A story told by an elderly healer from the Brecilian forest who once tended to the Wardens.
“They weren’t speaking, that was the first thing I noticed. He had a wound, shallow, just beneath the ribs... too much talking that one, not enough dodging. She was the one stitching him. He watched her hands, the way her hair furrowed out of the braid, didn’t make a sound. Her hands shook the entire time and his jaw was clenched like he was holding something back with his teeth. I offered to finish for her but she just shook her head 'he's my burden' to which he smiled at. When it was done, she left without a word, fingers still shaking, two steps in place of one and only then, did he exhale. Just one breath. ‘She should have let me die. But she never does.’ I didn’t ask what he meant. Some things are meant to be sewn in silence.”.
Famous verse sung in tearful taverns across the Waking Sea:
They say she almost died in Denerim.
That he kissed her blood and begged the sky.
“Just let her stay. Just one more day.”
And the sky did.
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“Zevran told me once that loving me was the only thing he ever did right,” she said, her voice soft. “And I believe him. Because loving him is the only thing that’s ever made me feel whole.”
Naenia stood at the door of their little room, hair undone from its ribbon, armor off, wrapped in an old shawl that belonged to her mother. It made her smaller than she truly was. It softened her in a way the Warden mantle rarely allowed. She looked like a client walking into an assassin’s den, not a woman returning to her lover and Zevran felt it all at once.
He had been sharpening one of his blades at the bedside, a ritual of hands more than thought, when she entered.
“Ah,” he murmured, voice gentler than lace. “Mi alma mia, close the door.” She did, quietly, too softly.
“I need…” She swallowed. “Zev. I need you to write something for me.”
He crossed the room, hands stretched out before he could process the movement in his legs. Fear didn’t often touch him but something cold slipped its ice under his ribs.
“What something?” he asked, cupping her cheek. His thumb brushed a tear before it fell. “If it is a request for new jewelry, I will be very offended you came to me with such a face.”
She laughed, a ghost of sound, then the laugh folded into a sob she held in her chest.
“Not jewels,” she whispered, eyes closing. “A contract.”
The Crow in him understood instantly, held firm. The man in him, her’s, shattered. He held her face between his palms. “Naenia…”
“The Calling will come,” she said, somehow level despite the tremor in her voice. “Maybe in ten years. Maybe in two. But I want it written now, while I can still write my name without shaking. While I can still choose.”
Her knees gave and caught her before the floor could, lowering them both onto the rug, and her forehead pressed to his chest, hands curled in his shirt like a she were clinging to the edge of a cliff. “You’re the only one I trust. I want it to be you when the time comes.”
Zevran closed his eyes and the tears fell hot and steady, silent, constant, impossible to stop. He had cried before but it always felt like relief, something for the body to do, this— this felt like ruin you had to choke on.
“Mi vida,” he breathed into her hair, a humorless laugh cracking open his chest. “You ask me to carve out my own heart.”
“But you would do it,” she whispered. “And I would go knowing I was safe at the end.”
“Yes,” he rasped. “If that is what you ask of me… but, listen to me.” His voice steadied, as his hands moved to cup her face. “I will draft this contract for you.” She nodded. “And you will agree to my condition.” He continued as he brushed back her hair.
“What condition?”
“If you go…” he leaned into her, holding her face as he brushed his lips across hers. “I go.”
“No—“
“You think I will stay here? Waiting to die? Eating breakfast alone? Waking to an empty pillow? No. No, no, no. If I give you your final mercy, Naenia, then you will grant me mine. I walk with you. I leave with you. I follow you into whatever waits. I will not let you step into that darkness alone.”
“Zevran, no—”
“It’s simple.” His hands found hers, threading their fingers together, grounding them both. “This is the price of my hand. If you ask me to end your life, then you can at least accept that mind ends there.”
She opened her mouth to argue, he saw it, the brave swell in her chest but something in her collapsed instead and the sobs crawled out of her chest.
She understood.
“You can’t just tie your life to mine,” she whispered, forehead pressing to his. “You can’t— you shouldn’t.”
“I must.” He smiled through the tears, soft as dawn. “I have. I am a selfish man, mi cielo. I refuse to live in a world where you do not.”
“I— I accept,” she sobbed as she trembled in his hands.
He kissed her, slow, trembling, full of grief and devotion and defiance before reaching for his bags. He pulled out parchment, the ink he used for the highest contracts, the little knife for signing blood. He sat beside her at the low table, knees touching hers, tears still falling unashamedly as he wrote every clause with hands that shook but never faltered, and when they signed their name, they did so hand in hand. When her name shone there in black ink, he set the quill down, pressed his forehead to hers again, and breathed her in like a man trying to memorize the moon.
“If the world is kind,” he murmured, voice a prayer, “we burn this contract together one day, laughing at our younger foolishness.”
“And if it isn’t?” she whispered.
He kissed her knuckles, one by one. “Then I walk you home,” he said, “and you wait for me at the door.”
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~Neria, Naenia, Wynnie, Daianira, Zevran, Morian (Rian), Alec and Leon~
(Art by @faeturtle and I’m still crying)
The lighthouse was meant to hold hearts like this, that’s what came to mind when Daianira stared over the open wounds left by the dragons. A place for grief to have space. Treviso had burned, and what little they could do, wasn’t enough to save their home. Their island home was ash, their garden devoured, their house they built and Shianni…
Now, in the aftermath, with Alec in recovery from his Joining, his face pale but breath steady, the family had gathered in the lighthouse like survivors clinging to driftwood. The air reeked of poultices, salt, and sorrow. And Daianira once the torch, the bold one, the one with the plan, sat against the wall, her arms around her knees, unable to look at Zevran. She had failed, she didn’t find a cure, instead she brought the Blight home.
And still, her mother smiled, she braided Wynnie’s curls, tended Rian’s scuffed knees, kissed Alec’s forehead, whispered to Neria when she held in her cries. Naenia had always borne the weight of a world she never asked for.
Zevran watched and didn’t say much. Not to Daia, not since the last argument, the one where she said too much and he said too little. He kept to corners now, afraid she would tell him to leave.They were all like glass, cracked in too many places, only the shape of themselves.
Then, Leon, sweet, strange, curious Leon, opened a tube with a triumphant grin. “I managed to save it,” he said.
It was that portrait, now open on the library’s table. The one Zevran had insisted on, swearing it would “immortalize our madness.”
They all stared.
“That’s the one where I moved too much,” Wynnie whispered.
“You all did,” Zevran said, the smile leaking out of his voice. Zevran stepped closer to Daia, slowly as to not scare her away.“You remember what I said, Daianira? When the artist complained?” His hand brushed the edge of the parchment.
She nodded, voice rough. “You said if he wanted stillness, he should’ve painted corpses.”
“And I meant it.” His voice, gentle and soothing. “We lived. We live. That is the victory.”
“Oh. Hello.” The voice was soft when it reached her ears. She trembled, hands outstretched, static crackling at her fingertips.
“Oh, no, it’s alright.” The feminine voice dipped lower, soothing. Blood streaked her skin but her eyes held warmth. The small elf hesitated, then slowly lowered her hands as the older elf extended her hand with a smile. They watched eachother closely, the kindness in the woman’s eyes unwavering as she gently pulled the girl into her arms, cradling her as if she were a fragile flower she had stumbled upon and couldn’t do without.
“It’s alright now, little one,” the woman whispered, brushing a stray curl from the girl’s brow. “I’m Naenia.” She turned them away from the corpses that had once surrounded the child. Naenia glanced at Zevran, who waited by the door, his gaze steady, his presence a calm amidst the storm.
“I see you’ve picked up a stray?” His voice was light as he basked in the bloodlust.
“What’s your name?” Naenia asked gently, looking down at the child who now rested against her.
“I don’t have one,” the girl replied, her voice surprisingly strong for someone small and bones. The words struck Naenia’s chest, leaving an ache she couldn’t ignore and she met Zevran’s eyes, worry written over her face.
“Then we shall choose one,” Zevran said softly, his tone inviting. “How does that sound, little mage?” The girl looked up at him, curiosity shining in her dark eyes. His long, blonde hair was braided with flowers, a gentle contrast to the blood that still clung to him. “I am Zevran.”
Zevran… This is the Zevran the crows had spoken so much about?
But here he was, with flowers in his hair and a smile. She studied him, wondering where these two bloodstained elves had come from and why their presence felt so different from the darkness she had known.
Zevran glanced at the lifeless forms she left behind, then back at the child. Her eyes like topaz met his, hair long and matted, tinged with a red that made him wonder if it was blood or simply the color. He looked at Naenia who wore a content smile on her face, the look of a mother.
It’s as if she gave birth to her.
“Daianira,” Zevran declared, as if uncovering a hidden truth. He bowed, a smile breaking across his face as he offered the name like a gift. Naenia looked back down at the child, a soft smile curving her lips as she rocked her gently.
“Well?” she asked. Daianira nodded shyly, hiding her face in her hair, a bashful smile playing on her lips. Naenia carried her out, Zevran guiding them with a hand at the small of her back, placing a kiss to Naenia cheek as Daianira’s eyes fluttered closed, exhaustion overcoming her, comforted by the new name and the warmth of their embrace.Naenia held her close, resting her head against the child’s as they stepped carefully over the bodies that littered the ground. The massacre behind them faded, as Daianira found comfort in two assassins.
