#lyrium-lion

“Thank you, Merrill. For everything.” He saw something in that energetic woman that reminded him so much of… her.

“No, no, thank you, Warden. I’m glad to have someone to speak about her with. She was like a sister to me.” She looked at the floor with a solemn expression.”If- when you see her again, tell her I keep her close to my heart.”

She waved her hand gently goodbye, and Alistair stepped out onto the rough cobblestones paving the Alienage. He turned away and took a moment to observe the little shrines decorating the tree in the center of the small courtyard. Candles littered the area in deliberate clusters; some were lit, but many had been burned so many times, the wax was simply a pool on the pavement; the wick long gone.

She would have liked this, he thought. He plucked a moonflower from one of Merrill’s planters and crouched to set it gingerly at the base of the great tree. Alistair felt as though he had changed much since he first joined the Grey Wardens. Something like this; a little gathering of elven shrines, would have meant little to him. He would have barely glanced at such a thing; Alienages were a thing meant to be ignored by humans. They were an ink stain on the great white silk of human conquest.

What a joke, he chuckled a bit. We live in our cosy cabins and drink ale every evening while these people scrape by, yet they still are able to find beauty in this ugliness we call civil.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The smell of illness and decay filled his nostrils at first, but he could also smell the flowers, the earth, the smoke rising from the candles surrounding him. But there was something else… lavender? With a hint of… brandy?

Alistair felt a cold sensation at his neck and his eyes flew open, his hand to his blade. A dagger was held at his throat, just barely grazing the sensitive flesh there. His eyes trailed down the blade to see a set of slender fingers grasping the hilt with the grip of a seasoned hunter.

“Didn’t take you for a Mythal kind of guy, Alistair.” The blade receded from his neck, and Alistair stood up to face his “attacker.”

“Considering my luck? I’ll need all the help I can get.” He chuckled and scanned his old companion. “Zevran, are those… wrinkles on your forehead? Looks like I might not be the only one in need of some help from the Maker.”

“Alistair, I still have a blade in my hand. Might want to redirect this conversation before you become very intimate with it.” The tan elf smirked and pulled Alistair into a quick hug, clapping him on the back.

“How long has it been?” The warden questioned, brow furrowing.

“Too long, my friend. Years? Ever since the end of the Blight…” Zevran’s mouth curved into a frown, his hand raising up to pick at a braid in his yellow hair.

“How-” Alistair couldn’t finish his question before Zevran yanked him behind a merchant’s stand and cupped a hand over his mouth. The lithe elf removed his hand from Alistair’s face and brought his index finger to his lips. He nodded toward a small group of men walking past the tree; their eyes scanning the area.

The two of them remained silent and went unnoticed by the strange men, who eventually moved on towards the slums.

“Okay, please tell me you haven’t slept with any important daughters or something.” Alistair whispered while Zevran stood up from behind the cart.

“No, actually. Unless that lovely woman in the Tavern the other night counted for something.” He raised his eyebrows in consideration. “Nevermind that. When I saw you were here, I figured it was most definitely fate we both happened to be in the same little corner of the world! Is there a place we can go which is a little more… private? I crave some nostalgia this evening.” Zevran asked, gripping Alistair’s shoulder firmly.

“Oh god, I hope this isn’t going to turn into another one of those bizarre nostalgia moments because I’m pretty sure I am still itching from the nostalgic experience we had on that nasty pirate woman’s boat years back. I will not make that mistake twice, Zevran, mark my words.” Alistair pointed his finger at the elf and squinted his eyes in disapproval.

“No, no, we’ll have none of that if you do not wish it, unless this is some kind of reverse psychology?” The Antivan’s eyes crinkled in a smile and he reassured Alistair he simply wanted to chat.

“I have a room down in that tavern… The Hanged Man? It’s a little… unkempt… but it’s private. Seems like you’ve always brought trouble with you wherever you end up.” Alistair brushed some dirt from his chestplate and led the way to the tavern, though Zevran continued to insist they use the side roads and alleyways.

The moonlight pooled in the streets as they trekked silently across the uneven pavement. So many questions to ask… so many answers better left unheard.

  After the defeat of the Archdemon, the Hero of Ferelden became manic. Nights became shorter and shorter for her until sleep was something that only happened for her when her body simply couldn’t handle it anymore. When the festivals and events ended, she didn’t have to fake a smile anymore. The Blight was over for the people of Ferelden, but for a Grey Warden, it never ends. She was overtaken by the rain cloud looming over her head. The Calling. Alistair soon found himself waking up in an empty bed; the same bed they once shared so many secrets, so many gentle touches, so many passionate embraces in.

The woman he had once confided in had become so wracked with dread was consumed by her determination to cure the Calling. Every Grey Warden has dreams of the Blight from time to time, but it was easy to understand her anxiety. What if that was the dream which spurred the madness? What if he was having the same dream while resting beside her?

So many questions, yet no answer. So she left. One day, Alistair walked through her office to their bedroom, and no trace of her was left. Every piece of armor, every letter, even her precious Mabari had vanished without a trace. Everything except a small note tacked to the headboard.

“I will find a cure to this madness.” Penned in her clumsy handwriting.

  Alistair called for a meeting that night with a few Wardens he and the Hero had turned together, and Zevran. They couldn’t come up with any possible places that she could have gone off to in search of the cure.

“I will track her.” Zevran spoke up after they all went silent.

“But-” Alistair was cut off by Zevran’s steady voice.

“The Wardens have no use for an assassin right now. Alistair, you can not leave your people right now. I can. I will find her. I will find her.”

  And, now, years later, Zevran was walking by his side, his beloved nowhere in sight.

  They arrived at the tavern and climbed the stairs to Alistair’s rented room. The Warden opened the door and promptly flopped back onto the firm mattress. He heard Zevran rustling through the chests on the far side of the room.

“Don’t you have anything stronger than ale around here? This is pathetic, even for you, my friend.” He raised a bottle of ale and looked at it with contempt.

“There’s a bottle of the Antivan stuff in my pack, though the Antivans are really rather unskilled at producing quality liquor.” Alistair joked, and Zevran rolled his eyes, pulling the long, slender bottle from the bag haphazardly thrown in the corner.

“Do you have any glasses, or are we to do this like barbarians?” The elf grasped the bottle by the neck and put a hand on his hip.

“Zevran, does this look like the kind of room rental that comes with complimentary glasses? No. Because the last tenant probably stole them all. Or smashed them over a head of two. This place terrifies me.” The warden rubbed his eye and reached for the bottle. Zevran handed it over after uncorking it, and Alistair took a big gulp of the stuff. It burned as it trailed down his throat. But he didn’t mind the pain.

They drank for a while and reminisced about the old days, when they first traveled together.

“And then, after you left to tie the Mabari back up, that’s when Morrigan and I managed to fit that entire nug litter in your tent!” Zevran grasped his stomach as he laughed so hard, a tear rolled down his cheek.

“Oh, yes, it was absolutely hilarious when I returned and a baby nug had my smallclothes wrapped around its head while its mother proceeded to make aggressive advances toward me.” Alistair squinted at the other man and took another sip of the strong liquor.

“Ah, I say we play a round of Wicked Grace! I believe I have a deck in my pack…” Zevran searched through his bag excitedly. “Aha! You remember how to play?”

Alistair nodded, but Zevran still explained the rules to him, which he was secretly grateful for.

They played several hands, but Zevran beat Alistair each and every time.

“You know, you’re not exactly a modest winner, Zevran.” Alistair said, slightly irritated as Zevran did a small victory dance as he set down yet another matching hand.

“And you are an incredibly sore loser, Alistair.” Zevran winked at him and began to cut the deck for another round. “You know, this reminds me of back when we were in Denerim, before the whole Loghain incident?”

“If you are about to bring up that pirate woman again…” Alistair waved his hand at the blonde elf and shuddered.

“No, well, yes, but that’s not what I was referring to. Though why you would want to suppress that memory, I have no clue. I meant before that, when our Hero thought it would be a  good idea to drag us to that brothel? The Pearl? She was so determined to beat Isabela at this damned card game, but, bless her, she absolutely could not grasp the concept of the game! The only way you can win Wicked Grace is to be the better cheater. But the poor woman played round after round, playing like a saint! But damned if she didn’t finally beat Isabela with an honest hand.” Zevran chuckled and shook his head.

“She really did have that way about her… So determined to do the right thing, no matter the cost.” Alistair stared absentmindedly at a knot in the floorboard beneath him.

“Alistair… I-” The elf searched for words, but there were none.

“I can’t believe how she left. No goodbyes, no notice; nothing.”

“I did find her, Alistair. Not long after I left the compound.” Zevran fiddled with a buckle on his shirt. The warden straightened and looked the Antivan in the eyes. “She loves you, Alistair. She spoke of you fondly every free moment she had. I was with her until very recently.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Alistair raised his voice and the card he held in his hand crumpled as his hand formed a fist around it.

“Listen… she is different now, Alistair. She’s got a one-track mind. To her, she can’t come back to see you . She can’t bear to face you without the cure in her hand. It’s… painful for her. All these years, we were constantly travelling to new places in search of some herb or some distant apostate living deep in the mountainside.” Zevran shifted to cross his legs under him on the cold floor.

“There is no cure…” Alistair shook his head solemnly. He rested his head back against the stiff mattress and looked at the cracked ceiling. “I have the dreams now, Zevran. I thought they were the usual kind, but… they are so vivid. It’s as if I can feel like breath of the Archdemon brushing across the back of my neck; feel its heartbeat vibrating the very bones of my body.” The warden raised his hand toward the ceiling and inspected it. “Their frequency increases with each passing month. I’ve only got so much time before I can no longer fight it.” He sat up and looked the elf in the eyes. “I’ve only got so much time.”

Zevran shifted over so that he was side by side with the blonde man. He placed a hand over Alistair’s and squeezed tightly.

“You loved her, too, didn’t you?” Alistair asked, staring blankly ahead.

“Yes.” The elf looked out the window at the night sky; the stars twinkling like an ocean of diamonds. The full moon gleamed in the darkness, illuminating the dark little room.

  “How could she leave? She knew the cost of becoming a Grey Warden. I know she must be having… the dreams. We’re going to die. We’re going to die, and I haven’t even seen her smile in 4 years. I keep… holding this candle for her… but the Taint… it’s consumed her, hasn’t it?” A tear rolled down the brave warden’s cheek he didn’t bother to wipe away.

“Alistair, I’m sure…. I’m sure she’ll find it. You’ll be together again.” Zevran’s hand slipped under the Warden’s and their fingers effortlessly intertwined.

“You… you got to see her again. She loves you too, you know? Maybe not in the way you’d like, but… she cares a great deal for you. She cared about everyone so much. It’s incredible her little heart could hold so much love for others.” Alistair used his other hand to wipe at the tears, but they were flowing freely now, trickling onto the floor like little raindrops.

Zevran released Alistair’s hand and  turned to face the broken man, placing his hands on both sides of his face, looking directly into those clear eyes of his.

“Alistair Theirin, everyone always speaks of how brave the Hero of Ferelden was, but who was right there behind her, supporting her the whole way? It certainly wasn’t her Mabari.” Zevran smiled lightly as tears began to stain his cheeks. “You are the bravest man I have ever known.”

Faster than the spark of a match struck across a stone, Alistair crashed his mouth against the elf’s soft lips. Zevran’s hands slipped from the man’s cheeks down to his shoulders as Alistair’s strong fingers gently grasped the smaller man’s waist. The taste of tears mingled with the passion of their tongues meeting through parted lips; teeth grazing the soft flesh as the two men kissed without inhibition. Each man hungered for the other; desired someone to share warmth with once again.

After what felt like a lifetime, Zevran pulled away and pressed his forehead against the other’s.

“Everything will work itself out. You survived miraculously once, didn’t you?” Zevran smiled and planted a kiss on the blonde warden’s cheek. Alistair closed his eyes as a final set of teardrops released themselves onto his now flushed cheeks.

The assassin turned to rest his head against Alistair’s muscular shoulder, and, to his surprise, the Grey Warden softly combed through the elf’s long blonde hair with his fingers.

“Do you remember, all that time ago, when I said I wanted one of those ink drawings like the ones you have?” He asked, holding onto Zevran’s hand, flipping it over tenderly to inspect his sun-kissed skin.

“Ah yes… You weren’t too fond of the idea, if I am remembering this correctly?” The elf smirked a bit, but clasped his hand gently around Alistair’s.

“I think I have changed my mind. After… all this… is over. I want you to give me one.”

“But what design will you choose?” Zevran asked, his voice barely over a whisper.

“Something little… over my heart. A Dalish symbol.” Alistair released Zevran’s hand and pointed to where he wanted the tattoo on the elf’s slender chest.

“No offense… but it might be a little odd to have something Dalish tattooed on a human.” The assassin stated, turning his head up to look in the warden’s eyes. A smile spread across Alistair’s features as he put his arm behind his head to rub his neck.

“It’s not so odd if both of the people dearest to me, the people who picked me up when I was down, are elves.”

The two of them remained like that for a while in the quiet; the only sound being that of two hearts beating; four lungs breathing.

Alistair awoke when the sunlight poured through the little window by his bed, the light filling the entire room with an orange glow. Zevran was nowhere to be found, but the window was ever so slightly ajar, and on the sill lay a small envelope. The blonde warden opened it to find a note and something weighty wrapped in a scrap of silk. He read the note first.

Alistair, once I finish my business in Kirkwall, I plan to return to our Hero’s side. I will help her find the cure. I promise you that. She will come home to you.

Under that was a tidy drawing of a small, intricate knot. Zevran had captioned it,

“Courage.”

I look forward to our tattoo date. I hope you aren’t still uncomfortable with that rosewater massage ritual. I assure you, it really is mandatory for any professional tattoo preparation.

Alistair neatly folded the note back up and placed it in the envelope. He turned to the small silk-wrapped parcel and gently unwound the fabric. In it lay a delicate looking amulet. He knew exactly who it belonged to. A lifeward amulet he had given her a long time ago when he told her not to give up.