#zevka

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Words are pale and brittle things. A single drop of rain in a torrential storm, one ember in the wildfire burning through their veins. Promises last longer when they're branded on the skin with broken, bleeding lips and needles tipped with ink.

They offer both with eagerness. Unspoken truths splayed along the lines of frantic heartbeats and heaving chests.

I would die for you.

I would kill for you.

But above all else and against my nature -

I will live

For you.

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Yeah I've been turning around a fic idea re: older Zevran 10+ years after Revka's death not being quite as spry as he used to be caught off guard by an assassination attempt and only surviving because of the intervention of some odd not-fade-spirit-but-maybe? presence that leaves a faint scent of wildflowers behind how could you tell?

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A conversation overheard during a brief moment of rest in the midst of the chaos overrunning the Circle at Kinloch Hold.

Zevran: Your brother is quite fortunate.

Revka: Nothing 'bout this mess is fortunate. Less you mean that he's still breathing.

Zevran: Mm, yes I suppose that is true, given the circumstances. The same might be said for anyone we come across here not turned into some terrible puppet of mutilated flesh. But that was not the meaning I intended, no.

Revka: What did you intend, then?

Zevran: That he is fortunate to have a sister such as yourself.

Revka: *scoff* 'S no shame in you, is there? Neck deep in filth and demons and you're still tossing 'round flattery.

Zevran: That is no flattery, dear Warden. Only truth.

Revka: Oh would you shut your bloody-

Zevran: Please, correct me if I am mistaken. But talented as the boy may be, it seems that if it were not for you and your heedless charge into a locked tower overrun by abominations, there would have been little hope for his survival. If the demons failed to find him, the templars and their rite surely would have.

Revka: I... Someone else might've-

Zevran: No. They would not.

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Just thinking about the first good, sunny day Zevran sees in Ferelden. How he'd turn his face upward to catch every spare ray of warmth possible, eyes closed, silent except for a slow, appreciative sigh. How the light would glint off his earrings, how the soft breeze would catch stray strands of his hair and make them dance around his face. The soft, easy smile with no second meaning, no hidden calculous in the way he shapes his expression. Just genuine, quiet contentment.

And the moment Revka sees this. When she gets that little glimpse through a crack in the careful mask he wears. How her heart feels too big for her chest, and how she would do anything, give anything in that moment to be able to drive the clouds from the sky.

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I imagine once the events of Trespasser are over and the Inquisition has disbanded at least publicly, the first order of business for Zevran and Revka is a long, LONG vacation. Zevran - while able to act anonymously through proxies and correspondence - can't leave the Crows unattended indefinitely, or he risks upstarts attempting to hijack his title of Shadow Prince of the order. And he did promise to bring Revka to Antiva, after all.

So the two travel to Antiva City for a year or so - Zevran managing his responsibilities and the odd attempt to suss out his identity/assassinate him while making time to show off his beloved home. And Revka, for the first time in possibly her life, gets to relax for a time.

But she has responsibilities back in Fereldan as well, and her's are not as easily managed from afar. With things in order in Antiva they travel back to Amaranthine, Revka's return to her role as Warden Commander not easy, but manageable. The pair fall into a routine of traveling back and forth between their two homes for varying lengths of time, and have a sense of precious normalcy.

There's investigations into the Calling going on throughout this, of course, but it brings only minor leads and less than promising results. Which is fine, for a time. Until during one of their stays in Antiva, when things begin to seem a bit... Off.

The sunlight always used to bring a vibrant glow to Revka, but now no amount of it can drive off the grey pallor settling in around her eyes. She tires faster, sleeps more poorly than ever before, and a faint cloudiness begins to make reading without spectacles difficult. And the nail in the coffin comes in the middle of the night after a month of things growing slowly worse, when Zevran wakes to find Revka's side of the bed empty.

He finds her huddled in the lounge, curled up in a corner with her knees drawn as tightly to her chest as possible. And she's muttering to herself in some garbled language, partially in common but broken up by words that don't sound like words at all, only gutteral noise.

They leave the next day, back to Fereldan indefinitely. And on the way back to Amaranthine, they make a long overdue visit to a run down tower and leave with a third in tow. After all, Avernus was only allowed to live because of them.

[scribbledquillz]

WIP Wednesday

The lovely @wild-houseplant tagged me to share a snippet and I am all too happy to oblige. In turn, I'll tag back: @heniareth , @siriskulksnerding , @blarrghe , @shivunin , @greypetrel , @darethshirl , @riguri and anyone else who wants in. Please tag me, I'd love to see what you share!

This bit is a long time coming, and I am so looking forward to finally getting to write these two interacting more. 🥰

“Mmmph. Ah… I suppose death has not found me after all, then. Or if it has, the seat of the Maker is not nearly so splendid as the Chantry claims.” Gingerly Zevran turned his head up against the wagon, heavy lidded eyes blinking into the Warden’s face. He pushed one corner of his mouth into a crooked smirk, making use of the wince that came when his aching jaw protested. “Though if He has sent such a lovely creature to carry out the punishment I’ve earned for my sins, I can imagine far more terrible ways to pass eternity.”  There it was, the same vicious scowl which had greeted him before, pulled across her mouth in time with the dagger she raised to hover inches from the end of his chin. “Your men are dead, or fled the field like rabbits. Won’t be anyone left to come for you.” “Yes, I see you and your companions have done a thorough job of seeing to that,” Zevran answered with a short glance back to Karrok’s vacant face. “Not that I mean to cast blame for such things. It is only to be expected.” “You’re going to give us some answers.” The point of her dagger crept closer, a glimpse of his spilt lip and battered nose reflected back at him from its edge. “And if you want to keep your throat, I’d keep them honest.”

“But of course, dear Warden,” he said with a flash of blood-stained teeth. “It would be my pleasure. We have much to discuss, I am certain.”

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A little something that struck me over the head and wouldn't leave me be until I did something with it after seeing this post, more specifically @shivunin 's apt tags on it. So please enjoy a soft little introspective moment with our favorite assassin set shortly after the end of the Blight during some well deserved rest. 😊

The absence of heavy leathers and clinking iron does not sit right with him. He feels naked without the weight, bare and vulnerable to an infinite threat of brigands and blight-mad creatures his mind can imagine lurking just beyond his senses' reach. Too many times he has felt his fingers twitch at the slightest sound or glimpse of movement, choler rankling bitter in his chest when the source of his dread inevitably proves to be nothing more than Revka's tired, sleeping sigh or the flutter of curtains in the breeze. Zevran Arainai. Antivan Crow, veteran of the Fifth Blight, sent jumping by snores and drapery. If he could see himself as he is now not a year ago-

The thought snares unexpectedly. Catching in a raw wound struggling to heal through its festering. A year ago this scene would have been thought an illusion of the Fade, or worse some ruse laid out in the most cruelly intricate fashion. A quiet night of stars and ocean air wrapped in a lover's arms. The sweet echo of fine liquor and sex. Safety behind walls real and metaphoric, well beyond the reach of any who might seek their sundering. It would have seemed unreal. Unreachable.

And yet here he was, heart and belly full, Revka's head nestled into the hollow of his shoulder as she breathed soft and even in sleep for the first time in weeks. Content. At peace. Safe.

It would take some time for the absence of heavy leathers and clinking iron to sit right with him. But, he thinks as he turns deeper into Revka's warmth, it will be a challenge worth savoring.

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micro story - 19. sea change 💎

Micro Story Meme - 19. Sea Change

Thank you for the prompt my dear! And it's only 300 years late, but just in time for the last day of MerMay. :3

The tides are not always as predictable as the surface dwellers wish to believe. In truth her own kind have begun to forget this as well, ages of isolation and conflict making it far too easy to mistake contentment with facts of nature. Those who live on the land are not to be trusted, their greed and pride a blight grown too strong to contain to the shores. Those who live beneath the waves are a marked prey, hunted as little more than beasts worth only the plundering of their corpses.

Revka had lived by these truths from the moment she'd drawn in her first taste of sea salt, reveled in the blood and bubbling deaths of a dozen hunters foolish enough to stray within her reach. She would have done the same to him had she not been the one trapped at their first meeting, fins and tail tangled hopelessly in the nets thrown out by those who had come before him. It would have been only right for him to do the same, rows of pointed teeth and eyes black as the ocean void turned on the sight of the knife in his hand as he'd drawn near. But rather than drawing the blade across her throat he had set it to her bindings, keeping a slow, purposeful pace as he spoke a language she did not understand in lyrical warmth. And he had set her free.

The man's mercy still plagues her now seven setting suns later as she floats beneath the surface, the waters glowing violent orange and red around the sinking hull of a great ship. She does not trust it, not yet certain it wasn't the beginning of some drawn out deception meant to lower her guard. But the fire raging along rigging and deck does not have the patience for misgivings, and the sight of a familiar form thrown carelessly to the waves even less so.

She makes her choice, the man's limp body caught up in her arms and pulled away from the path of a cannon sent hurtling overboard. If this man proves the threat she assumed, it will be little trouble to see it quelled. But if not... Perhaps the tides are not the only thing meant to change.