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“Do they mean anything?”
The question catches Zevran by surprise. It’s been a long, tedious day of marching across the Imperial Highway, and the relative privacy and cool shade of the tent coupled with the rhythmic sensation of Allys’s fingers tracing against his skin has nearly lulled him to sleep. He slowly opens his eyes and turns his head, although Allys remains just out of view as she continues to lightly draw her fingertips over the designs that curl across his back.
“The tattoos?” he asks, and Allys hums thoughtfully.
“Is that what you call them?” Her fingers continue their journey, following the curves and lines of dark ink that wind between his shoulder blades, along his spine, down his hips.
Zevran gives her a half-shrug, gently so as not to disturb her inspection. “They are pretty. Must they have a meaning beyond that?” A grin creeps across his face. “And of course, they invite the attention of lovely Wardens.”
Allys laughs and ends her study of Zevran’s tattoos to reposition herself so that she is once again lying next to him, her bright brown eyes level with his. Her hair has been released from its typical tight bun and now falls past her shoulders, framing her face in a halo of dark curls. Even after a day of trudging through the Fereldan dirt and mud, her smile is warm as the sun.
She laughs at his compliments, but Zevran isn’t joking in the slightest when he calls her lovely.
“You know, when I first saw you, I thought they were a different type of vallaslin,” she says, resting her chin in her hand as her eyes roam over the tattooed path from Zevran’s brow down to his jawline. “I thought they might be meant for some god I didn’t recognize.”
“I suppose they still could be-is there a god for devilishly handsome sinners?”
Allys rolls her eyes. “I’m serious! Getting my vallaslin hurt like mad-but the pain is a sign of our devotion to the gods. That was the point, and the purpose made it easier. So it didn't make sense to me that someone would go through that without a reason."
“What can I say? We Antivans are willing to suffer for beauty.” Zevran flashes another smile, but it fades slightly as studies the vallaslin- the blood writing, they call it- across Allys’s face. He knows the lore behind the markings; his time with the Dalish provided him the chance to learn, and even to hear some of the legends of the gods. But his time with the clan was short and his education quick and basic, so there is much he still does not know. “What of yours, then? What purpose do they hold for you?”
With a gentle touch, Allys takes Zevran’s hand in hers and brings it to her face, so that his fingertips brush against the dark marks of her vallaslin. She guides his fingers across her features, tracing the lines of ink up her chin, across her cheekbones, over her brow. “These are for Andruil.”
“Ah, I remember her stories. She is the Huntress, yes? How very fitting.”
“I thought so, too,” Allys answers, pleased. She closes her eyes, leans into Zevran’s touch, and after a moment begins reciting something in elvhen. “Vir assan. Vir bor’assan. Vir adahlen.”
Zevran has no inkling what the words mean- he hadn’t stayed with the Dalish nearly long enough to learn any of the ancient language- but Allys’s voice, low and melodic, gives them a certain weight. It’s as if the meaning is right on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t quite capture it.
Noticing his expression, Allys explains. “It’s the Way of the Hunt- Andruil’s code. I started learning that code from the time I was tall enough to fire a bow. I’ve spent so much of my life in the woods, learning the teachings of Andruil. When the time came to choose my vallaslin, it seemed appropriate to honor her.”
Zevran is silent for a moment, thinking back to his time with the Dalish. He’s learned the legends and the names of their gods, but the reverence with which the Dalish speak of their Pantheon…that isn’t something so easily taught. “Do you really believe in all those legends? They are good tales to tell, I give you that, but…”
Allys’s voice betrays no doubt when she answers. “I do.”
“Even in the midst of…” Zevran vaguely waves his hand, motioning to the entire world of calamity beyond the quiet sanctity of their tent. “…of all of this?”
“Even so.” Allys’s smile turns thoughtful, and her eyes go distant for a moment. “Maybe the gods themselves cannot step in and stop the Blight for us, but their presence is felt- by the Dalish, by me. It is because of Andruil and her lessons that I am alive today, that I have the skills to bring this destruction to an end.”
And there it is again- that sensation of being so close to something, but not managing to grasp it enough to even identify the feeling. In a way, it reminds Zevran of the Andrastians and their Maker. Something that just almost speaks to Zevran, but isn’t quite his.
Perhaps Zevran’s contemplation is showing on his face, for Allys gives him a searching look and asks, “What do you believe?”
Zevran quickly banishes his muddled thoughts and gives her a wry smile. “I am an assassin. The only things we believe in are steel and gold.”
Yes, steel and gold. Things that are solid and real, if somewhat less poetic than songs and prayer. It could be that in another life- one where the Crows weren’t constantly on his tail, one where he was able to settle somewhere for more than a few short weeks, perhaps even one where his mother never separated from her clan in the first place- he would have been able to take the time to study and prove himself and become part of the Dalish in truth, earning his own vallaslin. Perhaps in that life, he believes in a purpose for himself, believes that a god may look his way.
But that is not a life that belongs to him, nor one that he can truly imagine.
And yet Allys looks at him with a softness in her gaze. She leans closer and tenderly presses a kiss against his temple, at the start of his curving tattoo, then follows the mark down his cheekbone, planting more soft kisses along the way. Finally she moves to his lips, and whispers, “I don’t think that’s true. And I don’t think you do, either. You’re a better person that you give yourself credit for, and you don’t get that way through greed and violence. Maybe it’s not the gods, but you must believe in something greater than what the Crows taught you.”
“What makes you so certain of that, dear Warden?”
“Because I have faith in you.” Allys kisses his lips, softly, and then pulls back, the previous mischief returning to her expression. “And just so you know, that’s why I like your tattoos. Because whatever meaning they do or don’t have, they’re yours.”
Zevran does not know what to say. He wants to tell her she’s wrong, to try and make her see that these tattoos she admires are nothing but decoration and embellishment, just as dashing and shallow as every other tool of his trade. But his throat is thick and the words won’t come, so he just kisses her again, deeper this time, and tries not to dwell too much on her words or the look in her eyes.
He thinks about it all later that night, of course. The thoughts simply won’t leave, and a part of him wishes he could go back to when things like this were easy. This should be easy. Just another mission, another conquest. But maybe…maybe Allys is not entirely wrong. Zevran is not a Crow any longer. In truth, he doesn’t know what he is. But when he thinks of the woman in his arms- the woman who not only spared his life, but showed him what his life could be worth- he realizes there is nowhere in this world he wouldn’t follow her.
It is terrifying, and exhilarating, and Zevran wonders if perhaps this is what it feels like to have faith.