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ghostwise · 1 year

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four little crows, off to meet the Maker 5.5k words tags: childhood trauma, child death, past child abuse, ableism, religion, original characters, canon-typical violence, zevran arainai/male warden

It was early when Zevran went to the Chantry on Nueva de la Paz, and already the street was teeming with bodies.

More punctual than the birds’ dawn chorus, florists were preparing fresh flowers to sell, bakers were pulling hot bread from big adobe ovens, and pious Antivans were counting prayer beads and mumbling petitions on their way to the cathedral for morning worship. In this sleepy haze of productivity Zevran knelt before a figure of Andraste, and despite his reasons for being there, his prayer was sincere.

It was a humble plea, made more so because the things he was praying for were things he already had: Good health and comfort, a steady heart, a clear mind, and as always, the Warden.

His Warden! Privately, Zevran wondered if the Maker had willed their meeting and made their ensuing happiness possible, but the idea died quickly. He was deep in prayer; lying would not befit him now, and the All-Knowing would certainly recognize any attempts at dishonesty.

The fact was, the Maker could receive no credit for the glory that was Hamal Mahariel.

Zevran had once told him that he would storm the Dark City itself to be at his side. Was that blasphemous? Perhaps. Better yet, it was true.

The thought was interrupted as a figure kneeled beside him.

Here at last was the true reason he had come. The Chantry sister bowed her head. She held out a satin-lined box, and he carefully placed a diezmo of a silver and two copper coins within.

“Four innocents,” she whispered. “To be sent into the Maker’s arms after midnight.”

Then, with a soft rustle of fabric, she stood and walked away.

The city was coming awake now, sun pouring over the rooftops. A pigeon shit on the stone path outside the Chantry, and Zevran glanced at the spot where he’d stood only a moment ago.

The entire courtyard was littered with birdseed and droppings. Iridescent feathers tossed about in the warm breeze, and it was easy to believe that Andraste was watching over him, shooing away pigeons and assassins alike.

Surrounded by all this, a laugh escaped him.

Antiva City was more beautiful than he remembered. Never had he felt so free wandering its streets. When last here, he had been a man chained by sorrow and the Crows. Now he walked leisurely, an equal to the markets and the plazas and all the people there.

It felt so lovely to simply be awake before the heat of the day set in. On his way back, he purchased a whole bag of pan dulce and a package of dark and fragrant coffee beans—expensive ones, simply because he could—then he perused the stores until he found a handheld coffee grinder to replace the one they’d lost in the Blight (a word all but meaningless to him now, relevant at present if only for the loss of that trusty coffee grinder).

Treasures in hand, he walked to the old sawdust inn, dodging shoppers and messengers and street dogs. And because he was a bit of a fool, he ignored the front door, climbing instead onto a bin in the alley, hoisting himself over a wall, pulling himself onto the roof, and rapping insistently at the wooden shutters of the second story third window until it opened.

Quickly, before gravity won its fight over him, he tipped into the room, where Hamal was waiting with his arms open, to gather him into a cohesive whole, and tie down his straying thoughts with a kiss. It was a perfectly indulgent moment, a reminder of how sweet life could be. Zevran prayed it would last a little bit longer.

“Quite a dramatic entrance,” Hamal chuckled once Zevran had righted himself. “Dare I ask what you were doing?”

“I was procuring breakfast for us, of course,” Zevran said, setting the packages on the table. “Here. Smell this.”

New love was silly. Here he was bustling with excitement over something so commonplace, so simple. As Hamal breathed in the aroma through the brown paper package, Zevran grinned from ear to ear.

“You bought coffee!” Hamal exclaimed.

“Ha! I thought you might like that! Roasted right here in the city. You will never taste better.”

“And here I’d just gotten used to going without it, after so much time on the ship. Ma serannas, vhenan.”

That was how he knew he’d done very well indeed, for Hamal’s words slipped out in the language of his home only when he truly meant them, and this always seemed to summon a little echo within Zevran of that same feeling. He smiled, watching as Hamal hugged the package close, singularly focused on the scent.

And Zevran found that he had no time at all to think of what awaited him tonight at the Chantry. Not when he had the Warden to kiss, and coffee to make, and the entire morning to live through.

It was so strange to be back.

Returning to the city felt like a curious beginning, the sort that looped around to the tail end of Zevran’s adolescence and picked up where he’d left off. As a young Crow in training, he’d never had the privilege of wandering the streets. The gardens and shops were then unfamiliar to him, as were the cobblestone bridges and canals. He only got to know the city as an adult, and even then, he never experienced it the way he did now with Hamal.

“That is City Hall,” he said, nodding towards one of the many historic buildings on their walk. “And that over there is the mayor’s manor… two or three mayors ago. I understand it is a sanatorium now. He was killed by the Crows quite some time ago.”

Hamal listened to all of this, rapt and attentive. That sort of attention still made Zevran a bit shy, though he’d never dare show it. Instead, he translated signs. Repeated words slowly, so Hamal could hear them clearly. Smiled when he tried them in that accent of his, twisting Antivan into something Zevran found strangely lovely, where alameda became almendra became all may dream.

“Close enough,” Zevran said, and despite Hamal’s frown, he kissed him.

Antivan into Common, into Elvhen, and back again, like steps to a dance. In this manner, the day passed them by quickly.

“Do you consider this your home town?” Hamal asked later.

They were back in their rented room, sharing a plate of empanadas for dinner while the sinking sun cast lines of light upon the table. Zevran looked at him, mulling over the question. As with all things, there was a short answer, and a long answer. The latter called for a rather personal tale.

Perhaps it was overdue. If not now, when?

“Yes, in fact, though I was not born here,” he said. “It feels bittersweet to be back.”

“Oh, you missed it,” Hamal said, propping his chin up on the heel of his hand. “I could always tell, you know. I was homesick too, so I could see it clear as day.”

“You were very perceptive,” Zevran said. “And I was very homesick. I longed for the sea, for the people and the music and the food of my youth… though it was not home in the traditional sense, I was created here. The boy, melted down, and the man, built from scratch.”

Recognizing the weight after his words, Hamal allowed him a moment to gather his thoughts.

“There is a training villa, somewhere in the city,” Zevran continued. “I do not know exactly where. It is where the vetted recruits are brought to, you see, to begin their… education. It is where Taliesen and I were brought to, where we met as boys. I’ve been searching for it for years, but…”

“They kept the location from you?” Hamal asked.

“It is easier to deal with runaways who do not know where they are,” Zevran said with a shrug. “We were blindfolded during the journey, and during every outing we made after. We wore caps with a cover in front.” He paused and pointed to his eyes, forming a v-shape. “A mask, like the blinkers they put on horses. We seldom left the villa, but I do remember one thing very clearly: the funerals.”

Hamal listened intently. He already knew what Zevran was referring to.

The children who did not survive their training.

“We are raised to be so devout…” Zevran said. “Did you know the Antivan Crows began as an arm of the Chantry? It is not talked about, but it’s true. It’s easy to kill with impunity if you believe the Maker is acting through you. As part of the charade, the buying and selling and abusing of children is seen as a tragic and necessary sacrifice. Lambs at the altar. The Crows do love their departed children.”

Zevran took a deep breath before continuing.

“They are given lavish funerals, honored as soldiers who fell in battle. It is never public, of course. The matter is too unsavory. The services are held at night. I was about eight years old when we lost Rafael and Erwin. We were dressed in our best clothes, marched up onto a hearse, and taken to the Chantry. We were told in clear terms: ‘This is what being a Crow is about! Remember them! Honor them! You will follow them soon enough.’”

“And that is why we are here,” Hamal said softly.

“I found the Chantry.”

Somehow, it became real then. Zevran brushed his hair back and rubbed his eyes.

“I’ve been searching since we arrived, and I’ve finally found it. This is the one, I am certain of it. And just in time; there is a funeral tonight.”

“What are you going to do?” Hamal asked.

“Nothing,” Zevran said quickly. “I hope to follow them back, and finally discover where the villa is. Only with that information can I plan the next step.”

“You should have said something sooner,” Hamal said. “We have to prepare—”

“Amor,” Zevran interrupted him. This was the part he’d been dreading. “I’ve already prepared.”

Hamal sat up in his chair and looked at him, brow furrowed.

How could Zevran make him understand? Something within him squirmed at the thought of Hamal being there, in that Chantry, seeing—

Seeing him. His upbringing, and all the shadows of his past.

Zevran winced at the thought. “This is something I’d like to do alone,” he said.

“That’s… Zevran…” Hamal shook his head, grappling with what Zevran was telling him.

“It will be easier this way. For me. Please.”

Food forgotten, Hamal sat back in his seat. Zevran met his gaze, and saw within it a turmoil that made him ache. But he was resolute, and after a very long moment, Hamal looked away.

“Will you be in any danger?”

“No,” Zevran said honestly. “I won’t come near enough to be in any danger. This is strictly information gathering. But so much has changed. I’ve changed. I am not sure how I will react when I see them.”

“That’s all the more reason for me to go with you, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Zevran conceded. He bowed his head, worried that Hamal would succeed in wearing him down.

Truth be told, it was hard to say no to him, because he loved him, and because he knew Hamal’s fear. He’d felt the same fear not long ago, in Denerim, seeing him off to battle.

“Please,” he repeated. “Alone.”

Hamal let out a low sigh. Then, mercifully, he reached for his hand and gave it a firm squeeze.

“Very well, vhenan. I trust your judgment. But please, please be careful.”

“Ah, but of course!” Relieved, Zevran brought Hamal’s hand up to his lips, where he kissed each knuckle, twice. “Home before you know it! You’ll barely notice I’m gone!”

Tristeza Huitz had met Zevran Arainai three days ago, in the Chantry. It was hard not to notice the young man, for a number of reasons: Firstly, his hair—light against his brown skin—typical to certain Dalish clans West of the city, though he was not Dalish; secondly, his tattoo—sharp, along his temple—which she recognized as the mark of a Crow; and thirdly, the look on his face when he entered the Chantry—not reverence, not comfort, but something akin to recognition.

Feeling bold, she struck up a conversation. She learned he was an orphan, like herself. She learned he was born in Rialto, like herself.

And so it was the Maker’s will that the man who had set out to destroy the Crows should meet one of the few Chantry Sisters who knew what the Crows did with their fallen, and certainly the only one who was opposed to them as fiercely, passionately, even religiously.

“I will help you,” she whispered without hesitation, a fire in her eyes that surprised Zevran. “It is vile, what they do! I cannot believe that all this is as the Maker wills it. Come back to see me in a few days. Ojala, by then, I will have information that will help you.”

Yes, Tristeza thought that night, reading in her bedroom and finding herself unable to focus on the words. I know it is Your will, or it would not have come to pass! And yet, I am terrified. Maker forgive me. I know it is right to oppose the Crows but what is my little life, even in its greatest capacity, compared to the whole of them? Maker, I humbly beg of You: Protect us! Guide us! Keep us from harm!

In the end all she really did was whisper the time to him. The conveniently unlocked cellar door was just luck, or a fluke, or perhaps it was the Maker’s will. She threw a prayer in for Zevran Arainai as well.

Unbeknownst to both of them, it did reach him.

The records were just where Sister Tristeza said they would be.

The ornate architecture of the old Chantry on Nueva de la Paz lent itself to shadows and tricks of the light. Perhaps whoever built had made this a conscious decision: to festoon it in gilded pillars and stained glass, with statues in every corner, chock full of roses, thorns, ivy, faces, a weeping Andraste, a spiral like a snail, a long mantel for hundreds of lit candles to dance their flames upon, and windows so vast and colorful one could stare at them for hours and still not see every detail in them. Such beauty could make one forget all their sorrows.

Zevran allowed himself a moment to appreciate the artistry that surrounded him. Then he corrected himself; this was not the work of the Maker, but the work of the Antivan people.

Centuries of their rich history could be found within the Chantry’s archives; births and baptisms, marriages and funerals. And though not every Chantry had ties to the Antivan Crows—the Crows served the Chantry, not the other way around—this one carried on the proud tradition of affording them protection and blessings. There were others throughout the country like it. Chantries where the clergy accepted coffins too small and bodies too battered without question. They already knew what had happened to them. They didn’t need to ask.

These documents were records of untold crimes.

Working fast, Zevran found the drawer labeled with the most recent dates and emptied it. Then he emptied the year prior to that, and the one that followed. Each emptied drawer was filled with blank parchment, which would hopefully eclipse the theft for a few days, at least.

He took as many records he could reasonably carry. Then, taking care to leave the room just as he had found it, Zevran quickly left.

Keeping to the shadows and moving with every means of stealth at his disposal, he slowly made his way to a spot hidden in the rafters, where he waited for the service to begin.

He waited. He waited, and then waited a while longer.

Zevran massaged life back into a cramping muscle in his leg. He’d sat here, immobile, for over an hour. In his line of work, this was never good. Every second that ticked by risked his discovery or worse.

He cursed inwardly, shutting his eyes. There was much of his life that he could reflect on as he waited, hidden in the Maker’s sights, but this was no time for introspection. He was nervous. And he was itching to learn something. Patience had never been his strong suit, alas.

Desperate for anything to happen, he felt a shameful sense of relief when the doors finally opened. Almost immediately he chided himself—for here he was, grateful that his night would soon come to an end and he could return to his warm room and his lover and his rented bed, while the first coffin was being brought in. Shame was always his first reaction, where the Crows were involved. He swallowed it quickly and his eyes fixed on the scene that unfolded beneath him.

One, two, three, four little coffins. Then came the most somber procession he’d ever seen.

Even the caps were the same, pointed in the front. Seven boys filed in, the oldest looking to be around 10. They were dressed in their finest clothing, with black brocade fabric, clean linen shirts, and shoes polished just so; only the very best for such a grand occasion. He’d worn such clothing himself once, long ago.

He’d wondered what it would feel like, seeing these shadows from his past, but he had not prepared himself for this.

Zevran felt nothing.

As the Cleric began to speak, as the young Crows took their seats among the pews, Zevran searched within him and saw that he was empty. He tried a little harder to draw out a reaction; imaged Hamal at his side, how surely the Warden’s heart would buckle under the sight of children being interred, and found that he still felt nothing.

Not sorrow, not pity, not anger.

Carefully, Zevran removed himself from the scene.

It was not for him to say goodbye to these boys, and he made his way outside, unnoticed, where after making sure the street was well and truly desolate he continued his surveillance from a nearby rooftop: An old mill, long abandoned, its red-brick façade wearing away.

Once there, he let out a sigh. A heightened tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding within him left his body in a rush, leaving him a bit fuzzy around the edges. He forced himself to refocus. Whatever he’d felt or hadn’t felt in the Chantry didn’t matter.

What was I expecting, anyway? he wondered. Too damaged.

Still, it was a relief he had not fallen apart at this, the first step of many to come.

Looking down at the street, Zevran spotted a carriage a few buildings off of the Chantry. There was nothing too luxurious about it, from the plain construction of the vessel down to the horses drawing it. The Crows preferred not to draw attention to the training villas. It followed that this was how they had arrived tonight.

He would have to wait to confirm that suspicion. Antivan funeral masses were long affairs, and the Crows added a layer of pomp, with prayers and speeches, anything to reaffirm in the young recruits’ minds just how fortunate they were to have been selected thus by the Maker.

And he had felt special, hadn’t he? Yes, he had. Once.

Zevran closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the brick wall.

By his internal clock, nearly two hours had passed before he heard the Chantry doors open again.

The unassuming horse-drawn carriage pulled forward until it reached the entrance. One by one, the Crow recruits filed out the same way they’d come in; quiet and orderly. A tall figure followed after them, shutting the door behind them, and with that the carriage departed.

Zevran waited, watching as the distance between he and the carriage grew. Better to be cautious, however; he quickly made the decision to follow, leaving his perch atop the old mill.

He hadn’t done this sort of thing in years, but he hadn’t forgotten. A rooftop chase under a new moon was the sort of thing he was expertly good at, all of his muscles working in concert; a leap here, a short scramble up a water tank there, his keen elven eyesight penetrating the darkness, careful not to get too close while still tracking the target from afar. A growing sense of apprehension took hold of him, too.

Finally, he would know where he’d lived all those years. His life had begun in the most humble of settings, the brothel El milagro. From there he had been shuffled to a cramped apartment in Antiva City’s leather-making district, no more than a holding area, in fact, and a house of horrors. What followed from there… had always been a mystery.

But this was all wrong. As Zevran moved from roof to roof, even dropping into an alley at once point when the way ahead was not viable, he saw his surroundings changing. No more chipped paint, no more crumbling stone. The carriage led him to the wealthier neighborhoods now. Lawyers and well-off merchants, artists and scholars lived here. Not Crow children!

Zevran pulled himself onto another roof and let out a strangled curse. Money meant security. With all this wealth there would surely be hired guards in these homes, and city police in the streets. It was not possible!

Just as he was beginning to tire, the carriage drew to a stop.

Zevran crept forward and watched.

The door opened. The tall figure stepped out. The man that had trained him all those years ago closed the carriage door and made his way to his wealthy, comfortable home. And the carriage, so out of place amidst this opulence, carried on further into the wealthy mercantile district.

“Shit,” Zevran said, giving voice to his anxiety for the first time that night.

Master Atanasio had been the first Crow he’d ever met, and he’d made all the ones that followed seem meek in comparison. Far from the slavers who’d acquired him at the brothel, beyond the landlord who’d kept him and the others in that dirty apartment, even greater than the starvation and neglect meant to cull the weakest among them, Atanasio’s cruelty and precision were unmatched and unparalleled. He was given children as young as five. The only way out for them was in a casket or as full-fledged killers.

Zevran was no fool. He’d known that the possibility of encountering people from his past had always been there. He was returning, after all, to the halls and torture chambers of his youth. He was returning to root out the monsters that resided there. To ensure nobody else went through what he went through—what Rinna and Taliesen went through. But this was… unexpected. This was…

“Shit!” Zevran exclaimed, louder still.

He’d let himself be distracted. And the carriage, with its cargo of young Crows, was gone.

The decision that followed was nothing if not pragmatic.

A Crow really was such a fragile thing, all bluster and bravado, but at his core remained something malleable; something for one’s betters to shape and manipulate as needed. Such a grand organization could scarcely get by if its masses held too much agency, and by his own agency did Zevran make his way into Atanasio Trepidus’ estate, where he confronted the old man on the stairs.

He wasn’t sure what to expect. He’d never thought to imagine what such an encounter would entail, but oh, his heart was beating in his chest loud enough that surely Atanasio heard it before he saw him. He had to remind himself that he was no longer a Crow—and that the man before him held no power over him.

Most of all, it had to be true.

Atanasio paused at the foot of the stairs. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“So,” Atanasio said, and Zevran felt his resolve waver. After just one syllable! But his voice was the same. Hateful, cold, and calm.

Unbothered, Atanasio walked across his darkened study, sliding a desk drawer open and rummaging through its contents. He withdrew a set of matches, striking one to light an oil lamp upon the wall.

Now illuminated, Atanasio gazed at him, searching. Then, he let out a sigh. He looked the same. Grayer, certainly, but unchanged. Here was the moment where any professional assassin could tell you the job had gone awry.

“Zevran Arainai,” he murmured. “I am… not surprised it is you.”

“What,” Zevran said, and found that his mouth had gone quite dry, “do you mean by that?”

“You’ve come to kill me, no?”

In mere moments Atanasio had maneuvered himself behind the desk—yet another clumsy mistake on Zevran’s part, but he himself was quite unable to move from his spot on the stairs. Not when every part of him screamed at him to get away from this man.

“You were expecting me?” Zevran managed.

“Not you, exactly, but someone. After all, my dear boy,” Atanasio said, and the words made Zevran’s skin crawl. “Look at my line of work. Sooner or later, someone was going to come. And you… you always had a little spark to you. Yes, even back then. Took every lesson without question but Maker forbid I set a hand to one of the other boys. One little bruise and you’d be glaring daggers at me all night.” He chuckled, as if they were reminiscing of good times. “I advised the Grandmaster of this: ‘A bit unruly, that Zevran, but he has potential-’”

The oil lamp shattered beside his head, sputtering sparks before plunging the two of them into darkness again.

“I have plenty more daggers where that came from,” Zevran spat, and took a step forward. “Enough talk. You will answer my questions. Where is the training villa?”

“I don’t know. It changes. By magic.”

“Where do the Crows source their slaves from?”

“Not my business. I do not ask.”

“I am supposed to believe that?”

“Believe what you want. I am in fact retired; have been for years.”

“And yet you were burying more of your victims tonight! You will tell me what I need to know or-!”

He’d drawn up to the old man now, pressing a dagger against the thin skin of his throat. Atanasio stood stock-still, unable to see Zevran save for a shadow.

“What’s happened to you?” he asked. “A Crow does not lose his composure like this. Have you so quickly forgotten everything I taught you?”

“You taught me nothing!” Zevran said, and he continued, fiercely, “You only cut at me—again and again!—until the scar grew so deep that nothing else remained! Until my mind knew nothing else! It was cruel! Erwin had a weak heart! Rafael was epileptic!”

Atanasio was right about one thing: A Crow did not lose his composure. Even with a line of blood beginning to form at his neck, the man looked at Zevran with a wholly unimpressed expression. He remained thus, quietly thinking, before answering.

“Who?”

Zevran slit his throat.

How he would have liked to say something more to him, but all the feelings he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in the cathedral hit him in a devastating wave. He found himself on the floor just as Atanasio fell, blood sputtering from his wound, soaking the plush carpet.

Zevran had once been a Crow, but no longer. A ragged sob heaved out of him, and he wept.

Antiva City was awake, and beginning a day like any other, when Zevran returned to the inn.

The door to their room opened before he could knock, and Hamal looked at him, brow furrowed, eyes heavy with lack of sleep. In one quick sweep, he took in the blood-stained clothes. Zevran shook his head. He pushed his way in.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I may have… underestimated things.”

As he spoke, Hamal set about a more thorough examination. He slid a hand from Zevran’s shoulder down to his forearm, where he tugged gently at his sleeve, looking at the blood upon it.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, searching for the source.

Zevran glanced down. It had been a messy kill, and he hadn’t explained himself. Stopping Hamal’s hand, he held him still for a moment.

“I am unharmed.”

“Thank the Creators! Zevran-”

“Please don’t. You must know I did not plan this.”

Hamal stood before him, but Zevran could not meet his eyes. Then, worse than any beratement, Hamal simply asked, “What am I supposed to do, Zevran?” His voice very soft, he asked him directly, “What am I to do if something were to happen to you and I never found out?”

A short exhale left him, and Zevran chuckled, finding the question far too incisive.

“I suppose you would be better off not knowing what became of me.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Don’t say that.”

Zevran walked to the table. He removed his gloves, and unlaced his collar, suddenly feeling crowded in.

“I need a moment,” he said, and he sat down. Hamal sat with him, but quickly realized he couldn’t bear the quiet.

The Warden pushed off of the table and set about doing something in the background, puttering here and there while Zevran rested his face in his hands. When Zevran looked up again, he saw a bowl of freshly boiled water had been placed before him, along with a washcloth.

Hamal picked up the washcloth and wrung it out, fingers turning pink from the heat. Zevran sat up in his seat and turned to him, wordlessly allowing him to clean the blood from his hands and face.

“You must let me face these things with you, Zevran,” he spoke after a moment, not content to let their conversation end.

“They are horrible things, amor,” Zevran told him. “The danger-”

“I’m aware of the danger. I did not leave my clan to come with you on a whim. But if something happened to you, I would be left alone. In a country where I do not know anyone, or speak the language, and still, I would spend the rest of my life here, to mourn you in your homeland.”

Zevran’s eyes filled with tears as Hamal continued.

“I wouldn’t know where you had fallen, so I would honor every street. I wouldn’t be able to guess at where your remains were, so I would plant trees in every town. And if I could, I would find the ones responsible and avenge you, or die trying. But wouldn’t it be better, vhenan, if we faced these things together?” He paused, crouching down before him so as to better see him. “Then we’d protect each other.”

“You realize what this would entail,” Zevran said, fighting to keep his voice even. “Would you kill to follow me down this path?”

“I would,” Hamal said firmly.

“Kill not darkspawn, but people.”

“Yes.”

“Not just murderers or slavers, but unassuming people playing tiny roles in something very large and nefarious—decent people save for an occasional contract, a business deal with the Crows here and there—or even to kill without explanation, if I asked you to?”

“Yes,” Hamal said again.

Zevran shook his head. Impossible to believe, and yet, he felt like a drowning man being pulled from the cold water. His words came out in a rush.

“I’ve done horrible things. I have blood on my hands and I do not feel even a little sorry for it. I intend to draw more blood. Even knowing that… even knowing…”

“Yes, even knowing.”

“And… what if we never succeeded? What if this truly is all a fool’s errand? What if we pressed on for years, for decades, for the rest of our lives, seeking to end something insurmountable—would you stay?”

“I would.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

“Would you kill forever? Would you maim?”

“Yes—”

“Would you marry me?”

Hamal’s eyes went wide, and Zevran, quite beside himself now, continued, impassioned.

“Would you marry me in a Chantry? Before the Maker? So He knows then, if I die- when I die-”

“Yes! I would marry you anywhere, Zevran! Even before the damned Divine herself if you asked me.”

Zevran looked at him. “Really?” he asked, shocked into gentleness.

“I will marry you,” Hamal said again. “Zevran, I will. I’ll marry you.”

Zevran made no further effort; he only threw his arms around him and held him tightly, feeling Hamal press his face into the crook of his neck. Saying no more they clung to each other in silence, knowing the fear and sorrow were all just marks of the deep love that had found them.

He felt resolute now, more than ever, of what needed to be done.

The Maker did not hold a candle to this feeling. Neither did the Crows. And if he died fighting them he knew all his deeds would be carried by his trembling spirit to the Beyond… where marrying Hamal Mahariel would stand out as the best thing he ever did with his mortal life.

#rinnywrites #dragon age #zevran arainai #mahariel #zevran x warden #oc: hamal mahariel #oc: tristeza #quinta de talpa #ok ok here is chapter one and yet #i am going to gently stop myself from agonizing over it; it's a long project and there may be tweaks if necessary before i post it on ao3 #also take a look at that chantry sister it occurs to me that leliana would love her... alas #poor tristeza huitz

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