The most painful chapter of Failed to Fail is here. Airam is dead. And Zevran... well, that's what this chapter is about. But before you kill me, let me remind you that this is NOT the last chapter! There will be one more. And possibly an epilogue.
Special thanks as always to my beta, ShebasDawn, for her support and endless patience with my mistakes and my stubbornness.
Through the void, through the void, through the endless void,
I'll march on and on and on and on without you
Hear the voice, hear the voice, of the hearts destroyed
I'll march on and on and on and on without you
(Through the Void, Andy Black)
oOo
He cradles Airam in his arms, waiting till he wakes up. It won't take much longer; he isn't even injured, not seriously, only shallow cuts and bruises. He is just sleeping. Of course he is sleeping. He's just killed the Archdemon; anyone would need some rest after that, no?
Alistair is really getting on his nerves. He is kneeling beside them, babbling some nonsense that 'he' is gone. Zevran has no idea who he is talking about and doesn't care, either.
"Shut up," he hisses angrily when the fool doesn't stop. "You'll wake him up. Let him sleep. He needs his rest."
Alistair shakes his head, crying. Why is he crying? They won. Distractedly, he pats the fool's arm. "It's all right, Alistair. We won. He killed it, didn't you see? He was ridiculously awesome. Did you see how he grabbed that sword and killed it? We're going to Antiva when he wakes up, you know."
Then Wynne comes, suggesting softly that they should take Air down so he can rest properly. That makes sense so he gets up, scooping the boy into his arms, gently kissing his brow. But where should he take him? It seems Wynne knows what to do, so he follows her down the stairs and through the streets and squares.
He watches the chaos around him impassively; the darkspawn are gone, but houses burn, injured people sit and sob in the middle of the rubble, others stumble around with vacant eyes, calling the names of their beloved. It is all blurred, distant, unimportant. The only thing that matters is that his amore is with him, safely sleeping in his arms.
They reach Erwin's house and it seems more or less whole. The garden is trampled and the windows are shattered, but it isn't burning and Wynne says that it will do and sends Alistair off somewhere; the two of them enter the house, quiet and dark.
They find the bedroom, their bedroom, they spent so many nights here, Erwin's journals on politics and economy that Airam still had to study on the shelf, covered in dust. He gently lays Airam on the bed and pulls the blanket over him, and then kneels beside the bed, resting his head on Airam's chest.
"He'll be fine," he says, and Wynne looks at him for a moment and then nods, eyes full of tears. She must be really tired, this was probably too much for someone of her age, no wonder she looks so exhausted and almost desperate.
"Have some rest," he says kindly, "I'll take care of him."
And so he waits, patiently, silently, so as not to disturb Airam's sound sleep. Some time later he hears noise, feet running, door banging open, and there they all are, Alistair and Leliana and Sten and Ogren, Faren and Dagna and Erwin and Morrigan, even Shale squeezes herself into the now overcrowded room. They are all very alive and dirty and noisy, all except Morrigan who looks beaten and avoids looking at him or Airam. Leliana hugs him, sobbing. Brasca! Can't they see there's an injured person here? How can they be so insensitive, he expected more, especially from Leliana! And he tells them so, too, in an angry whisper.
That makes them all shut up. They look at Airam still sleeping motionlessly, then at Wynne. She shakes her head. Brasca they are all insufferable, he can't stand it anymore.
"Get out," he growls, "get out of here, before you wake him up. Let him sleep, let him finally have some rest. I'll be here if he wakes up."
Wynne gives him some potions, says it's for wounds, what wounds? He tries to reassure her that he's fine, but she insists on it, old ladies are stubborn like that, so he drinks them, just to make her happy. She then forces everyone else to leave, thank the Maker.
When they are finally gone, he climbs on the bed, sits next to Airam, wraps his arm around the sleeping boy and kisses his brow. The moment he leans back against the headboard, he realises how tired he is, dizzy, unable to keep his eyes open - and only then does he realise those were sleeping potions, Wynne gave him sleeping potions, something is wrong here –
oOo
When he woke up, he was in a different room, a different bed.
Alone.
oOo
Zevran jumped out of bed, looking for his boots and daggers, but found neither. While he had been asleep, someone has dressed his wounds and changed him into a clean, comfortable tunic and trousers, but where had they put his boots? And daggers? Was it that traitorous hag's doing? Maybe she'd guessed what he was going to do next time he met her. As if that would stop him! He'd strangle her with his bare hands!
He felt anger welling up in him, at Wynne, at Shwara, at the Maker and the darkspawn, and all the other fools who wouldn't let his Warden be, his amore, who was –
Perfectly fine. Had he not held him in his arms after the battle? And he'd had no serious injuries. Maybe they had taken him to the infirmary. Or maybe he had already gotten up and was now waiting for his silly assassin to join him.
Zevran took a deep breath. Calm down. Everything was going to be fine. He looked around and finally spotted his daggers on a chair, and his boots under it. Still forcing himself to stay calm, he buckled on the belt with daggers, pulled on his boots, and left the room. Calmly, calmly.
He even managed to smile at the woman that was coming up the corridor carrying a pile of bandages. Hortensia? Justinia? Something like that. Officially, Erwin employed her as his maid, but in reality she was one of the Mage Collective's members. Erwin's private army, Airam used to joke.
"Hello," he said as pleasantly as he could, given the circumstances. "Do you happen to know where Airam is?"
"They took him to the castle, ser," she replied; for some reason she kept her eyes fixed on the floor.
"Ah, I see. They already started the celebrations, yes?" He chuckled.
"No, ser," she said, still avoiding looking him in the eye. "They need to prepare him for the funeral."
"Don't be silly. He isn't dead."
She briefly glanced at him and he saw her eyes were red and puffy. "Oh, ser. I'm so sorry, ser."
He stared at her, trying to figure out what she was saying. It didn't make any sense. Airam wasn't dead.
She was saying something else, but he didn't stay to listen. He ran past her, down the corridor, out of the mansion, through the streets of the city. People were already clearing the rubble, and in the main square, layers of wooden planks had been piled up. A pyre for the dead. Tomorrow at noon.
Zevran didn't stop until he was at the palace gates. The guards crossed their poles. "I'm sorry ser, but you can't—"
"I'm Zevran Arainai," he cut in impatiently. "I'm with the Wardens. I need to talk with – Alistair. His Majesty, I mean." He really couldn't care less about Alistair right now, but with everyone insisting Airam was dead, it was easier this way.
The guards must have been informed, because they lowered their poles and let him pass. Wise decision. One more moment, and he'd cut their throats. He forced the first servant he met to take him to the Warden Commander.
He banged into the room, almost throwing the door off its hinges. Everyone froze and stared at him, but Zevran's eyes were fixed on only one thing.
Airam. Naked on a table.
Surrounded by four strange women with sponges and cloths.
The anger that had been building in him since he'd woken up finally erupted. "Get your hands off him!"
The women didn't move. "Ser, I'm sorry, ser," one of them piped up, "but would you please wait outside, it won't take much longer–"
"I said, Get. Your. Hands. Off. Him," he repeated. "I won't say it again. How do you think he'll feel if he wakes up and finds you all around him? He'll die of embarrassment."
The women exchanged confused looks; the one who'd spoken to him frowned. "That was an ill joke, ser," she said sternly. "This is the Warden Commander, the hero who saved us all, and I will ask you not to mock his death. Now, please, leave. If you want to pay your respects to him – as you should – please come back in two hours when the wake starts."
Zevran stared at her in disbelief. Did she want him to murder her? "I know who he is, you nincompoop," he snapped, putting his hand on his dagger. "He's my lover. And if you touch him one more time, I'll gut you. Now get lost before he wakes up."
The woman eyed his hand nervously. "Please, ser," she said, her voice shrill with fear. "We don't mean to be disrespectful; we're only maids, honoured by this last service we can do for the Warden Commander. We need to clean and dress him before the wake starts and there's still a lot to do, so if you could perhaps…"
She must have finally realize the danger, because she shut up and moved away from the table. One of the other women bolted for the door – along the wall, obviously trying to stay out of his reach, until she was out. As if he'd try to stop her. Were these cows deaf? He'd been trying to get them out for some time now.
He moved to the table and leaned over to place a kiss on Airam's brow. It was cold, and he frowned. What the hell were they thinking, keeping him naked this long? Last service, his ass. "Don't worry, amore," he said gently. "I'm here now. I'll take care of you."
He glared at the chatty cow. "Where are his clothes?"
"He's not cleaned yet," she protested.
"Where?"
She swallowed. "Over there." She pointed to another table in the corner. He went to check it and grabbed the underwear, the soft tunic and trousers. There was also the Warden Commander armour; he swept if off the table and onto the floor. As far as he was concerned, Air would never put that thing on again. The women startled and moved to the walls, watching him with wide eyes.
He looked at one of them. "This won't be enough. He's all cold; I don't know what you were thinking, bringing him up here. Do you want him to catch pneumonia? Go get a room ready for him, and pronto. I'll bring him over when I dress him, and I want fire burning in the fireplace by then. Call a mage to help you heat the room up, if you need to."
Without a single word of protest, she bowed and left. Perhaps he wouldn't have to kill them after all.
Airam's skin was all damp, and he snatched the cloth the nearest woman was holding. "Don't worry, amore," he said again, as he wiped Airam dry. "You'll be fine in a moment. And tomorrow we'll be leaving… for Rivain. What do you say? Not as beautiful as Antiva, but not as deadly either. And we could both do without any drama for some time, no?" He laughed, and put the cloth down. He reached for the undershirt and was about to put it on - damn it, Airam was all stiff with cold, Maker only knew how long they'd had him here like this instead of keeping him warm, - when the door opened.
The chatty cow was back, now with four guards who looked quite nervous and uncertain. "Ser Arainai, would you please come with us," one of them suggested.
"I don't have time for you now. Don't you see I need to take care of Airam? These women grossly neglected their care for him." Zevran returned to what he was doing.
"Ser, I have to insist. Please come with us peacefully. I would not like to use force-"
"That would be unreasonable, yes." Zevran didn't bother to look at them. He finally managed to put Airam's arms through the undershirt and was trying to pull it down. He truly didn't have time for these fools now. "You have heard what happened the last time guards tried to keep me away from the Warden Commander, yes? In Fort Drakon?"
Judging by their reluctance, they probably had. They muttered among themselves, then one of them hurried out. Most likely to call reinforcements. Zevran frowned. What the hell was wrong with everyone?
A moment later, the door opened again, but it wasn't the guards. It was that damned woman, with Erwin, Alistair and Faren in tow.
"Zev! What are you doing here?" Alistair asked.
"What does it look like? I'm taking care of Air because these incompetent cows can't do it. I wouldn't entrust a dog to them. Look how pale and cold he is. They kept him here in this cold room all naked. I want you to throw them all into the dungeons!"
Alistair's face twisted as if he was about to break into tears, and he shook his head.
"You see yourself now it's how I said, Your Highness. He's completely lost it," Zevran heard the maid whisper to Alistair.
Faren watched him with open pity. "This hurts just as much," he muttered.
Before he could react, Erwin walked over and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. "Alright," he said, his voice soft and consoling. "He and Faren will take care of everything. But you need to come with me now. There's something I need to discuss with you urgently."
"What about?" Zevran eyed him suspiciously, but Erwin's face was unreadable. "Is Shwara back?"
"I'd rather not discuss it here," Erwin said. "Please. Come with me."
Zevran looked around at Alistair and Faren, who were nodding, the confused guards, and the terrified maids who were now cowering in a corner of the room. He was almost one hundred percent sure this was a trick to get him away from his amore. But what if Shwara was back? It was worth checking out. "Fine," he muttered. "But I still don't want these cows touching him, you hear me? Find someone at least half competent. Wynne, or Leliana."
"Yes, of course," Alistair promised. "Don't worry about it."
Zevran wasn't reassured, but he let Erwin lead him out of the room.
oOo
"Alright, what is it you wanted to discuss? Where is Shwara?" Zevran asked as soon as the chapel's door closed behind them. The chapel was empty and quiet, and inappropriately cheerful. The sun's rays coming through the mosaic windows depicting Andraste's life made colourful patches on the walls and floor. As if nothing that happened mattered.
Erwin motioned to him to sit down on a pew. "Zevran… you need to snap out of it."
"Snap out of what?"
"Denying what happened. You know the truth. You wouldn't care if Shwara was back if you truly thought Airam was only asleep. I know it hurts." Erwin winked away the tears that welled in his eyes. "But lying to yourself and terrifying the maids won't bring him back. Nothing will."
"Is that what you wanted to tell me?" Zevran felt rage rising in him again. "He's not dead! How can you give up on him like that?! He's sleeping!" Zevran stood up, unable to pretend calmness anymore. "You weren't there! You didn't see it - how he slayed the thing. He was tired and bruised, but he was not mortally wounded. He couldn't die just of that!"
"You were an assassin," Erwin pointed out. "You better than most know how easy it is to end a person's life. How fragile we all are. We don't need a big bleeding wound. Isn't that right?"
"Maybe he's just unconscious," Zevran suggested.
"No. Don't tell me you didn't recognize rigor mortis. Do you truly think that if he was just unconscious I wouldn't give him all the care I could? You weren't the only one who loved him."
"You say that and yet you want to burn him!"
"I'd do anything to save him!" Erwin yelled back, but then buried his face in his hands. "But the only thing that could, theoretically, bring him back is the ancient ritual Shwara read about somewhere. And Shwara isn't here. I've had everyone capable searching for him, but he's not in Denerim."
Zevran had never seen Erwin looking so defeated, so broken. He wouldn't have believed it was possible, in fact. Still… "He can't be dead. He can't."
Erwin shook his head. "I wish he wasn't. I never wished for anything more than that. But we both know the truth. You need to accept it. For his sake, Zevran. He'd hate to see you like this, you know."
"He told me to live in his stead," Zevran complained. "But I can't. How can you live without air?"
"Day by day, breath by breath. Or you can keep disrespecting his will. Because this denial is not the life he wished for you. It's easier. A coward's choice to escape from pain. But life it is not."
Zevran stared at the man. He was disrespecting Airam's will?
Erwin got up. "The funeral is tomorrow at noon," he said. His voice was strained and tired. "Will you come? I know it's impossible to accept it. And to watch it, it…" His shoulders slumped and he shuffled towards the door. "But he deserves at least that much. It's the last thing we can do for him. Send him away surrounded by people he loved."
Zevran slumped back on the bench, watching Erwin leave. Airam, his Air, always so full of life, dead. Like Taliesen. Like Rinna. Like his mother. Like everyone who'd ever had the misfortune to love him.
And now he was disrespecting him.
And if I die… Promise me, Zevran.
No. No, no, no.
Promise you won't shut your heart again, like after Rinna's death. Promise you'll do your best to live, love, and laugh.
"I! Refuse!" Zevran jumped up. A prayer book fell out of the slot, and opened on a bookmarked page. With the prayer for the deceased. "No!" Zevran picked it up and ripped the page out. "I won't, I don't want to, I can't accept this!" He punctuated each scream by ripping more pages from the book; they fluttered around him for a moment before they landed on the floor like doves that had been shot.
He threw the empty cover away; it fell right next to the statue of Andraste. It was the same as the one in the ancient temple, her face lifted piously to the sky, one hand on her chest, the other raised and holding a flame. "And you! How dare you let him die?" Zevran crossed the distance between him and the statue and tore it down. The flame and the hand broke apart. But it wasn't enough. Zevran grabbed the tall copper candelabra standing to the left of the rostrum. It felt nice and heavy in his hand and smashed against the statue with a satisfying metallic sound.
"You traitorous bitch! You and your cursed Maker! After all he did for you, and you just let him die?"
Breathing heavily, he looked down at the mass of rubble that used to be Andraste's face. Better. But there were still her pictures on the glass, grinning down on him with that retarded smile. He lifted the candelabra and whirled around to give it some momentum, then smashed it into the window. It burst, jewel-toned shards flying in all directions, leaving an empty hole in their place.
"Give him back! Do you hear me?" The other candelabra, standing to the right of the rostrum was sent flying and another window smashed. Then it was the rostrum's turn, and the pews and those silly kneeler cushions. It still wasn't enough, it would never be enough. "That old fucker you call our maker gave up on his creations ages ago, but you! You were human once! How can you allow this? If you were human, don't you have a heart?"
Zevran looked around but there was nothing more to smash or break; the Archdemon himself couldn't do a better job demolishing the place.
Everything was ruined. Everything. Zevran crumpled to the floor in the middle of it all. "Give him back," he whispered.
But the only answer was silence.
oOo
He didn't know how long he knelt there, crying, in the middle of his private destruction. At some point he heard the door open, and he recognized Alistair's footsteps. But he didn't say anything, and neither did Alistair. He just sat there, leaning against the wall; soft sniffing sounds giving away he was crying too.
To his surprise, Zevran didn't find his presence irritating. It was… comforting, somehow, to know he was there.
They sat in silence, each absorbed in their grief, while the world darkened around them.
oOo
Eventually, Zevran awoke from his torpor. The sun had set already. In the darkness, with the cold winter wind coming through the shattered windows, snowdrifts piling up on the windowsills, the chapel reminded him eerily of a picture of the underworld waiting for those who didn't follow the Chant that he'd seen in one of the Chantry's books.
Zevran scrambled to his feet and looked at the dark shape near the wall. "Did you want something from me, Alistair?"
Alistair got up too, but he didn't come closer. "I… I just wanted to say…"
It was obvious what he wanted to say, was it not? That it was his fault. That it should've been him. That he hated himself for letting another man die for him yet again.
Zevran didn't want to hear it. Even if it were true… and Zevran couldn't accept that, no matter how much he wanted to. It would be so amazing to have a reason, a culprit, someone to blame and hate and kill for it. But it wasn't Alistair's fault. Just like it wasn't Erwin's or Shwara's fault. Maybe the Maker's… but he didn't believe the Maker existed anymore. If he did, he was nothing but a pitiful, malevolent spirit, jealous of this world and the people in it.
"Has the wake started yet?"
"It has," Alistair replied. "It will last until the funeral - one hour before it, to be exact."
"Where is he?"
"In the room you shared," Alistair said. "Uncle wanted to have it in the cathedral, but… it didn't feel right. I don't think he'd like having random strangers come and look at him as if he were a curiosity… People in the castle were allowed in during the day, but I asked everyone to stay out after dinner… I thought you might want to stay with him alone."
Zevran nodded. "Thanks, Alistair. I appreciate that. I'll go there now."
oOo
Airam still looked like he was just sleeping. They hadn't dressed him in the armour, he noticed. Instead, he was wearing his favourite dark grey tunic and green vest. The clothes he'd given to Airam a lifetime ago, earning himself a kiss on the cheek.
He still looked dashing in it.
Zevran knelt down beside the bed and laid his head on Airam's chest. He felt tears pricking in his eyes again.
"I'm sorry, amore. I can't keep that promise. I will keep on living, since you want it. You said it gave meaning to your sacrifice, yes? I disagree, amore. I do not see any meaning in it. But I will not dishonour your sacrifice. I might even try to laugh, for your sake. But my heart belongs to you and you alone. I cannot love anyone else. Not even you can demand that."
Airam just lay there, peaceful and smiling a little as if he were having a pleasant dream. A dream they couldn't share.
"I wanted to take you to Antiva, you know. So you could finally taste proper food. Antivan fish chowder, and red wine. Nothing in this dog land matches it. Nothing. It's made of white fish, and baby scallops, and shrimps. You add oil and dry white wine and tomatoes and season it with black pepper and salt and a pinch of saffron… It used to be my favourite food. But I think I'm done with it. I don't think I can enjoy it anymore. I don't think I can enjoy anything anymore… But, no. I shall not whine. Not on our last night together. Let's talk about something different, shall we?"
He pulled a chair next to the bed and sat on it. He wanted to hold Airam's hand, but it was too stiff to be moved, so he just put his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"What would you like to hear? More of my anecdotes? You always like those. All right then. Where should I start… Let me see, did I already tell you about the rich merchant who hired me to kill off the girl he frequented in a brothel, and she turned out to be a bard? No? It is quite funny. Nothing gross, do not worry…"
oOo
Zevran startled at the soft creaking of a floorboard. He must've fallen asleep at some point; through the window, he could see the stars were already paling. Soon, the sun would be up.
There was the noise again. He didn't dream it up - someone was in the room with him. He sprang from the chair, pulling his daggers out. Was it the Crows?
"Relax, son," a voice said, and a greenish wisp popped out of nowhere. In its dim light, Zevran could see three cloaked figures.
Airam's missing grandfather had finally arrived.