AN: Here it is. The last chapter of this story. I might add a short epilogue (the game has it too, after all), but this is it. It took me almost full eight years - I started on 19 January 2011. It was supposed to be a oneshot... then 7 chapters, then 12... and here we are, at 43. XD

But I wouldn't do it without support and encouragement from my friends: my wonderful friend and beta ShebasDawn, my previous betas Seika and Brelaina, Nyusha, Bloodsong, Cheeky Monkeys, and all my reviewers and readers. :) Thank you all so much!

Into the Light

"You're late," Zevran accused.

"On the contrary," the old man said with a little smile, "the timing couldn't have been better if I'd planned it myself. It's like divine guidance, really." With a sigh of relief, he pulled off his backpack and cloak and put them on the nearest chair. "Ahhh, I'm getting too old for all this travelling," he complained, unconvincingly.

"Divine guidance?" Zevran couldn't keep the derision out of his voice. "It's been two days! His funeral is tomorrow – today, in fact. It's long past midnight! How can it work after such time?"

"It can and it will." Shwara came and put his hands on Zevran's shoulders. "Trust me. Everything will be fine." He let Zev go and returned to his backpack. "As long as he has the amulet – he does have it on him, right?" He shot a stern look at Zevran.

"Yes. It was a present from you, so they decided to leave it on him."

"Good. The second or third day, it doesn't make much difference, as long as he has the amulet and his body is intact. But the ritual must be done at sunrise; if we had arrived during the day, it would have given annoying busybodies like Wynne and Greagoir enough time to decide it's against their hypocritical morals and try to stop the 'unholy' magic. No. It's far better that we arrived when we did. Are you guys ready?"

Zevran followed his glance and blinked in surprise. They were like failed attempts at Airam's replicas: one older and much too chubby, with a double chin and too-big ears, and one younger and skinnier, with longer, wavier hair, who was observing Zevran with undisguised curiosity.

"My nephew Anwar," Shwara said, pointing to the chubby one, who only gave a solemn nod and continued unpacking various boxes from his backpack and placing them on top of the dresser drawers. "And my son Adino," he said, pointing to the youth.

"So, you're Airam's boyfriend. I've heard so much about you!" the youth said. "I thought you'd be younger, though. And, well, sexier, to be honest."

"We don't have time for idle chitchat," the plump one admonished him. He could be in his late twenties, and had a serious, scholarly air about him. "Take this seriously. Uncle may be happy we're this late, but it means we have only two hours to get everything ready. We must start the ritual with the first rays of sunlight."

The boy rolled his eyes, then smiled at Zevran. "I had to listen to that the whole trip, you know," he complained, but opened his own backpack and started taking out stacks of candles and rolls of parchment as well.

"Is there anything I can do?" Zevran offered.

"No," the older one said, pulling on a pair of leather gloves that came up to his elbows. "It's too dangerous."

"You can lock the door," the kid suggested.

"He used to be a Crow. He's accustomed to working with dangerous substances," Shwara pointed out. "And, it would speed up things considerably if we could do one corner each. But," he carefully unrolled one of the parchments and handed it over to Zevran, "do you think you could paint this design? It must be one hundred percent accurate, not a single wobbly line or a dot out of place."

Zevran studied the design. It looked like part of a glyph – the bottom right corner, according to the mark on the top – but Zevran had never seen any that were this intricate. Even the glyphs that Erwin used, or the one Avernus had used in the keep, weren't this detailed and ornamented. Still, it only required patience and a precise hand. "I can do it."

"Good." Shwara looked at the other two, both wearing protective gloves and masks over their noses and mouths as if they were preparing a toxic poison, not trying to revive his amore, and surrounded by at least a dozen wisps. The dresser was now covered with several boxes and vials. The plump cousin was softly counting the drops of some tincture he was adding to a bowl, while Adino was spooning red powder onto the scales, no trace of his previous joviality on his face.

"Red lyrium," Shwara said, as if Zevran was supposed to know what that meant. "I'll give you my spare gloves and a mask later – even breathing it would drive you crazy. But it will take a few minutes before the mixture is ready. In the meantime, we need to place the candles around the room, and I need to add an anti-demon ward around Airam. Help me move the bed away from the wall."

oOo

"Sunrise in five minutes."

At the sound of the plump cousin's voice, Zevran put the almost empty bowl with the reddish lyrium paste down and placed the brush on top. He carefully scrutinized the drawing in front of him, comparing it to Shwara's design, looking for any imperfection. But there weren't any.

Shwara opened the curtains. "Adino, collect all the bowls and brushes. Zevran, do you remember what to do?"

"Yes." Zevran handed the bowl and the brush to the kid, then tiptoed through the glyph to the small circle drawn next to Airam, careful not to step on any line, lest he blurred it. "I am to stay perfectly silent until you finish the chant. Then I am to call his name three times, but nothing else. And I must not touch him at all until you explicitly tell me it's okay to do so."

Shwara nodded. "Everyone to your places."

The mages stepped into the three other painted circles, Shwara to the west, the cousin to the north, and Adino to the south. With a flick of his wrist, Shwara lit all the candles placed around the room. They were ready.

As they stood in silence, waiting for the first rays of sunlight, Zevran felt fear washing over him. Could this work? Could this bring his amore back? What if nothing happened? What if he'd overlooked an error in the drawing? He should double-check. All the other parts too – what was he thinking, why didn't he finish earlier so he could check the work of the other three? What if something went wrong–

"Don't step out!" Shwara's sharp voice brought him back to his senses. He took a deep breath and nodded, embarrassed.

"On ten," Shwara said. "One. Two…"

Zevran glanced at the window. How did the mages know the time so precisely? And would it work even with the clouds? Shwara didn't seem concerned about the weather, so it had to, no? Fear threatened to overwhelm him again. Zevran focused on the old mage instead.

"… Nine. Ten."

Without missing a beat, the three mages started chanting softly. Nothing happened. Two verses, five verses, still nothing. It wasn't working! Zevran was just opening his mouth to say so when Adino caught his eye. Not pausing, the boy shook his head and put a finger in front of his mouth, then closed his eyes, as if trying to block out Zevran and the world.

At that moment, the amulet started to pulse with light and the part of the glyph nearest to the window lit up, the line quickly spreading over the whole drawing, line by tiny line. Never in his life had he seen anything that could compare to this beauty. Unlike the other glyphs Zevran had seen, which had all glowed bright blue, this one was an orange-red colour. Soon the room looked as if the sun was rising right above the bed. The air was vibrating with energy, warm and with the hint of a flowery scent, as if someone had condensed three months of spring into a single spell.

When the whole circle had lit up, Shwara made the agreed-upon hand signal. Zevran took a deep breath. "Airam Surana!" he exclaimed. Come back to me. "Airam Surana!" Come back, amore. "Airam Surana!"

He'd barely finished the third exclamation when a figure made of transparent light appeared above Airam. For a heartbeat it floated there, looking at Zevran as if it wanted to say something, but then it floated lower and lower, until it was an inch from the amulet. And then it was gone.

The urge to touch Airam, to press his ear against Airam's chest, to hear his breath again, press a finger on his jugular to feel it pulsing with life, was almost unbearable. But the glyph was still lit up and the chant went on, and he forced himself to be patient.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime – although it couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes – the mages stopped singing. The room was now lit with the normal light of the freshly-risen sun, quiet and peaceful, as if there was nothing wrong with the world.

He looked at Shwara, who gave him a tired smile. "It's done. But I'd recommend not waking him. It would be better if he woke up naturally by himself – it won't take long, don't worry."

"You can help us clean up and pack if you need a distraction," Adino suggested; he'd already started collecting the candles.

Zevran watched as the colour returned to Airam's face, slowly turning the waxy yellow snow-white, and his chest started to rise. He gently stroked Airam's cheek; it was warm again.

Alive. His amore was alive.

He wanted nothing more than to scoop Airam into his arms and wake him with a kiss – but not with an audience. Both Shwara and Adino watched him intently, one with understanding, the other with amused curiosity; only Anwar had the decency to turn away and give him some privacy. Zevran's respect for him increased.

He picked up the nearest candle. "Let's get to it."

oOo

It had taken two hours to paint the glyph; it took mere minutes to wipe it away. Half an hour later, the bedroom was back to normal, no trace that anything magical had happened there. Shwara triple-checked, just to be sure. Once Airam got up, Greagoir's head would explode, he claimed. If the old Templar or the Grand Cleric had the slightest suspicion of any magical ritual, things could get ugly.

"That's why it's crucial that you keep our presence here secret," he said. "I've already lost two of my sons to this country. The last thing I want is for the Templar fanatics to declare my third son a maleficar who needs to be hunted and put down."

Adino rolled his eyes. "Don't be so paranoid, Dad. Besides, I'd like to see them try! I'm not a helpless child anymore, you know."

Zevran chuckled. "Let me guess – they'd become ice art?"

"Templars, art?" the boy wrinkled his nose. "Grotesque art, at best."

Anwar sighed at that. "Not a child anymore, he says."

"Not a helpless child," the boy corrected him, before turning to Zevran again. "Father will come to the funeral – he can't know it won't happen, can he? – but he insists I cannot join him. So this is goodbye." He looked at Airam, who was still sleeping, clearly disappointed. "I hoped to talk with him," he admitted. "The last time we met, I was only five, and don't remember much, besides him beating me in a snowball match."

"They can come visit us in Rivain now that the Blight's over," Anwar suggested. "It's about time Air got introduced to the rest of the family."

"So there is a mighty Surana clan," Zevran said incredulously, the words of the old Chasind chief suddenly coming to mind.

Anwar gave him an indignant look, but the boy laughed. "The mightiest! Our gathering is an event you'll remember for the rest of your life. The Blight doesn't come even close. And my mother makes the best churros in the world, if you need another reason to come."

Zevran was quite willing to believe both claims. "I'm already looking forward to it," he said earnestly.

"So am I. Of course, that's provided you don't fail as a bodyguard again and get my nephew permanently killed. It would really piss me off if he dies after all this fuss without me even having a chance to meet him."

"Adino!" Shwara said sharply. The boy rolled his eyes again and heaved the backpack on his shoulder.

"I'll officially arrive at the castle at half past ten," Shwara said. "That should be enough to prove my innocence in this matter, and no one can accuse you of any rituals, since you don't have magic. You should just keep saying you don't know what happened. Maybe Andraste heard your screams in the chapel – oh yes, I know of that – and decided to intervene after all."

"I understand," Zevran said. "See you later," he added, with a hint of impatience in his voice. He'd always be grateful and all that, but now he wanted to finally be with his amore, and hold him in his arms until he woke up.

Shwara chuckled. "We're going now." He pulled on the hood of his cloak then beckoned to the other two, and they quietly slipped out the door.

oOo

The sun was high in the sky – at least eight or nine in the morning, Zevran would say – when Airam finally stirred, and sighed. Zevran gently kissed his brow. "Good morning, amore."

Airam rolled over. "Just five more minutes," he pleaded, pulling the blanket over his head.

Zevran couldn't help laughing. If there were ever any doubts that his amore was back, this was the proof it was truly him. "Three days weren't enough?" he teased.

"There is no time Beyond," Airam mumbled from under the blanket. "And you're not even supposed to be here." He pulled off the blanket and sat up, staring at Zevran. "My Zevvie is alive. What are you? Another desire demon? How dare you take his appearance."

"No, I'm still little old me," Zevran assured him. "And this is not the Beyond. If the Maker decorated his Beyond Fereldan style, I'll pass. This is just a room in Alistair's new home – the palace in Denerim."

Airam stared at him with a focused look on his face and for a moment Zevran wondered if he would be frozen solid. Then Airam relaxed again. "It doesn't feel like the Fade," he admitted. ""But… how? I survived?" Airam rubbed his brow. "I remember pushing you away as you were trying to kill the Archdemon – don't think I'll ever forget or forgive that, silly assassin. But the rest of it is blurry and weird... Remember when Alistair seasoned the stew with deathroot?* It's like that. There was a dark corridor with an open door at the other end and I knew I had to pass through it, but something was holding me back. And then I heard someone calling me and when I looked over my shoulder, there was someone like you, except you were glowing like a rising sun."

"Your grandpa did the ritual," Zevran explained. Airam listened incredulously as he gave him a mostly accurate description of all that had happened in the last three days, leaving out only the unimportant details about scared maids and a demolished chapel. No need to burden his amore with that, no?

"So my funeral is in three hours?" Airam's eyes gleamed in a way Zevran didn't like at all.

"It starts one hour before lunch, yes. But don't worry, I'll go inform Alistair and Erwin that they can stop the preparations. I'll bring breakfast on the way back. Yes?"

"Nonsense, Zev. Although I do admit I'm starving and wouldn't say no to a roast ox. But it's my funeral. How many people you know get to attend their own funeral and live to tell the tale? I want to see it!"

"It's funny how selective the memory is, no? I almost forgot how crazy you were. Are."

Airam nudged him in his ribs. "You really should read more, you know. It helps to build your vocabulary so you don't have to use the same tired adjective all the time. There are better options – unorthodox, imaginative, original, creative…"

Zevran cupped Airam's face and kissed him. "Promise me you'll never do something that stupid and leave me behind again," he said when they broke it, resting his brow on Airam's.

"I'll try," Airam said with a smile. "Without you it would be beyond boring anyway."

oOo

Dressed in black and silver brocade, Alistair looked impeccably royal… but also ten years older and much sadder. Zevran was surprised to discover he felt a pang of guilt. But he couldn't spoil Airam's crazy plan, could he now?

"Your Majesty," he bowed, his face carefully neutral.

"Zevran!" Alistair greeted him in an unnaturally cordial tone – one you would use with a lunatic that might lunge at you at any moment. He waved to the servants, who immediately backed out of the room, bowing all the time. Alistair suppressed a sigh and turned back to him.

"I was about to go check on you," he said. "Would it be alright to enter the room now? The funeral starts in less than two hours, and there are a few people who still want to see him before then…"

"In a few minutes, yes. I need to tidy up the mess," he said.

Alistair opened his mouth, but then he took in Zevran's tousled hair, his crumpled clothes, boots that were not buckled all the way up, and apparently decided he didn't want to know. "Of course. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"As a matter of fact, there is. I came to ask you for one last favour, if I may. When the royal guards come to take him to the pyre, I want to be there. I want to be the one who lays him on the bier, and I want to walk by his side."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea." Alistair didn't even try to hide his concern.

"Oh come now, Alistair. What do you think I will do? Steal the corpse and run away with it? I swear I will not. I also swear I shall not jump into the flames. There. Happy now?"

Alistair dropped his gaze in embarrassment. "Very well. Of course you can walk with him. I think he'd like that."

"Thank you, my friend," Zevran said earnestly. "Now if you don't mind, I should go and get ready. I cannot carry Airam when I look like a homeless beggar."

oOo

At half past ten, Zevran walked into Airam's bedroom again, followed by seven royal guards. He gently laid Airam's body on the bier, then leaned over as if to fix his hair.

"You're smiling too much," he whispered. If the crazy kid wanted this charade, he should have it. No reason to make it easy on him.

Airam's mouth tensed for a second, but he remained still. The guards, who were awkwardly looking anywhere but at him, noticed nothing.

At his signal they lifted the bier, Zevran taking his place on the front left. They slowly walked out of the room and palace, then through the streets of Denerim.

Of course Zevran knew many people would come to the funeral. Airam's popularity had been on the rise long before the battle, especially after he had killed Howe. And then he became the Hero, sacrificing his life to save the city. But it still took his breath away to see just how many. There were people crowded into every street, leaning out of every window. Everyone was trying to catch a glimpse of their grim little procession. Some were crying, as if Airam was family, some bowed as they passed. Every able-bodied citizen of Denerim, every soldier who'd fought in his army, wanted to pay their last respects to the Warden Commander.

Zevran glanced down at Airam. He couldn't see it, but he must be hearing the sobs and cries and hails. What was going through that pretty head now?

They finally reached Landsmeet Square, the biggest and indisputably most important in Denerim. Whenever something of national import happened, it happened here. This was where new kings first addressed their subjects, where people gathered to protest the Crown or the Landsmeet, where First Day celebrations were held. This was where Airam's pyre was built.

There it was, ominous and tall, looming over the very centre of the square, built of several layers of wood with stairs leading up to a wooden table. The area around it was divided into several sections; normally, the elves and the poor would be at the rim, commoners and merchants in the middle, and the rich nobles and royalties right next to the pyre. Today, however, a good half was taken by dwarves, mages, and elves – mostly Dalish, but the city elves were there, as well. Zevran could see some people, especially the rich ones, fidgeting at the sight, but no one dared to peep. Airam's Army of One wouldn't put up with the Fereldans' racist bullshit.

They walked down a wide corridor lined by royal guards who saluted as they passed by, as if Airam was a deceased king.

Alistair was already there, standing to the right of the stairs, surrounded by Eamon, Teagan, Fergus, and other high nobles – and Shwara, of all people; the rest of their gang was to the left. They all looked ashen and teary-eyed, and Zevran imagined what it had to be like, not knowing Airam was alive, waiting to see him burn. If it weren't for Shwara and his ritual, he would be there now, too, expected to watch it calmly, with dignity, because keeping one's composure was all that mattered, no?

Would he be able to bear it? Zevran wasn't sure and he hoped he would never have to find out.

They carried the bier to the top of the pyre, and laid it down on a table. The royal guards left immediately. He sat down next to Airam and caressed his cheek. "We're here," he said softly. "And even though I know your love for dramatic moments, I strongly recommend not waiting until they light up the wood."

Airam chuckled a little bit. "Don't be such a spoilsport," he muttered. "Now go down before people start to get suspicious."

Good point, that; he could hear people murmuring, watching him, wondering why he was still there. Maybe they were making bets on if he would join Airam and burn, too. He bet they'd enjoy the show. At least it would be something to talk about during the long winter evenings in the inns and pubs.

Alistair waved him over to stand with the nobles, so he did. It didn't matter, really, and Alistair was already under a lot of stress. No reason to add to it.

Once he took his place next to Shwara, Alistair stepped forward and onto the bottom step of the pyre. He lifted his arm and the crowd fell silent.

"My friends," he said, and his voice trembled with emotion. "We are here to pay our respects to the Grey Warden who saved us all. He showed us the importance of unity and brought us together to fight against an enemy that threatened us all. He showed us the importance of accepting your duty, no matter how hard it is, no matter how many or how big the sacrifices it takes. In the end, he made the ultimate sacrifice, killing the Archdemon to end the Blight, even though he knew it would cost him his life. He did not hesitate; he did not take the easy way out, but was true to his calling until the very end. And today-"

A loud, collective gasp interrupted him.

No wonder. Above and behind him, on the top of the pyre, Airam had just stood up.

oOo

The masses went crazy. They cheered and clapped and danced, hailed Airam as a saint or a new Andraste. But there were other voices calling him an abomination, a demon, accusing him of playing a nasty trick. The situation was quickly getting out of control. Things could get very ugly, very fast. Airam obviously realized it too.

"My good people!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, raising his arms. Maybe it was his charisma, maybe curiosity about what he had to say, or perhaps the presence of the Warden's Army, but the crowd gradually calmed down to a dull roar.

"Allow me to say that I am touched, and honoured, to see so many people who came to pay their last respects to me. Thank you! I am no one special. I did my duty, as any man has to. But as you can see, I am not dead. How or why, I cannot tell. All I know is that I survived, even though I expected not to. I can understand your concerns! I would be shocked and concerned if I saw something like this, too. But perhaps there is a way to reassure you. Knight Commander Greagoir! If you are down there somewhere, join me here, if you please!"

There was a moment of tense silence, then two men emerged from the crowd behind the royalty and came forward. One was Greagoir; the other one Zevran didn't know, and he didn't like that at all.

He ran up the stairs, overtaking the two, and wrapped his arms around Airam. "You're alive! I kept telling them you were just asleep! And they said I was crazy!" he cried aloud. "What are you doing? You want to get yourself killed?" he hissed softly so only Airam could hear him.

Before Airam could reply, the two men arrived; with Zevran there, there was no more room at the very top and they had to stand one step below, putting them at a disadvantage in case of a fight. That detail didn't escape them, and it didn't make them happy at all.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm so glad to see you again, Knight Commander!" Airam beamed at the old man before turning to the other man. "I don't believe I know you, though."

"Darrel Winston, High Seeker of Ferelden," the man said.

"Ah! The one who investigated the murder of my family at the Divine's behest? It's a pleasure to meet you in person, ser." Airam bowed politely, but the Seeker did not return the gesture, his eyes cold and suspicious.

"I can't explain how I'm alive!" Airam turned to the masses again. "But, I can prove I'm neither a demon nor an abomination! Templars have the holy power to tell if someone is possessed! I now ask the Knight Commander and the High Seeker to use that power on me!"

"You want us to use holy purge on you?" Greagoir asked incredulously.

"If it can prove that I'm not a walking corpse or a demon's puppet? Please go ahead."

The High Seeker nodded. "I shall do it." He stared at Zevran. "Step aside."

Zevran didn't intend to obey, but Airam pushed him aside. "Don't worry, it won't hurt me. It can't kill people. At the very worst, I'll be dizzy and sick. But if I'm possessed, it will provoke the demon to manifest. Am I right?" he turned to the High Seeker.

"You seem to know a lot about Templar abilities," he replied with a frown.

"What can I say. I read a lot," Airam said with a shrug. "Shall we?"

The man closed his eyes and held his hands in front of him, palms facing each other, as if he was holding a ball. A few moments later, a bright sphere of light appeared in the middle, tiny at first, but growing rapidly. When it was about as big as his head, the man swiped it into Airam.

The crowd cried out in worry as Airam staggered and bent in half, coughing. The soldiers started protesting, threatening the High Seeker. Then Airam straightened up again.

"He's not possessed! I confirm that he is indeed alive and himself!" the High Seeker called out. "But this isn't over. We will look into what truly happened here," he added softly, as the masses erupted with joyous cries.

"I hope you do. I'd like to know myself," Airam said innocently. "Now then. If that's all for now, can we go? I'm as starved as if I'd skipped several days worth of meals. Oh wait. I did skip several days worth of meals. I hope the royal larder is well supplied."

He pushed past the two men and walked down the stairs. The crowd cheered and hailed him as all their friends, led by Alistair, ran to greet him, hug him, kiss him, pat his shoulders.

Zevran stood a little behind, letting the others have this moment for themselves. He could afford to share Airam with them for awhile.

After all, they had their whole future ahead of them.

* If you don't remember when Alistair seasoned the stew with deathroot, you can read about it in the oneshot Family Reunions Are Such a Nightmare s/7283734/1/Family-Reunions-Are-Such-a-Nightmare