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ghostwise · 5 months ago

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Matacuervos, ch. 8 - La curandera Rated M, 3.2k words - cw: child injury, discussions of trauma and slavery Zevran and Hamal's time in Rialto comes to an end, but they leave behind more questions than answers. Read update on AO3 - Read from the beginning

The door shuddered under Zevran’s fist.

They were standing outside the apartments at La joya. It was late, still dark, though not for long; the night had stretched thinly out into the small hours of the morning. He was tired. His head ached. He wasn’t even sure if this would work. He was also worried that at any given moment the child would wake up.

If the child woke up, surely she would try to flee, as any child ought to when finding herself injured and in the company of strangers. What would they do then?

Giving Hamal a nervous look, Zevran turned to knock on the door once more. In that moment it opened.

Elena stood inside, dressed in a nightgown and overcoat. Her eyes widened in recognition, and she pulled them in at once.

“A doctor,” Zevran said.

“I’ll find the curandera,” Elena replied. “Where did that child come from?”

“We rescued her.”

“What happened to her?”

“Stunned,” he said. “By a mage.”

“I take it that means you found the man you were looking for?”

“He is dead.”

Without yesterday’s host of prostitutes and friends, the parlor felt spacious, even empty. Elena led them to a small bedroom in the back. It was a tidy room with the smell of dried jasmine flowers, an old bed, and a votive to Andraste upon the dresser.

“Sangre del Creador,” she exclaimed.

Hamal carefully set the child upon the bed. He placed a hand on her forehead, then looked up at Zevran with a frown. “She has a fever,” he said. “Fiebre.”

“There is water in the kitchen,” Elena said curtly. “Bring her some!”

“Where-?” Zevran began to ask, but Elena had already whisked her way out of the bedroom. He followed at her heels.

“Left of the wash basin,” she replied. “Stay here! I’ll be back soon with the healer!”

The door slammed shut in her haste. Zevran stared after her a moment, then set upon the drawers.

He dug through wooden spoons and matchsticks, rolls of twine, and linen washcloths folded neatly. Grabbing one, he quickly arranged a washcloth and a bowl of cool water, then returned to the bedroom, where Hamal knelt beside the bed and gazed upon the injured child.

“Why is she so warm?” Hamal asked as Zevran held the damp cloth to her forehead. “Is she sick?”

“Head injuries can cause temperature sometimes,” Zevran murmured. “She will be alright.”

The words came out in practiced calm. He did not give them any thought; he was simply saying what people ought to say in these situations. When he glanced down at his husband, he was surprised to find him kneeling with his eyes shut and his head bowed. For a moment, he thought he was praying to the Creators. Then he realized he was shivering.

Zevran eased a hand onto his shoulder. He was not surprised when Hamal reached, haltingly, to cover it with one of his own.

Elena was gone for a good half hour, though she ran as quickly as she could the distance between the brothel and the neighborhood healer. The healer was accustomed to being roused at night, or whenever a local emergency called for her skills. She had lived in her apartment for decades, and had looked after the whores at La joya even longer.

The old woman was not an apostate—though such people did exist, they were hard to come by, and Antiva’s Circle mages provided healing only to the most privileged noble families—but she was versed in old knowledge of medicinal herbs and traditional remedies. She had lived a long and varied life, and carried all that knowledge inside her withered frame. So when she said she needed time to gather her supplies, Elena fretted and wrung her hands, but allowed her to take as long as she needed.

One did not argue with Mirna the curandera.

When they finally returned the child was awake, and had begun to vomit. Zevran had found a bucket to contain the bile, as Hamal held her hair back and helped her stay upright. But their business was not in healing, and the only tools they had were their arrows and knives.

“She has been like this for a few minutes,” Zevran said. “We do not have anything to give her-”

“A mage’s concussive blast,” the older woman murmured in her deep and dry voice. “Arnica for the pain. Rabo de zorro for the fever. Ice for the swelling. Prayer for the rest. Allow me.”

She stepped in smoothly, pushing the men out of the way in a manner that was somehow kind, yet brooked no argument. And while Zevran would hesitate to admit it, it was a relief.

“Thank the Maker,” he sighed, and dropped into a seat by the curtained window.

It was in the healer’s hands now. His own headache had worsened. Now he rather felt like a stiletto knife had driven into his skull.

The curandera’s voice, arid as the high-wind season, cut through his mental haze: “Brew a strong tea, with just a scoop of these herbs and a kettle full of water. One cup for the girl, two for the man.”

“Smells like snakeweed,” Hamal observed in Common. “I did not know we had this sort of plant up here. It will help your headache.”

“I’m fine. Just tend to the girl,” Zevran murmured.

Elena shot both of them an incisive glance. But she made the tea as instructed, leaving them to their foreign conversing.

After that, no one spoke for a while. There was o nly the sound of the child heaving and a kettle whistling on the wood stove. Somehow the candle-lit night in Elena’s apartment cradled these, and everything felt quiet. It was hard to believe that at this very moment Rocio could be on her way to a jail cell…

Zevran felt a cup of hot tea pressed into his hands.

“Elena,” he said, and then he paused, uncharacteristically uncertain. He looked up at her, frowning. Perhaps he was more dazed than he realized. “It is Elena, isn’t it? We spoke so briefly. I must tell you. Rocio-”

“Where is she?” Elena asked in a hiss.

Zevran hesitated. He always recognized affection by the fangs it bared.

“By now she is probably turning herself over to the city guard.”

“Why? What happened?”

Zevran glanced at Hamal. Still, he knew it had to be him to tell the tale; Hamal’s Antivan was not fluent enough to explain, and their window of time was shrinking. But he was also unsure how much he should say. He was wondering about the woman at the head of the bed, the curandera, who was easing tea into the young girl’s mouth.

“Some gall you have to bring an injured child to my doorstep in the dead of night,” Elena said, voice unexpectedly sharp, “and play coy in front of the healer. Talk!”

“You’re right, of course,” Zevran said, sufficiently chastised. “My apologies.”

So he began. He spoke slowly, trying to condense the tale as much as possible, both for the sake of urgency and for his own aching head.

“We tracked the slaver and attempted to capture him outside the brothel, El milagro. He had an arrangement with the owner there… to transport two children under the guise of bringing them to a school in Salle. We confronted him… wounded him, and we nearly succeeded in capturing him, but the man was an apostate. He used his magic to escape. Rocio was the one who finally stopped him, and killed him.”

“I don’t understand.” Elena shook her head. “There’s more to it, there must be. She is not a violent woman!”

“No,” Zevran assented. “But she is a brave one.”

Elena made a frustrated sound, turning away.

“She recognized him as the man who’d stolen her friends away, years ago,” Zevran said. “I recognized him, also. He has been plying his trade in Rialto for decades.” He shook his head. “No longer. Rocio did what was necessary. After that, she could have easily chosen to claim her innocence. But she realized that she needed to admit her hand in this murder, in order to expose his crimes.”

“So she’s playing martyr,” Elena said bitterly.

“She needs your help.” Zevran paused again, somewhat unsteady. At Hamal’s urging, he drank some of the snakeweed tea. It quelled his headache some, and parched a thirst he hadn’t recognized with everything else going on.

Meanwhile, Elena grappled with what she’d heard.

“What can I do?” she asked.

“Rocio wants to bring the people who are behind all this to justice,” Zevran said. “Not only this man, but whatever allies he might have; we discovered that the owner and manager of El milagro are involved. And who knows how many others. Rocio has asked that you keep the child safe, and tell everyone in the Society of Pleasures what has happened. Tomorrow you will receive a visit from a woman, Nadia. She is trustworthy. She will tell you more. Lastly,” he added, and this was the tricky part, the part he was dreading, “You must not mention me or my companion. To anyone.”

“Why not?” Elena demanded.

“Because I was once a member of the Antivan Crows. I have deserted my House. Now I aim to destroy the Crows and anyone who supports them. So you see… our association would only harm her.”

She stared at him.

The admission felt bold, after all he had been through tonight. At least it had served to quell Elena’s myriad of questions.

“It’s curious,” Zevran continued. “When we came to Rialto, we thought only to investigate my past. Then, to kill the man who had sold me into that life. We did not intend for all of this to happen… and yet we do not regret it. We have rescued a child! She is safe now, thanks to Rocio, and Nadia, and you. But we cannot be a part of what happens next. That falls to you and the others.”

“And what are you going to do, Crow?” Elena asked, still aiming her furious gaze at him.

“That is something you are better off not knowing,” Zevran said. “It will be bloody work.”

With a flare of her nostrils, Elena exhaled harshly. She looked at him one last time with a withering intensity, before dropping her face into her hands and releasing a shuddering sigh.

“Cio,” she said simply.

With that, the message was delivered. Zevran drank the rest of his tea.

Though he felt no guiltier than he had yesterday, or a week ago, or his entire life, he couldn’t help but feel bad for Elena. He’d tasked her with a great burden. He tried to comfort himself by thinking that Elena had a say in the matter. But she didn’t. None of them did.

“As I said,” Zevran said, gently. “Nadia will come. Hear her out, then decide. You can, if you prefer, have nothing to do with all this.” He said it even as he knew it was impossible. It was clear that Elena had no choice, not when Rocio was involved.

Much like himself with the Warden, he thought. The comparison felt tender, and he looked at Hamal, finding a sense of relief in the steady and attentive gaze he was met with.

Sensing his meaning, Hamal responded with a stern nod. Then, he rose to his feet and picked up their rucksacks, looking at the door.

“We will go now,” Hamal said in gentle and accented Antivan. “Thank you for the tea.”

Mirna, who had calmed the child’s illness and fever and had been listening quietly all this while, turned her attention back to the adults in the room.

“Sit down, Elena,” she said gently. “You have a lot to think about. I will walk your guests out.”

Thus depleted of anger, Elena sat at the edge of the bed. After all, one did not argue with the curandera.

As Mirna walked Zevran and Hamal towards the front door, she tugged gently at Hamal’s sleeve. She addressed him in rusty Common, quiet, so only he and Zevran would hear.

“Ey. You Fereldan? Dalish?”

Hamal blinked in surprise. He did not answer until they had left the apartment entirely, until they were all three standing in the cool morning air, with the warm apartment and the weeping child and Elena’s worry shut within, and the first signs of dawn visible over the city. He exchanged a glance with Zevran before nodding.

“How did you know?” he replied.

“Mirna know everything,” she said with a smile. “A wild story, I bet. And what about you, güero? Was you said is true?”

“All of it,” Zevran affirmed.

“Mmm!” she hummed, impressed and full of approval. “In that case, I wish you luck. Crows are big deal. But! You should know, you forgotting something.” She tapped her right ear a few times. When Zevran did not understand, she sighed. “The girl!”

“The girl,” Zevran repeated, and then Mirna’s gesture made sense. His eyes widened. “She heard everything.”

“Yes,” Mirna said. “She hear. But she no speak. She try. Just one time, while you all talking. She-” Here, Mirna made a wordless opening and closing motion with her mouth, held a hand to her throat, then she spread her hands outward to indicate futility. “She no speak. Maybe, soon. Who can say?”

“Poor child,” Hamal said.

“Yes,” Mirna agreed. “But no worry. I will help. You come back someday and see.”

“Do you think it’s wise?” Zevran asked, surprised. They were leaving a lot of loose ends and unanswered questions. But Rialto was in his blood. That he’d return one day, even if it was years from now, seemed unavoidable. Maybe Mirna knew this. After all, she spoke with such a calm certainty.

“Wait some while, then come back,” she told him. “Maybe Elena’s ladyfriend is free then. Maybe girl speak then. Maybe we talk more then, or maybe I’m dead then! But until then, I pray for you. I light a candle.” She paused, gnarled hands producing a small leather pouch out of her pocket. “Take more tea. For the ache.”

Zevran regarded her carefully. “My good woman, thank you. It occurs to me that we do not even know your name.”

“Mirna,” she said, and then, before he could respond, “No no—you no tell me yours. Bad luck.”

Zevran nodded. He took the pouch from her, and he didn’t argue.

“Maker be with you, Doña Mirna.”

“And with you. Maker and Creators, too.”

It was only after several hours of travel, long after the last of Rialto’s towers was out of view, that the fleeing pair finally allowed themselves to rest.

They had followed the coastline south for a time, before pushing further inland so as to be obscured by the forest. While Zevran knew Antiva like the back of his hand, this was true of its cities and its people; the only wilderness he had explored was the Drylands.

But that was another tale. Come to find out, Rialto was surrounded by grassy plains and gnarled trees. The city was nestled near a perfect broadleaf forest, completely unlike those in Ferelden.

Under the shade of a tall sycamore, Hamal judged it safe enough to light a small fire. With its heat they brewed more tea, and roasted freshly-caught fish rubbed with sea salt and herbs. They were both famished, their last meal having been tavern gruel more than a full day before.

Hamal worked silently for a time, wholly focused on turning the fish against the fire. Zevran wondered if he was in one of his quiet moods; it was fine, if so. He himself had a lot on his mind. So much so that, when Hamal did speak, it surprised him.

“Ma serannas, vhenan,” Hamal said at length.

Zevran looked at him. “Whatever for?”

“You know.”

In fact, he did.

It was a shorthand they were developing together, and it felt terribly domestic. Love was sticky sweet. Sometimes like honey, sometimes like resin. Hamal understood Zevran’s disappointment. He didn’t need to ask and Zevran didn’t need to say it.

But his head still hurt, so he changed the subject.

“We still have the documents I found in Antiva City,” he said, forcing his voice to stay level. “And ledgers I copied from El milagro’s books, when I interrogated Amilcar. We should search them for clues as to what to do next. I think all signs point to Salle as our next destination. It’s a port city. Worth investigating if only for that reason.”

“Good idea,” Hamal said with a slow nod. Zevran glanced away.

The fish curled and charred in the fire, their scales scalding, their eyes whiting out and bulging.

“I wonder,” Hamal said, quietly, “What Nadia will do.”

Zevran closed his eyes with a sigh.

“She still cares for Amilcar,” he said. “Whether Amilcar cares for her is another matter. The heart is an unpredictable thing. In any case, from here on out we must assume that Amilcar reported our involvement to the city guard.” Zevran frowned, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “That means they would know me by name and by background… and what the city guard knows, the Crows know.”

“Not good,” Hamal observed.

Zevran snorted. “It is far from ideal.”

“Unless Nadia goes through with it,” Hamal countered. “Unless she kills Amilcar.”

And there was the unpredictable variable, and the most pressing question: For it had been decided, whispered in that midnight plot outside El milagro, that Gloria Amilcar needed to die in order for their plan to succeed. And Nadia had insisted that she would be the one to do it

And why not? Amilcar had lied to her and the others for years. She had helped sell children into slavery. She had supported her employer’s corruption. And those were just the crimes they knew of. No doubt she had committed countless others over the years…

Zevran sighed and covered his face in his hands.

Hamal came to sit beside him. He leaned against him, and took his hands into his own.

“Eat,” Hamal instructed. He handed Zevran a leaf containing steaming flakes of cooked fish. The scent was sharp and enticing. Hamal had already pulled all the bones out for him, leaving only soft flesh.

Touched by the gesture, Zevran allowed himself to eat. Then tears sprang to his eyes.

“She killed my father,” he said suddenly.

Hamal looked at him, stunned. “What-?”

“Amilcar. He did not die, as I’d been told. Braska.” Zevran took a shuddering breath, and the words poured out of him in a tangled mess.

He’d been holding them back this whole time, his attention absorbed by other matters.

“That is why she kicked us out the first day we were in El milagro. That is why she seemed so anxious when she recognized me. You see? It was guilt! She told me as such, when I interrogated her.” A bitter laugh escaped him, his face turned up to the dappled sunlight. “I nearly ended her when she admitted it. Rossi tasked the Crows with my father’s death, and Amilcar knew! My whole life, she knew!”

“Oh,” Hamal breathed. “Oh. Zev.”

“I only wish I could go back and find that bastard. Confront him! Show him what became of the boy he orphaned and sold! But look! If he dies now, Rocio will never get justice! So, he lives! Because he must! And I am still here, still orphaned, and no better for knowing the truth. Ah! What a joke it all is,” Zevran lamented, sorrowful even as Hamal embraced him. “What a joke.”

#rinnywrites #dragon age #dao #zevran arainai #zevran x warden #mahariel #oc: hamal mahariel #back to meatier chapters! and the next 7 chapters are drafted! and i got to call zevran a güero.. everything's coming up milhouse

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ghostwise · 8 months ago

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4 An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose. ohoho Yes Please

The full moons shine on Ferelden as they do on Antiva, keeping their eternal watch. Two owls call back and forth through the branches, their voices beckoning memories of old superstition in Zevran’s mind. It makes him think of home, but lately home has competition. Hamal grins down at him from the branches above, laden in silver glow.

“Scared yet?” he asks.

Zevran had boasted earlier, recounting tales of climbing Chantry towers and palace rooftops, boldly ascending across their cobbled exteriors, high enough to touch clouds. Hamal had countered these with a simple dare: to climb to the top of one of the centuries-old spruce trees in the area, if he could brave it.

Fortunately he’d offered to go first.

Bravery doesn’t even come into the picture. Zevran finds it quite easy to follow him.

“Not even a little,” he replies with a smile, and he pulls himself higher. His arms are burning. But it’s soothed when Hamal smiles appreciatively at him.

The Warden returns to his climb, seeking footholds among the evergreen. He makes it look easy. He’s grown up on such tree climbing, giving Ashalle her share of panic over the years.

And Zevran likes seeing him like this: singularly focused, relaxed, and having fun. With Orzammar less than a day's journey away, Hamal rarely gets to enjoy himself lately. It’s so captivating—he’s so captivating—Zevran barely notices when they’ve reached the half-point, already over the treeline.

He only notices when they reach a difficult point in the climb, where the next branch is just a bit out of reach for him, and the trunk has grown narrower, giving less room to maneuver. The ground, for a moment, tilts, but this he is used to; he pushes past it, calming his breathing.

His fingers grasp the coarse texture of the bark, missing the mark again, and he lets out a little puff of air, frustrated—

Hamal leans down to help him up at the exact moment he drives forward, and they collide in a graceless press of faces. The soft touch of Hamal mouth drags across Zevran’s lower lip and jaw. Clumsy. At this height, it frightens him.

They are both agile enough that falling is a distant risk. But what if.

Hamal startles first. He trembles violently upon the branch above. He is hanging on by his legs, one hand braced against another part of the tree, and he grabs Zevran by his leather cuirass to secure him.

By the Maker, he is strong enough to just carry him up the tree himself. Zevran laughs at this thought, the brief jolt of adrenaline giving way to euphoria.

“Careful!” Hamal hisses.

“I’m fine!” Zevran says. “Ah, but how thrilling this is. Just air and branches between us and certain death!”

Giggling now in dizzy mirth, looks up at Hamal. “Did I worry you, my Warden?”

Hamal stares at him, silent for a moment. He grips the branches in his right hand, squeezing, then leans down, pressing a measured kiss against his lips.

It is the most delicate thing Zevran has ever received. A kiss balanced on moonlight and spruce.

It lasts a mere moment, but it feels like longer. A soft, brassy whistle hoots out from the forest, soon answered by its pair. When Hamal pulls back, Zevran sighs and leans his face against the tree trunk.

“Shall we go back down now?” Hamal asks him.

Zevran nods. “I am ready if you are.”

#rinnywrites #dragon age #dao #zevran arainai #zevran x warden #mahariel #oc: hamal mahariel #japi jaloguin here's a slightly spooky drabble i threw together to celebrate :)

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ghostwise · 9 months ago

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intertwining their legs together

It’s more a storage closet than an apartment. Inside there is enough room for a bed, and a chest where they keep their supplies, which doubles as a table for eating. The entrance is located along an exterior flight of rickety stairs, facing a tree-lined alley.

By all accounts it’s subpar. But the rent is cheap, and there’s even a lock.

When Hamal starts lining the door in dried herbs and moss, that’s when Zevran starts to worry.

It’s hard not to wonder about this taste of domesticity they have found. Zevran reminds himself they are here only as long as their investigation into the Crows will take them. That soon they will be on the road again, leaving their customary trail of blood behind them.

But for now, he is sleeping against the wall, which they have carefully covered in a thick quilt for comfort. Hamal is beside him. The alienage is quiet.

This arrangement works well; it keeps Zevran warm, sandwiched between the quilt and Hamal, and it does wonders for his nightmares, which have declined significantly since living here.

And as Hamal overheats easily, he nightly opts to sleep without covers or a shirt.

Thank the Maker for Antivan summers.

“One could get used to this sort of thing,” Zevran murmurs from his side of the narrow bed.

“Mm,” Hamal hums in agreement. “Very cozy.”

“Well, yes,” Zevran agrees, shifting closer. “But I mean all of this. A room. A bed. A quilt. Beeswax candles and dried rosemary.” His voice slips into something almost wistful. “A door between us and the world… and the key to it, right here in my bag…”

“Vhenan?”

“I am simply enjoying it while it lasts,” Zevran concludes with a smile. “I hope wherever we stay next will be as pleasant.”

“It will be,” Hamal replies. “Anywhere is, if you’re there.”

“Charmer!” Zevran laughs.

He intertwines their legs and slides an arm around Hamal’s waist, loosely brushing his fingers along his spine. “But truly, amor, where will we go when this is all done? I have never once considered myself the type to… settle down anywhere. And yet, laying here with you… well. I could easily forget the Crows.”

“The things you say.”

“I mean it,” Zevran insists.

Hamal grins widely at that. He closes the distance between them, nuzzling lightly against his cheek—an act which somehow strikes Zevran as more intimate than a kiss.

He switches to Antivan for the next part, the words spoken close to Zevran’s ear: “¿Dónde se te antoja vivir?”

Zevran shivers. He thinks about it a bit, as he has never thought about it seriously. Even while they were in Ferelden, the future was not very clear, save for it being at Hamal’s side.

“Var’myathan?” he offers at last.

“What?”

Zevran blinks. It must have been an unexpected answer; Hamal has drawn back, enough to look at him, wide-eyed.

“Surely you agree,” Zevran says. “You made it possible, after all. That the People have land to call their own is all thanks to you. We should go back to see it.”

“Oh,” Hamal says simply, and Zevran can see the thoughts stirring in those pale eyes of his. “I- I never thought so.”

“Ah? Truly?”

“Zevran,” Hamal says patiently. “You hate the cold.”

This is unexpected. Zevran clasps a hand over his mouth, smothering the beginnings of his laughter.

“It is very sweet of you to pretend otherwise,” Hamal continues. “But you would be miserable. What a poor husband I’d be to take you somewhere so uncomfortable for you!”

Zevran bursts out laughing. “I wouldn’t put it like that. I would go willingly, happily! And you haven’t exactly hidden your disdain for the climate here, so-”

“Creators!” Hamal gasps at the implication. “No, that is different.”

“Mmhm. How?”

“Zevran! It just is.”

But they are both laughing now. The bed shakes with it, and Hamal sits up, slipping from his embrace.

“Wait! I have a proposition,” Zevran says. “Summers in Var’myathan. We can visit with your family then. Winters in Antiva City, by the sea. The rest of the time, we travel, just like this.”

Hamal smiles at him over his shoulder.

And Zevran said it on a whim, but now he wants it so badly it’s a sudden pressure in his chest. He wants to add, please. But they’re already married. What else can he say? He holds out his arms, and smiles when Hamal returns to them warmly.

“Deal.”

#dragon age #dao #zevran #zevran arainai #zevran x warden #mahariel #oc: hamal mahariel #rinnywrites #ok i had the rough draft saved so i just had to re-edit it lol #thank you for the prompt friend!!

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ghostwise · 7 months ago

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Matacuervos, ch. 7 - A heavy thing Rated M, 1.6k words - cw: death, canon-typical violence, discussions of trauma, slavery, and child abuse After Rocio murders their target outside El milagro, Zevran and Hamal contend with the fallout, and with an entirely unexpected circumstance. Read update on AO3 - Read from ch. 1 - thank you @rowanthefierce for beta-reading this chapter!

Hamal sprinted down the stairs two steps at a time, leaping over the last of them. He rushed through the front door, out where the air was cold by Antivan standards, but balmy yet for him.

“Zevran!” he called out. Where had he gone?

Hamal nervously rearranged his grip on his bow, looking down the street towards the brothel—but before he could investigate, a soft, pained noise came from behind the cart, and caught his attention. He stepped carefully around the stunned horses, behind the carriage wheels.

“Nadia?”

“¡Maldito mago!”

She was on the ground, partway beneath the carriage, her arms and knees scraped from the fall. Nadia groaned as she lifted a shaking hand to the back of her head. Hamal knelt beside her and gently eased her up. He could see her scalp was sticky with blood, and a lump was already forming under the skin.

“You’re hurt,” he observed in his meager Antivan, scrambling for the correct words and wishing he had more time to piece the language together. He understood it more than he could speak it, and even that was difficult with Nadia’s rapid-fire and distinct dialect. “Not good! Your head!”

“I’ll be alright!” She waved him off. “Where is Zevran?”

“He… looks for the man. I don’t know.”

Again, Hamal’s gaze drifted in the direction of the brothel, eager for any sight of Zevran. He could not see much from this position, but he could hear a rhythmic sound, like something being struck repeatedly, like metal hitting wet stone. He didn’t have to say what was on both their minds: this wasn’t what they had planned.

“Thank you,” Nadia said softly, leaning against him. She took a shuddering breath. “We should search the carriage. Quick! El carruaje.” She repeated the words, seeing his confused look, and tapped the carriage a few times. “Carruaje.”

A new word to him, though he’d never get the damn r’s right. Hamal did as he was told. He pulled open the carriage door and looked inside. There was no translation for the soft and pitiable sound he made then, but the feeling was something Nadia understood.

“Oh… d’alen.”

He and Nadia looked in on a sleeping child. The little girl was slumped against the back seat of the carriage. She looked to be about eight years old. A sliver of blood trickled from her nose, and her small, pointed ears poked through a mess of dark curls. Besides her, a bag of supplies lay on the floor.

Nadia exclaimed something in frantic Antivan, but Hamal only understood, “Help me!”

“The spell,” Hamal murmured to himself, as he pulled the child carefully out of the carriage. “That bastard used his magic near her. But I think she’s only stunned. She’s breathing.” He looked at Nadia, though she couldn’t understand his Elvhen, so perhaps he was saying it for his own sake: “She’s alright.”

Nadia nodded, sniffling. She roughly wiped at her face, her bloodied hands smearing red diluted tears over her skin.

But it was more the shock than her injury which troubled her now. She hadn’t truly had any doubts about what Zevran and Hamal had told her, but it had all come on so quickly; just this morning she had been carrying on with business as usual. To be embroiled now in a plot against slavers in her very home was overwhelming.

Together, she and Hamal brought the child out of the carriage, and they wrapped her up in Hamal’s cloak.

The girl was safe now. She’d never go to where she was headed, or return to where she’d hailed from.

Outside El milagro, Rocio was hunched over on the ground, her cane now discarded at her side. She did not react as Nadia and Hamal joined them, but Zevran, through his pounding headache, hurried to meet them.

“You’re alright,” Zevran said, relieved. He would have embraced Hamal and kissed him, but he noticed the child in his arms and his breath caught in his throat. “Where did- was that child in the carriage?”

“Yes,” Hamal said. “She’s unconscious, but alive. Nadia is hurt.”

“I am fine,” Nadia said, hearing her name through the stream of Common exchanged between the two men. “The girl is what matters. Maker only knows, if we had not found her tonight…”

Zevran gave her a short nod, taking in the information. This was what their efforts had amounted to. They may have lost their informant. But a child was saved!

“Nadia, you both need a doctor,” Zevran said firmly.

“We need to handle things here first,” Nadia said, aiming a pointed look at the corpse. It was not her first time seeing a dead man, and yet, her stomach turned at the sight of his bashed-in face. She gestured with her hands out. “What’s happened? Who killed him?

Rocio looked up from her perch upon the blood-soaked stones. “I did,” she croaked out. “He deserved it.”

“It complicates things,” Nadia said with a grimace.

“What’s complicated about it? You say he stole that child!”

Nadia blinked at her. For a moment, she pretended she already knew the young woman; pretended she was a coworker or a neighbor she saw often. It was a skill that aided her, in her line of work. Compassion. Exercising it now, she saw pieces of the story in the painful angle of Rocio’s leg, and the fury in her wet eyes. Perhaps a reflection of herself, too, albeit one from decades ago.

“What’s your name?” she asked softly.

“Rocio Ciriani.”

“Rocio. Have you ever taken a man’s life before?”

“No.” The admission came out, low and hoarse. Rocio gazed up at Nadia, then looked at Zevran and Hamal in turn, lingering, finally, on the child. “I haven’t.”

“It’s a heavy thing. At this rate, the city guard will be called, if they aren’t already on their way,” Nadia said evenly. “But a murder at a brothel is nothing they haven’t seen before. It can be explained away. A drunk customer. A jealous lover. A rape.”

“Braska.” Zevran seethed quietly. “And what of the children he was going to buy tonight?”

He crouched over the man, staring into his face with a keen desperation, though the life was gone from him already. “Give me a name,” he urged quietly. “I know who you work with. But where do you meet them? How often? An address. A contact. Anything!”

For Zevran’s part, he was distressed. A few hours ago, his only goal had been to locate an informant, interrogate him, and kill him later; to dispose of the body in a river, or a charnel house. He’d have killed Gloria Amilcar, too, if it hadn’t been for Nadia’s involvement. He thought, also, of what he’d learned tonight about his father’s death. This had ballooned far out of proportion, and try as he did, he could not pinpoint where he’d gone wrong.

Hamal leaned in to speak to him.

“We need to go,” he said gently in the language that they shared, but which was neither of their native tongues. “The city guard won’t care about a shem selling elves to the Crows, but they will care about a dead shem with a Dalish arrow sticking out of him.”

Zevran wrenched the arrow from the man’s broken form. There was sense in his husband’s words, but his head was swimming.

“I’m not going to run,” he said, and he repeated himself in Antivan for Nadia and Rocio’s benefit. “No voy a huir.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Nadia said.

“I won’t run either,” Rocio forced out in her tear-soaked voice. “And I won’t lie to the guard. Everyone should know what has happened! What is the point if nobody knows? We have so much proof!”

“Proof or no, you will go to jail!” Nadia told her. “And still, there will be no guarantee that the guard will care, or do anything to help. What’s the point of that? I have worked this brothel for thirty years. This is how things are. A whore can be replaced.”

“The way things are must change. This is my life.” Rocio, unmoving, let out a hiss of air. “If it makes even a little bit of difference, I have to try.” There was a cold edge to her words.

“Brave girl,” Zevran murmured.

Then there was nothing more to say. There was no convincing a determined Antivan. This, he knew.

Nadia rolled her shoulders, feeling quite lightheaded. Her neck throbbed. She looked up at Zevran and Hamal, these men who had so disrupted El milagro ’s routine.

“To think, you returned without anyone asking you to, and in a single night made a mess of everything.”

Zevran’s eyes flitted to her, hurt. But she looked back at him with the strangest combination of pride and sorrow.

“Thank you,” she said, emphatically. “You came to help us, and you have. You made us aware of horrors that needed to be exposed. Leave Gloria to me; I will help Rocio turn her in. Leave Rocio to her fate, for she chose it. Now take that child with you. And go.”

Zevran rose to his feet. He exchanged a look with his husband before asking, “Where would you have us take her?”

And so the plan for the child was crafted in the mismatched pieces of Common, Antivan, and Elvhen they shared. Stitched together with a potent need for justice and a measure of patience.

In Hamal’s arms, the child slept dreamlessly. The spell had been strong enough to stun a horse and two grown adults, and it would take her time to recover her senses.

#rinnywrites #dragon age #dao #zevran arainai #zevran x warden #mahariel #oc: hamal mahariel #i'm so so glad it's finally posted... i put a ton of thought into this one ;;#the word count is 1.6k but it's closer to 5k if i consider everything i wrote and rewrote and rewrote.. thank you rowan for your help!

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ghostwise · 2 years ago

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“There seems to be a lot more assassinations in places with fewer trees.” - “Perhaps we would be better served in simply planting more greenery.”

Thanks to @catebeesart for this gorgeous piece of Hamal in Quinta de Talpa!! 🙌🏽💖💖 you've captured his character and all the little details so beautifully, I am in awe

#dragon age #mahariel #oc: hamal mahariel #SERIOUSLY such a stunning depiction ahh brb staring at this forever now #the LACE? from an earring ref??? the lace!! 💖💖💖

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ghostwise · 1 month ago

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Matacuervos, Rated M, ch. 9 - The cannibalized Crows of House Ferragani 2.1k words - cw: canon-typical discussions of death. Zevran and Hamal have a conversation about Crow Politics. Their investigation leads them to Salle, where they hope to uncover more about the Crows. Read update on AO3 - Read from the beginning

Part 2: Salle

Nacimiento. Matrimonio. Novenario.

A few weeks later, in another city, in another cheap roadside inn, Hamal lounged on another temporary bed, reading quietly in Antivan. He and Zevran had spent hours reviewing all the documents stolen from the Chantry and from Atanasio’s estate. So far, these had amounted to business records and little else.

Church expenses over the years, countless baptisms, a parade of weddings and funerals. Crow contracts and ledgers spanning decades. Not that Zevran expected the juicy Crow secrets to be highlighted in red, but they hadn’t found a single thing of note in these stacks. Not yet, anyway.

At the very least it gave Hamal a chance to practice the language.

Zevran gave him easy tasks: finding a certain word, looking for specific names, dates, and so on. It was dry work, but Hamal was, to his own surprise, quite good at it.

“I found another one,” Hamal said, and with the tiny scrape of a pencil on paper he jotted down notes in a book. “Mikaela Arainai y Solomon Kortez fueron unidos ante la igles-ia…”

“A marriage announcement?” Zevran asked, looking over at him from his own stack of stolen documents. “Between members of different houses, no less! Unusual, but not unheard of.”

“Kortez is another house?” Hamal asked. “How many are there?”

Zevran reclined in his seat, happy to give his eyes a rest. They felt strained, the dust in the room not helping, and he gently rubbed at the corners of his eyelids as he answered.

“There’s House Arainai, of course,” Zevran said. “House Kortez, House Balazar, House Valisti, House Dellamorte, House Cantori, House Nero, and House De Riva. Eight in all.”

“How many people to a House?”

“I do not know,” Zevran admitted with a laugh. “They did not exactly hand out rosters. Hundreds, I presume.”

“So… fewer than a thousand assassins in all of Antiva?” Hamal estimated.

“It is a very exclusive organization.”

“Sounds manageable,” Hamal concluded. Though he was bolstered by their enemies’ numbers—which were minor, compared to the onslaught of Darkspawn they had faced during the Blight—Zevran seemed less sure.

“I would not underestimate them,” Zevran replied. “Besides, Houses have fallen before. And it never changes a thing.”

“Ah? Truly?” Hamal asked. Then it occurred to him that he’d never heard Zevran speak about the Crows beyond his own personal experience with them.

Hamal had never thought to ask about so many minor details, such as, how they were organized, how they got away with so much loss of life, and had anyone attempted to undo them before? In the past he’d tried not to pry into Zevran’s experiences with the Crows, but it seemed appropriate to do so now.

“When was the last time a house fell?”

Zevran looked at him, brows slightly arched.

“It might help to know how such things happen,” Hamal explained, “given our goal.”

“Fair enough,” Zevran sighed. He shifted in his seat, giving Hamal the distinct impression that he was choosing his words carefully, and he answered him with a curious hesitation.

“It was five years ago. Perhaps a little bit longer. It was when House Ferragani fell.”

Hamal put his notes aside. “What happened?”

“We cannibalized them, for lack of a better word.” Zevran said. He launched into the story.

“Master Eoman Arainai had just taken leadership, you see, and he was an ambitious man. House Arainai had fallen in rank. He wanted to correct course. Eliminating House Ferragani offered a means to that end.”

“The Houses compete?” Hamal asked. “For power? Resources?”

“More or less. Nobody wants to be the weak link,” Zevran explained. “To be weak is to be disposable; this is true for the individual Crows in each House, so why not for the Houses themselves? And oh, they were weak. Ineffective assassins. Bad leadership. Patrons knew their work to be unreliable, their people inconsistent. So Master Eoman set every one of our number to the task of amputating this festering limb.”

He tilted his head, lifting his gaze to Hamal’s steadily. “A Crow House is a small army, but even with such resources it was no simple task. Months of planning went into it. And when the day came, we all took part. Myself included. It was very well orchestrated. I dare say they did not see it coming! In less than two days we slit the necks of every Master, and all who stood in our path.”

Zevran drew a deep breath. “I have never killed so many in the span of a single contract. It was…”

“You do not need to speak more of it,” Hamal said quickly. A feeling of having overstepped nagged at him, and he continued, “Not if you do not wish to.”

“Nonsense,” Zevran assured his husband. “I am fine, I assure you. If anything, it filled me with a sense of awe. Still does. Is that strange to you?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I do not feel satisfaction in remembering it, nor pride. But I feel no sorrow, either. I do not regret it.”

At length, the assassin simply shook his head, hard.

“That’s all. It was them or us, or so Eoman told us. The smart ones saw the tide turn. They elected to join us against their fellows,” he continued. “But a few remained loyal to their Grandmaster. They were captured.”

“What happened to them?”

“They were sent off,” Zevran said. “To Velabanchel, I presume, where a far more grim fate awaited them. So you see,” he concluded, “bringing down a House is not unheard of. But bringing down the Crows will be a different beast entirely. This is not merely about numbers. This is about… influence.”

With that, he returned to his work. Hamal watched him a moment longer, assessing his husband carefully: the focus of his eyes, the lines in his forehead, the fingers held loosely on the surface of the table.

Times like these, Zevran impressed upon him a stark image: strength enough to bring down the Antivan Crows, but sentiment enough to remember each face of the dead of House Ferragani.

Then he knew the Creators had surely placed this task in the proper hands. A lesser man might have taken pride in the tale, but not his beloved. And so, Hamal felt satisfied.

Together, he and Zevran had defeated an Archdemon.

They would surely find a way to defeat the Crows.

Hamal laid his head on the documents before him and closed his eyes, his mind filled with names and dates and Crow politics. The cannibalized Crows of House Ferragani lived on in a way. What had Zevran called it? Velabanchel. It sounded like a dense block of vowels and consonants to him; it evoked no fear or imagery, so he was left with the image of a blank space, a building without a façade, full of the dead and dying.

“So you think we need to do more than just kill them?” Hamal asked at length. “The Crow Houses are like shark’s teeth… more will rise to replace the ones that fall without end?”

“Now, amor. No need to be so glum!” Zevran said with faux cheer, having returned to the notes in front of him. “Killing them will do plenty. We just need to be smart about it.”

“Ah,” Hamal said. “We’ve been known to be smart, once or twice in our time.”

“That is the spirit,” Zevran chuckled. “And look! I think I have something now. Listen to this!” He held up a stack of papers, reading aloud for Hamal. “Three years ago, six members of House Kortez were interred: Suleima Kortez, 23 years old, Annika Kortez, 19 years old, Mateo Kortez, 31 years old, Davide Kortez, 18 years old, Aiden Kortez, 16 years old, and Ofelia Kortez, 27 years old.”

Hamal slowly smiled. “What date?”

“13 Matrinalis.”

“Let me guess: natural causes?”

Hamal was already searching through his stack of stolen documents, shuffling to the ones Zevran had lifted from Atanasio’s estate. These contained the Crow contracts of that year. He had read the page earlier, but not given it much thought until now.

“Here they are!” Hamal pushed off of the bed and brought the page to Zevran. “I found the notes of the contract, but I cannot read the rest.”

Zevran stared at him. “You found it already?”

“The names are phonetic.”

Zevran scanned the page, quickly locating the passage Hamal had found. There they were: Suleima, Annika, Mateo, Davide, Aiden, Ofelia. Crows tended to have brief lifespans, but even this was unusual.

“Has anyone ever mentioned you make a decent secretary?” Zevran asked.

“How you flatter me, Mr. Arainai.”

“And handsome, too.”

Hamal laughed, unable to keep a grin from his lighting up his face as Zevran scanned the notes further.

“This looks like a contract for a textile manufacturer in Salle,” he said finally. “A city on the coast. Salle! That is where the children from Rialto were taken to be sold!”

“I do not think that’s a coincidence,” Hamal said. “Is this a port city?”

“A very busy port city,” Zevran nodded. “Hmm. The contract does not list anyone by name, only the name of the business: C.ía T.M.”

Zevran read on until he’d reached the end of the page.

“This is strange. The status of the contract reads ‘incomplete’. It seems they died in the attempt.”

“Unfortunate,” Hamal said. “I wonder what happened after the contract failed?”

“No contract fails,” Zevran corrected him with a huff. “The target expires or the assassin does.”

“Ah, but Zev…”

“Mm?” Zevran looked at him, brows raised.

“Your contract failed.”

All the air left Zevran in an entirely unflattering laugh. “So it did! Thank the Maker!”

That was enough talk of dead Crows. Zevran leaned up to kiss Hamal, still full of mirth. With that, and with one kiss becoming many, their progress on the curious deaths of House Kortez three years prior came to a stop for the day.

It was tiring work, reviewing the stolen records, making note of locations, names, dates—anything to find a pattern. But it was necessary. Once they got a look at the whole of it, they would find the loose threads and pull. There was only the tedious effort of muddling through without direction.

But equally important was the work of making a mess of the carefully organized papers, which fell to the floor in graceful arcs as Hamal lifted Zevran onto the table. Equally important, and more enjoyable to boot.

They followed the document trail to Salle, a city covered in Crow fingerprints.

On a narrow street, under a shaded awning, Hamal fanned himself. The heat was still challenging for him, especially here on the coast. While Zevran seemed to thrive in the hot sun and humidity, Hamal tried to hide just how much he withered in these conditions.

He was currently disguised under a large shawl, to hide his vallaslin and to keep the sun from his skin.

“Have you ever killed someone here?” Hamal asked, and Zevran paused. His husband had such a forthright way of putting things, sometimes it still startled him.

“A young woman,” he said simply. “Her sister hired us.”

“Why?”

“Inheritance squabble,” Zevran said with a shrug. “We do often get involved in such family matters. It is not uncommon, especially among the upper class. A cousin later hired us to kill the remaining sister, for similar reasons. A sad story, but it is not our place to pass judgment.”

Hamal looked at him quietly. “But the Crows profit from this,” he said.

“Yes,” Zevran laughed. “The Crows profit. It is best to be unscrupulous in such matters. Money, after all, certainly does not care who is in the right. Believe it or not, many of our clients are returning clients.”

“Really?” Hamal asked. “The same people, contracting again and again to have others assassinated?”

“It seems once you cross that boundary, it is a far easier thing to do again.”

“Serial killers by proxy?” Hamal asked, a light hint of levity to the question. “I find it very hard to believe!”

“The type of people who are able to hire a professional assassin in Antiva are very few,” Zevran said. “It is an expensive service. Yet the Crows are in constant business. Now, as to whether an excess of wealth and a lack of scruples tend to go hand-in-hand… that is more a question for philosophers.”

“But it is obvious they do,” Hamal interjected.

“Amor,” Zevran waved a hand. “That it is true, but we do not point it out! At any rate, let us go check in on the industrial neighborhoods of Salle. Finding this C.ía T.M. may prove enlightening.”

#rinnywrites #dragon age #dao #zevran arainai #zevran x warden #this fic was conceptualized before DA*TV was released; it will not be compliant with the Crow politics and characters presented there #oc: hamal mahariel #apologies for the long hiatus i am literally going through the horrors as we speak <3

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ghostwise · 9 months ago

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Matacuervos, ch. 6 - The friend at midnight 3.3k words - cw: death, canon-typical violence, discussion of childhood trauma, slavery, and child abuse Zevran reels from a revelation about his past. Things do not go according to plan. The night ends with an unexpected visit. Read update on AO3 - Read from ch. 1 on AO3

It was in the Brecilian Forest where Zevran first told Hamal about his parents.

All of it. The whole sordid story. The dead whore mom with her Dalish gloves. The unfaithful father. A childhood of lice, abuse, and malnourishment at the hands of the Crows. But the telling felt right somehow, there in those groves where Clan Sabrae had brought up young Mahariel.

If Hamal’s own troubled past was in that frigid landscape, Zevran’s legacy of sorrow could come and intertwine with it. Perhaps both would find some measure of comfort then.

And so the pines caught up every secret in their needles. The story sank into the damp and mossy earth.

Zevran had not thought of his past since, and he didn’t plan to start now.

The payment that undid your father.

Over the course of an hour, Gloria Amilcar betrayed every single thing she knew about El milagro’s business with the Crows, including the contract that had led to Zevran’s orphaning. It turned out that his mother needn’t have been a widow. His father had been, contrary to what he’d always believed, a good man.

Or had he?

More than likely the words were just a ploy the woman was using to throw Zevran off his guard. That wasn’t hard to believe; it had worked so well, after all, as he worried and plucked at her story over and over again in his mind.

The payment that undid your father.

Had his past all been a lie?

It made no difference. He shut his eyes and pushed the question away.

Sra. Amilcar sat at her desk all the while. It was not just about his parents; with a dagger at her throat, Zevran had cajoled a wealth of information from her, including Crow contracts dating back thirty years, not to mention plenty of material he could use as blackmail against powerful men throughout the country, if the need ever arose.

She looked up at Zevran, her eyes wide.

“So now I’ve told you everything I know. You won’t kill me?”

“I haven’t decided.” Zevran aimed a half-hearted glare at her. “Do as I’ve asked, then we’ll see.”

She nodded grimly and got up.

It was late, and the brothel sang with activity. Sra. Amilcar’s absence had not been noticed, for the hosts were busy collecting payment and escorting guests up to dingy rooms. Bawdy lyrics resonated as she and Zevran exited down the hall, past all the revelry. The back door was through the washroom, which was cramped, hot, and muggy even with the windows open.

The light that spilled out onto the street was golden, but the air outside was all silver, and clouds had rolled in from the east.

Zevran marched the woman towards the apartments. An uncharacteristic silence struck him as they approached. The lively voices from before were gone. Where was everyone?

“Stay here,” he said, slowing to a stop. “Don’t move. If you run, I will catch you within ten paces.”

Warning issued, he crept forward, scanning the nearby alley. There were several sets of footprints in the dirt, leading away from the apartment. An uneasy feeling gripped him. But before he could investigate, the door to the apartment opened to a darkness from which a slight figure stepped out.

“Help!” Gloria shouted, and she stumbled forward as if pulled in by the sight of that figure. “Nadia! Help me! He aims to kill me!”

Zevran whirled around. Sra. Amilcar’s voice cut off in a muffled scream, as Hamal had snuck up beside her, and clamped his hand over her mouth, silencing her.

“Now, now,” Zevran scolded. “I thought we had an understanding.”

Nadia made no move to reach for Sra. Amilcar, nor did she run for help. Instead she regarded the older woman with a loaded gaze, her eyes carrying something deeper than betrayal.

“Is it true, Gloria?” she asked softly.

Zevran looked at her.

Just a hundred yards away, El milagro stood apart, humble and self-contained, floating in a world where pain and sorrow could be vanquished—albeit, temporarily, and for a set price. But here, in the moonless night, Gloria Amilcar stood face to face with every sin she’d ever committed against her fellows in exchange for a comfortable wage.

“How many?” Nadia asked. “How long?”

It was too much. Amilcar went limp in Hamal’s arms.

“Shit! Did I suffocate her?”

“She’s just fainted. Perhaps she finally felt something for the children she’s delivered to their deaths over the years,” Zevran said without any sympathy. More importantly, he was surprised by Nadia; by both her unexpected appearance and her help.

“Bring her inside,” Nadia said in Antivan. “We’re not on a busy street exactly, but we are hardly away from prying eyes.”

Zevran raised a brow, looking at Hamal for some guidance.

“Long story, but I had to tell her the truth,” Hamal explained hurriedly. “Took a bit of luck and a fucking complicated game of charades, but I think I explained the situation. She made sure the children were safe. They’re not here, Zevran,” he added, as he carried Sra. Amilcar into the building. “Nadia took them away. She will be contacting the guard.”

Zevran blinked. That had not been the plan.

“Then I can only be thankful,” he said in Antivan. “To you both.”

What a mess this all was. As they entered the building, Zevran wished he could confer with Hamal in private; tell him what he had learned, plan what they should do next. He had hoped to compel Sra. Amilcar into luring the slaver into an ambush. That was becoming more difficult by the minute.

As for the apartment, it still smelled familiar, like dust and mold and absence, like the black spot in the corner of the room, which had grown in size since he’d lived here as a boy. Zevran cast a quick glance around, noting the toys strewn on the floor, and a pile of books on the table, with titles like El gato con botas and El flautista de Hamelin. The windows hosted a pair of floral curtains.

Hamal laid Sra. Amilcar on the floor, resting her head on one of the soft plush toys.

“My husband tells me you orchestrated an evacuation,” Zevran said, turning to face Nadia. He gave a curt nod, feeling strangely awkward and unlike himself. “Thank you. We… could not have done it on our own. However, I cannot help but wonder… my husband is a stranger to you. Yet, you agreed to help so readily. Why?”

“It must seem odd,” Nadia admitted. “But I suppose… it’s because I remembered the day you went away, Zevran.”

“Me?”

She paused to give him a proper look, curious and lingering. “Yes. It never sat right with me, you know. Even though we were told the orphaned children were going somewhere better—it never sat right with me! Children should not be sent off without a goodbye or a kind word! And knowing what I know now…” She sighed. “Adelmar was heartbroken. We found out you and the others were gone only when we came to read to you the next day. So what if you were orphans? You were—in a small way, you still are—ours.”

“Ah,” Zevran said, struck by the idea that he had ever been anyone’s.

“Do you remember Adelmar?” Nadia asked.

Zevran thought about it. Nadia and Adelmar had been so kind to him and to the others—of course he remembered. Their visits were one of the few good things he experienced in those years. It hadn’t all been cruel.

“Of course I remember her,” Zevran answered. “I remember you, too.”

“That’s why I helped. Because we loved you. And you love him.” She looked at Hamal with certainty. “So we’ve never met. But we’re still kin. Of a sort.”

Such sweetness seemed out of place here. Zevran glanced up at the molded corner of the ceiling.

“I’m glad,” he said softly. “Because someone is going to knock at that door any minute now. And I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything!” Nadia said earnestly.

“I need you to leave.”

She hesitated. Zevran could see her deliberate over her situation, before speaking.

“I know what I am getting into,” she said carefully. “I know we are talking about slavers here. You think me naive? In my line of work? Violence and abuse are no strangers to me. I face danger often. And forgive me, but this very much involves me. It involved me even before I knew what was happening, right under our noses.”

“Crows,” Gloria croaked out, half-conscious, from her spot on the floor.

“Gag her,” Zevran snapped at the interruption, and Hamal pulled off one of his gloves to do so—but Sra. Amilcar spat the words as quickly as she could with all her meek strength.

“He’s a Crow, Nadia! I will not help them! He’s the dangerous one-!”

And now came a litmus test Zevran knew well. Though he wished he didn’t.

In the past, revealing his status as a Crow had been an occasional risk he dealt with by killing a person or buying their silence. Now it was a half-truth that could only hurt an already delicate situation. His shoulders tensed, and Hamal exchanged a frantic look with him—he’d do whatever he was told, this Zevran knew. But he really hoped they would not have to restrain Nadia too.

“Is that true?” Nadia asked.

Zevran looked at her evenly. “We haven’t lied to you.”

Nadia’s eyes darted low, then back to him, but each look was tenuous, as if she was struggling to keep him in her view. As if she were reconsidering all those words about kin and memories.

“You are a Crow?” she asked again.

“No! Not anymore, I swear it! And the less you know, the better, believe me.” Zevran urged her further, “But it is all the more reason you must leave! Forget you saw us! Tell no one!”

Nadia shut her eyes.

All too quickly, their time was up. Three heavy knocks sounded at the door.

“Please,” Zevran whispered. “Run. Hide upstairs. Do anything else. You took the children to safety, you’ve already done your part.”

Zevran grit his teeth. At this rate, he would lose his chance.

“Fuck it,” Nadia said at last with a sigh. “I believe you, Zevran. But I will not leave, and you haven’t the time to argue. Let me help! At the very least we owe each other that!”

Fuck it was right.

Despite his best efforts here Zevran was again, helpless against the whims of fate. It wasn’t what he’d planned. But he was flexible.

He wore a placid smile as he stepped through the door to meet the man.

“Good evening, serah. You were expected.”

It was a Crow talent to read your target as quickly as possible in just a few seconds. A cursory glance told Zevran a lot already. The man at the door hesitated. He didn’t answer right away, so it was likely had had been expecting to meet Sra. Amilcar, which meant he was already on the defensive. And he was dressed in comfortable, common clothing, covered with a shawl, so it was likely he was armed.

There was no mistaking it. This was the man who’d taken him and the other children, all those years ago.

Older and greyer, but it was him.

And he didn’t recognize Zevran.

“Good evening,” the man returned, and he eyed Zevran briefly before glancing away. “I’ve a meeting with the lady of the house.”

“She is otherwise disposed,” Zevran said warmly, knowing very well that in that moment Hamal had restrained her, and was bringing her upstairs. He would be at one of the upstairs windows in probably two minutes’ time. A lot could happen in two minutes. “I will be helping you tonight. Won’t you come in?”

“I only meet with her,” the man said, painting the words with an apologetic gesture. “I’m sorry to hear she’s not available. Perhaps it’s best I come back another day. You her secretary or something?”

“That’s right,” Zevran said. “I am Amrit, her secretary. Surely she informed you of my recent hiring? She is ill, and she apologizes, but I assure you there is no need to reschedule. I am more than capable of managing our business, despite appearances. Won’t you come in?”

The man regarded him, unconvinced, but not threatened yet.

“I really do regret hearing of her illness,” he said at last. “Have her send word when she is better. I will return then.” He turned and began walking back towards the carriage.

“But our agreement!” Zevran hurried after him in the unguarded fashion of an angry man who had very little understanding of his circumstance. “Please! Sr. Rossi will have my head!”

“That so?” The man grunted, pausing at the front of the carriage. “Not my business. Anyway, I’m not walking back the deal. Just waiting to talk to the lady in charge. You understand. Delicate business, this is.”

“What does it matter who you deal with, so long as you get what you need?”

“I suppose you want me to hand all that money straight to your hands, elf?” He gave a dry chuckle. “But do not worry! If what you say is true, then we’ll talk again soon.” He paused and gave him what was no doubt meant to be a lecherous smile. “Maybe we could talk alone then, you and I. Being as you are such an enterprising young man we could work out an agreement of our own. What do you say?”

The suggestion did not escape Zevran, and he nearly bristled; once he would have leaned into it, using it to manipulate his target, but it was all too crass in these circumstances.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “that won’t work for me.”

It was time for a more direct approach. Not willing to let his target escape, Zevran drew his dagger and aimed a kick at the back of the man’s knee, knocking him down. The man fell against the carriage and steadied himself against one of the wheels. Regaining his balance and drawing a shortsword from beneath his shawl, he stepped towards him.

“You little elven whore!” he spat.

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Zevran returned, easily parrying a strike from the man’s blade. He had the advantage as far as his eyesight was concerned; every small detail of his enemy was clear as day to him. But he had no idea what Hamal or Nadia were up to. Only that Hamal would be upstairs any moment now, and Nadia, Maker willing, was flanking their position to get to the carriage unnoticed.

It was clear that the man was familiar with his weapon, but not often called upon to use it. Each strike was just ever so slightly unpracticed. He tried again and again to land a blow upon Zevran, without success, and as he was an older man, having been in this cruel business for over thirty years, he tired quickly.

After trying and failing to disarm Zevran, he made a sudden dash onto the carriage, and took the reins into his hands. But Nadia had done her part with shocking efficiency; they hung from his grip uselessly, and he looked at Zevran with wide-eyed fury.

“You’re dead, Amrit. I’ll gut you quick!”

“Try!”

“Don’t touch him!” Nadia hissed.

The rest of the pieces fell into place. Nadia appeared from the opposite side of the carriage, having climbed up to ambush the man after cutting the horse’s reins. She grabbed her enemy with surprising efficacy—clearly she knew how to incapacitate a violent man—and as Zevran disarmed him, she pinned his arms from behind, and pressed a borrowed dagger against his throat.

The man stood stock still, glaring up at Zevran.

The scuffle had been short, but not effortless. Zevran’s wrists ached from the strength he’d needed to deflect each attack. He climbed up onto the carriage in order to regard the man more closely.

Here was the beast who’d stolen so many of Rialto’s children, who had been selling them for decades, to the Crows and who knows what else.

“Clever. What now?” the man asked. “You cut my throat and rob me?”

“Ah-ah,” Zevran said. “Not so easy, I’m afraid.”

The man spat at him. Saliva landed on his cheek, and though Nadia tightened her hold on the dagger, Zevran retorted with a calm smile.

“Let’s get you inside,” he said, grabbing the cut reins so as to bind his hands together. “We have much to discuss.”

He hadn’t taken him for a mage.

A blast of energy exuded from the man, briefly occluding Zevran’s senses; in that moment he couldn’t see, speak, or hear, and he certainly couldn’t move or react.

He’d experienced something similar before, in Ferelden, only that time it had been Morrigan unleashing her magic upon their enemies, stunning them. Maker, he missed having a mage on his side.

The mage leapt off the carriage, pushing Nadia off and onto the ground on the way. He’d incapacitated his own horse in the attempt to escape, so he made a run for it, boots striking the cobblestones in a relentless pace.

Zevran came to his senses with a throbbing headache. He let out a shout as he saw the man already far down the street, headed towards the brothel.

“Hey!”

Nadia whimpered from where she had fallen. Hamal must have made it to the window, for an arrow zipped overhead with a characteristic whistle. Zevran did not doubt Hamal’s aim; he was a gifted archer, but that was the problem. The arrow struck with enough force to knock the man off his feet. Zevran cursed.

It gave him a feeling that the whole situation was unraveling. An ugly pit grew in his stomach—fear of retribution, perhaps an old response from growing up in the Crows—and worse still, as Zevran ran after the man, another figure rounded the corner, limping along with her cane.

“Amrit?” Rocio asked, seeing him.

Where had she come from? She must have followed them, Zevran realized. In fact, she must have had hurried all the way across Rialto to get here. She had come, not knowing how fate had worked its mysteries in order to bring them all here: Zevran, Hamal, Rocio, Nadia, Gloria, and this loathsome man at the center of the web. But Rocio was so much like him, after all, so how could Zevran truly be surprised?

Her eyes traveled to the injured slaver, now at her feet. Her expression shifted to one of horrified recognition.

“It’s you.”

“Get away from him, Rocio!”

“I remember you,” Rocio said. “Do you remember me?”

The man looked up at her, bleeding. He didn’t have a chance to answer before she swung her cane in a shining arc, and struck him on his skull. The man cried out in pain.

Zevran urged his stunned body to carry him closer to the scene.

Rocio had stumbled onto the ground, thrown off balance by the ferocity of her own attack. She struck the slaver again and again with her cane. The blood pooling around him did not deter her in the slightest.

Zevran had underestimated her. He’d left a crucial clue, by omission, tipping her off to the exact location where he suspected the next group of children would be taken from.

“Bastard!” Rocio cried. She seemed to only grow angrier with each blow. “Son of a bitch! You will never—take another one—again!”

Finally, Zevran knelt before her, watching his chance of getting answers vanish. But he could hardly be upset about it.

Somehow in the gleaming moonlight, the sight of Rocio’s vengeance was too stark and beautiful. A well deserved victory, and a catharsis that brought tears to Zevran’s burning eyes.

#rinnywrites #dragon age #dao #zevran arainai #zevran x warden #mahariel #oc: hamal mahariel #finally updating after turning much of my energy to other things these past couple of months :)

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ghostwise · 5 months ago

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from the veilguard artefacts prompts! 5. Letters taken from the library in Weisshaupt, tied in a bundle

LOVED THIS ONEEE this one was so fun, thank you! Some notes: In my worldstate Alistair is Warden Commander, and Var'myathan, the Dalish land boon, thrives in the South.

“I washed my hands of Warden business long ago,” he says, and it hurts, though it shouldn’t.

That their shared brotherhood—their only commonality at this point—is so distasteful to him, so very worth forgetting, hurts. But then again, if there’s one thing Alistair knows about the Blight, it’s that people choose how they remember it.

For him, time has distilled those feelings and experiences into something potent, terrible, yet formative. Every instance of the man he has become is touched by it. No Blight, no Alistair. And there’s the rub.

For Hamal, his memories of the Blight are something to be discarded.

Both of these viewpoints are correct, or at least, no more reprehensible than the other.

Alistair smiles. He slides the letters across the table once again. Hamal fixes him with an uneasy stare.

“Is this an order, Warden Commander?” he asks, his glasses giving him a rather owlish appearance.

“Maker, no. It’s a gift,” Alistair replies. “Can’t you tell by how nicely I’ve wrapped them for you?”

Hamal doesn’t laugh, but the corners of his mouth lift for a moment. He reaches for the papers.

“And what gift is so important you have made the trip all the way to Var’myathan to deliver it?”

“Letters,” Alistair says with a sheepish smile. “My letters.”

“Letters are traditionally mailed, Warden Commander.”

“Not when they contain controversial or suppressed knowledge,” Alistair says. “Knowledge about the Blight. Knowledge about the Taint. Such letters might be best hand-delivered.”

Hamal’s fingers are steady as he unwraps the parcel. There are stamps upon the envelopes, the sort that were used in the old days; simple cork and blue ink, and, in this instance, magical enchantments that light up against the touch of warm hands. The envelopes have been waiting to be opened, all this time, patient in their knowledge.

“I smuggled them out of Weisshaupt,” Alistair admits.

Hamal eyes him for a moment. “Why?”

“We’re not getting any younger, my friend.” Alistair reclines in his seat and for a moment remembers that he has, by now, outlived Duncan—but he refocuses sharply on the conversation at hand, scored as it is by an ever-present dirge. “In the years following the Blight, I encountered many strange things. Darkspawn that could speak and reason like men. Wardens that had extended their lifespan in unnatural and twisted ways… these field reports were buried, as so much of what we lived to this day has been buried… never to see the light of day. I speak of your own miraculous survival as well, you see.”

Hamal sets the letters down and watches him with an inscrutable expression.

Alistair smiles.

He’s mastered the knack of instilling a healthy dose of fear into his Warden recruits, while never betraying his friendly exterior. Now he’s convinced he has delivered his message adequately, and made his good friend squirm long enough.

“In any case,” he concludes, “It will do more good in your hands than in the First Warden. The Order is—well.” Alistair stands, his blue cloak fanning out with an elegant sweep of his arm. “I wouldn’t bore you with all that. It’s all things you already know, or things you are better off not knowing. Just understand that in keeping these… you would be doing me a favor. And in reading them, even more so. No orders. No obligations. Just… a favor, from an old friend.”

Hamal flips through the letters, occasionally pausing to squint at the writing on the envelopes. He finally groups them together again, tapping them against the table to line up their edges neatly. He doesn’t look up.

“Thank you for the audience,” Alistair says. “If you do ever read my ramblings, let me know what you make of them. Take care.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, sit down Alistair,” Hamal says. “Haven’t even given me a chance to find my reading glasses.”

#rinnywrites #dragon age #oc: hamal mahariel #dao #alistair theirin #rarely get to write the boy i hope his voice is... ok #dragon age: tow (those old wardens)

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