March Madness - Day 25
Advice
Dermot leaned on the balcony, looking out over ruins of Redcliffe. They had arrived to find the darkspawn all over the village and castle, but thankfully the combined armies of Dalish elves, Orzammar dwarves, Circle mages and templars, and the arl’s own soldiers had been more than enough to press the horde back. Tomorrow morning would begin the hard march back to Denerim in the hope that they might reach the city before the darkspawn. But tonight ...
He sighed, bending to rest his forehead on his folded arms, squeezing his eyes shut, wishing for a simple decision. Riordan had told them why only a Grey Warden could kill an archdemon. When the archdemon died, one of them would die with it. There was no escaping that fate for the one who struck the blow. Yet Morrigan was certain that she could circumvent that fate with a ritual from Flemeth’s grimoire. She needed ...
He straightened abruptly at the sound of the door opening behind him, only relaxing when he felt the familiar brush of fingertips against his hair, the waft of spiced leather against his nose. Zevran.
“Alistair told me,” the elven man said quietly. “And Morrigan told me something else, very intriguing. Why are you not with her, Dermot?”
“I don’t ... I don’t know.”
Dermot sighed once again, lowering his head. Zevran waited, patiently letting the silence grow deafening around them.
“It feels as though I would be breaking two oaths to do as she asks,” he said quietly, feeling his way through his response. “My oath to the Grey Wardens and ... my promise to you.”
He didn’t need to see his lover’s handsome face to know that Zevran was smiling at this, half-turning to raise his arm and draw the smaller man into a one-armed embrace.
“If I may,” Zevran murmured in answer. “Your oath to the Wardens is to guard against the Blight, to kill the archdemon. In joining Morrigan tonight, you will not be breaking that oath, Your oath to me ...”
He raised his head, and Dermot felt his breath catch in his throat at the fierce fire that flickered in his usually serene lover’s gaze. Zevran’s hand rose from his waist, wrapping his palm and fingers to Dermot’s jaw, holding his gaze with nothing but certainty.
“I gave you my life, mi amor, and you promised me your own,” he reminded the Warden, his voice vehement in the stillness around them. “I do not give you permission to end your life before I am done with it, or I will follow you to the grave. There is no life if you are not in this world, Dermot, not for me.”
What could he say? How could he answer that? In those fierce words was the decision he realized he had already made - living was worth far more than dying. He pulled Zevran close, lips devouring lips in a fervent display of adoration more telling than any words could be.
“For you, I’ll live,” he promised hoarsely, clinging to his lover in the darkness. “And we’ll help her, won’t we? We’ll help her raise the child?”
Zevran’s lips quirked into his familiarly mischievous grin.
“Every child needs a charming Antivan uncle on their side.”
