Chapter Text
Zevran awoke to soft morning light filtering in from the grated window. As he shifted, the blanket covering his shoulders fell away, making him feel distinctly cold. Ah, Ferelden, he thought sleepily, hand seeking the blanket. He pulled it over him again, shielding his nakedness from the cool air.
He allowed himself to awaken slowly, then looked around for his companion. Zevran saw that the Commander of the Grey was bent over, tending the fireplace. He noted with some pleasure that she was only half-dressed. Her quilted tunic was longer on her than it was on most, covering almost all of her thighs, and matched with her grey woolen socks. He stretched out languidly, comfortable, observing her and feeling content with the world.
"Good morning, amor," he said, voice breathy and soft.
"Zev," replied the woman, her voice distant. "Good morning."
"Up with the sun?" The elf sat up now, keeping himself ensconced in the warmth. "You work too hard, my dear. The darkspawn can wait."
The Warden-Commander did not answer him. She merely stayed at her post in front of the fireplace, head bent. Zevran playfully tilted his head; he had not seen the whitening of her knuckles from his vantage point.
"There is a second option, which I think you might prefer," he continued, smirking. "It consists of discarding that tunic and spending the next several hours with me in bed. What say you?"
He meant this in jest. Not that he would say no, exactly, if she took him up on the offer, but Warden-Commander Stonecipher stuck to a strict morning regimen--breakfast, physical training, and the handling of the Keep's most pressing affairs, usually administrative in nature.
The woman responded by reaching up her hand and violently swiping all the items upon the mantelpiece onto the floor. These were mainly candles and their pewter holders and a stone carving of a griffon, but they made a racket falling upon the stone floor.
"Millagre?" Zevran addressed her, more alert now. "What is the matter?"
"Everything," she said bitterly. "Everything is. It's all rotten."
He wondered briefly if this was something he had done, if unintentionally. Zevran had recently returned from a trip of several months to Antiva, leaving her alone at Vigil's Keep. She was supportive in his life's work generally, but the distance was hard at times.
"Ah, yes. The world is a dreadful place," he said. "Is there, perhaps, something specifically rotten about it, or...well, more rotten than usual?"
"You don't understand."
And when she turned to face him, Millagre paused to truly look at him, to sear an image of him in her mind's eye. In his current state, Zevran looked almost childlike, with his tousled blond hair and wide bronze eyes fixed upon her.
"Even now, I can hear it all around us," she said, pained. "The song of the Old Gods. There can be no mistaking it, and it will not cease. My body is succumbing to the corruption, Zev."
Zevran's blood ran cold with the realization that she was speaking of her Calling.
Wordlessly he swung his legs over the bed, standing and padding over to the shorter woman. He drew her against him, beneath the blanket which fell from his shoulders. Chilled toes were the least of his concerns now.
Millagre accepted the embrace and clung to him, unwilling to let go. Zevran pressed his lips against the crown of her head. Even though he seemed calm on the exterior, there was little that terrified him more. This was a day which he had hoped never to see, but especially now, with Millagre still so young. They had only known each other just under a decade, married for only six.
Zevran could remember a conversation he had had with her, shortly after she had assumed her title of "Commander of the Grey" in Ferelden. He had asked her why Grey Wardens never seemed to actually be grey. Millagre had told him of their limited lifespan.
Thirty years, give or take, she had explained to him. From the date of your Joining.
So about fifty years? That is an above average lifespan for an assassin, my dear Warden. I will make sure to die well before that.
Zevran. I know you are joking, Millagre had said, stone-faced, but I sincerely hope you outlive me for another thirty after that. In fact, I hope you become a short, wrinkled old man and that you pass unaware while you sleep.
"I'm sorry, Zev," she mumbled against his chest, swallowing.
"Shhh," he urged. He could feel faint moisture against his skin, which he assumed were tears. Zevran could feel himself welling up, but he tried to suppress this.
"If I had been stronger, I..." Millagre laid her cheek against him, her voice less muffled. "If only I had been stronger. I thought..."
Zevran sighed. "Stronger? Who could be stronger than you? Slayer of the archdemon, of dragons, of darkspawn hordes. All these creatures felled by your hands. No, my dear, it could not be a matter of strength alone."
Millagre sniffled, trying to blink back tears and failing. She did not need to do this. After all, if she could not pour out her emotions in front of Zevran, who had seen her at her worst and had not judged her, when could she? Yet she felt compelled to swallow her tears. How many stories had she heard of Grey Wardens heading off to their Calling, stoic and brave until the end?
The Calling had always been a certainty. Thirty years had never been a guarantee--but she had hoped for them. Maybe after thirty, Millagre could accept her fate in the Deep Roads. But not now.
"I'm not ready," she admitted. "I don't want to die."
Zevran squeezed her gently, reminding her that he was there. He would release his Warden only when she pulled away, and only then. But it was as much for his own benefit as it was for hers. How many more times would he hold her like this? And just how long did Wardens have once they heard this swan song?
Silently, he cursed himself for those months he had spent in Antiva. If only he had known.
"Nor do I." Zevran tilted his head to look at her. Slowly, tentatively, he reached a hand to her face. He traced the brand on her eye and cheek, which her own people had used to mark her as nothing, never realizing that she would become their Paragon. Never realizing that she would become his everything.
"...want you dead, that is," he added. "Though the first statement holds true as well, I admit."
Millagre almost smiled. A more pessimistic-minded individual might say she simply frowned less, but either way, Zevran considered this an improvement.
Zevran ran his finger down her jaw, stopping just under the chin. He curled that finger and lifted slightly, then brought his lips to meet hers. It was an affectionate kiss, and somewhat prolonged. It might have evolved into multiples had there not been an urgent knock at the door. They pulled away.
"Shall I get that for you?" offered the man with feigned innocence.
The dwarf shook her head. "I'm sure they're used to it by now."
"Very well."
Zevran then started to walk towards the Warden-Commander's office, which adjoined the bedroom, when Millagre grabbed his arm. "Let me," she said with a smirk. "Smart ass. Go put on some pants."
"As you command, my Warden." Zevran gave a fanciful flourish of the hand as he bowed halfway. "I will make myself decent, as you say."
And when Zevran turned his back, Millagre sniffed and covertly wiped her eyes. The music was still there, like an ethereal humming of a slow-paced lullaby, like a constant reverberation. It was difficult to get used to, impossible to forget entirely. But perhaps for the moment she could forget of her impending death.
Millagre answered the door to find Nathaniel Howe, who impeccably dressed as a Warden marksman. When he saw that she wore only a tunic, he cast his gaze away slightly, which he felt was only proper considering her superior rank and owing to the fact she was of the female persuasion.
"Commander," he said, voice uncertain. "I...apologize for disturbing you so early."
"You don't have to worry about that with me, Nate. Was there something you needed?"
"In fact, yes. I wanted to speak to you privately about a matter, and I saw no point in postponing it."
Millagre nodded, then ushered the Warden-Constable inside. "All right, we can talk. Come in and have a seat."
The years which passed since Nathaniel's recruitment into the Wardens had been kind to him. After Loghain's departure for Orlais, he had been chosen to support Warden Stonecipher as her second-in-command. Most agreed he had been the logical choice. This was not something he had foreseen happening back when he had been arrested for thievery, much less after declaring his intent to kill her. Nathaniel found it strange to think upon how strained their relationship had been in those early days.
There was no-one else he'd rather serve under.
"Zevran is here," she said, as way of warning. Though as if on cue, Zevran appeared right at the bedroom entrance. He had managed to slip on a comfortable set of leather pants, though he was otherwise barefoot and bare-chested.
"Ah, Nathaniel. I was curious to see who it was."
Nathaniel had long ago gotten used to seeing Zevran in various states of undress in the Commander's room, but he had forgotten about the man entirely.
"Oh, you're here too, Zevran. Yes, I suppose you would be."
"If you need real privacy, then he will be happy to leave," she offered, seating herself at her desk. "As soon as he finishes getting dressed."
"Or I could simply cover my ears, sit in the corner, and sing a tune while you discuss important Grey Warden Business. I'm thinking something jaunty, but tasteful. Suggestions? There is that popular Ferelden ballad about Andraste and her mabari, but one might argue it possesses neither of those qualities."
Nathaniel had seated himself in an armchair, but perched at the end of it, unable to wholly relax. "I don't know," he said. "Privacy? Maybe. But if it's just you and Zevran..."
"Whatever makes you comfortable."
Nathaniel glanced back at Zevran, who took that as his cue. The elf dressed promptly. As he walked by the desk, Zevran gave Millagre's shoulder a small squeeze. She touched his hand, smiling somewhat mournfully. The exchange lasted only seconds, but Nathaniel supposed they had had an entire silent conversation.
When they were alone, Nathaniel studied his Commander.
"How are things between you?" he asked her.
"What, me and Zevran? Just fine." Millagre gave him an odd look. "Why do you ask?"
"I don't mean to pry," Nathaniel began. "But you looked as though you had been crying."
"Perceptive of you. There's nothing to be concerned about, though. And it most definitely has nothing to do with Zev. But enough of that - we're here to talk about you."
The dwarf woman laced her fingers and leaned forward, watching the man expectantly. The Warden-Constable sat grim-visaged and solemn, and spoke after a turn. "First I want to say it has been a pleasure serving with you...Millagre."
"Oh. Well, I...there is no-one I'd rather have beneath me. Beside me," she corrected herself, clearing her throat. "You are doing an excellent job."
The man before her was clearly a candidate for Commander of the Grey. Millagre supposed she might even appoint him that day, once some of the bigger details were finalized. The thought that someone capable would take over command at Vigil's Keep reassured her. Though there were many capable men and women within the Grey Wardens these days. Still, Nathaniel's choice of words bugged her.
"I am glad to hear it," he said, managing to subtly smile in that trademark way of his, without breaking his otherwise stoic demeanor. "The Grey Wardens have been like a family to me."
Millagre frowned then, knitting her eyebrows together.
"I am starting to hear Calling now, Commander. This music...there is no other explanation."
And there it was, the reason that Nathaniel had come to her office. Providence decreed, apparently, that Millagre would not have to venture to the Deep Roads alone. While this would provide some comfort, it meant that the Maker had ended the life of a good man much too soon.
"Andraste's flaming beard...you, too?" she asked, somewhat incredulous.
Nathaniel paused. "What do you mean, 'you, too'?"
"It's a hell of a coincidence, I know, but... I awoke to the music this morning, hoping someone was just trying to learn the cello. But no, it was all in my head."
"Mine also started this morning," he said quietly. "Just after patrol."
The two of them were silent as they considered the improbability. Millagre reclined back in her chair, accompanied by a dull creak in the wood. Nathaniel glanced down at the desk before him, noting a small wooden griffon carving. It had grown somewhat warmer now, the scent of hickory drifting slowly in from the adjoining room, but that could not ease the burden both of them faced.
"So, Millagre...when you said there was 'nothing to be concerned about', there was, in fact, something."
She sighed. "Yes."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"What if someone had fallen off the battlements? Or been mauled by blighted wolves? Thought it best to hear what you had to say first."
"Is that so?" He smirked. Nathaniel stood up then, feeling uneasy as he sat. He elected to slowly pace the room instead. Then he pivoted on his front foot, turning sharply. "How long does it take, then?"
"To become fully corrupted? Probably weeks, on average, but I imagine it varies."
The Wardens at Weisshaupt had given her as much information as they possessed, but so much of their Order's information had been lost to time. They had added her experiences and testimony to the great archives. Millagre had seen what happened to those who did not immediately die of the Blight - they became ghouls, much like Hespith, whom she had met in the Deep Roads.
"I'm sorry, Nate. If it really is our time to go, I'm glad it's with you. But I have one request."
"Speak, then."
"If you see the darkspawn dragging me off," she began--and Nathaniel was reminded of the first time they had met Sigrun at Kal'Hirol--"shoot me with an arrow. I do not want to end up a broodmother."
The Warden-Constable nodded, grave. "You have my word."