Chapter Text
Despite the protests of your father, you chose to room in the tavern in Denerim rather than your old, tattered room in the alienage. For it was no longer your home. Not in truth. There was so much that you have been through since leaving for Ostagar. You are not the same girl your father or Soris remember. Not in the slighest. Too worn down and torn apart from the inside from battles fought, love relinquished and a future ripped from you too soon. Had it not been for your kidnapping on what would have been your wedding day you would be but a busy housewife now. A future that you could not, would not see for yourself. Too headstrong and bitter to lead such a life and be happy with it. So it was with this knowledge, as well as Soris's wary gaze that follows you with every step you take, that you secured a room at the Gnawed Noble.
Along the walk out of the alienage, you stop at the small graveyard. Or rather the small stone you secured with Shianni's name etched onto the surface. Your stomach twists uncomfortably when you look at it. An ache so deep and powerful you think it may rip you open settles in your chest. You can still picture her perfectly. Her sweet face smiling at you as she laughs at some sarcastic comment you said. The braids in her hair slightly tangled from the wind that often whipped through the alienage. She may have been brash and confrontational at times, but she was your cousin. More like a sister in closeness and your best friend in this life.
There was once a time in which you used to lay in the empty roads of the alienage at night and talk of what you might do should you escape it. Shianni had always fancied herself a bard. What with the way she loved gossip and secrets. You had thought first of adventure. Traveling through all of Thedas until your legs could no longer carry you and you had your fill of the world. How ironic that you had gotten your wish, but the circumstances unseen.
"Someone you know, mi amor?" You had forgotten that you hadn't told Zevran the story of how you came to be a Warden—and Shianni by default.
"My cousin," your voice is uncharacteristically small, "Shianni."
"You must have been close, no?"
"Like sisters, really."
"Tell me of her, mi tereso."
His voice is so unbearably soft and tender it make you sick. You had always hated being looked upon as something small and precious. Something fragile and soft.
But you do—you tell Zevran everything.
It's quiet when you enter the room. With your sopping hair and a shirt entirely too big for your small frame. It swallows you in its entirety—the shirt, and makes you look smaller than you already are. You've went over the day over and over in your mind. Trying to piece together things that puzzled you the most. Like how your father had spent his whole life in Denerim and surely should have taken note that his daughter's lover had since became their country's king. Perhaps why your cousin looked upon you as though you were an unwelcome outsider was the unopened letter he had sent you years ago stating that your father's memory was waning much quicker than they thought it would. Or perhaps it was that he had heard of Loghain hiring the Antivan Crows to kill her those many years ago and rightfully suspected that Zevran was he from the accent he bore alone.
He sits on the bed in the shabby, run down room they share. One leg stretched in front of him while the other was bent at the knee. Sharpening a single dagger before holding it to the dim lighting in examination of his handiwork. You pay him no mind as you cross the room. Keeping your eyes downcast does nothing to hide the fact that he was following your movement with his eyes. Paying careful mind to the way you still had yet to lower the walls that had come with the mention of Alistair's name earlier.
"Well, that went rather well," the sarcasm is thick on your tongue as you comb through your dark curls with your fingers.
Zevran doesn't speak. Simply setting the blade on the bedside table to his left along with the whetstone. You don't need to look to know that he's done so in an offering of peace. Giving you the space to simply lay beside him should you want to.
It feels so oddly foreign to be any sort of intimate now. Such as the way you are now as you move to lie beside him with your head in his lap. It isn't that you haven't been intimate with him before. Maker knows you certainly have. But there's something distasteful in the way your head rests in his lap only hours after your relationship with Alistair had been mentioned. And as much as you try to will away that gnawing feeling of guilt in the pit of your stomach—you cannot chase it away this time. For every time you close your eyes all you can see is the hazel of Alistair's eyes and the way his mouth slants into a lazy, lop-sided grin when you would say something complimentary.
It isn't any sort of a secret that the unceremonious end of your relationship with the now-king had not been due to any lack of feelings of either end. As a matter of fact, his absence had only made your broken heart ache more with each passing day. With every new break that came from Ferelden, you felt the swell of heartbreak and pride both at the success he has bestowed upon the land. You always knew Alistair would be a great king. Ever since he told you the truth of his birth when you had went to Redcliffe for the first time all those years ago. But now nible, careful fingers comb through your damp, chocolate curls. Fingers that are so vastly different from the uncertain strokes he had once used to rake through your hair. Fingers that are far more used to the use of a pair of daggers than that of a shield.
The way to Redcliffe is seamless. Paved by nothing but the steady sound of your footsteps and Zevran's occasional asking if you're alright when your eyes go milky with the madness of the song. You can feel it in your blood somewhere—the taint—how it makes you more monster than elf every day you fight it away. But the end is inevitable. For in the end it will always be just you and the madness that will overcome you one day. Leading you down, down, down into the very bowels of the Deep Roads where you will fight until you breathe your last. That is—unless you can find a mage that is willing to at the very least halt or slow your Calling and buy you more time. But the mages you have come across know nothing of an ancient magic that sings through you. And you are stuck with the only option you have being Morrigan. Wherever she may be.
Once you reach Redcliffe, you freeze in place. Thrown through memories of the first time you had come here. You close your eyes and see the endless waves of undead barreling down the mountain trail and up from the lake. And when you open them again they are gone and all that is left is the village you remember. Ten years has done the village well. As a matter of fact, it seems to be thriving better than ever before. People flood the streets, going to and from shops and the taverns up the hill. It warms your heart to see it doing so well.
Children run from place to place as their parents watch them from the sidelines. The sound of laughter rings loud and true making your chest swell with pride. If it weren't for you none of this would have been possible. The village of Redcliffe would have surely been overran by the undeead and ceased to exist. It is good that you stayed to help, as much as Morrigan disagreed with the very idea. But it would not be flourishing as it is without you and your help. That is something to be proud of and as you look up at the inn you are to be staying at—you squeeze Zevran's hand in yours.
Palms smoothing the skirt of a dress you have no business wearing , you tilt your head at your reflection in the mirror. It's a beautiful dress, of course. It just doesn't suit the person you have become. Or you have been your whole life, really. A deep, emerald green that brings out the color of your eyes, lined with thread of gold and accentuates both your waist and breasts. A dress meant for a lady that you certainly have never been in your life. Yet he looks at you as though you are the sun itself. A small smirk lifts the corners of his lips as he appraises you.
"Try not to look so uncomfortable, mi héroe," his voice is alight with laughter, "You look as beautiful as you always have."
"I look ridiculous," you scrunch your nose, "When did you even buy this?"
He offers no answer as he comes to stand beside you. Presses a kiss to the side of you head and places a hand on the small of your back. Sometimes you look at Zevran and wonder why he has chosen to continue walking beside you. It isn't a secret that your heart still mourns what you could have had with the now King of Ferelden or the future you could have had. You are a walking death sentence and while you both know this—he still will not leave you.
It is as you walk through the streets of Redcliffe that crowds begin to form. All of them whispering of the Hero that had fallen in battle mysteriously and how surely the woman walking with an Antivan Crow could not be her. Women look at you curiously while men stare with far too much appreciation. But it is a small group of children, no older than nine or ten, that come up to you in the middle of the road. Three girls and two boys in number. One girl with braids the same that Shianni used to wear.
You look at her and suddenly you are back in the alienage. You are running through the muddied streets holding the hand of the best friend you have ever known. Both of you small with wide smiles on your faces. Laughing as the sunsets and porch lights come on one by one. Lanterns hung out front of every house and apartment building in the alienage. Your papa calls for you by name, beckoning the both of you back to the house. But neither of you seem to care. You run around the giant tree planted in the very middle of the alienage and laugh loudly. What you wouldn't give to go back to those days again. She had grown into the very picture of headstrong and opinionated. With a voice so loud and strong it carried over the cries of a crowd. She was the face of justice and fairness for all of elven kind. While you grew to be angry and bitter. Hating the alienage and the shemlen pigs that oppressed your people just as much as she. But you held your tongue. Learning too young what it meant if your voice was too loud.
One boy walks up to you. Hands clasped behind his back. "Are you the Hero of Ferelden? My mama says she died after the Blight ended."
Your mouth opens only to close again. All you wish is to confirm that you are not the Hero they seek. But that would be a lie and something in you stops from continuing your well though lie. It's Zevran that walks forward. He drops gracefully to one knee with a soft smile.
"She is very much alive," he says, turning his head to smile up at you, "She is the Hero."
"Are you here for the Memorial?" It's the girl with Shianni's braids that comes forward.
You look to Zevran, suspicious. "Memorial?"
"Yeah! King Alistair has a memorial for Ostagar every year!" Another girl of the group laughs as Shianni's mirror links arms with her and begins to spin.
"No," you murmur, "I didn't know there was a memorial at all."
Though in a way, you are there for the memorial. You just didn't know it.
It's crowded in the castle. Filled with nobles and members of the Orelsian court you have no memory of. Though you have no memory of most Orlesians having a reason to visit Ferelden at all. But there are several of them in groups all clumped together throughout the halls. As you walk through the castle with Zevran in hand, you hear much of the same whispers as you had in the streets outside the castle walls. All of them regarding your appearance and how you are not dead as rumor had provided. You worked so hard to make sure that the rumor had spread all throughout Thedas and was believable enough. Only for it to be ruined by your return to Ferelden. A month is all it had taken for the rumor of your death to fall into exactly what it was—a rumor.
Every step makes you second guess your being here. An elf has no place here, you think. And while you know that Alistair has no elven servants, you can't help but think that most of the guests are thinking that is where you belong despite knowing precisely who you are. You're sure that if the room were to fall silent everyone could hear the thundering of your heartbeat. Zevran's thumb rubs slow, steady circles on your wrist. Something he found brings you comfort and soothes back when the Fifth Blight was still running rampant throughout the land. When you were so very unsure of yourself. And it works—mostly.
It would have worked fully. It really would have.
Had it not been for Alistair meeting your eyes from across the room.
Your vision tunnels. Throat goes dry and your sure your tongue has swollen to be twice it's size. Zevran says something beside you. If only you could hear what he was saying. And you're trying so very hard to hear him. To focus on his voice.
But nothing is working.
The corners of Alistair's mouth quirks in a near imperceptible smile. One that one might miss if they weren't paying attention. But you know him like the back of your hand. Have his mannerisms and quirks memorialized in your mind.
He bows.
Your knees buckle.
Everything goes black.