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The bed is empty when he wakes up.
That in itself is not unusual; Dickon rises with the sun and Zevran prefers to lounge about in Highever Weave sheets and imagine that he’s Lord of the Keep. But he can’t hear him in the washroom, nor sparring outside.
He hears nothing.
The door to the balcony is wide open, the curtains dancing in the breeze. Neither of them would ever make that mistake on their –
“Amor?” Zevran asks quietly, sliding the knife out from under his pillow. “Dickon, are you there?”
He is, thankfully. Alerting the guard is hassle that Zevran can do without.
Dickon is sat on the balcony, knees pressed against the stone railings and bare shoulders hunched towards them. He will never understand Fereldans. Yes, it’s warmer than Wintermarch – but that doesn’t mean it’s warm.
His lover doesn’t seem to notice.
“Dickon?” Zevran says again.
Dickon turns his head slightly – so he can hear, and does acknowledge. He’s still present.
He sits down on the stone balcony, behind Dickon, but close enough to feel his body heat. He slips the dagger into his belt and waits.
“I don’t want to die,” Dickon whispers. It’s barely audible over the wind, and the sound of Vigil’s Keep waking up.
Zevran kisses the top of Dickon’s spine and says nothing, warm lips and cold skin. He rests his face against Dickon’s shoulder and ignores the sudden writhing pit in his stomach.
Vigil’s Keep is quieter than normal today: the guards changing rotation and the kitchen staff chattering. No wardens.
“I don’t – I can’t…” he shakes his head and turns to look at Zevran. His eyes are – different. Dickon’s eyes, but – not. Desperate, red-rimmed and something… inhuman about them.
“Dickon?”
“I can hear it. In my – head. Just over and over, like a – they’re singing. I can hear them. The – song.”
The Calling.
The taint.
He can’t help himself: he shifts closer, trying to press himself so close that they can’t be parted, tangled in nerves and sinew and bone. If you go, I go. Not without you.
Dickon is shaking.
“I can hear the songs.”
“Te quiero,” Zevran whispers. I love you, I love you, I need you.
Dickon curls into him abruptly, so small all of a sudden. He holds him tight, presses his face to his lover’s soft dark hair.
“I don’t want to die. I’m too – I’m not…” Dickon shakes his head, and Zevran can feel the conflict brewing inside. Tangled and complex and shameful, like the love life of some fine Antivan noblewoman. “I can hear the song.”
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m here. Listen to me, amor, not the song.”
The man in his arms shudders, chokes on his words.
“I love you.”
“I don’t want to die.”
He presses closer to Dickon, as if he can share the song, forehead to forehead. He hears nothing, only the panicked beats of his own heart.
Maybe that’s enough; one last serenade from a dying man. Maybe it’s not so different, in the end.
Vigil’s Keep is quiet as the morning dawns.