Uncomfortable Truths

Well-Woven Net, Knot 6: Uncomfortable Truths


It was still almost impossible to believe.  Had they really, truly, found the Urn of Sacred Ashes, the last earthly remains of the Prophet Andraste?

Alessar brushed his hand over his belt pouch again, knowing that nestled inside, wrapped a tiny envelope of oilcloth, was a pinch of those ashes.  They had seen a High Dragon, they had been questioned by the shades of Andraste's contemporaries... they had somehow fought phantom copies of themselves, and they had even walked through fire.  All of that to finally come to Andraste's final resting place.  For a short time, their worldly concerns had seemed almost trivial in comparison.

He certainly wasn't the most religious person, but it was the Chantry, and their rules and laws and history, that he had little love for.  Like many elves, he had a sense of reverence for Andraste herself, for what she had done and the message she had tried to leave for Thedas.  To see the secluded temple, the great statue of Andraste worn featureless by time, the Urn itself...  To touch the Ashes... It had filled him with a sense of wonder, of awe, that he'd never experienced.

The others had been deeply affected as well, he knew; even Zevran, who had tried at first to make light of the situation, quickly fell silent, perhaps left without glib words for once.  They had lingered in the chamber of the Ashes for a while, by mutual agreement; none of them were Chantry scholars, to analyze the room and all its contents, but this was likely something that they would ever experience again.

In that room, everything had seemed real, or beyond real, somehow, as if the reality of the Ashes overrode everything else.  But out here in the cold, crisp air of the mountains, it began to feel like a fading dream.  Only the fact that they had all experienced it reassured him that it was truth.

Then again, they had all been trapped in the Fade together once before... could it have happened again?  Somehow, he doubted it.  They had all felt "holes" in their nightmares in the Fade, but this had been seamless, whole.  And... he had to admit to himself, he wanted it to be true.  Even if Genitivi had his way and the mountaintop became a site of pilgrimage, they had been there first: the first supplicants to thread the Gauntlet in probably hundreds of years.

...Of course, if the Ashes could not cure Arl Eamon... All the spirituality in the world couldn't help them, and it would come down to blades and spells again.

The Grey Warden sighed softly to himself and looked out over the campsite.  They had finally made it down the mountain and back to the outskirts of Haven after dark.  The temple of the Ashes was one thing, but Haven was another -- he would be damned glad to shake this place's dirt off of his boots in the morning.  As it was, he was ill at ease, worried at some sort of sneak attack by the remaining villagers who they hadn't killed in self-defense the day before.  It seemed unlikely, but... one never really knew.

Thinking of sneak attacks turned his thoughts, unsurprisingly, to Zevran.  He glanced surreptitiously at the assassin, who was apparently re-lacing the leather grip of his vicious-looking qunari saw-sword.  The thing looked like some unholy bastard child of a war axe, a wood saw, and a longsword; it was considerably too heavy for Alessar to use, but Zevran was stronger than he was, and had found the ugly, but well-made, sword to his liking.  "Not very subtle," he had admitted, "but the darkspawn have no appreciation for subtlety, anyway."

The Warden wanted desperately to talk to Zevran about what the Guardian of the Ashes had asked him.  The Guardian had questioned them all, seemingly reaching into their hearts with ease and pulling out their deepest hurts, the blights on their souls that had played some part in leading them here.  Alistair's had been no real surprise, and to hear that calm, wise Wynne sometimes had doubts was also not a real shock, if one thought about it.  Both of their admissions had obviously been painful, as Alessar's own had been, but Zevran's...

They hadn't even heard the entirety of the Guardian's ponderous question before the Antivan had angrily interrupted and admitted his regret.  Alessar had never seen the normally easygoing elf so agitated before.  Obviously whatever it was that he regretted bothered him deeply.  But what was it?  Someone he had killed in the past, it had sounded like?  A woman?

He had tentatively tried to approach Zevran about it as they walked back down the mountainside, but he had barely opened his mouth to speak before the assassin had neatly distracted him with some hair-raisingly bad Antivan sex poetry.  By the time that conversation drew to a close, the moment no longer seemed right to bring up old murders and regrets.

Alessar had the feeling that bringing up the subject any time was going to be difficult, but he wanted to know.  For all of Zevran's frequent bluntness in talking about his past, there were still so many things they didn't know about him.  Not that they all didn't have their own secrets, but...

Admit it, you're just burning up with curiosity because the Guardian brought it up in the first place, he berated himself.  Ignorance was bliss, after all, and now that he was no longer ignorant about the matter, he was discontent.

Well.  Since I'll not be able to get it off my mind now, I might as well have another go at it, he thought in resignation.  As he rose, the necklace that the phantom-Shianni had given him (how?) rapped gently on his brigandine.  He picked up the chain and contemplated the pendant for a moment as it spun slowly: one side smoothly polished silver, like a mirror, and the other etched with what looked like an archaic Chantry symbol.

The first time he'd looked into the mirror-side, he thought he'd seen a glint of someone else's eyes -- familiar green eyes, and not his blue ones at all.  It had to have been Shianni, but had he imagined it?  Or....

Wondering if he'd ever see his cousin again, he tucked the necklace under his armor and made his way over to where Zevran sat.  The Antivan heard him coming, of course -- studded leather armor was ill-suited to stealth -- and rose to greet him.

"Tsk, look at you... all of this trekking up and down the mountain, slaying drakes, trying to outwit religious madmen, it's obviously taken its toll on our dear Captain." Zevran held him at arm's length, looking him over like a tailor sizing up a customer.  "Do you know what you need?"

Alessar raised an eyebrow.  He wasn't quite sure if Zevran was joking or not.  "Do tell."

"My thought is this." The assassin lowered his voice to an intimate murmur.  "We retire to your tent, and I show you the sort of massage skills that one only learns growing up in an Antivan whorehouse."  He met Alessar's eyes and grinned.

The Warden felt the blood rising in his face.  There was no real question as to what Zevran was really proposing... "I... I don't know, Zevran, I'm not sure that's a good idea," he stammered, looking down.

"What is there to fear, my dear Grey Warden?" the other elf asked with a quiet chuckle.  "You deserve a little fun, do you not?"  

"It's not that," Alessar began, but he paused a little too long as he searched for the right words.

"Ah... If you're not of a mind, then, it is no tragedy."  The assassin shrugged philosophically and grinned.  He seemed at peace with that, but Alessar wondered if he was more disappointed than he let on.

"I... It's not that," the Warden repeated, causing Zevran to look at him intently.  His felt his ears burn even hotter under the other elf's full attention.  "It's just... we're not exactly alone..." he muttered.  That was... a partial truth.  It certainly wasn't his only reason for keeping Zevran at a distance for a little while longer, but it was a legitimate one.  The last thing he wanted was for the rest of the camp to overhear... whatever it was they might overhear.  

"Ah." Zevran grinned wickedly.  "Bashful, are we?"  Of course, he already knew that was true; they all did.  Baiting the young Warden to make his ears turn red was a fairly frequent game among certain members of the company.  "Very well," the assassin chuckled, "I'll accept that excuse, for now."  His tone hinted that he might not, the next time -- and that there would definitely be a next time.

Alessar took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure.  Had the other elf just intentionally sidetracked him again?  Or was it just a coincidence?  It was hard to tell, with Zevran's jovial demeanor.  Perhaps he'd been planning to proposition the Warden all evening, or perhaps he honestly had just seen Alessar's state of weariness and thought to offer his own sort of relief.  Or, well, maybe he had guessed exactly why Alessar had come over, and had acted quickly to head him off.

"Zevran," the dark-haired elf began, his serious tone drawing a raised eyebrow from the assassin.  "I... I came over here to talk.  Not that I don't appreciate the offer," he added with a slight, self-conscious grin.

"Oh-ho, truly?  The offer still stands, whenever you'd like to claim it," Zevran replied with a playful leer.  "But... what did you wish to talk about?" He was still smiling, but Alessar took note of the fact that he crossed his arms, that classic sign of defensiveness.

"... I think you know already," the Warden said quietly.  "What... what the Guardian asked you before the Gauntlet..."  He looked up; Zevran's expression had become unreadable.  "I... wondered if you would care to tell me about it."

The Antivan elf looked down for a moment, but then met Alessar's gaze and smiled wearily.  "I... suppose I should.  You have been a good friend to me, more than I ever dared to hope for... especially given how we met, yes?"  A smile flickered on his lips briefly.

Zevran's normal veil of humor and innuendo was gone, now.  Just that fact alone made the Warden aware of how important this was... and how much the assassin trusted him, to let his guard down this way.  He could tell that this was going to be difficult for Zevran, and while his curiosity still raged, he had to offer a way out.  He always did.  "If you really don't want to discuss it, Zevran, it's all right."

"No... Of all people, my Grey Warden, you need to hear this," the assassin replied, shaking his head.  He gestured for Alessar to sit down, and followed suit.

I need to hear it?  That doesn't sound good, Alessar thought worriedly.  He sat down next to the other elf and looked up attentively.

Zevran, however, was looking into the flames of their bonfire, his eyes unfocused.  "Do you remember when I mentioned the last mission I took before I was contracted to kill you?" he asked.

"Yes..." The Warden tried to remember exactly what Zevran had said.  "You said it was the only other tale worth telling, but..."

"But I didn't want to tell it at that time.  Yes." The Antivan looked over at him and smiled slightly, apparently glad that he remembered.  "What that shade asked me is a part of what happened then. But... let me start at the beginning."

Alessar just nodded slightly, willing to let Zevran tell the obviously painful story at his own pace.

"At the time, I was at the height of my career in the Crows.  I was cocky, and arrogant, and I thought that I was the best Crow in Antiva.  I bragged often about my accomplishments -- both as an assassin, and as a lover."  Zevran looked sidelong at the Warden, gauging his reaction.

"Were you the best Crow in Antiva?" Alessar asked with a small smile.  It was easy for him to imagine Zevran as the character he had just described.  Perhaps he was no longer that way now, but it seemed that he still held up that facade, frequently, in order to protect himself...

"Oh, who can say?" the assassin said with a short laugh.  "I certainly made a good deal of money for the Crows, at any rate.  As I told you when we first met, they more than made back whatever they invested in buying and training me."  He waved dismissively.  "But regardless of my value, my... attitude... displeased some of my masters.  When I put in a bid on a particularly difficult job, they accepted.  Perhaps they hoped that I would fail, or perhaps they somehow had some inkling of what was to happen.  If I had been less of a fool, I might have taken heed of their malice, but I never thought of such things... I just wanted to complete another challenge, add another notch to my belt, so to speak."

Alessar nodded again, though he held back his many questions.  This was Zevran's tale to tell, after all.

"I was to work with two others: a frequent partner of mine, a man named Taliesen; and an elven woman named Rinna."  The Antivan paused for a moment, closing his eyes as if summoning a mental image.  "She was... amazing.  Smooth, tough, wicked... Eyes that shined like justice.  Everything I thought I desired."

"You were in love with her," the Warden said quietly, beginning to get an inkling of how this would end.

"I was.  I would have never admitted it, then.  I... thought I had closed myself off from such things long ago.  Those feelings were a weakness; my trainers had beat that into me over the years." Zevran shook his head regretfully.  "But she... touched something within me.  It frightened me."

Alessar felt a slight chill.  Of course, it was no surprise at all that Zevran had been taught not to love; he'd been raised to kill since the age of seven.  But the fact that love had frightened him... It sounded so utterly painful.  He could only imagine how conflicted Zevran must have been.  The Warden himself was still trying to come to terms with his feelings for the assassin, and that was complicated, but he had never thought of love as something wrong.  Something mysterious, perhaps, but not something to be scourged away.  How would he feel if he suddenly felt powerfully drawn to someone, but believed that that feeling was bad, or that he'd be punished for it?

"Taliesen... brought me unpleasant news," Zevran pressed on.  "It seemed that the merchant had learned of our plan, and Taliesen was convinced that the merchant had bribed Rinna for that information.  ... The Crows do not take betrayal lightly.  She would have to die for that.

"I felt that I had been made a fool of, and I convinced myself that whatever had drawn me to Rinna was a lie, that she had beguiled me somehow.  I ... stood aside as Taliesen killed her."

Zevran continued to stare towards the fire as he spoke, his expression bleak.  "She was on her hands and knees, begging us not to kill her.  She swore that she loved me, and that she had not betrayed us.  I... I laughed in her face, and told her that even if it were true, I didn't care."

"But that was a lie," Alessar said in a near-whisper, caught up in the pain in Zevran's voice.

"I had convinced myself it was true," the other elf said bitterly.  "...Taliesen slit her throat, and she fell to the floor.  I watched her bleed to death as she stared up at me... and I spat on her for betraying the Crows."

The Warden had known that the woman would die somewhere in this tale, but not how. He stared at Zevran, aghast -- not at what Zevran had done (or not done), but that his heart had been broken in such a way.  But the assassin's tale was not finished.

"When we finally assassinated the merchant, we found the true source of his information. Rinna... had not betrayed us after all."

Alessar's hand came up to his mouth in shock. "Oh... oh, Maker.  Zevran..."

Zevran closed his eyes, ignoring the Warden for a moment, as if eager to just finish the tale and put it behind him again.  "I wanted to tell the masters the truth, but Taliesen convinced me not to.  He needn't have bothered; they knew.  They always knew these things.  They enjoyed telling me that they didn't care, that it didn't matter, and that my turn would come, some day."

"Why?" the Warden breathed.  "Why would they..."

"We were nothing to them, Alessar."  Zevran finally looked at him, and while his expression was not so deeply distressed -- doubtless because of his training -- the tone of his voice was heartbreaking.  "She was nothing, I was nothing.  We were expendable.  And they wanted to remind me of that.  No matter what we did... we were nothing more than tools for them to use and discard."

He finally fell silent, looking at his hands.  Alessar felt a sudden, unreasoning urge to touch him, to take his hand, or grip his shoulder, or... something, but he fought it, unsure of whether the other elf would accept that kind of gesture.  

"When I took the job that brought me to you... it wasn't as if I was expecting to be spared by my target, and given a way to escape the Crows," the assassin said with a faint smile.  "I had been looking to die.  I thought, what better way to ensure my fate than to throw myself at a fabled Grey Warden?  But... that apparently was not meant to be.  And so, here I am."

"I... I'm so sorry, Zevran," Alessar said haltingly.  "That's... truly horrible..."

"I swore I would never speak of this to anyone, but... it feels... good, to have done so," Zevran said, sounding almost surprised to realize it.  "Thank you for listening... and for what you have given me, here in Ferelden," he continued solemnly.  "I owe you a great deal."

"You don't owe me anything, Zevran," the Warden said, shaking his head.  "I'm... glad to have you with me. With us."  He tried backpedaling over his slip, but once said, it couldn't be taken back.

The Antivan gave him a hint of a grin as he heard the little stumble.  "And I'm glad to be here. With you."

At that moment, Alessar lost all concern with whether or not the others might be watching, and what they might think if they were.  Before he could over-think it, he leaned over and kissed the other elf lightly on the cheek.  "Thank you for telling me all of this," he said softly before pulling away.  He could only imagine how much it must have hurt to dredge all of that up again.  It had hurt him just to listen to it.

Zevran looked slightly bemused at Alessar's spontaneous display, and was silent as the Warden rose and turned to leave.  He had only taken half a step, though, before a hand seized his wrist, and he was pulled around into a rough, almost desperate kiss.  He fought down the instinctive urge to recoil from the other man -- the fear clearly still wasn't completely gone -- and forced himself to relax instead, to surrender.  He could feel the smile on Zevran's lips, the soft laugh shared between their breath.  

Finally, they parted, breathless.  Someone farther away coughed self-consciously, but Alessar didn't really care at the moment.  All of his attention was for Zevran, who was regarding him with that familiar glint in his eye once again.

"Did you really think I'd let you get away with just that little peck, my dear Grey Warden?" the assassin murmured, his smug smirk threatening to break into a wider grin.


.fin.