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thejabberwokk · 2 years

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Zevwarden week, day 6 Death

I had no plans to actually write the adventures of the Two Inquisitors, but after the arguments and reconciliation prompt.. this wouldn't leave my head. I have a LOT more already written... lol

6. Death

Leliana gnawed on her thumb nail as she looked down at the missive. The seal of the Warden-Inquisitor was yet unbroken, but she had the sinking suspicion she should read it, despite the promises she had made to her dear friend.

‘Please, read anything I send, just, please not the ones to Zev. I want at least one person I can talk to without the Inquisition knowing.’

Her jaw had been set in a stern line, but her eyes were pleading. Of all people, they both knew how a Seneschal worked, how organizations such as the Inquisition needed to know all that was sent and received for their security. She had asked for only that, and had allowed both the templars and the mages to test her blood once the red lyrium was found. Had allowed their own mages and artificer to experiment and aid in the knowledge of the Anchor, the Fade and The Blight. She had let them take of her in return for her aid in helping them save the world, again…

“And I am going to have to betray her trust.” Leliana hastily broke the seal, reading the contents as quickly as she could. Letting the parchment drop on the table, she hung her head in her hands and let out a soft sob.

Zev, my Sunshine,

I beg you, please come to me. The Anchor is accelerating the Blight, and my trip through the fade is not helping matters. I’ve been hiding it as best I can, but I fear I am not going to be of use in the coming battles... [Tear stains blur a few words] you must help them get into the temple. My Dreamer thinks there is something there that can help, but I am not quite [more tear smudged script].

I want to see you before I am a sore sight, the Ambassador thinks I am just stressed, but I fear she might notice the shadows.

I know our dear Nightingale has probably read this one, but I’m growing too tired to write much more. I worry this might be the last letter I’ll ever send you.

Just please, Zevran, I need you.

Forever your moon, Isabeaux

Leliana made a decision then, and though her friend may never speak to her again if she ever were to find out. She wrote her own letter, to replace her Warden’s.

~*~

Zevran awoke in a cold sweat. A dream filled with red lyrium and angry spirits haunted him still, and the heat from the desert did little to warm the cold that seeped into his soul. It had been the third time this month the dream had occurred. The third time he failed to save his Warden from the grips of whatever dream bound creatures he was seeing. The nightmares had grown steadily worse, wolf howls echoing through them, giant spiders and blue wraiths thwarting his path.

He missed her, and his mind was apparently rebelling against his better judgment. Or rather, his very foolish judgment.

He rolled out of his cot with a grown, reaching for his pack as he did so. Rummaging for a bit, he pulled out a stack of letters he hadn’t been able to bring himself to open. The tear stains on their edges plunging his heart into despair each time he caught sight of them.

Grabbing a knife from his boot, he sliced the seal on the most recent one bearing her seal. He noticed the script was far too neat to be hers, and with a furrowed brow began to read;

My friend,

Pardon my language, but this needs to be said;

You are being a complete piece of cowardly nug-shit.

The last few missives were spelled to let one of my mage agents know they had been read, so we KNOW you have read about the state of your beloved wife, our Rogue Inquisitor, Isabeaux. I know our companions have been rather optimistic about the situation, if not altogether vague, but they all think they are the only ones you are listening to, as it were.

We are doing everything we can for her here, but she needs you. She needs the one that holds her heart. As much as we each pride ourselves on being considered her friend, it is not enough for the sickness of her soul that is settling in.

You are being selfish and acting as though she has already passed.

Get your feather brain to Skyhold post haste.

Always a friend,

Leliana

P.S.

If you're reading this, then her Dreamer finally got through to you >:P

He crumbled the parchment into a tight ball and threw it unto the smoldering embers of his camp stove.

Rubbing and hand across his face, then through his hair he groan. They were right, Leilani was right. He was being a coward.

They had discussed the inevitable, at length, over the years, but he had never thought he would not be beside her from the onset. Having their paths diverge before there was even a hint…

He fisted the hair at the base of his neck and tugged in exasperation.

He thought he would be dying with her, in some final battle. Not in a dessert filled with the weird creatures that shared her myths name.

Heaving a heavy breath, he pulled out parchment and the fancy pen she had gifted him long ago and wrote;

Oh most glorious Nightingale,

I am indeed a coward. I'm leaving now.

Tell the Dreamer to track if need be, but no more nightmares, please. I don't want to watch her fall to an archdemon not tied to the blight... I can sense his low opinion of me.

Ask someone who is comfortable to hold her close in the sunset. She likes that.

-Your cowardly and wayward Crow

P.s. I thought you liked the smell of your weird broods excrement, 'Smells of berries~ ٩(˘◊˘)۶

#thejabberwokk #jabberwrites #zevwarden week 2022 #zevwarden #zevran x warden #dragon age #dragon age origins #zevran x f!tabris

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qwiqwiaqwi · 1 year

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ah, grey warden you're so romantic

#dragon age #zevran arainai #warden tabris #f! warden #zevran x warden #it's from '21 #but slightly updated #still love it tho #for nigtingalee on twttr #qwiqwiaqwi

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shivunin · 6 months

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In Peace

(Arianwen Tabris/Zevran Arainai | 1,846 Words | Fluff | AO3 Link | CW: brief references to sex, implied/past suicidal thoughts)

Summary: Zevran and Tabris have developed a nightly routine; it surprises him to realize how much he dislikes the idea of breaking it

When Zevran had first seen Arianwen, they’d been trying to kill each other.

This was not especially odd, he found out later. Statistically speaking, Arianwen was thinking of killing most of the people she met, if she was not already actually attacking them. Zevran was no exception in this; it mattered little that he had been trying to die at the time, and she only obliging his death wish. She had spun through the crowd like dancing death, her face lit with a heady glee. In that moment, Zevran had thought that if he was to die here on some nameless road in Ferelden’s nethers, at least there would be beauty in his death.

Zevran would never have guessed then that she could sleep so sweetly draped across his chest—she had certainly never done so before this night. He certainly would not have guessed that she snored so loudly. It would not have occurred to him to wonder on that first day, Zevran supposed, given that he’d been fighting for his life.

Still—the snoring did come as a surprise. She was usually very quiet when she slept on her side—or perhaps it was simply that her face was closer to his ear now, and thus much louder than he was used to.

His Warden slept with her hair braided, though in a looser plait than she usually wore during the day. Zevran passed a hand over it softly, hoping to wake her enough to make her shift aside. Instead, every muscle in her body that had been soft and liquid went taut at once, entirely alert between one heartbeat and the next.

“Nothing is wrong,” he whispered at once. The alternative was a knife thrown through the wall of his tent, most likely, and he had so recently patched the last hole she’d made.

Arianwen rolled away from him despite his quiet words. When she sat up, her dark silhouette was cut against the lighter blue of his tent, body alert and aware. It was plain that she was listening for some disturbance beyond their tent, so Zevran said nothing more. He propped himself up on his elbows instead, feeling the wash of cooler air against his loose tunic when the blanket fell away from him.

The sky had not lightened outside, but the fire was banked; they were in the deepest part of the night, perhaps an hour or two from the start of her watch. It had become a routine of sorts for her to stay in his tent until then, though she usually returned to her own tent when she was finished. Zevran was not certain if this tradition of hers was some concession to propriety (unlikely) or the delicate sensibilities of some of their traveling fellows (even less likely) or if she simply had no interest in waking up beside him when dawn came.

Knowing her as he did now, he supposed it was most likely some fourth reason that had nothing to do with any of the other things. Perhaps she lovingly polished each of her blades alone in her tent until daybreak. He would not put it past her. But, he realized as she moved to stand, this routine might be more easily broken than expected.

And…perhaps he had grown more attached to it than he might have thought.

“Wait,” he said, his voice abrupt in the quiet of the night. Arianwen paused on her knees.

“What?” she whispered. “I thought you were sleeping.”

Zevran found her hand in the dark on the second try. It was braced on her knee, but she allowed him to pull it away and press it to his mouth instead. Could he tell her not to go? It didn’t seem right, but he could not immediately determine why. She had surprised him by staying when he’d made it clear he had no interest in lovemaking tonight. They had spent plenty of nights together and apart since they’d begun doing whatever it was they were doing. None of the nights together had not featured some sort of…well.

It surprised him now to realize that it had been pleasant to feel her against him as he’d fallen asleep, even if he would have gladly gone without the noise.

“I do seem to recall you sleeping, too,” he told her. “Quite comfortably, in fact.”

He could feel her expression in the silence that followed. It would be the one in which her brows furrowed and she looked at him sidelong, as if trying to weigh whether he was making a joke or not.

“You woke me. Did you not…” she trailed off, taking her hand from his. Zevran peered into the darkness, making no sense of her expression and trying nonetheless.

“I did not mean to,” he told her truthfully.

She moved—he could not see how—and a moment later he felt her breath on his cheek.

“What do you need?” she asked.

Zevran turned his head, nose brushing against the curve of her cheek. Her face was the only part of her not obviously scarred, he had found. Her cheek was very soft against his skin, the fine hairs there tickling softly. When he leaned his cheek against hers, she didn’t waver an inch.

“There is nothing that I need,” he told her, emphasizing the last word, “but I would very much like for us to go back to sleep. Together.”

Slowly, one of her hands came to rest on his knee. Her index finger tapped once, twice. This was a tell: she was thinking very hard. Zevran privately thought that he might be the only one in the world who would know when she was bluffing at cards, should she ever play them. Her face was impossible to read at first glance, but the rest of her body spilled her secrets easily enough. Months on the road had taught him this as they’d taught him everything else he knew about her.

Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Some decision was being made, some calculus of factors entirely beyond him. She had done this before she’d told him to keep his earring, too. The verdict had not been in his favor then. He wondered if he would fare so poorly now, too.

Zevran thought of the weight of her body over his chest, of the way she’d looped leg and arm over him while they’d slept. He thought of the ragged sounds she made in her sleep when the nightmares came, of the way she wrapped herself around him when the foul dreams woke her in the night.

He thought of how the leather and steel scent of her comforted him when his own dark dreams paced close and set shining teeth at his throat. The smell of leather reminds me of home, he’d told her months ago. It reminded Zevran of her now, too, until the three were all twined together as one. He did not want her to go—not yet. He had grown accustomed to sleeping beside her until the moment before she needed to leave.

“Arianwen,” he said, and felt the falter in her tapping. “Mi vida. Come to bed.”

Her sigh rustled his hair.

“I should never have told you I like the way you say my name,” she told him, but he could hear that he’d swayed her already. Only a little more and they could go back to sleep. A few hours more—only a few, but they mattered. He wanted every single moment he could coax out of her. He wasn’t above fighting dirty for them.

“Surely you do have no desire to lace up your boots and stumble through the dark of the whole clearing only to climb into your cold bedroll alone,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her cheek. “My dearest Arianwen. Surely not that.”

The blankets over him shifted when she slid beneath them again. The tip of her braid trailed over his arm. A victory—and it felt like one, for all that it had been a battle of words rather than blades.

“If you are sure I won’t keep you up,” she said doubtfully. “I’ll stay. Until watch.”

Keep him up—was that what she’d been worried about?

Zevran frowned as she settled in beside him again, less than an inch separating their bodies. He lowered himself back onto his bedroll and reached for her hip.

“Come closer,” he told her. “It is cold.”

Tabris came, settling against him stiffly, then relaxing by degrees. Zevran kissed the top of her head and she relaxed further still. After a moment, she tugged the blankets more fully over both of them.

“You wanted me to stay just so you could be warm,” she murmured, though there was no heat to the words. Already, he could feel her slipping into sleep. She fell asleep easily enough, his Warden, though she woke at the slightest provocation. Zevran ignored the surge of affection at the thought, though it grew more difficult to disregard when she slipped an arm around his waist.

“Yes, of course,” he agreed. She made a soft noise, rousing at the words.

“Say’t again,” Arianwen said.

“Say what?” he asked.

Arianwen squeezed him slightly and tucked herself more fully against his shoulder. There was a scar beneath the place where her ear rested, a very thin line just below the joint of his shoulder. She’d stabbed him there all those months ago when they’d first met. One evening, when they’d been dozing in the afterglow, he had casually pointed the silvered line of scar tissue out to her. Tabris had scowled at him and gone all stiff—he still had no idea why—and she’d made a point of not holding him like this for weeks afterward. What a relief it had been when she’d forgotten again.

By day, she was quick and dangerous and sharp. He liked that about her, he’d found. But he liked her like this, too, somnolent and warm against him in the night. This—her head on his shoulder, her arm around his waist—this was his alone.

There had been very, very few things in Zevran’s life that had belonged to him alone. He had gone without sleep, without affection, without comfort for so long that he knew better than to disregard such things when they were offered openly. No—such things were the sort one held onto with both hands, even if it took some extra coaxing in the dead of night.

“You know what,” she told him.

Zevran smiled to himself, allowing his eyes to slip closed again.

“Goodnight, Arianwen,” he said.

“”Night, Zevran,” she echoed, her voice slow. “Until watch.”

“Until watch,” he agreed, and paused. “Arianwen.”

She made a soft sound, neither sigh nor purr nor moan, and melted against him. Zevran lay awake for some time after, his eyes shut tight, his hands as still as he could make them. She did not snore, and he did not wake her.

Tabris’s watch came and went.

They both slept soundly through it.

(For Day 5 of Zevwarden Week: Bodies and Minds. Thanks again to @zevraholics for organizing!)

#zevwarden week 2023 #zevran arainai #arianwen tabris #zevran x warden #zevwarden #zevran x f!warden #zevran x tabris #bodies and minds #fluff #snuggling #implied/past suicidal thoughts #hmm guess the theme for this week is #' when we met i had no idea how much i'd love you and now you are a part of me'#i didn't do it on purpose but there it is!

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heniareth · 6 months

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ZevWarden Week 2023

Day 5: Bodies and Minds

Blank

Wordcount: 1,738 | Rating: Teens and Up

Old battle wounds do not only extend to the body. One morning, Zevran wakes up and his Warden is gone.

WARNING FOR:

- not medically accurate dementia

- angst

(Read down below or here on AO3)

Bright light. So bright it hurt her eyes. For a moment, she couldn't see.

But she could hear. And feel.

Somebody next to her. Warm, soft skin, soft hair. Dark lines.

Love.

What was his name?

Love.

That was not his name.

Pain in her left leg when she moved. When had that happened? Tightness in the skin of her face, on the right side, bumps and ridges and grooves. So unlike the left side of her face. Almost up to her eyes. That was bad. When had that happened?

What was his name?

Not knowing was bad.

Not knowing made her nervous.

Slowly, she crept out—bed, she crept out of the bed—and left. She was in a long, high—hallway, she was in a hallway. Walking hurt, in her left leg.

What was his name?

She looked, outside. A bright sliver of something, brighter than the brightest light, was on the earth far away. She had to look away, it was so bright.

She wanted to take a closer look.

What was his name?

Zevran awoke early, as he always did. And this is why he was so surprised to see the bed empty next to him.

His Warden normally did not get up before him, and when she did, she was sleepy enough to wake him in the process. She always told him that 58 was not old, not yet at least—her own father had made it to proud 73 years of age—but surely this heavy sleep was as good a sign as any of his encroaching senilitude, was it not?

Be that as it may, she would return in but a moment. Zevran stretched out long, felt something in his shoulder pop, and curled up under the warm blanket, feeling very much like a cat rolling into a tight ball on a sunlit porch.

And so he lay there, dozing, for quite a while.

And Astala didn't return.

Unease started to creep into his mind. He turned around, saw that the sun was already a hand and a half's width over the horizon, and stood up. It was not like his Warden to be up this early. It was not like her to-

It was not like her to leave her cane in the corner she had left it in the day before.

Zevran retrieved the cane as icy dread slowly trickled into his veins. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. His Warden could not comfortably go anywhere without her cane. What had happened? Where was she?

The house was empty; the garden lay likewise still. It currently was only the two of them. There was nobody who might have seen her leave. There was only one thing to do.

Zevran grabbed his daggers, a waterskin, and a hat. So armed, he set out to find his Warden. She could not have gotten very far. Why had he wasted so much valuable time dozing?

She walked and walked. It took her so long to walk. A crunch at each step, small rolling needles poking up, the bright green, soft, and sharp where it was brown.

She went up. Up to where the bright was getting higher. Up to where the world seemed to end.

She passed by one tall, brown, rough and solid with green on top. She walked around it. For a moment, it was less bright. It smelled strong. It glimmered golden.

What was his name?

She went up, further up.

The air was less bright now. There was wind. And knee-tall not-trees brushing against her. She was going up, up to where she had seen the bright bright sun rise up. The wind blew through her clothes. It was cold.

She reached the edge, where the world ended, and looked down.

There was white there, and blue, and it moved. And it roared. Like it was hungry.

Suddenly, she had to sit down.

Her leg hurt. It went down deep in front of her. Too deep. It was wet now too. Birds cried. The roar was deafening. It sounded almost like-

Like-

Suddenly, panic seized her. She stumbled backwards, away, away from that noise! Heart hammering in her chest, she turned.

When she turned, she saw only endless waving and little white in between dark and round.

Where was she?

What was this?

What was his name?

Zevran looked, left, right, and saw no trace of his wife. If only the Crows had taught him how to track a person in the wilderness! Where to now? He had to find her, before something happened. She had gotten more distant, less present for days at a time, bht he had hoped... he had hoped it would go away again, like it always did every spring once the anniversary of the Archdemon's death passed. Was she conscious of her actions? Where was she?

Left, right, scouring the landscape for any sign of his wife's brightly colored clothing.

Something white and dark caught his eye.

She had not taken her cane. Could she still be in her nightgown? Zevran was already setting in motion before he could answer that question, before he could properly contemplate it. And in that direction lay the cliffs- Sweet Mother of Mercy!

Zevran broke out into a run.

She turned.

What was his name?

She turned.

Where was she?

She saw nothing but wide and bright and nowhere to go, and she didn't know where she wanted to go, and she didn't know anything! What was going on? What was happening? Why was it so loud, why didn't it stop, where was her mama, where was she!?

What was his name?

Whose name?

"Amore!"

She turned to look.

There was somebody. Running. Running towards her!

She stumbled backwards, stumbled. Fell.

Soft and rough and hurtful below her.

What was his name?

He was running towards her. He was not bright. His hair was nice. Yes, she liked his hair.

Should she run?

Maybe she should run.

She should probably run.

Or, maybe, this was the one whose name she was searching for. Why didn't she know his name?

She gasped, suddenly. Something was very very wrong with her.

He was running towards her!

She scrambled to her feet, dashed to the side. The running man missed her by far too little.

"Amore, wait!"

She ran.

He didn't.

Instead, he called after her: "Amore! Amore, please. Stay still for a moment, my Warden!"

Her leg hurt. She stopped and turned towards him.

Slowly, the running man approached her his hair was dancing. It was nice. He didn't look happy, he looked scared. He had a stick in his hand.

Why was he scared?

What was his name?

Was it his name?

"Amore." The running man had reached her and stretched his hand out, but didn't touch her. "Where were you going, my Warden? And not even dressed."

She looked at him. What... what could she?

"My Warden?" He carefully touched her. "Are you alright?"

"Alright," she repeated. "Alright, alright."

But she was not! She was not alright! Something was wrong!

"Alright, alright, alright."

The running man looked down. "It does not seem like that to me, my love."

Love.

"Love."

The running man looked at her again, and he looked better.

"Love," she said again.

It was not his name. But it was good.

"You do remember me." The running man smiled and held his hand out. "Will you come home with me, amore?"

Did she? Would she? Where to?

She wasn't sure.

She looked at the running man, hand outstretched.

"Love?" she asked.

"Yes," he said with a smile.

She took his hand and followed him.

Zevran sat on the edge of the bed, nursing the same drink he had poured himself hours ago, and tried not to cry again.

She had followed him home. So far, so good. She had called him love, but he was no longer sure she recognized him. She was still far away and not present. Her left hip was swollen, and it evidently brought her great pain. When he had tried to alleviate the inflamation, however, or clean the wounds on her feet—how had she made all the way up to the cliff without shoes?—she had fought back, and even bitten him. Right now, she was asleep, but he couldn't leave her unattended even now. He had... he had not known what to do. He was out of his depth.

He needed help.

Perinella would surely come. So would Virel, and Eidela, but he could not rip his children out of the life they had built for themselves for forever. It was a temporary solution at best, and did not even address the real problem.

He wanted his Warden back.

Zevran felt the burn of tears in his eyes, took another sip from his drink, and cursed the Archdemon one more time.

The month Astala had spent lying in bed, not knowing where she was, who she was, and not recognizing anybody, had been one of the worst time in his life. Wynne had tended to her. He had felt completely useles. But there had been slow improvements, and his Warden had gotten better, until she had regained much of her old self. And what she had not regained had soon filled up with new life.

Now, however? This had been the most lost he had ever seen her since then, and he did not know how to bring her back. Or if she even could be brought back.

There was nothing he could do.

Nothing except take things as they came. He had always been good at that, had he not?

The things the Crows could prepare you for. Zevran chuckled to himself without humor and stood up. He had some letters to write. His children needed to know. Who knew what the next days would hold, and the next months. Who knew if Astala would ever‐

"Love?"

Zevran turned immediately. Astala was still lying on their bed, lifting only her head to look for him.

Zevran set down his glass and set out to answer.

"Zevran."

It was truly remarkable how a simple word, how the mere sound of his name on her lips could drive tears into his eyes once again. Zevran said nothing, stepped to her side and made no attempt at hiding his tears. That was his name.

She knew his name.

This story came into my house and beat me to a pulp. Hope you enjoyed

@zevraholics thank you for giving me the opportunity to make myself tear up!!

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bluerose5 · 2 years

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More about the Tabris family and Darrian, because I have them on my mind.

Adaia is Rivaini; Cyrion is Fereldan (of course).

In my canon, the elder of Denerim's alienage would often keep the presence of mages quiet, so long as they posed no threat to themselves or others. This was to ensure that they maintained their numbers, and Cyrion was one of such mages, having developed a talent for healing at a young age.

He learned methods both magical and non-magical, eventually becoming the alienage's resident healer & surgeon.

Adaia's and Cyrion's marriage was an unexpected surprise, rather than a typical arranged match through the alienage elder. They both did seek the elder's approval before they were wed, however.

Daughter to a Rivaini seer and a Dalish craftsman from the Dalish's Llomerryn settlement, Adaia was no stranger to lifestyles that lay outside of the Chantry’s influence. She was raised as a pantheist, in fact, and she passed on her knowledge of Rivain and its culture to her son.

Adaia has always been a bit of an adventurer. Traveling in her youth, she has taken on a variety of jobs, everything from a sailor and pirate to a mercenary. In Denerim, she took on multiple postings at various establishments as a guard.

After an injury during a rough night on guard duty, Cyrion found her wounded in an alley. He healed her and brought her back to the alienage to finish patching her up. The rest, as they say, is history.

An idea I've been toying with: Darrian is primarily a rogue, but he did eventually develop some magical talents in his youth as well, presumably passed on from his father and from his grandmother. His father taught him the basics of healing, and both parents taught him how to safely interact with spirits and how to resist possession from more malignant ones. (Adaia did so by passing on the teachings of her mother. Plus, I'm a sucker for multiclassing, and this is my excuse to do so, especially since I've learned how to use the console commands for PC.) Darian mostly uses his magic to weaken his enemies and to augment his powers. Specialities are in entropy and spirit magic with basic healing spells.

Although he wishes to one day see it, Darrian has never been to Rivain, even though he has been taught some of both the Rivaini and Dalish ways in his upbringing.

While certain placements and designs have more cultural significance among the Rivaini, Darrian does have his own selection of tattoos and piercings. He views an exchange of jewelry as an act of affection (looking at you, Zevran).

Oh, and Cyrion definitely took Adaia's last name, glad we cleared that up.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #male tabris #darrian tabris #adaia tabris #cyrion tabris #male warden #zevran x tabris #zevwarden #zevran arainai #this is me just rambling about how much i love rivaini culture #and wish it was explored more #plus multiclassing protags are *chef's kiss*#bluerose rambles #bluerose headcanons #me @ cyrion and adaia is like that one post that goes 'when you ship a m/f couple but in a way that's clearly bisexual'#also bioware give me more apostates in settings where they're just living their best lives outside of the circles #without being a nuisance to anyone

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psalacanthea · 2 years

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Anarchy in Denerim- 2

New Chapter is Here!

...

Darian hadn't been thinking much about the place, he knew it was going to be trash. It was just somewhere to stay, a place to hide out in, but when they came through the door he realized what the problem was. The apartment was practically empty, dingy white walls flaking to show decades of paint, the tiny living room and kitchen opening up to just the one bedroom and a small bathroom. No furniture besides a beat-up loveseat and a mattress in the back.

“Uh...” Darian glanced over at Lia in apology. “There's only one bed.”

“The sofa is perfectly fine,” she assured him quietly, and then glanced at it, forehead furrowing. “Could a sheet...or something to tuck over it be acquired?”

“We've been sleepin' in the dirt.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “My tent is clean. I am quite clean, unlike you.”

Annoyed, he snapped at her, “there are fish in fuckin' rivers, ain't nothing clean about washing in there!”

“Did you know he's afraid of squirrels?” Lia asked Sera, the kid watching with fascination as she perched on the scarred laminate counter dividing the kitchen from the living room.

“Shut up!”

Sera giggled, eyes bright with mischief. “Not really.”

Lia nodded with a solemn air. “Yes really.”

“It was one fuckin' squirrel, an' it kept throwin' shit at me!”

Zev chuckled. “It was a fairly determined beast.”

“And he's most certainly afraid of snakes,” Lia said slyly, shooting a look at him.

Darian froze, remembering her retaliation for one of their arguments, when she'd snuck that fucking snake into his tent during the night. He'd woken up with it on his leg. Never been so scared in his entire life.

That had been the first time Alistair had accidentally seen him naked.

They were up to four now.

#Anarchy in Denerim #m!tabris x Zevran #f!Mahariel x Zevran #zevran x tabris x mahariel #m!tabris x F!mahariel #My stupid children #traumatizing Alistair on the daily

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dragon-age-fame · 5 months

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Edit: I want to thank you guys for the interest. She is 14 pages in now. Low key might skip work today to write. Keep up the good work. I answer some of your questions and replies uwusl

Hwy guys.

I'm hoping to generate some interest for my current project with my bestie. We are writing a dragon age fanfic. Instead of one origin surviving, Duncan recruited all of them.

It will have romance, adventure, friendship, politics, betrayal and hope.

Our goal is to keep it true to the story to lore as possible.. hope to eventually write through all 3 games. (Possibly dreadwolf too depending on how that turns out)

The romance list is F. Maharel x Zevran, F. Tabris x Leliana, M. Adecan x Morrigan, F. Cousland x Alistair.

Surana and Brosca will be announced later.

How it will work is we are splitting the chapters. She writes one half. I write the other. We have different writing styles so I hope this will be a fun and relatively unique project.

Bestie says she will be more.motivated to write if people are interested. So I am hoping to show her to get her on the ball.

Please feel free to comment with any thoughts, comments, questions or ideas.

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zevraholics · 7 months

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ZevWarden Week 2023 Tags

ZevWarden Week 2023 Masterpost Here

Type of Work:

Fanfic Fanart Meta Screenshot GIF Other

Prompt:

Day 1: Tradition and Trying New Things Day 2: Secrets, Kept and Told Day 3: Fear and Safety Day 4: Work and Pleasure Day 5: Bodies and Minds Day 6: Favourite Things and Pet Peeves Day 7: Family, Lost and Found

Ship:

ZevWarden Zevran x m!Warden Zevran x f!Warden Zevran x nb!Warden Zevran x Aeducan Zevran x Amell Zevran x Brosca Zevran x Cousland Zevran x Mahariel Zevran x Surana Zevran x Tabris Zevran x OC Zevistair Polyamory Zevran x Other

Content:

Dad Zevran Pregnancy Children Colorism Fantasy Racism Suicidal Thoughts Suicide Death Ultimate Sacrifice Blood GoreAbuseTorture Non-Con NSFW Kink Smut Threesome Foursome Nudity Shirtless Sexual Tension Fluff Pining Angst Hurt-Comfort Drug Use

#zevwarden week 2023 #zevwarden week #zevwarden #zevran x warden #zevran arainai #zevran #dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age fanart #zevraholics anonymous

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deviousspleen · 1 year

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*for me, Kallian Tabris is in a platonic romance with Aedan Cousland because of what humans did to her. She is learning with time how to trust again.

*Neria Surana found Theron Mahariel in front of an eluvian and managed to cure him after Damian Amell cleaned the Circle of Magi. (Damian Amell being my canon warden)

#zevran arainai #zevran x warden #dao #dragon age origins #dragon age

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fairfaxleasee · 3 years

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"Corset"

For @dadrunkwriting (based on a prompt for Stories of Thedas 3 on Twitter)

Pairing: Zevran x f!Tabris

"Zevran, what exactly are you doing back there?" Avalonne Tabris tried to turn around to get a better look at whatever her lover was currently up to, but the corset that he was supposed to be helping her into made the movement difficult (despite the fact that he didn't seem to be making any actual progress in cinching it up).

"Now, rosa bianca, you would not force me to reveal my surprise before it is ready, would you?"

"...yes. Yes I would."

"Avalonne, cara, I am beginning to think that perhaps you do not trust me implicitly!"

"I trust you implicitly to get yourself into as much trouble as you can when I'm not keeping a very close eye on you."

"Ah, cara! You wound me! You would not be seeing any other extremely handsome Antivans while I am away, are you? Could you perhaps be confusing me with one of them?"

Avalonne tried to elbow him in the ribs, but once again the corset was cutting off her movements.

"I shall take that as a 'no,' then. Not that I was at all worried. I am confident that there is no one who would be a match for my skill."

"That skill being not realizing just how deep the hole you're in is and digging away anyway?"

"Avalonne! The idea that I would be reduced to such manual labor! Well, unless we are speaking of digging graves, in which case -"

She finally managed to grab the man (although that was probably because Zevran allowed it) and dragged him in front of her. "Zevran, would you please just focus on what you're supposed to be doing? Just finish putting the corset on so I'm not late!" Avalonne wasn't overly interested in going to the ball, but as good as Amelia was, the Queen couldn't keep an eye on both her husband and her father at the same time when Orlesian diplomats were on the guest list.

"Very well. But would you like to see your surprise first?"

"Is my surprise you actually did what you were supposed to have done?"

"That would be very surprising, no? But, no. I do, however, hope you will like this."

He turned her slightly so she could see some of her back in the mirror. He hadn't done a thing to put the corset on, but he had woven her hair into a very elaborate series of braids accentuated with white roses.

He tucked a final rose behind her ear and whispered, "I would not want you getting ideas that Ferelden men are the only ones who can shower their women with flowers."

Avalonne pushed a few loose strands of her chestnut brown hair into place. She had always been a bit jealous watching Alistair surprise Amelia with flowers for her hair (she had no interest in flowers from Alistair, of course, but these flowers from Zevran were lovely...).

...But they were not lovely enough to let him entirely off the hook! "Well, the flowers are nice, but tell me - can Ferelden men follow instructions?"

"From what I have seen? No, they cannot. They are, if anything, worse than even exquisitely handsome Antivans in that regard."

She ran a hand along the side of his face, "Hmm... lucky for you then. Now will you get back there and finish lacing the corset like I told you to an hour ago?"

"That, cara, depends." He took her hand and pressed his lips to her fingers. She tried her best to keep from rising to the man's obvious bait, but based on his soft chuckle she didn't manage it. "If I lace the corset for you, do you promise you will let me unlace it tonight? I admit, I find that activity, infinitely more enjoyable."

#da drunk writing circle #dragon age fanfic #fanfic #zevran x tabris #zevran x f!tabris #zevran #dragon age zevran #zevran ariani #zevran arainai #banter #zevran/f!tabris #zevran/warden #zevran x warden

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thejabberwokk · 2 years

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ZevWarden Week Day 5- Promises

Carrying on with the 2-INqusitor verse lol

5. Promises

Rough fingers gently traced the edges of the golden hoop that pierced the lobe of the woman who lay beside him. Her gentle snores reminded him of crickets, mostly because they only came when it was dark and humid, but non the less he found them cute.

It had been nearly ten years since he offered her that silly trinket, and she continued to wear it; affectionately calling it her “shackle to the sun.” She had brought him one of silver after one of her Warden missions not long after the Blight was ended and said he was now officially tethered to the moon.

Isabeaux stirred in her sleep, crimson eyes blinking up at him owlishly while the pinions of her phoenix crinkled at the corners.

“Mor’ning my handsome kumquat.” she mumbled while nuzzling her cheek against his hand.

“Not quite, mi amor, sorry if I woke you.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss against her brow. “Just getting here myself.”

“Long night with the Spider?”She tilted her face to catch his lips, before settling back onto her pillow.

“Indeed, her son has grown most tall,” He shifted next to her, pulling her close as she rested her head on his shoulder. “She agrees that there is something going on at the old temple, not very dragon-like though.”

She ‘hmm’ed’ in sleepy acknowledgement, already letting sleep retake her. He smiled against her hair, kissing the moon like strands softly.

“I’ll fill you in in the morning, love.”

#jabberwrites #zevwarden week 2022 #zevwarden #dragon age #dragon age origins #fanfiction #writing challenges #zevran x warden #zevran x f!tabris

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firjii · 6 years

Link

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Female Tabris Characters: Zevran Arainai, The Warden Additional Tags: Pre-Relationship, Early Relationship, Tending Wounds, sfw, Light Angst, Comfort Fic Words: 752

Summary: Zevran helps the Warden with injuries that she’s been trying to hide.

As promised, a wee bit of veryyyyyy self-indulgent wholesome Zev. :=) but oops, for an SFW fic, I really do mention hands a lot in this one XD Plain text under the cut.

He slowly peered over his shoulder and smiled, a small but bright sort of movement. “You needn’t look so nervous. I meant exactly what I said and no more. You’d be surprised what one might learn growing up as I did. It wasn’t always – well, sometimes people were surprising. And some assassins learn a great deal about poisons and herbs. I have some useful balms that you might not have seen in a place like Denerim. You never know when a callus will get in your way, eh?”

Her eyes darted all around the tent.

He produced several tiny tins from a pouch and opened one. “Here, smell this.”

She leaned forward a fraction and sniffed. She closed her eyes and considered the concoction for a moment.

He gestured to her hands. “You’ve worn gloves for a week. That would be wise for most warriors, but your shooting has suffered for it.”

She stared down at her hands, the twitchy veins of her fists barely visible beneath the lumpy leather.

“In fact, no one has seen your hands at all in a week.”

Her gaze shot up to him.

“I conferred with our comrades. Either you enjoy those gloves a great deal or something is very wrong beneath them.”

Her shoulders compressed. Her chin trembled.

“You hide it well, but there is no shame in tending to wounds.” He outstretched a hand, palm up, neither impatient nor wavering. “An archer’s hands are worth all the gold in Tevinter and Orlais combined. They can save lives as easily as they can take them.”

She took a cavernous breath, and then another. She nodded, though it was little more than an especially visible shudder. She unclenched her fists and reached towards him.

He took them, though he did little more than hold them in place. “You’re shaking.”

She nodded in a hurry.

“Why? I already understand how you feel about flirting.” His face hardened a fraction. “I assure you on my honor, I had no intention of doing so tonight.”

Her face paled and her eyes dashed about the tent again.

“But I would also hazard a guess that you’ve thought about it.”

She glared at him, though without contempt.

“I apologize if I offended you, but you are hardly the sort of person to forget such things in a hurry – especially when they were spoken sincerely.”

Her mouth weakened. She looked away and gnashed her lip. Her head fell.

He released her hands and slowly pried her chin back up with a single finger until it was level with his again. “And I was sincere.” His brow danced deliberately on each syllable.

She closed her eyes for a moment, though by the time she opened them again, her tears had mostly receded before they’d been shed – mostly.

He raised a hand on each side of her face but hesitated. She leaned into them. He slowly brushed a tear away from both cheeks.

She let out a ragged breath, neither a sigh nor a sob but scarcely more than an inch away from either.

He smiled, the same small but warm movement. “May I see your hands?”

Her arms rose.

He pulled on the gloves but frowned when she winced. “What–”

The gloves had caught on something.

He pulled harder.

She cried out.

He unburdened her of the gloves, but they had taken fragments of skin with them. Nearly every corner of her hands was a raw pink – burns without scars, cuts without blood, and angry rash everywhere else, the skin perhaps too confused to know what to repair first. His gaze cycled between a dozen different thoughts, but a deep quietness settled on him above all of that. He searched for her eyes but only found two dull circles in her face. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

She still hadn’t spoken. There was no need for words. There was no need to explain. He had seen such wounds before.

He guided her down to a cushion, a whim of a thing he’d bought only a day earlier. She folded her legs awkwardly into herself, still shaking.

He tended the skin slowly with the balm, touching it without touching it. “I’m sorry,” he uttered several more times – not always only for making her flinch. Gradually, the color returned to her face, neither ashen nor bloomed ruddy with grief.

They sat there for many moments, perhaps hours, all for the sake of healing her most precious commodity.

Well, he thought to himself, not the most precious.

#zevran arainai #zevran x f!warden #zevran x f!tabris #sfw fanfic #dragon age origins fanfic #dragon age origins #dao #comfort fic #early relationship fic #pre-relationship fic #firjii writes #firjii on ao3

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shivunin · 6 months

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A Good Fight

(Arianwen Tabris/Zevran Arainai | 2,440 Words | AO3 Link | CW: Mild sexual references/sexual tension)

Summary: Things that annoy Tabris: frivolous conversation and being the butt of a joke. Why, then, can she not get the insufferable Crow out of her mind?

“May I rest my head on your bosom?” the Crow asked somewhere behind Tabris. “I might cry.”

Tabris grimaced, casting a look at Alistair. He echoed her glance, nose wrinkled. It galled her to agree with him, but plainly they were in accord when it came to this.

“You can cry well away from my bosom, I’m certain,” the mage said severely.

“Reconsidering keeping him around yet?” Alistair asked in a low voice, bending closer.

Wen pressed her lips together, eyes narrowed, and glanced behind her at the other two. Zevran gazed at Wynne soulfully, one hand pressed to his chest. Wynne was grimacing, staff thumping into the dust of the road as they climbed the hill.

“Did I tell you I was an orphan?” the former Crow went on, his voice sorrowful. “I never knew my mother.”

“Egad,” Wynne said, disgust as plain in her voice as it was in the lines of her body. “I give up.”

She sped up, outstripping Zevran and both Wardens. Arianwen watched the mage go, shaking her head, and glanced behind her again.

Zevran caught her eyes at once and winked. Wen stared back, lips still pressed into a tight line.

“Maybe I am,” she told Alistair, and turned away again.

Before them, the harried mage left small clouds of dust above the road. The late afternoon light diffused there, giving the road an odd sort of dreamlike quality.

“Could still give killing him a shot,” Alistair muttered.

“What was that? I could not hear you over the sound of all that armor,” Zevran said, abruptly behind them. Arianwen took a large step to the left and carried on.

“Oh, nothing,” Alistair said. Wen could feel him looking at her, but she ignored the desperate glance. “We, ah…thought your conversation was interesting. That’s all.”

“Ah—so I suppose you also have an opinion about murder, then?”

There was something under the words. Some sort of…double meaning, hidden undercurrent. Ugh. Wen hated plenty of things, but trying to understand what someone meant when it wasn’t what they actually said ranked highly on the list.

“Let’s not,” she said.

“Not what? I am afraid I do not understand you.”

If he started talking about her bosom, she’d just stab him, Wen decided. When she sped up, the assassin matched her.

“Talk.”

“Pardon? I did not catch what you said.”

“I, ah—wouldn’t push your luck, there,” Alistair said, jogging for several steps until he drew even with the pair of them. “She’s got a short temper.”

“Yes, I had determined as much,” Zevran said. “And how lovely she looks when she is thinking of death.”

Wen stepped directly into his path and stopped moving, forcing the assassin to stop in his tracks or dodge to the side. He chose the former, still smiling broadly, though he stopped only an inch or two away. Arianwen met his eyes squarely, thinking.

She didn’t think she wanted to kill him. The man was decent enough at what he did. Fighting him had been the best part of fighting any of the Crows. Actually, he’d been her favorite person to fight since they’d left Ostagar. There was something fluid about the way he moved that—well. Fascinated her, actually. She liked watching him.

No—no, she didn’t want to kill him. What would be the point now? It certainly wasn’t as if she cared that Wynne, of all people, was annoyed. Actually, she should be thanking him. For once, the mage hadn’t been hovering over her shoulder and asking questions.

“I don’t think so,” she said, to the dust in the air as much as she was speaking to either man, and turned to continue up the hill without any additional elaboration.

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Zevran said behind her.

“We aren’t friends, assassin,” Alistair said stiffly, but added in a quieter voice: “Best to avoid prodding at her when she’s already tired.”

“Mmm,” Zevran allowed. Wen gritted her teeth, irritated again, but he went on a moment later. “I shall take your advice very seriously, Warden.”

Wen glanced behind her one more time, expecting the same cocky grin or perhaps another wink. Instead, she found a flash of something she didn’t expect:

Exhaustion. Hiding in the corner of his eyes, in the subtle roll of his shoulders.

Ah. That was harder to ignore.

Wen closed her eyes, willing herself to keep walking. It would be easy. It would be better. He was so annoying; maybe he’d stop talking if he was too tired to manage.

As soon as she reached the top of the hill, she swung her pack from her shoulder and sat back against a fence.

Not for him. Obviously not.

But—maybe it was time for a break. That was all. Redcliffe was almost in sight and they’d probably be busy as soon as they got there. Best they sit and rest now before they no longer had the choice.

She certainly, pointedly did not breathe easier when the Crow sat to her left with an audible sigh of relief.

“Are you quite certain you are ready for this?” the assassin asked.

Wen, who’d deposited the last of her armor to the side of the clearing, nodded curtly. She’d have to be a fool to think he had nothing to teach her. Whenever possible, she did try not to be a fool.

“I need to know all I can. Show me, if you want to.”

The outskirts of the Brecilian rose around them, trees already towering higher than she’d ever seen them before. This place was odd and old, breaking the monotony of carefully planted fields and abandoned villages. She didn’t feel like herself here. It was as if she’d slipped off her skin and found it ill-fitting upon its return. Or—perhaps something hung watching in the air here. Something that saw her, that waited and knew.

She couldn’t say she liked it.

“If I want to?” Zevran flipped the knife in his hand once, neatly. “And here you have been asking so politely, Warden. How could I say no?”

“You’ve just said it,” Wen replied, taking a slow, smooth step to the side. “Obviously you know how.”

“Tch,” he began to circle with her—taking her measure, she thought. Some of the glossy humor fell away, baring the steel beneath. “So literal.”

Wen huffed, refusing to be dragged into a conversation. She’d get distracted by talking and then he’d strike. She knew exactly how this worked.

“First and foremost,” he said, “I have seen you fight. You are very skilled, yes? But you are not careful.”

Wen felt her eyebrows climb. Zevran feinted, she sidestepped, and they resumed pacing each other.

“Are you suggesting I get thicker armor?” she asked.

He laughed, a deeper thing than his usual chuckle. Wen narrowed her eyes.

“You have been spending too much time with Alistair. No—I am suggesting you learn to be quieter,” he said, and moved—it was like his body had become liquid for a moment, flowing so close that she was forced onto her back foot. A blow in the right spot and she was stumbling back, struggling to halt her momentum enough to guard herself.

To her surprise, he did not press his advantage. He took a step back instead, watching her with an odd look on his face. Wen scowled and rolled her shoulders, loosening the muscles that had gone taut.

“I’m plenty quiet.”

“Not quiet enough to be an assassin—and that is what you asked me to teach you, yes?”

Wen pursed her lips. She had asked him. She’d wanted to know how he moved the way he did, but she certainly couldn’t ask him for that. It had been plenty easy to imagine what he’d say in response.

“Fight me, then,” she said, and dropped her knife. It sank into the soft earth point-down, which meant she’d have to be very thorough when she cleaned and oiled it later. At the moment, she didn’t really care.

Zevran cocked an eyebrow at her, but stepped back to set his knife aside.

“Are you quite certain? Surely you would like some sort of explanation first.”

“No,” she told him. “I’m too literal for that.”

Zevran tipped his head back and laughed.

As soon as his eyes were closed, she struck. It ought to have been a glancing blow, only a soft slap to his shoulder to get his attention. The strike never landed. Instead, he flowed away from her and spun, planting a hand on her back and pushing. Wen was ready for it this time. Her weight shifted hard to her back foot, but she did not waver.

“Good,” he said from behind her, but when she reached back to grasp his arm Zevran was already gone.

Arianwen spun slowly, listening. He must have gone up; there was nothing closer than the branches to hide behind. Her heart thudded in her ears, distracting her. Where was he? That rustle in the bushes had the rhythm of a squirrel, the scratching at the bark to her right was certainly a bird, and the crunch in the leaves behind her—

Zevran dropped from above and locked her into his arms before she had a chance to strike back.

“As I was saying,” he told her. “Not very careful.”

Arianwen tried to kick him to little avail. Zevran laughed into her ear, his mouth briefly brushing against the point of it. An odd tingling sensation spread from that point to her cheeks, burning as it went. What was this? Some sort of poison?

Arianwen planted her feet, gripped his arms where they wrapped around her, and flipped Zevran over her head. His eyes were wide when she straddled his chest, a knife already pressed against the hollow of his throat. She could feel his pulse against her knuckles, could feel his breath whenever his ribs expanded between her thighs, and—what was this?

“What did you just do?” she snarled. Zevran’s brows lifted.

“I caught you,” he said.

“Not that. You—”

She pressed her lips together all at once, her face hot, and climbed off of him. If there had been some way for Arianwen to scratch the sensation from her skin with bared nails, she would have done it immediately. It lived somewhere deeper than her skin, entirely beyond the reach of fingertips or knives.

Had he ever touched her skin to skin before? She could not think.

“Well? Teach me,” she demanded, taking several steps away from him. The distance, such as it was, did not help.

Zevran rose more slowly, dusting himself off. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. It was—speculative. Like he was weighing her against something in his mind.

“Or was that it?” she asked.

“No, no—I was merely thinking how best to show you what I mean,” he said. There was some hidden meaning to his words. She could feel it.

Wen frowned at him, eyes narrowing. What was he actually saying?

“Let us begin again,” he said, spreading his arms. Wen took a deep breath, wishing away the odd burning at the back of her neck and the tips of her ears.

“Let’s,” she gritted out, her heart beating curiously fast, and raised her fists.

“Are you awake yet?” Zevran murmured.

“No,” Wen told him, hand skimming over his loose, night-rumpled hair. Zevran grunted and pressed his face more firmly against her bare chest.

“It should not surprise me when you make jokes,” he said. His lips pressed against the skin over her heart. “And yet…”

“Oh, ha ha,” Wen said, rolling her eyes. “If you’re going to be a pest, you can get off.”

“Oh?” he angled his head until he could look at her, morning light glinting across one golden eye. “Can I?”

“Andraste’s tits,” she muttered, squirming without any real effort to dislodge him.

“Yours are finer by far, I assure you,” he informed her solemnly, pressing a kiss to the nearest of them.

Arianwen rolled her eyes, but threaded her hand through his hair again. Some of the tangles smoothed under her touch, but not enough. He’d still need to comb it when he rose for the day.

She tried very, very hard to pretend that she couldn’t hear the army moving outside their tent.

“Zevran,” she began, her voice soft, and he lifted his head to look at her.

What could she tell him? That there were even odds she would die today? That she was grateful? What more could she possibly tell him now?

“It will be a very good fight, yes?” he said, as if he knew what she was thinking. “Your favorite thing.”

Tabris pressed her mouth closed, searching his face for meaning. She found none. There was only the warmth of his eyes, the comfort of his body pressed to hers. The clamor of steel rose beyond their flimsy canvas walls. Time was almost up. It would be a good fight, yes. If there was anything she loved, it was a good fight.

Arianwen loved Zevran more.

She’d planned to leave him behind, where the fighting was less heavy, but she already knew she wouldn’t be able to bear it. How could she fight through the city, never knowing if he’d been struck by a stray arrow or felled by an ogre? She could not protect him and seek the archdemon both. At least if they were together—at least they would both know. At least neither of them would have to wonder.

Until the end, then, and perhaps whatever came next. At least she knew she wouldn’t be alone.

“Yes,” she said, passing her fingers through his hair one last time. Her hand fell to a stop at his cheek, thumb tracing the bottom point of his tattoo.

“You will remember what I taught you, yes?”

He lifted himself onto an elbow and leaned forward to kiss her. It had been meant as a glancing thing, she thought. It ran deeper than that in the end, desperate hands on shoulders and teeth and tongues and heat. She didn’t want to lose him. She raged at the world, for giving them to each other right on the doorstep of ruin.

“Always,” Wen told Zevran, and clutched him to her when he would have risen to go. He endured this for several moments longer, his breathing uneven, before he pressed a kiss to her cheek and moved away.

When she pushed the blankets aside to stand, his was the hand that pulled her to her feet.

(For Zevwarden Week Day 6: Favorite Things and Pet Peeves. Thanks again @zevraholics!)

#zevran arainai #arianwen tabris #zevwarden #zevran x f!warden #zevran x tabris #zevwarden week 2023 #shivunin scrivening #zevwen #you know someday i gotta write him digging her out of the wreckage after she kills the archdemon #or just that whole sequence from his POV #bc she didn't tell him what was going on but he for sure knew *something* was happening

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heniareth · 6 months

Text

ZevWarden Week 2023

Day 3: Fear and Safety

The Flight from Vigil's Keep

Wordcount: 3,440 | Rating: Teen and Up

In the middle of the night, Vigil's Keep is attacked. Zevran and Astala grab their children and flee.

WARNING FOR:

Children in danger (they don't come to harm, but they are in danger. The children are teenagers, 4-year.olds, and a baby)

Explosions

Fire

Fleeing from your home

Canon-typical violence

The attack is racially motivated, but this can be inferred and is not explicitly mentioned or discussed

(Read down below or here on AO3)

Zevran woke suddenly. It took him a moment to orient himself—a moment longer than he would have liked. Something was not right. One heartbeat, and the something not right became apparent.

Smoke.

Fire.

The smell was a mere whiff, but it was not where it should be. That alone made him leave the big, spatious, warm bed and Astala's side. She didn't stirr when he approached the window.

There. The orange glow of fire, inside the inner walls of Vigil's Keep. He opened the window. The smell of smoke grew stronger. Faintly, shouting reached his ear.

It was the unmistakable screaming and clashing of battle.

Zevran hadn't been party to many violent takeovers of a noble's property, but he had seen enough. He didn't bother closing the window. He hurried to Astala, and shook her awake.

"Amore!"

A grunt was his only answer.

"Amore," Zevran whispered, hurriedly. "Please. We need to leave."

Finally, his wife opened her eyes, blinking blearily.

"Whashappenin-?"

"We need to leave," Zevran repeated. He fished his belt with two of his daggers from the foot of the bed and wound it around his waist. "The Keep is under attack."

Astala sat up and looked at him, wide-eyed. "W-what?"

A loud bang, far too close by.

"Amore mio, please." Zevran took her hand. She allowed him to pull her out of bed. "We must be quick. We need to get the children and leave."

"The chil- Oh, Maker." A shudder ran through Astala, and suddenly she snapped into action. "We have to go!"

Zevran was right on her heels.

Eidela started crying when Zevran lifted her into Astala's arms. Her voice echoed through the empty hallway as they hurried to the rooms the rest of the children occupied, until Astala managed to shush her. It sent a sharp spike through Zevran's blood nonetheless. Barely an infant, and far too young to have to flee an invasion.

A low growl greeted them when they opened the door to their children's rooms. It took the old mabari a moment, but Rascal immediately backed down and started wagging his tail when he recognized them. Astala rushed in. Zevran looked around. The younger ones were fast asleep. The older ones, alertness sharpened by the streets of Antiva and the Crows, respectively, had already quietly started suiting up.

Virel and Carlo had pulled on their dark leathers. Perinella was nowhere to be seen. Virel was grim and decided, far from his usual sullen teenage mood. Carlo nervously played around with the pommel of his dagger.

Zevran gave them an approving nod. "Bravi."

Carlo smiled, unsure.

"Help your mother with your siblings," Zevran continued, addressing Carlo. "Get them out of bed and into warm clothes. Keep them close. You will be alright, I promise."

Carlo nodded. With a kiss to the forehead, Zevran let him go, and turned to his oldest.

"Open the passage," he said. "Where is Perinella?"

"Getting potions," Virel said. "She took Brigand."

"Very good. Get her first," Zevran instructed. "I will join you shortly."

Virel wanted to bolt off, but found time to roll his eyes when Zevran held him back and kissed his forehead as well.

"Andaos con cuidado, ¿eh?"

"Sí, padre," Virel muttered. Then he left as well.

Zevran turned and found the twins awake and scrambling out of their beds, eyes big and frightened like Carlo's as he helped them into their boots and coats. No protests came from either if them.

Eidela was crying again, and wouldn't let Astala tie her to her chest. Zevran held the fabric Astala was struggling with in place.

"Maybe I should carry her."

"No," Astala said. "We need you. I can't fight."

"I hope it will not come to fighting," Zevran replied.

"Still." Astala turned her head as he stepped behind her and tied the sling keeping Eidela in place. "Not taking chances."

Zevran glanced at her, at their four youngest, thought of Virel and Perinella out in the hallways with nothing but a dog to watch over them.

"I am yours," was the only answer that came to him.

After a quick stop at their own quarters to suit up, they joined Virel and Perinella up the hallway. Health potions were distributed. Astolfo and Rinona were instructed to hold Astala's hand and not let go. Zevran took Perinella with him to the front of the group, to light their way. Virel closed their march. Quietly, they descended the old servants' passageway.

Their walk was careful. Tense.

"I wish I knew where the Wardens are," Astala said at one point.

"Fighting, most likely," Zevran answered, then smiled wrily to himself. "This invasion is a slight their commander will not forgive lightly, I think."

He caught the beginning of Astala's chuckle when an explosion detonated somewhere far too close by. The whole stairway trembled. Zevran pulled Perinella closer to himself and back towards Astala. Brigand let out a whine of alarm. The explosion ran like thunder through the stairway and then it was silent.

Zevran looked back at his family to find them all unharmed, albeit shaken.

"One of Dvorkin's, probably," Astala said, and ran her free hand over Astolfo's hair.

"I suppose it is good to know that he is up and about," Zevran answered, trying to lighten the situation while fear coiled around his belly like a snake.

A scoff, and then Astala started: "Not if... well."

She didn't finish the sentence, but Zevran knew what she had wanted to say.

The staircase ended in a long, narrow hallway leading straight to the kitchen. The fighting was loud here. Screams, the clash of metal, explosions and the roar of flames filled the narrow corridor, muffled by the thick wall of stone. Zevran picked Astolfo up, Astala carried Rinona on her back. And then they ran. Astolfo was scared. He clung to him with all the strength the arms of a 4-year-old could have and hid his face in the crook of Zevran's neck. Zevran held him tight. Behind him, amidst the ring of battle, he caught snippets of Astala trying to keep Rinona calm. The light at the top of Perinella's staff bathed everything in cold, flickering light.

A torch, a person! Zevran brought them all to a halt as Perinella's barrier flared to life. Brigand and Rascal barked and growled.

"Who goes there?" Astala's sharp voice cut through the din of battle.

"Arlessa!"

The voice belonged to old Gemet, who had been working at the Vigil from before Astala had replaced arl Rendon Howe. Zevran nonetheless set Astolfo down and quietly unsheathed his daggers. Next to him, Perinella stood, tensely waiting.

"They sent me out to find you," Gemet called over the ring of battle, and then they all flinched and cowered as another explosion shook the walls of the narrow corridor. Eidela was screaming now, and Zevran felt Astolfo's hands balled into the fabric of his trousers.

"We cannot stay here," Zevran called out. "Gemet, move back. We will follow."

"Right away!"

The torch and the dark silhouette of Gemet made their way back down the corridor again.

The corridor led to the kitchens, which in turn led to the servants’ quarters. A good fraction of their fellow elves, all occupying different service positions until now, jumped to their feet. The relief flooding the room upon seeing the Hero of Ferelden was palpable. Astala stood a little straighter and stepped forward.

“They are in the Great Hall,” one of these scared people informed her.

“They will come down here any moment,” another said.

From above, a great crash was heard. Astala turned only briefly.

“Carry your small children and make for the outer service door,” she said. “We will ferry people down a few at a time.”

Another crash, and shouting.

“They’re breaking in!” a young girl screamed.

“Keep calm!” Astala commanded. “Move, towards the service door.”

Zevran handed Astolfo to Virel. The little boy clung to his older brother. Zevran held four of the elves back; they were strong, showed less fear than the rest of the people, and were unmarried.

“Stay behind with me,” he asked. “We will build some traps to greet them with.”

Astala stopped, and turned around. For the first time this night, fear crept over his Warden's face.

"You're not gonna stay here alone!" she called, disbelieving.

"Not alone!" Zevran gestured at the four other elves. He knew perfectly well Astala would regard them as insufficient help, and rightfully so, but...

"You can't stay!" Astala walked up to him with long steps, and Rinona had to run to keep pace with her. "Zevran! Those people-"

"I will be alright," Zevran tried.

"They will kill you!" Fear gave way to panic, gave way to wild determination. "I'm not leaving you alone!"

"Amore." Zevran reached out and held the hand with which she was holding Rinona. "Please. There is no time. Keep them safe; I-"

"I will stay."

Virel stood next to Astala.

"No!" Astala cried.

"Go with your brother," Zevran said. "Keep him safe. That is all I ask of you."

"But I-"

"No!"

Zevran immediately regretted his outburst. Virel flinched backwards. The noise was getting closer. They had no time. Zevran turned to Astala again. Her hand trembled; her eyes were wide. Mutely, she shook her head.

"I will do everything I can to return to you," Zevran said and cupped her cheek. "Go, my Warden.

"Please-" Astala whispered.

A loud bang. Screams. Eidela cried.

Astala stepped back. She, too, was crying.

"I love you," Zevran said.

Astala's answer was drowned out by another explosion that shook the walls. Then she turned and hurried down the hallway with their children as fast as her old injury would allow. Already, she was heavily favoring her right leg. She would be in a great deal of pain tomorrow. If she made it out alive.

Virel was leading Astolfo again, and didn't look back. It was Rinona who turned.

"Papa?"

"He needs a moment," he heard Astala say. "He'll be right behind us, just you see."

Then they disappeared around the corner. And Zevran, Crow that he was in his heart of hearts, closed his heart and his ears to the increasingly panicked calls of his daughter.

They grabbed what food they could easily carry. They ripped open a sack of flour so that the air turned dusty white, dumped oil over the floor, set a pot with hot coals over one door and a washbasin full of knives over another.

Voices approached, steps and the clanking of armor. While his four helpers ran for the exit, Zevran stayed by the third and last door and waited, a fire grenade in hand. Something heavy banged against the door. The wood splintered. Then it burst. Zevran stepped into the room. Men, humans with armor and weapons bloodied, poured into the kitchen, bloodlust in their voices. Zevran blew a kiss onto the glass vial that held the grenade and threw it into the kitchen, into their midst, turned and ran. The flour caught fire. The room exploded. The blast sent Zevran stumbling briefly, and then he ran. Screams, heat and a sense of burning satisfaction accompanied him as he rejoined his fellow trap-layers. They barricaded the door and hurried to join the larger group.

They did not take the path that was used to ferry goods up the steep incline that led up to the Keep. Instead, they made through the dark and gnarly forest with its dense undergrowth that covered the rest of the landscape. They hurried through, leaves and branches catching on their clothing. Zevran, in his comparatively tougher leather, led the way.

They found their people halfway to the river, gathered at the edge of a small clearing. A few figures rushed to put themselves between the group and them as they approached, but stood down as soon as they called out to them. There was a commotion at the back of the group. Zevran stepped out of the forest, only to have Rinona crash into him at full speed. Astolfo joined soon afterwards. Rinona was crying, big ugly tears. Astolfo wouldn't let him go. Zevran let them and hugged them tightly in return.

A weight fell onto his shoulders: Carlo. Somebody told him to move, to not squash Zevran, to give him some space: Virel. Somebody stepped behind Carlo when he didn't leave: Perinella. Zevran told them to let the boy be, even if his knees and thighs were starting to strain under the combined weight.

A shadow fell over him, a hand fell to his shoulder, and by touch alone he recognized his Warden. Astala said nothing. Zevran hugged Astolfo and Rinona with one arm and held Astala's hand.

They made their way to the river Hafter and along it, this small refugee group of theirs. Laseth, one of the head servants, who had spent some time with a Dalish clan before she had decided that their life was not for her, led them through the dark. It was a cold night. The heavy cloud cover allowed for almost no light, but thankfully kept the rain it carried to itself. Beside the quiet din of conversations and steps, there was no sound to be heard. The burning Vigil’s Keep grew smaller and smaller, until it vanished into the darkness.

Zevran was carrying Rinona. When his daughter shivered, he wrapped the edge of his cloak around her. Carlo walked next to him, occasionally bumping into him when he misstepped. Perinella was in front of them; she had offered to carry Astolfo on her back. Virel was behind them, silent. Astala walked next to him, Eidela on her back now, and heavily limping.

Her children and these people were still looking to her for guidance.

Zevran saw how tired she was.

They were all exhausted.

He approached Laseth with the suggestion to make camp as soon as they reached a patch of land with a sufficiently big grove of trees. Laseth selected an appropriate spot and set them to work. They built four tent-shaped shelters covered with leaves and ferns to ward against the worst of the chill. What clothes they had on their bodies and the shared body warmth would have to do the rest. There would be no fire. They were still too close to the keep. Zevran and his fellow trap-layers distributed what food they had managed to take with them. Then everybody went to sleep.

Neither Eidela nor Rinona woke up when they were set down; a small blessing. Astolfo fell asleep shortly afterwards, curled up in Zevran’s lap. Virel, Perinella and Carlo did not lie down right away. They sat close to them; grim faces, wide eyes, but unharmed. Alive.

For a while, nobody said anything.

“I’m sorry." Astala quietly broke the silence. “I’m so sorry. This was never supposed to happen. I didn’t want you to have to fight ever again.”

Perinella raised an eyebrow. “But we did not fight. You sent us away.”

“We never wanted you to be in a fight again, then,” Zevran suggested.

Astala nodded. “I’m so sorry. I’m so glad you’re safe.”

Virel and Perinella exchanged glances. Carlo looked like he wanted to say something, but then he just curled up on Astala’s free side, mirroring Astolfo, and went to sleep.

Silence fell back over their group again.

This time, it was Virel who broke it; he was looking at Zevran when he did so. “Why did you not want me to fight?”

Ah. Zevran should’ve known. The Crows’ talons didn't let go easily.

He glanced at Astala.

“Because parents keep their children safe whenever they can," Astala answered in his state. “They care for them, and do not want them to be hurt. Fighting is a very easy way to get hurt.”

“But you train us to fight,” Virel answered, still looking at Zevran. “Why?”

“Because,” Zevran answered this time, choosing his words wisely, “we want you to be able to defend yourselves once you are adults, or if neither your mother nor I are there. Not being able to fight is also a very good way to get hurt.”

For a while, Virel stared off into the darkness. Perinella followed the conversation in silence, with big, serious eyes.

“I am grown,” Virel then said. “Old enough to have been a Crow for years.”

“Yes,” Zevran agreed. “And this is why Crow masters do not make good parents.”

Virel smiled at that, and Zevran did too in a quick, rare moment of shared understanding. Perinella leaned against Astala's free side.

“I want you to know that what your mother said is true,” Zevran continued. “If we could, we would make it so that you never had to fight and never got hurt.”

Virel looked up at him.

“Alas, it is impossible,” Zevran said lightly. “So we do the next best thing: arm you with a blade and knowledge and step between you and any enemies whenever we can, ah?”

Virel smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Of course, this is not to say that I do not try my very best to return safely,” Zevran continued. “My Warden would never forgive me if I died—"

"True," Astala said quietly.

"—and even if I am a terrible spoilsport who will not let you fight, I hope I-”

He didn’t get further. Virel bumped his shoulder into him, lightly, in a move that surprised Zevran. He was ready to laugh and tentatively push back. But there were confounded emotions darkening his son’s face once more as he leaned away from him again. Zevran stayed still.

“Virel,” Astala said again, gently. “What is it?”

It took Virel some time to speak. Finally, without looking at Zevran, he strung the words together.

“If you had not returned?”

Zevran’s heart lurched slightly within his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Astala tense.

“It would not have been what I wanted at all,” Zevran began, slowly. “I would have… I would have been very sorry to leave you behind. I would have wanted it to be different, although knowing you safe would have been a comfort. We make choices. We do not know how they will turn out. We try our best and take risks. You would have done the same for Perinella.” Virel nodded quietly.

“Then you know why I did not want you to be there,” Zevran continued. “Your help would have been very welcome, and your readiness to jump into danger speaks to your courage. But that risk was not one I wanted you to take. I apologize if I have overstepped. But I wanted you safe.”

For a while, Virel said nothing. The silence stretched on for so long that Zevran was beginning to fear he might have said entirely the wrong thing, and that Virel was now angry. He waited. And waited.

Finally, Virel moved. Slowly, unexpectedly, carefully, as if testing the waters, he leaned into him, wrapped his arms around him and rested his head against his shoulder. Zevran hesitated for one moment, then carefully hugged him back.

They broke their little round up, set Astolfo next to Rinona. Virel and Perinella preferred to sleep to one side. Astala advised them to keep close enough to catch at least some body warmth and tried to get them to accept her cloak. They refused, arguing that they had their own. Astala had to let it be in the end.

As Zevran lay down next to her, she turned to him and pulled him close.

“Thank you,” she whispered quietly into his leather. “Thank you for keeping us safe.”

"You were not pleased," Zevran said.

Astala snorted. "Of course not."

Zevran nodded. Of course she was not pleased.

"I hate it," Astala said quietly. "I hate it so much. I was so scared."

"I am sorry," Zevran said.

Astala leaned back to look him in the eyes. "Don't do that again."

"Amore-"

"I know that- that you had to." She was trying so hard to keep her voice in check, Zevran knew. "I don't care. Don't do that again. Think of Virel. He needs you, Zevran, they all need you. Don't leave them."

The words stung. Zevran savored it.

"And you, my Warden?" he asked quietly.

"Of course I need you," Astala said. And then her voice finally broke. "Please, don't go. Please!"

"I am not planning to," Zevran said, with perhaps a little more edge than he intended.

"I know." Astala wiped her eyes. "I know, I know. I'm being unfair. I'm sorry."

Zevran sighed and kissed her forehead. “I could not bear to lose you, my Warden. You know that.”

“I do,” she nodded. “Thank you for making it back in one piece.”

“I am yours,” he answered. And, teasing, he added, “Yours entirely. How could I deprive you of even one part of me? Imagine me without hair.”

Astala let out an undignified snort and muffled her laugh against his chest. The laugh ended in a sniffle. Zevran held her close.

"How is your hip?"

"Bad," Astala said. "I will manage."

"I will help, if you will let me," Zevran said.

"Thank you."

Astala nuzzled closer and sighed against his skin. Her breath slowly evened out. Her weight grew heavier. Zevran closed his eyes, breathed deeply and thanked the Maker for keeping them safe and whole.

These two are a seasoned battle couple, but separate them and hoooooooooooo the anxiety skyrockets.

It's not clear who attacked the Keep (which means I haven't figured it out yet). Maybe she'll never know. Fact is, the crown doesn't do anything much, and she goes to Antiva with the whole family and settles down there for a peaceful live. Until the qunari arrive (looks at DA4 with suspicion)

I hope you enjoyed this one, and thank you to @zevraholics for organizing this event!!

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