Chapter Text
He felt himself swaying. He smiled, reminded of his parents carrying him to bed as a child: that same sense of utter security, of familiarity.
Only something was wrong.
There was a nagging alarm in his head. He was forgetting something. Something important.
He heard heavy breathing above him and tried to open his eyes, blinking at the dizzying assault of images he couldn’t interpret. Tamlen, haloed by light, was the first thing he saw.
Tamlen. Vhenan. He smiled again. As his vision came into focus, the sense of alarm grew. This couldn’t be Tamlen. Tamlen’s face had never looked so gray, so contorted with pain.
He was being carried through the forest. Why was he being carried? That wasn’t right. He tried to ask, but the words wouldn’t form. He closed his eyes. He would ask Tamlen later. Tamlen would explain everything back home.
He felt himself being gently lowered onto the forest floor, and tried to open his eyes again, but found them to be heavy. So heavy. He just wanted to sleep.
Sleep. Yes.
His head cradled on a patch of moss, he felt consciousness slip away. A hand, sure and familiar, grazed his cheek, joined with a hoarse whisper of “Ir abelas. Ar lath ma, vhenan.”
‘I am sorry. I love you, my heart.’
Tamlen. Why was Tamlen sorry? He struggled to form thoughts. Darkness loomed.
He was so tired. And Tamlen was here. He would ask Tamlen later.
He succumbed, the world going black.
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Kieran shot up out of his bedroll, chest heaving. Panicked, he looked around for Tamlen, before he came back to the present.
He buried his face in his hands. Tamlen was gone. Kieran was in camp with the ragtag bunch he’d collected, trying to stop a Blight before it consumed everything he cared about.
It was a warm night, and he had moved his bedroll out of his tent and under the stars in the guise of getting some fresh air. No; if he was honest, waking up by himself in the unfamiliar dark, having scattered memories of nightmares about Tamlen or darkspawn or both, night after night… well, the small tent had begun to feel too claustrophobic.
Not that sleeping outside had helped. He had struggled to fall asleep, reminded of the times he and Tamlen had slept outside the aravels, pointing out constellations and making up progressively sillier stories as to their origins.
Kieran dropped his face into his knees, pulling them close to his body. Tamlen’s absence felt like a piece of him that had been carved out. He wondered if his dream was accurate or an illusory hope; Duncan had found him outside the thrice-cursed ruins, Tamlen nowhere to be seen. Perhaps Tamlen really had carried him out. Perhaps Tamlen was still alive somewhere in the world.
“Another Warden nightmare?”
Kieran looked up quickly, not having realized he was being watched. Zevran, the newest addition to their band of misfits, was sitting by the dying fire. His hands were busy cleaning a dagger but his eyes didn’t stray from Kieran.
“Something like that,” Kieran said, exhaling slowly. He had let the assassin join the group, but he didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. And as the wielder of a greatsword, Kieran could throw him pretty far.
“I confess, I had not known you Wardens were so prone to darkspawn dreams. It seems unfair to have to meet so many in the waking world, and then more in your sleep, no?” Zevran’s voice was calm, measured. Kieran would almost describe it as gentle, but perhaps he was misinterpreting him.
“It’s not always darkspawn,” Kieran muttered. Internally, he chastened himself. This was not something he should share with Zevran. Tamlen was not something he should share with Zevran.
Zevran’s eyes remained on Kieran, his gaze piercing. He remained silent for a moment before looking down at his weapon.
“I know what it is to be hounded by ghosts you cannot escape,” Zevran said finally, his voice quiet. His hands kept their steady pace. Kieran wondered how long he had been there, cleaning the same spotless dagger. He also wondered- not for the first time- what went unspoken about Zevran’s past as a Crow.
“Zevran…” he started, uncertain.
“Yes?”
“It’s nothing. Nevermind.” Kieran made his tone brusque. His would-be assassin was not someone he should be opening up to. “We have a long day of travel tomorrow. You should get some sleep.”
“You as well, Warden.”
Kieran almost laughed at the title. “Just call me Kieran.”
“Very well, Kieran. Sleep, and dream of killing darkspawn, yes? Or even more enjoyable pursuits.” Zevran sounded amused, but Kieran thought he could hear something sad in his voice.
Exhausted, he flopped back onto his bedroll. “Melava somniar,” he murmured to himself. ‘Time to dream;’ a quote from an old Dalish lullaby. Then, louder, “Good night, Zevran.”
There was no response, and he let himself fall into a restless sleep.