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For all the world it seemed like Cyrion Tabris had forgotten the whole ordeal. His child sat in silence, still as tense as a wild cat; his nephew was glowering off into the fire and peeling potatoes for his niece, who stared diligently down into her pot. Cyrion set the table without a tremor. “So tell us about yourself, Zevran,” he said, with much better pronunciation than Gahruil.
“Oh, I am not so interesting,” he deflected kindly.
“You sound Antivan.” A good catch, although easy. Gahruil hadn’t precisely gotten there on their own, but in fairness they’d been recovering from a recent attempt on their life.
“Indeed. I was born in Antiva City— I only recently came to Ferelden.” He spared a glance towards Gahruil who was still too possessed to meet his eye. Warden, what do I say if he asks how we met?
“Oh? Have you ever been to the Alienage?” The answer must’ve shown on his face, because Cyrion laughed. “Oh, it’s not this bad all the time. We’ve just had a… bad luck streak. I’ve heard up in Antiva it’s nicer— much less wet. Gahruil still has an aunt that writes sometimes.”
“You trade as far as Antiva?” It was quite a distance for a lone elf to travel just to be wed. Ferelden had several Alienages to choose from— was it really so difficult?
“Oh no. She’s Adaia’s sister. They kept in touch when she left.”
“Adaia?” He might’ve assumed who she was, but it was hard to tell with Alienage elves. They didn’t have the same terms of affection that the Dalish were privy to, and so they used familial relationships. Cousin was notable, although Zevran was fairly positive, what with all the gingers in the room, that Gahruil was blood related to everyone present.
Cyrion gave his child a look, but they kept staring forward. He let a little sigh slip out. “Gahruil’s mother. She was born in the Antiva City Alienage and left when she was sixteen to see the world. Made her way all the way down here to poor old me.”
Zev’s head snapped over to Gahruil, who was actually looking at him now. “You never told me you were half Antivan,” he teased, and they shrugged.
Doesn’t really count.
“Don’t get me wrong, you scream Ferelden, but it most certainly counts. I’ll need to take you one day.” They gave him a fleeting grin but let it drop, going back to their staring. Silence fell and Cyrion attempted to fill it by fiddling with the wooden cutlery already placed.
“How did you and Gahruil meet?” Shianni asked from the stove with a grin. The Warden’s head jerked up and they glowered. “Must be a good story if I’m getting that look.”
“I prefer when they tell it,” he said with a smile. Despite what most may have thought, Gahruil had a… way with words, in a manner of speaking. Although he was certain that their family didn’t so easily dismiss them as dumb as most humans they spoke with did, the Warden simply had a straightforward way of speaking. Much like their large qunari friend, it was difficult to call their bluff.
“Go on then.” Shianni left the stove and brought over a meticulously washed cup filled with very pale dandelion wine. She offered to pour one for him as well, but he politely declined. Best the cousins make use of it, and best he never have anything that watered down in his mouth. Shianni shrugged and took her seat, while Cyrion took over the stove. His eyes were still trained to Gahruil, presumably to hear the story. Even their quiet, scowling cousin had turned his head.
The Regent hired him to kill me, I gave him a concussion, when he woke up he asked to come along and I said okay. They shrugged, downing half of their glass. Shianni’s eyes had gone comically wide and Cyrion was gaping openly.
“Maker, Tabris, I could have told them that,” he hissed.
You said you liked when I told it.
He didn’t point out that he’d expected them to come up with a lie. Really, anything better than the assassin that missed his chance. “It isn’t as bad as it sounds,” he said reassuringly.
The concussion was pretty bad. He resisted the urge to groan, instead trying to look less threatening. He wasn’t sure how to do that with people he wasn’t going to sleep with— usually the elf bit did it, but he got the impression that it wouldn’t here.
“You’re an assassin?” Shianni exclaimed. Gahruil seemed oblivious to the bomb they’d dropped, working away casually at their wine. If he remembered correctly, they preferred stronger stuff— his Antivan brandy came to mind.
“Yes and no. Yes I was a professional assassin, but now here I am— working for an elf with a skull-shattering right hook.” It’d been the sword that concussed him, technically. It had also been an accident. This made the story a little more interesting and a little less… intimidating. Even less intimidating would have been a bloody lie, but too late for that.
“And how much are you gunna get paid when you finish the job?” Gahruil’s cousin looked strikingly similar to them when she was angry, her face getting progressively redder as she presumably imagined the many ways in which Zevran would kill the Warden.
“I wasn’t going to be paid in the first place,” he offered. “The Crows paid me in food and board; I wouldn’t see a copper of the contract fee, and the organization itself has already been compensated in full despite my rather spectacular failure. If I were to return tomorrow, I would be lucky if they granted me a quick death.” He supposed there was a reason he had never been inclined to seek out a family of his own. As badly as he may have wanted one— as hard as he tried to tell himself he didn’t— it seemed that within the first ten minutes he had already miserably failed.
“So you say.”
“Relax,” Gahruil snapped out loud. All eyes turned to them and they flushed. It’s been eight months. Zev’s had plenty of opportunity to kill me, and he hasn’t. He’s saved my life more times than he’s even threatened it— once he strategically moved and broke his own leg to keep a werewolf from biting me. I’m not an idiot and I’d know if he was waiting to kill me.
“I don’t think you’re an idiot, Cousin, I just…” Shianni folded her arms in frustration. “After your wedding… it just seems like the perfect opportunity for a con like this.” Cyrion frowned and Gahruil kept their eyes locked on her for about ten whole seconds before standing up with a clatter and leaving the house. Zevran rose automatically to follow them.
“Where are you going?” It was Soris this time, his glower turned on him now that Gahruil was gone.
“I go where they go,” he answered simply, trying not to sound short.
“What do you know about what happened?” It was a challenge if ever he’d heard one, and unfortunately Zevran was entirely unarmed. He knew nothing. He’d only learned about their engagement earlier that week— he’d suspected many different things based on the wedding ring they always wore, but it usually boiled down to it’s simply comfortable for them to wear their ring like that. “See Shianni? You were wrong. He can’t manipulate what he doesn’t know.”
“Doesn’t take a master assassin to figure out that someone’s vulnerable,” she argued, as if he were not standing right there.
“No, just look at him. My guess is he’s spilled everything he knows about himself to them and he barely even knew there was a wedding in the first place. He’s running blind and trying to pretend like Gahruil told them everything about themself too.” The Warden had mentioned Soris earlier, before they’d accepted Cyrion’s invitation to stay over. He’s mad at me, they’d told him uncomfortably. I wasn’t here and now he hates me.
“That’s enough. Both of you go get some air.” Cyrion reasserted his position at the stove. The siblings turned to argue but he cut them off with a sharp “Now.” They left almost immediately— impressive, although perhaps he thought so because he didn’t have much practical experience in authority wielded without the threat of violence. “I’m sorry about them,” Cyrion offered tiredly. “We’re just… we Tabrises are just on a bit of a… bad luck streak.” The man had been locked in a cage for days and called it bad luck.
“I understand.” He did, in a way. He’d simply never been in a situation where being a Crow was a disadvantage— he’d never felt the need to impress people who did not already give his position respect. This was all so…. normal. “I… I’m sorry,” he offered, after turning towards the door. “If it is any consolation, I wanted them to kill me more than I wanted to successfully kill them.”
He didn’t wait to hear Cyrion’s reaction, pushing himself out the door and starting his hunt for the hole Gahruil had crawled into. They had the advantage of not only being a rogue and therefore nearly untraceable when they wanted to be, but they also knew the Alienage better. His only hope was that perhaps they weren’t avoiding him.
They weren’t, though it still took half an hour for Zevran to hunt out the empty shanty warehouse whose roof Gahruil was camped out on. They stared at the sky with their hands behind their head, their expression unreadable. “Not to put too fine a point on it,” he said, announcing himself as he took a running jump at the fragile overhang, “but I really was hoping you had a lie ready when they asked how we met.”
I don’t lie to them, they responded shortly.
“Yes, I should have accounted for that.” He pulled himself up next to them, settling himself on his back. “Still, it may have endeared me to them more had I made less attempts on your life.”
It was only once.
“Apparently the ideal is zero.” He let them take his hand, winding their fingers together. How starved was he for affection that the gesture made him smile almost involuntarily?
“It isn’t that, anyway.” They spoke out loud now, presumably because they were making use of one of their hands, but they were so quiet he had to strain to hear them. “Everyone keeps bringing up the wedding.”
“I understand if you do not wish to talk about it,” he said firmly. His tone was more for himself, because Soris’ words were echoing in his skull. Running blind indeed. He wasn’t… he hadn’t thought to be hurt before this, frankly. He’d never required full disclosure from them, and he assumed he knew everything important. He still wasn’t entirely sure if he felt… upset? Betrayed? He had told them of Rinnala which was arguably the worst thing to ever happen to him— with some steep competition— and yet… this wedding was too personal?
The larger part of him, of course, knew that his life was by no means the worst a life could be. It was perhaps… not as glamorous as he’d made it sound at times, but he knew people who’d had it worse. It wasn’t a matter of comparing tragedies, and yet he knew that Gahruil was in a unique situation. There were certain things that could happen to them that he was much less likely to experience.
They hated humans with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Perhaps it was best if he didn’t ask.
“What’s the most scared you’ve ever been?” they asked into the night, and he thought for a moment. As an assassin, fear was pushed to the wayside. Nerves they called it. Fear of death became nerves and they were for speaking to childhood crushes, not for work. As a younger man, he’d never feared assassinations anyway. Either he won or he died. What was the difference? Killing Rinna hadn’t been fear either— regret enough to make him boneless, but not fear.
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “As you may have noticed, being a Crow comes with a certain level of emotional constipation. Sometimes I simply… do not know what I’m feeling, especially in retrospect.” He’d been proud when he’d been singled out to hone his seductive talents. Was he afraid then, of the Crow masters? When Gahruil had loomed over him while he frantically tried to flirt his way out of certain death— had be been afraid then?
They gave his hand a squeeze but didn’t respond right away. Their face was difficult to read even up close, so he simply waited. Perhaps in the end they would say nothing and merely go back home for the evening— and he would be all right with that. Whatever had happened to them… it wasn’t about him. Perhaps he would have preferred to know, but they’d backed off when he hadn’t wanted to talk about Rinna.
“My groom came early. His name was Nelaros and he was funny and nervous, but he was really nice. No one was ever nice to me… like that, you know?” They looked at him and he nodded. It’d taken a while to decode what Gahruil meant when they said nice, but in general they seemed to mean flirtatious. He’d begun the slow process of teaching them that it was okay to acknowledge that other people found them attractive.
“Lucky man.” He refrained from asking what he looked like. Gahruil would never be able to find their way through that conversation.
“Not really. I met him after a human and his friends broke into the Alienage and started grabbing anything in a skirt. Shianni broke a bottle over his head and they hauled him out.” Maker this story was going to be bad.
“Everyone in skirts dressed for the wedding, I presume?” he asked.
“Yeah. Me too.” His stomach dropped. “We got up to the altar and Vale— Valendrian finished his speech and the stupid Mother they had doing the ceremony started talking and…” They paused. He waited. “The guy came back. The one who Shianni hit.”
“Mierda,” he murmured.
“Grabbed Shianni and Nola, grabbed Valora. He came up to me and I told him to eat shit and he hit me over the head. I woke up in this… stone room.” They reported it flatly and he was afraid the force that he gripped their hand with was painful. “They took everyone else into the castle and left two guards for me. Soris showed up and gave me my sword.” They weren’t armed at the moment, but he had questioned their devotion to a sword with no particular value.
“I was waiting for you to get armed. It’s always my favourite part,” he tried, nudging them a little. They didn’t smile, but nudged him back.
“Me and Soris worked our way to the hall. Killed everyone we found. Nelaros was there standing guard— him and Soris were the only ones who wanted to come after us. Them and dad, but dad couldn’t come. The guard found Nelaros before we did and killed him.” They held up their opposite hand, the left with the ring on it. “He had this on him. It was supposed to be for me.”
“It suits you,” he offered. “And may I just say that if this story doesn’t end in the violent death of this man, then I will be very disappointed.” Their mouth quirked a little— not quite a smile, but enough.
“Soris and me kept going. Got to the arl’s son’s room—”
“The…” Suddenly it made sense. When they had been sneaking through the Arl’s palace, more than one person had talked about the elves that broke in and killed everyone. Zevran had figured it was the riot that’d been alluded to several times— Maker it was only them. It had only been Gahruil and their cousin.
They looked up at him sheepishly. “Told you I didn’t wanna go back.” Eamon had been near-hysterical trying to force them to go save Anora. Not going back, they kept repeating. Another foolish assumption he’d made— he’d thought that they didn’t want to see the place where the riots had failed. Eventually they’d surrendered and made him promise not to let them be taken hostage. I can’t, Zev. If they’re gunna take me just… slit my throat or something.
He’d refused, but guilt had eaten at him nonetheless after Cauthrien had taken them to Fort Drakon. It’d gotten worse after they launched themself into his arms after he’d unlocked their prison cell. I wanna leave now.
“Got to Vaughan. He’d already— whatever.” Zevran didn’t ask for clarification. “Guards killed Nola back where I woke up. Killed him faster than he deserved and slower than Soris could take without puking. Took Valora, Shianni, and Soris home.” Their face hardened. “The guards came. Told them it was all me and they were gunna take me back to the dungeons. Duncan conscripted me.”
He smiled weakly. “You cheat death as well as I do,” he offered.
“What was the point? I got taken, the Alienage got purged anyway.”
“And you think your death would have prevented Howe from moving forward with the purge?” he asked idly. They didn’t respond. “The way I see it, despite the fact that Duncan was clearly taking advantage of the situation—” Zevran couldn’t say for sure either way, but knew Gahruil disliked the man. He certainly had no reason to jump to a stranger’s defence against Tabris. “—the way things worked out, you are now in a position to save your Alienage. Would people dare pure the home of their hero?” Perhaps, but that was not the point.
“I guess,” they muttered.
“Not to mention, how would I have met you if you had not become a Warden?” That was mostly to tease. They let go of his hand, moving so they were laying on his chest.
“I guess,” they repeated, with the smile he was looking for.
. . . . .
When they returned to the house, Cyrion had set out plates for them. Everyone at the table turned to look, but Gahruil casually entered and flopped down into their seat. The meal passed easily after that, with no one bringing up the wedding, the purge, or the wardens. Alienage gossip was surprisingly racy, Zevran found.
Gahruil was trying to flirt his Antivan brandy out from under him when Cyrion called him over to the sink. He kissed their cheek and handed them the flask— the three mostly-drunk cousins whooped in triumph— and went where he was bade. “I didn’t want to cut off ten uninterrupted minutes of Soris and Gary speaking again. Could you help me put these away?” he asked, gesturing to the dishes.
“Of course.” He’d never— servants usually handled the dishes, but he liked to think that he was unusually graceful. At the very least he was confident he would not drop anything. “I’m sorry in advance for the three hungover elves you’ll have on your hands tomorrow.”
“At this point I’d take it so long as they were all happy.” He paused for a moment, looking over at the cousins. “Are they happy? Gahruil I mean. They’re just… so difficult to read, sometimes. I tried to do what I thought was right but—”
He stopped and looked back down at the sink. Zevran thought he was embarrassed before he felt arms around his waist. Gahruil handed him a mouthful of brandy in the cleanest glass they had, pressing their lips against his neck with a giggle that was entirely too drunk. You want some too, dad? they signed in Cyrion’s direction.
“Just a little, maybe,” he said fondly. Zevran turned them and stole a kiss before they could rush away to get more booze, and found that his foolish smile hadn’t faded when he turned back to Cyrion.
“They do all right,” he offered, turning to his glass to hide the redness in his face. Shianni, across the room, finished a short series of shots before Soris and the yelling resumed.
“I like to be an optimist, anyway,” Cyrion said with a smile of his own.