Chapter Text
“Here we are at last.” Theron allowed himself to relax as they finally reached the long stone bridge that would deliver them into the imposing grey fortress. In the winter light that glinted off the snowy mountains all around, the fortress reared up as if it was carved from the mountain it rested on, towers reaching up like fingers to indeed hold the sky.
Zevran muttered something from somewhere within the folds of his cloak, narrowing his eyes at a brief, sharp gust that threw snow up at their faces. He’d complained bitterly about the snow and the cold as soon as they’d entered the foothills, and had remained huddled in a thick cloak as they’d climbed the well-worn path - or, at the ranger’s insistence, cut through the snow and straggling trees that managed to survive above the treeline, following animal trails as shortcuts or around obstacles.
The ranger nodded in agreement, deciding that Zevran had said something positive, and tried to quell his instinctive unease at the sight of the guards that had been sent out to escort them in. How exactly a bridge could be more dangerous than the mountains they’d spent the week travelling through, Theron didn’t know. Then again, he’d refused the offer of an envoy to be sent to travel with him, knowing that two elves would be able to cover ground far quicker than a group of men in armour who would inevitably only draw more attention.
A little surprisingly, the Inquisitor herself was waiting near the gates to greet them, along with someone who must have been one of her advisors. She made an imposing figure, her height only added to by her tapering, slightly curved horns.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Hero of Ferelden.” She began as Theron pulled the hood of his cloak down.
“The same to you, Herald.” The ranger answered, looking up at the high-cheekboned Qunari woman - he’d almost forgotten just how tall the Qunari were. There was a flash of something in her vivid green eyes when she heard the title, and a second later Theron realised it was irritation. She didn’t like being called Herald? He would have chuckled at that, but then the Inquistor’s advisor, a man named Cullen, was suggesting they continue the discussion elsewhere.
Zevran looked around curiously as they were led through the fortress, no doubt memorising every possible escape route or good vantage points.
“Are they sure this is not a castle?” He murmured to Theron as they walked behind the other two.
“Whatever it is, it’s impressive. Watchtowers, stables, even their own tavern.” Theron paused. “We’ll have to explore further in our own time.” He smirked quickly, before their attention was caught as they entered what could only have been Skyhold’s main hall. It was a long room with a towering ceiling, and both elves raised their eyebrows when they saw what seemed to be a throne made from dragon teeth and bone, perhaps an entire head.
“I never got a throne.” Theron whispered as they were led past, and he actually sounded scandalised.
They were led through one of the doors to the left, into what seemed to be an office, for lack of a better word. A fire burned steadily in a hearth, warming the stone room. There was a desk set to one side near another door, placed at an angle so the woman seated behind it could see anyone who walked through either door. She had been writing letters, but stopped when the four of them entered.
She smiled very warmly at the Inquisitor, in a way that made Theron and Zevran exchange a curious glance, and got to her feet.
“Welcome to Skyhold, sers.” She said, approaching the two travellers. Zevran’s eyes brightened when he heard her accent, the first one he’d heard since leaving Antiva a month ago. “I apologise for the lack of ceremony, but from your letters it seemed like you would not be arriving for another week.” She apologised, looking from one to the other. Theron stopped himself from smiling; that had been the plan. He would have hated being fussed over, so whenever Zevran had written they’d made it seem like they were further away than they truly were.
“It’s perfectly fine.” The blond answered, gaze flicking over to the Inquisitor and Cullen.
“Josephine, we’ll be in the War Room.” The Qunari said, and she led the way out of the room through the other door. The woman, Josephine, nodded, and then directed the two elves to sit in the chairs by the fire.
“I’m sure after so long on the road you’ll want to be given time to recuperate.” She continued, earning her a dry smirk.
“We’re not going to get down to business immediately?” Theron asked, and Josephine hesitated.
“We... Could, I just assumed-”
“We’ve spent a long time already on the roads, but I for one would like to have some time to relax before we turn to the matter of saving the world.” Zevran shot the Dalish elf a pointed glare. “Again.”
Josephine smiled in understanding, and then went off to find an unoccupied guard who could show the two new arrivals to their room. If there was any speculation about why the two shared a room, it was either never voiced or not mentioned around either of them.
“Theron! Zevran!” A voice called when they were halfway across Skyhold’s main hall, and the two elves turned to see Leliana striding towards them. Zevran let out a low whistle of approval at the clinging chainmail, until Theron nudged him in the ribs.
“Leliana, andaran atish’an!” The Dalish elf called, grinning widely so his teeth flashed against the dark contrast of his skin.
“You definitely suit this far more than those Chantry robes. The hood is a nice touch, highly ominous.” Zevran added, watching in amusement as Theron accepted a brief hug of greeting.
“I thought you two were being too slow. I should have known you’d do this.” The Spymaster shook her head, eyes bright even if she didn’t smile.
“Ah, you know how Theron is.” Zevran sighed, leaning casually against the ranger. “Never one for a fuss.”
“That is true.” Leliana nodded.
“Please, carry on discussing me as if I’m not here.” Theron sighed, rolling his eyes.
Zevran shot him a grin.
Leliana seemed to notice the guard hovering politely in the background at last, and waved her away.
“I can show them to their quarters.” She added. The trip up to one of Skyhold’s many guest rooms was full of a decade’s worth of chatter, and Leliana left them at the door to unpack without being interrupted or distracted.
Naturally, even between them Theron and Zevran had very little possessions, so the matter of unpacking and settling into their appointed room barely took ten minutes.
“This is a very nice view.” Theron mused as he peered out a window, looking down at what he could see of Skyhold, and then the mountains beyond that seemed to stretch for miles.
“Still cold.” Zevran answered, glaring at the fire and wishing it would heat the room up faster.
“I could leave you here to huddle in the blankets?” Theron suggested, turning from the window.
“I’d prefer it if you were with me. And neither of us had clothes on.”
The ranger sighed in defeat, rubbing at one shoulder underneath his armour.
“Later.” He replied, watching the Antivan’s wicked grin and knowing he’d be held to it. Perhaps against a wall.
“Shall we go explore before we return to that charming Antivan woman?”
Theron barely had to think about it; he nodded as he reached for his bow.
“So long as we don’t end up staying in the tavern for the rest of the day.”
“What a wonderful way to spend the end of the world that would be.” Zevran sighed wistfully as they left the room behind.
The garden they stumbled across entirely by chance was nice enough, even if it was oddly busy and full of people in Chantry robes. They were about to move on, go back into Skyhold and examine some of the rooms off the main hall, when something made Theron stop in his tracks. Zevran frowned in confusion, unable to see what had drawn the other elf’s attention, but he dutifully followed across the grass.
Theron stopped a short distance away from a child standing near what seemed to be a stone gazebo, eyes wide. Zevran looked at the child as well, and then tried not to stare. The young boy had light brown skin, and fine black hair brushed neatly behind his ears. Ears which had a very faint point to them.
“Braska.” The Antivan muttered to himself. The boy looked over, and caught the two elves staring at him. His features were delicate, and sharp for a child.
“Hello.” Theron ventured, for once struggling to look away. His voice was soft, but carefully flat.
“Who are you?” The boy asked, turning to give them his full attention and fixing two deep brown eyes on the two elves. Theron remained silent.
“My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends.” The blond introduced himself, throwing in a mock bow and a joking smile. “This is Theron.” He added, wondering if the child had ever been told who his father was. He glanced across at the Dalish elf, who was now looking out across the garden as if he was bored, but Zevran could see the tension in his shoulders, the deep breaths he was taking. “Who are you?” He asked.
The boy narrowed his eyes at the two of them, obviously wary.
“Kieran.” He eventually said, drawing himself up as if that would make him seem taller. Zevran glanced him over, counting back the years and figuring he was around nine or ten years old by now.
“A fine name.” Theron said, still rather quiet, as he looked back at the child. His child.
He’d been able to cope the past decade by only thinking of the child as a vague concept, something he would never see realised. How could he ever have a son, anyway? And yet, here a son was, completely ignorant of their shared blood, of his heritage. Zevran watched him closely, and then forced a smile.
“Anyway, we had best be getting on. There is much of Skyhold to see, yes?” He said, gently resting a hand on the ranger’s elbow. “It was nice meeting you, Kieran.” He added, quickly steering Theron away to go sit on an unoccupied bench in a secluded corner of the open corridor that ran around the edge of the garden. They were just able to see Kieran at the other end of the garden.
The ranger collapsed onto the bench and buried his head in his hands. He was shaking.
“Zevran.” He mumbled as the Antivan sat close beside him. “He… He’s my son. I have a child.”
Normally, Zevran would have made some quip about wild oats, but he doubted now was the time for a suggestive joke at Theron’s expense.
“He didn’t seem to recognise your name.” The blond offered instead. “Perhaps Morrigan didn’t tell him anything about you? Fed him some drivel about being Maker-sent.” Zevran wrinkled his nose in distaste at the idea of parents who skirted around the subject of telling their children where babies came from. Certainly not the Maker, in his experience.
Theron peered through his fingers towards the garden, eyes wide.
“Of course, if he’s here, that means she must be as well.” The Dalish elf realised with a sinking feeling that did nothing to ease his trembling. If anything, that made his guts twist into even tighter knots. Morrigan could well be here in Skyhold. What if they ran into each other? What if she already knew they were here? Gossip would travel quickly in a place like this.
Theron swallowed past the sudden lump of nausea in his throat, suddenly finding it difficult to keep his breathing slow. He looked over towards Kieran again, and froze like a rabbit when he saw her approach the boy - her son, their son. Morrigan. She hadn’t aged a day since they’d last seen each other during the Battle of Denerim. Or that night. She even seemed to be wearing the same clothes.
With a choked sound Theron ducked his head and curled in on himself, throat feeling constricted.
“Theron?” Zevran asked, concern evident in his voice. He turned slightly, edged closer as the ranger doubled up until his chest was almost parallel to his knees, curling up tightly on himself. “Shall we move elsewhere?” He asked, forcing himself to remain calm in the face of this odd new behaviour, how Theron had just been acting. Perhaps it had been a mistake to talk to Kieran, or linger afterwards. The last thing the ranger needed was to see the woman who’d plagued at least a third of his nightmares for the past decade.
“Don’t think I can.” Theron answered roughly, not looking up from his feet as he struggled to not gasp for breath. The blond frowned, but gently rested his hand on the Dalish elf’s hunched shoulder. He could feel the other elf trembling, his rapid breathing, and looked over towards Morrigan and Kieran again. How could two people inspire such a reaction when they’d only just met one, and hadn’t seen the other in ten years? Theron seemed to be downright terrified at just the sight of Morrigan from a distance, and whatever was happening to him right now because of it, Zevran was at a loss on how to help. This was something different to his usual nightmares.
“Oh, there they are.” A relieved, faintly accented voice came from their right, and Zevran looked up to see the Inquisitor walking towards them, trailed by a gangly young man who seemed tiny beside the Qunari, much of his face hidden by a frankly ridiculously oversized hat. “Are you-” She stopped when she saw Theron behind Zevran, and frowned. “Is he okay?”
Zevran flashed a smile, not removing his hand from the ranger’s back, and he edged slightly forwards on the bench to block a little more of their view.
“Would it be too much trouble to get him a glass of water, perhaps?” He answered, and the Inquisitor nodded even as she frowned in obvious concern for her guest, her curved horns stabbing the air. She turned and walked away, but the young man remained standing a short distance away. Zevran gave him a wary glance, but returned his attention to Theron. The ranger’s head was bowed, but he seemed to have recovered enough to pull the blond’s hand from his shoulder into his lap with shaking, clammy hands, holding it tightly.
“Choking fear, he can’t find the words he wants, even if he could say them. Tongue trapped, torn and tormented.”
The Antivan started at the unfamiliar voice, looking towards the young man who’d been standing to their right, but he wasn’t there. Somehow, he was now on the other side of them, crouched down near Theron and watching him closely.
“What?”
The young man looked at the blond, pale blue eyes half-hidden behind a screen of near-white hair.
“His throat is full of thorns and spider webs. Breathing is hard enough.”
“I gathered that.” Zevran answered, hearing Theron’s laboured breathing even if the worst of his trembling had passed.
“I’m Cole.”
“Zevran.”
“Zev to your friends.”
The Antivan narrowed his eyes again, disconcerted, but questions could wait.
“Too much at once. Your memories hurt like a knife in the chest, they turn to nightmares and what if, what if?” The boy, Cole seemed to be addressing Theron now. “You hurt so much, rabbit in the snare, halla in the spider web. I can help. The pain kills you, but it’s not real. You are not dying, not now.”
Zevran remained quiet, partly out of confusion, but he gently squeezed the ranger’s hand.
“It will be okay, mi amor.” He added softly, and that seemed to help Theron ground himself and start to calm down, breathing evening out from the ragged gasps.
Theron lifted his head up, just enough to wipe the tears from his cheeks and eyes with a shaky, but deep breath out. He sat up then, leaning back against the stone wall behind the bench with his head tilted up towards the ceiling, eyes closed. Zevran felt tension he hadn’t even known had built up leave him. Whatever that… Attack had been, it seemed to be over now.
Cole sat down on Theron’s other side, perched on the end of the bench with pale, long fingers splayed out on the top of his thighs. Zevran looked out towards the garden, and relief washed through him when he saw that Morrigan and Kieran were out of sight.
The three of them remained quiet, listening to the sounds of activity from the garden beyond as they sat wrapped up in their own thoughts. Zevran kept his hand in Theron’s lap, and gradually the ranger’s hands crept back, not clinging tightly but seeking reassurance all the same.
“Perhaps we should see if Skyhold has another garden, yes?” The blond suggested quietly.
Theron let out a humorless laugh, and got to his feet just as the Inquisitor approached once again.
"Let's get this over with." He muttered, as if nothing unusual had just happened.
"Is everything alright?" She asked, and the ranger nodded, his expression as guarded as ever.
"Yes. Lead the way." He insisted, determined now to share what knowledge he had acquired about the Calling.
That night, Zevran was careful to wait until Theron was asleep before he dressed and left the room, ignoring the faint aches moving earned him. He managed to find the rookery well enough, and smirked as he approached the hooded figure sitting behind the desk, a lone candle burning so she wasn’t writing correspondences in the dark.
“It is a lovely night, no?” He began, leaning his shoulder against a nearby beam, and Leliana looked up at him, lowering her quill.
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you and Theron still travel together.” She answered, quickly writing a last sentence before she set the quill back in the inkpot and gave the former Crow her full attention.
“You have done well for yourself, a spymaster for the Inquisition. I’m sure the job has presented you countless opportunities.”
“Did you come all this way in the middle of the night just to say hello, Zevran?” Leliana asked, and the oddly annoyed tone to her voice made him pause. Perhaps he had interrupted a very important letter?
“No, I was simply wondering if you could direct me to Morrigan’s quarters.” He admitted.
“You do realise she has changed just as much as I, if not more. Ten years is a long time.”
“A long time indeed.”
“Kieran-”
“Yes, yes, the child. We met him today. Charming lad, if a little quiet.” Zevran waved a hand dismissively. They looked at each other silently for a moment, weighing each other up.
“I heard about what happened to Theron in the garden.”
“Such unfounded gossip, have you no better sources?”
“Cole was a rather reliable informant.”
Zevran blinked, expression blank.
“Who?” He asked, frowning. Cole… Did he know that name?
Leliana hesitated, and then shook her head.
“Is… He alright?” She asked to change the subject, looking down at her freshly-written letter.
“Theron? He is fine. I think it was the shock that did it.” A half-truth, but Zevran did not want to tell Leliana what had most likely triggered the panicked reaction, not unless Theron gave him permission. “Anyway, as much as I love our little chats - we should really have more, ten years is far too long - where is Morrigan’s room?”
“I doubt she will appreciate you, of all people, paying her a visit this late.”
“I do not intend to seek her appreciation.” Zevran’s face darkened for a second. “I have not waited a decade to exchange pleasantries with her.”
Leliana held his gaze, and realised that if she didn’t tell him he would most likely ask someone else, or perhaps go looking for Morrigan’s room himself. Resigning herself, she told the former Crow and watched him leave as quietly as he’d come.
Zevran was a shadow as he slipped through Skyhold. As well-guarded as the place was, it was simply too big for the number of nightly patrols they could afford; slipping past one was child’s play with sharper elven senses.
He soon found the door Leliana had directed him to, and carefully tried the lock. Unlocked. Hm. Preparing himself for anything, the blond slowly opened the door just wide enough to slip through, and pushed it shut behind him.
Morrigan’s room was similar to his and Theron’s own, but with screen set up to form a makeshift antechamber. Automatically, Zevran stood behind one, checking that his feet were in shadow against the small gap between the bottom of the screen and the floor. He peered round the edge of the screen cautiously. Morrigan was still awake, a magically-conjured light floating on the bedside table as she read from a large book.
Ten years, and she barely seemed to have changed. That same sharp yellow gaze, even her hair was in the same style. Zevran licked his lips, knowing that he would be foolish to underestimate Morrigan. She had had a child in the past ten years, and who was to say that was the only thing she had gained?
Zevran cleared his throat politely as he stepped out from behind the screen into view; Morrigan set the book down and looked at him.
“I wondered when you would come creeping into my chamber, assassin.” She said, voice carrying across the room. She seemed unconcerned, wasn’t even surprised to see him again after ten years.
“If only there had been time during the day.” Zevran sighed wistfully, restraining himself from putting his hands on his daggers. Instead he stepped forwards, into the room. “I have waited ten years, and it turns out I can wait a few more hours.” He added casually, looking around the bedroom. No skulls or sacrificed herd animals, a pity.
“What do you want?” Morrigan asked, sitting up in bed. Zevran turned to her, finally letting his anger out.
“Don’t you have any idea what you did to him, you heartless perra?” He asked, voice harsh and his accent thickening with anger. “For ten years he’s had nightmares about you and that night. Sometimes the nightmares were about the Archdemon, or some terrible mix between the two.” He explained, glaring at the witch. “To him, you were far worse than an Archdemon, and he blamed himself for everything that happened.”
“Oh, is that all?”
Zevran gritted his teeth. There was no way Morrigan could have truly felt so uninterested, she had to have been pretending.
“No, it is not. You may have been unaware of what happened in the garden, but he was in shock after he spoke to that son of yours, the one he had so far tried to forget existed. When he saw you, that sent him over the edge. He could not speak, something that normally only occurs after his nightmares, and he could hardly breath.” The Antivan continued. “I think it would be most unwise if he saw you again, and I dread to think what would happen if you spoke to him.”
“A pity.”
Zevran swallowed his rage. To be blinded by his emotions would make him vulnerable. He took a measured breath.
“Do you care so little for him? You bore his child, does that not mean anything even to a witch like you?” Zevran shook his head. “Did you ever care for him, or did you simply use him?”
Morrigan continued to stare at the blond, catlike, and then her shoulders slowly fell. Zevran knew he had touched a nerve, made a crack in that insufferable mask of hers.
“Make no mistake, I would not give Kieran up for anything now. The circumstances of that night, however… I have always regretted them, wished to change them. I did not want to cause Theron suffering, and truthfully I did not expect it to have affected him so deeply or for so long.” Morrigan began quietly. “But I did what I did so that he would survive that fight. I did not want to stand idly by to watch him kill himself when I knew of his salvation. I left as soon as the battle was over so my presence would not cause him more pain.” She was quiet. “I have had ample time to reflect upon why he said yes when he was clearly reluctant, and I came to the conclusion that he agreed for your sake. Theron said yes because he was a fool in love.”
“You think I don’t know that? He told me why already, it is hardly news.” Zevran answered, and he let out a tense sigh, shaking his head. “The past is in the past, no? I think it would be best if you did your best to avoid both you and Kieran coming into contact with Theron again for the duration of our stay.” He advised, looking towards the screens and the door wreathed in shadow beyond. “We have come so Theron can inform and help the Inquisition as much as he can in regards to the Calling, and he cannot have further traumas distracting him from that duty.”
His piece done, Zevran turned and began to walk to the door.
“You know he is hearing the Calling, correct?” Morrigan’s voice made him hesitate before he turned back with a frown.
“That false Calling from Corypheus? That did not affect him because we were not in Orlais at the time.” He replied, but the witch slowly shook her head.
“It is faint, oh so faint. A hum in the back of his mind, a darkness forgotten when he wakes. He is not aware of it yet. But tis there nevertheless. The true Calling.”
“How can you know something like that? You lie.”
“By all means, say that if it will comfort you. But Theron is a man currently living on borrowed time, Zevran. I do not wish to see him suffer. All I can do is keep my distance and hope that with the Inquisition’s help he can follow whatever leads you have discovered and find a cure for the Calling before he succumbs.”
Zevran stared at her, his earlier words to himself about vulnerability forgotten. It was as if a hole had opened up beneath him, and the only thing left to cling to was Morrigan’s words. Her warning.
“Why are you telling me this?” The Antivan snapped, tasting ashes where seconds ago there had been rage.
“Because, as much as you seem to have convinced yourself otherwise in the ten years spent comforting him and demonising me for trying to help, I care about Theron just as much as you, in my own way.” Morrigan informed him, her mask of indifference back in place. “Now, if you would kindly begone?” She asked, gesturing to the door.
The blond let out a shocked breath, and then stormed from the room. Not because Morrigan had told him to, but because he suddenly had the overwhelming urge to return to Theron. He tried not to run.
Of course the ranger was still fast asleep when he opened the door, stretched out on his back with the blankets pushed down to his stomach. Zevran swallowed, leaning back against the closed door as he stared at the other elf lying blissfully unaware in the soft moonlight that shone down through a window.
How could Morrigan have known? Through magic, was his first and natural assumption. There was no telling exactly how much she knew that other mages did not. Zevran’s heart was pounding, and he felt sick as he watched the ranger’s scarred chest rise and fall slowly.
There was no visible difference, would hopefully not be for a long time. But as Zevran stared at Theron’s peaceful form until his racing heart and quietly panicked breathing slowed, he knew he couldn’t allow there to be a change. He would not watch the ranger begin to suffer.
The Antivan returned slowly to the bed, curling around the Dalish elf tightly.
“I will help you and the Inquisition in whatever way I can to find that cure.” He whispered firmly to the quiet room, an oath he meant every word of even though Theron wasn’t awake to hear it. “I will not let that ritual take you away from me, now or ever.”
The next day, for the most part, saw Theron in the War Room discussing various matters related to the end of the world. Zevran was not allowed through, so instead he waited in Josephine’s office and talked away the hours in their native tongue. It was interesting, meeting the heiress of the noble Montilyet family, and then discovering just how different the lives of a whoreson Crow and a noblewoman were.
Several members of Inquisitor Adaar’s so-called inner circle came and went if they were needed for advice, including another Grey Warden by the name of Blackwall with a highly impressive beard, and a strange bald elf named Solas.
Eventually, the meeting drew to a close for the day, and the two elves were free to do what they wished. Not eager for a repeat of yesterday, they found themselves on the floor below the library and the rookery.
The elven mage, Solas, was there. He looked up from the sheaves of paper on a small table, some of them weighed down by a chunk of rock that glowed blue.
“Andaran atish’an, Solas.” Theron greeted him, before looking around the room at the murals on the wall. Zevran was sharp enough to notice the quick smile of indulgence the other elf wore, as if Theron was a young child who had just said something obvious or unintelligent, but was in need of praise regardless.
“Andaran atish’an.” The bald mage replied. “What brings you both here?”
“Simply wandering.” Zevran shrugged.
“So, how are you finding Skyhold? I trust you haven’t gotten lost yet?”
Theron smirked, and shook his head.
“No, but it’s a matter of time. I’m used to the open road.”
“I suspect your Dalish roots have been the cause of that.” Solas observed, looking at the ranger’s vallaslin. Theron raised an eyebrow.
“Perhaps.” He agreed slowly. “While we are on the subject… Are you a city elf? I see no vallaslin.”
Solas shook his head, and folded his arms.
“I am neither Dalish nor city elf. I spent much of my life alone in the wilderness.” He explained. “Although, I have naturally had contact with some of your people, such meetings were often… Brief.”
“Why?”
“The Dalish are a proud people. Some would say stubborn.”
“The Dalish are the best hope for preserving and restoring the culture of our people.” Theron pointed out.
“Our people.” Solas repeated sadly. “You use that phrase so casually. They already consider themselves perfect, the sole keepers of Elven lore, the walkers of the lonely path, even though they pass on stories misheard and mangle details a thousand times over. Most care little about improving their lives.” Solas explained calmly, and Zevran kept a careful eye on the black-haired elf next to him. “When I offered them lessons on what I learnt in my travels, I was derided by enemies and allies both. Over time, it grinds away at you. Now, I suppose I am tired of fighting, trying to allow them to see beyond the scraps of legends that faulty memories and uncertain tongues have shaped into incorrect myths.”
The ranger seemed more surprised or shocked than angry at Solas’ words - for now, at least.
“So you know the truth, do you? Why not share it?” He asked.
“I have seen things they have not. Yet I was not worth listening to, because I was not of them. I was a liar, a fool, a madman. They did not want me to share what I had learnt.” The mage replied. “They cling to the parts of their history they know already, and are too used to it to accept anything new and different.”
The line of Theron’s jaw tightened as he gritted his teeth. The shock had worn off, then.
“You insult our people. My people. Ma halani, lasa ghilan.”
Solas closed his eyes for a moment, and sighed wearily.
“How many of the Dalish would listen if I tried? I might reach a few at the most.”
The ranger outright glared at the mage, his grey eyes growing cold.
“Ma banal las halamshir var vhen.”
“I have done no such thing. I simply see no way to help them, oppressed as they are now. Perhaps they do not want help.”
Theron took a breath, no doubt to say something else Zevran presumed was an insult or disagreement, and he reached out to gently touch the ranger’s forearm. Theron looked at him, expression softening.
“Perhaps now would be an ideal time to leave, yes?” The Antivan suggested quietly, and the ranger nodded. They turned to leave the way they had come, back into the main hall, Zevran keeping his hand on Theron’s arm.
“You are right, you know.” Solas ventured from behind them. “The fault is mine for expecting what the Dalish can never truly accomplish. Ir abelas, da’len.”
“Dirthara-ma.” Theron shot bitterly over one shoulder as Zevran led him away, back to their room.
The blond sighed quietly to himself, realising they now had three people to avoid. Hopefully the Dalish elf would rediscover his sociable side before they met and talked to any other important people in Skyhold.
“That was a pleasant conversation.” Zevran teased once they were alone in their room, glad that it was warmer now. Theron snorted, but that seemed to chase away some of the lingering anger.
“At first, yes.” The ranger agreed, wandering over to a window and looking out. “So, what did you do while I was talking with the Inquisitor and her entourage all day?” He asked as Zevran joined him and leaned against his shoulder.
“I sat and talked to the stunning Lady Josephine about Antiva, and our respective upbringings. It was very enlightening, learning a little more about how the other half lives.” The blond answered, wrapping an arm loosely around the other elf’s waist as they stood together.
They were quiet for a few heartbeats.
“Do you think I’m stubborn?” Theron asked. Zevran smiled.
“Would you be annoyed with me if I lied or danced around the subject?”
“Yes.”
“Well… Occasionally, yes. But you have your reasons for that stubbornness. You are not stubborn for the sake of it like a mule.” The blond paused. “And I think that stubbornness will serve you well - has already. You could use it to find the cure, for example.” He grinned, in an attempt to make the suggestion seem less serious.
Theron looked at him, and smiled faintly.
“Do you think I ever will, even with the Inquisition’s help?” He asked softly. “I only have a handful of leads, and few are truly promising.” He looked away, shoulders rising and falling in a heavy sigh. “Sometimes when I stop and think about it, I feel like the whole endeavour is impossible.”
Zevran’s arm around his waist tightened, and he leant his head against the blond’s shoulder.
“I have faith that you will, amor.” The former Crow answered. “If you can slay the Archdemon and live to grow tired of people thinking of you as a hero for saving the world, then you can certainly save yourself.” Zevran turned his head so he could kiss the ranger’s temple. “Do not doubt yourself. It is a difficult task, but not impossible, and I will be with you every step of the way, make no mistake.” Their gazes met, grey on gold. “I am yours.”