Chapter Text
It came without warning.
A slow crescendo of whispers and voices so beautiful it could only be described as a song. One that, no matter how hard you tried, you could not rid yourself of it. So you learn to endure, as you always have. You endured the harsh conditions of the alienage. Though the nightmares of the events prior to your escape—your Joining—still plague you. How your escape of the Arl mattered not when you found your cousin's corpse laying freshly bloodied in the foyer of the estate. Shianni would be proud of who you have become and all you accomplished. At least you hoped she would be. For you are unsure if you are particularly proud of all you have done.
Everything you have done in that time has been to honor her death. So that way, the cousin you deemed more of a sister—a best friend—did not die in vain. You have blood on your hands, it's true. Some more deserving than others. But none more deserving that the monsters who had ripped your fellow elves from the streets to do unspeakable things to them. Shianni was among them and you were too late to save her from the hands of greedy human pigs. Her memory lives on in you now.
Joining the Wardens was never your choice. Not truly. Your hand was forced when the Arl's son's lackeys came hunting you in the alienage. It was the only way you could escape what cruelty they had planned for you. So a Warden you became. Though no one warned you of what you would be up against. You'd heard whispers and rumors of what they did. How they grew in number and what purpose they served. But nothing could have prepared you for the nightmares or the searing pain that would follow the Joining. Though you found solace in your superior—Alistair.
What he didn't have in brawn he made up for in humor. A golden retriever in human form in every way. He was sweet and careful. He made you laugh when all you wanted to do was weep into the night. Before long his laugh was a song you never wanted to stop listening to. He cared not for the elven blood that made you who you are. Fought those who sought to cause you harm or called you "knife-ear." Alistair was a light at the end of the seemingly never ending tunnel that was your dark future. He taught you things about being a Warden you would have never known otherwise. And he wept on your shoulder when the darkspawn took the rest of the Wardens in Ferelden from you both.
He was of royal blood.
You knew then and there what you were to do. Maker permitted you both survived the fight against the archdemon. You planned to persuade him to take his rightful place upon the throne. Prepare him in all the ways you could. Then you would depart from your love and wish him all the best. For you could not rule beside him with your elven blood and background. Running far from Ferelden, hand in hand with another companion. An Antivan Crow.
Zevran did what he could. Kept you busy when he noticed you were starting to fall slack. Fall into a dark depression. You may be the Hero of Ferelden now, but what good was that when you never had the chance to have the happy ending you so deserved? Instead, you took your anger out on Crows that hunted Zevran after he departed from them. Let the blades your mother gave you sing across skin and scream with bloodshed. It was freeing. Liberating in a way you didn't know was possible.
But the Calling came swiftly.
The first time you heard it was just after another group of Crows had came for you and Zevran. Looking everywhere but where you should have been to try and find the source of the sound nearly got you killed. If weren't for Zevran's quick reflexes you would have been. Then where would that leave you? It meant you conceded to Morrigan's ritual for nothing. The entire purpose of that was not just for your life but Alistair's. Whichever one of you got the killing blow. And you refused to let it be him. Not with so much riding on him and how you had finally convinced him to marry Anora and take the throne. He was to be happy. He would make a great king. While you slipped into the shadows and managed to weave stories that you slayed the archdemon just for your death to come soon after anyways. You were a ghost in the streets of Thedas.
You were supposed to have another twenty or so years without the Calling coming for you. Plaguing your mind like the sweetest lullaby you have ever heard. Yet it came after only a decade since you ended the Blight.
Knuckles white, gripping the edge of a dingy sink—you stare at your reflection in the mirror that hangs above. You don't recognize yourself anymore. Fair skin now a ghostly white and what was once bright eyes the exact color of freshly mined emeralds now half sunken. Lined with dark circles from the sleep you lack. Can't sleep with the song playing in your mind. Keeping you awake long into the night. Your hair, once vibrant and full with curl, is now a dull and lifeless mousy brown. You are a shell of the Hero you are meant to be. Yet, Zevran tells you that you're just as beautiful as the day he first laid eyes on you.
"Mi amor, you're reflection isn't going to change," his voice whispers through the seedy room you share, "No matter how long you stare at it."
Your breathing is shallow. And you hardly feel the harsh sting of the glass breaking when your knuckles collide with it. Sending shards clattering to the dirty floor at your feet. You refuse to let the tears come as they typically do this time of night. All you want is to sleep. But even then the Calling will not let you go.
"It won't stop." Your voice is harsh, biting.
Hands come to rest on your waist. Warm fingers brushing your curls over one shoulder. "Do you expect it to? Truly?"
"No, I know it isn't going to stop. Not until I'm dead somewhere in the Deep Roads."
"Surely, you don't mean to go there when it is time?"
"It's where all Grey Wardens go when their Calling haunts them."
A fact that Alistair had once told you.
Zevran places a tender kiss on your shoulder. Barley even there. Or perhaps you're so far gone that you can hardly feel that anymore. He treats you as though you are made of porcelain instead of going mad.
"Is that where you wish to go, mi amor?"
"No."
"Then when the time comes, and the song is too much to handle—you tell me where you would like to go and I will take you there."
You hate the way your voice cracks when you murmur, "I don't want to die at all."