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Theron Mahariel, Ferelden’s Hope, Grey Warden, the fate of Ferelden rests on his shoulders and he just can’t deal with it. Can’t deal with the knowledge that the lives of so many people rests on his shoulders, can’t deal with Tamlen.
He grabs his dagger from his belt, stops himself from thinking about Tamlen, inside his tent alone. The lantern he’s turned as far down as it can go without the tent being shrouded in complete darkness. Any sounds from outside is drowned in the heavy downpour of rain, the canvas of the tent bulges down at the top.
He doesn’t think about Tamlen.
The cool metal of the dagger is comfort, a safety, it provides nothing else that he looks for. There’s something… something good, pretty even. About knowing he can slit his throat at any minute. Something warm, like blood of tamlen, or the glow of the setting sun, or why his dad won’t call him his son.
His parents, clan, never talked about the day he came out.
They never acknowledged him.
The metal slowly warms up, the neck warm against the cool metal. He wishes it would stay cold forever. Fighting a shiver from the wind ripping through the thin cloth of the tent’s walls.
He doesn’t allow himself to make a noise. To let the emotions swelling in his chest, threatening to overtake him and make him wallow inside his own head and body and existence be too much. He doesn’t allow himself to be overtaken by emotions he doesn’t want to deal with, the feelings he’s been desperately avoiding for years .
Theron- he’s not Theron. He’s the Warden. Mahariel. You. Grey Warden. Elf in your position. He’s not a person, he’s a concept, a hope and bright light in the darkness that will take over the world if he were to just lie down in the road and die. He can’t give up. He won’t give up.
The Warden presses the dagger to his throat and fights the need to slit it. Because that’s how you do it, that’s how you kill a demon in a boy’s body. His hands shake, the dagger steady against his throat. He doesn’t move it. He doesn’t move his body. He doesn’t move at all.
He’s tried to exorcise the demons in his body before, worked out and trained until his body ached and legs refused to move anymore. Thero- the Warden kicks and punches trees and training dolls and people until his body refuses to move and then he just takes a health potion with the earthy, green taste of elfroot and then fights and trains and punches some more.
And he knows it’s a waste, but he can’t find it in himself to care because he needs it like he needs the dagger against his throat.
The Warden has always been a rogue who would use his teeth to rip out his enemies throat if push should come to shove and it has , shemlen too close his clan, alone in the forest, templars looking too hard at the mages in the clan. The city of god in his body feels empty and forgotten as the Maker is to the Andrastians he presses the dagger to his throat and slits his throat.
Because that’s how you exorcise the demons in your body.
His throat bleeds, but he knows it’s not fatal. He takes a breath and lingers in the pain of the dagger sliding across the skin on his neck and knows it’s not fatal but hopes it will be anyway.
The metal is as warm as his skin on the other side of the neck. He doesn’t move it. Blood stains his tunic.
Ther-- warden, warden, warden isn’t going to kill himself anytime soon. He knows he can’t do it because the hope of the country, of just too many people, rests on his shoulders and his shoulders alone and he can’t burden Alistair with the burden of so many lives to deal with himself. Like he himself was burdened.
Suicide is such a bore by now.
He fights a need to skin his body with the dagger warm against his throat and leave himself on the side of the road like kills after darkspawn attacks.
The Warden isn’t going to kill himself anytime soon. He wants to suffer. The dagger brings a comfort and safety, it grounds him, slightly, when everything in him rebels against his brain and thoughts and feelings.
He doesn’t hear his name (“Warden? ”) be called behind him, doesn’t hear the flap of the canvas opening. The- the Warden’s back is against the opening of the tent, on his knees and bare feet pointing towards the opening.
A gasp from behind him is almost enough for him to move the dagger, the voice, so familiar, in a low hiss makes his heart thud harshly against his chest. Begging to be let out, clanging against his ribs in a familiar tune he wishes would stop.
“What are you doing? ”
The Antivan accent is heavy in the words, the usual pet names long gone from the sentence. The Warden doesn’t turn around. A warm hand grasps around his much too cold one, moves it away from his throat with a surprising strength.
The dagger clatters to the ground, the sound muted from the rain outside. The Warden doesn’t move his eyes from the canvas in front of him, doesn’t listen to the soft word and harsh breaths from his partner besides him.
He doesn’t think about Tamlen.
(“I’ve always loved you, lethal'lan.”)
The ghoul wasn’t Tamlen it couldn’t have been Tamlen he doesn’t want to think about Tamlen. Tamlen Tamlen Tamlen. He wishes his mind would STOP.
The Warden misses the comfort of a blade against his neck, he tears his eyes from the canvas in front of him and stares into the brown eyes of his would be assassin, so many months ago. His mouth moves, the Warden belatedly realises, his eyes slide down to the assassin’s mouth and watches it move. He hears none of the words.
The Warden looks over at the dagger on the ground, realises it’s too far away to reach again. He wishes he wore more daggers. The metal against his neck a safety he longed for. The- He looks back at Zevran, his eyes glance down on the dagger strapped to his belt and he doesn’t think.
The blade of the dagger is cold against his neck again, Zevran stares in surprise and his hands moves fast.
Just this once, the Warden is faster. He can’t stop himself from thinking that Zevran allows him to be faster, allows him to grab the dagger out of his belt and press it against his own throat. He can’t imagine the motion, the movement, was too surprising for the assassin to know about.
The metal is cold, but the hand around his own is warmer than before. He wonders how much Zevran dares push him, there with the blade against his throat and Zevran’s hands over his own.
“I just want to hurt.” the Warden hears himself say, the metal shakes with his words, Zevran straightens his back at the words, the hand as firm as before.
“Why?” the Antivan accent heavy again, heavier than it usually is. The Warden wonders if Zevran is okay.
“Because suicide is such a bore,” he repeats his earlier thoughts, meets Zevran’s searching eyes. “And I wish to suffer.”
He wishes he could tell what the Crow was thinking, his face betraying nothing. His eyes are cold, set, as they meet the Warden’s own. The assassin says nothing.
The Warden’s hand feels too cold to grasp around the hilt anymore, he stops fighting. Zevran’s hand moves it so easily he wonders if Zevran even tried earlier. He wishes the assassin would just leave him alone so he could continue his self destruction.
(he would. when no-one was looking. there were more than one way of self destructing and he knew them all.)
“Mi corazón,” Zevran says, the Warden wishes he would just say his name, puts the dagger back in its sheath on his belt, and looks so much more guarded this time. “Let me find some salve for the wound.”
The Warden shakes his head, wishes Zevran would use his name just once.
“Leave me.” he says, instead, commanding and with a finality he hopes Zevran won’t argue.
“No,” Zevran shakes his head as he speaks the word, the Warden can’t stop the surge of hatred towards him. “Not while you are like this.”
Zevran stays.
But he never once says the Warden’s name.