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Antiva was full of sounds, from the early morning birds and merchants setting up their stalls in the square to music filtering out of taverns and performers all over Antiva City plying their trade late into the night.
A small festival was being held to celebrate some minor Chantry holiday Aren Surana paid no attention to, but Zevran was excited at her seeing her first proper Antivan festival, as he said.
“No, no, it’s simply something we must experience before returning to Amaranthine,” he’d declared the day prior. “I even went and found just the thing for you to wear so you may truly outshine the nobility of the city.”
The Warden-Commander snorted quietly in laughter. “Zevran, don’t be ridiculous. And weren’t you just complaining about ‘cold, dreary, wet Amaranthine’ last week? What’s this ‘we’ business?”
The former Crow tsked as he set a parcel down on the table closest to him before approaching Aren, who had been watching a performance from the window. His arms wrapped around her easily as she rested against him, head fitting comfortably in the crook of his neck from years of habit. “Mi amor, do you really think I would let you go alone?”
She sighed, almost imperceptible, but he knew her too well. “You hate the cold. Ferelden is always cold.”
“If you thought the cold would keep me from you, I have been a very poor partner to you.”
Aren turned in his arms, sliding her hands up to cradle his face as his rested on her hips. She tugged his forehead down before speaking. “That’s the farthest thing from the truth, ma vhenan. We haven’t been together a decade for nothing.”
“Ah, this is true, you are no spring flower anymore, my dear.” He laughed as she playfully smacked his shoulder.He turned just enough to kiss the palm of her hand. “I meant it when I said I would storm the dark city itself to be by your side. I may be a trickster, but I do not lie.”
“And you know I would tear the Veil itself open to find you.”
He smiled at her, unbidden affection in his eyes. Her heart twisted; she would never get used to that look, not even if she lived to see a natural death. “Let us dress and see the festival, hm?” He kissed her forehead before releasing her, gathering the package back up and handing it to her. “Open it.”
Aren gingerly scraped off the wax seal on it, the paper falling away to reveal a deep red - almost purple - gown with silver patterned across it, following a pattern resembling elfroot and Andraste’s Grace. It was a simple a-line with a silk silver sash as a belt that would rest just above her hips.
“I,” she started. “Zevran-”
He grinned. “You like it? I’ve been waiting for the seamstress to finish for a while, she was not used to making things for someone your size.”
“I’m just under five feet tall, Zevran, I’m not that short for an elf.”
“Your mabari is three times heavier than you.”
“Don’t call my dog fat.”
Zevran gestured to her. “Try it on. I’d like to see it on you before I must share you with the world again.”
“Fine, but only if you change at the same time. I’m not going to wait around for you.” He laughed, but quickly ducked out of the room as she changed.
It fit like a charm, ending just a few centimeters above the ground, the silver trim around the edge and on the sleeves accenting the details well. With the silver amulet Velanna had enchanted for her before she left Amaranthine, she felt like she could waltz into the Denerim Palace and put them all in their place.
She heard Zevran’s footsteps before she heard him speak, and worried for a moment; she turned, and was suddenly unsure if she’d ever seen that look in his eyes before. In a dress shirt matching hers in color with fitted black pants, he was dashing as ever, but it was still loose enough that she had no doubt he had at least three daggers on his person.
“Zevran? Is everything alri-” She never finished her sentence as he crossed the room and quickly claimed her in a kiss, putting more emotion into it than usual. His arms were tight around her waist as her hand curled around the back of his neck. It lasted for a few minutes before they finally broke for air. “Zevran?”
“I love you,” he whispered, resting his cheek on her temple. “More than I thought I could care for another. Also, you look ridiculously attractive in that dress.”
Aren kissed his cheek. “I could say the same about you, love.”
“Oh, I have a pretty dress on? Thank you so much.”
She rolled her eyes as he grinned at her. “Absolutely ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously attracted to you, that is.”
“With you, I think those mean the same thing.”
Zevran placed a hand over his chest dramatically. “You wound me!” he cried. “I do not think I shall recover.”
Shoving him backwards, Aren stepped around and approached the door, long red hair covering the lack of back on her dress with ease. “Are you coming?”
“Of course I am.”
They made their way out of the inn and down to the festival, the evening air giving a more sophisticated feel than the afternoon games and skits. No one was dressed in simple leathers, as many pious folk headed to Chantry doors for services as the holiday came to a close, and others simply wanted to embrace the extravagance of an Antivan street festival.
Zevran grabbed Aren’s hand as the band picked up a quicker tune, tugging her towards the center of the square. “Zevran,” she protested, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Nonsense,” he cheerfully replied, “just follow my lead.” He bowed, kissing the top of her hand. “May I have this dance?”
She smiled at him as she stepped into his space, carefully following his footsteps as the song progressed, twirling in time with it and stepping to the rhythm of the drums. He swept her into the air and spun as the song came to a close, laughing as she held onto his shoulders. Many other couples had done the same, but she couldn’t see anyone in the crowd but the man in front of her, and she kissed him, trying to put into action what she couldn’t put into words.
Even when they would return to duty, when it was the stone walls of the Keep surrounding her instead of the Antivan sun on her skin or her Antivan wrapped around her, this is one memory that she would fight to keep for the rest of her life, death be damned.