Chapter Text
It begins with a blade to the throat.
Sunlight glints off the steel of the sword, and Zevran closes his eyes before the blow falls. It is not such a bad sight, he thinks. He would rather that be the last thing he sees than the inelegant spill of his own blood against Fereldan mud. He lets the daggers in his hands slip to the ground, and he waits for the moment to end.
It doesn’t. Instead, the seconds stretch on, longer and longer as the noise of the battle continues in the background. At last- and with some impatience at being denied now, after everything- Zevran opens his eyes.
The Grey Warden is staring at him, his sword still poised and pointed at the fallen assassin. Conflict is clear on his face, and Zevran almost laughs. The Grey Wardens are supposed to be legendary warriors, skilled and ruthless, are they not? To have his plans dashed because a Warden lacks the stomach to finish off an unarmed attacker is not something Zevran could have expected.
Come now, friend, he thinks, staring right back into the Warden’s dark brown eyes. Let’s get this over with.
Zevran’s fingers twitch, and he almost dives for the daggers laying discarded on the ground. If he did, surely the Warden would have no reason to hold back. If Zevran is quick, he may even be able to get in one last strike- something for this Warden to remember him by, a lesson in what happens when one hesitates in battle.
But the blade hovering oh-so-close to his neck shifts, and the sun once again flashes against the sharp edge of the steel, and this time it is Zevran who hesitates.
That pause seems to stretch on for hours, but in reality the whole encounter likely takes less than five seconds. Such a short time, and yet Zevran is suddenly too late- the sounds of the battle have faded behind him, and the other Wardens are shouting for their companion.
The fight is over. Somehow, Zevran is still alive.
He should be disappointed. Maybe he will be, later, but in this moment he suddenly feels light as a breeze over the ocean. It is not the first time Zevran has been inches from his own death, and he recognizes the rush of relief enveloping him upon the realization of his own survival. Every sensation suddenly feels beautiful- the warmth of the evening sun on his skin, the faint wind pulling at his hair, even the damp sludge of the mud in which he sits.
“What’s this about?” one of the Wardens is asking, and even her irate tone brings a smile to Zevran’s face. It is with no small amount of amusement that he watches the other Warden- his Warden- attempt to stammer out an explanation.
“He, uh. He yielded.”
The man’s sword is still held in position, but Zevran knows now he has no intentions of using it, so long as he is not given a reason to. So Zevran flashes a smile at the approaching woman and nods eagerly, as if this were the most natural situation in the world. “I yielded.”
Perhaps he is imagining things, but Zevran thinks he sees a flicker of relief in his Warden’s eyes.
There is much argument amongst the Wardens about what is to be done with Zevran, but in the end, they let him live.
And Zevran is grateful. He sits and ponders this fact for quite a while, wondering what exactly it means. He’d thought he was ready; he’d thought that this, finally, was the perfect way to make his exit. He’d believed it fully, up until the very last second, when the sword he’d chosen as the last kiss upon his neck simply refused to fall.
And now he is left here, in the Fereldan countryside, with nothing to his name but a scavenged dagger and a tentative will to live. He’d offered his services to the Wardens- and made quite the compelling argument, in his own humble opinion- but the Aeducan woman who seemed to be acting as their leader would have none of it. She’d barely been persuaded to leave him alive at all. The other dwarf, Brosca, had resisted the idea briefly against her, but not with enough strength to change her mind.
It had been the human Warden with dark brown eyes and conflicted morals who argued, however reluctantly, for Zevran’s life. Alistair: the one whom Loghain wanted dead more than either of the dwarves, and the first Warden to lower his sword. By no means did he have any trust for Zevran, that much had been clear. In fact, he’d been downright appalled at the idea of working with the assassin. And yet, he’d shown an equal amount of dismay at the idea of killing him as he lay defenseless, however quick and efficient the process may be. An intriguing contradiction, that.
In any case, it is because of him that Zevran is, against all odds, still alive.
Death will come eventually, of that Zevran is sure. He could simply stay here and wait for a darkspawn swarm to find the easy prey of one lone traveler. He could wait until the Crows hear of his failure and take care of the problem on their own. But the appeal of the Wardens delivering that final blow had lain in the promise of one last glorious fight, one last grand tale. Being eaten by darkspawn or disposed of by the Crows is not how Zevran wants his story to end.
As he sits there in the mud, mulling over his options, an idea flickers to life. The Wardens’ story is not ending here; they have a long road ahead of them, if they truly intend to stand against Loghain and end the Blight. They will need the help of an assassin, whether they admit it or not. Aeducan may not have been swayed by his initial argument, but perhaps what she needs is a better display of Zevran’s skills.
It is more of a plan than any other idea Zevran has, so he picks himself and sets off down the road to Redcliffe. If he still meets his death with the Wardens, so be it.
If not…it will be interesting, to see what comes next.