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They had expected it to be a simple fight, only a handful of under-prepared blood mages that would be easily routed or killed. Instead, the group had walked into a cult packed full of mercenaries and at least ten blood mages so far, and they hadn’t even found the leader yet.
Zevran found himself thanking the Maker that they had decided to bring Wynne along today. Otherwise, the chances were that Sergeant Kylon would have to scrape them off the floor by now. As it was, they were managing to carve a reasonably bloody path through the place, quietly enough that there were a few minutes left to breathe at the end of every fight.
As always, the former Crow darted from one end of the fray to the other, keeping an eye out for any distracted opponents currently being engaged by Sten, or others knocked to the floor by a bolt of magic or an arrow. Naturally, he also kept an eye on Theron. The ranger was streaked with blood - not all of it was his own, thankfully - as he grimly fired arrow after arrow, grey gaze focused on his next target as soon as the arrow left his bowstring.
The blond found himself momentarily free of hostile attention, and as spells crackled back and forth he decided to help Sten out as he hacked at one blood mage while another tried to keep Wynne distracted long enough to bring the Qunari down and out of the fight.
Zevran crept up behind the mage Sten wasn’t able to fight, the woman entirely focused on throwing spells at the rival mage rather than the rest of the combat. The assassin’s daggers gleamed as he prepared to make a quick, silent kill. At the same time, however, there was a whistling thunk, and then an arrow embedded itself in the woman’s shoulder. She let out a cry of pain and staggered back, noticing and nearly bumping into Zevran as she snapped the arrow shaft in half with fingers that crackled with raw magic.
The blond’s eyes widened, and his muscles tensed to lunge forwards and kill the mage quickly; thin robes were useless against blades, after all. The smell of ozone was thick around them, and the world abruptly narrowed down to just the two of them and the cloying smell of magic. The fresh arrow wound was bleeding heavily, soaking down the mage’s sleeve and chest. Since when did arrow wounds bleed so much? Had Theron put more power behind the shot that usual?
Zevran found himself staring at the blood, muscles still tensed to strike, but for some reason he couldn’t move them. The mage smiled in the eerie quiet that had settled over them, as if she had remembered some private joke while they were frozen in time. The air crackled around them again, and because he was so close to the mage the blond could feel his hair stand on end and his nose sting as ozone swirled. He took a breath, bracing himself, and then with a powerful burst of magic and a flash of visibly flowing blue energy he was flung back from the mage into a pile of debris.
Groaning, the blond picked himself up as his vision blurred and his ears rang, his spine in agony. He’d not been able to hold onto his daggers, but he quickly recovered them as he staggered back into the fray. Sound had returned; Sten’s greatsword slicing through flesh and rendering it a red pulp, the hum and twang of Theron’s bowstring, the hissing of spells.
There were fewer enemies left now, but Zevran saw the mage he had just tried to kill was still standing. She was still bleeding. Was it deliberate? As he watched, she turned her head to look at him. She lifted one arm up - so graceful - and then a roaring sound filled Zevran’s ears as something settled around him and forced him to his knees amidst blood and bodies.
His vision swam and blurred worse than before, but he struggled against it, blinking hard until he could make out the room again. Whatever hex she had put on him would clear soon. He could still fight, despite such weak efforts to disorient him. The former Crow gripped his daggers tightly, feeling the familiar curves of the hilts in his hands, and then he crept in the direction of the mage. This time he was more careful, creeping around the edge of the room and approaching slowly from behind. His vision was still impaired, but that didn’t hinder him working from memory, stepping close and thrusting both of his blades into the mage’s back, just underneath the ribs in a single elegant, but deadly movement.
Zevran saw a large blur of grey from the corner of his eye, and realised it was Sten. Why was he coming over so quickly? It was difficult to see, but the Qunari looked like a charging bronto.
“Kadan!” The Qunari roared, and the last thing the Antivan remembered was the clatter of a bow being dropped to the floor somewhere close by - far too close - before something flat and coldly metallic struck the side of his head. The world flashed red, and then black.
It stayed like that for a while.
When Zevran awoke, he found himself not in his and Theron’s bedroom at Eamon’s estate, but a far smaller and less ornate room. In fact, the place was freezing, and smelled thick of dust. It obviously hadn't been used anytime in the past year. Perhaps this was where Eamon let his enemies sleep, if they ever happened to visit? Zevran sneezed, and bit back a noise of pain when the sudden movement made his head throb heavily in time with his heartbeat. Why was he here? What had happened?
The blond began to sit up carefully, closing his eyes at the continued pain that was beginning to recede to just one side of his head, but he stopped when he realised that his hands were bound - inexpertly, but very tightly, and his feet were hobbled.
Hm. He had enjoyed not waking up under such circumstances for so long, and to suddenly repeat them now? Was he even in Eamon’s estate? There was little telling other than the sounds that filtered through the two dust-covered windows near the bed; the chatter of the marketplace, the sound of that damned dwarf and his crafts. So, he was still in Denerim. Reassuring to know that he hadn’t been kidnapped and ushered back to Antiva. It was still day, too.
A quick check and wriggle round on the bed he had been set on confirmed that he had none of his usual daggers with which to free himself. At least he still had his armour on. Frowning in ever-growing confusion, the blond got to his feet and half walked, half hopped to the bedroom door.
He awkwardly opened it to see a heavily armoured bulk all but blocking the way out.
“Ah, Sten-” He began cheerfully.
“I have nothing to say to you.” The Qunari interrupted him, not even looking up from wiping drying blood from his sword with an old rag. Sten looked and sounded stern, but then again he always did. But this time, there was something off.
“But would you mind telling me what I have mi-”
“Nothing.” The Qunari repeated firmly, the word as heavy as a stone sinking to the bottom of a river. “Only that you are to remain in that room.”
Zevran frowned.
“Why?”
Sten remained silent, infuriatingly so. What had happened to cause such friction? The last Zevran could remember was fighting the blood mages. Presumably, they had been successful, if they were back at Eamon’s estate. But that did not explain why he was being treated so coldly.
The blond watched Sten. There would be no sneaking past him, especially not with his hands and legs tied so. And given the Qunari’s inexplicable mood, perhaps staying put would be wise, no matter how long it would turn out to be.
Of course, Zevran reasoned, he could always escape. Perhaps smash in one of the windows, cut his bindings on the broken glass and then make his way down to the street. But what then? If he came back to Eamon’s estate, what if he was simply placed under heavier guard for escaping? What crime had he committed in the first place?
The blond’s wonderings and Sten’s silence were interrupted by the sound of raised voices coming down the corridor.
“Alistair, don’t!” That was Leliana.
“Why shouldn’t I? I knew this was a bad idea from the start!” The ex-Templar snapped back, his voice wavering as if he was struggling to control his emotions.
“It wasn’t his fault! Why won’t you just listen to reason?”
Zevran felt a terrible chill go through him as he felt the pieces slowly begin to slide into place, and he warily stepped away from the door. Halfheartedly, he looked around the room for something to defend himself with. He could throw dust in Alistair’s eyes, but that was about it.
“You know what he did.” Alistair’s voice was closer, and now Zevran could hear armoured footsteps thudding closer. Unease rolled in the blond’s stomach. Oh, how he hated being so defenceless.
“He was helpless.” Leliana insisted. “Alistair-”
“And that excuses him, does it? What, we’ll just let him go?”
“No, we won’t. But, please, it was a blood mage. Zevran is just as much a victim as-”
“Sten.”
The voices were right outside the half-open door, and if Zevran ducked his head he could catch a glimpse of Alistair’s chest through the gap between Sten’s arm and his body. Knowing that the Qunari was the only thing literally standing between himself and a possible execution did nothing to ease the twinges of confused nerves in his gut.
“He has just awoken. He does not seem to remember what happened.” The Qunari reported.
“Of course not.” Leliana replied before Alistair could speak. “Is he… Himself again?”
“Presumably.”
“Good. Then we can-” Alistair began, but the redhead beside him cut him off.
“No. I can. Go and tell Wynne first.”
There was a tense silence, and then Zevran heard the sound of armour clanking and footsteps receding as Alistair walked back the way he had came. The Antivan relaxed, and then finally reached his bound hands up towards his throbbing head. As he suspected, one side of his hair was stiff and matted, and the room was dim but he could see the darkness of blood on his hand when he pulled it away.
Zevran sat down on the bed, staring at the blood on his hands with a sinking feeling. He wouldn’t give in to panic just yet, when he wasn’t sure of what exactly had happened. But he could take an educated guess, and it made his blood run cold.
“Zevran?” Leliana called through, making him start.
“I am surprised you do not want my head too.” He replied.
“It was not your fault.”
“I wish someone could tell what I am supposedly guilty of. The waiting is unbearable, you know.” The blond shrugged hollowly.
The door was pushed open, to a quiet grumble of protest from Sten, and Zevran didn’t even look up from his hands until Leliana sat down on the bed beside him.
They were quiet for a long time, until the clawing panic in his gut made Zevran speak.
“Leliana, what happened?” He asked calmly.
“You remember fighting the blood mages, yes?”
Zevran began to nod, but winced when that made the pain in his head flare.
“Well, there are certain… Risks to fighting blood mages.”
The blond swallowed, coldness washing over him again and making him feel numb. He knew already.
“A blood mage took control of you.”
Zevran decided to address the bronto in the room immediately.
“And what of Theron?” He questioned, suddenly fighting to keep his breathing steady as panic threatened to overwhelm him.
Leliana’s silence spoke more words than even the bard could.
Zevran took a deep, controlled breath, letting his eyes fall closed.
“May I see him?”
Leliana shifted on the bed uncomfortably.
“We need to make sure that-”
“Joder, woman! I am not a blood mage’s puppet anymore!” Zevran snapped, getting to his bound feet so quickly that he nearly tripped over. He took another deep breath, and clenched his hands into fists until he felt his nails dig hard into his palms. He wasn't anyone's puppet anymore.
Leliana got to her feet far slower.
“That is true, and I am sorry for patronising you, Zevran. But we need to be sure that the blood magic hasn’t had a lasting effect on you.” The redhead apologised.
“Do you think I care about that now?” He answered sharply, looking at the door and Sten beyond it.
Again, Leliana remained quiet, but instead she led the way out of the room. Neither looked at him, but Zevran hobbled between them regardless.
Being able to feel and hear Sten’s moving armoured bulk at his back did little to settle the blond’s nerves, especially when he knew the Qunari wielded a greatsword nearly as big as his ‘kadan’. Progress down the corridor was slow with his hobbled feet, but now Zevran could see why they didn’t want to risk him being free to run away just yet.
When they reached the room Theron and Zevran had so far shared, Alistair and Wynne waited just inside the doorway, the ex-Templar’s body hiding the bed from view. Neither of them look at Zevran kindly. Alistair, in fact, looked like he wanted nothing more than to punch him, gauntlets still on. Wynne frowned at him in authoritative and maternal disapproval, her mouth a thin line. Tension was thick in the air, and Zevran stopped himself from edging towards Leliana, who so far seemed to be the only one present who pitied him. It was like that first meeting all over again.
“I assure you that I am myself.” He muttered as Wynne cast one or two spells over him, the feeling of magic brushing against his skin making him shudder involuntarily as it dredged up memories of the blood mage, the way she had smiled, the blood that soaked her robe. For a brief second his vision clouded over again, and it wasn’t the mage’s back that his blades sank into, even though he had been convinced it was until the last few seconds.
He’d been forced to switch targets and turn on the group - without him even realising it. Only now did Zevran realise the full extent of Leliana’s argument with Alistair that he was just as much a victim in this. It didn’t feel like it. Guilt flared in his stomach, and threatened to make him feel sick.
“You were made into a thrall. Temporarily, of course. The spell ended with the mage’s death.” The elderly healer reported, and Zevran noticed for the first time how weary she looked. How drained.
“Oh, really? I wasn’t aware.”
“That is the way of blood magic.” Sten answered, the sarcasm clearly flying over his head.
“And I take it that your sword did this to me?” The blond half-turned to show off the blood-matted side of his head, which still throbbed, but was beginning to clear into two separate pains - the harsh sting of an open wound, and the low pulse of a very bad headache.
“Yes.”
“I feel obliged to thank you.”
“If he hadn’t, Theron would be…” Alistair began, but trailed off. Nearly as one, the others glanced towards the bed. Zevran still couldn’t see, and suddenly he was sick of waiting, but at the same time afraid of what he would see.
“Yes, yes. But now we have established that I am certainly myself again, can someone please untie me before I lose my fingers? I am quite attached to them.” He asked quickly, and he forced himself not to flinch away when Leliana drew a knife. He nodded in thanks when his hands were free, stretching and flexing his hands as the ties around his feet were cut as well.
Alistair, thankfully, begrudgingly stepped aside and let Zevran into the room proper. He’d half-expected the bed to be covered in blood, but apparently Wynne’s healing skills had prevented the ranger from bleeding out then and for now. All the same, he look alarmingly pale amidst the white sheets and pillows, and Zevran knew precisely how much damage his daggers had caused. The thought was not comforting.
In fact, Zevran only felt himself relax when he saw the weak rise and fall of Theron’s chest under the sheets, the shallow breathing, but it was bittersweet. If Theron had survived this long, then he would not survive much longer.
He could feel the others watching him, and made a conscious effort to stop himself from going to the Dalish elf’s bedside. It was only understandable given how their trust in him had been abruptly shaken, and there were numerous ways to kill someone barehanded. Instead, he stood two feet away, staring down at the other elf and wishing he was closer.
The mabari was on the bed, the Antivan realised belatedly. Glaring at him from where he was curled up against Theron’s side and no doubt offering him precious warmth. Another reason not to get too close; the mabari actually growled at him when Zevran stared at him for too long.
Zevran watched Theron for any sign of his awakening, if he was asleep. His face was drawn in pain. No wonder, the blades must have sliced through his kidneys, or at least close enough to have done irreparable damage. No, Zevran knew with a crumbling heart that Theron would die today. He would not wake up. That bed would become his last, his deathbed.
He turned away from the bed, and stalked over to collapse in one of the chairs by the hearth. He stared down at the blood on his hands - his own, but it might as well have been Theron’s. His fingers were numb, they didn’t feel like his. They felt like a stranger’s. They had been, for a time. A tool for someone else to use once again.
How could that have happened? The question tore through Zevran’s mind as sharply as his daggers had through Theron’s armour - thick leather, not thin cloth - and skin. He could taste bitter ash in his mouth, and could feel the others watching him uncertainly, torn between guarding their dying leader and giving him privacy to break down at last under the certainty of his own actions, no matter how they had been caused.
What he couldn’t get over was just how easy it had been. Just like any other kill. A Grey Warden was really just a man with odd-coloured eyes. They were not invulnerable or immortal. It had not taken him long at all to do so much damage; that was what he prided himself on, after all. It had only taken half a minute, at the most. A knife in the dark, and then slipping away before anyone realised. That was how he had been raised and trained. It was all he was good for. Alistair was right, had been the first time they’d met. The Crows had made him into a finely honed weapon and convinced him that he was nothing else, that he was simply nothing, and for a few minutes he had become nothing but a weapon again today.
He hadn’t even realised he was a thrall, despite the problems with his vision. He’d put that down to being thrown back, or some kind of spell. He hadn’t realised that he no longer had a choice, that what he was doing went again his own sparse but carefully shaped morals. Killing his lover. It was Rinna all over again. Rinna, Taliesen, and now Theron.
Sten had been preoccupied, as had Wynne. And Theron hadn’t even known until the daggers - Zevran’s daggers, one of them had been a gift to him - were in his back and tearing his kidneys apart. Of course he wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t have expected his own lover, of all people, to…
Zevran closed his eyes and ran his bloodied hands through his hair, ignoring when his fingers bumped clumsily over the open wound and set the nerves there aflame as well as the tears that gathered in the corners of his eyes.
He may not even get the chance to apologise - no, to beg forgiveness.
Noise from the bedside made him look up; Wynne’s hands glowed with healing magic, but the blue-green light was weak and flickered, the others shifted uneasily. Theron stirred minutely, and the dog whined.
Alistair scowled at him as Zevran shot up from the chair, but the Antivan found that he couldn’t care less. All that mattered was the dying Warden.
“Don’t sit up, Theron.” Wynne said, keeping a gentle but firm hand on the ranger’s shoulder. The black-haired elf opened his eyes, and Zevran could see they were glassy and blown wide. No doubt he’d been given elfroot to ease the pain. Or his passing. Zevran’s breath caught in his throat, agonised.
“Theron, mi amor, I’m so sorry…” He managed to say, and this time he was allowed to approach the bed.
“Atisha, Dudain.” The ranger mumbled when the mabari started to growl again. His breathing was still rapid and shallow, little more than panting, but Theron laboriously withdrew one hand from beneath the sheets. Obviously, it was all he had energy for, and Zevran hesitantly took it. Theron’s palm was cold. “Ma vhenan. What happened wasn’t your fault.” He continued weakly. “I forgive you.” Zevran nodded, bowing his head as he felt tears drip down his cheeks. “Ar lasa mala revas, Zevran. I release you from your oath to me.”
Zevran felt a hand on his back, and a controlled sniff next to him let him know it was Leliana. He was dimly aware that the others had joined him around the bedside by now, but he was lost in a fog of grief and guilt for the second time in his life. How could Theron forgive him for killing him? How could he be so at peace on his deathbed when only this morning they had bickered like gulls?
“Theron.” Alistair spoke, his voice cracking. He sounded lost, unprepared for the sudden burden of leadership that was going to unexpectedly fall onto his shoulders so close to the end. They were so close, how could Theron die now?
The ranger closed his eyes, as if his eyelids were now too heavy.
“Alistair, don’t you dare let them put me in a stone box. Dalish customs.” He muttered, voice weak.
Zevran was confused for a second, but then he remembered how the Dalish buried their dead and planted a tree over the remains so they could give back to the forest one final time. He'd overheard Alistair telling Wynne and Leliana a few months ago, and had privately agreed with them that it sounded beautiful. The tears flowed unhindered this time.
“Halamshiral.” Theron whispered, and then he was gone.