City Elf Appreciation Week 2025
Day 5 - Prayer
Andrastian or not, some City Elves find themselves turning to prayer.
written for @cityelfweek
|AN: I got behind on this week (mainly because I was knee deep in editing, but this particular prompt was also a challenge. I decided to make this a companion piece (or sequel whatever you want to call it) of this story I wrote for @dragonagekissweek because I wanted to show the other side of things. Anyway, enjoy!
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During the Battle of Denerim, Alara faces the Archdemon, while Zevran holds the gates, clinging to desperate prayers and the promise she made to return to him.
Promises and Prayers
The sound of her footsteps faded into the chaos of the burning city, swallowed by the crackle of flames and the distant roar of battle. Zevran glanced at the gate before him, but his peripheral vision betrayed him. There—a flash of silver armor and dark leather slipping past the barricade, her team moving like shadows through the smoke-choked streets.
Then she was gone, disappeared into the labyrinth of Denerim's burning heart, and something in his chest clenched like a fist.
"Right then," he said aloud, his voice carrying that familiar note of casual amusement as he turned to address his small band of defenders. He gave orders to the others quickly, Wynne to her vantage point, positioning herself where her talents would be most needed, while Shale moved to where her massive stone form could do the most damage to anything foolish enough to approach their position.
Then he turned his attention to the dwarf. "Oghren, you magnificent bastard," Zevran continued, gesturing toward the dwarf who was examining the gate's hinges with a critical eye, "I believe your expertise with those lovely axes of yours would be best utilized right here, where anything attempting to break through will find itself properly introduced to dwarven hospitality."
"Hah!" Oghren barked, hefting his weapons. "Been too long since I had a proper fight without having to watch where I swing. These sodding darkspawn won't know what hit 'em."
Everything under control. Everything proceeding according to plan.
Zevran allowed himself one quick glance toward the inner city, where smoke rose in thick black columns against the blood-red sky. Somewhere in that maze of destruction, Alara was making her way toward Fort Drakon and whatever destiny waited for her there.
I will be back.
The certainty in her voice when she'd made that promise had been absolute, unshakeable. But then, she had always been fierce in her convictions, his beautiful, deadly warden. It was one of the things that had drawn him to her in the first place—that unwavering determination, that refusal to yield even when the odds were impossible.
Even when those odds included facing an Archdemon.
But underneath the professional competence, underneath the easy banter and casual confidence, something darker stirred.
A horn sounded from the walls above, deep, mournful, urgent. The warning they had all been expecting.
Zevran drew his blades in one smooth motion, the familiar weight of them steadying in his hands.
He closed his eyes for just a moment, drawing in a breath that tasted of smoke and death and the distant salt wind from Denerim's harbor.
If there is anything in this world that gives a damn about what we have found in each other in the midst of all this madness... let us both keep our promises today.
She has given me something I never thought to have. Do not let me fail her now.
The first darkspawn rounded the corner, and Zevran's eyes snapped open, every trace of vulnerability vanishing behind the cold professionalism of the assassin he had been trained to be.
His blades sang as they cut through the air, and he lost himself in the deadly dance he knew better than his own heartbeat.
Time became meaningless, there was only the rhythm of combat, the burn in his muscles, the careful calculation of when to advance and when to give ground.
A hurlock's sword whistled past his ear, close enough that he felt the wind of its passage. Zevran spun away with fluid grace, his own blade opening the creature's throat in the same motion.
"Ha! You filthy son of a broodmother," he called out with breathless laughter, already engaging the next opponent. "You'll have to be much faster than that if you want to dance with me!"
The taunt earned him a snarl from another hurlock, but the creature's rage made it sloppy, predictable. Zevran's daggers found the gaps in its makeshift armor with practiced ease.
He refocused on the task at hand, on the promise he'd made to hold this position. She had trusted him with this, and he wouldn't fail her.
Then, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, everything changed.
A brilliant column of light erupted from the direction of Fort Drakon, piercing the blood-red sky like a spear thrown by the gods themselves. For a moment, the entire battlefield seemed frozen in that impossible radiance, darkspawn and defenders alike caught in attitudes of violence, faces turned upward toward the beacon that blazed above the city's heart.
The light pulsed once, twice, and then faded, leaving afterimages burned into Zevran's vision.
Silence fell like a curtain.
The darkspawn around him began to twitch, their corrupted features contorting as if they were waking from some terrible dream. Then, as one, they turned and fled. Not the organized retreat of a defeated army, but the panicked flight of creatures suddenly freed from a compulsion they could no longer bear.
Zevran lowered his bloodied daggers, chest heaving, and watched in stunned disbelief as the horde that had thrown itself against their defenses simply... left. Scattered into the ruins of Denerim like shadows fleeing the dawn.
"Well," Oghren said into the sudden quiet, his voice hoarse from battle-cries. "That's new."
But Zevran's eyes remained fixed on the distant tower where that miraculous light had blazed, his heart hammering against his ribs for reasons that had nothing to do with the exertion of battle.
Somewhere in that tower, Alara was either celebrating her victory or lying dead beside the corpse of the monster she had slain.
Please, he found himself thinking, the word a desperate whisper in the depths of his mind. Please let her promise be true. Please let "always" mean what I need it to mean.
The thought had barely formed when his body moved without conscious command. One moment he was standing frozen among the debris of battle, the next he was vaulting over the barricade, his feet hitting the cobblestones at a dead run.
"Zevran!" Wynne's voice called out behind him, sharp with concern. "Where are you—"
But he was already gone, sprinting toward the heart of the city. Toward Fort Drakon. Behind him came the sound of pursuit—Alistair's footfalls, Oghren's gruff curses, even Shale's grinding rumble following in their wake. But there was only the tower looming larger with each desperate stride, only the need that drove him forward.
The fort's ancient walls finally loomed before him, scarred by combat but still standing. The great oak door hung askew on its hinges, reduced to splinters. Beyond it lay only darkness.
Zevran skidded to a stop at the base of the steps, his chest heaving as he stared up at that yawning entrance. Torchlight flickered weakly from within, casting dancing shadows that revealed nothing.
Behind him, Alistair caught up, breathing hard. Further back, Oghren struggled with the distance.
Then—movement in the shadows.
Leliana stepped into the torchlight, her red hair disheveled, her bow still in hand.
Sten emerged from the darkness, his massive form moving with careful steps. In his arms, cradled against his chest like something infinitely precious, lay a figure in silver armor. Red hair spilled over Sten's arm, catching the flickering light.
Alara.
Motionless. Still. Her face pale in the torchlight.
The world tilted. Zevran's breath caught in his throat, a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob tearing free before he could stop it.
He was flying up the stone steps before conscious thought returned, his daggers clattering forgotten to the ground. "Is she—" he started, but his voice cracked.
Sten's dark eyes met his as he reached the top of the steps. "She lives," the qunari said simply, his deep voice steady and sure. "Unconscious, but breathing."
Zevran's knees nearly buckled as relief crashed over him in waves, so intense it was almost painful.
Without hesitation, he reached out, and Sten carefully transferred Alara's limp form into his arms. She was warm and he could feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing against his chest.
"Alara?" Alistair's voice came from behind him, tight with the same fear that had driven Zevran across the city. "Is she all right?"
"She lives," Zevran managed, his voice rough with emotion as he cradled her closer. Her head lolled against his shoulder, and he could smell the familiar scent of her hair beneath the smoke and blood.
Zevran sank down onto the stone steps, cradling Alara against his chest, unable to do anything but hold her and feel the steady rhythm of her breathing. The others were talking around him, Alistair asking questions, Wynne offering to examine her, Leliana's soft voice explaining what had happened in the tower, but their words seemed to come from very far away.
All that mattered was the warm weight of her in his arms, the proof that she had kept her promise after all.
Always, she had said. Always.
A soft sound escaped her lips, barely more than a breath, and Zevran's attention snapped back to her face with laser focus. Her eyelids fluttered, dark lashes stirring against pale cheeks.
"Alara?" he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion he couldn't quite contain.
Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, blinking against the torchlight. Then her gaze found his face, and something in her expression shifted, recognition, relief, love.
She was looking up at him with those green eyes he had thought he might never see again, and Zevran felt his own eyes burn with unshed tears that he couldn't quite hold back. They clung to his lashes, threatening to spill over, but he didn't care. She was alive. She was here. She was looking at him like he was the most precious thing in the world.
"Mi amor," he breathed, the endearment falling from his lips like a prayer of thanksgiving. "You came back to me."
A weak smile curved her lips, and she lifted one trembling hand to touch his cheek. Her fingers came away damp.
"Always," she whispered, her voice barely audible but carrying all the weight of the promise she had made in that blood-soaked courtyard hours ago. "I told you... always."
The tear he had been fighting finally escaped, trailing down his cheek to where her fingers had touched. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead, gentle and reverent, as if she might disappear if he held her too tightly.
"The Archdemon?" he asked against her skin, though he already knew the answer from the beacon they had all witnessed, from the way the darkspawn had fled.
"Dead." Her voice was stronger now, more certain. "It's over, Zevran. The Blight is over."
Around them, the others had gone quiet, giving them this moment of reunion in the midst of victory. But Zevran barely noticed. There was only Alara, alive and warm in his arms, her green eyes bright with exhaustion and triumph and love.
"When I saw that light," he said softly, "when the darkspawn fled... I thought I might lose my mind waiting to know if you had survived it."
"I made you a promise." She shifted slightly in his arms, trying to sit up more, and he helped her, keeping her steady against his chest. "Did you really think I would break it?"
He laughed, the sound slightly shaky but genuine. "No. No, I suppose I should have known better, my dear Warden. You are far too stubborn to let something as small as an Archdemon keep you from coming home."
"Home," she repeated, and something in the way she said it made his heart skip. Not the alienage where she had grown up, not the camp they had shared with their fellow Wardens, but here—in his arms, wherever they happened to be.
"Home," he confirmed, pressing another kiss to her temple. "Always home, mi amor."
The prayers he had whispered in desperation, the pleas he had sent to whatever gods might listen, all of them had been answered in this single moment. She was alive, she was his, and whatever came next, they would face it together.
Just as she had promised.
Always.
