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They’d returned from Antiva a few weeks ago, and Zevran hadn’t stopped smiling yet. It made Theron glad, a weight had lifted from his chest. They were back on the outskirts of the Brecilian Forest, close enough to the Dalish clans and the nearest village for both of their comfort.
It had been almost ten years since the Archdemon had fallen and the darkspawn had scattered. The first few years, the group had stayed together, still travelling to help rout out the creatures in the furthest corner of Ferelden. After that, they had drifted apart gradually.
Sten had been the first to go, explaining that now he had Asala, he had to return and report his findings. Theron had been called kadan one final time. Wynne had been an excellent advisor, and a letter had arrived seven years ago that she had been given her rightful honours. Oghren had, somewhat unsurprisingly, reunited with Felsi. Leliana had gone back to the Chantry a little reluctantly, saying that a new vision showed her there was far more of the Maker’s work for her to do. Alistair was impressed that both he and Theron survived the Blight, but he was content to be known as a hero rather than a king, and was now the new Warden Commander, a title that Theron had not wanted. He still sent letters from time to time from Vigil’s Keep.
Of course, Zevran and Theron had remained together, deciding to head to Antiva for a long-delayed holiday before attempting to settle down back in Ferelden. They had gotten their hut built with some of the leftover supplies from the nearest Dalish community in the Hinterlands; it had been no surprise that rather than accept a title or wealth that Theron would ask for his people to receive land, a permanent home after generations of wandering.
They’d gone back to Antiva several times over the years, usually trying to enjoy themselves in between avoiding the Crows. Zevran had sworn on their last trip that the next time he went to Antiva, he’d do his best to take the whole organisation with him, if he could. As he had said long ago, the only way to truly appreciate the country had been to go there.
When Theron woke up, the room was dark. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but he could pick out the outline of the window frame. He shifted carefully on the bed, trying to ease the aches without waking the Antivan stretched out next to him. It was a strange idea, actually lying in a proper bed rather than a bedroll for more than a few nights, not being able to feel the ground beneath him; it had taken him a while to get used to the permanence of everything. Same for actually living in a house, not having to huddle up by a campfire or in a thin canvas tent while the wind howled around them. Of course, the ranger still liked to roam the forests when he could rather than sit around in the house.
The Dalish elf carefully sat up, wincing and rubbing his head. He turned so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling the cool stone floor against his bare feet. He automatically reached a hand down, but then stopped. Dudain had finally passed several months ago, peacefully in his sleep. They’d been expecting it, when the hound increasingly chose to lie by the fire or at the foot at the bed rather than join his master on a hunt, or one of them woke up in the morning to a mess by the door and a very ashamed hound. Theron had planted his tree a short distance away from the house, and he could see it from the bedroom window.
Glancing back to ensure Zevran wasn’t awake, the black-haired man pulled his smallclothes and some light cotton trousers on as he padded through to the kitchen. The nightmares were returning at last; he shivered in the cool air as sweat pricked his skin. They’d started before the last trip to Antiva - one he knew would be his last - and had grown more and more vivid every night. At first, just a pang of unease accompanied him when he woke, but now they were even waking him up earlier in the morning, preventing him from sleeping out of fear, as if he was a child again scared of the dark shadows outside the aravel.
Theron licked his lips, and reached for a jug of water that had been left on the side. The aches were new, though. They were more than a mere strained muscle, they were bone-deep, particularly in his back and shoulders. The bruises were also becoming more conspicuous, small little marks from where he bumped into something. The ones Zevran gave him were taking longer to fade, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the blond started to ask questions, voice his suspicions.
The ranger ran a hand through his hair, still in the same braided style he’d always had it in, but there were very faint grey streaks at his temples. Zevran would grow old gracefully yet, gold turning to silver.
He looked down at the suddenly empty jug and quietly put it back, going to sit down in one of the chairs by the fire, looking at the cold hearth pensively. He’d been shocked when Riordan had finally told him about the Calling, but he had expected as much. Nothing could accept the corrupting influence of the darkspawn and live. It merely killed the Grey Wardens slowly. At just over ten years, he wasn't one of the lucky ones; some lived for a good thirty before the call began to sing in their blood, in the back of their minds. The ranger wondered how long Alistair would have left. What if he was already there, as unlikely as that was? Would he wait for his fellow Warden? Or would he charge on ahead, sword flashing? Theron liked to think that he would wait, if he was there, but it was unlikely that he would be there.
The Dalish elf got to his feet again, trying not to pace restlessly as he walked around the kitchen. Zevran would be fine; they’d gone hunting the other day, and Theron had preserved enough of the meat to last for a month, and he’d taught as much as he could about the finer points of tracking, hunting and butchering a carcass. The nearest Dalish settlement was half a day’s walk, and the village was a day away. Zevran would be fine.
They’d been through so much over the years, but Theron knew this was one adventure that the former Crow simply couldn’t join him on. He couldn’t even know about it. The ranger looked towards the bedroom door warily, half expecting to see Zevran leaning against the doorframe with a sleepily amused expression on his face and rumpled hair, about to comment about the early start. Thankfully, the other room was still dark and quiet; hopefully it would stay that way for a few more hours.
The ranger decided to busy himself, creating a small pile of supplies near the door. Food and water - enough to get him to Redcliffe - spare clothes, a bedroll, herbs and poultices, gold, everything he would need. Then he crept back through the dark bedroom for his pack, eyes on Zevran’s sleeping form almost constantly. He didn’t want to see those golden eyes open, see the faint creases on his brow furrow in confusion. It was better this way. Like an animal slinking off to die in privacy.
Theron swallowed as he quickly packed, doing up the various belts that kept the bag and all of it’s pockets closed. He set his pack by the door, and then went to go and get his quiver and bow, Far Song. It had been difficult to give up his old bow, mostly due to his own foolish sentimentality, but it was now mounted on a plaque above the hearth. Theron looked up at it with a faint smile, and then set his weapons down next to his pack, careful so the arrows wouldn’t rattle together in the quiver.
Lastly, it was his armour. The same leather made in the Dalish style, but out of drakeskin. A recreation of the ruined armour he’d worn at the Battle of Denerim, surprisingly long lasting. Again, rather than risk waking Zevran, Theron smuggled the pieces through to the kitchen and dressed as quietly as he could, with agonising slowness. The sky outside was starting to lighten to a pre-dawn glow, the birds beginning to sing.
When he was ready, Theron moved soundlessly back through to the bedroom, to see Zevran one last time. His heart ached as he looked down at the sleeping Antivan he’d now spent more than a third of his life with. Apart from the fine spiderwebbing of wrinkles developing around his eyes, he barely looked a day older than when they had first met. What would he think when he woke up to a cold bed and an empty house?
Theron felt a sharp pang of guilt in his stomach, and his eyes stung fiercely. He wanted so much to put everything away again, take his armour off and crawl back into bed with the man he loved, feel their bodies pressed together. But he couldn’t. If he did, he would only be delaying the inevitable. The call in his blood would grow louder, the aches and bruises would spread, cripple him as he pretended everything was alright and fooling no-one. He had to leave now, while he knew he could still make it all the way to Orzammar and the Deep Roads by himself.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, a lump rising in his throat. It had to happen this way. Had to be today. He’d planned as such. Theron opened his eyes to see Zevran still asleep, completely oblivious to the world. Perhaps right now, he was in the Fade, the Beyond, dreaming about their time together and how they’d stopped the Fifth Blight in it’s tracks. The ranger didn’t want to think about the last thing he himself had dreamed about. Instead, he leant down to gently kiss Zevran on the lips, feel that touch one last time. The former Crow barely even stirred in his sleep.
Goodbye, ma sa'lath. With that, Theron went back through to the kitchen, shouldering his bow, quiver and pack. He carefully pulled the door open, knowing how the hinges tended to squeak if the door was yanked, and then let it drift shut behind him. He was out in the cool dawn air, the wind tugging at his hair insistently.
The Dalish elf was about to start walking when a soft keening sound reached his ears from somewhere close by. He looked towards Dudain’s tree, which was growing strong. Under it were two silver forms, like ghosts in the dim light of the false dawn. One was slumped over, legs stretched out, and the other was standing between it and the tree, head lifted up as it let out another cry. A halla and his mate.
Theron hesitated, and then went round the back of the house for his shovel. The stag watched warily as the elf approached, but both knew it wouldn’t leave it’s mate, even though she had died. The ranger worked quickly and silently, digging a large and deep enough hole. He looked up at the stag as he reached towards the dead halla, mutely asking permission. A look from those large grey eyes and a dip of the head gave permission, and Theron buried his mate as the sun began to rise, murmuring the Elven eulogy he had last heard at Keeper Marethari’s funeral.
Afterwards, man and animal stared at each other, saw each other.
“I know. I’m going.” Theron said as he shouldered his things again, breaking the silence. The halla dipped his head again, sniffing at the freshly turned earth and the sapling. The ranger turned, and began to walk as the dawn finally broke.
The sun was high in the sky when Zevran woke to the high-pitched, bugling cry of an animal in pain. Confused, he immediately stumbled to the bedroom window. There, beside Dudain’s tree was a fresh patch of earth, a small sapling sticking out of it, and a halla stag with it’s beautifully antlered head lifted to the sky as it let out another cry of grief.
Zevran knew what had happened, didn’t need to turn around and see the empty bed to confirm his fear that had been building over the past few months.
Two weeks later, a letter arrived bearing the Grey Warden seal.
I’m sorry. Alistair had written simply on an otherwise blank piece of vellum, but those two words spoke volumes. The Antivan reserved a place on the next ship back to his homeland anyway, to find a dark corner somewhere to polish his daggers and plan, all the while trying to freeze his heart again and failing.
A year later, Theron had left the tavern behind after preparing for the day ahead. The nightmares woke him screaming several times every night, and the pains were becoming unbearable. This time, no retinue of Orzammar’s soldiers followed him in high spirits, guffawing with laughter and drink as they delved into the Deep Roads for another day of fighting; the ranger walked alone today.
There was talk of something happening on the surface, news brought in daily by the traders of some kind of explosion near Haven, that the Circles had all rebelled and there was all-out war between mages and Templars at last. Theron listened, but he had resolved long ago that he was done taking care of Ferelden’s problems. Letters from Alistair and Leliana had come, but he had merely thrown them into the fire or gotten someone to write a short, blunt response. Those issues were a world away.
He had a call of a different kind to answer. The Commons were hushed with respect as the elf strode among them, taking care of one last piece of business.
“Ensure that this reaches Zevran Arainai on the outskirts of the Brecilian Forest. If he isn’t there, send it to Warden-Commander Alistair Theirin at Vigil’s Keep. ” He instructed Vartag Gavorn, taking his earring out and wrapping it in a small bundle of cloth, tightly bound.
King Bhelen’s second looked down at the package, and nodded.
“May you go down fighting, Grey Warden.”
The matter settled, the ranger walked down to the entrance of the Deep Roads, where the Mine Commander normally was. The small group saw him coming, and stepped aside.
“Bring honour to us all, topsider. Like Willem Trialmont, and all the other Grey Wardens before you.” The Commander said, nodding to him respectfully, and his men did the same. Respect for the dead.
Theron smiled weakly. He was a Grey Warden, was considered the Hero of Ferelden by many, had slain the Archdemon and helped to end the Fifth Blight. Yet after all of that, he was to die aged thirty-four, alone and miles from his home and people in a place his hated. Perhaps that was the price he needed to pay? The ranger checked and readjusted his bow before he cleared his throat and lifted his head up proudly.
“I am one of the Dalish, first and foremost. Keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit."