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Zevran wished he was able to roll over and get back to sleep under the warmth of his blankets, but his bladder had other ideas. With a heavy sigh of reluctance, he got up, pulled on his plainclothes and boots to keep out the night’s chill and then stepped out of his tent.
The group’s small collection of tents was huddled a short distance away from the aravels and banked communal fires of the Mahariel clan’s sprawling campsite to give both parties something approaching privacy to discuss internal affairs. And speaking of internal affairs…
As he picked his way between tent ropes Zevran found himself passing by Theron’s tent, and he was surprised to see that one flap was tied back to allow the night air in. Curious, he poked his head in with a soft “Warden?”
The bedroll was empty. Dudain was curled up in a far corner and mercifully asleep. He didn’t look like the same warhound that had once threatened to tear his throat out.
Hm. Strange that Theron would not be asleep at this time of night, but perhaps he had gone to visit the latrines as well? Zevran paused to study the clustered shapes of the aravels that looked like massive slumbering livestock wreathed in shadow and moonlight. His gaze swept over the lake adjacent to their tents and the halla pen directly opposite, where he noticed the broad-shouldered form leaning against the wooden fence of the pen. Unless that was another male Dalish archer with long hair - and, admittedly, Zevran had seen a fair few in this clan, so he could well be mistaken - then it seemed Theron was taking yet another moment alone with his thoughts in the wake of everything that had happened with Zathrian and the werewolves the other day. Zevran would have gone over, but his body reminded him of why it had woken him up so he carried on through the trees to the Dalish latrines a respectful distance away from both camps.
When he returned to their campsite, Theron was still out by the halla pen. He cut a lonely figure, standing there in the middle of the night... Zevran sighed to himself, and rather than duck into the warmth of his tent and leave Theron to his solitude, he padded over.
“Warden, what troubles you enough to keep you awake and brooding so late into the night?” He asked when he was within earshot, and when the other elf looked over one shoulder at him Zevran was glad it was indeed Theron rather than a random Dalish hunter from the clan.
“Hello, Zevran.” Theron’s tone was as polite as ever. Zevran couldn’t blame him after what had happened in his tent but that night had been a few weeks ago and they were still tiptoeing awkwardly around each other as if it had happened the previous night. At least Theron no longer seemed mad at him for that attempt on his life, but Zevran wasn’t sure what to call their relationship now the dust had settled. Were they friends, or had he ruined that along with any chance of being invited back into Theron’s tent ever again? But if Theron had no wish to entertain his company tonight, now was the best time to send him on his way.
Theron turned back to study the battered tin mug he held in both hands, his forearms resting on top of the fence as he leaned against it. The liquid within gave off a faint plume of steam, and Zevran recognised the bitter herbal smell of it as Dalish tea. He’d seen Theron with at least one cup of it every day since they’d found the Mahariel clan.
“I was over at another campfire, talking with one of the hunters on watch,” Theron answered with a gesture towards the banked campfires of the Dalish camp that made his braids shiver against the nape of his neck.
Now he was closer, Zevran noted the set of Theron’s shoulders; despite his relaxed posture there was an underlying tension that radiated from his neck down his spine, and his weight was on the balls of his feet. He was tense. Ready for action or confrontation. Yet there was no tension in his jaw from gritted teeth. His gaze wasn’t restlessly flicking around but was steady and unwavering. Theron wasn’t even fully aware of how tense he was. Zevran was intimately familiar with this projection of relaxation while the undertow roared away under the surface, invisible to all but someone with a trained eye. Theron looked down at the mug in front of him, and Zevran watched the lazy way the steam brushed over his chin and lips.
“She gave me tea, and now I can’t stop thinking,” His grey gaze flicked back up to Zevran, studying the other elf through his eyelashes. “I’m not brooding.” He added swiftly.
Zevran shrugged casually as he copied Theron’s stance and leaned his solar plexus against the fence. Unlike Theron, he let his shoulders drop and his body relax as much as he was comfortable with. He hadn’t been shooed away yet. That was a good sign. The halla were at the far side of the pen, motionless silver forms as they slept lying down. If it wasn’t for the moonlight glinting off their carved antlers, Zevran would have mistaken them for piles of white stone or even patches of snow. He looked back at Theron, who also seemed to be studying the halla, and privately started to compare the curling marks of his vallaslin to the halla antlers.
“I trust I have not interrupted your solitary brooding?”
“Not broodin’.” Theron repeated, his Dalish lilt a little more pronounced than normal. He lifted his mug to his lips and drank. “But I could use the company. I’m not sure if I can put everything I’m thinkin’ of into words.”
Zevran could read more in the quiet that followed than any more words Theron could have spoken with that Dalish lilt of his.
“I see.” He took a moment of silence to give the words the weight they needed before he continued. “Shall we begin with what comes to mind first?”
His question was rewarded with Theron’s shoulders visibly relaxing, even if the other man’s expression remained unmoved from its usual stoic mask.
“D’you ever miss Antiva?”
Zevran let his gaze drift back out towards the sleeping halla in front of them as he weighed his response like they were too-few silvers he had to barter with. Was there ever a day when he did not miss his homeland? Where he did not long to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin all day long and that his boots were not caked in thick mud? Where the very food he ate, the company he sought and the beds he tumbled into at the end of every day were far more luxurious and interesting than their Ferelden counterparts? Truly, it was an ache in his chest. Moreso when he allowed himself to think of precisely why he had fled Antiva’s bright shores…
“Sometimes, yes.”
“And what d’you miss about it?”
He could feel Theron’s sharp gaze on him, and so he met it evenly.
In the moonlight and against his dark skin, those grey eyes looked colourless save for the darker grey ring on the outer edge of his iris and the blue-green well of his pupil. The sight had unsettled Zevran the first few times he’d seen it. Not the eyeshine all elves had, but the distinct lack of colour that surrounded it. It reminded him that Theron and Alistair were no longer ordinary men but Wardens until the day they died. Hopefully that day would not be until they had defeated this Blight. Everyone in Antiva knew of Garahel, the Fourth Blight and how it had devastated the country, even the bastard orphans raised in whorehouses. Especially them.
Zevran forced a smile.
“The usual things, my handsome friend. The warm brandy and pleasantly soft women, the smell of anything other than wet dog and mud...”
Theron rolled his eyes, and took another sip of his tea.
“I’m sure Antiva smells wonderful this time of year.”
“It will, the solaris flowers should be in bloom this time of year,” Zevran reassured him, and this time he looked past Theron towards the Dalish camp. “I take it that returning to your kin after some time apart has made you homesick again?”
“I think so. But after what happened with Zathrian I don’t know anymore,” Theron sighed, and removed one hand from his mug to start picking at a stray piece of bark on the fence in front of him. “I killed a Keeper the other day. I don’t even know what the punishment for that would be, I’ve never heard of it happening before. But-” His voice caught on an odd, high-pitched little laugh. “Rather than, say, tie me to a tree, move the clan on and leave me to die of thirst they’ve said I always have a place in this clan? I don’t…” Theron shook his head.
“But you forget you did not set out to kill Zathrian. You gave him a choice, and he happened to make the wrong one in not letting go of his grudges and attacking us. We- you, were merely defending yourself,” Zevran reasoned. “And perhaps the fact this is your mother’s clan means they were willing to set the matter aside, no?”
“I killed a Keeper.” Theron repeated, his voice muffled from the fact he’d let his head fall forward into the cup of his hands. The tin mug was now balanced precariously on the fence post between them; Zevran picked it up before it could fall, glad of the warmth it provided his cold fingers. Brasca, he should have dressed in layers.
“Yes, you did. I was there, I saw it happen.”
“He was immortal, and I still killed him.”
“Immortality is an overrated concept. Who would truly want to live forever?”
“I killed a Keeper.”
Zevran sighed, and patted Theron carefully on one bowed shoulder.
“Now you are going in circles again. Unless you plan to go and kill Lanaya next, I suggest you stop thinking about Zathrian. He was not the most likeable man anyway, and she is far prettier.”
That got Theron to perk up again, his head shooting up like a deer on alert to fix Zevran with a stern glare.
“Zevran. If you try and talk your way into Lanaya’s aravel the way you did with Ghenya and Cammen-”
Zevran raised his hands in a pacifying, vaguely surrendering gesture, careful with the tea.
“I think not. My interests are elsewhere, dear Warden.”
Theron’s threatening look shifted into a scowl of irritation.
“I’ve told you before that I have a name! Call me Theron. The-ron. Unless you want me to call you Crow in kind?”
“If you chose to I would be used to it, Theron.”
There was an uncomfortable pause as the implication of his words settled over Theron. Then he gestured for his mug back without making eye contact; Zevran begrudgingly returned it and privately mourned the loss of his meagre source of warmth.
“So, aside from killing a Keeper, why are you conflicted?”
Theron took a breath.
“Earlier today Layana offered me a place in the clan. She leads it now Zathrian’s dead, and it was my mother’s clan before she joined my father in Clan Sabrae where I was born. I bear her name - this clan’s name - so I have equal rights to be a part of this clan after the Blight as I do with Clan Sabrae,” He paused expectantly, and Zevran nodded to show he understood the brief, fascinating glimpse of Dalish politics. “But despite the fact I’m technically home again even if this isn’t my clan, I don’t feel as homesick as I was at the start of the Blight. Here I am, surrounded by everything Duncan and the Blight took away from me, but I don’t feel like this could be a home for me one day when the Blight’s over if I can’t find Clan Sabrae…” Theron studied his tea, and Zevran watched the slow furrows that appeared on his brow that creased his elegant vallaslin. For a time all was quiet save the wind in the trees around them, and Zevran began to wish he’d brought out at least one blanket for himself.
“Zevran, do you think it’s possible for home to no longer feel like home?”
Zevran raised one eyebrow. Surely he was the worst person to ask such a thing of? Theron would have better luck with Alistair or Leliana, perhaps even Morrigan or the dog. He did not bother to consider Sten on his mental list; the giant may well have sprung out of the earth one day a fully grown, armed and armoured warrior so there was no point. The others had all been raised in something approaching a normal life with family members, not born in a brothel and sold to an assassin’s guild while still a child. How would he have any idea how to feel about a home that he had never truly had? He would have laughed at the question, but the distressed expression on Theron’s face stopped him from being as callous as Morrigan would be in this situation.
“I am not sure I have an answer to that, unfortunately. Not one you may want to hear right now, at least. My apologies. You would be better off asking it of one of our travelling companions.”
“But they’re all asleep.”
“I know. So it falls to humble Zevran to answer your question.”
Theron scoffed from behind the rim of his lifted mug.
“There’s nothin’ humble about you.”
“Humour me?”
“Fine.”
Once again Zevran found his gaze drawn past Theron to the Dalish camp beyond as he considered what to say next, studying the outlines of the aravels.
Could he really consider the places the Crows had stashed him over the years home? The dockside warehouses, the cramped apartments beside the leatherworks. Despite how the smell was a fond one to him even years later, that had hardly been a home.
The brothel had not been a home either, simply his birthplace and a roof over his head while he learned how to walk and talk and avoid attention from the handful of customers who took unsavory interest in him or the other whoresons.
He had tried to find a home in that passing Dalish clan, somewhere he could be finally be free of the Crows, for all of the week that had lasted until the Crows came to collect him.
Zevran sighed through his nose, knowing that he was hard-pressed to name any of those places as home. He truly was the worst man to ask about the subject of home. Instead, he tried to consider the matter from Theron’s perspective.
Theron had grown up in a small, unchanging community for all of his life. He had had tightly knit family and friends all in one. No more knowledge than what he needed to survive in the depths of a forest far removed from human civilisation.
The Blight had torn him away from all of that, forced him to adapt to the world outside the forest full of things like humans and buildings with walls and ceilings. Created distance between him and home, gave him time to adjust to his new circumstances. Then it had brought him back to his old surroundings, reminded him of what he had lost. Except now he was a changed man with a new perspective and home no longer felt like home. He felt like he no longer belonged here in a Dalish camp, but he certainly did not belong to the outside world either.
“Sometimes a home can change when you step outside for a while. You turn back and it is not what it once was. Or that is what it feels like, no?” Zevran offered with a dry chuckle.
“But I’m the one that’s changed, not everything else. I’ve learnt so much about myself, maybe too much. I don’t think I can change back to who I was before the Blight, as much as I want to,” Theron mused. His voice was quiet in a way Zevran thought was gentle until he saw how Theron’s expression became one of bitter sadness. “But even before the Blight, there were times when I didn’t feel like I could belong to Clan Sabrae. I wasn’t-” He stopped himself with a sharp, irritated sigh and shook his head, to Zevran’s surprise.
“You weren’t what?” Zevran prompted gently, now curious.
“I couldn’t be what they wanted me t’ be, I wasn’t… Oi’m not…” Theron faltered and cleared his throat.
“Your clan?” Zevran guessed, hoping that Theron would take pity on his confusion and give him a straight answer. “What did they want you to be that you could not?”
“A family man.” Theron folded his arms tightly as he looked away, shoulders tensing. The ensuing silence was uncomfortably desolate; there was a sudden tension in the air. Zevran considered what Theron had just said, and recalled the very early days of their relationship.
How he’d flirted and teased with no real reward until he was ready to admit defeat in the face of Theron’s stoicness and move onto another potential bedmate, and then Theron had invited him into his tent, high-strung and nervous for most of the night. Zevran closed his eyes as he realised exactly what it was Theron was too afraid of admitting so openly despite the fact it was just the two of them again.
He got the feeling that if he tried to pry again at something that was such a sore point for Theron, he could easily ruin the conversation.
“It is a shame returning here has served as an unpleasant reminder for you. I...” Zevran fumbled with his words, trying to think of something to say Theron could take comfort in, and failed. “Apologies,” He laughed, and it sounded far more confident than he felt. “I told you I am not the best man to ask something like this of.”
Theron’s lips curved up into a faint smile of thanks as they looked at each other.
“No, it’s alright. It still helped.”
Zevran glanced Theron up and down swiftly. His body was no longer tense, and he was truly relaxed. Their talk had indeed helped. He had helped.
Yet another silence settled over them, but this one was far more comfortable than the last. Despite how he was now shivering in the cold night air, Zevran didn’t want the conversation to end yet. It seemed like Theron didn't either, because after a few moments he spoke again.
“Shall we move over to the fire?” The question caught Zevran by surprise, but he eagerly nodded and lead the way back to the sparking flames where they could continue speaking in more comfortable surroundings - about pleasanter subjects, of course.
He was jealous of the way Theron had opened up, willingly made himself vulnerable to the man who had tried to kill him twice. How many men and women were brave or simply foolish enough to do such a thing with a man who was no more than a weapon? How easily had it come to Theron, who was certainly no fool?
As they settled down for a quieter conversation in the intimacy offered by the campfire, Zevran knew that despite the confusion he felt about whatever the state their relationship was in, he did not want it to end on bad terms.
He hoped this conversation would be the first of many; if Theron would deign to sit and talk with him again, show this more emotional, less stoic side of himself. Zevran studied Theron as he talked about happier times with his clan and smiled at the memories, wondering if he would be so brave as to make himself so terrifyingly, so enviably vulnerable again.