It had been- Fenris didn't actually know how long it had been since he'd been out of Kirkwall. He'd been hiding for years, at least; killing the Tevene slavecatchers Danarius kept sending, and waiting for the man himself to show his face.
Lately, he'd started to think that Danarius was toying with him, trying to test him, by seeing how long he could hold out against said slavecatchers, and the variety and quality and number of opponents he could face. The large group he'd tried and failed to subcontract out had been the most difficult, and the one that had made him really suspicious. There had just been so many of them, and he'd had to tease them out in small groups and ambush them from alleys, drawing on all the things he'd seen the Fog Warriors do-
He pushed it out of his mind. There was a new group in Kirkwall, perhaps even more dangerous by their signs. There was at least one mage with them, and they seemed even larger than the one previous.
Fenris knew when he needed help, and the Grey Wardens could provide the dual function of hopefully prickly Danarius's ire at the same time they provided extra protection and blades against the slavehunters. There was safety in numbers, and Wardens had a reputation.
Except somehow the ones he'd fallen in with were mage-lovers, to the point that they were willing to go into the Fade- the Fade!- and fight a demon to save one who'd made his choices and should have had to live with them.
It was simultaneously disgusting and unsettling.
Disgusting; because how could they not see what mages were like, what magic was like, and spend their care and concern where it didn't matter? It was well-known in Tevinter that the only way to learn blood magic outside of the Imperium was from demons; and that foreign mages did so most often under the pressure of persecution and because they were weak, timid and scared of themselves enough that they would give up control for the illusion of safety, whereas true mages would never had stood the Templars' swords and used the blood of their sworn enemies to be free, to rule- this mage had made a contract with a demon, trading not being forced back to the Fade for the power to escape the Templars. The fear and the desire to be 'free' of the creature, could easily be faked, and even the Wardens' own decision to help him could be the result of blood magic. It had been said that this mage ran a free hospital, was a healer- but healers made the worst blood mages, with so much death and suffering at their fingertips and all of it brought to them. How many victims had this mage already made out of his patients, and lied about doing so?
Unsettling; because even as he thought these things he knew that they did know how dangerous this mage, and how dangerous and abhorrent blood magic, was. Arl-Commander Mahariel and his assassin had jumped on the chance to kill a Magister, and the others had seemed in general, if not enthusiastic, agreement. Arl-Commander Mahariel had claimed a long history of fighting demons and mages, and by sheer probability many of those mages would have had to been blood mages, for there to have been so many demons.
And he'd promised to kill this one if it didn't work, because- because he was a danger, yes.
But also because they were friends, and the mage had asked.
Or so they claimed.
He was trying to disbelieve it. He wanted to disbelieve it. It was the only thing that made sense. Mages didn't just give up. They plotted and the killed and they betrayed until they were out of danger, back in power.
This didn't make sense so someone was lying, and he hoped- as much as he'd let himself hope- that it wasn't the Arl-Commander. He'd been… considerate, even as suspicious as that was.
It had been some time since they'd gone into the Fade. Arl-Commander Mahariel's guard dog was lying patiently beside him, and the two Wardens still awake were on edge. For whatever reason, they held themselves personally responsible for Arl-Commander Mahariel's safety.
Well. The elf was clear. They were involved with each other. The man… unsure so far, but with the show he'd made of himself in the tongue of Arlathan, perhaps he was elven-blooded, not human.
Fenris had been examining his face closely, searching for the little signs such a heritage would leave; but was forced to stop after Warden-Captain Alistair grinned at him and made an excuse for a joke about the scrutiny.
So he watched the camp instead.
It was disquietingly similar to the hidden homes of the Fog Warriors in the jungle. There were no children, because children couldn't be risked. The houses- structures- whatever they were exactly were clearly defensibly, their glaring weakness of being made of wood too obvious. There must have been a trick in it somewhere.
But there were the scouts and the hunters and the camp guards; the senior leaders and the weaponsmaker and a few stands bearing score marks from arrowheads and knives- target practice. The camp wasn't in a very defensible place, hemmed in by hills as it was, but it seemed they'd sacrificed the high ground to gain a hiding place, and undoubtedly they knew all the approached over the hills and kept people watching them.
Though they'd been surprised by their own approach.
When they did get company, some hours later and heading into lunch, the guards were not so surprised. They escorted the group into camp suspiciously, and Fenris could image in why. It was 'Serah Hawke's group, the petty noble who liked playing at vigilante. He'd heard the news that she'd taken some sort of Dalish apostate as a lover, and hadn't beliee it- but leading the group was a Dalish woman with a mage's staff, wilting under the hostility of the rest of the clan, with that Hawke looming protectively behind her.
It made him furious, on some deep level, and he couldn't place why. She was a mage, she had power- but she was an elf and elvhen mages in Tevinter were blood thralls to the true Magisters, and-
Ah. A petty noble with no magic of her own, from a magic family. Taking a magical consort, a concubine-
A bed slave and bodyguard, memory hissed at him, and he shoved it away.
-to show her power. It was the sort of behavior that the Magisters sneered at before crushing said petty, magicless nobles and buying up their slaves to make thralls of them.
Hawke and her pet mage- the Dalish were right to want them gone, and he would help them watch until they were.
Zevran wasn't aware that anyone else had come to camp until Fenris shifted his weight, eyes narrowing in constrained rage and suspicion at something behind them. Reflex and nerves already strung from the hours watching Theron and Anders, hunting for the least sign of something gone wrong, had him on his feet with his knives drawn before he'd really thought about it.
It didn't seem like he'd needed to. A Dalish woman who had to be Theron's Merrill, an angry looking woman with a big sword, a dwarf, a guard-
"Zevran!" Isabela called, her smile as easy and inviting as ever, and some tension went away. He'd always felt comfortable with Isabela, and if he hadn't met Theron- well, no matter now. "Don't tell me you've gone respectable!"
What- oh, the Warden armor.
"Ah, my dear old friend," he said, resheathing his knives and flitting over to her side, falling into the familiar exaggerated courtly bow over her hand as she fluttered her eyelashes at him, playing the innocent maid. "What lies have you been hearing about the Wardens? I assure you there is no group of rogues, criminals, and outcasts more trustworthy, dependable, and responsible in all of Thedas; and none more so of them than those of Ferelden."
He straightened up and gave her a big wink.
"And no one more willing to become a serial liar to protect someone he loves than their Commander," he told her in Antivan, deliberately making his tone mis-match his words.
Isabela laughed and dramatically pretended to be overcome by his 'flirting'. Language could mask so much.
"Someone he loves?" she asked in Rivaini, letting the sentence go low and sultry.
Zevran shifted closer, as if accepting her 'invitation'. He could feel everyone's eyes on them, ready for the show.
"More than himself," he confessed in a whisper against her ear. "And I the same. There are many days where I wake up safe and cared for next to him, and I hardly dare believe it."
Isabela drew a step back to look him over, hands on his shoulders and his still on her waist; and after a moment nodded once, decisively.
Then she clapped him on the back and they embraced each other in the close, hard hug they'd been working up to the whole time.
"You got out," Isabela said, low enough that only he could hear. "You really got out. No matter what the Crows do, they'll never get you back. I'm so proud of you, Zev."
That caused a flair of warmth in his chest, and he squeezed her a little tighter to convey his thanks just before they stepped apart, holding hands now.
Oh, but it was surprisingly good to see someone besides Wardens. He had so few friends.
"So," Isabela said, switching back into Trade. "Where's this man of yours? I need to threaten him on behalf of your honor and virtue."
Something in his expression must have gone out of his control- a sudden tightness in his smile perhaps- because Isabela's eyes darkened in concern and her smile faded.
"Zev?"
"He is resolving an issue," he told her, his grip on her fingers tightening. "Of- membership."
Isabela's expression went fierce suddenly, and she dropped back into Rivaini.
"If he's hurting you, Zev, if he's not treating you right; if he does things that make you look like that-"
"Bela, amica-"
"The Crows made you look like that!" she hissed. "I won't let you get stuck in that again! Just because you love someone doesn't mean it's good!"
"Bela," Zevran said, more firmly this time. "No. No. Theron is a good man, better than I could ever be. He is outside of my protection now, and I-"
There were strangers here.
"-I am scared, Isabela," he told her, using Antivan again. "I am so scared. He trust so easily, and gives entirely too many second chances, and reaches for words when he should for blades. There is every chance that his kindness with kill him before darkspawn ever do, and I cannot stop him. Even if his kindness wasn't why I love him so, I owe my life to it."
Isabela looked him over searchingly for a few moments.
"There's a lot more to this story than what you let me assume in the Pearl, isn't there?"
He nodded mutely, and she reached up to smooth out some worry lines.
"What has he gotten himself into, Zev?"
"The Wardens had a runaway mage we found yesterday-"
"Anders is quite the handful, isn't he?"
"You know him?"
"Zev, sometimes I think half of Kirkwall is invested in keeping the Templars off him. That's why we came up here. Hawke was dead certain your man was doing nefarious things to him."
Anders had mentioned Hawke- she must be the angry woman with the big sword working her way up to a shouting match with Marethari. Fenris was scowling at her like it was only a matter of seconds before he tried to run her through- curious.
"A court martial was mentioned," Isabela continued, pulling his attention back; and he snorted. "What?"
"Mi amica, there is a wonderful irony in that notion," he said. "And I will tell you the story later. For now-"
He hooked his arm through hers.
"-let me prove that we are doing nothing nefarious to our favorite healer, hm?"
Zevran led Isabela back behind Marethari's aravel, where Alistair was still sitting watch.
"Anders has," he started to explain. "A particular problem-"
"Oh, we know all about that," Isabela said. "The first time I met him he was going blue and glowy at Templars and proving every point they make about the deadliness of Abominations. Which isn't to say that we didn't help contribute to the body count…"
"The Keeper sent them into the Fade to get between Anders and his demon," Zevran told her, and that was all the explanation she needed.
"Is he strong-willed?" she asked. "I've heard that's enough."
Zevran thought about it, Politeness and kindness weren't the traits that usually got associated with 'strong-willed', but Theron had come out of many a situation having relied mostly on his own sort of quiet determination. An Archdemon to fight, a Landsmeet to convince, a country to travel openly across with a royal bounty on his head-
"Yes, he is."
Alistair had one ear on the loud developing argument Marethari was having with some visitor, the other on Zevran and his woman friend, and both eyes on Anders; so he missed Theron waking up until he shifted into his field of view, bending over the still-unconscious mage.
"Anders," he said, shaking him a little. "Anders."
The man stirred, and Alistair took a steadying breath, just in case he'd have to do something.
Eyes opened. Theron put one hand on Anders's heart, the other on his forehead.
"How do you feel?"
Anders blinked muzzily at him a few times.
"Like someone scraped all my insides with a dull knife," he decided. "Other than that? Great."
He closed his eyes again.
"But I'm just going to lie here for a bit, if it's all the same to you."
Out of Alistair's line of sight, Nathaniel sighed heavily in relief.
"The clan's got more visitors, Theron," Alistair said. "They've come for him."
"Anders, lovely," Zevran's friend said, stepping forward to poke the mage with her foot, and wait a second it was that pirate- "Get up and put on an appearance before Hawke decides to be drastic."
"Commander'll stop her," Anders mumbled.
"Varric and Aveline walked up a mountain in the middle of the day for you."
Anders groaned and rolled over.
"Fine," he said. "Somebody help-"
Just like that, Nathaniel was at his side, supporting him as he stood, and then again after he almost fell over trying to walk unassisted.
The pirate watched them go in amusement, and Alistair wondered what sort of events could have brought her across their paths again. She caught him looking, and winked.
"I remember you."
"Small world, huh," he asked, crossing his arms in defense. The memories of the last time he'd seen her were… pretty vivid still.
"Isabela," Zevran said, relaxed once more. His tension had fled at Theron's first smile to him, as Anders had left. "This is Theron. Theron- Captain Isabela, Pirate Queen of the Siren's Call."
Alistair was still looking at her, and so saw the exact moment when her expression slipped, and the genuine smile turned into something uneasy.
"Not… anymore, Zev," she said. "She sunk. A couple years ago. I've been beached ever since."
"You?" Zevran asked in honest surprise. "Years in port?"
"I've got my own problems," she said, and then started blatantly ignoring the topic with defensive cheer. Alistair wondered if she'd learned it from Zevran, or he from her, or if they'd become friends because they shared coping mechanisms. "You say you're surprised by me staying in port- but look at you! A taken man!"
"He stole my heart," Zevran informed her with a grin, and great, this was going to be one of those embarrassingly honest emotional things. "And I find myself completely unwilling to steal it back."
"By chance did he lock it up somewhere?" Isabela asked. Her answering grin was distinctly cheeky. "The great assassin, foiled by a simple lock once more!"
"Ah ah ah!" Zevran protested. "I have learned! I can do it now!"
"I'll believe that when you can beat me."
"A pirate, you said?" Theron asked. "And in need of a ship?"
"Why, your arlship!" Isabela said in mock scandalization, complete with a theatrical gasp. "How very immoral of you, to promote crime!"
"There's such a thing as legal piracy," Theron told her. "Amaranthine has a navy. I don't know anything about boats and ships, but people who do assure me that it's in terrible condition and that's why we had such a smuggling problem. We still do, really, but they're much less blatant about it. It's the coastal raiders who are getting bold, and a privateer is just the sort of person who would know how to catch them, wouldn't they?"
"Maker," Alistair groaned. "Theron. Will you stop trying to recruit every new person we meet! You already picked up Fenris! One lost and lonely soul per adventure is more than enough!"
"But she could be very helpful."
"I like him," Isabela told Zevran. "He's a keeper. If you ever-"
"Amica, no. He is not that sort of person."
She sighed.
"Shame. He's gorgeous when you catch him right- the way he smiled at you-"
"Oh, I know."
Sometimes, Alistair really had no idea how Theron had put up with Zevran long enough to fall in love.
Seeing Anders stagger up supported like a barely-conscious drunk had not made Marian any better disposed towards the Wardens. He was alive, that was great; but it was also a minimum standard that shouldn't be rewarded because Anders wasn't in the wrong.
"Hawke!" Anders eventually bellowed at her. The Dalish had gone back to their business, disrupting the daily flow of life only for the occasional glare thrown at her and Merrill. "Shut up and listen! I asked him to kill me!"
"And you have didn't to!" she shot back. "You would have gotten yourself under control again, we would have found something-"
"You weren't living this, Hawke! It never would have happened! I was losing myself and Justice was losing himself and eventually we would have done something we really couldn't walk away from!"
"It's good to hear you're being reasonable about this now," Aveline said, and the only reason Hawke didn't whirl on her friend was because Merrill held her back.
"Marian," she said quietly, uncharacteristically cowed. "The clan is setting up a feast. We should leave."
"I'm not leaving until we've got Anders!"
"The Commander asked me-"
"You've got people here who count on you, Anders! You've got the clinic and your Underground! Sod the Grey Wardens; there's hundreds of them and it isn't even a Blight! There's only one-"
He'd been leaning heavily on his friend, but now his eyes flared hot and steel-hard and for a moment Marian thought that everyone had been wrong, and Vengeance was about to reprise Ser Alrik.
Anders straightened. It was easy to tell that he didn't have the strength to hold it for any length of time, but right this second it didn't matter. He looked like he was one wrong move from really putting his money where his mouth was on the whole 'why mages are feared' business, and completely of his own free will.
"Do not, Marian Hawke," he said, low and dangerous. "Say that about my family. They asked me to come home, and I've decided I'm done running. I've learned that much from Kirkwall."
"'Your family'?" Marian challenged. "What do you know about family, Anders! Not enough to stick with them, not enough to care to stay- and that shit about being done running! You're just looking for an excuse to run away from here, to get away from your guilty conscious! You'll never stop running, Anders! Not in your life!"
"Marian," Merrill said more urgently. Anders was glaring at her in outright fury, unsoftened by the fact that he'd had to go back to leaning on his human crutch. "I really do think-"
"There is a time and a place for running away," someone said, and Marian looked past Anders to find a new Warden- Dalish, who had a naturally melancholy face incongruously paired with that smooth voice.
The Hero of Ferelden. Merrill's would-have-been husband.
"The Dalish know it well," he continued. "And I will not fault Anders for taking his chance. I could for his methods, but it was treason and betrayal that drove him away, and if they had still lived when I returned I would have executed them anyway. Because he is family. Sometimes-"
He was looking at Merrill, Marian realized.
"-the best way to be family, the only good way, is to leave."
"He's our friend," Marian insisted, and stepped between him and her love.
"Ours as well," he said. "And a Warden, ties that should be as strong as any of family."
She was prickled with irritation that he didn't seem affected by her belligerence at all. There was a good reason she'd learned how to rile people up with comments and attitude and how best to threaten others.
"He told us he hated the Wardens," Marian told him, trying to get something out of him.
"Different Wardens, Hawke," Anders said.
"Marian, please-"
"Merrill," the Warden-Commander of Ferelden interrupted, and though his tone was still as even as it had been when he'd been addressing her, the mildness was all gone, replaced by sharp edges. "Ahnsul."
Marian didn't know Elvhen but Merrill flinched and who cared if he was a Warden and nobility and a war hero she had people to protect-
"Marian," Merrill begged. "No. Go home. I- I have to do this."
"Do what?"
"I have to talk to him. I'll be back before dark. Or in the morning. Please."
Merrill asking had been her biggest weakness since they'd first met; and so Marian kissed her- pointedly, thoroughly, Blight take the Dalish- grabbed Aveline and Varric because Isabela also said she was going to stay, and stormed back to Kirkwall.
There was a dead-end path blocked by a rockfall just outside Sabrae's camp, close enough to be heard if they shouted but not so close that the whole clan would be privy to their conversation.
Theron led the way and Merrill followed, cataloging every difference in him from the young man she'd watched be taken away five years ago. Five years was unthinkably long of a time not to see one of your clan, and even the smallest change was upsetting and unsettling.
He carried a sword instead of a bow- he'd always favored blades, but hunters and scouts used bows and he'd been relegated to the least-intensive of their jobs since he had been Hahren Paivel's apprentice. His hair was longer, and styled differently. Before it had been just so long as the nape of his neck and the only decoration had been respectable side-braids; now his hair was just past his shoulders, long enough that the ends of it were curling. He'd twisted his bangs and pulled them back in a thin tail in addition to his old braids in no style she'd ever seen before. He looked just a bit bigger in plate armor- wider, taller, stronger- and he moved in it with foreign ease. He strode like a Keeper, not gliding like a hunter, and he didn't feel so quiet any longer. She could just about sense edges in him that hadn't been there before, odd raggedy bits of the Beyond and he had no magic, so why did he feel like that?
They reached the rockfall and Theron turned to face her, gold and ruby shining in his ear as he did so. It was a thick thing, nothing delicate about it, but Merrill had learned enough about human money to know how much that piece of jewelry, even so small as it was, was worth. The earring was human make, too- the Dalish didn't go much in for jewelry, especially piercings. Bead necklaces and amulets were the most common, with the occasional solid bracelet, all of wood or bone or the rare naturally-bored stone.
Theron was very un-Dalish now, from the top of his head to the soles of his boots, and if it wasn't for their own history together Merrill would have turned away and gone back to camp. She had left the clan to find new memories for the Dalish and she had kept her culture while living in the shem city no matter how interesting and exciting it could be and she wore her own armor, El'vhen armor, white mage's armor in the style of Arlathan, recreated from the stories.
He had been going to be Hahren and her husband but then the Dread Wolf had spirited him away and returned him, too late and too different.
But she loved him still, and he was looking at her like Marethari.
"Blood magic is banned by the clans," Theron said, after some long minutes of silent looking. Maybe he'd been cataloging her differences as well. "I know you know that."
"We are nothing without our history, and every bit we learn makes us stronger," she replied. "I know you know that. Our prejudices have to matter less than that."
"Demons," he said.
"I'm not Anders," Merrill retorted. "I know better than to let one in!"
"I kill blood mages."
"Well if they're hurting people, you should! I kill the bad ones too!"
"Merrill-"
"No, Theron!" she cut him off. "You don't get to be Marethari to me! I lost Tamlen and I lost you and Marethari was going to take us across the ocean and you'd never be able to find your way back and I was First, I couldn't stay like Ashalle did! I begged her to come, not to stay in the Forest where the darkspawn could get her too but she wouldn't! She- she chose you over me and I lost all of my family that day and I had to make something good out of it! So I took the pieces of that Eluvian to learn how they worked so at least it wouldn't have been for nothing! And when the spirit trapped in Sundermount told me how to get rid of the Taint in it I had to do it, Theron! I know blood magic and I haven't used it to hurt anyone!"
"The Taint is a kind of blood magic, Merrill," Theron said. "You didn't cleanse it so much as replace one bad thing with another. An Eluvian is a portal, and if the demon was-"
"You know what they are?" she demanded. "How can you know?"
"Tamlen got pulled through one," he said. "And I saw a friend go willingly through another."
That was-
"You've seen another one?"
The chances of that were so wildly unlikely. The Eluvians were lost, and for the same person to find two within five years without even looking- what did it mean?
"Yes," Theron said, and tilted his head slightly, considering something. "You haven't told me why yet, Merrill."
She twisted her staff just enough that the end dug into the gritty soil, the nails of her free hand digging into her palm.
"Yes I did," she told him, tone clipped with defensiveness. Of all the things to forget, how this. Why this? The way he took what he knew about people and applied it, with such an air of thoughtful- or thoughtless- calmness that it slipped by unnoticed.
"Not really," he said. "But they were still pretty well-supported reasons. Why turn to our history, Merrill? The Keeper leads and uses their magic for the health of the clan. No good Keeper does what you have."
Not for the first time, Merrill wondered about Theron's reasoning behind his vallas'lin. Falon'din was far from a favored choice, though the god himself was held in good esteem. Most Dalish chose Andruil for the hunt and the wilds or Sylaise for the clan, perhaps Mythal for protection or Ghilan'nain for the halla. Even Elgar'nan and June were more popular. Most Hahren-in-training chose Dirthamen for his knowledge and hidden secrets, and so did those Keepers who chose not to dedicate themselves to Sylaise or Mythal.
To dedicate yourself to death was… not quite Dalish. The Dalish were meant to live, to preserve, and to enter adulthood with an ever-present reminded of the doom that the coming of humans had inflicted on the El'vhen was just-
'Unseemly' wasn't really strong enough. 'Distasteful' had the wrong connotations.
Not that it had stopped her from choosing Falon'din, of course. But she had done the proper thing, and asked Marethari for her vallas'lin to be of 'Falon'din, Lord of Fortune' at the beginning of her ritual, so that there could be no confusion.
Theron had sat, calm and unconcerned and suppressing a smile that only someone who knew him as well as she and Tamlen had would have been able to notice, and told Marethari that he was taking 'Falon'din, Friend of the Dead'.
Dirthamen would have suited Theron perfectly, but one did not ask about the meaning behind another's vallas'lin. It was between them, their god, and any who became close enough to merit that kind of intimacy. Merrill had shared hers with her brothers- her own unconventional choice for Falon'din in his secondary aspect of bringing fortune, in the hopes that she would bring it to Sabrae and because of the happiness their own future together as the leaders of Clan Sabrae was sure to hold. Tamlen and Theron hadn't done the same in return, but at the time she'd thought the choices were obvious. Tamlen Mythal, because he was going to be Second and in charge of protecting the clan. Theron Falon'din, for their dead ancestors and their knowledge he was meant to hold in trust.
And maybe, just maybe, a secret hope she'd never say aloud, was because that was who she had chosen. Tamlen had been the first to go through the ritual, she the second. Theron could have done it at the same time as her, but he'd told Marethari and Hahren Paivel that he needed more time to think. He'd taken three months for it, disappearing into the forest for hours or days at a time for solitude and silence.
But ever since the Warden had come, she'd had doubts. What had Theron realized about himself during that time alone? Being dragged off to the Grey Wardens, torn from the clan, thrown into a Blight, the hundred little deaths he had to have avoided to get through it all- it seemed too coincidental.
In her more hysterical moments, Merrill had entertained the thought that perhaps he'd managed a dream walk, like the stories said the ancient Hahrens had been able to, and received a message from the gods, a portent of his fate. But coincidences were coincidences, and vallas'lin that fit so well were a mark of good fortune.
Still, Dirthamen- Theron was too good out rooting out secrets, once he'd put his mind to it.
And this was her sole remaining brother. She owed him the deeper truth.
"Our lost knowledge because you were supposed to be Hahren," Merrill told him. "Blood magic because I needed to be stronger to keep the clan safe, with Tamlen gone."
Theron's expression softened with sadness.
"Asa'ma'lin," he said. "No. No, you didn't have to do that. Those weren't your places to fill."
"Someone had to!" Merrill told him. "We had no one else who could step in!"
The words hung in the air between them for a moment, and then-
"Merrill, where are the children of Sabrae?"
The words she'd been going to say stuck in her throat. She'd been hoping he wouldn't ask- wouldn't notice.
"They disappeared," she told him. "Some before we came here, in the Brecilian Forest. Maybe to darkspawn, maybe they just got lost as we moved. But the Blight was coming, and Marethari made us keep going. We had to come to Sundermount, she said. The ones who were still left just- we woke up one morning, all at once, and it was past dawn already. The children were gone, and the halla. There were so signs in camp but the enclosure fence had been broken and there was blood in the dirt. We don't know what happened, but the things I've seen with Marian- I think it was slavers with a mage, maybe a couple of them, who kept the camp asleep and stole the children, poached the halla. I supposed Dalish adults couldn't be so easily kept-"
No. She wouldn't talk about this. Ele El'vhen'anes banal'halam i din'sal judyir juvaslasir.
"That was five years ago, right after we arrived," Merrill continued. "Sabrae has had no new births since then. All of the hunters and scouts are suited for and needed where they are- Theron there was no one who was good enough to take Tamlen's place as Second-to-be, no one Hahren Paivel could train as his successor- I had to! Sabrae is dying! Someone had to be strong enough to keep it together, to bring it back- and I was First! I was alone!"
The afternoon lay quiet for a while, with no sound but the wind. There were no birds on Sundermount, and Sabrae had hunted the area within two or three day's travel almost clean. Soon, they'd be starving as well as infertile, lacking succession, and unable to leave.
"Leave the blood magic, asa'ma'lin," Theron finally said. "Walk away from the demon. Cast it down in your dreams. Come back to Ferelden with me. The El'vhenan have founded our third city. Hallarenis'haminathe lies on the northern edge of the Korcari Wilds, built out of what was Ostagar. I would go on behalf of Sabrae to ask for new families and halla so our clan can come home, and if you come with me I can introduce you to the Keepers and Firsts and Hahren already there, learning and studying together. You may not be First again, if Marethari and the clan don't want you back; but you can be the first independent El'vhen mage since the fall of the Dales, growing and using your power for the good of all the clans. I can retrieve the uncorrupted Eluvian for you to study. Just leave this behind you."
She had been warned time and time again of the dangers of temptations from demons, but everyone always forgot to say anything to mages about temptations from mundane sources. This was a big one- the chance to be a part of the Dalish again, the chance to use her magic freely, the chance to have respect and trust again, the chance to be a part of her people's history, the chance to live in a true city of the El'vhenan.
But Marian, and her friends.
"Thank you for the news, isa'ma'lin," Merrill told him. "But Marian will fret all over the city if I'm not back at the house by dark."
She turned and walked away, unsure if she wanted Theron to try to stop her or not.
He didn't.
He'd translated the word for the celebration the Dalish were throwing to the others as 'feast', but it wasn't really anything like that. They were fed, but that was just good manners- the point of this was that the whole clan was here, and that it was story time. Theron was telling his clan everything that had happened since he'd left with the Wardens, and Zevran was the only one fluent enough in El'vhen to fully follow along, so he was keeping up a running translation for everyone else as he watched Theron speak.
It was plain to see here, relaxed amongst in his first family and speaking in his first language, that he'd been trained as the heir apparent to an oral tradition. There were twists of phrase and little poetic things that Zevran simply couldn't render in Trade, so he confined himself to admiring them as they came and started contemplating a suitably suggestive comment about expert mouths that he could drop sometime when Alistair and Nathaniel were both around to appreciate it.
The planes of Theron's face were highlighted in the firelight, shadows changing as he put the full weight of deliberate hand gestures and changes of expression to the fore. It really was a shame that human political games were played by such different rules- Theron was very convincing like this.
Theron progressed uninterrupted through the journey to Ostagar, the particulars of the day before the battle, fighting for the Tower and being betrayed, meeting Morrigan and Flemeth, Lothering-
He got to Clan Vhadan'ena and the werewolves, and when he revealed Keeper Zathrian's part in the whole affair a collective, threatening hiss went up from Sabrae, followed by some shouts of outrage.
Zevran leaned in so he could hear Theron's explanation of the outcry while Marethari quieted the clan.
"Vhadan'ena were our neighbors in Ferelden, but all the Dalish knew Zathrian and respected him- honored him. This is a shock and a betrayal. Many here have friends or family in Vhadan'ena who were threatened or might have died, and Keeper Marethari was Zathrian's First before Lanaya. He sent her to Sabrae himself when he heard that our old Keeper and First and Second had been killed."
Theron finished with Vhadan'ena and the werewolves, slightly salvaging Zathrian's reputation by emphasizing to his clan how the Keeper had finally let go of his hatred and willing lifted the curse at the cost of his own life. There was a general murmuring of approval at that, and Theron smiled to see it and glanced over at Zevran-
Oh, he remembered, as Theron picked up the story again, describing the road to Redcliffe and a false plea for help. I'm next.
He tried to brace himself for Sabrae's reaction to the knowledge that he'd tried to kill Theron- he, whom Theron had just this morning declared his sal'shiral. Zevran watched the faces of those Dalish nearest him very closely, trying to use them as a gauge for the attitude of the rest. If they reaction with scorn or derision or distrust Theron would be angry, and it could escalate. He'd have to be ready to calm him down in a quick moment, or maybe move, step away from the fire and fade into the background.
And then he realized just what Theron was saying about his assassination attempt.
"-but enslaved by chains of the mind, his name and his pride taken from him as a motherless child, defenseless against the shem'len, told he was nothing and his own will replaced by those who thought they owned him, until he came to think that he was nothing but a thing. And so he sought death in the only way his enslavers would not suspect, for all had said that the Crows were inescapable. Such is the way that Zevran Arainai came to Ferelden, seeking death; and instead found his freedom and retook the name and pride his mother gave him. Such is the way Satheraan Nehna Revasina lived."
Zevran had stopped translating sentences ago, just listening, trying to really understand what Theron had just said. He knew the Crows had bought him, yes; but he'd never thought of himself as a slave. Less than a human, certainly. Worthy of contempt, yes. Unimportant and valueless but for his skills, and even then still disposable- that was just how the Crows worked. But you didn't take a slave and give him the weapons and training needed to turn on his master; therefore, Crow apprentices, even the compradi like him, were not slaves.
Theron had stopped talking, noticing Zevran's silence, and took his hand. Sabrae had been hanging onto every word ever since he'd started to talk in terms of slavery, and now the moment created by his last sentence was stretching, stretching; and all Zevran could think was 'chains of the mind' because wasn't that exactly right? When had he ever thought about turning on the Crow Masters? They'd tricked him into killing Rinna, and he hadn't thought to take revenge on those who had orchestrated it all. He hadn't died in his assassination attempt, and he didn't fight against the idea that the Crows would find him and kill him. It had taken until after Taliesin was dead and he was standing there looking at his body on the ground and Theron had refused to make a decision for him and Zevran had chosen to stay because for the first time he thought maybe he could be turly safe, here with this man who'd let him go and wish him well but gladly take him back-
That was the first he'd thought about turning on the Crow Masters, and even then it had been about keeping himself and Theron safe, and not about vengeance for his life.
"Ele El'vhen'anes banal'halam i dinsal judyir juvaslasir," someone said, and the clan picked it up, repeating it approvingly, a little louder and with more voices every time until all of Sabrae had joined in.
Theron slipped his fingers from Zevran's and held both his hands up.
"Ele Dirtha'var'enes!" he called over everyone else, and they repeated it back triumphantly before settling down and letting him continue.
Isabela's elbow dug into his side as Theron started telling his clan about the undead in Redcliffe.
"What was that?" she whispered. "It sounded like a war cry."
An apt comparison, now that he thought about it.
"It was, of a sort," Zevran whispered back. "It is part of the Oath of the Dales. Ele Dirtha'var'enes- amelanis laimem'eolasan i virelanis u'vires. Ele El'vhen'anes banal'halam i dinsal judyir juvaslasir. 'We are the Dalish- keepers of the lost lore and walkers of the lonely path. We are what remains of the El'vhenan and never again shall we submit'."