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Darkspawn were not people, and so it was easy to watch them die. Gahruil had devised many creative ways of killing them, ranging from long distance axe-throwing (their aim was surprisingly accurate) to close range tearing them apart. There was something poetic about watching them obliterate the creatures— it was almost like hope. A Warden bravely shredding their way through the hoard, running on adrenaline and duty. It was passionate, but not personal.
The killing of slavers was a different sort of poetry altogether, probably written in Tevene and chanted by blood mages. It was almost identical to the way they tore into Darkspawn, but personal. There were people beneath their hands that did more than hiss and spit as they tore them apart. Zevran felt little pity for the slavers, of course— when entering such a line of work, one was taking their lives into their hands— but was decidedly concerned for the Warden. They seemed to have stopped blinking a few minutes ago.
The Alienage trip was bound to be bad— Zevran learned very young that few good things ever escaped the places— but Gahruil had been plagued by optimism. They’d chattered about it in their sign language, telling him about their father and cousins and their cousin’s wife and the hahren. He hadn’t discouraged them, though he’d privately had his doubts. There were no neutral Alienages, and there were no safe elves.
The party had arrived in Denerim at the behest of Eamon, and there they had found out that the Alienage was locked down to quarantine a plague that had spread in the wake of the purging. That had sufficiently knocked the wind from their sails— they hadn’t moved for half an hour, glued to the spot where they’d been told. They tried to argue with the guard, insisting that the Alienage was their home and they had a right to be in it. The guard only echoed Zevran’s humble opinion: you probably shouldn’t be telling people that.
Things had gotten progressively worse from there, to the point where the only words Gahruil had signed for the past hour were my father, Cyrion, and older, grey hair, a little shorter than me? They hadn’t said a word to their faithful companions, and yet still the Witch, Qunari, Hound, and Assassin had loyally trailed behind them.There was a shared sense of dread among their comrades: what if Cyrion is already gone?
The scene they intruded upon was hardly a comforting one, although Zevran supposed that they were equally unnerving. It was already a team of a war dog, a northern giant, and a very obvious witch. Elves were presumably not as frightening to the slaver before them, but Gahruil painted quite a picture with their blue and silver armour dipped so generously in red and black. The way they moved through the shabby back alleys and dirty, suspicious empty apartments did not speak of the same duty that they had in the Deep Roads— yet all the same, this was their duty. Zevran felt distantly as if he were intruding on something too personal to share, but what had they not shared with each other in the past few months?
The brave mage opened his mouth to speak regardless of the clear threat to his person— more than likely to monologue, if Zevran knew anything about Tevinter— but the Warden launched themself over the railing of the balcony, their hands reaching immediately for the man’s face. The assassin drew his weapon. His job, after all, was to protect the Warden. If he hadn’t expected a few impossible odds against powerful enemies, he would have left long before this.
Gahruil had never been so cruel to a Darkspawn. The mindless, raving creatures weren’t worth the hate that humans inspired. The Warden sufficiently removed the mage from the fight, ignoring all other footsoldiers, and then the man had made another mistake— his first being to accept a slaving job, his second to travel to Denerim Alienage, and the third to carry out his harvest of the residents. He offered to slay the remaining elves to make Gahruil stronger.
They took his hands first, and Zevran suspected it was out of some distant superstition that mages could not cast without them. The screaming was mildly nauseating, as was the blood that spurted from the wound. One of the captured elves was calling the Warden’s name but they didn’t seem to hear as they stabbed enough holes in the man to use him to drain pasta. Blood boiled from his chest, pooling on the floor and staining the fine robes he wore. It was Sten who stepped forward and caught their hands as they rose to further beat the very much dead horse.
“He is finished, kadan, and you are frightening your people,” he said evenly. He seemed disturbed, though in his typical fashion he didn’t make a fuss. A shiver ran through the Warden and their iron grip loosened on their sword. Sten relieved them of the weapon (Zevran had the other), and they took several deep breaths while still straddling the mutilated corpse they’d created.
“Gahruil!” The elf in the cage was still calling for them, and they finally seemed to notice. Their head snapped up and then—
“Daddy.” It came out a rasping breath, a whimper, and Zevran tried to call to mind what he had expected them to sound like. They were much more nasally than he’d thought, but that was all he could focus on. He had never heard them speak before, and now they were mumbling as they scrambled over to the cage and attempted to pick the lock with trembling fingers. “It… it won’t fucking open… Zevran!”
They said his name wrong. Had they been saying it wrong the entire time? Altogether too Ferelden; it was the difference between zevRAhn and zevRINN, and they butchered it as Alistair did. He hadn’t known, because it was the first he’d heard it. He stepped forward quickly, removing their shaking, blood-soaked fingers from the metal and getting to work. It was a fairly simple lock— civilians weren’t particularly high-risk escape artists, after all— and he had it open far too slow for the Warden’s taste.
Gahruil plunged into the cage and squeezed their father— a brave man, who squeezed back though he had most certainly just watched them torture his captor. “We thought you were dead. Valendrian held a funeral,” he breathed against their hair.
“I’m okay,” they croaked. The other prisoners flooded out around them, bolting for the doors. Morrigan, ever practical, grabbed the signed papers off of the corpse. Their technical purpose at the Alienage was to implicate Loghain— what human noble would care for the plight of elves, Zevran didn’t know. It wasn’t his job to ask questions.
Cyrion looked up. He made eye contact with the assassin, then drifted over to look at the other companions in turn. “You should introduce me to your friends, Gahruil.” His voice was tired and worn, but he played well enough at normalcy. The Warden didn’t notice.
“Get Valendrian and Valora and we’ll leave,” they insisted, separating themself from their father and looking around. The room was empty save for them— the other prisoners had fled. “Where’s…?” Cyrion’s grim exhaustion spoke volumes more than words, and Zevran witnessed another first of the Warden. There was a moment of fog, where they did nothing at all besides look around and shake their head; and then they dissolved into tears in front of him, the full weight bearing down on them all at once.
He had stepped forward, but Cyrion was closer and Zevran was left to wonder why he had moved in the first place.