#yevren

It had been almost a week since they’d begun the procedure. Keeping him unconscious and under slow, sustained regeneration spell, administering the cure, raising the amount of the purifying ingredients with every dosage – while Arathras performed the blood-cleansing rituals every few hours.

Before they began, Yevren had barely remembered what Marra used to look like before Joining. Now that old image was resurfacing and though they’d never been friends, she couldn’t help but feel moved as she watched his old colours seep back.

What were Das’s old colours? She’d never known the old Dasahngaris. She’d caught glimpses of him on better days, faint echoes of a man she would love to have known. Should they succeed… Would she even recognize him if she saw him again? Would she like him more - or less? Would he still like her? She closed her eyes and sighed, cursing herself for a fool. The moment Dorian showed up, penitent and eager to make up for the lost time, Das would take him back. Yevren had been just a temporary consolation, a wall between Dasahngaris and solitude. He may have loved her - but probably not enough to choose her over Dorian Pavus. She could live with that - or so she tried to tell herself. 

“You need some rest,” Arathras’s voice came from the door, startling her from her ruminations. Yevren smiled at him, shaking her head. “I need to be here.” The elf sat next to her and gave her a long, questioning look. “I’ve been meaning to ask, ‘Ren… This—is a lot of trouble and a lot of secrecy.” She returned his gaze, waiting. He observed, rather than asked: “You’re not doing this for Marra, are you...” She averted her eyes. “Why not? Isn’t he one of us? And you know as well as I do that this research might yet prove useful to many others.” Arathras squinted at her, eyes full of doubt. “May well be, may be. But I know you, 'Ren. This is personal. And I may not be the only one noticing – and drawing conclusions.” Yevren resisted the urge to shoot him an angry glare. But her tense silence was probably all the confirmation Arathras needed. Was he right? Was the entire Soldier’s Peak abuzz with rumours now? The only notes on the Architect’s research outside Weisshaupt had been archived at Vigil’s Keep and she had to request a copy. Was Warden-Commander Laurent getting suspicious, too? What would the First do should he learn Das Davarris was alive - and cured? She pushed the thought back. There would be a time for those concerns - but it wasn’t now. “I’m too busy to worry about everyone’s mindfarts, Arathras," she snapped back. The pang of guilt at the somewhat hurt look from her friend made her deflate a bit. Andraste’s tits, he was just trying to warn her. “Sorry. I suppose I do need some rest after all.” “Take a walk, enjoy some fresh air – and get some sleep, ‘Ren.” he said. “I’ll take care of Silas here. If there’s any change, I’ll send for you.” “Very well,” she said, standing up. “Have it your way. But if anything happens, anything at all…” “You’ll be the first to know, don’t worry,” he finished for her and shooed her out of the door.

She barely registered her surroundings as she walked across the courtyard and to her quarters, responding mechanically to the greetings of people she passed by. And as the door of her room clicked closed behind her, all the strain and fatigue finally caught up with her. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. Her green eyes bloodshot and puffy behind the spectacles she seldom took off these days, her dark complexion several unhealthy shades of ashy and her black hair dull, greasy and in sore need of brushing and re-braiding. She looked exactly how she felt. She raised a hand to her hair and made a wry face when her fingertips met the unpleasant texture. Das used to love her hair. He’d always brush and braid it for her before bed. It had helped him train and retain dexterity in his prosthetic hand, or so he used to say. It had also soothed him - the intimacy and the repetition. Much like reciting the Benedictions while fingering prayer beads, it had become a ritual to him. There used to be a quiet reverence to it. ‘There,’ he’d say as he secured the end of the braid with a leather string. ‘All done.’ And he’d kiss her hair, wrap his arms around her and rest his chin on her shoulder. And it would feel like home. The memory would reduce her to a pitiful, sobbing mess - had she not been so tired. She crashed onto her bed, not even bothering to take her glasses or her boots off, and sleep engulfed her so fast she barely felt it when her back hit the mattress.   She still didn’t feel particularly rested when the loud banging on her door yanked her awake. Judging by the volume and the urgency in his voice, her assistant must have been at it for a while already. “Lady Yevren? Lady Yevren! Warden Marra! He’s awake!”

She rushed into the infirmary, slamming the door open – and nearly tripped when Marra’s eyes connected with hers. “Lady Yevren,” he said. After months of miserable wordlessness, his old voice sounded almost surreal. His face was still pale and skeletal, but the eyes looking at her were hazelnut brown and the whites were back to their natural colour. No trace of the taint, no glimmer of that eerie blighted light.

It was an awkward conversation, as she sat on his bed, took his pulse and performed a thorough check-up, while she explained, best as she could, what was going on. “Your blood no longer carries the taint, which is good. The bad news is that your body’s sustenance and defence mechanisms are all shut off because the taint performed those functions for so long. It’s weakened your circulation system and done a lot of damage to several important organs. Your metabolism--” She paused. Marra was just staring at her, confused and dazed, the brown eyes focusing on the movement of her lips - but showing little sign of grasping the meaning behind her words. “Silas?” “Go easy on him, ‘Ren,” Arathras said. He turned to Marra and explained: “The Blight kept you going even as it was eating you up. Your body sustained a lot of damage it needs to recover from. And it needs to relearn how to function properly again. Heal - and regenerate. It’s gonna take a lot of time. And you’ll have to be a good patient, Silas. Understood?”

Over the next few days, Arathras discontinued the blood rituals and Yevren stopped giving Marra his cure. She couldn’t quite shake off the fear of a relapse, a descent back into the darkness and the Song. But that didn’t happen. Silas’s condition kept improving, slowly but steadily. On the fifth day, he seemed finally strong enough to stomach some solid food. He tasted his first bread in months - and he broke into tears over it, like a veteran catching the first glimpse of his old home after years of warring abroad. That didn’t mean Silas Marra’s struggle was over. The Blight had taken a heavy toll on him and he was never going to fully recover. But with some luck and discipline, he still had some years left in him.

And that was what she intended to write in her report for Dorian when she finally sat down to compose the first draft some two weeks after Marra’s awakening.

It should have been simple enough. Sum up her findings, give a full report on Marra’s initial condition, his recovery and his current state, include Arathras’s notes on the regenerative spells he used and the blood cleansing ritual - and her own charts and instructions on how to tweak the potion and adjust the dosages. Thank Dorian for all his help and wish him good luck. And send it all straight to Llomerryn.

But it wasn’t easy at all and she couldn’t get past the initial 'Dear Dorian’.

Dasahngaris had left a lot of loose ends. His supposed death allowed him an escape from many things. The First Warden’s punishment, the impending apocalypse, his many enemies and his many friends – and difficult confessions and decisions concerning Dorian Pavus and Yevren herself. His escape had come at a price, one that he was probably willing to pay - but Yevren loved him too much to let him. And now that Das’s condition turned out to be curable, all those loose ends and unresolved debts would inevitably start catching up with him. It meant, among other things, that he’d have to face those decisions he’d cheated his way out of. Whether to remain in Rivain - or return and fight alongside his old friends and allies. Whether to back up Divine Victoria’s Inquisition - or denounce it. Whether to join his elven brethren - or keep playing the peacemaker. He would also have to decide between Dorian and her, of course.

Feeling like she was about to sign her own death sentence, she dipped the quill in ink and resumed writing:

Silas Marra has awakened. His taint is gone – and he’s on his way to some degree of recovery. While it is too early to draw any definitive conclusions and the long-term effects of his past condition are yet to be determined and documented, I believe there’s good cause for optimism…

She kept writing and editing her report late into the night, trying not to think too much about Das, about how much she missed him, how much she ached for him and how she would never see him again; pushing away the dark, heavy thoughts about what this new-found hope would mean for him – and for her. What it would mean for them.

…

There was one last journal lying in front of Dorian on Das’s old desk. This one was different. Unlike all the others, it wasn’t Rivaini made. It looked like something you’d get in Ferelden. It was much worse for wear, too, with its covers scratched and stained with old blood and grime. Dorian stared at it, the apprehension a dull ache behind his eyes… His hand felt heavy as he reached for it. It was dated not long after Das had disappeared – or died, as the rest of Thedas still believed – and filled with portraits and sketches of old familiar places and people. Dorian recognized the gates of Wycome. The proud face of Ranna Lavellan, one of the clan’s young Keepers.   A smile spread across his face when he turned a page and beheld Varric’s smirk. A few unfamiliar faces later and Sera grinned at him from the yellowed page.

Almost a hundred pages worth of portraits with a still life or a scenery here and there, glimpses of the South, of Skyhold, Wycome, Kirkwall and the Soldier’s Peak and all the people who inhabited those chapters of Das’s life – the Inquisition agents and advisors, the Lavellans, the Wardens – the woman Dorian recognized as Das’s mother, because he had seen her sketches before… A compendium of Das’s griefs and losses. Many pages had been torn out. Of those pages that remained, none bore his own likeness. His own face wasn’t there.

He gulped down the lump that formed in his throat as he turned the last page. A folded piece of paper fell out of the journal and onto his lap. A draft of a letter. Most of it illegible, written in a hasty hand, every other word or sentence blotted out with a criss-cross of angry lines, the margins full of fingerprints – some of it old faded ink, some of it blood. The date on it barely a week after they’d last spoken – and his own name on top of the page. 'Dear Dorian, …’

He squeezed his eyes shut and drew a deep breath. It took a few beats and all his courage to peel his eyes open and read the few isolated sentences that peeked through the tangled mess of ink that covered the rest of the page.

'Dear Dorian,

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Last time we spoke you joked I was your retirement plan. Neither of us laughed because you were not joking – and you know that as well as I do. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx I love you with every drop of blood in my veins and I’ll love you on my deathbed. But I’ve found someone xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx   xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Yevren is here. You are not. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Das.

PS: Enclosed with the letter should be my sending crystal.’

Dorian’s vision began to swim as he felt a bitter, broken chuckle bubble up his throat and break into a sob, the first of many.