#zevranweek

Day 4 - Gift

totally not late for Zevran Week haha...

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Bsky | Twitter ⚝ Alt Version under the cut

Do not ask why Grey Warden can get pregnant and be mom just i think zevran is too vigorous&she is strong

I hope I’m not too late. Anyway...below the cut, as per usual.

I usually give names to my characters, but I wanted to leave this as vague as possible, so you could imagine your Warden with Zevran. (Hence the use of they and the Warden.)

Ciao! Let me know what you think, if you get a chance. I love romanced Zevran.

@zevran-week - For the ‘Zevran with the Crows’ post.

Warning: Mention of death and violence

They told him bend but do not break.

And so he bent, and he twisted, and he bled, but Zevran Arainai of the Antivan Crows did not break. He did not break when their training tore upon his body and his mind, he did not break when his brothers and sisters in arms fell one after another, faces still round with the fat of youth. Zevran spilled no tears when he made his first kill, though there were nights when he lacked sleep that the man’s expression came to mind. The kill was not a clean one–he’d panicked and buried his blade deep into his mark’s stomach–a serious wound, but not fatal. He remembered chasing the man down and standing over him, stabbing again and again and again and again and again but the man simply would not die, eyes shaded blue catching in the moonlight with questions Zevran to this day couldn’t answer.

Even this was not enough to break him. He was a survivor, he’d fought starvation and loneliness on the streets. This training would not be the end to the boy who wished to live. And as the years passed, Zevran became a man, but the will to live became clouded by the desire to kill. The more marks upon his list, the greater the rewards, and greedily he reaped them all. Gold and women and men. Petty distractions from the misery of his occupation.

But then she came to him, his warrior of Justice, eyes alit with a fire he’d never seen amongst the dead eyes of his fellow Crows. And for a brief time all the scratches and tears from years of bending but not breaking were soothed. Rinna, she called herself, and deeper in love he fell.

How could Zevran have known she would betray them all? Determined, kind, Rinna–his farfallina–whose gentle nature became tainted with a lie and curbed what was once a heart flowing with affection to a heart that bled with rage. He witnessed her death and did not mourn, though cracks began to show on the man who would not break. And when her betrayal proved false, a trick to show the elf that the world was not his to command, the loss left the man who would not break with a hole that threatened to swallow him.

He came to Ferelden to d i e.

But then the elf found him, his Hero of Ferelden, eyes calm like serene waters that he hadn’t seen amongst the cruel eyes of his fellow Crows. And for a brief time the chasm of his heart from the day he cracked but did not break was soothed. Asher, he called himself, and higher in love the elf ascended.

How could Zevran have known he would sacrifice to save them all? Honorable, comforting Asher–his carissimo–whose virtuous nature would not be tainted and curbed by fear of the inevitable. He did not witness the death of the man he would have stormed the Dark City for, cruel to the end his Asher was, and what was barely an intact heart shattered the day the bards would glorify for years to come.

@zevran-week  (I know I’m late with this, sorry!)

The sun lingers across the horizon line, coaxing the citizens of Rialto from their slumber. The port is humble compared to Antiva City and not worth the trip, or so the tradesmen always say when their ships harbor for the monthly import of goods. Nonetheless, every first of Bloomingtide a plethora of ships parade the harbor in preparation for Summersday. For the past three years Zevran has waited at the hint of morning light, waiting for the day his father will step off one of the ships and see a little boy holding Dalish-embroidered gloves.

Zevran likes to think his father is a sailor. Francesca and the others in the brothel say that he mustn’t think of such things (for no one truly knows, though Francesca suspects he’s a woodcutter). In his mind’s eye, his father has two scars upon his face–one on the cleft of his chin after a scuffle with a drunk, and a second that digs across the left side of his brow, leaving a snake-like trail over his eye. This scar is his father’s favorite story to tell, as it was caused by a skirmish with Rivaini pirates. He has hair like charcoal and eyes green in hue–for Marina always says that Zevran is a splitting image of his mother—and he likes to think his father has a secret affinity for sweets.

Most importantly, in his mind’s eye, his father will return on a big ship to take him away.

While tourists might find it concerning to see a boy of six wandering the city by himself, he’s just another street rat stealing from the purses of visiting nobles. Nobody would miss him. His mother might have but well…her love for him didn’t do her much good, did it?

The first ship to dock has the heraldry of some noble family–the boy slumps in disappointment and digs his heel into the dirt. No way his father would be on that ship. Curiosity gets the best of him, however, when heavy chests varying in size are brought out one by one from the vessel. Certainly such chests are filled with clothes and fine jewelry he could sell for good coin….his mouth waters at the thought of biting into a chunk of roasted ram he always eyed while in the markets pickpocketing. Whatever lay in that trunk could fill his belly for weeks…

Zevran glances down at his mother’s gloves, a bit conflicted. There’s always a risk that the city guards would take him away. The brothel makes little coin as it is, and he couldn’t afford to be whisked away to jail—today is very important. Today might be the day his father will come home. But a habit of thieving is hard to break, and after kissing the gloves for good fortune, he tucks them away in his pockets. Just a quick glance, he promises himself, and then I can wait at the docks.

Sneaking behind several barrels, Zev inches his way closer to the chests, praying whatever gods looking down turn a blind eye. A guardsman lingers near the chests and the boy frowns. He can see the nobleman and his family begin their descent from the ship as well. Seems a distraction is needed. The urchin reaches for his dagger and starts carving into one of the barrels. Nothing worries nobles like spilled wine, and after a several twists and tugs the wood cracks open enough to spill its burgundy contents freely across the dock. As the chaos ensues, the boy uses the opportunity to sneak around the guards, his eyes solely on a small chest with an elegantly carved “J” across the lid.

He steals to eat, just as he does now, hands brushing with almost near affection upon a small chest so ornately decorated. He traces the elegant letter that he knows must be for someone adored by whoever gave it to them. Or perhaps these nobles, with their piles of gold as tall as the Frostback mountains, hoard their riches like dragons. He doesn’t know, and doesn’t really care. He only cares that he holds something that will give him a full belly.

Morning passes into night, and though he has a pouch of coin to bring home to the whores, the sting of disappointment ripples in his chest like a torrent of rain upon a decrepit building. In the years to come he will learn to laugh at his fatherless childhood, but right now, the hole in his heart consumes him.

The boy craves many things. He craves nights without hunger and days without beatings. These are all trivial things in comparison to what he wants most, but what he wants most has eluded him for six years now, and the boy no longer spends his time blowing dandelions and watching white spires dance in the wind hoping they will come true. The last of his childhood dreams were with his father’s ship, a desperate clutch to innocence before he releases that dream too, to the wind.

As requested by siawrites

“Are you sure, bella?” Zevran asked the lovely woman in front of him. “A tattoo is no simple task.”

Leila Tabris crossed her arms in front of her chest, an irritated expression on her face. “It isn’t a tattoo, Zevran.”

The assassin raised an eyebrow at her tone. He kept forgetting how young the city elf truly was. “My apologies. I was merely concerned.”

“Over a bit of ink?” She wasn’t convinced, it seemed. Zevran always had an angle, it was true, but in this, he was sincere. He was already attached to her and did not wish to see her make a mistake.

“No.” Zevran chuckled, shaking his head. “I only know that once you see it on your body, you will want to make it permanent.”

“You think you know me so well.” Leila scoffed, pulling her tunic up over her head and tossing it on the chair beside her. “Just do as I ask.”

Zevran bowed mockingly, enjoying the red at the tips of her ears as she grew angry again. He motioned towards the empty table in the room they shared. “If you would be so kind.”

Leila stuck her tongue out.

“Don’t tease me, bella.”

She rolled her eyes before doing as he’d asked. She laid flat on the table, her chest pressing into the blanket he had placed for her comfort. Zevran approached her with an ink well and a small brush in his hand. He positioned these beside her.

“Is there a specific design you’d like?”

“Surprise me.”

Here is some Zevran angst for Zevran week. Written from a prompt given to me by fenharelsshadow

Theron had lied. He had promised that he would return from Fort Drakon, that he would slay the Archdemon and be back in time to celebrate with a glass of fine Antivan brandy.

He had lied.

Zevran sat in the tent that’d been provided for him. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t eat. All he could do was stare at the entrance to his meager quarters, the fabric whipping in the wind. The stench of smoke, blood, and death filled the air. Wails could be heard from a distance; mothers, wives, sisters finding their dead.

His friends had returned from the top of the Fort, weary and bloodied. Alistair, the future king of Ferelden, was injured, having taken a bad hit from the dragon. Wynne was exhausted, her pale face looking even more ghostly than normal. Sten, the powerful Qunari, was the only one who looked as if he hadn’t been in a battle. Only there was something in his arms…

The first tear fell. Zevran didn’t even notice. His heart ached. He wished to die. There was not a thing that could be done to relieve the pain he felt. The Archdemon lay slain, a sword protruded from the amethyst dragon’s skull. Thedas was safe from the Blight.

But at the cost of the man he loved. Theron Mahariel lay prone on a table within the camp, on display for those who wished to see the Hero of Ferelden, a name given to his love by the new King and Queen.

Theron was a hero, there was no question about that, but Zevran didn’t care for him being a hero. He didn’t care that the Blight was over. He only cared that he was alone, again.

Rinna’s death had not hurt this much. In fact, nothing had hurt this much.

Here’s a new fic for Zevran week! As requested by thebes

Zevran Arainai had dreams. Truthfully, most of those dreams included a lot of women and booze, but they were dreams nonetheless. They were never dreams of the future, of what he would do once he freed himself of the Crows. Because let’s be honest, no one broke free from the Antivan Crows.

But here he was. Free. Taliesen was dead, as were the others sent to either bring him back or kill him. There would be no doubt that Zevran, too, had died in the squabble. He was no longer a targeted man.

And it was all thanks to the Warden.

Theron Mahariel had protected Zevran at the cost of his own life. It was foolish, thought the elf, to have loyalty to a person who would no sooner cut your throat to save his own life.

The Warden was a special person. It made Zevran grateful, not only for his life, but for Theron’s as well. Perhaps a future was something the assassin could have at last.