#zevran-theblackshadow

Send a 👫and I’ll write four ALL the headcanons I have about our muse’s relationship

Cassandra once gave Zevran an unintended and entirely involuntary haircut; he decided that creeping up on her to surprise her from behind was a good idea, and as his footsteps were soundless enough to not alert her to his presence until he was in very close vicinity to her, she decided that drawing her sword and swinging it overhead and around towards him faster than she could think, was an appropriate response. Thankfully, his dexterity outmatched hers, and only the locks on one side of his face fell victim.

The Seeker keeps a list of ‘favourites’ in an old book on her desk, for grounding after vivid night terrors. Zevran makes up a large portion of the list; the way his mouth curves when he’s up to no good—or up to what she’d refer to as very good (because smutty descriptions of his very good actions are Varric’s expertise, not hers), his accent, the way he traces her numerous scars, his embrace—and those are only a few of the important key notes on her list.

Despite the braided crown around her head, Cassandra had never really learned how to braid someone else’s hair until she became a mother. Justinia wanted “battle braids just like the one her mother had”, but because she could hardly sit still long enough for the Seeker to improve her braiding skills, Cassandra would practice on Zevran until it became a running joke between them and a challenge to make the most absurdly elaborate braids on him. True works of art.

On the day of their wedding, as the ultimate sign of her trust, Cassandra lays down her sword and presents it to Zevran for safekeeping. The blood of a warrior will always course through her veins, but symbolically, she lets her guard down for him, wholly and indefinitely.

The First Rose

The Second Rose

The Third Rose

The Fourth Rose

The Fifth Rose

The Sixth Rose

@disgustcdnoisc

Nimble fingers twisted the vine to curl towards the stairway, a lone petal detaching from its bud and swaying to the floor. Soft filtered light spilled through the overhead window and painted caramel skin of the elf in a dreamy light as if he were but a statue carved from the brilliant mind of one who could see beauty in a block of marble. True that the corners of his eyes had creases like a crow’s claw, and the dimples upon his cheek seemed to grow deeper, but these days he was a matured sort of handsome, or so the elf liked to tell himself

The floorboards creaked with heavy, sleep-laden steps. He didn’t bother to see who the noise might belong to.

“Good morning, patatino,” Zevran greeted his son, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips when the boy sighed. “I made your favorite breakfast. A bit cannibalistic, no, considering you are a little potato yourself.”

“Father,” Rinnalon groaned before letting out a long yawn. “It’s too early for your jests. And I hate when you call me that.” He must have stayed up late reviewing his scrolls again. 

Turning towards the russet-haired boy, the elf sent him a quizzical look. “Father? Are we at a formal ceremony? I haven’t even brought out my good armor!  Whatever happened to  Babbo, hmm?”

“I’m not a child anymore,” the boy said, crossing his arms over his chest, his lips settling in a familiar frown. My, the elf thought, noting the way his son’s brows seemed to dip the same way his mother’s did when given unpleasant news, I wonder if Cassandra has been teaching him the art of glowering? All he needs is to master a disgusted noise and the training shall be complete.

“True. You are a young man now, Rin, but you shall always be my little patatino. Was it not yesterday when I would wake up to you and your sister jumping on my bed screaming ‘Babbo, Babbo!?’” He reminisced. The elf pressed a palm dramatically over his heart, as if his son had pierced him with a poisoned arrow and the wound had sunk deep, deep into his chest. “I am a poor man now, for my son to deny his father a simple pleasure.”

Rinnalon flushed and stared down at the wooden floorboards, his tense shoulders seeming to settle a bit. He nudged the white petal that had fallen nearby with the edge of his big toe. After a momentary silence, Zevran returned to decorating the stairwell, figuring his son would lose interest. He was surprised when the boy spoke up once more.

“Why is it always white?”

“Hmm?”

“The roses,” Rinnalon began, his voice faltering slightly. “You choose the same ones every year. They’re always white.”

The question earned a bittersweet smile. Zevran added one more rose before turning to sit upon the last step. He gestured for Rin to join him. The boy sat down, hugging his knees to his chest and staring expectantly up at his father. How peculiar it was to see a mirror of his own honey wine hues staring back at him, somber and thoughtful. Rinnalon had always been a kind boy with a quiet disposition, his nose buried deep in books, yet there was passion behind his eyes only those who took the time to know him might see. Justinia had his sharp wit and her mother’s commanding presence, while Rin carried the dreamy romantic that lived in both of them.

“Today is a special day for your mother and I.” Zevran began. “I suppose it is a day that is important for most lovers, being Valentine’s Day, but the meaning is...different for us than others.”

He reached over and tenderly cupped his chin, admiring his son’s Nevarran features. What a precious boy, to take after his mother so. “You remember what I told you and your sister about your names?”

Rinnalon nodded in response. “Yes.”

“And what did I say, patatino?”

“That they were special names,” Rin began, and Zevran could see pride swelling as the boy spoke. “That our names carried memories with them.”

“Yes, that is correct. Justinia Antonia and Rinnalon Regalyan,” the elf stated, his ‘r’s rolling with an Antivan tongue. He sighed and released Rin’s chin, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “And your first name has a special meaning for me, my love.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Truly. Long, long ago there was….someone rather special to me.” 

He hesitated, before deciding that it was time for the boy to learn the importance of his name. In truth, Zevran rarely, if ever, mentioned anything about his past in front of the children. For all they knew, he’d lived in Antiva most of his life but left to find a new adventure, stumbling upon the Hero of Ferelden and, from there, offering his services to the Inquisition. He could not bear the thought of his children knowing of the suffering he’d endured. During his youth, he’d viewed his training as a sort ‘rite of passage’, something to be proud of, but now that he was a father, now that he had little ones past the age of his first kill...no, they need not know. Perhaps someday, but today he would keep the darkness of his past tucked far away.

“She was, much like your mother, a force to be reckoned with,” Zevran stated, chuckling softly. “She would never back down from a challenge, charging head first into whatever danger might await. I cannot tell you the number of times I almost lost my head chasing after that reckless woman. But it was what drew me to her, after all.” He sighed, hanging his head. “Fiercely devoted to her cause, my Rinna. She would have changed Antiva for the better.”

Rinnalon had been leaning closer and closer as his father spoke, his gaze filled with all sorts of questions. “What happened to her?”

“Ah….well….” Zevran crumpled into himself at the question, seeming small, for the first time in Rin’s life. But the elf recovered quickly and turned his gaze back towards his son.

“At the time, we were both pawns to a game neither of us realized we were participating in. I was deceived, and the cost of my foolishness was her life.” The elf plucked at one of the roses, pulling it free from its stem. He held the rose in the light, admiring the faint tones of yellow. Scattered veins ran across each petal, like blood trails spilling across an even surface

“ I spent many years lost. It was not until I met your mother that I learned to forgive myself. Her acceptance soothed me, her love healed me.” Cupping the lone rose in his palm, Zevran brought the flower to his face, the petals soft like velvet. He took in the scent and Cassandra immediately flooded his vision. “Mama is a hero in many ways. She is the Hero of Orlais,  the Right Hand of the Divine, one of the leaders of the Inquisition. And she is the person who gave me reason to hope for a future outside of my suffering.”

Rinnalon stayed quiet as he sat beside his father, processing the new bits of information. Zevran reached out and ruffled his hair. “Both of your names carry not just the memory, but the spirit of those we loved.  Regalyan is the name of a man whom your mother loved very, very much. It would be dishonorable of me to speak on mama’s behalf, but I am certain she would love to tell you more of the man who inspired your name. Like my Rinna, he returned to the Maker’s side sooner than he should have. Mama’s heart closed up for a long time after that. Truly, it was as if our pain was one and the same. And it took meeting one another to finally heal from the scars of our lost loves.”

Zevran handed the rose to his boy, smiling as Rin handled the flower in his palms like a precious gift. “The white rose has many meanings, Rinnalon. It is often used for spiritual purposes representing purity and innocence--rather boring stuff, really. But a white rose has other meanings: it is a symbol of remembrance and new beginnings. To leave a white rose is to say, ‘I am thinking of you, always.’”

The elf placed a hand on his knee, propping himself up. He winced as his knees didn’t seem to agree with his sudden movement. Oh boy. That was going to really bother him in a decade or two. He stepped back from the stairs to admire his handiwork. The candles flickered like small beacons, beckoning him home.

“The reason why I decorate our home in white roses today is to honor the love between your mother and Regalyan and the love between Rinna and I. In a special place, Rinna stays with me. If I had not met her, I would not have appreciated Mama for all of her strength in the face of adversity, I would have overlooked the gentle heart behind the brave face she presents to the world. I would have stayed in Antiva and never met the love of my life. And so, once more, the white rose holds another precious meaning for me: a new beginning, a new life with Mama and you and Justinia. You are everything I could want in this world, Rin. You are my hopes and dreams and my future. So these roses are for you and your sister, too.”

Outside the house, he could hear the clambering of hooves as the horses and their riders headed towards the stables. Perfect timing.

“Ah, I believe that is your mother and sister returning. Shall we greet them with a grand gesture?”

Rinnalon’s face lit up. “I’d like that, Babbo.”

--

Zevran pushed open the door, welcoming the sight of his two lady loves. “My warrior women have finally returned home! I did not think my heart capable of missing you more than I already have.”

The Antivan grinned as he approached his daughter, laughing as she leaped into his arms. He spun her twice, lifting her above him. Justinia was almost at his height these days. He tried not to think about that too much. “Did you have a grand adventure, my darling?”

He placed a kiss upon her forehead and whispered in his daughter’s ears. Justinia nodded, sending her mother a knowing smile before running inside. Turning towards his wife, Zevran approached her with smooth steps, lifting his brows in an appreciative gesture. “You truly are the Maker’s finest gift, Cassandra.” He leaned forward as if to kiss her, his lips a breath away from hers. Wrapping his arms firmly around her wait, he dipped the Seeker in his arms, as if the pair were straight out of one of Varric’s novels. He grinned with the mischievous gaze of a man up to no good.

“Our first kiss was similar to this, no?” The elf chuckled, before he swept his arm underneath her legs, carrying his Nevarran beauty to the door before she could protest. “And I believe our wedding night went something like this too.”

Carrying his love inside, the masterpiece he’d been working on at long last came to life. Vines swirled across the stairway and over arched windows, white roses blooming like an audience to their love story. The air carried the scent, sweet and heady, while the candles lit up the house in their soft golden glow. From above, rose petals fluttered down like fresh snow, landing in his hair and shoulders. He glanced up and gave an appreciative wink to Rin and Justinia as they tossed the petals from above the stairwell.

Zevran met Cassandra’s gaze, studying her features one by one. Her eyes, her lips, the sharp curve of her jaw---her face was  a map that lead to a treasure he’d been searching for all his life. “Welcome home.”

I am yours, always, Cassandra. No longer a shadow, no longer a weapon for others to use or a coward who cannot embrace his own feelings. I am simply complete.

I love you, I love you.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

[3/5 Insufficient Skill]

@zevran-theblackshadow

Planning creative new things for each of their date had habitually been Zevran’s task, as the ingenuities of romancing came more natural to him than they did to her, but as per her reputation, she had opted to take charge for this occasion. The plan was not merely to surprise him; in hopes of sweeping him of his feet as much as he had done with her in the past, she had gone out of her comfort zone quite a bit. Silk bathrobes adorned a body that was otherwise unclothed, and she was sat upon a bed made for two. Not that she expected the sheets would remain as neat as they were then for very much longer, but the picture she had painted for them was intended to be most alluring. 

Zevran was very much aware that Cassandra was not the type for lingerie, rather more for practical undergarments, and even most of the time when she was on duty, she had the habit of wearing a binding cloth to keep breast tissue flattened sufficiently against her chest, as her natural form would otherwise give her quite a bit of grief during battle. He knew of this habit as well, as she had unwound the bindings a few times for him now. Which made the anticipational glee that she had when she tucked the rolled-up, long strip of cloth into one of his pockets inconspicuously during morning training, all the more intense. Assuming that he would find it during the course of the day, she had hidden a note in the center of the neatly rolled-up package, with just three words, written in what was obviously her handwriting. 

Come find me 

Throughout the day, she had stolen a few looks at him, but if he had found her surprise gift, he was very skilled at hiding his thoughts and keeping his expression as neutral as it could be. When the sun had disappeared behind the walls of the stronghold, Cassandra excused herself for the day and retired to her chambers, where she’d already set up preparations for the evening she intended to spend with her Antivan. And that is where she remained until a knock came at the door. Ah, but said door was locked, as was the challenge. The Rogue had bragged about his many conquests and his dexterity, and this was her answer to his tall tales. A puzzle for him to solve, of sorts. If his fingers were really as nimble as he claimed them to be, he would have no trouble undoing a simple bedchamber lock to find her sat on the bed, dressed in little more than a smile and a thin layer of silk. 

He called out to her through the door, his voice muffled, but she could clearly hear the upward intonation of a question at the end of the sentence, which in turn caused one corner of her mouth to tug up into a lopsided grin. 

“Come in, if you will. The door is...well, not open. I’m sure this shouldn’t be an issue for you?” 

Her question was followed by a moment of silence, then, the distinct clicking sound of tools being put to use on said lock. It started out gently, at first, most likely with confidence that he would have this lock undone and the Lady Seeker in his arms within mere seconds. After two minutes had passed, the noise became louder, more impatient, and at minute five, there was a snap of sorts, followed by a string of Antivan words uttered in a low hiss, and the sound of a palm pressed flat against the door. 

Cassandra perked up on the side of the bed, pondering for a moment; she had intended to challenge him, and it had been quite amusing to listen to his attempts through a locked door, but...she was craving his company, and patience wasn’t always among her traits. After a moment of silence from her part and a defeated sigh on the other side of the door, she let herself slide off of the bed, bare feet landing on soft carpet and making their way towards the desk, where she had placed the key after locking the door. With a few clicks on her side, the door was unlocked, and she opened it ever so slightly, her levels of amusement rising to find Zevran with a set of bent and broken lockpicking tools in his hands and an apologetic look in his eyes, caught in the act and searching for words to excuse his defeat by bedchamber lock. A chuckle escaped her lips as she processed the sight before her.

“Ah, what’s this? Insufficient skill?” 

It’s peculiar, how the world passes you by when you’re traveling, sometimes on automatic controls, your body taking over because your mind is too exhausted to even fully process your surroundings anymore. Trees, hills and a handful of quaint forest cabins all whizzed by as four pair of hooves created a fast, harmonious echo through the valley they traveled across. The Seeker’s gaze wandered over her shoulder, scanning the features of the person behind her, red streak across the nose and part of the cheeks, scruff around the lower half of his face...it was strange to think that this was the person Varric had described in his stories, the Champion of Kirkwall. Yet...the hidden depths of his expressions told many more stories of troublesome experiences. She knew then that this was the person she had been looking for. The future leader of the Inquisition. 

Come nightfall, what had been a galop and some trotting later, turned into more of a walking pace, until eventually, Cassandra suggested for them to dismount and search for a good spot to set up camp for the night. They had already crossed the Waking Sea and traveled for the better part of a day, so there would only be about half a day’s worth of travel left, but the horses needed rest, and so did they. As much as Cassandra would have preferred to get to know the Champion, relatively few words were exchanged between the both of them before they turned in for the night, the thought of an early morning wakeup and travel ahead fresh on their mind. After all, it wasn’t just Leliana who had traveled ahead of her to be present at the Conclave...

Regalyan. Galyan.

The second time she called him, he responded, instinctively arching his lips into a smile upon recognising her voice. 

“Cassandra...” 

Maker, how long had it been since she had last seen him? Too long, surely, and being able to see him again, touch him---it was akin to fresh drops of water after the longest trail through the desert. Being in public, their greeting was a demure one, but their fingers interlaced, and she could swear something physically sparked between the two of them. She had made it in time to see him before the Conclave, but as her duties as Right Hand of the Divine required her to join Divine Justinia at the Conclave, she made a silent promise to herself and her Mage that she would save the real greeting until after the meeting had been disbanded. A kiss on the cheek was what she parted with, blissfully unaware that it would be her final kiss for him. 

As it turns out, travel is not the only time when time seems completely irrelevant, and events simply...pass. One blink of the eyes, one sharp breath, and moments had passed like fine grains of sand escaped from within clenched fists. An attack, defense, the brightest green light, sharp, searing pain---so. much. pain. A familiar voice, crying out for help, and another, calling out her name. 

Galyan. 

I’m here. I’m here--- 

Gloves seared into the scorched flesh of her fingers, she still reached out to him, still found him and held onto him for dear life, fists clenching around what was left of his tunic, her iron will clinging on to the last remnants of life, as though it would have made any difference...any at all. The blast had hurled them away from impact, heat had engulfed most of the Conclave’s attendees by now, and perhaps in a final act of mercy from their Maker, they had found each other again. The last thing she saw before her vision glazed over and even a Pentaghast’s will was put out like the faint flame of a bedside candle, was his face. Regalyan’s face, barely recognisable save for his eyes. Eyes that, until he had taken his very last breath, spelled nothing but love for her. 

Galyan--- 

I’m here. 

A sweltering ache woke her from her slumber, and she felt so many things at once. Agony, emotional more so than physical, but she had thrashed about and tangled herself in the sheets, and toned, caramel-skinned arms had her firmly locked in place...trapped. 

"Shhh...Lady Seeker, I’m here, I’m here...” 

It took a moment for her to gather her thoughts and realise that she wasn’t trapped, she was--- 

“You are safe.” 

Safe. She was safe. Her gaze found his, but with the same unbearable history no doubt visible behind her eyes like the pages of an opened book, she quickly broke contact again. These dreams, these alternate timelines of what could have been, they had plagued her ever since the Conclave, but she had never spoken of them, never shared them. She had not shared her bed since, not in her personal quarters, not where come nightfall, all of her walls would break down. She could have known this would happen, should have known, and yet...perhaps this was exactly what she needed. His warmth, his calming arms still firmly locked around her in an unexpectedly caring embrace. 

And just this once, she let the situation be as it was. No damage control, no distancing herself, but in stead, she sought out the very core of his embrace by resting her forehead against his chest, eyes falling shut as she allowed for his soothing touch to drape over her like a blanket. 

Moments later, her shoulders shocked lightly and the salty trails of her grief rolled ever so slowly down the side of his chest, to disappear into the sheets beneath them and dissolve there, not a trace of her momentary weakness left in sight. But for that moment, weakness was not so bad; after all, she had been strong for so incredibly long, even the strongest of fortresses was bound to crumble under such duress. 

Oh, how she crumbled. And how remarkable that it was the Antivan who was witness to it all. His hands, as it turned out, would be most capable of rebuilding her, memory by tiny little loving memory, moment by moment. 

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be 

              Right in front of me

                    Talk some sense to me

💞- A memory about their children 

“One more time!” 

Cassandra had never been the type to need much support other than that of her own resilient mind, not really one to share any type of pain she was going through—let alone with a man. After Regalyan, breaking down the stronghold she had built around herself had proven particularly difficult…but Zevran had taken on the task, and quite successfully, at that. His gentle hands had undone the bulwark around her heart and tugged lovingly at her heartstrings until she’d fallen for him. And that is where they were now, hazel eyes meeting with sweet honey-coloured gaze in search of support. He flashed her the mellowest of smiles, raising a hand to brush some stray, dark strands of hair from her face. 

A wave of feverish agony interrupted their moment, causing her face to contort as a visible sign of pain—yet she made no sound. Her breath held as she bore down and her fingers around Zevran’s, she squeezed his hand so tightly, it was sure to leave a mark. She felt light-headed, exhausted almost, but then she’d been at this for the better part of a day and night. The sun was about to rise again, and with the first rays of light, came relief for her. After so much effort, she could breathe again, the pain subsided…and her eyes glazed over, watery with emotion, as her newborn daughter was placed into her arms. 

Kicking and screaming was how she made her attendance known first. She was, after all, a daughter of Cassandra Pentaghast. When she laid in her mother’s arms, however, her father arched over the two of them to kiss her forehead, and then her mother’s , she quieted down until everything surrounding the young family was serene, and the Seeker and the Antivan had every chance to admire the perfection that was their newly born daughter in peace and quiet. Perfect little hairs that seemed to take after her father’s, little hands that instantly curled around Zevran’s finger when he reached out to her. And lips that would no doubt blurt wits beyond her age, when she would learn how to speak. 

“Justinia. We shall name her Justinia.” 

Coarse as her voice was, Cassandra paused for a moment to meet gaze with Zevran’s, a blissful smile adorning her lips. The child resting on her chest and left arm, she reached to cup his face with her right hand. 

“Justinia Antonia Arainai.”

Because not only had she wished for a child for some time now; her wish was to bear him a child that would carry his name. A legacy, a connection stronger than even the bond between them.

@zevran-theblackshadow​:

It was not until winter that Zevran realized he was in love with the Seeker Pentaghast. 

The pale sky above diffused sunlight hidden behind rolling clouds, casting a soft light upon Cassandra as they paced the gardens of Skyhold. There were few plants still thriving amidst the frigid chill of winter, frost clinging to trembling leaves as petal after petal the flowers shriveled and turned black. All in all, the sight was not one to be envied, but the Antivan’s eyes found their focus solely on the shieldmaiden as their fingertips brushed against each other. The following day Zevran would be sent to the forests of The Emerald Graves for weeks on end, meaning they had precious little time to enjoy one another’s company. He wondered if mother nature had grown envious of the Seeker’s beauty, and, in an act of spite, had given the fortress a harsh winter to rattle one’s bones. He certainly could not blame whatever mystical beings controlled the weather–for even in the dreariness of winter, Cassandra’s beauty bloomed like a field of a thousand roses. 

Their eyes met, walnut hues gazing into amber, and it was at that precise moment Zevran realized he did not crave the company of any other besides Cassandra Pentaghast. Her hands were more familiar to him than his daggers, each scar a favorite to run his thumb across with a fondness unknown to the elf–and her eyes were dark gems of greater worth than all of Orlais’ finery. Her joy, her laughter, her anger, her pain–he wished to drink it all and still, after nearly a year of her company, he did not tire of all that she offered to him. 

As small puffs of warm air escaped pillowed lips of the Seeker, his eyes were quick to fall to their perfection. He craved nothing more than to claim those lips for his own, to lift the Seeker in his arms and sweep her into the nearest room and let their bodies meld perfectly into one another. And yet, he could not bring himself to move forward. His heart swelled with adoration and terror, a painful grip upon the beating organ from a source he could not determine. What was it that struck him with so much fear? Why, at the thought of loving someone, was his body no longer capable of embracing that which he held most dear? 

“I…” Words failed him as thoughts were clouded. For a moment, just one moment, the Antivan believed himself worthy of loving and being loved in return. But what did these hands know of anything but treachery? What right did he have to love Cassandra Pentaghast, she who stood in the light of the Maker’s love? He was nothing but a murderer, forever meant to linger in the shadows. Zevran stepped back from the Lady Seeker, his gaze lowering to the ground as he retreated. “Forgive me,” the elf pleaded, before leaving the woman he adored with questions the assassin lacked the courage to answer.

That night, he did not visit Cassandra’s quarters, choosing to remain hidden in parts of the castle the Seeker would not anticipate him to be. By the time morning came, he had long departed for the Emerald Graves, each step weighted by the sins of his past, the wind that howled across the ridges of the mountain trail a reflection of the storm raging in his heart.   

As the sun peaked across the horizon, golden rays spilled through the window to Cassandra’s room. The silhouette of a single rose was illuminated in the morning light, giving the flower an almost ethereal glow. Petals a shade of honey yellow twisted into crimson tips, the cold frost melting away as the sun rose higher in the sky. This rose, his gift to the woman who claimed his heart, expressed all that he lacked the courage to–for only when one is falling for another are these precious roses meant to be given. 

Perhaps Cassandra would not forgive him for this selfish disappearing act. The part that despised himself felt it was for the best. 

But the other part, the part that could not forget the radiance of Cassandra’s smile, whispered foolish hopes that she loved him back. Hopes that whispered of a future where they would never leave one another’s side, a future that promised he would never again feel the ache of a burdened heart. He carried these hopes with him to the Emerald Graves, a comfort that kept him warm in the hours of twilight.

When winter came, Cassandra seemed to be most in her element. Nights were long, temperatures low, yet with the company of the Antivan who had pried his way into the fortress of her heart, everything was a little bit brighter and warmer. Voices had long since stopped their murmur across Skyhold, since everyone had already seen what the two of them were still in denial of. Every single person who had laid eyes upon the pair, knew what bloomed between them. Roses were only an obvious physical manifestation of the bond that had formed between these unlikely lovers. 

On any other day or in any other company, the Seeker would have worn gloves, preferably reinforced with steel as to accommodate her sense of comfort with being battle-ready at any given moment. Today, however, her fingertips were bare, reddening just slightly as the cold nipped at her skin, but soon enveloped by the warmth of her companion. Their footsteps were in perfect rhythm with each other, leaving evenly paced prints in the thin carpet of snow that had fallen that morning. If only she’d been able to predict then how quickly his footsteps would fade in the upcoming days, perhaps she would have pried her fingertips away from his and pivoted where she stood, never to look back again. And yet, reflecting upon that, it had never been an option to begin with. She had waded too far into the water to cease swimming, yet was too stubborn to let the stream carry her adrift. She was in control, but only barely.

After Regalyan, she had not dared to hope she would ever find love with another man, let alone an assassin such as Zevran, a man with values and habits so wildly different from hers, that she often wondered how they had come together and formed such a perfect connection. She had not thought herself capable of opening up to yet another person, making herself vulnerable to loss as she had felt it so often in the past. Grief was not something she dealt with well, save for bottling it up and pouring it into the fury of a fight. And more than anything, by the moment she began to acknowledge that she might be susceptible for such afflictions pertaining to him, she hoped he would be the exception. She hoped, even prayed to the Maker in the silence of the night when her mind filled with a very rare hint of doubt, that he would be the one constant in her life that would not be taken away from her, as all others before him had. 

When his pacing halted in its tracks and he parted his lips to speak to her, the start of his sentence gave the impression of a promise. Her gaze crossed his, her own lips curved upwards in a half-smile, her expression every bit curious as to what he had to say. Forgive me. She had exposed her innermost self to him, fragile trust placed in his hands in hopes that the moment had come where she could do so without worry. Trust another, love another, be open to another. And exposed as her heart was, it packed a punch much harder than it would have been, had she kept composure and distance, when she realized that his words had been a promise broken before it had ever been made. 

That night, for the first time that winter, she drew a thicker blanket over her bed to shelter herself from the unforgiving cold of winter and a lonely night in a bed that was far too big for someone who had gotten used to the company of another. Her night was restless, uneasy as she had been before in times of mourning—except no one had passed away this time. It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning that she found herself drifting into a deeper sleep, one that she woke from much later than she had intended. Too late to catch even a glimpse of the man who had kept her company and weaseled his way into her heart.

Death was one thing, an inevitable, painful thing, at that. But to lose someone by their choosing, by distance or alienation—that…was something she had not yet learned to cope with.

Winter grew colder, and so did Cassandra Pentaghast. The rose wilted where it stood, untouched by the woman it had been gifted to, and the Seeker’s cheeks lost color, cheekbones seeming harsher with a jaw tightened as it had been during her struggle after the Conclave. If there was any ache or affection left inside of her pertaining to Zevran, she did not show it, and no one dared ask.

All everyone knew was that the couple spent one summer together, a whole season in which the Lady Pentaghast had smiled more than anyone had ever seen her do. And, so the buzz of voices around Skyhold would say, by the time snow had touched the ground, he had gone with the cold Northern wind and erased his tracks behind him.

Ah, but tracks trodden in the heart of a warrior woman are not so easily erased. 

zevrantheblackshadow:

Early morning light spilled across ghosted tips of the Frostback Mountains, blanketing the fortress in its soft glow. Stained windows streaked rays of violet and cobalt upon brick walls like a watercolor painting. The Antivan walked with measured steps down a long hallway, his emerald-dyed cloak fluttering behind him as he admired the sun peaking across the horizon line. Save for the elf, the occupants of Skyhold lay wrapped in the embrace of dreams, clinging to the hours where the world was not in dire need of saving.

At long last, the assassin reached the Seeker Pentaghast’s study, gloved fingertips trailing across the sanded edges of her desk as a smile forged its way onto bronze skin.  Held gingerly betwixt his fingers lay the stems of three roses, dew drops hanging upon lavender petals like weighted crystals embroidered on silk. He lifted the bloomed flowers to frame them in the morning sun, a glimmer in amber hues as he took in their fragrance. He selected the roses with the utmost care–the shade of lavender, rare to this icy terrain, was known to represent enchantment with another. “And what a spell she has cast upon me, no?” The Antivan sighed to himself. “Mage or no, she is as wicked as they come.” 

Zevran was a man of passion, a man of pleasure–but what he was not was a man of sentimentality. Memories of the night they spent together played in his mind like a tune he could not forget, yet he was not so foolish as to mistake these feelings for love. Infatuation, perhaps, with a woman who carried her devotion as well as she did her beauty, but certainly not love. Yet… when he had left that morning, there was no denying the look in Cassandra’s eyes. The doubt, the fear that she might regret allowing him taste her body’s sweetness. Such a look was not what he wished to inspire in his bedmates. And so, here he stood, roses in hand as he waited for her to step out of her bedroom chambers.

 As the groan of the oak door announced her arrival, the golden-haired rogue turned towards the Lady Seeker. His expression softened–almost involuntarily–as he noted the hesitance in her gaze, before the elf closed the distance between them. Presenting the roses to her with a sweeping bow, the Antivan offered her one of his infamous grins. “We Antivans are early risers,” the rogue began, “at least when we do not have a lover in our beds.” His gaze wandered down to the roses once more. “In truth, I wished to assuage any doubts that might linger of my intentions.” Offering his arm for her to take, the elf let his gaze roam across her features. “You are an enchanting woman, Cassandra Pentaghast. And I should wish to know your mind as well as I do your body. Perhaps we might share a meal together on this fine morning?“ Merriment shone in honeyed hues. “Though if you should wish for us to return to your bedchambers afterwards, I would happily oblige.”

(A rose for every day you are gone, mia vita! Have fun at the con. :D)

Rarely had the Seeker ever slept so well as she had in the remnants of her night with the Antivan, a blush upon her cheeks and a smile touching her lips that spoke volumes of the satisfaction he had brought her. In her slumberous state, she had shifted and found herself smoothed against his body in an embrace that was so much calmer than the one they had shared before. Her dreams were peaceful, for once, and her form seemed more at peace as she lay sleeping, yet—there was something fragile to it. 

When his arm slipped from underneath her body, she produced the softest, only barely audible whimper as a prelude to her stirring from her sleep. Eyelids fluttered open only halfway, pupils still adjusting to Cassandra’s dimly lit bedchambers and the silhouette of the man who was standing next to the bed. Ah. He was leaving, and before dawn had set in, too. Reflecting upon the situation, she wasn’t certain what she had expected from it, but—certainly not this, though perhaps she should have, if only because of the knife-eared assassin’s reputation. 

If at all her expression had been visible in the twilight of her room, it contained the subtlest mixture of doubt laced with a hint of disappointment. It was barely noticeable as it was, but it was there, and the feeling that had caused it wrapped ice-cold tendrils around her heart and caused her to doubt every decision she had made since she had met the Elf. Her lips parted and she produced a near-inaudible sigh before finally tearing her gaze away from him and lowering herself onto the bed once more, facing away from him. He was leaving, but that did not mean she had to watch him leave. 

She rose a while later at her regular hour and proceeded to prepare for her morning routine as if it were any other day. It would have been, if he had not lingered on her mind so much—ah, and there was the regret concerning her decision. Why was it so difficult for her to find it in herself to go through the no-strings-attached routine when others seemed to be most adept in such matters? It was a question she did not necessarily want answered, but more than likely knew the answer to. She had known even before she had started this affair, and yet she had gone against better judgment. She cared. Despite what her reputation might say about her, she cared, sometimes perhaps a little too much. 

Her boots were strapped up, as were her armored training gloves, and she sheathed her training sword at her right side before proceeding to push through the heavy oaken door of her bedroom chambers—and almost sinking into cardiac arrest upon the unexpected sight of him; hardly anyone was ever awake when she would make her way to training grounds, let alone would they be waiting for her at her personal quarters. Her lips pressed together involuntarily in reaction, jaw muscles tightening with the action, yet her eyes spoke a softer language, almost inquisitive. It took her a moment to notice the roses he had gathered, but when she did, a blush not unlike the one she had displayed earlier that night rose up to her cheeks. Such a kind gesture was one she was not exactly accustomed to, and while she was generally in control of the situation and very confident about her views, needs and desires, the dynamics of this situation caused a sense of doubt as to how she should react to this initiative of his. Doubt that was very quickly swept away by his choice of words and the sheer eloquence with which they rolled off his tongue. 

His scent was something I was unfamiliar with before I met him, and even now, I cannot liken it to anything I have come across in my lifetime. His voice is like a summer’s day breeze, yet words hot when he whispers them with lips pressed against skin. His touch is feather-light, and it surprises me even now, that a man can be so gentle, envelop you like a lukewarm bath exactly when you need it the most, yet pave his path of destruction like a carefully contained flame when the need calls for it. Home was never something I was accustomed to, it was a word I felt alienated from, that is, until I met him. 

At night, when the candle at our bedside burns at its end and the last bit of light frames his sleeping form next to me, I often feel as though I’m watching my favorite work of art. He’s been there for a while now, and even though I like to think I know him fairly well, there are little things I discover about him every day. New colors in the palette that makes up my favorite painting of a man. And with every discovery, I learn to love him more, if only because he gave me the opportunity to learn to love again. 

With a wisp of smoke, darkness draws its curtain over our chambers, and when my eyes adjust to the blackness, I can vaguely distinguish his expression as it morphs from its calm slumberous state into something worrisome. He turns, turns again, writhes underneath the sheets that cover us both, and in that one moment, I discover a dent in the painting that I had not yet found before. But Maker, he is beautiful, with all his flaws, his scars and his history that he is not yet ready to talk about. Because when I drape my arms around him, when I press my lips to his ear and whisper to him in the broken sounds of a language I am not all that familiar with just yet---his language---he relaxes. A sigh is breathed past his lips, and the tension in his body is released almost instantly. I hold him in my arms for a little while longer, until his breath is at a steady pace and his heart calm of rhythm, and then I position myself against him, between chest and arm, my head resting on his shoulder. If only so he can wake up in the morning to find me in the remnants of the same struggle, and return the favor in kind. 

The nightmares don’t go away, but the remedy is all the sweeter. Maybe one day, they will be drowned out by the sound of his voice before they even full and well develop. 

One day soon, no doubt.