matacuervos

by ghostwise

Summary:

A dangerous and wild hope has planted itself in Zevran Arainai's mind: That the Antivan Crows are not nearly so powerful as they think. That his home conceals daggers as well as flowers. And that Antiva can exist without the Crows. It must.

Chapter 1: Four little Crows, off to meet the Maker

Prelude: Antiva City

 

Paisaje de campo bravo,
todo es silencio y grandiosidad,
sólo el rumor de las aves
rompe el arrullo de la soledad.
Las nubes vienen sombreando
a Matacuervos que ya sanó,
torazo que fue indultado,
que nunca la vida jamás les pidió.

Matacuervos, Matacuervos
por algo te puse así,
y yo vi clavarse en tus cuernos
a cuervos traviesos cuando eras así.

- El matacuervos, María Dolores Pradera

 

It was early when Zevran went to the Chantry on Nueva de la Paz, and already the street was teeming with bodies.

More punctual than the birds’ dawn chorus, florists were preparing fresh flowers to sell, bakers were pulling hot bread from big adobe ovens, and pious Antivans were counting prayer beads and mumbling petitions on their way to the cathedral for morning worship. In this sleepy haze of productivity Zevran knelt before a figure of Andraste, and, despite his reasons for being there, his prayer was sincere.

It was a humble plea, made more so because the things he was praying for were things he already had: Good health and comfort, a steady heart, a clear mind, and as always, the Warden.

His Warden! Privately, Zevran wondered if the Maker had willed their meeting and made their ensuing happiness possible, but the idea died quickly. He was deep in prayer; lying would not befit him now, and the All-Knowing would certainly recognize any attempts at dishonesty.

The fact was, the Maker could receive no credit for the glory that was Hamal Mahariel.

Zevran had once told him that he would storm the Dark City itself to be at his side. Was that blasphemous? Perhaps. Better yet, it was true.

The thought was interrupted as a figure kneeled beside him.

Here at last was the true reason he had come. The Chantry sister bowed her head. She held out a satin-lined box, and he carefully placed a diezmo of a silver and two copper coins within.

“Four innocents,” she whispered. “To be sent into the Maker’s arms at midnight.”

Then, with a soft rustle of fabric, she stood and walked away.

 

The city was coming awake now, sun pouring over the rooftops. A pigeon shit on the stone path outside the Chantry, and Zevran glanced at the spot where he’d stood only a moment ago.

The entire courtyard was littered with birdseed and droppings. Iridescent feathers tossed about in the warm breeze, and it was easy to believe that Andraste was watching over him, shooing away pigeons and assassins alike.

Surrounded by all this, a laugh escaped him.

Antiva City was more beautiful than he remembered. Never had he felt so free wandering its streets. When last here, he had been a man chained by sorrow and the Crows. Now he walked leisurely, an equal to the markets and the plazas and all the people there.

It felt lovely to be awake before the heat of the day set in. On his way back, he purchased a whole bag of pan dulce and a package of dark and fragrant coffee beans—expensive ones, simply because he could—then he perused the stores until he found a handheld coffee grinder to replace the one they’d lost during the Blight (a word all but meaningless to him now, relevant at present if only for the loss of that trusty coffee grinder).

Treasures in hand, he walked to the old sawdust inn, dodging shoppers and messengers and street dogs. And because he was a bit of a fool, he ignored the front door, climbing instead onto a bin in the alley, hoisting himself over a wall, pulling himself onto the roof, and rapping insistently at the wooden shutters of the second story window until it opened.

Then, quickly, before gravity won its fight over him, he tipped into the room, where Hamal was waiting with his arms open, to gather him into a cohesive whole, and tie down his straying thoughts with a kiss.

It was a perfectly indulgent moment, a reminder of how sweet life could be. Zevran prayed it would last a little bit longer.

“Quite a dramatic entrance,” Hamal chuckled once Zevran had righted himself. “Dare I ask what you were doing?”

“I was procuring breakfast for us, of course,” Zevran said, setting the packages on the table. “Here. Smell this.”

New love was silly. Here he was bustling with excitement over something so commonplace, so simple. As Hamal breathed in the aroma through the brown paper package, Zevran grinned from ear to ear.

“You bought coffee!” Hamal exclaimed.

“Ha! I thought you might like that! Roasted right here in the city. You will never taste better.”

“And here I’d just gotten used to going without it, after so much time on the ship. Ma serannas, vhenan.”

That was how he knew he’d done very well indeed, for Hamal’s words slipped out in the language of his home only when he truly meant them, and this always seemed to summon a little echo within Zevran of that same feeling. He smiled, watching as Hamal held the package close, breathing in the scent.

And Zevran found that he had no time at all to think of what awaited him tonight at the Chantry. Not when he had coffee to make, and Hamal to kiss, and the entire morning to live through.

 

It was strange to be back.

Returning to the city felt like a curious beginning, the sort that looped around to the tail end of Zevran’s adolescence and picked up where he’d left off. As a young Crow in training he’d never had the privilege of wandering the streets. The gardens and shops were then unfamiliar to him, as were the cobblestone bridges and canals. He only got to know the city as an adult, and even then, he never experienced it the way he did now with Hamal.

“That is City Hall,” he said, nodding towards one of the many historic buildings on their walk. “And that over there is the mayor’s manor… two or three mayors ago. I understand it is a sanatorium now. He was killed by the Crows quite some time ago.”

Hamal listened to all of this, rapt and attentive. That sort of attention still made Zevran a bit shy, though he’d never dare show it. Instead, he translated signs. Repeated words slowly, so Hamal could hear them clearly. Smiled when he tried them in that accent of his, twisting Antivan into something Zevran found strangely lovely, where alameda became almendra became all may dream.

“Close enough,” Zevran said, and despite Hamal’s frown, he kissed him.

Antivan into Common, into Elvhen, and back again, like steps to a dance. In this manner, the day passed them by quickly, eased by the hazy dream that lovers like them often secluded themselves in.

“Do you consider this your home town?” Hamal asked him later.

They were back in their rented room, sharing a plate of empanadas for dinner while the sinking sun cast lines of light upon the table. Zevran looked at him, mulling over the question. As with all things, there was a short answer, and a long answer. The latter called for a rather personal tale.

Perhaps it was time. If not now, when?

“Yes, in fact, though I was not born here,” he said. “It feels bittersweet to be back.”

“Oh, you missed it,” Hamal said, propping his chin up on the heel of his hand. “I could always tell, you know. I was homesick too, so I could see it clear as day.”

“You were very perceptive,” Zevran said. “And I was very homesick. I longed for the sea, for the people and the music and the food of my youth… though it was not home in the traditional sense, I was created here. The boy, melted down, and the man, built from scratch.”

Recognizing the weight after his words, Hamal allowed him a moment to gather his thoughts.

“There is a training villa, somewhere in the city,” Zevran continued. “I do not know exactly where. It is where the vetted recruits were brought to, you see, to begin their… education. It is where Taliesen and I were brought to, where we met as boys. I’ve been searching for it for years, but…”

“They kept the location from you?” Hamal asked.

“It is easier to deal with runaways who do not know where they are,” Zevran said with a shrug. “We were blindfolded during the journey, and during every outing we made after. We wore caps with a cover in front.” He paused and pointed to his eyes, indicating a v-shape. “A mask, like the blinkers they put on horses. We seldom left the villa, but I do remember one thing very clearly: the funerals.”

Hamal listened intently. He already knew to what grim subject Zevran was referring to.

The children who did not survive their training.

“We are raised to be so devout…” Zevran said. “Did you know the Antivan Crows began as an arm of the Chantry? It is not talked about, but it’s true. It’s easy to kill with impunity if you believe the Maker is acting through you. As part of the charade, the buying and selling and abusing of children is seen as a tragic and necessary sacrifice. Lambs at the altar. The Crows do love their departed children.”

Zevran took a deep breath before continuing.

“They are given lavish funerals, honored as soldiers who fell in battle. It is never public, of course. The matter is too unsavory. The services are held at night. I was about eight years old when we lost Rafael and Erwin. We were dressed in our best clothes, marched up onto a hearse, and taken to the Chantry. We were told in clear terms: ‘This is what being a Crow is about! Remember them! Honor them! You will follow them soon enough.’”

“And that is why we are here,” Hamal said softly.

“I found the Chantry.”

Somehow, it became real then. Zevran brushed his hair back and rubbed his eyes.

“I’ve been searching since we arrived, and I’ve finally found it. This is the one, I am certain of it. And just in time; there is a funeral tonight.”

“What are you going to do?” Hamal asked.

“Nothing,” Zevran said quickly. “After the funeral I hope to follow the Crows back, and finally discover where the villa is. Only with that information can I plan the next step.”

“You should have said something sooner,” Hamal said. “We have to prepare—”

“Amor,” Zevran interrupted him. This was the part he’d been dreading. “I’ve already prepared.”

Hamal sat up in his chair and looked at him, brow furrowed.

How could Zevran make him understand? Something within him squirmed at the thought of Hamal being there, in that Chantry, seeing—

Seeing him. His upbringing, and all the shadows of his past. Zevran winced at the thought.

“This is something I’d like to do alone,” he said. “It will be easier this way. For me. Please.”

Food forgotten, Hamal sat back in his seat. They had not been apart much since coming to Antiva, and he’d assumed their first engagement with the Crows would be together. But Zevran was resolute, and after a very long moment, Hamal looked away.

“Will you be in any danger?”

“No,” Zevran said quickly. “I won’t come near enough to be in any danger. This is strictly information gathering. I am going only to observe. But… I am not sure how I will react when I see them. It has been a long time.”

“That’s all the more reason for me to go with you, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Zevran conceded. He bowed his head. It was hard to say no to Hamal, because he loved him, and because he knew his fear well. He’d felt the same fear not long ago, in Denerim, seeing him off to battle.

“Please,” he repeated. “Alone.”

Hamal let out a low sigh. Then, mercifully, he reached for his hand and gave it a firm squeeze.

“You do not need my permission to do anything, vhenan. I trust your judgment. But please be careful!”

“Ah, but of course!” Relieved, Zevran brought Hamal’s hand up to his lips, where he kissed each knuckle. “Home before you know it! You’ll barely notice I’m gone!”

 

Tristeza Villa had met Zevran Arainai three days ago, in the Chantry. It was hard not to notice the young man, for a number of reasons: Firstly, his hair—light against his brown skin—typical to certain Dalish clans West of the city, though he was not Dalish; secondly, his tattoo—sharp, along his temple—which she recognized as the mark of a Crow; and thirdly, the look on his face when he entered the Chantry—not reverence, not comfort, but something akin to recognition.

Feeling bold, she struck up a conversation. She learned he was an orphan, like herself. She learned he was born in Rialto, like herself.

And so it was the Maker’s will that the man who had set out to destroy the Crows should meet one of the few Chantry Sisters who knew what the Crows did with their fallen, and certainly the only one who was opposed to them so fiercely, passionately, even religiously.

“I will help you,” she whispered without hesitation, a fire in her eyes that surprised Zevran. “It is vile, what they do! I cannot believe that all this is as the Maker wills it. Come back to see me in a few days. Ojala, by then, I will have information that will help you.”

Tristeza did not believed in coincidences, so what followed must have been a miracle, albeit a terrible one: a funeral arranged in secrecy for the nameless children of the Crows. Tristeza’s job was simply to procure the candles and incense for the service, and she did so with a weight upon her heart and a prescient feeling in her chest. Maker, what could it mean?

Maker, Tristeza thought that night, reading in her bedroom and finding herself unable to focus on the words. I know it is Your will, or it would not have come to pass! And yet, I am terrified. Forgive me. I know it is right to oppose the Crows but what is my little life, even in its greatest capacity, compared to the whole of them? Andraste, I beg of You: Protect us! Guide us! Keep us from harm!

In the end all she really did was whisper the time to him. The conveniently unlocked cellar door was just luck, or a fluke, or perhaps it was the Maker’s will. She threw a prayer in for Zevran Arainai as well.

Unbeknownst to both of them, it did reach him.

 

The records were just where Sister Villa said they would be.

The ornate architecture of the old Chantry on Nueva de la Paz lent itself to shadows and tricks of the light. Perhaps whoever built had made this a conscious decision: to festoon it in gilded pillars and stained glass, with statues in every corner, chock full of roses, thorns, ivy, faces, a weeping Andraste, a spiral like a snail, a long mantel for hundreds of lit candles to dance their flames upon, and windows so vast and colorful one could stare at them for hours and still not see every detail in them. Such beauty could make one forget all their sorrows.

Zevran allowed himself a moment to appreciate the artistry that surrounded him. Then he corrected himself; this was not the work of the Maker, but the work of the Antivan people.

Centuries of their rich history could be found within the Chantry’s archives; births and baptisms, marriages and funerals, and though not every Chantry had ties to the Antivan Crows—the Crows served the Chantry, not the other way around—this one carried on the proud tradition of affording them protection and blessings. There were others throughout the country like it. Chantries where the clergy accepted coffins too small and bodies too battered without question. They already knew what had happened to them. They didn’t need to ask.

Somewhere in these documents were records of untold crimes.

Working fast, Zevran found the drawer labeled with the most recent year and emptied it. Then he emptied the year prior to that, and the one that followed. Each emptied drawer was filled with blank parchment, which would hopefully eclipse the theft for a few days, at least.

He took as many records he could reasonably carry. Then, taking care to leave the room just as he had found it, Zevran quickly left.

Keeping to the shadows and moving with every means of stealth at his disposal, he slowly made his way to a spot hidden in the rafters, where he waited for the service to begin.

He waited there. Completely silent and immobile, a statue himself, he waited.

Zevran massaged life back into a cramping muscle in his leg. He’d sat here for over an hour. In his line of work, this was not a good sign. Every second that ticked by risked his discovery. Or worse: distraction.

He cursed inwardly, shutting his eyes. There was much of his life that he could reflect on as he waited, hidden in the Maker’s sights, but this was no time for introspection. He was nervous. And he was itching to learn something. Patience had never been his strong suit.

He was so desperate for something to happen that he felt a shameful sense of relief when the doors finally opened.

Almost immediately he chided himself—here he was, grateful that his night would soon come to an end and he could return to his warm room and his lover and his rented bed, while the first coffin was being brought in! Guilt was always his first reaction, whenever the Crows were involved. But he swallowed it quickly and fixed his eyes on the scene that unfolded beneath him.

One, two, three, four little coffins were brought in. Then came the most somber procession he’d ever seen.

He recognized them instantly, for he had once been them. Even the velvet caps were the same, pointed in the front. Seven boys filed in, the oldest looking to be around 10. They were dressed in their finest clothing, with black brocade fabric, clean linen shirts, and shoes polished just so; only the very best for such a grand occasion. He’d worn such clothing himself, long ago.

He’d wondered what it would feel like, seeing these shadows from his past—but he had not prepared himself for this.

Zevran felt nothing.

As the Cleric began to speak, as the young Crows took their seats among the pews, Zevran searched within himself and saw that he was empty. He tried a little harder to draw out a reaction—imaged Hamal at his side, how surely the Warden’s heart would buckle under the sight of children being interred, and he still felt nothing. Not sorrow, not pity, not anger…

Carefully, Zevran removed himself from the scene.

It was not for him to say goodbye to these boys. He made his way outside, unnoticed, where after making sure the street was empty he continued his surveillance from a nearby rooftop. It was an old warehouse, long abandoned, its red-brick façade wearing away.

Here he let out a sigh. A heightened tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding left his body in a rush, leaving him exhausted, and a bit fuzzy around the edges of his thoughts. He forced himself to refocus. Whatever he’d felt or hadn’t felt in the Chantry didn’t matter.

What was I expecting, anyway? he wondered. Too damaged.

Still, it was a relief he had not fallen apart at this, the first step of many to come.

Looking down at the street, Zevran spotted a carriage stopped near the Chantry. There was nothing luxurious about it, from the plain construction of the vessel down to the horses drawing it. The Crows preferred not to draw attention to themselves. It made sense that this was how they had arrived tonight.

Now he would have to wait. Antivan funeral masses were long affairs, and the Crows always added a layer of pomp, with prayers and rousing speeches, anything to reaffirm in the young recruits’ minds just how fortunate they were to have been selected thus by the Maker.

And he had felt special, hadn’t he? Yes, he had. Once.

Zevran closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the brick wall.

 

By his internal clock, nearly two hours had passed before he heard the Chantry doors open again.

The unassuming horse-drawn carriage pulled forward until it reached the entrance. One by one, the Crow recruits filed out the same way they’d come in, quiet and orderly. A tall figure followed after them, shutting the door behind them, and the carriage departed.

Zevran allowed the distance between him and the carriage to grow. Better to be cautious; he waited a while, then, at the precise moment, made the decision to follow, leaving his perch atop the old mill.

He hadn’t done this sort of thing in years, but he hadn’t forgotten it. A rooftop chase under a new moon was the sort of thing he was expertly good at, all of his muscles working in concert: a leap here, a short scramble up onto a water-tank there, his keen elven eyesight penetrating the darkness, careful not to get too close while still tracking the target from afar. A growing sense of apprehension took hold of him, too.

Finally he would know where he’d lived all those years. His life had begun in the most humble of settings, the brothel El milagro. From there he had been shuffled to a cramped apartment in Antiva City’s leather-making district. It’d been little more than a holding area, and the beginning of every horror that would come after. What followed from there had always been a mystery.

But this was all wrong. As Zevran moved from rooftop to rooftop, even dropping into an alley at one point when the way ahead was not viable, he saw his surroundings change. There was no more chipped paint, no more crumbling stone, no missing wood boards.

The carriage had led him to a wealthier neighborhood. Lawyers and successful merchants and scholars lived here—not Crow children!

Zevran pulled himself onto another building and let out a strangled curse. More money meant more security. With all this wealth there would surely be hired guards in these homes, and city police in the streets.

Just as he was beginning to worry, the carriage drew to a stop.

Still at a distance, Zevran crept forward and watched.

The door opened. The tall figure stepped out. And the man that had trained him all those years ago closed the carriage door and made his way to his comfortable home. Then the carriage, so out of place amidst this opulence, carried on further into the wealthy district.

“Shit,” Zevran said, giving voice to his anxiety for the first time that night.

Master Atanasio had been the first Crow he’d ever met, and he’d made all the ones that followed seem meek in comparison. Far from the slavers who’d acquired him at the brothel, beyond the landlord who’d kept him and the others in that dirty apartment, even greater than the starvation and neglect meant to cull the weakest among them, Atanasio’s cruelty and precision were unmatched and unparalleled. He was given children as young as five. The only way out for them was in a casket or as full-fledged killers.

Zevran was no fool. He’d known that the possibility of encountering people from his past had always been there. He was returning, after all, to the halls and torture chambers of his youth. He was returning to root out the monsters that lived there—to ensure nobody else went through what he went through, what Rinna and Taliesen went through. But this was unexpected. This was…

“Shit!” Zevran exclaimed, louder still.

He’d let himself be distracted. And the carriage, with its cargo of young Crows, was gone.

 

The decision that followed was nothing if not pragmatic.

A Crow really was such a fragile thing, all bluster and bravado, but at his core remained something malleable; something for one’s betters to shape and manipulate as needed. Such a grand organization could scarcely get by if its masses held too much agency, and by his own agency did Zevran make his way into Atanasio Trepidus’ estate, where he confronted the old man on the stairs.

He wasn’t sure what to expect. He’d never thought to imagine what such an encounter would entail, but oh, his heart was beating in his chest loud enough that surely Atanasio heard it before he saw him. He had to remind himself that he was no longer a Crow—and that the man before him held no power over him.

Most of all, it had to be true.

Atanasio paused at the foot of the stairs. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“So,” Atanasio said, and Zevran felt his resolve waver. All from just one syllable! But that voice was the same: Hateful, cold, and calm.

Atanasio walked across his darkened study, sliding a desk drawer open. He withdrew a set of matches, striking one to light an oil lamp upon the wall.

Now illuminated, Atanasio gazed at him steadily, searching his face. Then, he let out a sigh. He looked the same. Grayer, certainly, but unchanged. Here was the moment where any professional assassin could tell you the job had gone awry.

“Zevran Arainai,” he murmured. “I am not surprised it is you.”

“And just what,” Zevran said, and found that his mouth had gone quite dry, “do you mean by that?”

“You’ve come to kill me, no?”

Atanasio had maneuvered himself behind the desk—yet another clumsy mistake on Zevran’s part, but he was quite unable to move from his spot on the stairs. Every part of him was screaming at him to get away from this man.

“You were expecting me?” Zevran managed.

“Not you, exactly, but someone. After all, my dear boy,” Atanasio said, and the words made Zevran’s skin crawl. “Look at my line of work! I’m no saint. Sooner or later, someone was going to come. And you… you always had a little spark to you, yes, even back then. Took every lesson without question but Maker forbid I set a hand to one of the other boys; one little bruise and you’d be glaring daggers at me all night.” He chuckled, as if they were reminiscing of good times. “I advised the Grandmaster of this: ‘A bit unruly, that Zevran, but he has potential-’”

The oil lamp shattered beside his head, sputtering sparks before plunging the two of them into darkness again.

“I have plenty more daggers where that came from,” Zevran spat, and took a step forward. “Enough talk. You will answer my questions. Where is the training villa?”

“I don’t know. It changes. By magic.”

Zevran took another step. “Where do the Crows source their slaves from?”

“Requisitions are not my business. I do not ask.”

“I am supposed to believe that?”

“Believe what you want. I am in fact retired; have been for years.”

“And yet you were burying more of your victims tonight! You will tell me what I need to know or-!”

He’d drawn up to the old man now, pressing a dagger against the thin skin of his throat. Atanasio stood stock-still.

“What’s happened to you?” he asked. “What is this tantrum? A Crow does not lose his composure like this. Have you so quickly forgotten everything I taught you?”

“You taught me nothing!” Zevran said, and he continued, fiercely, “You only cut at me—again and again!—until the scar grew so deep that nothing else remained! Until my mind knew nothing else! It was cruel! Erwin had a weak heart! Rafael was epileptic!”

Atanasio was right about one thing: A Crow did not lose his composure. Even with a line of blood beginning to form at his neck, the man looked at Zevran with a wholly unimpressed expression. He remained thus, quietly thinking, before answering.

“Who?”

Zevran slit his throat.

How he would have liked to say something more to him, but all the feelings he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in the cathedral hit him in a devastating wave. He found himself on the floor just as Atanasio fell, blood sputtering from the wound, soaking the plush carpet.

Zevran had once been a Crow, but no longer. A ragged sob heaved out of him, and he wept.

 

Antiva City was awake, and beginning a day like any other, when Zevran returned to the inn.

The door to their room opened before he could knock, and Hamal looked at him, brow furrowed, eyes heavy with lack of sleep. In one quick sweep, he took in the blood-stained clothes. Zevran shook his head. He pushed his way in.

 “I’m sorry,” he said. “I may have… underestimated things.”

As he spoke, Hamal set about a more thorough examination. He slid a hand from Zevran’s shoulder down to his forearm, where he tugged gently at his sleeve, looking at the blood upon it.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, searching for the source.

Zevran glanced down. It had been a messy kill, and he hadn’t explained himself. Stopping Hamal’s hand, he held him still for a moment.

“I am unharmed.”

“Thank the Creators! Zevran-”

“Please don’t. You must know I did not plan this.”

Hamal stood before him, but Zevran could not meet his eyes. Then, worse than any beratement, Hamal simply asked, “What am I supposed to do, Zevran?” His voice was very soft, as he asked him directly, “What am I to do if something were to happen to you and I never found out?”

A short exhale left him, and Zevran chuckled, finding the question far too incisive.

“I suppose you would be better off not knowing what became of me.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Don’t say that.”

Zevran walked to the table. He removed his gloves, and unlaced his collar, suddenly feeling crowded in.

“I need a moment,” he said, and he sat down. Hamal sat with him, but quickly realized he couldn’t bear the quiet.

Hamal pushed off of the table and set about doing something in the background, while Zevran rested his face in his hands. When Zevran looked up again, he saw a bowl of freshly boiled water had been placed before him, along with a washcloth.

Hamal picked up the washcloth and wrung it out, fingers turning pink from the heat. Zevran turned to face him, wordlessly allowing him to clean the blood from his hands and face.

“You must let me face these things with you, Zevran,” he spoke after a moment, not content to let their conversation end.

“They are horrible things, amor,” Zevran told him. “The danger-”

“I’m aware of the danger. I did not leave my clan to come with you on a whim. But if something happened to you, I would be left alone. In a country where I do not know anyone, or speak the language, and still, I would spend the rest of my life here, to mourn you in your homeland.”

Zevran’s eyes filled with tears as Hamal continued.

“I wouldn’t know where you had fallen, so I would honor every street. I wouldn’t be able to guess at where your remains were, so I would plant trees in every town. And if I could, I would find the ones responsible and avenge you, or die trying. But wouldn’t it be better, vhenan, if we faced these things together?” He paused, crouching down before him so as to better see him. “Then we’d protect each other.”

“You realize what this would entail,” Zevran said, fighting to keep his voice even. “Would you kill to follow me down this path?”

“I would,” Hamal said firmly.

“Kill not darkspawn, but people.”

“Yes.”

“Not just murderers or slavers, but unassuming people playing tiny roles in something very large and nefarious—decent people save for an occasional contract, a business deal with the Crows here and there—or even to kill without explanation, if I asked you to?”

“Yes,” Hamal said again.

Zevran shook his head. Impossible to believe, and yet, he felt like a drowning man being pulled from the cold water. His words came out in a rush.

“I’ve done horrible things. I have blood on my hands and I do not feel even a little sorry for it. I intend to draw more blood. Even knowing that… even knowing…”

“Yes, even knowing.”

“And… what if we never succeeded? What if this truly is all a fool’s errand? What if we pressed on for years, for decades, for the rest of our lives, seeking to end something insurmountable—would you stay?”

“I would.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

“Would you kill forever? Would you maim?”

“Yes—”

“Would you marry me?”

Hamal’s eyes went wide, and Zevran, quite beside himself now, continued, impassioned.

“Would you marry me in a Chantry? Before the Maker? So He knows then, if I die- when I die-”

“Yes! I would marry you anywhere, Zevran! Even before the Divine herself if you asked me.”

Zevran looked at him. “Really?” he asked, shocked into gentleness.

“I will marry you,” Hamal said again. “Zevran, I will. I’ll marry you.”

Zevran made no further effort; he only threw his arms around him and held him tightly, feeling Hamal press his face into the crook of his neck. Saying no more they clung to each other in silence, knowing the fear and sorrow were all just marks of the deep love that had found them.

He felt resolute now, more than ever, of what needed to be done.

The Maker did not hold a candle to this feeling. Neither did the Crows. And if he died fighting them he knew all his deeds would be carried by his trembling spirit to the Beyond… where marrying Hamal Mahariel would stand out as the best thing he ever did with his mortal life.

Chapter 2: Introduction to conversational Antivan

Part 1: Rialto

 

The word ‘honeymoon’ was exactly the same in Antivan: luna de miel. This coincidence delighted Hamal, as did the language, which, for all its associations with his beloved, was objectively one full of poetry and art.

Why was a sleeping shrimp a cautionary tale? What did it mean if something was from the year of soup, or fresh as a lettuce? And how could he not admire the way Zevran came alive when speaking Antivan, with all its twists and turns?

He had some time; though the proposal had been spontaneous, the wedding was anything but. There were rings to procure, a chapel to settle on, and assassins to evade. Still, Hamal was in a hurry most unlike him. The mystery of that tongue beckoned him. To learn it was to learn Zevran a little better, so he set about this task immediately.

Numbers and colors first. Days of the week and directions.

Hello, goodbye, please and thank you. Love songs and lullabies. All the vital parts of the language: kiss me, come here, yes.

Terms of endearment captured him the most. He’d already learned some: Amor, corazón, mi vida. Certainly he had many of his own: Ma vhenan, emma lath, mir atish’an. But he liked Zevran’s best, because he heard them so often in that sweet voice, whispered into his ear at market, or amid a flurry of sheets and pillows.

He devoted himself to all this and more.

“You are learning quickly!” Zevran observed, Antiva City far behind them. His smile shone, like the ironbark ring Hamal had gifted him.

“I have a good teacher,” Hamal said simply with a laugh.

Equally thrilling were Zevran’s attempts at speaking Elvhen.

In Zevran’s accent, ma vhenan became something like ven ( which in Antivan meant ‘come here,’ as in, stay with me always), or something like venas (which in Antivan meant ‘veins,’ as in, you are in my blood). As Zevran might say, the interplay of their mother tongues danced.

And when the time came, he said his wedding vows in Antivan.

The process of translating the words from Elvhen to Common, then to Antivan, took he and Zevran the better part of an afternoon—but time moved slower in love, it seemed. Thank the Creators for that. And Zevran had insisted on reciprocating the gift.

In the end they were left with three copies of their wedding vows: one in their respective mother tongues, one in that awkward yet vital bridge of Common, and one in the language of their chosen homes.

A charm, like turning a ring three times to make a wish. Such excess of love and language was like spring after a cold winter.

Such was marriage.

 

Following a quick ceremony in a rural chapel, they vanished into the northern region of the country. They moved quickly, careful not to be tracked—that bloody night in Antiva City remained fresh in both their minds—but their travel involved more pleasure than it did business. They were newlyweds, after all.

There were fruits here that could never grow in Ferelden, sold in little street carts, arranged with such artful skill that it almost seemed a shame to eat them. There were shops selling hand-made sandals and ornate patterned belts, and the smell of the leather damn near made Zevran cry with joy.

Hamal felt he could lose himself in this feeling forever, and with this thought came a startling realization: that Antiva with Zevran felt more like home than Clan Sabrae without Zevran ever could.

He promptly bought Zevran the sword and leather scabbard he’d been admiring.

Every night they went to a different inn, falling into one another; effortless and joyful, the way they fit together, almost like it’d been long-rehearsed. Hamal might whisper something he’d overheard a giggling couple say on the street. Whatever it meant, it caused Zevran to fall back laughing, unable to hide the blush rising to his cheeks.

And every day brought about a new vocabulary lesson so that Hamal could more easily navigate his new home. Over their shared morning coffee, Zevran coached him in important phrases. How to trade, how to ask directions.

“No entiendo. Necesito traducción, por favor.”

“No entendo, nescito…”

“Ne-ce-sito,” Zevran said, elaborating a little. “Like ‘necessity’.”

“Right,” Hamal said, trying again. “Necesito traducción, por favor?”

He’d stumbled through many an awkward translation error, but oh, he tried. It was as much a mark of commitment as the vows they had taken together; as precious the rings that now adorned both their fingers. It was like every word Hamal learned in Antivan translated simply to I do, I do, I do.

“Just like that,” Zevran said, satisfied. “That’s my boy.”

Hamal’s smile pulled at his peeling sunburn, his eyes glinting fiercely with pride.

 

“You know, I grew up near here,” Zevran told him one morning.

He had a map rolled out on the table in front of him. On it were the beginnings of something; a nebulous sketch of the task ahead, a road neither of them knew just yet.

“Did you?” Hamal asked. “Were you born near here?”

“Here, in Rialto,” Zevran said, gesturing. “I lived there before the Crows… acquired me.”

Hamal considered Zevran’s careful choice of words; he knew what he meant, so he didn’t ask for clarification. Instead, he gave him a warm smile, gentle and encouraging.

“I would love to see it, if you’re up to visiting.”

“Perhaps. If we have the time,” Zevran said. “But really, amor , the place means very little to me. I have no childhood home, unless you count the brothel my mother worked at. I had no family there. No friends. None that would remember me, anyway.”

“Still,” Hamal said, “It is your birthplace, vhenan . That alone makes it special. Consider it a sentimental request from your husband?”

The question lingered for a moment, then Zevran rolled up the map quietly. He planted a quick kiss on Hamal’s cheek.

“That, I can do,” he said. “Besides, what better place to continue our investigation into the Crows, than where I first encountered them myself? Perhaps the Crows are still active in Rialto, gathering their recruits the same way they did back then. We ought to investigate.”

“It seems a sound approach,” Hamal murmured. His eyes slid from the map over to Zevran. “So, ma vhenan. Back to business, is it?”

Zevran paused. “Yes. I suppose so.”

That single syllable carried more weight than either of them were prepared for; it heralded the arrival of something unforeseen. A change. An end. Or a beginning.

There was no shame in flinching from it.

Zevran smoothly tossed the map aside, and turned to his husband with a smile.

“For now, let us just enjoy the last day of our honeymoon. What do you say, amor? ”

Hamal laughed. The sound bloomed in Zevran’s chest. But it was settled.

The next day, they departed for Rialto.

Notes:

A much shorter chapter as we segue into the story. I considered how much of the wedding to include here, but ultimately omitted it for a few reasons; thematically, it felt redundant, and in terms of pacing it was too much of a tangent from the plot. And lastly, I've written about it already!

Please check out ironbark, opal, and gold as well as picture our wedding, it'd be summer sour and summer sweet for the wedding fluff.

And as always thank you so much for reading! ;-; I'm excited about this story picking up.

Chapter 3: El milagro

A miracle was taking place in Rialto. And what better place for a miracle than the longest-standing brothel on the city’s promenade? 

El milagro.

For decades it had promised patrons a unique experience; something transformative and life-affirming. Something they wouldn’t find anywhere else. Today it was aptly named.

“Ahtziri’s son is downstairs!”

The news spread quickly through the prostitute’s quarters, high up on the third floor. Past the first floor and all its revelries, past the second floor with its private and comfortable rooms, the flurry of heeled footsteps sounded through the hallways of the old building. “Come quick! Have a look for yourselves!”

Those who were recent hires at El milagro met the news with little more than a bemused smile. But those who had been there longer remembered the scandal like it was yesterday.

“Ahtziri’s son!”

“The laundress! The knocked-up Dalish girl.”

“I remember her. Miss too-good-to-wash-our-linens. Miss wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-whoring.”

Amid the chatter, a sharp intake of air. “Don’t speak ill of the dead. It was a tragedy! She left a child behind.”

“Her son! What was his name?”

“Looks just like her. Blond hair, big brown eyes…”

“Got taken away one day, I remember. Adopted, they said. What was the name? Started with a Z…”

“Ziran? No!”

“Zarah?”

“No, no! Zevran?”

“Yes, that was it! And he’s downstairs right now!”

Of course the old prostitutes remembered. Who could forget? The dead husband, the widowed Dalish girl, the piles of debt, all the rumors of money and passion—and caught amidst all that ugliness, the orphaned baby. But the memories had softened with the passage of time, and the men and women of El milagro chatted amongst themselves, pleased with the reminiscing. Wasn’t it nice to be remembered, bad blood aside?

An Antivan never forgets his roots, they all agreed.

An Antivan always remembers, they said, and nodded wisely at the thought.

 

Meanwhile, unaware of the commotion he had caused, Zevran was downstairs and speaking with the brothel manager in her office.

Gloria Amilcar was a wisp of a middle-aged woman, fragile and thin, save for her soft and lined face. With her hair tied back in an austere bun and her fingernails delicately lacquered, she had a flighty air about her that seemed ill-fitted to her role.

She was also trying very hard to get Zevran to leave.

“I understand, completely. But, as I said earlier, we have a strict no loitering policy,” she said.

“Of course,” Zevran returned smoothly. “With such a fine establishment, your employees must be very busy, I’m sure. Allow me to pay for an hour! I will even pay double! I do not mind, if only to see old friends—”

“It is a generous offer.” She gave a pause, and a forced smile. “But we simply cannot accept.”

“After work, then?” Zevran asked.

“There is no ‘after work’ here at El milagro. I cannot close the brothel to our other clients. This is a business, young man.”

“Then perhaps on a day you are closed? I can return then-”

“We are never closed!”

Zevran plucked at a thread on his trousers, a placid smile fixed onto his face; a tactic to hide his growing irritation. “I am asking to simply pay for an hour or two with your esteemed workers,” he tried again, “As any client would. Am I being denied that right?”

“Precisely. You are denied.” Sra. Amilcar left her desk abruptly. Refusing the opportunity for any further discussion, she opened the door and with a sharp gesture motioned for Zevran to leave.

“You have your answer. Please, go.”

The sounds of the brothel floated in through the open door, and Zevran sat in his chair, impassive.

Truth be told, he hadn’t expected to be met with so much resistance. When he’d first arrived to the brothel he’d been greeted as a guest, but no sooner had one of the older women recognized him that Sra. Amilcar’s demeanor changed entirely. Now his intuition was telling him there was a reason why Amilcar was desperate to get him gone.

This was not a prison. Surely the workers were free to chat with a guest? So why did she seem worried—even afraid?

The thought was interrupted as a familiar voice floated through the door.

“Vhenan? Oh, there you are.”

Hamal had evidently grown tired of waiting out on the street.

If she hadn’t been scandalized already, Sra. Amilcar was doubly so now. She scanned Hamal from top to bottom, eyes wide. “Ven-an?”

“Ah! Hello.” Hamal simply smiled at her as he sidled in past her. “Very little Antivan, sorry! My husband is done? Everything good?”

“Everything is fine, amor,” Zevran said, looking at Sra. Amilcar pointedly. “Just negotiating.”

“I was just,” Sra. Amilcar interrupted, her voice terse and jumping from syllable to syllable, “telling your husband that we cannot accommodate his request. Please, gather your things and leave. You know? Get out. Go away. Goodbye, no more! Perhaps your husband can translate more properly! Shoo!”

She elaborated further by pointing rather aggressively towards the exit.

Zevran and Hamal exchanged a look.

It wouldn’t be the first time they had been kicked out from an establishment. It would, however, be the first time they were kicked out as a married couple, and that made it special.

Zevran smiled, with a soft tilt of the head, as if to say, see what I’m dealing with?

“Oh,” Hamal intoned, a hint of mischief in his eyes. He looked from his husband to Sra. Amilcar and then repeated, “Sorry, very little Antivan, very bad. I can explain: We are married! On our honeymoon.”  He made sure to speak loudly enough that his strongly accented Antivan rang clear out across the brothel. “Where can I pay? I will pay everything. A gift for my husband!”

By now, the discussion had drawn the attention of others, who erupted into cheers at the declaration. Zevran grinned, simply beaming under Hamal’s confidence, and the way the prostitutes shouted encouragement and praise: What a doting husband! What a thoughtful gesture! Were they open to adding a third?

Meanwhile Sra. Amilcar had grown quite pale. Swaying a bit on her feet, she seemed to steel herself before taking a deep breath and stating loudly, “Enough! I will call the city guard if you do not leave, NOW!”

 

All things considered, this was much farther than Zevran had ever expected to get.

Nevermind the fact that they now found themselves on the street, having been swiftly expelled by the brothel’s security. The visit had been enlightening, and not entirely a waste. For instance, he knew now that the brothel was still running, and under the same management, too. But the reaction he’d met within had been troubling.

“I am sorry.” Hamal grimaced. “I may have made things worse. I should have waited-”

“She had already decided to kick me out when you showed up,” Zevran assured him. “But it was very fun to watch, amor.”

“I am glad you had fun. I cannot recall ever seeing you so unhappy in a brothel, ma vhenan.”

Zevran laughed softly. He did not respond.

“You seem distracted,” Hamal observed after a moment. “What happened?”

Zevran looked up, and found Hamal’s eyes on him. “That woman in charge,” he said with a frown. “She was afraid of me.”

“Afraid? Why?”

“I cannot rightly say. I suppose I was drawing too much attention. Everything was fine when she thought I was just another customer to charm. But as soon as some of the older prostitutes recognized me, she suddenly became quite concerned. She forced them upstairs and pulled me into her office, where you found me.”

“They recognized you?” Hamal asked.

Zevran let out a sigh, mulling over the unexpected influx of memory and feeling. It was more than he’d expected. More than he’d been prepared for.

“They did,” he said, voice softening. “They were pleased to see me. They greeted me like an old friend.”

“Did you recognize them?”

“Yes, in fact. Sofia and Nadia. They and another young woman named Adelmar used to take turns watching me and the other children.”

“All these years and they did not forget you! You must have left quite an impression,” Hamal suggested, with a smile.

Zevran considered it; then he grinned, and an exuberant little laugh escaped him.

He had never expected to be remembered.

He remembered El milagro, of course, because he had suffered so much there. But here were people who had lived beside him, and watched his childhood years from their own perspective. In a sense they were witnesses to a crime, though they did not even realize it.

“I must speak with them at once,” Zevran said earnestly. “They could tell me things about my past. About my childhood. About the Crows.”

Hamal nodded. “We must find a way to get past this Amilcar woman. But for now,” he added, glancing at the first-floor shutters of Gloria Amilcar’s office, “I suggest we leave, before she calls the city guard.”

 

Gloria Amilcar peered through the shutters of her office window, watching the retreating figures of the two unwelcome visitors until they vanished into the distance. Being a woman of little imagination, she felt her heart rate settle almost instantly.

Thank the Maker, it had been taken care of quickly.

She shut the blinds and tucked a loose strand of hair back into her updo.

The situation with the Dalish boy—now a young man—had certainly been unexpected, but she had handled it, in her own opinion, with grace and intelligence. Now this Zevran and his strange foreign companion were gone, and they would not return again.

And why would they?

After all, what good would it do for them to dig any deeper? To linger nearby, esculcando where they shouldn’t and stirring up trouble? Even if they tried it, she would make sure they were swiftly taken away and locked up. Pull a few strings, pay a few guards. Send a strong message.

But it hadn’t come to that.

Feeling pleased with that conclusion, Sra. Amilcar went back to her desk.

It was her duty to keep such things from the workers. Threats to El milagro could imperil their all their livelihood in ways few could understand. Not only the wayward sons of politicians, or a dozen noble-born bastards to keep track of; running a brothel involved a lot of customer service—but she had hosts who took care of that. Mostly she handled the administrative side of things.

She tallied up totals and calculated expenses. She filed things that were necessary, or made it so that they were not necessary after all, ensuring the owner’s accounts were always in good standing. Obscuring a few lapses here and there. Falsifying birth certificates. The financial records needed to be completed by a deft hand, so the tax collectors wouldn’t dig too deeply into things. She was good at all this. El milagro kept her busy. She had no time for disruptions. No time for mess.

As she pulled out a list of supplies for the next month, she heard the door swing open.

“Is he gone?”

“Who?” Sra. Amilcar asked, without looking.

“That man,” Nadia said, and settled into the now vacant chair. “Zevran.”

“Ah,” Sra. Amilcar said. “Yes, he’s gone.”

Nadia regarded her closely.

She was a gem, and a gossip, a favorite of the customers for many years. Sharp-tongued and honey-eyed, Nadia had no surname, but she held half the city's secrets in her pockets—she'd even birthed a few herself—and she enjoyed a certain rapport with the brothel manager. Simply put she was irresistible, with her aged and deep-set features, which now focused into a critical and exacting look.

“Did you kick him out?”

Sra. Amilcar set an inkwell and fresh pen upon the table. She laid out her lists of supplies, her tally of accounts, and her roster of the brothel’s most productive workers, and only the faintest tremor of her right hand betrayed her.

“Money has been a bit tight, Nadia,” Sra. Amilcar said carefully. “I may have to let a few of the girls go if things keep up.”

“Sure,” Nadia hummed. “What is it he wanted anyway? I never get to see you make such a fuss, even when the clientèle gets rowdy, so…?” Under the sharp warning glare of the brothel manager, Nadia grinned. “Did he want to know about his mother? Is that it?”

Sra. Amilcar cleared her throat sharply. Unable to hold Nadia’s gaze, she  looked away, subdued.

“Yes,” she lied quietly. “And I told him the truth: We know nothing about it. It was all too long ago. He was understandably disappointed.”

“I see.”

Nadia watched her for a moment, allowing the silence that followed. When Sra. Amilcar said nothing more, she got up from the chair, and gathered up her skirts.

“Well,” she sighed, “I was just curious. No reason to dwell on the past. Not in this line of work, right?”

“Exactly!” Sra. Amilcar let out a little sigh, pleased to be understood.

A soft moment for Nadia to prod into. She stood beside the door, casting a glance over her shoulder.

“And Gloria?” she asked sweetly before leaving.

“Mm?”

“You will find a way to stretch the budget, won’t you? You’re so good at that. I’ve always said numbers were just one of your many talents.”

“Yes… well.” Sra. Amilcar paused. “You’re right, of course, Nadia. I’m sure I will figure something out.”

Notes:

This marks the beginning of one of our first subplots. I did Nanowrimo this year, so this was put on the backburner for a while. With the holiday season it might be a bit before the next update, but in the meantime I still post art and drabbles on my tumblr under the same username. Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 4: La joya

“Philanthropists,” the woman said with a flourish, and she snapped her fan shut in distaste.

It was hot in the basement of the brothel, La espina dorsal , and the thick and heavy scent of bodies permeated the room. The heat was making her make-up drip off, which was quite a sight to see amidst a backdrop of entwined lovers.

“Philanderers, more like,” she continued. “They claim it’s all worth it if the babes end up cared for. That a Chantry cloister will protect them better than here.”

“You doubt it?” Zevran asked.

She scoffed.

“Not without reason,” she said. “But… if they are so charitable why not come for the orphans sooner? Why wait years between visits? Why not take every child in need, not just the healthy ones?” Bitterness laced her voice, sending a shiver down Zevran’s spine. “All I know is, the day my friends were taken was the day I decided I was done with the Maker. Perhaps you can ask the Chantry why they don’t help all of us; why a bum leg makes a six year old girl unfit to serve Andraste, but fit enough to stay in this sty.”

Zevran glanced at Hamal, sharing the same grim thought. Rocio’s mangled leg would have been a death sentence for a young Crow recruit. And yet, leaving her behind was no mercy.

Zevran shifted closer, asking his next question with great care.

“It seems your friends were taken around the time frame we are investigating. Do you recall anything else about the day they left?”

A lengthy pause followed. Her eyes briefly seemed to focus elsewhere, before she answered. “No. I’m sorry. They didn’t leave any information. Just said I wouldn’t be a good fit where they were going.”

“Thank you for your time,” Zevran said when they had finished talking. “And your lovely company.”

“Didn’t even do nothing!” Rocio chuckled, taking the money. “But alright. See you ‘round.”

Stepping out of the brothel, Zevran couldn’t help but feel as stifled as he had indoors.

The sun bore down like a dagger. They’d spent all day searching for leads, visiting brothels and orphanages across the city with the same story: that they were tracking down a long-lost relative.

It was not entirely a lie. Zevran felt a genuine kinship with the workers of Rialto’s brothels; they had raised him, after all, and just like anyone else in the city, they sought only to make a living, to raise enough coin to build a life. But they had few protections when things went wrong. A single misfortune—a death, an illness, or an arrest—was all it took. When children were involved, it spelled grim consequences.

They had yet to find any tangible evidence, but many of the brothels had reported curiously similar anecdotes: a generous donor, a charitable organization, or an anonymous do-gooder who arrived to adopt the forgotten children. The offer would come with uncanny timing, often just when it was needed most. And who could argue against one less mouth to feed?

No records, no documentation of where they’d go. It was easy for the city to look the other way, for these were orphans or bastards or both. And so they were taken, no questions asked.

It made Zevran’s blood boil.

He sulked in a bad mood the entire way back to the cheap sawdust inn they’d paid double what the humans paid to lodge at. He persisted in a sour mood through dinner, and even after they went to bed—only to wake Hamal in the small hours of the morning, too angry to sleep.

“I do not think it was the Chantry that came for those children ten years ago,” Zevran hissed. “Or perhaps I don’t want to believe it… and yet, Sister Tristeza also spoke of this allegiance between the Crows and the Chantry. How deeply does it run?”

“How deeply what?” Hamal asked in a sleep-tinged voice, but Zevran continued in frustration.

“Of course a girl with a mangled leg would be found unfit for the Crows. She would have died during training. But would knowing the true fate of her friends change anything? She was abandoned. She needed saving.” Here he paused, for his anger threatened to spill over.

Rocio’s fate felt intertwined with his, separated only by happenstance. Her mangled leg had saved her, but not from everything.

“Could she still need saving?” Hamal asked, and Zevran realized, by the cadence of his words, that he was half-asleep. “Could we?”

The question resonated enough to slow Zevran’s racing thoughts. He couldn’t tell whether Hamal meant could we need saving, also? or could we save her?

It felt self-aggrandizing to think they could save anyone, damned as they already were.

“I don’t fucking know,” he said at last, all too aware of his bitterness leeching out.

Hamal sighed and regarded Zevran for a long moment.

“Someone will put a stop to it,” he said finally. “The people will not allow it to continue once they realize what is happening. They will wonder why they never hear word from the adopted, and they will be wary when the next Crow recruiter comes.”

“With any luck,” Zevran said fiercely, “We’ll find him ourselves first. And put daggers in him until he tells us all we need to know.”

“Exactly.” Hamal fell back onto his pillow, like a log. “Come back to bed, vhenan .”

Zevran shook his head. Sleeplessness had claimed him already—yet he grudgingly climbed under the thin sheets with Hamal.

“I will, but I won’t sleep.”

“Keep watch then,” Hamal said, in a voice drowsy enough to curb any argument. He latched onto Zevran’s arm and then he was out like a light—leaving Zevran in awe of how quickly his husband could sleep, even in these circumstances.

.

Dawn broke over the city and fatigue had tempered Zevran’s anger for the time being. He’d managed to sleep for an hour or two before they began the day’s investigations. Fortunately he was used to running on fumes.

“How many brothels are there in Rialto?”

It was a particularly sunny morning. Hamal had pushed all of his curls into a messy bun, and shoved the whole mess beneath a wide-brimmed sombrero , but Zevran rather suspected he needed more sun protection than that. For now he led him through shaded alleyways, avoiding the crowded main streets and the direct sunlight.

“It’s a very large port city,” he responded.

“So?”

“Lots.” Zevran smiled at him. “About a dozen at least. Ah, if only we were here under better circumstances! A brothel is normally a place of good cheer and relaxation.”

“We will just have to come back when we are not tracking down slavers,” Hamal said with a smile.

“Now there’s an idea,” Zevran said, contemplating it. His thoughts briefly recalled The Pearl in Denerim. “In any case,” he continued, “one of these places is bound to have a lead. Someone, somewhere, knows something. We just need to find the right person to talk to.”

“Perhaps,” Hamal said. “We may have already found her.”

He gestured with a short motion of his head to the cobblestone road behind them. Zevran followed his gaze.

It took him a moment to recognize her without the heavy layers of make-up, and she walked in the company of another woman, but her dark curls were the same as when they’d seen her yesterday, and she carried the same light-weight aluminum cane with her. It caught the light and shone like a mirror as she swung it forward with every step.

She greeted them with the false names they had taken to using in the city. “Amrit! Hirael! My, you two are hard to track down!”

“How did you manage?” Zevran asked.

“Whores talk, you know,” Rocio laughed. “I mentioned your visit to my friend here, and I quickly learned you’d been visiting nearly every brothel this side of town. I said, Maker, he must have an appetite!”

The woman beside her offered her hand. “Elena,” she said, giving Zevran and Hamal’s a hearty shake. “I work at La joya. ”

“A pleasure,” Zevran said.

“It will be,” Rocio said. “Tell them!”

Elena waved her hand excitedly, beckoning Zevran closer, and when he was near enough, she whispered: “A man came to La joya a few days ago,” she said. “He was from some charity in Salle. A trade school for impoverished children. He said his work took him around the country—to brothels, orphanages, hospitals, you know. Places where children often wound up alone. They’d teach them to read and write, and hire them out to factories who would provide for them while they worked. Any child! The elves, the humans, even if they were mage-blooded. Sounds fishy, hm?”

Zevran took a deep breath. This was it; exactly what they’d been looking for.

“Can we find somewhere to talk?” he asked. “You can tell us what you know, and we will tell you a little more about why we are here.”

.

They came to a brick building, covered in flowers that clung to the walls in enticing greenery. La joya lived up to its name. The windows glimmered and the scent of perfume was strong, even outside. Inside, the atmosphere likened more to a spa or a fine bathhouse. This did not escape Zevran, who raised a brow, looking at Hamal.

“Can’t say I’ve ever been here,” he said.

“Can’t say I’ve ever worked here,” Rocio sighed. She rubbed her hip with a grimace as they walked on.

They were greeted by several guests as they went. More than once, Elena kissed a patron on the cheek, shook hands, or embraced them with a cheerful, “Lovely to see you! But it’s my day off, darling. Do come again tomorrow.”

Down a hallway and to the left, they passed a well-stocked kitchen, then exited again to a central courtyard where potted flowers were arranged in clusters along the path. It was quiet, with the bustle of the streets lowered to a dim hum. From there they crossed the way to another building, which rose above the treeline.

“Where are we going?” Hamal asked.

“To speak to the boss,” Elena said. “The apartments are this way.”

“Apartments? Your employer lives where the workers live?” Zevran asked.

It was far from what Zevran was expecting. The building they arrived at was a tenement for the workers—aged, with flaking plaster, small and humble rooms, yet clean and maintained. When Elena knocked on the door, it was like they were visiting anyone on the street. The middle-aged woman who answered looked like any woman at the market.

“Ah, it is you!” she said, and waved everyone inside. “Come on in. I take it you are you the ones tracking down your family?”

Rocio made a beeline to a wood and wicker chair near the woodstove. She sat and hung her cane on a hook on the wall, then procured a small bag of tobacco from a drawer.

“Mind if I smoke?” she asked.

Elena walked into what could barely be termed a living room. She dropped into the lap of a tall light-haired man, who kissed her, gripping her tightly by the shoulders.

“Take that as a yes,” Rocio hummed.

There were a lot of people in the apartment, gathered together with the ease of friends who’d known one another for years. For a moment, Zevran wondered if he’d misunderstood the purpose of the visit, but they were guests, and so, he practiced patience for the time being.

“Thank you for having us,” Zevran said, shifting his bag off his shoulder. “Who is the owner of La joya?”

Rocio stifled a laugh. She grinned, as if she was revealing a grand secret with her answer.

“Everyone!”

It took a bit of explaining.

There were nine people crammed into that tiny apartment, six of them workers at La joya. Besides Elena, there were Damian and Cora—prostitutes. Lara, who had answered the door, managed the washrooms. Jania, an elven bodyguard on her day off. Terror, a stripper—distinguished from Damian and Cora for his strict no-touch policy, though he assured them, he had no need of touch to leave his audience satisfied.

“I don’t quite understand,” Hamal said in whispered to Zevran in Common. “They explained it too quickly.”

“It is something like what the workers of The Pearl did,” Zevran explained. “But they went a step further—they pooled their money to buy the entire business.”

“We are the Rialto Society of Pleasures,” Elena said with a flourish. “Cooperatives like this exist across the country—but we are the first for workers of brothels, opium dens, and pleasure houses. We keep the money we make, and work together to run things.”

“It is effective,” Rocio drawled amidst puffs of smoke, “more or less. There is quite a bit of turnover—”

“Because no one is bound to stay,” Lara said. “That is important. No contracts. Just rent, and board, for those who need it, that sort of thing.”

Zevran took in the information as he did anything else in life; recognizing its immediate impact on him (none) and its objective merit (excellent). He sidled up to the counter in the small kitchen and looked at all the proud and smiling faces around him.

If his mother had wound up in a brothel like this—

But she hadn’t. No use dwelling on it.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said. “Were I not otherwise occupied I might even consider applying!”

“Really?” Rocio giggled. “Get in line. My application’s been in for months.”

They had good reason to be proud. Not every prostitute was so fortunate. And yet, it had taken years, a lot of work, and a dash of luck to make it happen.

But they had not come here to talk about business; Zevran quickly refocused.

“Now that we understand how things are run here, tell us about this visitor you received. Who exactly spoke to this man?”

“Jania and Damian,” Lara said.

“And so when the stranger came and offered to adopt any orphaned children…”

“We told him we had no unwanted children,” Damian explained. “Some of the workers choose to raise families, and occasionally we take in children when their parents cannot care for them, but it’s never a hardship. So he left empty-handed. That was that.”

“But that was not all,” Hamal observed after a moment, in his careful Antivan. “Or why talk to us?”

Rocio pulled a deep drag from her cigarette.

“We robbed him,” Jania said.

“Ha!” Hamal’s face lit up; his Antivan was still middling, but he understood her easily.

Damian produced a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket. He passed it to Cora who passed it to Lara, who handed it to Zevran, who unfolded it.

“These fools are always writing shit down and it is their own undoing,” Hamal observed in Common, as he read over Zevran’s shoulder.

The paper contained a handwritten list of brothels in the city. The majority of them were struck out, along with a tally system beside some of the names. Only a few on the list remained unchecked. El milagro was one of the brothels which had not yet been struck through.

“I didn’t like him,” Damian said. “He gave me a bad feeling. But I didn’t think anything of it until Rocio stopped by, and mentioned your search. Could this have anything to do with it?”

Zevran creased the paper slightly, brow furrowed. “These tallies…”

“Whores he slept with, we assumed,” Rocio said.

“No,” Zevran said softly. “Children they’ve taken. I think I must tell you,” he said, looking up at the Rialto Society of Pleasures, “The truth. But it is horrible. And we have little time to act.”

.

Rocio had put out her cigarette. She sat hunched at the table, lost in her thoughts, and she hadn’t spoken since Zevran explained everything. Sometimes the truth was cruel. Even when it was necessary.

The rest of them considered what could be done.

“We should bring the list to the city guard,” Jania suggested.

“What will they do, exactly? A piece of paper is hardly proof of anything. Even if they believed us, something tells me they wouldn’t exactly jump to action,” Elena said.

“Unfortunately, you are correct,” Zevran said. “What I have shared with you is already common knowledge in some circles; I am quite certain the owner of the brothel I grew up in knew exactly where he was sending us off to. But… you deserve to know for yourselves, what has been happening all these years.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“We are going to find them,” Hamal said slowly. “And kill them.”

“His Antivan is not very good,” Zevran added in the silence that followed. “He means, we will tie them up. As in, we will capture them.”

Hamal glanced at him, annoyed.

Zevran held up the note. “You have helped us tremendously with this information alone,” he said. “Thank you. I pray you never have to deal with these slavers again. If we have any success, you won’t.”

“That’s all?” Rocio asked, looking up at him over an ashtray.

“Please! Whatever you are going to do, we want to be a part of it,” Elena insisted. “These are our children targeted.”

Zevran frowned. He strongly felt that it was not wise to get more people involved; too many hands in too delicate of a situation was never a good thing. He had intended to warn them rather than involve them, to protect them rather than endanger them, but Hamal set a hand on his shoulder, switching to whispered Common.

“Might be good to have eyes out, Zev. There are a lot of names on this list and we cannot surveil all of them. Let’s do it this way,” he said, gesturing to the paper. “Send them here, and here… At the very least they can carry a warning. Just in case.”

Zevran nodded thoughtfully. It occurred to him, not for the first time, how much more daunting this journey would be like without Hamal’s counsel and support.

“Very well,” he said, turning back to the group, “We cannot visit every site on this list tonight. Go to these locations.” He dabbed a gloved finger into the ashtray, and used it to indicate several names, before handing the list back to Elena. “But be discreet; simply warn them that a suspicious person might come, bearing lies. And I implore you—do not mention us, by description or name. You could endanger yourselves more than you realize.”

“Got it,” Elena said, scanning the paper already. “Let’s split up.”

“What do we do if we find the bastard?” Damian asked.

Zevran hesitated. “Stall. Find a way to keep him entertain, until we arrive.”

“But-”

“We will be there,” Zevran said quickly. “Now, we have a few hours to act; these visits, to my knowledge, happen under cover of night. We must prepare.”

.

Zevran clasped Hamal’s arm and led him away from the building at a frantic pace. That small apartment had begun to feel claustrophobic. He wanted it far behind, and besides, he knew where they were needed next.

“I’m sweating,” Hamal said, walking along hurriedly. “That building was hot. Zevran, what-?”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked simply, voice clipped in urgency. Signs and windows rushed past as they jogged through the streets.

“Yes! The next place they will try to buy recruits from. That woman at El milagro,” Hamal said. “She was afraid of you because she was expecting someone. Someone she didn’t want you to meet.”

“Exactly,” Zevran hissed. “He is going there soon, I know it. She wanted us gone, because she knew who I was and she knew why we were there—”

“ Zevran, slow down—”

Hamal dug his heels in. Exercising a bit of his marital privilege, he scooped Zevran up into his arms, steadying him for a moment.

“Slow down, vhenan,” he said firmly. And quickly set him back down, before Zevran had a chance to complain.

Zevran huffed, aiming a quick glare at him before turning away. “If it is the same man…”

“I know.” Hamal plucked the string of his bow, worn around his chest. “I will handle it.”

Zevran shook his head. “You don’t need to do that.”

“It would be very easy. Listen: point at something for me to shoot. Go on. There’s no one around.”

Zevran frowned at the game. He hesitated to waste time when every second seemed necessary, but truly, he was not thinking clearly. He did as he was told. “That water pail,” he said, feeling mischievous.

In an instant it was useless, punctured with an arrow from Hamal’s bow.

“Again,” Hamal said. “A challenge.”

Knowing perfectly well what he was capable of, Zevran spied around for a moment. Then he spoke, with an arm outstretched. “That poster on the wall, the red one. Sixty yards down. By the flowers.”

Hamal took a moment to aim, but he loosed an arrow just as easily. Of course, it hit dead center.

They walked together to retrieve the arrows.

“It will be that simple,” Hamal spoke. “You will not need to be strong, fast, or even brave for this, Zevran. Just point at him. If this is hard for you, just tell me where to shoot.”

“Amor, I appreciate that. But this will be difficult,” Zevran explained, pulling his arrow out of the wall it had embedded itself in, “Because we will need this man alive.”

He handed it to Hamal, with a somber look as the Warden took the arrow.

“We will need to take him and question him. We cannot kill him right away. That complicates things. Increases the risk of things going wrong. Think: Can he signal someone? Will he be alone or will he have backup? Will he be armed? Will he have…”

He stopped, unable to say it.

“Children with him,” Hamal concluded with a sigh. He understood, then. “Oh, ma vhenan. There was nothing you could have done for those boys in the church.”

Zevran nodded, avoiding his gaze. More than anything, he worried about what might happen.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Chapter 5: The wise assassin

As a young boy, he’d mastered the art of escape.

Out through the window with the loose screen, over the wall separating the apartment from the brothel, and around the corner into the alley (where he’d once witnessed a heartbroken suitor serenade one of the whores until a guard was called to drag him away). Then, through the gaps of the iron fencing and out into the street. The path led to a narrow walkway between the apothecary and the butcher, where the crowds would conceal his small figure until he was well out of view. Just like that, and at last! He would escape, sprinting down the street, and enjoy every instance of his temporary freedom, for he knew he’d get a beating once it ended.

And it always ended. What choice had he but to come back home at the end of the day?

Now he made the journey in reverse.

His jaw was set in a grim expression as he hurried down the familiar streets.

Even with Hamal at his side, he was wary of what he’d encounter there, at the place of his first sorrow. That run-down apartment he’d seen plenty of times in his dreams. Meanwhile everything else had stayed mostly the same, though the apothecary seemed to have fallen into some ill repute, with delirious and dazed customers exiting as they passed, and the butcher had changed ownership. The iron fence was gone—torn down and replaced with a low brick wall covered in graffiti and grime—but it was just as well, because he would not have been able to slip in between the railings. Not after 20 years away.

And it mattered little whether they were spotted. But thankfully they weren’t.

As they approached the apartment where Zevran had lived out his meager childhood, he heard small and scuffling footsteps. He stopped and grabbed onto Hamal’s hand to keep him close as they watched from the shadows.

Here it was. His only childhood home.

It looked better than he recalled.

There were no broken windows. The walls sported a fresh coat of paint.

The children were, a gaggle of them, dressed a great deal better than the rags he had lived in once. Why, they even had shoes on, running in and out of the building with toys in hand. And the fact that they were free to go outside at all, not locked indoors the entire day, was especially striking to him.

They were talking amongst themselves, or playing, or perhaps even being unkind to each other—he couldn’t tell, couldn’t hear them—but there, a ponytail yank! And a responding kick! One of them, apparently in charge of supervising his peers, quickly broke up the conflict. And back they went to the patched up ball, kicked against the side of the building with a thud.

Hamal looked at him. Zevran shook his head, unsure of what he was feeling. But he whispered, “Thank the Maker. They are still here.”

“We are not too late,” Hamal ventured after a moment. “What’s the plan?”

Of course. They still had a slaver to catch. And time running out, and no idea how to do it. Zevran had only his own fortitude and a prayer between his teeth. And Hamal, of course.

“Keep watch,” he said. “If anyone tries to take them, you know what to do. I will pay another visit to our friend at El milagro .”

 

As he walked, Zevran thought hard about blame. He hadn’t yet decided how to parcel it out. Who was to blame for his unfortunate life?

Certainly Atanasio was to blame, but Zevran had killed him in Antiva City, and it hadn’t been enough. Guildmaster Talav had been in charge of House Arainai when he was purchased, but he, too, was dead; killed years ago in one of the Crows’ frequent exchanges of power. And Grandmaster Eoman… well, Zevran had plans for him.

What of Sra. Amilcar, who had overseen his purchase? She was to blame for enabling the cruel deed, and worse, she was to blame for impeding their search, and for her continued involvement in these crimes. But she seemed too meek to have acted alone all these years. Someone else was involved, someone with connections. Whose pockets were growing fatter with each stolen child?

He would wrench answers from somewhere, that much was certain.

And he was waiting for Gloria Amilcar when she returned to her office.

The moment she closed the door, he spoke as low and even and close to her ear as he could: “Stay quiet, or you’re dead.”

In the instant of her strangled gasp he was gripping her by the shirt. He held up his hand, pressing a finger to his lips with a look that, was severe yet still implied the possibility of kindness. His daggers were not concealed, but brazenly worn on a bandolier. This was key to the ruse. He saw her eyes flick to their sharp edges at once.

“I don’t need to use these. But that depends on you entirely.”

He locked the door before dragging her to the desk.

“I am giving you a rare opportunity, Gloria,” he intoned, pushing her into the chair. “You might save your own skin yet, but only if you act accordingly.”

Here, she finally composed herself enough to speak. “How did you get in?”

“Crawlspace,” he scoffed. “Brief though my last visit was, it told me enough information for even a novice Crow to infiltrate your humble little hovel. It did not escape me that the parlor is bigger from the outside. My, my. What are you hiding, that you need a concealed passage along the building’s west end, I wonder? Clandestine meetings? Illicit lovers?”

She knew better than to hint, deny, or argue. But she grew a shade lighter, whispering simply, “Crow?”

“Do not act surprised! You gave me to them.” He paused, and gestured down to his figure. “Is it so unlikely that I return in their form?”

At his words she recoiled, and there was a genuine starkness to her face. Her eyes had grown wide, lined with terrified tears. Not of compassion, but of fear: fear for her own life.

Zevran smiled wide.

“First things first. How many children are you selling today?”

“I don’t…” She grimaced. After a moment, she squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “None.”

Zevran stared her down. He sucked his teeth and drew one of his daggers, and pushed the hilt into her chest with the blade angled to catch the light—a showy move, completely safe, yet it earned a small scream from her.

“Keep your voice down,” he said quietly. “And do not lie to me.”

“I’m not selling anyone!” she insisted in a rush. “I run the books for Sr. Rossi, that’s all!”

“You really believe that,” Zevran mused. “Tell me! How many children?”

“Th-they are not sold ,” she continued, “they are contracted, it’s a very reputable business, they’re granted opportunities, training-”

“For the Crows?”

“In a factory in Salle, please! I know nothing about the Crows!”

Zevran asked again, voice dipping into a menacing pitch. “How many?”

Gloria shut her eyes. Her cheeks were damp with tears, her body shivering. “Just two. The oldest. They are nearly of age, but they do not want to work here, so they will go work in Salle.”

“How vile,” Zevran said, voice dripping with disgust. “Where will you meet this slaver?”

“N-not a slaver… Th-the apartments out back-”

“How often do these ‘reputable opportunities’ come by?”

“Every four years or so! This is… so many places do this, you must understand. I don’t know what happened to you but it isn’t what you think-”

“You must think me stupid,” Zevran said bitterly. “I remember the day I was sold. I saw the money with my own eyes. I knew I was being bought.”

“A contract fee! Ten years’ work in the factories, then you’d be allowed to strike out on your own! And be all the more prepared for it, with a wealth of experience and learning. Far more than you would ever gain in a brothel.”

“If you are so convinced you did no wrong,” Zevran said slowly, “Why such a rush to chase me off when I was last here?”

“Mm.” She licked her lips, and turned to look at him nervously. “You were—digging into things.”

Zevran stared at her. He found her utterly hateful in that moment. He did not find her particularly clever, just weak-willed. She was not even very committed to hiding her employer’s secrets, now that it was she who had a knife pointed in her direction. But was she speaking truthfully?

He kept the dagger pointed squarely at her now, wrist steady, ready to cut her vocal chords in a split second if needed.

“The Crows pay you a pittance for their recruits. Do you know how many end up dead? Do you remember my friends?” He hissed. “I was the only survivor!”

“If—if that is true I am truly sorry.” She cringed, face wet with tears and spit. “It was not supposed to be this way. But I can help! I can find you the best lawyer in Antiva! You don’t need to hurt me! Please! I’m sorry I chased you off, I didn’t know why you were here!”

Zevran shook his head. “Why else would I be here?”

“I… I don’t-”

“What are you hiding from me?”

Her defenses had crumbled. She stared at her reflection in his blade, and took a breath.

“I processed the payment that undid your father, boy.”

The dead silence that followed might have meant his death, had he been facing anyone even remotely competent.

Zevran stared at her, processing her words, and his grip slackened on his blade for just a second—then, just as quickly, he corrected himself and pushed the tip of the knife against the fabric of her blouse, where the high neckline covered her paper-thin skin.

“I am here for the man who transported me to the hands of the Crows; the man who plans to give them more children to break! Nothing else. I don’t care how ignorant you claim to be, you will help me.”

The words came out in a desperate seething.

“My companion is positioned somewhere very close by! One misstep, and that’s you and your fellow slaver full of arrows, understood?”

 

As Zevran grappled with the revelation Sra. Amilcar had set upon him, Hamal grappled with language.

In his best efforts to conceal himself while guarding the apartment where El milagro housed the worker’s children, he’d climbed into the heights of a temachaca tree by what seemed to be a boarded up attic window. It seemed like a perfect place to keep watch from, secluded from the main road and well out of view, but then a voice had spoken through the wooden beams, nearly startling him enough to make him lose his grip on his weapon.

“¿Hola?” the voice asked, with that lovely Antivan lilt that rose up, then descended, then flipped up again like a song. Before he could locate its speaker, it continued, “Ah, ¡es el esposo de Zevrán! Espereme un momento, ahí voy. ¿Que hace aqui arriba?”

Hamal cursed inwardly, considering his options.

The light voice had distinctly said Zevran’s husband. The rest was, well, a blur. He could not leave, for the children still needed guarding, and this he would do at any cost. But though he had been recognized, he had no way of recognizing the woman in return.

He got down from the tree.

Nadia came to meet him, a basket at her hip. “Asi es. Bien que lo reconocí,” she said, then launched into a flurry of Antivan that left Hamal reeling. This was appended with a permutation of her first question question: “¿Qué hace aquí?” 

Hamal hesitated. He saw Nadia’s eyes flick to the apartment, then return to him with confusion that sublimated into suspicion.

“¡Cuidando!” he said hurriedly, fairly certain that was the word he wanted. “Ah, shit, wait… Hay peligro. Yo guardo.”

She stared at him, brow furrowed. “¿Donde esta Zevrán?”

“Adentro de El milagro,” Hamal said, and, when she turned to look towards the brothel, he sputtered, “No, no! No vaya. Aqui. Ah- robo, es un robo.” He pointed at the children, and received only an alarmed look in return.

“¿Robo?” Nadia dropped her basket and warily pulled a small blade from her skirts.

“No!” Hamal exclaimed, for he had not been trying to threaten to rob her. He dropped his bow, hands held up in what he hoped would be understood as a gesture of peace.

“Ayudo! Yo ayudo, guardo. Zevran ayu- ayudas a… a cuidarte… oh for the love of the Creators, woman!” His voice broke in frustration. “We mean no harm! But the children are in danger.”

“Alguien viene a robarse a los niños,” she said slowly. “Usted y Zevrán vienen a prevenirlo.”

“Si,” Hamal breathed, relieved. Then, he tilted his head, struck by something.

“Zevran?”

Nadia raised a brow. “¿Si? ¿Zevrán?”

Were it not for his albinism, he might’ve grown a shade paler.

“Fenedhis,” he said. “ Is that where the accent goes?”

Notes:

This chapters references a little headcanon I've harbored for years: Based on names I'm personally familiar with, I always expected Zevran's name to be stressed on the second syllable (like, Hernan, Adan, Fernan). Then when I heard it in the game I thought, oh!

Temachaca trees are an edible tree that grows in my home state Zacatecas. I wonder if Hamal would like it?

As always thank you for reading!

Chapter 6: The friend at midnight

It was in the Brecilian Forest where Zevran first told Hamal about his parents. 

All of it. The whole sordid story. The dead whore mom with her Dalish gloves. The unfaithful father. A childhood of lice, abuse, and malnourishment at the hands of the Crows. But the telling felt right somehow, there in those groves where Clan Sabrae had brought up young Mahariel. 

If Hamal’s own troubled past was in that frigid landscape, Zevran’s legacy of sorrow could come and intertwine with it. Perhaps both would find some measure of comfort then. 

And so the pines caught up every secret in their needles. The story sank into the damp and mossy earth.

Zevran had not thought of his past since, and he didn’t plan to start now.

The payment that undid your father. 

Over the course of an hour, Gloria Amilcar betrayed every single thing she knew about El milagro’s business with the Crows, including the contract that had led to Zevran’s orphaning. It turned out that his mother needn’t have been a widow. His father had been, contrary to what he’d always believed, a good man.

Or had he?

More than likely the words were just a ploy the woman was using to throw Zevran off his guard. That wasn’t hard to believe; it had worked so well, after all, as he worried and plucked at her story over and over again in his mind.

The payment that undid your father. 

Had his past all been a lie? 

It made no difference. He shut his eyes and pushed the question away.

Sra. Amilcar sat at her desk all the while. It was not just about his parents; with a dagger at her throat, Zevran had cajoled a wealth of information from her, including Crow contracts dating back thirty years, not to mention plenty of material he could use as blackmail against powerful men throughout the country, if the need ever arose.

She looked up at Zevran, her eyes wide.

“So now I’ve told you everything I know. You won’t kill me?”

“I haven’t decided.” Zevran aimed a half-hearted glare at her. “Do as I’ve asked, then we’ll see.”

She nodded grimly and got up.

It was late, and the brothel sang with activity. Sra. Amilcar’s absence had not been noticed, for the hosts were busy collecting payment and escorting guests up to dingy rooms. Bawdy lyrics resonated as she and Zevran exited down the hall, past all the revelry. The back door was through the washroom, which was cramped, hot, and muggy even with the windows open.

The light that spilled out onto the street was golden, but the air outside was all silver, and clouds had rolled in from the east.

Zevran marched the woman towards the apartments. An uncharacteristic silence struck him as they approached. The lively voices from before were gone. Where was everyone?

“Stay here,” he said, slowing to a stop. “Don’t move. If you run, I will catch you within ten paces.”

Warning issued, he crept forward, scanning the nearby alley. There were several sets of footprints in the dirt, leading away from the apartment. An uneasy feeling gripped him. But before he could investigate, the door to the apartment opened to a darkness from which a slight figure stepped out.

“Help!” Gloria shouted, and she stumbled forward as if pulled in by the sight of that figure. “Nadia! Help me! He aims to kill me!”

Zevran whirled around. Sra. Amilcar’s voice cut off in a muffled scream, as Hamal had snuck up beside her, and clamped his hand over her mouth, silencing her. 

“Now, now,” Zevran scolded. “I thought we had an understanding.”

Nadia made no move to reach for Sra. Amilcar, nor did she run for help. Instead she regarded the older woman with a loaded gaze, her eyes carrying something deeper than betrayal.

“Is it true, Gloria?” she asked softly.

Zevran looked at her.

Just a hundred yards away, El milagro stood apart, humble and self-contained, floating in a world where pain and sorrow could be vanquished—albeit, temporarily, and for a set price. But here, in the moonless night, Gloria Amilcar stood face to face with every sin she’d ever committed against her fellows in exchange for a comfortable wage. 

“How many?” Nadia asked. “How long?”

It was too much. Amilcar went limp in Hamal’s arms. 

“Shit! Did I suffocate her?”

“She’s just fainted. Perhaps she finally felt something for the children she’s delivered to their deaths over the years,” Zevran said without any sympathy. More importantly, he was surprised by Nadia; by both her unexpected appearance and her help.

“Bring her inside,” Nadia said in Antivan. “We’re not on a busy street exactly, but we are hardly away from prying eyes.”

Zevran raised a brow, looking at Hamal for some guidance.

“Long story, but I had to tell her the truth,” Hamal explained hurriedly. “Took a bit of luck and a fucking complicated game of charades, but I think I explained the situation. She made sure the children were safe. They’re not here, Zevran,” he added, as he carried Sra. Amilcar into the building. “Nadia took them away. She will be contacting the guard.”

Zevran blinked. That had not been the plan.

“Then I can only be thankful,” he said in Antivan. “To you both.”

What a mess this all was. As they entered the building, Zevran wished he could confer with Hamal in private; tell him what he had learned, plan what they should do next. He had hoped to compel Sra. Amilcar into luring the slaver into an ambush. That was becoming more difficult by the minute.

As for the apartment, it still smelled familiar, like dust and mold and absence, like the black spot in the corner of the room, which had grown in size since he’d lived here as a boy. Zevran cast a quick glance around, noting the toys strewn on the floor, and a pile of books on the table, with titles like El gato con botas and El flautista de Hamelin. The windows hosted a pair of floral curtains.

Hamal laid Sra. Amilcar on the floor, resting her head on one of the soft plush toys.

“My husband tells me you orchestrated an evacuation,” Zevran said, turning to face Nadia. He gave a curt nod, feeling strangely awkward and unlike himself. “Thank you. We… could not have done it on our own. However, I cannot help but wonder… my husband is a stranger to you. Yet, you agreed to help so readily. Why?”

“It must seem odd,” Nadia admitted. “But I suppose… it’s because I remembered the day you went away, Zevran.”

“Me?”

She paused to give him a proper look, curious and lingering. “Yes. It never sat right with me, you know. Even though we were told the orphaned children were going somewhere better—it never sat right with me! Children should not be sent off without a goodbye or a kind word! And knowing what I know now…” She sighed. “Adelmar was heartbroken. We found out you and the others were gone only when we came to read to you the next day. So what if you were orphans? You were—in a small way, you still are—ours.”

“Ah,” Zevran said, struck by the idea that he had ever been anyone’s. 

“Do you remember Adelmar?” Nadia asked.

Zevran thought about it. Nadia and Adelmar had been so kind to him and to the others—of course he remembered. Their visits were one of the few good things he experienced in those years. It hadn’t all been cruel.

“Of course I remember her,” Zevran answered. “I remember you, too.”

“That’s why I helped. Because we loved you. And you love him.” She looked at Hamal with certainty. “So we’ve never met. But we’re still kin. Of a sort.”

Such sweetness seemed out of place here. Zevran glanced up at the molded corner of the ceiling.

“I’m glad,” he said softly. “Because someone is going to knock at that door any minute now. And I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything!” Nadia said earnestly.

“I need you to leave.”

She hesitated. Zevran could see her deliberate over her situation, before speaking. 

“I know what I am getting into,” she said carefully. “I know we are talking about slavers here. You think me naive? In my line of work? Violence and abuse are no strangers to me. I face danger often. And forgive me, but this very much involves me. It involved me even before I knew what was happening, right under our noses.”

“Crows,” Gloria croaked out, half-conscious, from her spot on the floor.

“Gag her,” Zevran snapped at the interruption, and Hamal pulled off one of his gloves to do so—but Sra. Amilcar spat the words as quickly as she could with all her meek strength.

“He’s a Crow, Nadia! I will not help them! He’s the dangerous one-!”

And now came a litmus test Zevran knew well. Though he wished he didn’t.

In the past, revealing his status as a Crow had been an occasional risk he dealt with by killing a person or buying their silence. Now it was a half-truth that could only hurt an already delicate situation. His shoulders tensed, and Hamal exchanged a frantic look with him—he’d do whatever he was told, this Zevran knew. But he really hoped they would not have to restrain Nadia too.

“Is that true?” Nadia asked.

Zevran looked at her evenly. “We haven’t lied to you.”

Nadia’s eyes darted low, then back to him, but each look was tenuous, as if she was struggling to keep him in her view. As if she were reconsidering all those words about kin and memories.

“You are a Crow?” she asked again.

“No! Not anymore, I swear it! And the less you know, the better, believe me.” Zevran urged her further, “But it is all the more reason you must leave! Forget you saw us! Tell no one!”

Nadia shut her eyes.

All too quickly, their time was up. Three heavy knocks sounded at the door. 

“Please,” Zevran whispered. “Run. Hide upstairs. Do anything else. You took the children to safety, you’ve already done your part.”

Zevran grit his teeth. At this rate, he would lose his chance.

“Fuck it,” Nadia said at last with a sigh. “I believe you, Zevran. But I will not leave, and you haven’t the time to argue. Let me help! At the very least we owe each other that!”

.

Fuck it was right.

Despite his best efforts here Zevran was again, helpless against the whims of fate. It wasn’t what he’d planned. But he was flexible.

He wore a placid smile as he stepped through the door to meet the man.

“Good evening, serah. You were expected.”

It was a Crow talent to read your target as quickly as possible in just a few seconds. A cursory glance told Zevran a lot already. The man at the door hesitated. He didn’t answer right away, so it was likely had had been expecting to meet Sra. Amilcar, which meant he was already on the defensive. And he was dressed in comfortable, common clothing, covered with a shawl, so it was likely he was armed.

There was no mistaking it. This was the man who’d taken him and the other children, all those years ago. 

Older and greyer, but it was him.

And he didn’t recognize Zevran.

“Good evening,” the man returned, and he eyed Zevran briefly before glancing away. “I’ve a meeting with the lady of the house.”

“She is otherwise disposed,” Zevran said warmly, knowing very well that in that moment Hamal had restrained her, and was bringing her upstairs. He would be at one of the upstairs windows in probably two minutes’ time. A lot could happen in two minutes. “I will be helping you tonight. Won’t you come in?”

“I only meet with her,” the man said, painting the words with an apologetic gesture. “I’m sorry to hear she’s not available. Perhaps it’s best I come back another day. You her secretary or something?”

“That’s right,” Zevran said. “I am Amrit, her secretary. Surely she informed you of my recent hiring? She is ill, and she apologizes, but I assure you there is no need to reschedule. I am more than capable of managing our business, despite appearances. Won’t you come in?”

The man regarded him, unconvinced, but not threatened yet.

“I really do regret hearing of her illness,” he said at last. “Have her send word when she is better. I will return then.” He turned and began walking back towards the carriage.

“But our agreement!” Zevran hurried after him in the unguarded fashion of an angry man who had very little understanding of his circumstance. “Please! Sr. Rossi will have my head!”

“That so?” The man grunted, pausing at the front of the carriage. “Not my business. Anyway, I’m not walking back the deal. Just waiting to talk to the lady in charge. You understand. Delicate business, this is.”

“What does it matter who you deal with, so long as you get what you need?”

“I suppose you want me to hand all that money straight to your hands, elf?” He gave a dry chuckle. “But do not worry! If what you say is true, then we’ll talk again soon.” He paused and gave him what was no doubt meant to be a lecherous smile. “Maybe we could talk alone then, you and I. Being as you are such an enterprising young man we could work out an agreement of our own. What do you say?”

The suggestion did not escape Zevran, and he nearly bristled; once he would have leaned into it, using it to manipulate his target, but it was all too crass in these circumstances.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “that won’t work for me.” 

It was time for a more direct approach. Not willing to let his target escape, Zevran drew his dagger and aimed a kick at the back of the man’s knee, knocking him down. The man fell against the carriage and steadied himself against one of the wheels. Regaining his balance and drawing a shortsword from beneath his shawl, he stepped towards him.

“You little elven whore!” he spat.

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Zevran returned, easily parrying a strike from the man’s blade. He had the advantage as far as his eyesight was concerned; every small detail of his enemy was clear as day to him. But he had no idea what Hamal or Nadia were up to. Only that Hamal would be upstairs any moment now, and Nadia, Maker willing, was flanking their position to get to the carriage unnoticed.

It was clear that the man was familiar with his weapon, but not often called upon to use it. Each strike was just ever so slightly unpracticed. He tried again and again to land a blow upon Zevran, without success, and as he was an older man, having been in this cruel business for over thirty years, he tired quickly.

After trying and failing to disarm Zevran, he made a sudden dash onto the carriage, and took the reins into his hands. But Nadia had done her part with shocking efficiency; they hung from his grip uselessly, and he looked at Zevran with wide-eyed fury.

“You’re dead, Amrit. I’ll gut you quick!”

“Try!”

“Don’t touch him!” Nadia hissed.

The rest of the pieces fell into place. Nadia appeared from the opposite side of the carriage, having climbed up to ambush the man after cutting the horse’s reins. She grabbed her enemy with surprising efficacy—clearly she knew how to incapacitate a violent man—and as Zevran disarmed him, she pinned his arms from behind, and pressed a borrowed dagger against his throat.

The man stood stock still, glaring up at Zevran.

The scuffle had been short, but not effortless. Zevran’s wrists ached from the strength he’d needed to deflect each attack. He climbed up onto the carriage in order to regard the man more closely.

Here was the beast who’d stolen so many of Rialto’s children, who had been selling them for decades, to the Crows and who knows what else.

“Clever. What now?” the man asked. “You cut my throat and rob me?”

“Ah-ah,” Zevran said. “Not so easy, I’m afraid.”

The man spat at him. Saliva landed on his cheek, and though Nadia tightened her hold on the dagger, Zevran retorted with a calm smile.

“Let’s get you inside,” he said, grabbing the cut reins so as to bind his hands together. “We have much to discuss.”

He hadn’t taken him for a mage.

A blast of energy exuded from the man, briefly occluding Zevran’s senses; in that moment he couldn’t see, speak, or hear, and he certainly couldn’t move or react. 

He’d experienced something similar before, in Ferelden, only that time it had been Morrigan unleashing her magic upon their enemies, stunning them. Maker, he missed having a mage on his side.

The mage leapt off the carriage, pushing Nadia off and onto the ground on the way. He’d incapacitated his own horse in the attempt to escape, so he made a run for it, boots striking the cobblestones in a relentless pace.

Zevran came to his senses with a throbbing headache. He let out a shout as he saw the man already far down the street, headed towards the brothel. 

“Hey!” 

Nadia whimpered from where she had fallen. Hamal must have made it to the window, for an arrow zipped overhead with a characteristic whistle. Zevran did not doubt Hamal’s aim; he was a gifted archer, but that was the problem. The arrow struck with enough force to knock the man off his feet. Zevran cursed.

It gave him a feeling that the whole situation was unraveling. An ugly pit grew in his stomach—fear of retribution, perhaps an old response from growing up in the Crows—and worse still, as Zevran ran after the man, another figure rounded the corner, limping along with her cane.

“Amrit?” Rocio asked, seeing him. 

Where had she come from? She must have followed them, Zevran realized. In fact, she must have had hurried all the way across Rialto to get here. She had come, not knowing how fate had worked its mysteries in order to bring them all here: Zevran, Hamal, Rocio, Nadia, Gloria, and this loathsome man at the center of the web. But Rocio was so much like him, after all, so how could Zevran truly be surprised?

Her eyes traveled to the injured slaver, now at her feet. Her expression shifted to one of horrified recognition.

“It’s you.”

“Get away from him, Rocio!”

“I remember you,” Rocio said. “Do you remember me?”

The man looked up at her, bleeding. He didn’t have a chance to answer before she swung her cane in a shining arc, and struck him on his skull. The man cried out in pain.

Zevran urged his stunned body to carry him closer to the scene. 

Rocio had stumbled onto the ground, thrown off balance by the ferocity of her own attack. She struck the slaver again and again with her cane. The blood pooling around him did not deter her in the slightest. 

Zevran had underestimated her. He’d left a crucial clue, by omission, tipping her off to the exact location where he suspected the next group of children would be taken from.

“Bastard!” Rocio cried. She seemed to only grow angrier with each blow. “Son of a bitch! You will never—take another one—again!” 

Finally, Zevran knelt before her, watching his chance of getting answers vanish. But he could hardly be upset about it. 

Somehow in the gleaming moonlight, the sight of Rocio’s vengeance was too stark and beautiful. A well deserved victory, and a catharsis that brought tears to Zevran’s burning eyes. 

Chapter 7: A heavy thing

Hamal sprinted down the stairs two steps at a time, leaping over the last of them. He rushed through the front door, out where the air was cold by Antivan standards, but balmy yet for him.

“Zevran!” he called out. Where had he gone?

Hamal nervously rearranged his grip on his bow, looking down the street towards the brothel—but before he could investigate, a soft, pained noise came from behind the cart, and caught his attention. He stepped carefully around the stunned horses, behind the carriage wheels.

“Nadia?”

“¡Maldito mago!”

She was on the ground, partway beneath the carriage, her arms and knees scraped from the fall. Nadia groaned as she lifted a shaking hand to the back of her head. Hamal knelt beside her and gently eased her up. He could see her scalp was sticky with blood, and a lump was already forming under the skin.

“You’re hurt,” he observed in his meager Antivan, scrambling for the correct words and wishing he had more time to piece the language together. He understood it more than he could speak it, and even that was difficult with Nadia’s rapid-fire and distinct dialect. “Not good! Your head!”

“I’ll be alright!” She waved him off. “Where is Zevran?”

“He… looks for the man. I don’t know.”

Again, Hamal’s gaze drifted in the direction of the brothel, eager for any sight of Zevran. He could not see much from this position, but he could hear a rhythmic sound, like something being struck repeatedly, like metal hitting wet stone. He didn’t have to say what was on both their minds: this wasn’t what they had planned.

“Thank you,” Nadia said softly, leaning against him. She took a shuddering breath. “We should search the carriage. Quick! El carruaje.” She repeated the words, seeing his confused look, and tapped the carriage a few times. “Carruaje.”

A new word to him, though he’d never get the damn r’s right. Hamal did as he was told. He pulled open the carriage door and looked inside. There was no translation for the soft and pitiable sound he made then, but the feeling was something Nadia understood.

“Oh… d’alen.”

He and Nadia looked in on a sleeping child. The little girl was slumped against the back seat of the carriage. She looked to be about eight years old. A sliver of blood trickled from her nose, and her small, pointed ears poked through a mess of dark curls. Besides her, a bag of supplies lay on the floor.

Nadia exclaimed something in frantic Antivan, but Hamal only understood, “Help me!”

“The spell,” Hamal murmured to himself, as he pulled the child carefully out of the carriage. “That bastard used his magic near her. But I think she’s only stunned. She’s breathing.” He looked at Nadia, though she couldn’t understand his Elvhen, so perhaps he was saying it for his own sake: “She’s alright.”

Nadia nodded, sniffling. She roughly wiped at her face, her bloodied hands smearing red diluted tears over her skin.

But it was more the shock than her injury which troubled her now. She hadn’t truly had any doubts about what Zevran and Hamal had told her, but it had all come on so quickly; just this morning she had been carrying on with business as usual. To be embroiled now in a plot against slavers in her very home was overwhelming.

Together, she and Hamal brought the child out of the carriage, and they wrapped her up in Hamal’s cloak.

The girl was safe now. She’d never go to where she was headed, or return to where she’d hailed from.

 

Outside El milagro, Rocio was hunched over on the ground, her cane now discarded at her side. She did not react as Nadia and Hamal joined them, but Zevran, through his pounding headache, hurried to meet them.

“You’re alright,” Zevran said, relieved. He would have embraced Hamal and kissed him, but he noticed the child in his arms and his breath caught in his throat. “Where did- was that child in the carriage?”

“Yes,” Hamal said. “She’s unconscious, but alive. Nadia is hurt.”

“I am fine,” Nadia said, hearing her name through the stream of Common exchanged between the two men. “The girl is what matters. Maker only knows, if we had not found her tonight…”

Zevran gave her a short nod, taking in the information. This was what their efforts had amounted to. They may have lost their informant. But a child was saved!

“Nadia, you both need a doctor,” Zevran said firmly.

“We need to handle things here first,” Nadia said, aiming a pointed look at the corpse. It was not her first time seeing a dead man, and yet, her stomach turned at the sight of his bashed-in face. She gestured with her hands out. “What’s happened? Who killed him?

Rocio looked up from her perch upon the blood-soaked stones. “I did,” she croaked out. “He deserved it.”

“It complicates things,” Nadia said with a grimace.

“What’s complicated about it? You say he stole that child!”

Nadia blinked at her. For a moment, she pretended she already knew the young woman; pretended she was a coworker or a neighbor she saw often. It was a skill that aided her, in her line of work. Compassion. Exercising it now, she saw pieces of the story in the painful angle of Rocio’s leg, and the fury in her wet eyes. Perhaps a reflection of herself, too, albeit one from decades ago.

“What’s your name?” she asked softly.

“Rocio Ciriani.”

“Rocio. Have you ever taken a man’s life before?”

“No.” The admission came out, low and hoarse. Rocio gazed up at Nadia, then looked at Zevran and Hamal in turn, lingering, finally, on the child. “I haven’t.”

“It’s a heavy thing. At this rate, the city guard will be called, if they aren’t already on their way,” Nadia said evenly. “But a murder at a brothel is nothing they haven’t seen before. It can be explained away. A drunk customer. A jealous lover. A rape.”

“Braska.” Zevran seethed quietly. “And what of the children he was going to buy tonight?”

He crouched over the man, staring into his face with a keen desperation, though the life was gone from him already. “Give me a name,” he urged quietly. “I know who you work with. But where do you meet them? How often? An address. A contact. Anything!”

For Zevran’s part, he was distressed. A few hours ago, his only goal had been to locate an informant, interrogate him, and kill him later; to dispose of the body in a river, or a charnel house. He’d have killed Gloria Amilcar, too, if it hadn’t been for Nadia’s involvement. He thought, also, of what he’d learned tonight about his father’s death. This had ballooned far out of proportion, and try as he did, he could not pinpoint where he’d gone wrong.

Hamal leaned in to speak to him.

“We need to go,” he said gently in the language that they shared, but which was neither of their native tongues. “The city guard won’t care about a shem selling elves to the Crows, but they will care about a dead shem with a Dalish arrow sticking out of him.”

Zevran wrenched the arrow from the man’s broken form. There was sense in his husband’s words, but his head was swimming.

“I’m not going to run,” he said, and he repeated himself in Antivan for Nadia and Rocio’s benefit. “No voy a huir.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Nadia said.

“I won’t run either,” Rocio forced out in her tear-soaked voice. “And I won’t lie to the guard. Everyone should know what has happened! What is the point if nobody knows? We have so much proof!”

“Proof or no, you will go to jail!” Nadia told her. “And still, there will be no guarantee that the guard will care, or do anything to help. What’s the point of that? I have worked this brothel for thirty years. This is how things are. A whore can be replaced.”

“The way things are must change. This is my life.” Rocio, unmoving, let out a hiss of air. “If it makes even a little bit of difference, I have to try.” There was a cold edge to her words.

“Brave girl,” Zevran murmured.

Then there was nothing more to say. There was no convincing a determined Antivan. This, he knew.

Nadia rolled her shoulders, feeling quite lightheaded. Her neck throbbed. She looked up at Zevran and Hamal, these men who had so disrupted El milagro ’s routine.

“To think, you returned without anyone asking you to, and in a single night made a mess of everything.”

Zevran’s eyes flitted to her, hurt. But she looked back at him with the strangest combination of pride and sorrow.

“Thank you,” she said, emphatically. “You came to help us, and you have. You made us aware of horrors that needed to be exposed. Leave Gloria to me; I will help Rocio turn her in. Leave Rocio to her fate, for she chose it. Now take that child with you. And go.”

Zevran rose to his feet. He exchanged a look with his husband before asking, “Where would you have us take her?”

And so the plan for the child was crafted in the mismatched pieces of Common, Antivan, and Elvhen they shared. Stitched together with a potent need for justice and a measure of patience.

In Hamal’s arms, the child slept dreamlessly. The spell had been strong enough to stun a horse and two grown adults, and it would take her time to recover her senses.

Notes:

A sincere thanks to rowanthefierce who helped beta this chapter, after I thought myself into circles over it! Thank you friend!

Chapter 8: La curandera

The door shuddered under Zevran’s fist.

They were standing outside the apartments at La joya. It was late, still dark, though not for long; the night had stretched thinly out into the small hours of the morning. He was tired. His head ached. He wasn’t even sure if this would work. He was also worried that at any given moment the child would wake up.

If the child woke up, surely she would try to flee, as any child ought to when finding herself injured and in the company of strangers. What would they do then?

Giving Hamal a nervous look, Zevran turned to knock on the door once more. In that moment it opened.

Elena stood inside, dressed in a nightgown and overcoat. Her eyes widened in recognition, and she pulled them in at once.

“A doctor,” Zevran said.

“I’ll find the curandera,” Elena replied. “Where did that child come from?”

“We rescued her.”

“What happened to her?”

“Stunned,” he said. “By a mage.”

“I take it that means you found the man you were looking for?”

“He is dead.”

Without yesterday’s host of prostitutes and friends, the parlor felt spacious, even empty. Elena led them to a small bedroom in the back. It was a tidy room with the smell of dried jasmine flowers, an old bed, and a votive to Andraste upon the dresser.

“Sangre del Creador,” she exclaimed.

Hamal carefully set the child upon the bed. He placed a hand on her forehead, then looked up at Zevran with a frown. “She has a fever,” he said. “Fiebre.”

“There is water in the kitchen,” Elena said curtly. “Bring her some!”

“Where-?” Zevran began to ask, but Elena had already whisked her way out of the bedroom. He followed at her heels.

“Left of the wash basin,” she replied. “Stay here! I’ll be back soon with the healer!”

The door slammed shut in her haste. Zevran stared after her a moment, then set upon the drawers.

He dug through wooden spoons and matchsticks, rolls of twine, and linen washcloths folded neatly. Grabbing one, he quickly arranged a washcloth and a bowl of cool water, then returned to the bedroom, where Hamal knelt beside the bed and gazed upon the injured child.

“Why is she so warm?” Hamal asked as Zevran held the damp cloth to her forehead. “Is she sick?”

“Head injuries can cause temperature sometimes,” Zevran murmured. “She will be alright.”

The words came out in practiced calm. He did not give them any thought; he was simply saying what people ought to say in these situations. When he glanced down at his husband, he was surprised to find him kneeling with his eyes shut and his head bowed. For a moment, he thought he was praying to the Creators. Then he realized he was shivering.

Zevran eased a hand onto his shoulder. He was not surprised when Hamal reached, haltingly, to cover it with one of his own.

.

Elena was gone for a good half hour, though she ran as quickly as she could the distance between the brothel and the neighborhood healer. The healer was accustomed to being roused at night, or whenever a local emergency called for her skills. She had lived in her apartment for decades, and had looked after the whores at La joya even longer.

The old woman was not an apostate—though such people did exist, they were hard to come by, and Antiva’s Circle mages provided healing only to the most privileged noble families—but she was versed in old knowledge of medicinal herbs and traditional remedies. She had lived a long and varied life, and carried all that knowledge inside her withered frame. So when she said she needed time to gather her supplies, Elena fretted and wrung her hands, but allowed her to take as long as she needed.

One did not argue with Mirna the curandera.

When they finally returned the child was awake, and had begun to vomit. Zevran had found a bucket to contain the bile, as Hamal held her hair back and helped her stay upright. But their business was not in healing, and the only tools they had were their arrows and knives.

“She has been like this for a few minutes,” Zevran said. “We do not have anything to give her-”

“A mage’s concussive blast,” the older woman murmured in her deep and dry voice. “Arnica for the pain. Rabo de zorro for the fever. Ice for the swelling. Prayer for the rest. Allow me.”

She stepped in smoothly, pushing the men out of the way in a manner that was somehow kind, yet brooked no argument. And while Zevran would hesitate to admit it, it was a relief.

“Thank the Maker,” he sighed, and dropped into a seat by the curtained window.

It was in the healer’s hands now. His own headache had worsened. Now he rather felt like a stiletto knife had driven into his skull.

The curandera’s voice, arid as the high-wind season, cut through his mental haze: “Brew a strong tea, with just a scoop of these herbs and a kettle full of water. One cup for the girl, two for the man.”

“Smells like snakeweed,” Hamal observed in Common. “I did not know we had this sort of plant up here. It will help your headache.”

“I’m fine. Just tend to the girl,” Zevran murmured.

Elena shot both of them an incisive glance. But she made the tea as instructed, leaving them to their foreign conversing.

After that, no one spoke for a while. There was o nly the sound of the child heaving and a kettle whistling on the wood stove. Somehow the candle-lit night in Elena’s apartment cradled these, and everything felt quiet. It was hard to believe that at this very moment Rocio could be on her way to a jail cell…

Zevran felt a cup of hot tea pressed into his hands.

“Elena,” he said, and then he paused, uncharacteristically uncertain. He looked up at her, frowning. Perhaps he was more dazed than he realized. “It is Elena, isn’t it? We spoke so briefly. I must tell you. Rocio-”

“Where is she?” Elena asked in a hiss.

Zevran hesitated. He always recognized affection by the fangs it bared.

“By now she is probably turning herself over to the city guard.”

“Why? What happened?”

Zevran glanced at Hamal. Still, he knew it had to be him to tell the tale; Hamal’s Antivan was not fluent enough to explain, and their window of time was shrinking. But he was also unsure how much he should say. He was wondering about the woman at the head of the bed, the curandera, who was easing tea into the young girl’s mouth.

“Some gall you have to bring an injured child to my doorstep in the dead of night,” Elena said, voice unexpectedly sharp, “and play coy in front of the healer. Talk!”

“You’re right, of course,” Zevran said, sufficiently chastised. “My apologies.”

So he began. He spoke slowly, trying to condense the tale as much as possible, both for the sake of urgency and for his own aching head.

“We tracked the slaver and attempted to capture him outside the brothel, El milagro. He had an arrangement with the owner there… to transport two children under the guise of bringing them to a school in Salle. We confronted him… wounded him, and we nearly succeeded in capturing him, but the man was an apostate. He used his magic to escape. Rocio was the one who finally stopped him, and killed him.”

“I don’t understand.” Elena shook her head. “There’s more to it, there must be. She is not a violent woman!”

“No,” Zevran assented. “But she is a brave one.”

Elena made a frustrated sound, turning away.

“She recognized him as the man who’d stolen her friends away, years ago,” Zevran said. “I recognized him, also. He has been plying his trade in Rialto for decades.” He shook his head. “No longer. Rocio did what was necessary. After that, she could have easily chosen to claim her innocence. But she realized that she needed to admit her hand in this murder, in order to expose his crimes.”

“So she’s playing martyr,” Elena said bitterly.

“She needs your help.” Zevran paused again, somewhat unsteady. At Hamal’s urging, he drank some of the snakeweed tea. It quelled his headache some, and parched a thirst he hadn’t recognized with everything else going on.

Meanwhile, Elena grappled with what she’d heard.

“What can I do?” she asked.

“Rocio wants to bring the people who are behind all this to justice,” Zevran said. “Not only this man, but whatever allies he might have; we discovered that the owner and manager of El milagro are involved. And who knows how many others. Rocio has asked that you keep the child safe, and tell everyone in the Society of Pleasures what has happened. Tomorrow you will receive a visit from a woman, Nadia. She is trustworthy. She will tell you more. Lastly,” he added, and this was the tricky part, the part he was dreading, “You must not mention me or my companion. To anyone.”

“Why not?” Elena demanded.

“Because I was once a member of the Antivan Crows. I have deserted my House. Now I aim to destroy the Crows and anyone who supports them. So you see… our association would only harm her.”

She stared at him.

The admission felt bold, after all he had been through tonight. At least it had served to quell Elena’s myriad of questions.

“It’s curious,” Zevran continued. “When we came to Rialto, we thought only to investigate my past. Then, to kill the man who had sold me into that life. We did not intend for all of this to happen… and yet we do not regret it. We have rescued a child! She is safe now, thanks to Rocio, and Nadia, and you. But we cannot be a part of what happens next. That falls to you and the others.”

“And what are you going to do, Crow?” Elena asked, still aiming her furious gaze at him.

“That is something you are better off not knowing,” Zevran said. “It will be bloody work.”

With a flare of her nostrils, Elena exhaled harshly. She looked at him one last time with a withering intensity, before dropping her face into her hands and releasing a shuddering sigh.

“Cio,” she said simply.

With that, the message was delivered. Zevran drank the rest of his tea.

Though he felt no guiltier than he had yesterday, or a week ago, or his entire life, he couldn’t help but feel bad for Elena. He’d tasked her with a great burden. He tried to comfort himself by thinking that Elena had a say in the matter. But she didn’t. None of them did.

“As I said,” Zevran said, gently. “Nadia will come. Hear her out, then decide. You can, if you prefer, have nothing to do with all this.” He said it even as he knew it was impossible. It was clear that Elena had no choice, not when Rocio was involved.

Much like himself with the Warden, he thought. The comparison felt tender, and he looked at Hamal, finding a sense of relief in the steady and attentive gaze he was met with.

Sensing his meaning, Hamal responded with a stern nod. Then, he rose to his feet and picked up their rucksacks, looking at the door.

“We will go now,” Hamal said in gentle and accented Antivan. “Thank you for the tea.”

Mirna, who had calmed the child’s illness and fever and had been listening quietly all this while, turned her attention back to the adults in the room.

“Sit down, Elena,” she said gently. “You have a lot to think about. I will walk your guests out.”

Thus depleted of anger, Elena sat at the edge of the bed. After all, one did not argue with the curandera.

.

As Mirna walked Zevran and Hamal towards the front door, she tugged gently at Hamal’s sleeve. She addressed him in rusty Common, quiet, so only he and Zevran would hear.

“Ey. You Fereldan? Dalish?”

Hamal blinked in surprise. He did not answer until they had left the apartment entirely, until they were all three standing in the cool morning air, with the warm apartment and the weeping child and Elena’s worry shut within, and the first signs of dawn visible over the city. He exchanged a glance with Zevran before nodding.

“How did you know?” he replied.

“Mirna know everything,” she said with a smile. “A wild story, I bet. And what about you, güero? Was you said is true?”

“All of it,” Zevran affirmed.

“Mmm!” she hummed, impressed and full of approval. “In that case, I wish you luck. Crows are big deal. But! You should know, you forgotting something.” She tapped her right ear a few times. When Zevran did not understand, she sighed. “The girl!”

“The girl,” Zevran repeated, and then Mirna’s gesture made sense. His eyes widened. “She heard everything.”

“Yes,” Mirna said. “She hear. But she no speak. She try. Just one time, while you all talking. She-” Here, Mirna made a wordless opening and closing motion with her mouth, held a hand to her throat, then she spread her hands outward to indicate futility. “She no speak. Maybe, soon. Who can say?”

“Poor child,” Hamal said.

“Yes,” Mirna agreed. “But no worry. I will help. You come back someday and see.”

“Do you think it’s wise?” Zevran asked, surprised. They were leaving a lot of loose ends and unanswered questions. But Rialto was in his blood. That he’d return one day, even if it was years from now, seemed unavoidable. Maybe Mirna knew this. After all, she spoke with such a calm certainty.

“Wait some while, then come back,” she told him. “Maybe Elena’s ladyfriend is free then. Maybe girl speak then. Maybe we talk more then, or maybe I’m dead then! But until then, I pray for you. I light a candle.” She paused, gnarled hands producing a small leather pouch out of her pocket. “Take more tea. For the ache.”

Zevran regarded her carefully. “My good woman, thank you. It occurs to me that we do not even know your name.”

“Mirna,” she said, and then, before he could respond, “No no—you no tell me yours. Bad luck.”

Zevran nodded. He took the pouch from her, and he didn’t argue.

“Maker be with you, Doña Mirna.”

“And with you. Maker and Creators, too.”

.

It was only after several hours of travel, long after the last of Rialto’s towers was out of view, that the fleeing pair finally allowed themselves to rest.

They had followed the coastline south for a time, before pushing further inland so as to be obscured by the forest. While Zevran knew Antiva like the back of his hand, this was true of its cities and its people; the only wilderness he had explored was the Drylands.

But that was another tale. Come to find out, Rialto was surrounded by grassy plains and gnarled trees. The city was nestled near a perfect broadleaf forest, completely unlike those in Ferelden.

Under the shade of a tall sycamore, Hamal judged it safe enough to light a small fire. With its heat they brewed more tea, and roasted freshly-caught fish rubbed with sea salt and herbs. They were both famished, their last meal having been tavern gruel more than a full day before.

Hamal worked silently for a time, wholly focused on turning the fish against the fire. Zevran wondered if he was in one of his quiet moods; it was fine, if so. He himself had a lot on his mind. So much so that, when Hamal did speak, it surprised him.

“Ma serannas, vhenan,” Hamal said at length.

Zevran looked at him. “Whatever for?”

“You know.”

In fact, he did.

It was a shorthand they were developing together, and it felt terribly domestic. Love was sticky sweet. Sometimes like honey, sometimes like resin. Hamal understood Zevran’s disappointment. He didn’t need to ask and Zevran didn’t need to say it.

But his head still hurt, so he changed the subject.

“We still have the documents I found in Antiva City,” he said, forcing his voice to stay level. “And ledgers I copied from El milagro’s books, when I interrogated Amilcar. We should search them for clues as to what to do next. I think all signs point to Salle as our next destination. It’s a port city. Worth investigating if only for that reason.”

“Good idea,” Hamal said with a slow nod. Zevran glanced away.

The fish curled and charred in the fire, their scales scalding, their eyes whiting out and bulging.

“I wonder,” Hamal said, quietly, “What Nadia will do.”

Zevran closed his eyes with a sigh.

“She still cares for Amilcar,” he said. “Whether Amilcar cares for her is another matter. The heart is an unpredictable thing. In any case, from here on out we must assume that Amilcar reported our involvement to the city guard.” Zevran frowned, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “That means they would know me by name and by background… and what the city guard knows, the Crows know.”

“Not good,” Hamal observed.

Zevran snorted. “It is far from ideal.”

“Unless Nadia goes through with it,” Hamal countered. “Unless she kills Amilcar.”

And there was the unpredictable variable, and the most pressing question: For it had been decided, whispered in that midnight plot outside El milagro, that Gloria Amilcar needed to die in order for their plan to succeed. And Nadia had insisted that she would be the one to do it

And why not? Amilcar had lied to her and the others for years. She had helped sell children into slavery. She had supported her employer’s corruption. And those were just the crimes they knew of. No doubt she had committed countless others over the years…

Zevran sighed and covered his face in his hands.

Hamal came to sit beside him. He leaned against him, and took his hands into his own.

“Eat,” Hamal instructed. He handed Zevran a leaf containing steaming flakes of cooked fish. The scent was sharp and enticing. Hamal had already pulled all the bones out for him, leaving only soft flesh.

Touched by the gesture, Zevran allowed himself to eat. Then tears sprang to his eyes.

“She killed my father,” he said suddenly.

Hamal looked at him, stunned. “What-?”

“Amilcar. He did not die, as I’d been told. Braska.” Zevran took a shuddering breath, and the words poured out of him in a tangled mess.

He’d been holding them back this whole time, his attention absorbed by other matters.

“That is why she kicked us out the first day we were in El milagro. That is why she seemed so anxious when she recognized me. You see? It was guilt! She told me as such, when I interrogated her.” A bitter laugh escaped him, his face turned up to the dappled sunlight. “I nearly ended her when she admitted it. Rossi tasked the Crows with my father’s death, and Amilcar knew! My whole life, she knew!”

“Oh,” Hamal breathed. “Oh. Zev.”

“I only wish I could go back and find that bastard. Confront him! Show him what became of the boy he orphaned and sold! But look! If he dies now, Rocio will never get justice! So, he lives! Because he must! And I am still here, still orphaned, and no better for knowing the truth. Ah! What a joke it all is,” Zevran lamented, sorrowful even as Hamal embraced him. “What a joke.”

Notes:

We've reached a point where the next seven chapters are finished and drafted... I'm pretty excited about it. As for Rocio's story, it is far from finished. It's just finished, for now.

Thank you, as always, for reading!

Chapter 9: The cannibalized Crows of House Ferragani

Part 2: Salle

Nacimiento. Matrimonio. Novenario.

A few weeks later, in another city, in another cheap roadside inn, Hamal lounged on another temporary bed, reading quietly in Antivan. He and Zevran had spent hours reviewing all the documents stolen from the Chantry and from Atanasio’s estate. So far, these had amounted to business records and little else.

Church expenses over the years, countless baptisms, a parade of weddings and funerals. Crow contracts and ledgers spanning decades. Not that Zevran expected the juicy Crow secrets to be highlighted in red, but they hadn’t found a single thing of note in these stacks. Not yet, anyway.

At the very least it gave Hamal a chance to practice the language.

Zevran gave him easy tasks: finding a certain word, looking for specific names, dates, and so on. It was dry work, but Hamal was, to his own surprise, quite good at it.

“I found another one,” Hamal said, and with the tiny scrape of a pencil on paper he jotted down notes in a book. “Mikaela Arainai y Solomon Kortez fueron unidos ante la igles-ia…”

“A marriage announcement?” Zevran asked, looking over at him from his own stack of stolen documents. “Between members of different houses, no less! Unusual, but not unheard of.”

“Kortez is another house?” Hamal asked. “How many are there?”

Zevran reclined in his seat, happy to give his eyes a rest. They felt strained, the dust in the room not helping, and he gently rubbed at the corners of his eyelids as he answered.

“There’s House Arainai, of course,” Zevran said. “House Kortez, House Balazar, House Valisti, House Dellamorte, House Cantori, House Nero, and House De Riva. Eight in all.”

“How many people to a House?”

“I do not know,” Zevran admitted with a laugh. “They did not exactly hand out rosters. Hundreds, I presume.”

“So… fewer than a thousand assassins in all of Antiva?” Hamal estimated.

“It is a very exclusive organization.”

“Sounds manageable,” Hamal concluded. Though he was bolstered by their enemies’ numbers—which were minor, compared to the onslaught of Darkspawn they had faced during the Blight—Zevran seemed less sure.

“I would not underestimate them,” Zevran replied. “Besides, Houses have fallen before. And it never changes a thing.”

“Ah? Truly?” Hamal asked. Then it occurred to him that he’d never heard Zevran speak about the Crows beyond his own personal experience with them.

Hamal had never thought to ask about so many minor details, such as, how they were organized, how they got away with so much loss of life, and had anyone attempted to undo them before? In the past he’d tried not to pry into Zevran’s experiences with the Crows, but it seemed appropriate to do so now.

“When was the last time a house fell?”

Zevran looked at him, brows slightly arched.

“It might help to know how such things happen,” Hamal explained, “given our goal.”

“Fair enough,” Zevran sighed. He shifted in his seat, giving Hamal the distinct impression that he was choosing his words carefully, and he answered him with a curious hesitation.

“It was five years ago. Perhaps a little bit longer. It was when House Ferragani fell.”

Hamal put his notes aside. “What happened?”

“We cannibalized them, for lack of a better word.” Zevran said. He launched into the story.

“Master Eoman Arainai had just taken leadership, you see, and he was an ambitious man. House Arainai had fallen in rank. He wanted to correct course. Eliminating House Ferragani offered a means to that end.”

“The Houses compete?” Hamal asked. “For power? Resources?”

“More or less. Nobody wants to be the weak link,” Zevran explained. “To be weak is to be disposable; this is true for the individual Crows in each House, so why not for the Houses themselves? And oh, they were weak. Ineffective assassins. Bad leadership. Patrons knew their work to be unreliable, their people inconsistent. So Master Eoman set every one of our number to the task of amputating this festering limb.”

He tilted his head, lifting his gaze to Hamal’s steadily. “A Crow House is a small army, but even with such resources it was no simple task. Months of planning went into it. And when the day came, we all took part. Myself included. It was very well orchestrated. I dare say they did not see it coming! In less than two days we slit the necks of every Master, and all who stood in our path.”

Zevran drew a deep breath. “I have never killed so many in the span of a single contract. It was…”

“You do not need to speak more of it,” Hamal said quickly. A feeling of having overstepped nagged at him, and he continued, “Not if you do not wish to.”

“Nonsense,” Zevran assured his husband. “I am fine, I assure you. If anything, it filled me with a sense of awe. Still does. Is that strange to you?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I do not feel satisfaction in remembering it, nor pride. But I feel no sorrow, either. I do not regret it.”

At length, the assassin simply shook his head, hard.

“That’s all. It was them or us, or so Eoman told us. The smart ones saw the tide turn. They elected to join us against their fellows,” he continued. “But a few remained loyal to their Grandmaster. They were captured.”

“What happened to them?”

“They were sent off,” Zevran said. “To Velabanchel, I presume, where a far more grim fate awaited them. So you see,” he concluded, “bringing down a House is not unheard of. But bringing down the Crows will be a different beast entirely. This is not merely about numbers. This is about… influence.”

With that, he returned to his work. Hamal watched him a moment longer, assessing his husband carefully: the focus of his eyes, the lines in his forehead, the fingers held loosely on the surface of the table.

Times like these, Zevran impressed upon him a stark image: strength enough to bring down the Antivan Crows, but sentiment enough to remember each face of the dead of House Ferragani.

Then he knew the Creators had surely placed this task in the proper hands. A lesser man might have taken pride in the tale, but not his beloved. And so, Hamal felt satisfied.

Together, he and Zevran had defeated an Archdemon.

They would surely find a way to defeat the Crows.

Hamal laid his head on the documents before him and closed his eyes, his mind filled with names and dates and Crow politics. The cannibalized Crows of House Ferragani lived on in a way. What had Zevran called it? Velabanchel. It sounded like a dense block of vowels and consonants to him; it evoked no fear or imagery, so he was left with the image of a blank space, a building without a façade, full of the dead and dying.

“So you think we need to do more than just kill them?” Hamal asked at length. “The Crow Houses are like shark’s teeth… more will rise to replace the ones that fall without end?”

“Now, amor. No need to be so glum!” Zevran said with faux cheer, having returned to the notes in front of him. “Killing them will do plenty. We just need to be smart about it.”

“Ah,” Hamal said. “We’ve been known to be smart, once or twice in our time.”

“That is the spirit,” Zevran chuckled. “And look! I think I have something now. Listen to this!” He held up a stack of papers, reading aloud for Hamal. “Three years ago, six members of House Kortez were interred: Suleima Kortez, 23 years old, Annika Kortez, 19 years old, Mateo Kortez, 31 years old, Davide Kortez, 18 years old, Aiden Kortez, 16 years old, and Ofelia Kortez, 27 years old.”

Hamal slowly smiled. “What date?”

“13 Matrinalis.”

“Let me guess: natural causes?”

Hamal was already searching through his stack of stolen documents, shuffling to the ones Zevran had lifted from Atanasio’s estate. These contained the Crow contracts of that year. He had read the page earlier, but not given it much thought until now.

“Here they are!” Hamal pushed off of the bed and brought the page to Zevran. “I found the notes of the contract, but I cannot read the rest.”

Zevran stared at him. “You found it already?”

“The names are phonetic.”

Zevran scanned the page, quickly locating the passage Hamal had found. There they were: Suleima, Annika, Mateo, Davide, Aiden, Ofelia. Crows tended to have brief lifespans, but even this was unusual.

“Has anyone ever mentioned you make a decent secretary?” Zevran asked.

“How you flatter me, Mr. Arainai.”

“And handsome, too.”

Hamal laughed, unable to keep a grin from his lighting up his face as Zevran scanned the notes further.

“This looks like a contract for a textile manufacturer in Salle,” he said finally. “A city on the coast. Salle! That is where the children from Rialto were taken to be sold!”

“I do not think that’s a coincidence,” Hamal said. “Is this a port city?”

“A very busy port city,” Zevran nodded. “Hmm. The contract does not list anyone by name, only the name of the business: C.ía T.M.”

Zevran read on until he’d reached the end of the page.

“This is strange. The status of the contract reads ‘incomplete’. It seems they died in the attempt.”

“Unfortunate,” Hamal said. “I wonder what happened after the contract failed?”

“No contract fails,” Zevran corrected him with a huff. “The target expires or the assassin does.”

“Ah, but Zev…”

“Mm?” Zevran looked at him, brows raised.

“Your contract failed.”

All the air left Zevran in an entirely unflattering laugh. “So it did! Thank the Maker!”

That was enough talk of dead Crows. Zevran leaned up to kiss Hamal, still full of mirth. With that, and with one kiss becoming many, their progress on the curious deaths of House Kortez three years prior came to a stop for the day.

It was tiring work, reviewing the stolen records, making note of locations, names, dates—anything to find a pattern. But it was necessary. Once they got a look at the whole of it, they would find the loose threads and pull. There was only the tedious effort of muddling through without direction.

But equally important was the work of making a mess of the carefully organized papers, which fell to the floor in graceful arcs as Hamal lifted Zevran onto the table. Equally important, and more enjoyable to boot.

.

They followed the document trail to Salle, a city covered in Crow fingerprints.

On a narrow street, under a shaded awning, Hamal fanned himself. The heat was still challenging for him, especially here on the coast. While Zevran seemed to thrive in the hot sun and humidity, Hamal tried to hide just how much he withered in these conditions.

He was currently disguised under a large shawl, to hide his vallaslin and to keep the sun from his skin.

“Have you ever killed someone here?” Hamal asked, and Zevran paused. His husband had such a forthright way of putting things, sometimes it still startled him.

“A young woman,” he said simply. “Her sister hired us.”

“Why?”

“Inheritance squabble,” Zevran said with a shrug. “We do often get involved in such family matters. It is not uncommon, especially among the upper class. A cousin later hired us to kill the remaining sister, for similar reasons. A sad story, but it is not our place to pass judgment.”

Hamal looked at him quietly. “But the Crows profit from this,” he said.

“Yes,” Zevran laughed. “The Crows profit. It is best to be unscrupulous in such matters. Money, after all, certainly does not care who is in the right. Believe it or not, many of our clients are returning clients.”

“Really?” Hamal asked. “The same people, contracting again and again to have others assassinated?”

“It seems once you cross that boundary, it is a far easier thing to do again.”

“Serial killers by proxy?” Hamal asked, a light hint of levity to the question. “I find it very hard to believe!”

“The type of people who are able to hire a professional assassin in Antiva are very few,” Zevran said. “It is an expensive service. Yet the Crows are in constant business. Now, as to whether an excess of wealth and a lack of scruples tend to go hand-in-hand… that is more a question for philosophers.”

“But it is obvious they do,” Hamal interjected.

“Amor,” Zevran waved a hand. “That it is true, but we do not point it out! At any rate, let us go check in on the industrial neighborhoods of Salle. Finding this C.ía T.M. may prove enlightening.”

Notes:

This marks the beginning of the Salle arc, which has been written in its entirety for about a year. I hope this means more regular updates, but I must apologize, as I've had some personal matters slowing down my ability to write! Please excuse any errors as I am returning to this after a long hiatus from Dragon Age. On a similar note, this entire fic was conceptualized before DATV was released; it will not be canon compliant with the Crow politics and characters presented there.

As always, thank you for reading <3

Notes:

This is a more ambitious project than any I've attempted, so thank you for reading! You can find me on tumblr for more art and writing.