Chapter Text
Traveling with the Wardens, Zevran found himself thinking of the brothel again.
He wasn’t sure what to make of it. In the midst of a Blight and with all the horrors they had met, that he should be reminded of where he lived out his meager childhood seemed almost absurd. He hadn’t thought about the place in years, and it was strange because the memories themselves were quite unremarkable.
He remembered the brothel not as a brothel, but as a collection of experiences.
He remembered being hungry and bored all the time. The little rooms where he and the other children stayed, with their plain walls, simple cots, and broken windows. How it was always drafty. How the roof leaked, right over his bed.
He remembered being beaten, but to be fair, he’d been assured that he deserved it each time (though when he tried to recall what mischief had earned him such punishments, his mind was blank).
Occasionally some of the prostitutes came by to visit their children. These children were the lucky ones; they had someone looking out for them. Someone who scraped together coin to buy them a pair of shoes, or a small sweet cake on their birthday.
That was decades ago, but it was home, for a time. Now those memories clung to him. They had pursued him far from his precious Antiva, and Zevran was left wondering at their meaning, and why they’d persisted at all.
Morning arrived in a misty blanket, leaving frost on all the tents and carriages.
Zevran had slept fitfully again. It was becoming a problem. He could guess at the cause, but he preferred to blame it on the season; even wrapped in layers of wool and fur, it wasn’t close to enough warmth for him.
He shivered in his bedroll. If he resented Ferelden for any reason, it would be for its weather.
Wynne had offered him an enchanted cowl a few days ago, something with feathers and a charm to resist the cold. He’d turned her down politely, having come to the conclusion that the Circle crafted some of the ugliest pieces of clothing he’d seen in his entire life. If it got any colder he might reconsider, but for now he bundled up, wearing gloves and an old wool hat that was too tight around his ears. He made a mental note to sew pockets into it later.
Meanwhile the rest of the camp was slowly rousing awake. Breakfast was cooking, arguments and laughter bubbling up from the livelier members of their company. The day beckoned and there was no reason to postpone it further. Soon Zevran was up himself.
The camp was bustling with activity lately, with envoys from Redcliffe, the Circle, and Orzammar running around. It looked almost comedic, the dwarves and the mages both equally in awe of the vast open sky above them. The fact that Zevran managed to procure a breakfast roll and his own pot of coffee amidst the chaos was a small miracle. The fact that he found nowhere to sit, unsurprising.
He ate standing by Bodahn’s cart while the dwarf finished packing up his tent. It was here that Hamal found him.
Usually an early riser, Warden Mahariel seemed to be still half-asleep. He pulled Zevran into a loose embrace, yawning and resting his chin on his shoulder.
“Tired, my Warden?” Zevran asked, smiling.
“I’m alright, just need coffee,” Hamal replied, holding him from behind. “Why did you have to introduce me to the blasted stuff? You’ve ruined me.”
“Your dependency on caffeine is exactly what I planned for you. Soon we will run out of coffee, and the resulting headache will lead to your downfall.”
The Warden laughed. His embrace was blissfully warm through the layers of fabric, heating him through and waking him up. It was so much better than any coffee.
“How did you sleep?” Hamal asked him after a moment.
Poorly, Zevran thought. Ever since the Deep Roads, I cannot sleep when you’re away, even for one night.
“Poorly,” Zevran said. “Your Ferelden is much too cold for me, I’m afraid.”
A neutral answer with a predictable response. Hamal rubbed at his shoulders with a compelling suggestion about ways of warming him up, and they left the matter there.
Hamal vanished from his side after breakfast. There was Grey Warden Business to tend to. These days, Grey Warden Business had become something very serious indeed, usually involving long discussions with representatives from Redcliffe, Orzammar, and the Circle.
The current plan was to push into the Brecilian forest, to make contact with one of the Dalish clans and recruit them to their cause—a plan Hamal approached with extreme reservation.
“Who is to say we will even encounter one of the clans that were involved with the treaties?” he had asked, days earlier. “We are not a monolith, you know. There are hundreds of Dalish clans all across Thedas. Not to mention, with the Blight approaching, most of them are long gone from these parts.”
“Still, we ought to try,” Alistair had said gently, trying very hard to appease both their allies and his fellow Warden. “If it’s as you say, it’ll be just a few more days’ diversion. Either way, we’ll head back to Redcliffe soon enough. If we don’t try, it’ll reflect badly on us.”
“It’ll reflect badly on me, you mean.”
Zevran, while not privy to the full discussion, gathered that some of the representatives from the Circle suspected Warden Mahariel of withholding information. Hamal, for his part, had simply repeated the fact that only the Keepers had knowledge of other clans’ whereabouts, and that one clan’s agreement to a treaty made centuries ago did not represent the entire Dalish population of Thedas, but his words fell on deaf ears.
Decisions were quickly made, each day was shorter than the last. A lot hinged on finding the Dalish, and soon, at that.
They traveled east.
Alistair and Hamal remained busy, so Zevran walked for a time with Leliana.
He found her company enjoyable, suspecting that they had more in common than either had let on just yet. She was a kindred spirit, a lover of beauty and music, but unlike Zevran she tried to pretend there wasn’t a great capacity for violence in her hands. Maybe she was even right.
He liked that. How much she tried.
She let him borrow a needle and thread, telling him stories as he sewed extra fabric onto his hat.
“Very charming,” Leliana declared, once he put on the finished product.
“Ah, yes?” Zevran asked. “Do my ear flaps entice you?”
“Shh not so loud, mon cher! But… yes.”
They laughed and laughed.
The fog cleared by midmorning. It was closer to noon when the Wardens found something, and the news spread like chain lightning, slowing their caravan to a halt.
“We are stopping for a halla?” Leliana asked, trying to make sense of the commotion.
“Not quite,” Zevran explained. “A wild halla would not cause such excitement. Now, a domesticated halla… that would mean its halla keeper is surely nearby. I imagine it is the latter.”
“Let’s go, then,” Leliana said with a smile. “I’ve always wanted to see a halla, and if we have found the Dalish, Hamal could use our support.”
Zevran looked at her. He didn’t disagree, but he was curious to hear her thoughts on the matter. “He has Alistair there,” he said, thoughtfully. “I’m sure they can handle it well enough on their own…”
“That may be true, but everyone will be looking to Hamal to open these negotiations,” Leliana said, taking the bait. “Which he has never done before. He will have to be both diplomatic and impartial. It must be an awful lot of pressure, especially because he misses his clan so deeply. Does he talk to you about it?”
“No,” Zevran said, trying to keep his voice neutral and failing. “Does he tell you these things?”
“Never!” Leliana laughed. “But you and I are both strangers to this land, are we not? Wouldn’t it feel wistful to chat with someone in Antivan, if only for a little while? Even though it is not his clan, it must be a bit like going home.”
Home! That poetic fairy-tale notion of home seemed to follow him everywhere lately. Zevran did not answer, but he conceded with a thoughtful nod.
Hamal was petting one of the halla when they caught up to him. There were several of the creatures grazing in a meadow. Each one wore colorful lengths of ribbon in its antlers, with intricate markings shaved into its fur.
This herd was artfully tended. Loved, even.
As Zevran approached, the Warden was speaking to the halla very softly, full on Elvhen baby talk. He marveled at its horns, scratching its ears and smiling. Zevran felt an odd little ache in his chest at the sight, and he smiled too.
Then a voice called out from the woods. They’d been noticed.
Alistair hurried over, standing at Hamal’s right-hand side, for it was only proper that both Wardens be present. The scout that now joined them looked wary, but she seemed to warm up as she and Hamal talked.
The Warden’s voice was different in Elvhen. It had a musical quality to it, pleasant to listen to, and Zevran was almost sorry when Alistair interrupted. He so rarely got to hear Hamal converse in his language.
“Greetings,” the senior Warden said. “I hope we didn’t startle you. We noticed your halla and came to investigate.”
Hamal hastily switched to Common. “Forgive me,” he said. “As I was saying, this is Alistair, a fellow Gray Warden. These are Zevran, and Leliana: friends.”
“What curious companions you have, lethallin,” the scout said, smiling. “One of our own joining the ranks of the Grey Wardens and traveling with outsiders... How unusual! Forgive my surprise.”
Outsiders. Of course.
Zevran smiled, aiming for casual and unbothered. Then he set a hand on Hamal’s shoulder. “You go on ahead. We will wait with the others while you make arrangements. I’m sure you have much to talk about.”
“Oh!” Hamal said, surprised. “Alright.”
“Perhaps we could speak to your clan’s Keeper?” Alistair asked. “It’s important.”
“Of course, I will take you to the Keeper right away. I’m sure he’ll have questions for you as well.”
That was their cue to leave. Grey Warden Business had begun in earnest. Leliana frowned as she and Zevran walked back together.
“Why did we not go with them?” she asked.
“I have a feeling it may be a delicate meeting,” Zevran said. “We are not here for recreation, after all. It is best they sort things out before us superfluous folks come along.”
“I wouldn’t call us superfluous.” Leliana linked her arm with his, sensing his mood. “We have our uses, I think.”
“Then they’ll call when we’re needed. I have been among the Dalish before. I know how these things go.”
“Really?” Leliana raised a delicate eyebrow, her interest piqued. “You have been among the Dalish before? When?”
“No matter,” Zevran said, avoiding the question so bluntly, that she did not ask it again. “Come. Let us get back to the others.”
The Wardens stayed with the clan for a long while, such that by the time Alistair had returned, the rest of the camp had mostly settled into a nearby alcove of trees. The senior Warden was apologetic as he quickly issued an order for everyone to pack up and prepare to move.
“No can do,” Alistair explained. “They’re just being cautious. They say it’s not safe to camp here, so let’s, please, get on with it. Carts up, tents away, fires out! The quicker the better.”
Zevran and Leliana gave one another a look.
News of the werewolf curse was received with heavy skepticism; most had never even heard of such magic before. A Blighted wolf, perhaps, but nothing like the monstrous half-men described by the clan. Alistair could not explain further, having not received many details himself, and it didn’t help that Hamal was nowhere to be found, leaving Alistair with the work of coordinating everything.
Zevran was not going to be the one to bring it up, but he did linger near Alistair until someone else with a nosy disposition came along.
“He ran into a friend of his,” Alistair said, when Wynne asked. “The clan is so wound up with worry, they probably wouldn’t have spoken with us otherwise. But his friend vouched for us, and Hamal stayed behind to catch up.”
“The world is so much smaller than we give it credit for,” Wynne hummed, smiling. “How fortunate!”
“It really is! I mean, not the whole werewolf thing. But it always helps to see a familiar face. I imagine it smoothed things over with their Keeper. Now all we have to do is help them break this curse of theirs.”
“Is that all?” Wynne asked. “You are ever an optimist.”
Zevran scanned around, observing the bustle of camp being packed up for the second time that day. Everyone seemed to understand that they were in for a long haul; there was no telling how long before the situation here was resolved. He was already feeling restless.
He remembered the last time he had been among a Dalish clan, out in the open, ready for a new life. He remembered the reason he left, dragged back to the Crows with a raw sense of disappointment.
He grudgingly admitted to himself that a big part of why he was in such a poor mood was for having hardly seen Hamal at all today. Come to think of it, they’d spoken less and less in recent weeks, where before their excursion into the Deep Roads, they had sometimes spent entire days and nights at the other’s side.
That, in particular, troubled him. He hated that he’d even notice such a thing, and that he’d come to need it so quickly. Hamal was busy. Busy gathering forces to fight the Archdemon. Busy grieving Tamlen.
“Cart’s full!” A foreman cried out, interrupting his thoughts. “Rest of ya can carry your packs. Let’s go.”
And now he’d have to carry his things, all for wasting time feeling sorry for himself, like a child.
“Braska,” Zevran sighed, already tired of it.
It was evening now, and Hamal still had not returned.
Zevran was definitely not worried, but he pressed Alistair for answers anyway.
“I guess it has been a while now… I’m not sure,” Alistair hummed nonchalantly. “He is with his friend, so it’s probably fine. Then again, he does tend to get into trouble when left to his devices.” He chewed a mouthful of stew thoughtfully. “Hmm. Shall I come with you to look for him?”
Zevran turned him down, assuring him that there was no need for a search party just yet. However, he took Alistair’s clear and evident worry as reason enough to make the long up-hill trek to the Dalish camp.
The sun had set by the time he arrived. He surveyed the scene from afar, the aravels and tents, draped with heavy furs and waterproof skins. It was very different from how the Antivan Dalish lived, more suited to the cold and muddy Fereldan terrain. The perimeter was carefully guarded in case of another werewolf attack, but mentioning Hamal’s name was enough to grant him access.
Alistair had been right; the clan was cautious, perhaps even paranoid. People’s eyes on him were just a touch past obvious, but he paid them no mind. He focused, instead, on being as unnoticeable as possible—a talent of his. Perhaps, his first. The silence cocooned him.
Then, unexpectedly, he became aware of a lullaby in the dark. All at once old memories came drifting back, and Zevran let them come, curious about days otherwise long-forgotten.
There had been two prostitutes who visited the children some nights, when business was slow. It took a moment, but their names came back to him with the song: Adelmar and Nydia. They played with them, told them stories, and there was always a song at the end of the night, with Adelmar lulling a little huddle of orphans to sleep.
This song! Though the countries and languages were different, the melody was identical.
It was strange to think of the brothel and find a fond memory for once. Perhaps he could ask Hamal about the song when he found him.
By this time Zevran had wandered past the camp proper.
Out here, past the halla pens, past the traditional statue of Fen’Harel, at the edge of the dark forest, he spied two figures sitting together in a close embrace. His reminiscing came to an abrupt halt as he recognized the Warden’s silhouette.
So this was where Hamal had been all this time.
Zevran frowned, perplexed. Why had he come here, truly? Did he really think Hamal would drop whatever he was doing to spend time with him?
He couldn’t hear what he was saying, but, admittedly, it was none of his business. He refused to entertain this ugly feeling that suddenly gripped him. The prudent thing would be to leave, but—
He couldn’t say why, but he moved closer, taking care not to be seen or heard.
“I still cannot believe he is gone,” said a voice, mournful and unfamiliar. “I don’t want to believe it. I can’t—though I know it’s true—oh, Hamal. Lethallin. Oh.”
“I am sorry,” Hamal said, softly.
“You were his best friend… Were you with him, at the end?”
“Yes.” A pause. “I was with him.”
Tamlen.
They were talking about Tamlen.
It occurred to him, in his heart’s painful and damaged ways, that they had Tamlen in common. Zevran had seen Tamlen, as a figment, at the temple at Haven, but he hadn’t lost Tamlen. He’d been to his funeral, he’d helped bury him. That was different.
Tamlen was not something he and Hamal had in common. But Tamlen walked the same reaches Rinna did, wherever dead elves wound up.
He hadn’t buried Rinna.
Zevran felt the solid world dwindling around him.
“Please, how did it happen?” the voice continued. “Did he—did he suffer?”
“I can’t…”
Too late, the realization that this was too private, too personal. He wouldn’t have intruded if he’d known. But Hamal looked so lost. The Warden’s shoulders drooped and he lowered his head, pained.
“… I did it.”
“What?”
“I killed him.”
“No—what do you mean? Hamal…”
“I killed Tamlen.”
And now it hurt, Hamal’s voice raking painfully through the words. Zevran wanted to rush in and stop him but he was pinned down as surely as if the grief were his own. Grief that rushed out from Mahariel. It soaked the landscape. It didn’t stop.
“I had no choice! He was sick with the Taint—he had been for months. He could barely speak, but he begged me—pleaded for it to end! He was in so much pain!” Hamal stopped again, now his voice was shaking. “Creators… I refused! I couldn’t do it! Then he was too far gone, and I had no choice! Mathuin! What have I done?”
“What was necessary! You were with him in his last moments, Hamal! It counts—I promise you, it counts—”
“Alistair said that through the Taint, every Warden is connected to the darkspawn,” Hamal continued. “It’s how we sense them, and how they sense us—and each night, I kept having nightmares, dreams of him calling my name, searching—for me, he was looking for me the entire time, terrified and hurting, every night he was calling out for me—”
“Just dreams, lethallin! You couldn’t have known!”
“The night I killed him, those dreams stopped!”
Finally Hamal had spoken the wound that had been festering all this time. Mathuin could do nothing but pull him close as he sobbed. “It should have been me, Mathuin. Should’ve been me.”
Something shifted, breaking its hold over him. Zevran turned and left, just as silently as he had arrived.
His heart was still hammering in his chest by the time he made it back to the Wardens’ camp.
“Did you find him?” Alistair asked as Zevran walked by.
“No.”
Zevran went directly to his tent. He spoke to no one.
That night he dreamt vividly about a dripping tree. Adelmar stood under its shade, singing lullabies through the night.