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It is a chilly spring evening in Ferelden. In Antiva, a spring evening would mean golden sunlight, warm air, perhaps a gentle sprinkle of rain blown in from off the ocean. In this country of cold and mud, however, springs means- well, cold and mud. But despite the grey skies above, Zevran figures today is as good a day to die as any.
He sharpens his daggers. He picks a spot for the ambush. He crouches behind an overturned cart.
And he waits.
The Grey Wardens do not disappoint.
Zevran is quick and ruthless with his daggers, and his opponent matches him strike for strike. The elven warrior facing off against Zevran fights as if he has nothing in the world to fear, and his boldness brings a pleased grin to Zevran’s face even as he dances around the blows.
He is Dalish, this Warden. The other warrior is the one Loghain and Howe are most interested in- royal bastards tend to gather enemies, after all- and so Zevran was not told much of the Therein boy’s companions. But he is certainly Dalish, with vallaslin curling across his face in dark red. Blood writing, they call it, and against this man’s fair skin it does indeed look like blood, enough for Zevran to believe for a brief moment that his knives have met their target.
Zevran weaves around the warrior, darts back and forward again and presses in close, his weapon closing in on the man’s neck. The man’s eyes, clear and pale and blazing with the light of battle, meet Zevran’s just before metal touches skin. And then-
And then there is pain, a burst of agony sprouting from his left shoulder to the tune of a sharp-tipped arrow. The dagger falls from Zevran’s grip, and the warrior towers over him as he stumbles, and the last thing he sees is the blunt hilt of the man’s sword.
Somehow, Zevran had thought dying would be less painful.
Or that it would at least not feel like lying in the cold Fereldan mud.
Or that it would, at least, not smell like dog’s breath.
Something that feels suspiciously like the toe of a boot prods at Zevran’s side, and with a groan he opens his eyes to see a mabari standing over him, teeth bared and haunches raised. Above the dog stands an elven woman, who looks quite pleased with herself as she aims her bow squarely at Zevran’s face.
“We have some questions for you,” she says, her voice lilting in a gentle Dalish accent. Her dark eyes are bright with undisguised curiosity, and even in such dire circumstances Zevran can appreciate the striking beauty she poses. “Answer truthfully, and I won’t tell my Da’len to eat you.”
It is three days later, and somehow, Zevran is still alive.
Every morning he awakes surprised to find that he was not killed in his sleep. He does not put it past the Warden’s scowling witch to try such a thing, and he doubts the Therein lad would stop her. Zevran cannot blame them- after all, he plotted the Wardens’ deaths. They would be well within their rights to have killed him by now.
Well, ‘plotting’ is perhaps a strong word. He was not at his most creative when he set up the ambush, he can admit that much. But he did try.
Even so, his fate has been left to the Wardens who defeated him in battle, who seem somehow unsuspicious of his presence. Zevran admires their bravado, if nothing else. And he supposes there is some part of himself which must be grateful for their mercy.
A clap of thunder sounds in the distance, and Zevran looks up to see that the sky darkening. A shame; despite the chill, it had been a beautiful day, complete with singing birds and sprouting wildflowers, as if the universe were making some weak attempt at poetry after his brush with death.
Perhaps that death will still catch up with him. He still has the Crows to contend with, as well as the darkspawn, and of course there is always the chance that the Wardens will change their mind about having him here. But for now, there is little Zevran can do but make himself at home…and study his new companions.
It is a strange group Zevran has found himself in, but he is learning the rhythms of his new allies. Nights are the most predictable: Leliana will play her lyre gently through the evening, Alistair will volunteer to cook despite all previous failed attempts, Morrigan will insist upon setting up her own private camp several yards away.
The two Dalish Wardens will hunt or scout or keep watch. The activity changes by the day, but they will do it, always, together.
Those two have their own sort of rhythm, separate from their other companions and even from their fellow Grey Warden. It is not something they display prominently, at least not with the intention to do so, and yet there is an intimacy in the way they move which is instantly recognizable. Even now, their familiarity is clear in the way they lean against each other as they stand near the campfire, in the way they tilt their heads together while they exchange quiet words.
Despite their shared clan, the two look nothing alike. Tamlen Sabrae is the taller and broader of the two, with a warrior’s build. His hair is a golden bronze in the firelight, and when it hangs heavy from the rain it partially obscures the pattern of vallaslin on his forehead. Still, two lines of ink clearly continue down each side of his face to brush against his lips. Zevran wonders if he knows just how distracting that is. He'd wager his companion does, judging by the looks she gives him.
The woman in question, Allys Mahariel, is shorter by a scant few inches, but their difference in height is made up for by the curls of her dark brown hair. She usually keeps those curls tied up and away from her face, but tonight her hair hangs loosely against shoulders well-toned from years of archery. Her vallaslin is of a rich green, and rather than curling delicately, the ink is drawn in bold, sweeping lines across her brown skin.
Zevran finds himself rather fascinated by the two of them, he cannot lie. (He can, actually, and rather well. But that is not the point.) He slides a touch closer to where they stand, both to better coax some warmth from the campfire into his hands and to better observe their conversation.
“I still think we should be going to the Brecilian first,” Tamlen is saying, his voice low and frustrated.
Allys’s response is light and measured in contrast. “I’m not any more excited about this than you are. But it’s still important.”
“Chasing some shemlen legend is that important?”
“There are other things we need from Denerim. And we need to show those shemlen that we’re not afraid of them.” Allys’s eyes shift from Tamlen to Zevran, and the corner of her mouth lifts into the hint of a smile as she catches him watching. “Even if they’re going to send assassins after us.”
Tamlen’s gaze follows his companion’s, and he seems to share her amusement. “Of course we’re not afraid, vhenan. They didn’t even send a good assassin.”
Zevran smiles- wide and jovial, a grin to lower defenses and erase suspicion. “Oh, you wound me! How is it that a Warden so merciful and handsome can also be so cruel?”
Allys’s laugh rings out loudly- she is always the one to laugh along with Zevran, while Tamlen is the one to become endearingly flustered and go red around the ears, just as he is doing now. Allys has noticed this as well, and her laughter softens as she runs a soothing hand down Tamlen’s arm.
“He’s right, you know- you are handsome. It’s probably why he can’t stop staring.”
Zevran smirks, pleased that his compliments have hit at least one mark. “And the two of you together…those strong hands, those lovely eyes! How could I ever look away?”
His flattery earns another delighted laugh from Allys, and an embarrassed muttering of “Don’t encourage him,” from Tamlen.
Zevran doesn’t quite catch what Allys whispers in return, but it makes them both smile, and Zevran’s interest is sparked.
Neither Warden really takes him seriously, from what Zevran can tell.
True, his jokes make Allys laugh and Tamlen blush. But Allys laughs easily, even at Alistair’s terrible jokes. Meanwhile, Tamlen has no issues making grievances known- as proven by his constant arguments with Leliana- and he would certainly not hold back if he had any true protest to Zevran’s flirtations. The teasing is merely another simple rhythm into which they have settled into. A harmless bit of fun in their dreary journey.
Of course, nothing about these two is harmless, and Zevran cannot forget that. Tamlen’s strong, calloused hands have swung a longsword at his neck. Allys’s deep, playful eyes have aimed an arrow at his heart. As light-hearted as they seem on the open road or in the faint glow of firelight, they are still undoubtedly dangerous.
But then again, Zevran has never been one to shy away from danger, especially when there is pleasure to be had.
He is still alive, after all. And despite the mud and the rainstorms and the weather which is much too cold for this time of year, he intends to enjoy himself as life continues on.
It is late in the Fereldan summer, and the nights are short but blessedly warm under the light of the stars, and Zevran is reveling in his ability to make very unwise decisions.
He is not the only one. True, he flirts more with Allys and Tamlen each passing day. True, he knows this dance cannot continue forever. True, his dreams are still haunted by the mistakes of his past, no matter how hard he tries to distract himself with other things.
But at least he was not the one who summoned a high dragon atop the mountains of Haven. That display of overconfidence belongs solely to his Wardens.
The fight is long and exhausting and leaves Zevran with a vicious burn across his arm…but it is almost worth the hassle of the whole thing, just to see Allys and Tamlen in action.
They fight like two halves of one storm, a flurry of arrows and blades. Allys takes out one of the creature’s eyes with a well-placed shot, her jaw set in fierce determination. Tamlen finishes the job by sinking his sword into the dragon’s scaly chest, and there is a blaze in his eyes like nothing Zevran has ever seen before.
It is almost enough to make a man forget there is anything else in the world.
Almost- the dragon somehow still manages to demand Zevran’s attention as it thrashes across the rocky ground. Zevran sends a dagger flying to take out its remaining eye, earning shouts of approval from his battlemates, and despite the lingering pain from the fight he cannot help but laugh along with them.
When the group returns to the abandoned town at the base of the mountain, they are already a little drunk on the adrenaline and the victory. When they find the town’s old tavern and reclaim it for their own, the buzz of cheap ale is added to the mix.
“To killing dragons!” Tamlen cries, holding his drink aloft.
“And living to tell the tale!” Allys follows, her face flushed with excitement.
More toasts follow, and when it is Zevran’s turn, he reveals the bottle of Antivan brandy he’s been saving since Denerim.
“To the unkillable Grey Wardens,” he says with a wink, and he gets one long drink straight from the bottle before the brandy is impatiently pulled from his hands.
“You’ve been holding out on us,” Tamlen accuses, and Zevran flashes him a wicked smile.
“Am I to reveal my secrets all at once? What fun would that be?”
Allys giggles through her drink, but somehow manages to avoid spilling a drop as she tosses the bottle to Tamlen. “We should have known he had some secrets up his sleeve. Zev is nothing if not a tease.”
“My dear Wardens, it is only teasing if I never follow through.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?” Allys asks, her dark eyes dancing in the lingering torchlight.
“If you cannot tell, I shall not say.”
“Do you see what I mean, Tam? A tease!”
Tamlen chuckles- a low sound, and softer than one might expect. “Yes, vhenan. I see him.” Tamlen’s gaze drifts between them both, and Zevran tries to read the emotions in the man’s eyes. Interest? Speculation? Amusement? Before Zevran can decide, the moment is interrupted as Leliana flits by and plucks the bottle of alcohol from Tamlen’s hands.
“Honestly,” she says, “if you three are going to ignore the rest of us to make eyes at each other, you should just get on with it and leave the brandy with those who will appreciate it.”
It has always been Allys who is the more forward in her flirtations. The one who grins at Zevran’s innuendo, who meets him head-on in every shameless remark.
Tonight, as their small, odd, potentially blasphemous celebration stretches late into the night, it is she who continues to send Zevran curious, beckoning smiles. As the energy finally winds down, it is she who hesitates when she stands to follow Tamlen back to their bed.
She lays a hand on Tamlen’s shoulder, stands on tiptoes to whisper something in his ear. Zevran watches, waits to see what they decide- whether they wish to step back neatly over the line which they have danced around but never crossed. He would not begrudge them that; even after a day like today, he can step back when asked to.
But they pause in the doorway, and Tamlen’s eyes flicker to Zevran. This time, his intent is clear.
Allys can read those eyes just as well as Zevran can, and it is she who looks back at him with the smallest smirk and asks, “Well…are you coming?”
Zevran remembers the rest of the night fondly- a blur of laughter and hungry touches and kisses that taste like brandy.
In the light of the morning, they spend a little less time on kissing and a little more on talking. Zevran makes himself quite clear; he has no designs on their relationship, no interest in anything more than delightful distraction in this time of constant fighting. They agree, and then the talking fades away as the kissing commences once more.
It is quite the brilliant arrangement, if Zevran does say so himself. Perhaps not the safest, nor the most wise- the manner in which he conducts himself has always carried a certain amount of risk, but such is the life of an assassin. What is important is that his Wardens have a new way to relieve the tension which comes from days of cutting down darkspawn, and he has new opportunities to observe his Wardens in all their strengths and weaknesses.
After all, Zevran is still the assassin he has always been. His observations come naturally, and he catalogues each one carefully.
Most are useful. He watches closely as the Wardens train, memorizes their movements and tendencies. He knows every scar that marks their bodies, learns every weak point. He asks questions, and comes away with knowledge of their abilities, insight into the ways in which the Joining improved their skill and endurance, making them that much harder to kill.
He also learns other things. Allys and Tamlen tell him the stories behind their scars, which turn into stories of hunting trips and childhood adventures. They give him the truth of how they never wanted to be Grey Wardens at all, of how close they came to dying that day in the forest. It all mixes together, a concoction of valuable intelligence and blithe sentiment, until even Zevran finds it difficult to locate just where he has drawn the line.
He learns that Allys is sharp-eyed and observant and doesn’t guard her back as well as she should, yes, but he also learns that she has a voice like a siren and loves sunflowers.
He learns that Tamlen is quick-footed and confident and struggles with opponents in heavy armor- and he’s also a lover of stories, and he always wears a necklace bearing a tooth from the first bear he ever hunted.
He learns small pieces of the elven language, so as to better understand when they call out orders in battle and when they whisper sweet nothings in the dark. He learns that even now, after so long, they are still haunted by nightmares of darkspawn and mirrors and long twisting caverns. He learns how to soothe them when they wake breathless and panicked in the night.
He learns that there is barely an ounce of restraint between the two of them, and it is truly impressive that they have managed to survive their own recklessness for this long.
That same recklessness is, in Zevran’s eyes, somewhat endearing. After all, their foolish overconfidence is likely the reason he is still breathing. And when it comes to foolish overconfidence, Zevran cannot say with a straight face that he is any better. The difference is that he knows firsthand how to turn a person’s reckless, foolish, overconfident trust in other people against them.
He hopes it does not come to that. As it turns out, Zevran rather likes his new lovers, and not just between the sheets. As fraught as the long days of summer have been, there is a certain peacefulness to them as well. Outside their tent, the Blight ravages the land, and there is disaster around every corner. But inside, there is only Zevran and Allys and Tamlen, curled around each other as they keep everything else locked tightly away.
Some nights, before Zevran sneaks back to his own bedroll, he waits for a while and watches them sleep- Allys with her curls a mess around her face, Tamlen with his chest rising softly in time with his snores.
And as foolish as it is, he thinks how very nice it would be for all of them to make it out of this alive.
By the time they finally reach the Brecilian Forest, the trees are beginning to fade to the yellows and browns of autumn, and Zevran is beginning to worry he may be repeating old mistakes.
He tells himself he is merely fond of Allys and Tamlen. There is nothing wrong with a bit of fondness. A bit of fondness will not stop him from taking his leave and saving his own skin, should it come to that.
But then he starts letting his guard down, little by little. As they share their histories, he shares his own- his childhood, his training. He does not speak of Rinna and Taleisen- that is too much, that is where a line must be drawn- but he tells them nearly everything else. He even speaks of his mother, and of the daydreams he once had of joining a Dalish clan himself.
It is silly to think of such things now, when so much time has passed, but they listen attentively and it is…it is nice, that is all. To have someone listen to his musings, and act as if they care. One would think he had learned to rid himself of such feelings by now, but alas.
Zevran must simply remember to not allow such sentiments to go to his head.
One would think it might be difficult to find mythical beasts of legend in their ancient den, nestled away in a magical forest which is home to all manner of spirits. One would not be completely wrong in that assumption.
But Allys leads the group through the woods, sure-footed as ever despite the shifting trees around them. When the wolves appear in all their snarls and fury, she meets their leader face-to-face without so much as blinking.
When the wolves flee, Tamlen leads the charge into the ruins, diving fearlessly into battle with wolves and giant spiders and even an underground dragon. When they take a moment to rest, he runs his hands over the crumbling walls with wonder as he recites years’ worth of elven history.
And despite the severity of their circumstances and his own better judgement, Zevran can’t fight the creeping warmth in his chest as he watches the two of them at work. He has always been attracted to strength, intelligence, expertise; that is nothing new.
But when they loot dragon’s hoard, Tamlen slides Zevran an equal share of the golden coins without hesitation, and when they stop to catch their breath, Ally rests with her head against Zevran’s shoulder. And something about this is new, and the worst part is-
The worst part is, Zevran doesn’t want it to end. Even stuck a mile underground, covered in spider guts and chasing after vicious wolves, he doesn’t want any of this to end.
He is in trouble.
“Have you lost your mind?” Tamlen paces back and forth, but the narrow stairway doesn’t allow much room for him to dispel his energy. It comes out instead in a voice that is not nearly hushed enough, considering how close they are to the creatures they are discussing.
Allys reaches out to touch him, but he jerks from her grip. Her fingers close over empty air, and her hand falls to her side. “This is serious, Tamlen.”
“This is serious! That’s why we need to go back there and kill those wolves before they hurt anyone else!”
Zevran feels he should say something. He usually knows what to say, how to diffuse tension like this. But he has never seen Allys and Tamlen disagree so strongly, and something about the situation brings a lump to his throat which keeps him silent.
“If what the spirit said is true…” Allys begins, but Tamlen shakes his head.
“They’re still just a bunch of murderers,” he hisses. “We need to get rid of them.”
“We need to end the curse.”
“They’ve hurt our people. You’d let them walk away?”
The accusation echoes against the stone walls, hanging in the air for a tense moment. Da’len sits at Zevran’s feet, looking between Allys and Tamlen with a confused whine. The others are all back at camp, guarding the Dalish clan against further attacks. It is only Allys and Tamlen who can decide how this ends.
Zevran should not be here. The Dalish are not his people, not truly, not like they are to Allys and Tamlen. He should not have a say in this. But he is here anyway, and his Wardens turn to look at him in the same instant, both silently pleading for his support.
“I wish to see the Dalish protected,” Zevran says, and he is almost surprised by the way the truth comes naturally to his lips. The Dalish are not his, but they were his mother’s. Sentimentality, striking again. “Whether the wolves live or die matters little to me. But if the spirit is truthful, her way does seem the best method of ensuring the curse does not return in the future.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Allys says, relief clear in her voice. “Tamlen, please. This will heal the clan. And I…I don’t want more death, if it can be helped.”
Tamlen doesn’t answer immediately. There is a storm behind his eyes as he stares down at the ground, at the stones which were once the foundation of his ancestor’s home and are now littered with skeletons. But then he looks at Allys, and he softens. “Fine.”
Zevran watches the wolves for signs of a double cross, his daggers ready at his fingers in case he needs to remedy his decision.
It does not come to that, and they return to the Dalish camp with one less Keeper, one less spirit, and one less curse.
The rest of the day is spent helping the clan prepare for their move to Redcliffe, now that they have the means to honor their treaties. Allys oversees every task from tending halla to fetching supplies from the forest, seemingly everywhere at once.
So when night falls and she is suddenly nowhere to be found, Zevran finds himself- well, not worried, but somewhat concerned.
The concern is not eased when Zevran searches the camp and finds only Tamlen, sitting alone against an aravel and watching the distant light of the clan’s campfire in the distance. The golden-red-orange of the forest seems to glow in the distance, as if the forest itself is thankful for what they have done here, but Tamlen barely seems to notice.
He glances up as Zevran approaches, a small, sardonic smile pulls at his lips.
“Looking for Allys?”
“For the both of you, actually.”
“We are not always together, you know,” Tamlen says, but the protest is a weak one. “Anyway, she’s out in the woods. Scouting. She does that, sometimes. Just disappears for a bit. She’ll be back when she’s ready.”
Zevran nods, his own concern soothed by the nonchalance in Tamlen’s voice. He shakes himself of his foolish worries and turns to Tamlen, hoping that the man is in as much need of distraction tonight as Zevran is. “And you?”
Tamlen tilts his head. “Me?”
“You seem…” Zevran leans close, let’s a lazy smile curl across his face. “…tense. I have quite a few remedies for that, you know.”
“I’m well aware,” Tamlen says wryly. “But not tonight, Zev.”
“Ah.” Zevran dips his head, concealing the strange tug of disappointment at the rejection. “Fair enough. It has been a long day, after all.” He turns to take his leave, but is stopped when Tamlen speaks up again.
“Did we do the right thing?”
A long moment passes in which Zevran is silent, until finally he takes a breath and moves to sit next to Tamlen. “I am probably not the person you should ask about right and wrong. But everything worked out well, did it not?”
“It did,” Tamlen admits, but his voice has a bitter edge. “I should probably be happy.”
“Would killing the werewolves have made you happier?”
Tamlen considers the question. “Not happy. But maybe satisfied, just for a moment.” He hesitates, mulling over his own words, then turns to Zevran with something desperate in his expression. “You understand, don’t you?”
Zevran doesn’t need to ask what he means. “I do.”
A deep sigh falls from Tamlen’s lips, and with it he relaxes against Zevran, his head falling to Zevran’s shoulder. “Thank you. I’d think Allys would understand, too. I’d think she’d be just as angry as I am, after everything we’ve lost and everything we’ve put up with from these shemlen. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like any of this is worth it, and I just want to scream. But Allys- she’s not angry. She’s out there acting as if nothing is wrong. As if nothing has changed.”
Zevran is frozen for a moment, caught off guard by the strange shift in the situation. He has never seen Allys and Tamlen in such discord; they have always seemed so much like two pieces crafted to fit exactly together, two complementary rhythms that move in perfect harmony.
Now they are suddenly off kilter, and for some reason Tamlen is turning to him for…for what? Zevran has already offered himself as a distraction, and he is unsure what reassurance he could offer beyond that.
Still, he tries. “It may not be my place to say…”
Tamlen laughs weakly. “You’ve been sleeping with us both for months, Zevran. You can say whatever you want.”
“Ah, but saying things is not always as easy it seems, is it? Sometimes it might be easier to smile and pretend than to admit what is in your thoughts, no?” Tamlen lifts his head to give Zevran a questioning glance, and Zevran hurriedly continues, “That is to say, there is a chance Allys is not as unaffected as she appears.”
“Well,” Tamlen huffs, dropping his head back to Zevran’s shoulder, “I don’t see why she can’t just tell me that herself.”
“You would make a terrible Crow, you know. You are far too honest by nature.”
Tamlen chuckles again, but this time the sound is at least somewhat sincere.
“And for what it is worth,” Zevran add quietly, “I do think you are doing the right thing. However angry you feel, you are still doing good. I admire you for that. Truly.”
Tamlen nods. He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t leave, either. He simply leans closer, and his warm, calloused fingers lace through Zevran’s without caution or hesitance.
Zevran knows he shouldn’t allow this. This is the type of intimacy he should avoid. But he does not pull away, and before they both slip into sleep, he could swear he catches a whisper of “Thank you, vhenan.”
The words echo in Zevran’s thoughts the next morning, and he knows that something must be done. What had started as a pragmatic arrangement is becoming too much, too close.
And it just gets worse from there.
“These are for you.”
That is all she says as she hands Zevran the small bundle of cloth, but her eyes are dancing with poorly concealed excitement. If Zevran looks a little closer, he can see the telltale lines beneath her eyes, indicating an exhaustion which she refuses to admit to. He doesn’t comment upon it; she has already shrugged off Tamlen’s concerns, and Zevran has been trying to convince himself that her well-being is none of his business.
Allys huffs impatiently and pushes the bundle more insistently into Zevran’s hands. “Come on, Zev. Look at them!”
Zevran chuckles indulgently and does as she asks, turning the cloth over in his hands to see… “Gloves?”
“Look at them.” Tamlen’s voice is softer than Allys’s as he repeats her words, and Zevran’s breath catches as he realizes what they mean.
“It’s a traditional stitching pattern,” Tamlen is saying. “I know it’s not as good as having your mother’s pair, but I thought you’d like them all the same.”
Zevran pulls the gloves over his hands, flexing his fingers as he evaluates the material. The gloves are of good material- soft, warm, lovingly stitched with familiar patterns. Tamlen is correct; they are just like his mother’s. For a moment he cannot speak, too lost in the disbelief of such a gift.
“I do. Thank you.” He struggles to give his Wardens a brazen smile, trying to regain his lost bravado. “However shall I pay you back?”
He expects a laugh, a parrying banter. Instead, Allys’s smile goes soft, and perhaps a little sad. “It’s just a gift, Zev.”
It’s not. It’s not, and they both know that. Zevran shakes his head. “Are you certain…”
“Zevran.” Tamlen says, quiet but insistent. “You’ve already done enough. More than you know.”
“So don’t worry so much,” Allys adds, “and just take the gift.”
Zevran had suspected before, but now he knows: he is a fool. In sneaking his way into the Wardens’ good graces, he has turned the game back on himself and allowed them to sneak into his affections.
But if Zevran knows one thing, it is that feelings such as these will inevitably end in blood. He cannot do that to himself. He cannot do that to them.
He walks slowly behind Allys and Tamlen as the group leaves the forest behind, letting the leaves crunch loudly beneath his boots as he watches them. The tension between them has, for the most part, faded in the light of morning. They chatter and laugh easily enough, at least, and perhaps they notice Zevran’s silence, but they do not push him.
Zevran is grateful; it gives him time, time to pretend just a little longer.
Winter sets in cold and bitter as the Wardens and their companions make their way across the Frostback Mountains. Amidst the snow and ice, the warmth of his two lovers is something Zevran appreciates more than ever.
And so he continues to hesitate, continues to put off the decision that must be made.
Just a little longer, he thinks. One more witty comment from Allys to make him laugh. One more soft touch from Tamlen to make him smile. One more night of warmth.
Just a little longer.
Orzammar does not make their lives any easier.
The city is at war with itself, and dwarven war is quite the spectacle. Their close-knot group goes through their own disagreements as well, in smaller, quiet ways. Tamlen and Allys are already on edge; neither sleeps well without the sky above, and neither have any patience for the machinations of noble politics. Caught between a hard-headed man of prejudice and a rumored kinslayer, they stall and argue rather than making decisions.
And so in this case, Zevran makes the decision for them. Harrowmont is weak; Bhelen is clever. The easiest route out of Orzammar is clear. After so much deliberation, Allys and Tamlen seem relieved to be swayed to any decision.
“I was not much help in the Forest,” Zevran jokes, “but this is an area I admittedly have some knowledge in. You may not believe it, but Antivan politics make Orzammar look simple.”
“I don’t believe it. But thank the gods for Antiva, anyway,” Tamlen says with a tired smile. “Whatever would we do without you?”
Just a little longer, Zevran repeats in his head, but with each repetition it sounds more and more like a lie.
The Deep Roads are even worse than the city.
The Wardens lead their team into the depths of the caverns. They uncover secrets which were meant to stay buried. They return, and a king is crowned.
They refuse to stay in Orzammar for one minute longer than is necessary, and as soon as they dwarven armies are secured they are stepping into the sunlight once more.
“I’ve never loved snow so much,” Tamlen sighs, his head lifted towards the sky. Allys leans against him, her arm around his waist, and she says nothing rests her chin against his shoulder in silent agreement. The recent weeks have been difficult, but they are strong, and they have each other, and they do not need Zevran to join in their quiet moment. He tries to take some sort of comfort in that.
Zevran finally gathers his courage on the return trip to Denerim. The Wardens are readying themselves for the final assault against the darkspawn, and the time for distractions is over. It will be easier for all of them, Zevran tells himself, if he pulls away now.
Tamlen takes it the hardest.
Zevran can tell from the first moment that the man is hurt. Confused. He presses for an explanation, a reason, and Zevran cannot give him what he is looking for.
“You can’t just say this meant nothing!” he insists. “Just tell us what’s wrong! I know you don’t really-”
“Perhaps you do not know as much of me as you think!” Zevran snaps back. He regrets the outburst instantly, and bites the inside of his cheek as he sighs deeply and looks away. Tamlen shifts with his movement, refusing to let Zevran avoid his gaze.
“We care about you, Zevran. I care about you. I…”
“I told you when we began. I did not want feelings to become involved.”
“Zevran is right.” They are the first words Allys has said since Zevran and Tamlen began arguing. Unlike Tamlen, her voice does not shake. She does not blink away tears. She does not look Zevran in the eyes. “We all agreed from the beginning. This was just about sex. If Zevran isn’t interested in that anymore…”
“So that’s it?” Tamlen looks between Zevran and Allys in disbelief. “You’re just done with us? Is that really what you want?”
In another life, Zevran could easily tell him yes, this was nothing, and he can walk away without looking back. But Allys and Tamlen have gone and ruined him, and now he can only drop his eyes and say in a low voice, “I am sorry.”
Zevran sleeps alone that night, in his own tent, listening to the cold wind whistle through the trees around their campsite.
It is for the best, he reminds himself. It is for the best.
Zevran is grateful that Denerim is enough turmoil to keep the Wardens thoroughly busy as soon as they walk through the gates. He is aware of the morbidity of such a thought, but he is grateful all the same.
There are not loud fights, not after that first night. There is no explicit blame. But there are strained conversations and awkward silences and wooden smiles. There is a distance which Zevran does not know how to bridge. When once he was a constant companion on Allys and Tamlen’s missions, he now lingers behind, uncertain of how welcome his assistance would now be.
But that is all for the best. He should not wish to cross that distance once more. He should look ahead, and focus on his survival once this is all over.
Then Leliana returns from a rescue mission with a Queen in tow but nobody else, and all thoughts of survival are banished from Zevran’s mind as he immediately makes plans to infiltrate a prison fortress.
To arrange an escape from a fort such as Drakon is no small task. Leliana warns beforehand that they must be subtle.
A ballista shot to the wall is far from subtle, but it gets the job done, and in a dramatic fashion which is far more suitable to Zevran’s tastes. Allys and Tamlen appreciate it as well, and when they have somehow made their escape, when they are crouched in a filthy Denerim alley well out of reach of Fort Drakon’s guards, they all laugh together for what feels like the first time in ages.
“To tell the truth,” Tamlen says later, when they are safely back within the extravagant halls of Eamon’s estate, “I wasn’t sure you would come for us.”
Zevran wants to answer with a jest, a sarcastic chuckle. But the response catches in his throat, and what he says instead is, “Of course I came for you. For you, I could journey to the Black City itself.”
It’s as close as Zevran can get to any sort of declaration, yet Tamlen looks as if he’s just been struck through the heart with a dagger. “If that’s really how you feel, why can’t you just…be with us?”
The silence stretches out between them, that distance that still cannot be bridged.
“The people I love do not live long,” is all he says, and before Tamlen can argue he slips into the shadows and disappears down the long stone hallway.
Zevran accompanies the Wardens from then on, awkwardness or no, which is how he stands witness to the events in the Alienage.
The slavers are disposed of quickly and ruthlessly. Tamlen’s righteous anger is something to behold, but when it is done, he is nothing but gentle as he leads the elves back to their homes. Allys, however, wears a mask of cold fury that does not fade away even after the last maleficar lies dead at her feet.
“Will you please talk to her?” Tamlen asks that night, when they have returned to the estate and Allys had disappeared wordlessly into the courtyards. He does not elaborate. He does not need to.
“There is nothing I would say which you cannot,” Zevran says evenly. “And you know her far better than I do.”
Tamlen does not refute the observation, but his scowl deepens. “I’ve tried. She won’t…just, please. Try. You owe me that much.”
It is the closest he has come to an accusation since the day Zevran ended things. Zevran decides not to argue further.
He finds Allys above the stables. She sits perched on the stone rooftop, idly observing the movements of animals and servants down below. To her credit, she does not avoid Zevran as he approaches. She simply tilts her head as she watches him clamber up the icy roof to sit beside her.
“Tamlen is looking for you, you know,” Zevran says by way of greeting.
“And so he sends you?” Her tone is derisive, although not cruel. As with Tamlen’s unspoken accusation, Zevran supposes it could be argued that he deserves worse.
“He is worried.” Zevran pauses. He can feel the line between Tamlen’s concern and his own begin to blur, and it is not exactly wise to indulge in those feelings, but he is already here. “As am I. Are you-”
“Do not ask me if I’m okay,” Allys snaps. “You do not get to ask if I’m okay.”
“I would not have to if you would talk to him.” There is more snap in Zevran’s own reply than he intended, and Allys seems strangely satisfied in that. He sighs and looks away, over the rooftops lining the landscape against the grey Fereldan sky. “He loves you quite a bit, you know. Enough that he came asked me for help, which I doubt was an easy task.”
Allys is quiet for a long moment, but finally, a heavy breath falls from her chest and she says, “I know. And I’ve loved him back nearly my entire life. He’s amazing. And now I have dreams just about every night about him dying of the Taint. Or about the archdemon destroying all of Ferelden. Or about all the people who are going to suffer if we fail, or if we’re not quick enough, or if we make the wrong choices. And now after today, I just- I’m tired, Zevran. I’m tired of all this death. And I know Tamlen is, too, so what am I supposed to say to him that wouldn’t just make all of this worse?”
Her voice catches, and she falls silent. Zevran moves automatically, and before he can think better of it his arms are around her. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
She laughs. It’s amazing how even now, she laughs. “Hypocrite. As if you’re not planning on leaving us once this is over.” Zevran tenses, but Allys keeps speaking, not waiting for a response. “And that’s okay, if that’s really what you want. We were never going to make you stay, oath or no oath. I- I’d hoped you would want to stay.”
Allys pauses, and she looks at Zevran with tired eyes that even now hold no trace of tears. “I love you, too, you know. Or I thought I did. Make whatever choices you need to make, but please don’t doubt that.”
“But you said…”
“So did you.” She looks down and pulls something from her pockets- a small trinket of gold, solid and heavy and as she places it in his hands. “I grabbed this for you, by the way. From one of those mages. I know you were always planning on leaving. I know that’s why you were always collecting valuables. And I can understand, if you end up going through with it. But please don’t feel like you have to.”
The idea is tempting- too tempting, and Zevran can feel himself weakening as he lies in bed that night. But the words he spoke to Tamlen are still true- the people he loves do not live long.
Those words come back to haunt him only days later.
He should have known they would send Taleisen. Taleisen is the only one who might stand a chance at convincing him. At bringing him back.
For a brief second, Zevran can see it. He returns to the Crows. He and Taleisen lie for each other, as they have so many times before. They lie to each other, as they have so many times before, and they fall back into their routine of lovemaking and backstabbing until one of them ends up dead. It would be easy, in its own way.
But there are certain things standing between Zevran and that future- the very people who stand at his side now, waiting to follow his cue in this confrontation. Zevran can see the calculation in Taleisen’s eyes, the conclusions being drawn and plans being formulated. He was always quite good at that part of the job.
Zevran knows what he is thinking. The Wardens are loose ends. They must be taken care of.
And this time, Zevran cannot let that happen.
They don’t speak of it until much later. After the Landsmeet, after the duel, after the arguments of crowns and thrones and armies.
After it all, late at night, Zevran meets them in their guest bedroom at the estate. He does owe them an explanation, if nothing else. It starts slowly, but once it starts, the words cannot be stopped from spilling like wine off his lips.
Rinna. Taleisen. The love. The killing. His part in it. The truth. His departure. The reason he took this contract, the reason he tried to kill them that chilly spring day so long ago.
Allys and Tamlen are silently attentive through it all. Halfway through the story, Allys takes Zevran’s hand, gripping it tightly as if she could pull Zevan away from the past. It isn’t possible, but Zevran allows it anyway.
When he is done, when they have asked their questions and made their sorrows known, it is Tamlen who voices the question.
“What now?”
“I…I do not know,” Zevran answers honestly. “You were right, before. You both mean more to me than I can put into words. But I would understand if you did not want…”
“I can only speak for myself,” Allys says, “but I want you, Zev. Not just your body. Not just your jokes. You, and whatever comes with you.”
“As do I,” Tamlen says. “Of course we want you with us, Zevran. Of course we love you.”
For the first time, Zevran can let himself believe that, and it feels like coming home.
Zevran would be a poor assassin indeed, if he could not eavesdrop upon private conversations.
He listens to Riordan speak of Grey Wardens, and archdemons, and sacrifice. He listens to Alistair and Allys argue about who should deliver that final blow, until Tamlen snaps at them both to stop.
He waits for Allys and Tamlen in the hall. One look is all it takes for them to understand- they all know what they know, and they cannot do anything about it tonight. Tonight, all they can do is be together, the three of them, and do their best not to wonder if it is the last time it will be like this.
Zevran is not the only one who waits for the Wardens that night, carrying knowledge he should not have. Morrigan is standing by the fireplace in their room, and she has an offer. She has a plan.
There is something more they can do.
And it will not be the three of them alone tonight.
It is another chilly spring day in Fereldan, and Zevran has been gone for far too long.
The country is still struggling. Fields are barren, ruined by the Blight, and fear is still prevalent among the villages dotting the countryside. But underneath it all, there is hope. The Blight is over. The crops will grow again. People will return to their homes. Life will go on.
They owe it all to the one they call the Hero of Ferelden. The Grey Warden who slew the archdemon- and lived to tell the tale. That great, mythic legend, the Dalish warrior who stood as a guardian against the Blight, a protector for people of every kind.
Tamlen has grown quite weary of the title these days, but Zevran thinks it suits him.
(And he did earn it, that cannot be denied. Zevran can still see him standing over the archdemon, sword gleaming in his hand, his face blazing with triumph as he drives the blade through its scales. There had been one horrifying moment when they were not sure their plan had worked, when he collapsed in a flash of light.
Zevran and Allys were both at side in an instant, begging for him to open his eyes. He did, and it was nothing short of a second miracle that their combined embrace did not suffocate him.)
They had tried to give him additional titles, but Tamlen had made his opinion of those quite clear. And so while Alistair returned to Weisshaupt to wrangle the rumors Tamlen’s survival had stirred and Tamlen tried to lay low, it was Allys who had risen to fill in the roles left behind. She had always been the one with the talent for bringing people together, and she put it now to good use.
(Still, she had never grown accustomed to the celebrations thrown by the human nobility. She declared them too crowded, too loud, had even left early from the ceremony to celebrate her own appointment as Warden-Commander of Ferelden.
Rather than give speeches and false smiles to the crowd of nobility, Allys had escaped to the rooftops with Tamlen, Zevran, and a bottle of wine, and the three had celebrated their survival in their own, private way.)
The memories are still fresh as Zevran travels through Ferelden, marveling at how much things have changed.
Up ahead, Amaranthine awaits, a city which Allys has been fortifying and leading and making her own. In his wake, Zevran leaves behind a city and a guild which has been cleared of the assassins who were out for his head. In his pocket, he carries a tattered letter from Tamlen, bearing a short message in shaky writing: we have a son.
Zevran comes in through the window, thinking he might surprise his Wardens. But of course they know his tricks by now and are already waiting for him, and he has barely set foot off the ledge before Allys is flying into his arms. He laughs and returns the gesture, nearly lifting her off the ground before Tamlen joins, his warm arms completing the embrace.
Tonight is the first night they have all three been together in far too long. There will be much to talk about, much to catch up on, much time to be spent reminding each other that they are all still here, still alive.
It is hard to believe, even now, but it is true. They are here. They are alive. They are together. Everything else, they can handle as it comes.