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Thirty years seems like such a long time, when one is nineteen. At forty-seven, it feels like a cheat.
Leith put his hands on the washbasin and leaned closer to the mirror, tilting his chin up and to the left. Yes. There, just beneath his ear. It looked like a bruise, but wasn't. When he put his fingertips to it, it felt soft, like a spoiled fruit. There was no pain. His gorge rose.
In his dreams, the blackened, red-veined patches grew across his limbs like spreading ink, and ruptured to reveal dead grey flesh beneath. The dreams where he ran through the Deep Roads among his new brethren and rutted mindlessly with howling broodmothers-to-be were the better ones. They did not feature Zevran's torn and mutilated body lying in the welter of their bed.
"Amore?"
He jerked his head down and quickly splashed water on his face.
Zevran leaned on the doorway, arms folded. "How long shall we play this game, hm?"
Leith watched him in the mirror, his narrow, calculating eyes, his ready stance. Their love had never been an easy thing, not in the beginning and not now. They were too much alike. Wary, deadly, and guarded. Not easy. But the only thing upon which Leith had ever hung his faith.
He turned, crossed the room, and put his head down on Zevran's shoulder. Strong, tanned arms came up to embrace him. He hooked his fingers into Zevran's belt and tugged, once. "Love me," he said. Even after all these years, his Antivan was accented. "Love me before we talk about this."
That low laugh, vibrating right in his ear, absent gods, how it still stirred him. Mobile mouth, high cheekbones, the graceful yet steel-strong muscle and tendon and bone, all the same as they ever were. Or if they were not, then Leith saw through the eyes of love, and would not have cast off his blinders for anything in this world.
It was nearly time for the noon meal before Zevran at last lifted himself from Leith's chest and leaned his head on one hand. "So. Have I loved you sufficiently for you to speak, or shall we continue?"
"I have not been with the Wardens for almost thirty years," said Leith. "But there are some things that could not be left behind."
Zevran's face grew serious and already Leith hated himself. Joy was Zevran's natural state, joy and gusto and deadly wit. Even when he was in pain, he laughed. Solemnity was unnatural.
"There are things that I have not told you," Leith went on. "Secret things that I swore to never reveal. The Wardens have their reasons for such secrecy, but now ... now I think that you must be told."
"Cunt of the Bride," said Zevran. "Just tell me."
"Power has a price, my love," said Leith. "And the time has come to pay it."
"The price, I take it, is not cheap." Zevran's voice was mild and his face was utterly blank. How he hated that look. In every fight they had ever had, this wall was all Zevran gave him, until it was time to smile again. The face is a traitor, went the Crow saying. Silence it.
"Well, why not?" he said to the ceiling, unable to look at his lover any longer. "I shall tell you everything. It is not as if they can do much to me now. You must have noticed ... the blemishes."
"There are three," said Zevran. "Beneath your ear, above your left buttock, behind your right knee."
"Yes," said Leith. "It is the Taint."
"You are a Gray Warden. You are immune." A faint vibration in his voice now. Anger? Fear?
"That is a partial truth," said Leith. "The cure they offered me was only temporary. Every Warden is overcome eventually. The Taint we master, masters us. There are only two choices left then. Become a ghoul, or seek death. It's known as the Calling."
"Seek death. How?"
"The Deep Roads. Orzimmar, usually. The Warden walks in and does not walk out."
"No," said Zevran.
"Love," said Leith.
"No," said Zevran again and climbed astride him. "You will not go."
"I am dying," said Leith. "Some things cannot be denied."
"You will listen," said Zevran, taking hold of Leith's arms. His fingers clamped down like pincers. "Shut up and listen." His eyes, wide and glistening, stared into Leith's. "You are dying. Alright, so. Everyone dies, as you and I both know. So be it. But you will not die in the Deep Roads, and you will not die alone may the Maker strike me dead if I permit such a thing."
"Would you see me succumb?" Leith snapped. "My dreams have changed, Zevran. You do not, cannot know ... I will not live to see them a reality!"
"No," said Zevran. "You will not." A tear spilled from his right eye and rolled slowly down his placid, calm face. "We will go, you and I, to some beautiful house on the sea, and there we will drink wine and make love and talk about our beloved friends and our dead enemies and the life we have made together. And then, some day, when you tell me it is time, we will lie down in the sun and I will kiss you goodbye, and I will send you on. I will kill you. I will not give the last moments of your life to anyone, or any thing." Both his cheeks were wet now. "Do you hear me, Leith Mahariel? I made a vow and you took a ring. I am yours, caro mio, and you? You are mine."
There was a silence in the room.
"As you say," said Leith.
Zevran stared at him a moment longer and then that beautiful mouth began to twist, and his brows came together, and he bowed his head and sobbed once, broken and harsh and full of pain.
Leith sat up, his heart aching as if it were clenched in a vise, and folded Zevran to his chest. "As you say, my darling."