong, but slow, and Zevran was able to keep out of his way. That was the key to fighting men like Alistair: overpowering them was unlikely, but out-maneuvering them was much easier, and more fun. Zevran dodged into the ghost's guard and stabbed his blades deep under one of the plates of in his opponent's sides.

The phantom stumbled back, obviously hurt, and Zevran spotted the phantom forms of the archers and Wynne on the other side of the room behind him. The ghostly Wynne had frozen their own ladies in ice, apparently. However, it would not stay that way for long, because he could make out the form of their Finian sneaking toward them. A good plan, taking out the spellcaster. Zevran would have done so himself, did he not have a two-hundred-pound Templar looming over him.

Speaking of which… Zevran ducked another blow, spinning into a series of slices that rebounded off a ghostly shield. Ghost-Alistair kept that shield up, even as Zevran tried to strafe around him. Bah, obnoxious.

He feinted to the left, and the warrior raised his shield in that direction. Zevran then side-stepped into the man's guard and sliced across the man's ghostly throat. His opponent's sword came down, and Zevran had to dodge back before he could really dig his own blow in, though. Still, he knew he was superior. Whether it was that these illusions were inferior, or whether he was simply better than Alistair… well, he would have this wrapped up soon enough.

And thus, imagine his surprise when a pair of daggers slipped into his ribcage from behind.

Zevran froze, feeling the two pieces of cold metal inside him in what could very well be a killing blow. He'd forgotten about Finian's phantom, and how stupid of him to underestimate the man who had captured him in the first place!

The warmth of Wynne's healing magic flooded into him, and Zevran found the strength to yank himself off and away from the daggers. He stumbled into a spin, and beheld his lover's shadow… a pale comparison indeed. This illusion's cold eyes held none of his Finian's warmth and joy. It would pay dearly for daring to take this form.

Another rush of healing washed over him, and Zevran used that renewed strength to pounce at the ghost. It parried smoothly, riposting in a move that Zevran, in turn, dashed aside. They swiftly descended into a deadly back-and-forth of whirling blades.

It struck a familiar chord in Zevran, the rhythm of the duel harkening back to that first time he'd fought Finian. It was a dance they had engaged in many times since then, but there was a vast difference between a duel for practice or enjoyment and a duel to the death. There was an edge of danger to the dance that was both exciting and worrisome.

Last time, they had essentially stalemated. And Zevran knew that Fin's combat skills had improved since then. That did not bode well.

Sure enough, Zevran found himself swiftly overwhelmed by the spinning flurry of daggers that wore his lover's face. He was soon perpetually back on his heels, just trying to keep his skin on his bones. A couple stinging lines across his body told of how poorly he was doing that.

A Dalish arrow intervened, abruptly pinning one of shadow-Fin's feet to the ground. This stopped the phantom mid-flourish, and Zevran took his window to press his advantage, twisting his blades in to knock one of the daggers out of the thief's hand. The phantom stabbed in with the other, but Zevran dodged around the ghost and got behind it.

He kicked out the ghost's knees, further hampering the thief's admittedly superior agility (though Finian's flexibility certainly did come in handy in other situations). Then, Zevren pressed himself up behind the ghost and laid his sword across its throat. One simple slice, and he could move on to the next opponent.

Except… he could not make that final slice. He looked down into the phantom's eyes, and the thought of slitting Finian's throat twisted his gut. He could see Rinna's eyes, so full of pain and betrayal, and he could not do that to his Warden.

Foolishness! This was not his Warden! This was a phantom wearing his shape!

So why did the prospect of killing it wrench his heart so?

Zevran teetered, torn between the simplicity of doing what must be done and the complexity of something that in all honestly frightened him. He shoved such pointless thoughts aside, willing his sword to just slice. A simple motion: one he'd done a hundred times before!

Too late, he registered the glint of the dagger the phantom still had, and then his thigh was sliced open like a slab of meat at a butcher shop. Zevran cried out and stumbled back… two inches to the left and that would have taken something particularly irreplaceable!

His leg buckled, though he at least managed to keep his hold on his blades as he toppled to the ground. A good thing, too, as the ghostly Finian pounced upon him, and it was all Zevran could do to parry the deadly dagger. A moment later, a figure in plate armor yanked the phantom off him by the scruff of his neck, and tossed him aside like a naughty puppy.

Zevran slumped back with a sigh. Never had he been so happy to see Alistair.

Across the room, the battle seemed to be going in their favor. Ghost-Wynne was down, and Finian fought phantom Meila in melee combat—the Dalish elf was formidable with a bow, but her knife fighting left much to be desired. Zevran had seen cranky Antivan fishwives do much better.

Wynne knelt beside him a moment later, pressing her hand to Zevran's wounded leg. The old biddy looked tired, but she was strong in her own way, with how she kept going.

Once she'd made sure Zevran's leg wouldn't gangrene and fall off (to say nothing about the new holes in his back), Wynne laid a hand on the Antivan's arm and gave him a suspiciously warm smile. "Thank you, Zevran."

"For what?" he asked cautiously.

"For hesitating."

Braska… someone had seen that? Well, that was it; he may as well turn in his assassin card now. He'd never live it down. "What are you thanking me for? If I had simply struck, it never would have wounded me. It made for extra work."

"And yet, I find I cannot regret it." She helped him to sit up, and she was still wearing that creepy matronly smile. "I doubted for a long time, but now I see that I was mistaken."

What she was mistaken about, he really didn't want to know. He turned his attention outward, just as Leliana's arrow slayed the final opponent… herself. Heh.

The phantoms faded around them, leaving them alone in the room. It was a surprise that they had been ethereal after all… Zevran could attest to how real they had felt.

Finian appeared at his side. "Zev?" he rasped, putting his entire question into the single syllable. And thank goodness… his voice was painful to hear. Still, those brown eyes could not be properly copied, and that made Zevran smile.

"I am fine, amor," he chuckled. "Truth be told, I had forgotten how deadly those daggers of yours could be from the receiving end. Not a mistake I will be making again, in any sense, my dear." Zevran wiggled a brow, prompting a weak, scratchy laugh.

Argh, definitely needed to steal a pinch of that healing voodoo for his Warden, assuming it worked.

"So, what I want to know," Alistair said, pulling Zevran's attention upward. Between Wynne and Fin, Zevran was half-pulled to his feet. "…is whether every prospective pilgrim would have had to fight spooky versions of themselves."

"What do you mean, Alistair?" Wynne asked, sending one last burst of healing into Zevran to get his leg back up to full functionality. They all started toward the next room.

"Well, think about it. We're combat capable, right? We kill lots of things, so that wasn't really too bad for us. But what if we were Andrastean clerics… or refugees or something? Would we still have had to fight our own shadows, or what?"

"I suspect so," Zevran said. "But it would not have been nearly as interesting. Keep in mind, the shadow versions would be equally as terrible at combat."

That made the warrior chuckle. "You kidding? Can you imagine those spooky doubles engaging in epic slap fights? I'd pay money to see that."

"Hm, agreed. Especially if any of them are women as comely as our current company." Zev threw a wink at Leliana, who giggled.

Fin bumped into Zevran, face screwed into an exaggerated pout.

"Not you, my dear Warden. No slap fights for you. Wouldn't want to ruin that handsome face."

At this, Meila joined in, "I think it is quite apparent that Finian is in little danger of getting hit. He knows how to dodge."

Zevran laughed, because they so rarely drew the Dalish into the fun. "That is a low blow, my dear Dalish maiden!"

"Not as low as the blow that felled you," she deadpanned, and simply the fact that she was attempting a joke had them all chuckling in appreciation.

Zevran threw an arm around his Warden as they walked, drawing a curious look from the other man. Even so, the assassin was too elated to care. Phantom eyes and old memories be damned… this right here was far truer than anything he had ever known. There was companionship here, and trust, and other things that he had never dared dream of, as a Crow. Except that he was no longer a Crow.

What he would do with that information was yet to be seen, but Zevran was, as always, adaptable.