How I killed my husband
Chapters: 1/2 Fandom:Â Dragon age Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Isabela, Isabela/Luis (Dragon Age) Tags: Noir, AU, Domestic abuse, female agency, revenge, misoginy, power imbalance, canon compliant-ish click me
Summary:
When Luis comes home to find his wife dead on their Orlesian rug, he knows her pointy-eared lover is to blame, and he wants nothing more than to kill the elven scum.
Notes:
The circumstances of Luisâ passing were never really clear in-game. What we know is that Zevranâs killed him in his bed. Or did he? Isabela swears she never intended to have him killed, but considering Luis wanted to sell her, one might wonder what truly happened that night. Since the story varies (one version in DA2, one version in DA: the silent grove) Iâve decided to write my own versions. Plural. If Isabela can tell two different tales, so can I.
Chapter 1: You had your way, now you must pay
The road leading to Luisâ estate snakes for miles along the cliffs of the Rialto Bay, clinging to the edge of the sea like a nervous thought. Then, as if seized by reason, it straightens abruptly and turns inland, cutting through the fertile vineyards that made Antivaâs reputation. After another mile, the gnarled trunks of grapevines give way to a manicured lawn, and a three-story house emerges from the tree line; its white walls a striking contrast to the shadows of the forest.
Locals say the place is cursed. It belonged to Yavana, the witch of the wild. They whisper that her spirit still roams the grounds.
Luis never cared much for curses or witches. Not because he doubted magic, though he claimed he did, but because if magic existed, it would belong to men like him. Power, in Luisâ world, was masculine by nature. A powerful woman was a contradiction.
So he cut down the trees, pushed back the forest, drained the swamp. All that remained of the wild was a small ornamental pond before the mansion: nature trimmed, contained, displayed. A relic caged by wealth.
But at nightfall, the wilderness returned. A hazy fog crept over La Calabria at dusk; the property then shifted into darkness and uncertainty. Mist enveloped the trimmed topiary, tall trees cast ghastly shadows with talons and claws, and ancient statues change into sinister ghosts. Even the Cadillac parked at the end of the driveway took the shape of a silver monolith, calling to the gods. Calling to the Witch.
âââââ
Up the large entrance stairs, the double doors stood ajar. Mist lingered at the threshold, hesitating, before spilling into the darkened hall. Inside, a manâs jacket lay discarded on the tiled floor.
Luis clicked his tongue in irritation.
Zevran.
Luis did not consider himself a jealous man. He had mistresses. He frequented pleasure houses. His wifeâs infidelities never bothered him. He had once taken great pleasure in watching her sexcapades and arranged some of them for a hefty price (wicked little scenarios he controlled from beginning to end). Her body was an asset, after all.
But he hated that elven scum. Zevran had long ceased being an amusement and become a fixture. No longer one of many, but the one. Laughing with her. Sharing her bed. Whispering behind his back. Luis had once entertained the idea of having him killed. Then heâd learned who protected the pointy-eared bastard. The Antivan Crows were not something a smart man antagonized.
No. He would simply rid himself of his wife.
âââââ
The gramophone still played, the final notes of Julie Londonâs Cry Me a River drifting through the fumoir. Luis grimaced. He had never understood Isabelaâs fondness for jazz. he found it too wild, too erratic, too unrefined.
The room was dim, lit only by the dying fire in the hearth. Gilded paintings crowded the walls. Heavy armchairs sank into thick carpets. Everything was expensive, carefully arranged to inspire envy. It should have been cozy. Instead, it felt like a mausoleum.
Broken glass littered the floor. An empty bottle of fifteen-year-old malt lay on the table, its last drops spilling over an inert forearm. Isabela lay sprawled on the Orlesian rug.
Her dark curls framed her face in soft disarray. Firelight danced across her body, catching on the silk of her nĂŠgligĂŠ until she seemed almost luminous. A crimson rose bloomed on her chest where the blade had struck, perfectly matched to her painted lips. Even in death, she was exquisite. The most beautiful piece of his collection.
A shame. He had planned to sell her.
âââââ
Glass shattered upstairs. Luis stilled. Zevran was still here, in his house, rummaging through his drawers. Rage stiffened his spine. He crossed to the desk, retrieving the pistol concealed within, and took the stairs two at a time. Zevran despised guns, called them crude, inelegant, an amateur tool sold to the masses. A true assassin like him would never⌠Let him choke on irony.
Upstairs, all the doors were closed save one. Isabelaâs room glowed with light. It was the only room untouched by the Orlesian designer. No gilding, no excess, only repeating art deco motifs and clean lines. The bed was unmade. Cushions lay scattered like the aftermath of passion. Vanity drawers lay overturned, their contents strewn across the floor. Her Lalique perfume bottles had been dumped into an open suitcase, along with jewels and furs. Not hers. His. He had bought every diamond, just as he had bought her.
Luis cocked the gun. The sound echoed sharply. âYou fucking scum,â he barked. âWas this always your plan? Seduce her, then rob me? Me?â
Zevran turned slowly, hands raised in mock surrender. A grin split his tattooed face.
âWhat are you smiling at?â Luis snapped. âIâm the one with the gun.â âYour wife is dead,â Zevran said mildly, âand you still think this is about you. Rich men are always so small.â
Luis fired. Once. Twice. The bullets clicked uselessly. Zevran didnât flinch. He merely crossed his arms, leaning against the wardrobe, his posture the picture of nonchalance and disdain.
âDo not look at me,â he said lightly. âI am only the decoy.â
âââââ
âPerformance issue, darling?â
Luis spun.
Isabela stood in the hall, pale and furious, a small Derringer aimed at his head. The wound on her chest was nothing but paint and ink now, dried dark against silk.
âHowâŚâ âThere is so much you never understood,â she said.
The coldness in her voice cracked, replaced by something sharper.
âYou thought I wouldnât find out? Castillon told me everything. Turns out heâs terrible at keeping secrets. Told me all about your little plan; how you wanted to sell me like chattel.â âYou think this ends with my death?â Luis snarled. âPeople will come for me.â âIâm sure they will.â She shrugged, her tone almost mundane. Detached. âBut not for a while. Theyâll assume we took a last-minute trip to Orlais. By the time they realize somethingâs wrong, it wonât matter.â
Rage twisted his face.
âYou forget what you are,â he spat.
He lunged. The Derringer clicked uselessly. Understanding struck them both at once: her weapon is jammed. The irony.Â
Luis slammed her against the wall, hands closing around her throat. His grip was iron, fueled by fury. Isabela clawed at him, vision darkening, lungs burning.
Not here, she thought dimly. Not like this.
A wet sound broke the pressure. Luis staggered back, hands flying to his neck. Blood spilled between his fingers as he collapsed. Zevran stood behind him, dagger slick and red. Isabela slid down the wall, gasping. Zevran crouched, cupping her face. She leaned into him, breathing leather and steel and danger, and a single tear escaped.
âI⌠I wanted to do it myself,â she whispered. âIt is better this way, loveâ he murmured. âYou were never meant to be the one with blood on your hands.â
âââââ
By morning, La Calabria slept. Its lights were off, its windows closed, its doors locked. Upstairs, there was no trace of blood in the corridor. The bed was  made, the drawers returned to the vanity. In the wardrobe, hangers dangled, empty and useless. The suitcase, once filled with diamonds and pearls, was no longer on the floor.
Downstairs, a fresh bottle of whiskey stood on the table beside clean glasses. The Orlesian rug was gone, easily explained by a man who redecorated obsessively.
Outside, the pond lay still once more, its dark waters hiding the weighted body of Isabelaâs husband.Â
From beneath a great tree, Zevran watched the red convertible disappear down the road. Connie Francis drifted from the open window.
You had your way, now you must pay.
He smiled faintly, and turned away.
