The DA4 Crow concept art awakened something in me. The world needed elaborate assassination fanfic. If it was a humorous, bittersweet, and horny episode from Zevran’s past, all the better. Black Emporium 2020 gave me as much of an excuse as I ever need. “Only Yours To Give” was born.
I offer you 11k of hijinks, stolen kisses, sword fights, invented and canonical Chantry lore, and the Zevran/Rinna/Taliesen angst that DAO teased but never delivered.
Zevran Arainai knelt in a shadowed gallery overlooking the grandest Chantry sanctuary in Antiva City. He had a grave and perilous job ahead of him. He also had a leg cramp.
Before him, the Cathedral of Our Lady the Redeemer sprawled in an opulent glory of marble, oil paint, and gold leaf. High stained glass windows cast dappled shadows, like filtered light onto a forest floor. Frescoes covered every wall: legends from the birth of the world to the fall of the Golden City, scenes from Andraste’s life, depictions of the world to come when the Chant resounded from every corner of the Maker’s domain.
The columned gallery ran the length of the sanctuary at balcony-height, back from the ornate entry doors, up to the altar where Andraste stood carved from rose-veined marble. The gallery was rarely used, except on holidays when minor nobility crowded the pews on the polished floor. Common folk were relegated to craning their necks and straining to catch the Grand Cleric’s words.
He cast a furtive glance down the long gallery, toward the closed door that led to the staircase that brought him here. Satisfied that the corridor was still empty, he let his gaze drift outward again to the statue that dwarfed the hall. When he spoke again, barely above a murmur, it wasn’t to recite prescribed words.
“With your blessing and forgiveness, I will finish this job with as much mercy as I can manage. Additionally…” his hands still folded, Zevran offered a sigh and a shrug, “I apologize in advance for poisoning the holy water. I did try to think of a better option. In the grand scheme of things, I both hope and suspect this minor blasphemy won’t tip the scales. But nevertheless - I am sorry.”
The door at the end of the gallery creaked. He turned his head barely a fraction. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a woman in the white and crimson robes of a lay Sister catch the handle so it shut softly behind her.
He dropped his eyes to the columned rail. After a steadying breath, he offered a muttered conclusion, the standard: “In the name of Andraste, your bride and champion, our prophet and redeemer.”
The Sister wore hard-heeled shoes that echoed down the gallery. The sound grew louder with her approach. He kept his gaze downcast.
The pew behind him creaked as she sat down. Her robes rustled softly when she crossed her legs.
“There’s just something stirring about seeing you on your knees, Zevran.”
“At the mercy of a beautiful woman? Ready to serve her every whim?” He couldn’t help his smile as he turned to look up at her.
Rinna’s full lips quirked. “We are talking about Andraste, aren’t we?”