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Leaning on Zevran’s shoulder, Theron Mahariel had to wonder whether he was cursed. The warm heat of the other elf against his arm didn’t stop the ache in his chest, it was a feeling that Theron had only felt once before, although the first time would always be much worse.
The Keeper had always told him he was too quick to give his heart away. He was only saved from the feeling of heartbreak by Tamlen, who would never willingly expose Mahariel to this feeling of numbness. The happiest parts of his life were spent with Tamlen, stealing the nice sweets that an elder had made, sharing said sweets under the trees. Perhaps numbness isn’t the right word, it felt more like someone had put their hands through his chest and was slowly crushing it.
Alistair’s words rung in his head, seeming to be the only thing that Mahariel can hear.
He needed a wife, to marry some high class shem woman to produce children. The part that really broke Theron was when Alistair offered to make him his mistress. To put Mahariel second, like a shameful secret to be kept behind doors. Creators forbid the King of Ferelden had an elvhen partner. It wasn’t even like Mahariel couldn’t have children with the man, unfortunately for the elf he was born with the organs to be able to conceive a child. Even though it was one of his biggest fears - to bear a child - he would have done it if it meant they could have been together. If he had just been a human woman, he could have stayed with Alistair. Although if he was a human woman, he would never have joined the wardens.
Was duty just an excuse? Did Alistair ever truly love him?
Mahariel should have listened to all the stories of elves who had fallen in love with shem. It never ended well, and the elf always seemed to suffer in the end. Theron thought, naively, that it would never happen to him, that he would be the exception. A bitter laugh made its way up his throat, probably sounding pathetic to the assassin that was holding him.
“Do you think he loved me?” Theron’s voice was barely above a whisper, but he knew the other elf had heard him.
Zevran just seemed to tighten his hold on Mahariel, knowing that the other man didn’t actually want an answer to the question, just someone to hold him through his grief.
Mahariel felt himself be dragged up from the position where he sat on the ground. He felt Zevran’s careful, but grounding, hands pulling him towards the sleeping bag in the centre of the tent. They were currently in Zevran’s tent, as Theron had shared his tent with Alistair due to their old one getting torn up by darkspawn. Being in someone else’s tent just deepened the wound that Mahariel felt inside of him. Did Alistair hate him enough that he wouldn’t even share a tent with him anymore?
Zevran’s arms wrapped themselves around him, as he curled up on his side. Mahariel could feel the assassin’s heartbeat on his back, calming him slightly. The pillow under Mahariel’s head started to become wet with tears, soaking up all the sadness that he felt.
Just a few nights ago he had to kill his nas’falon, who arrived already taken by the blight, begging for death. How Mahariel had failed him. If only he had looked more thoroughly. If only he had stopped Tamlen the moment he had felt something off in the cave. Maybe it would have been better if it had been him that was taken by the blight, instead of Tamlen. His beautiful, wonderful Tamlen. Alistair had helped him dig a grave for him, and had offered his support that night, similarly to what Zevran was doing at the moment.
He was pathetic. He was supposed to be out there, saving the world, not crying over a shemlen man like some teenager. Tomorrow they would be arriving at Redcliffe, to get ready to march against the Archdemon and the blight.
Mahariel turned to face Zevran, and the other elf gently tucked him in his embrace, holding him like he could protect Theron from the rest of the world. Inhaling the scent of leather that always seemed to cling onto the assassin, Mahariel felt his thoughts calm somewhat, reduced to background noise.
Sleep claimed Mahariel, while Zevran was humming a tune that was vaguely familiar, and playing with long strands of Theron’s dark brown hair.