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Finally, finally! As the sun set over the Brecilian Forest, they set up camp next to a lake, which meant Theron and the others could have a wash at last. He only had a while more to wait, since he had let the ladies go first, just to keep them happy. Too uncomfortable in his own grime to sit still, he was cleaning his bow with a special oil Master Ilen had given him before he’d left the clan. His poor bow was in a sorry state after the Deep Roads.
Zevran, never one to pass up an opportunity to flirt, had come over waggling his eyebrows and offering to help the Warden ‘wax his bowstring’, which had gotten him an exasperated glare, and Alistair’s red-faced spluttering.
Thankfully, Wynne returned as he finished polishing his bow, sighing with relief, all smiles now. Wynne, possibly the most fastidious about her cleanliness next to himself, had been wishing for a bath for days, and she’d been getting quite cranky without her regular baths. His mabari, Elgara, trailed after her, moping because he was clean, too. The hound’s fur stuck up in every direction - Wynne must have given him a vigorous towelling. The healer came over to where he sat by the fire and pressed a new bar of soap into his hands.
“It has elfroot extract in it. The better to heal your wounds with,” she explained. Theron beamed and thanked her. Wynne definitely had a soft spot for him. He got to his feet, making sure to tuck his beloved bow away, safe and sound.
“Alistair, bath time,” he called to his fellow Warden.
“Are you suggesting something?” the templar replied, mock-offended, hands on his hips.
“I’m suggesting that you just narrowly beat out Elgara as the smelliest person here.” The Dalish elf smirked.
“Absolutely not. I’m waiting until morning. There could be some sort of water-dwelling darkspawn. And then what?” Alistair protested.
Theron rolled his eyes. “Suit yourself.”
He looked around the camp. Sten was on guard duty, Zevran was off scouting the perimeter, and not even Andraste herself could get Oghren to have a bath. Shale was, well. Did golems even need baths?
That left just him. Grateful for some time alone, he collected his soap, washcloth and fresh clothes, heading towards the water’s edge.
It was a lovely evening for it. A fat, yellow moon was already on the rise in the dying light of the day, casting an ethereal glow over the water. It was hard to steal moments of joy like this these days, but the Blight made you stop and appreciate the little things sometimes. Funny how a simple thing like a bath in a lake would be a treat, but self-care often took a backseat to darkspawn slaying.
And at least they were close to nature, not far from the Dalish camp now, something Theron sorely missed when he had to put up near shemlen settlements. He had not truly appreciated the open sky and wind on his face until he had been stuck in the Deep Roads for days on end. He shuddered. Never again. He could not wait to be with his people. Perhaps finally, people would stop asking if he and Zevran were related, just because they were both elves.
He undressed, leaving his clothes in a neat pile. Wading into the water, he found it warmer than expected. Theron was just untangling his hair out of its braid when -
“You look so different with your hair down, Warden Mahariel,” came a familiar Antivan purr. In that accent, his name took on a particular lilt, but all the more charming for it. “Even more ravishing than usual.”
Theron’s head snapped up, eyes wide, to find Zevran perched in a tree at the edge of the lake. “Fenedhis,” he swore, as his heart rate struggled back to normalcy. “I did not see you there, lethallin.”
“Ah, but a good assassin is the one you do not see.” Zevran was lounging on a sturdy branch, back leaning against the trunk, a playful smile at his lips.
“Is that why you announced very loudly in plain sight that I was to die, when you tried to assassinate me?” Theron snorted. “In broad daylight, no less. Good assassin, indeed.” He allowed his voice to drip with sarcasm.
Zevran clasped a dramatic hand to his chest. “Warden! You wound me so with your callous barbs.”
“What are you doing up there, anyway?” Theron frowned, crossing his arms. “You’re meant to be scouting the perimeter.”
“And I have an excellent vantage point from which to examine said perimeter,” came the other elf’s smooth reply. “And other things.” Zevran grinned. “In any case. I felt it was only prudent to warn you of my presence. Not to have done so have been… ungentlemanly, shall we say.”
“How kind of you,” was the Warden’s sardonic reply.
Theron returned to his ablutions. Alistair may have had some reservations about Zevran, but long had past the time where there was a real concern the assassin might strike when he was most vulnerable. They were… different, now. Theron supposed the elf could be considered falon, a friend, at least.
He also did not care that he was naked before another. He had bathed often in front of other elves, after all. The shemlen were the ones with puritanical ideas about nudity. There was no shame in it. But when the Dalish elf turned around to reach for his soap, he heard a loud, lupine whistle from the tree.
“My dear Warden,” Zevran called. “I did not know you were even more painted an elf than I was.”
Not only did the Dalish elf have the traditional markings on his face, but they spread upward across his shoulder blades in the form of branches, and down his spine as roots, flaring over his lower back. Truthfully, Theron forgot they were there most of the time, out of his sight as they were.
“Fascinating.” Zevran cast an appreciative eye over his back, though he suspected said appreciation was not merely for his vallaslin. “May I have a closer look?”
Feeling as though his patience was about to be sorely tested, Theron sighed, but said, “I don’t mind.”
Zevran, meanwhile, had hopped down from his nest, approaching the Warden for a better look. He paused, then shrugged, stripping carelessly on the bank. Theron tried very hard not to stare, but the rogue was all lean muscle, with eye-catching black waves following the lines of them, dancing down his back, over the curve of his hip bone. El’garnan, give me strength, he thought, determinedly scrubbing his upper arm with a washcloth, as Zevran waded towards him.
Together, the two elves made quite a picture - the Antivan with his sun-kissed skin and golden locks, and the pale Dalish with his moon-coloured hair, both painted in different ways for different reasons. As he drew closer, amber eyes like warm honey met stony grey ones, and Zevran’s natural instinct was to break into a genuine smile at the sight of them.
“Did it hurt much, Warden?” Zevran eyed the other elf with undisguised curiosity, while distractedly scooping water over himself.
“You have tattoos,” his companion answered. Loose of their braid, Theron’s quicksilver tresses gleamed in the evening light as he washed them. “You tell me.”
“Ah, but not quite as extensive as yours, yes?” Zevran flashed him a winning smile. “Yours are a feast for the eyes. As is the rest of you.”
“They are not tattoos, they are vallaslin,” the Warden corrected, rolling his eyes at the assassin’s last statement. “Blood writing, in the common tongue.”
Zevran peered closer. “I am told they have deep, sacred meaning. Is that true?”
“Indeed. Mine are dedicated to the goddess Andruil, Lady of the Hunt, Sister of the Moon, Mother of Hares.”
“How suitable, given your weapon of choice.” His companion nodded sagely. “I hear also that she was beautiful beyond compare.” Theron felt the other elf’s eyes drink him in, and his face reddened. “Very fitting, if I may say so.”
The Grey Warden swatted at his companion’s arm, who dodged him like child’s play with a rogue’s reflexes and a giggle.
“My path does seem guided by Her hand. She created the The Way of Three Trees, the Vir Tanadhal. The Way of the Arrow, the Bow and the Forest: Vir Assan, Vir Bor’assan, Vir Adahlen.”
To his surprise, Zevran let out a dreamy little sigh. “What?” the Dalish elf asked, bemused.
With a silly grin on his face, Zevran said, “My dear Warden, I could listen to you speak these Elvhen words all day and night. They roll off your tongue so beautifully, like music.”
Theron tutted, splashing water at his companion in annoyance. The other elf had done nothing but flirt ceaselessly with him, and with everyone else, since joining their party. It would not do, to take him seriously. His retaliation only made Zevran laugh more, a high, musical noise.
“It did hurt, to answer your question. But we must remain silent. To make a noise would be to admit weakness,” Theron explained.
“How strange. Mine were administered in much the same way. They are specific to the Crows, and House Arainai. Mostly, it was a test of endurance.” A wistful look came over the assassin’s face. “They run the needles into your skin, over and over again, and you must submit until the tattoos are black enough, to the Master’s satisfaction. They berate you, hold you down if you kick and scream. Truly, a ritual built on pain.” Zevran chuckled, oddly enough. “Me, I quite enjoyed it. Besides, I think they look rather attractive.”
Theron could not disagree. He caught a glimpse of a tattoo on the inner thigh of the other elf, just peeking above the water, and decided he’d gotten off easier. Then his traitorous eyes began to wander past the tattoo, into dangerous territory. Hurriedly, he picked up his soap and handed it to his companion, who thanked him.
“Still,” Zevran continued cheerfully, “nothing was as bad as that infernal-”
“Itching,” they said at the same time. Both elves blinked, and then burst into laughter.
“Oh, it was terrible,” the Warden grinned with fondness at the memory. “I had to stick my face in a cold stream every few hours, because I was told-”
“No scratching,” Zevran finished, with a rueful smile. “I use to put hot, hot towels on mine. It felt amazing, for about five minutes. It must have been so much more awful for you – all over your back, as well!”
“Vallaslin are not often committed upon the back, but I wanted it done before I was forced to leave my clan to join the Grey Wardens. Keeper Marethari obliged. It is another symbol of Andruil: Fervanis, the Oak. I did not feel the pain as badly, that day. I… had other things on my mind,” he finished lamely. “I welcomed it, in a way. And it felt quite nice on my spine, at times.”
“All in one sitting, as well? Goodness me, Warden. I am beginning to see you in a new light.” Zevran was now gazing at his companion with admiration, clearly impressed. “I wonder what my mother would have had, which god she might have dedicated her markings to. Her Dalish nature was always a point of fascination for me.”
“Indeed. It would depend on her clan, as well. There are slight variations in the vallaslin.” A thought struck the Grey Warden. “And what about you, if you were Dalish?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know enough about your pantheon to choose, Warden. What do you think?”
Theron pondered this for a minute, studying the Antivan. “Dirthamen,” was his answer. “The Keeper of Secrets. Twin brother to Falon’Din, Friend of the Dead. His symbols include ravens.”
He made Zevran laugh again, a sound he was beginning to enjoy drawing from the other elf. “That would suit this particular rogue assassin quite well. Though I profess I would rather worship at your feet, my fine Warden,” Zevran added with a sly curve of his mouth. Theron groaned his exasperation, making as if to leave, but Zevran caught his arms to stop him, still giggling. “No, no, I’ll behave, I promise.”
“You? Behave?” the Warden raised an arched eyebrow.
They continued to bathe together in a comfortable silence. Theron had rarely seen Zevran with his golden hair let down and unbraided. It was much longer than he’d thought, streaming past his shoulders. Massaging soap into his scalp, Zevran asked, “So, Dirthamen, was it? What does his… vallaslin look like?”
The word was stilted in the Antivan’s mouth, the accents were in the wrong place, but to be expected. All the same, it sent a little pang of joy through Theron to see that he was trying. They were the only two elves in their party, after all, and he was homesick, though soon they would be with his people.
“Let’s see…” Theron stepped closer with a splash, studying the assassin’s face. “There on the forehead would be markings of the raven,” he murmured, lifting a hand to trace the outstretched wings of a bird above Zevran’s eyebrows, with the head and body between them, down to the point of his nose. “Then there are the curved fishbone lines here and there…” His finger trailed a path over both of Zevran’s cheekbones, resembling a long string of stitches. “And then some on the chin.” Theron drew little lines, blooming out from under Zevran’s bottom lip, almost touching it.
The other elf, stunned by this sudden moment of intimacy, was staring at Theron with his eyes wide, glazed over. Somehow, Zevran could not help but feel as if he had just been anointed.
The Warden cocked his head to one side. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, quite.” Zevran let out a breathless chuckle, still a little dazed. “You must tell me more about this later, hm? I feel like there is so much I do not know.” He gave Theron a weak smile.
“I’d like to.” Theron felt a well of happiness threaten to bubble over inside him. “Telling you about my history – our history – makes me feel a little closer to home.”
“Our history,” Zevran repeated, testing the new words in his mouth. “I never thought of it that way, but you are right.”
“Perhaps one day, lethallin,” Theron smiled, touching a hand to the Antivan’s cheek, his fingers brushing over the black tattoos there. “One day, you might come back to us.”
With that, Theron waded back to shore. Zevran stared at the grand oak that spanned the Dalish elf’s back as he went, though as more of Theron’s form emerged from the water, his gaze was concentrated a little further south.