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Shades of Grey	By : myghinmin Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 3772 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age: Origins, and I do not make any money from these writings.

Chapter List
- 12
- 13
- 14
Title: Shades of Grey
Story Rating: M (mature). NSFW (not safe for work) due to sexual content in chapters five, seven, and eight, and for torture in chapters eleven and twelve.
Chapter Rating: M (mature).
Chapter Warnings: Treachery and blood.
Word Count: 4510 words.
PC: Fem!Amell Warden, deceased.
Pairing: Zevran/Alistair.
Spoilers: End-game spoilers. Set post game. Spoilers for "Return to Ostagar" as well.
Summary: She made him swear to keep Alistair on his feet until he could stand alone. Maker help him, Zevran will honor that final promise, even if it kills him.
Notes: This chapter had so many points that had to happen, it took forever to write. I mean, I love it dearly and am quite proud of wrapping up so much in it, but it really did take forever to write and finish tweaking the order of the events. Several of these scenes are my favorite points in the story, but you do have to trudge through some political background information in order to get to the "good stuff." Hope no one minds too much!
As always, if you enjoy reading this story, please remember to review (constructive criticism welcome).
[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]
She had ruined everything. Stripped him of his title, refused to stop him from killing Loghain, and now, she couldn't bring herself to say yes, to do the one thing that would allow her to live with him. Her own happily ever after, one she'd been reading about since she was a young girl, first brought to the tower. The nobility that he had instilled into her wouldn't allow it; her mage training refused to consider it as an option.
And so, she had sent Morrigan away, ignoring the way her hands shook, the way her stomach rolled and her vision swam. Her chest was tight, and the moment the other woman was out of the room, she was sobbing, unable to stop herself. When she drew a shaking breath, trying to calm herself, she heard a noise. A glance over her shoulder told her that Morrigan had not shut her door. She hesitated only a moment, and then crossed the room, trying to keep her face down. She didn't want anyone to see her like this.
However, she couldn't help the glance up just as she pushed the door closed. Her eyes landed on a certain elf-- he must have heard her crying-- and she bit her bottom lip. She couldn't possibly explain; not to him, not to anyone. Everything was falling apart.
[[ ... Chapter 13 ..... ]]
His stomach was rolling as they tied the horses. Shaking hands didn't lend themselves well to the task, and he was grateful when Teagan took the reins from him. Zevran had been at their mercy for ten days. The thought made him shudder, and he knew from Teagan's dejected expression that the other man had given up on the elf. Alistair knew that it was foolish to hope that Zevran might still be alive, particularly since he also knew what that would mean he'd been through. No one could last ten days through even half of what the assassin had told him Crows did to their kidnap victims.
He had spent the past day and a half reading through the correspondance Zevran had left for him, and it had been hell, his fingers tracing the surprisingly well written letters, the delicate curves all blending together several times as he felt a burning wetness at the backs of his eyes. Jowan had been the one to take the papers then and took it upon himself to read them aloud until the templar had calmed down enough to resume his reading. He found himself grateful for the apostate's assistance, knowing full well that no matter what happened, they did not have the time for him to mourn or even really help with the search. He had to trust the entire matter to Clovis and Luthanuel, something that grated on him terribly.
He turned to look at the home before them now. Bann Loren lived in a relatively luxurious place while in Denerim, particularly for a Bann. It had clear Orlesian influence in its coloring and style, but then again, what building didn't? Few Fereldans had been able to completely remove the Orlesian undertones yet, and honestly, most of them didn't wish to. No one would outright say it yet, but it was ... pretty. Of course, it being pretty was all well and good, but Bann Loren's home-away-from-home bordered on extravagant.
It had at least three buildings on the property: the main hall, straight ahead; the servants' quarters, to the left; and another building that Alistair couldn't immediately identify. He studied it for a heartbeat, then let his gaze roam back over toward the center building. Teagan led the way, having been there at least once before, and Alistair fell into step easily behind his uncle, trying to get a measure of the man that they were rapidly approaching.
Anora had not wanted to hold the meeting in the royal palace; it would be too reminiscent of the Landsmeet, she'd said softly, looking over the Warden's shoulder toward where her father had fallen. No one needed to remember that splash of blood, to see Alistair standing in it as he swore off his own bloodline once more. They needed somewhere fresh. Eamon had offered his own keep, as had the Cousland youth, but Anora had shaken her head to those locations as well. Eamon was well known for his support of Alistair during the Blight, and the Cousland's Denerim home had been nearly destroyed by Howe's men after his death at the hands of the Wardens.
No, they needed a new place, a neutral location for all parties. Bann Loren had the single largest private residence after the Teyrn and the Arl, and he had managed to stay out of the fray during the Blight. It meant that he hadn't been forced into choosing a side. It also meant that they had to be at the whims of a host who was best known for the fact that he went with whatever person had the most to offer. It was not the best situation to be in.
The ace in his sleeve would easily be which Banns and Arls were arriving. Alfstanna, Sighard, Telmen, Cousland, Ceorlic, and Wulff had all agreed to the meeting, and when Alfstanna agreed, it almost assured Bryland's appearance. Rarely did he allow her arrival in Denerim to be left unnoted, and Alistair was counting on his support as well as the Bann by his side. In all reality, there were only three loose cannons going to be there that day, since none of the new Banns or Arls-- Denerim, Amaranthine, and Gwaren all had new families since the Blight-- would be there. Their hands were still full settling into and repairing their new lands.
At least with Bann Alfstanna there, he would be able to finally convince her that her debt to the Wardens was paid. She still considered herself bound to them for finding her brother, the templar sent after Jowan, and since they had agreed with her to support Anora as queen, she'd had no way to pay the debt back. Zevran had deftly been hinting in his letters to her that supporting Alistair would be an easy way to ease it, and Alistair agreed. It wasn't that having debts owed wasn't a better thing than owing them yourself, but in Ferelden, debts were to be settled as quickly as possible. It was a matter of honor.
And if Alfstanna supported him, Arl Bryland was almost certain to as well. He was still appreciative of them locating her brother as well, and not even Alistair had missed the way that his hand had caught hers, squeezing when they told her about the conditions that the templar had been kept in. He had thrown his lot in with the Wardens the moment he could, trusting that they would continue to hold up their end of the bargain struck without words: do right by Ferelden. Uphold the honor and freedom that they all clung to. Maker help him, the Wardens were doing just that. If someone wanted to try to change over the leader simply to get one that they could buy, Alistair was going to do his best to prevent it from happening.
He didn't really believe that Sighard would be there, but then again, he could see how Dragon's Peak would be quite interested in what was going on in Denerim, all things considering. Sighard's son was still recovering, some things incapable of being healed by magic or herbs. Some of the tortures that the boy had undergone needed time in order to fade, both mentally and physically. Alistair remembered that in one of Zevran's letters, a horse had been gifted to the youth, in congratulations of him being able to sit in the saddle again. At least Howe's treachery hadn't completely stripped him, although he would never follow in his father's footsteps. He wasn't capable of wielding a sword any longer; Sighard would be doing well to keep tabs on who was in control of what, considering his son's position. The boy would need a protector, someone to offer a hand whenever it was needed, and Zevran had assured him that the Wardens would be happy to help where they could, so long as Alistair was Commander.
Telmen would support him, he was certain; the Wardens had openly assisted him in defending his lands against Loghain's men, and he had sided with Teagan many times in the past. He not only owed them a debt, but most often, he agreed with their position. He would want to keep a Fereldan in control of the Wardens. With him would be Cousland, who had openly supported the Wardens since his return to court. Having been left for dead at Ostagar had clearly shifted the weight of his opinions, and once he'd discovered that the Wardens had extracted vengeance from Howe personally, he had thrown his lot with them. Blood for blood, he'd written to Zevran, expressing classic Fereldan sentiment on the matter.
That left Ceorlic, Wulff, and Loren himself as unaccounted for votes. Ceorlic had spoken out for Loghain at the Landsmeet, although whether was because he genuinely believed that Loghain was the better choice or he simply disliked the Wardens was a question Alistair could have used the answer to. No one really knew Ceorlic well enough to guess at his motives. And Wulff... Wulff had supported them, but only because the Blight had ravaged the West Hills already. Would he still support the current Wardens without the Blight looming over head?
Alistair raked his hand through his hair as they were greeted and shown to a small room in the main hall. He disliked this immensely; it felt like a set-up. It felt like... A very faint smile appeared on his face as he recalled the woman who'd approached them begging for their help to save her caravan. It felt like when they'd met Zevran, standing among the unharmed caravan, his daggers glinting in the light. It had been an awful set-up, but then again, his fellow Warden had confessed quietly to him under the darkness of night, Zevran had been looking for his death. He had not expected to survive the attack of two Grey Wardens.
If Alistair had managed to have his way, the elf wouldn't have either. At least, that's what he'd claimed. Truth be told, he couldn't kill anyone in cold blood like that, no matter how little he wanted to take them along. Even his beloved's soft pleading had left him cold at the idea of an assassin trailing behind them, but Zevran had proven himself most useful in the end. And now...
The templar swallowed as he focused on the room he was in. Teagan was sitting on one of the benches against the far wall, looking vacantly out of the windows across from him. The room was quiet, and regrettably, they couldn't see the courtyard from their position. Instead, they were looking out over the kennels, watching as the dogs were trained. Finally, the door opened, and a great beast of a man stepped in. He was clad in simple clothing, and he stood at close to seven feet tall. It was disconcerting, Alistair realized, to have to tilt his head back to look up at him. Bann Loren followed him, very carefully latching the door behind himself.
A cold chill washed over the blond as he saw what was happening. Teagan moved to stand, and Alistair carefully positioned himself between his uncle and the newcomers. His sword was at his hip, the shield bearing the Grey Warden crest heavy on his back, still under his traveling cloak; if it was to be a fight--
"Please, gentlemen," Bann Loren spoke first, breaking the tension that had sparked the moment Alistair's hand touched the hilt of his sword. Teagan closed distance behind the templar, but he stayed far enough away that if something went wrong he could bolt. He was a Bann because of respect for his brother, not any martial abilities of his own, and everyone knew it. It was why he had such a small province in the first place, one that was within a day's ride or so of Redcliffe.
"Loren," Alistair replied, his hand tightening marginally on the metal grip of his blade. "We are supposed to speak--"
"We all know why you are here," the Bann shot back quickly, spitting out the words one at a time. The man before him stepped to the side just a little, enough that Alistair could make eye contact with the speaker. He was still close enough to block any attacks that the Warden might make however. "You are here, in my home, in order to garner support for your command. It is a tenuous grasp you have of the Peak, isn't it? I mean, with your elf missing and all."
Alistair's jaw clenched. This was the way of it, was it? Zevran had been taken in an attempt to pull the Wardens' feet out from under them. No matter the continued support of the royal family, there were always those who disliked the Wardens. Disliked what they represented, what they were capable of.
"I assure you, this can all end quite... peaceably, if you go along with it." A silvered eyebrow raised, and Alistair quickly forced himself to focus. He could feel Teagan's hand on his arm, a not-so-subtle warning to still himself.
Since the loss of his fellow Warden to the Blight, his temper had rapidly shot out of control, and everyone who had spent any amount of time in the keep knew it. Only Zevran had been able to keep him in control, though why not even Alistair knew. It was as though the elf simply had a knack for saying exactly the right thing, for knowing when to press and when to back off. He seemed to understand what Alistair was going through, and had empathized instead of offering him pity. Now, he was faced with having lost that stability, and he had to keep himself on a leash, or risk undoing everything that both of his lovers had managed to do for him.
He swallowed back his anger, taking a deep breath to calm himself before he squared his shoulders and drew himself to his full height. He was still far shorter than the man standing so close to him, but he did at least manage to tower over the Bann, and it clearly gave the other man pause for a heartbeat. Then his host's eyes flicked back to the other man, and he pressed forward, confident in his protector's abilities.
"I have something that you want, and you have something that I want. It seems like we'd be able to assist one another at least a little."
"I won't help you," Alistair shot back, the image of Elric Maraigne, one of King Cailan's honor guard all to center in his mind's eye. Elric had been tortured at Loren's orders simply because he had managed to survive Ostagar. Now, he knew that he would regret so quickly shooting down the Bann's proposal, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't agree to assist anyone who could torture someone to the point of death just because they had survived something horrific.
The older man sighed, reached up to touch his own forehead lightly. "I thought you might say that," he said softly, then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small square of fabric. Teagan stiffened at Alistair's side, and as it was held out to the templar for inspection, he realized that it was wrapped around something. The dark fabric was soft against his fingertips, and his breath hitched as he recognized it: it was from one of Zevran's shirts, the dark blue one that he liked to wear when meeting with nobles. It had been Antivan in style, which was why he had favored it so.
He took it gingerly, and when he opened the little package it had been fashioned into, his heart skipped a beat. A single braid lay in the middle of it, most of the blond hair stained a dark copper color from blood. Zevran was still alive then? The blood wasn't completely dry yet, and the little leather wrap around the bottom of the braid was in the same pattern that the elf used. Something simple, he had once said, but distinctive. Makes it decorative and functional.
He felt as though he'd swallowed sand; his mouth was achingly dry. He looked up, first at the Bann, then at the guard with him. Something was in those eyes, something-- Pity? Understanding? Alistair's hand shook just slightly as he closed his fist around the lock of hair. Teagan's fingers dug into his forearm, trying to stop him, trying to keep him from losing everything in one stupid attack. He needn't have bothered.
It was a cold breeze, a chilling finality of the situation before him. He had never thought Zevran dead; he had hoped, for the elf's sake, that he was, but he had instinctively understood their position too well. He had known that Zevran was worth more alive than dead. The braid in his hand had a terrible weight to it, it seemed to burn through the little scrap of cloth. He was sure if he handed it to Teagan, his lover's blood would be smeared across his palm.
Eyes locked; silence stretched. Then Alistair hammered the nail in his lover's coffin with his next words, "You can't bribe or threaten me." Duty came first, over all personal feelings; he had been too long in remembering this. "The Wardens will do what is right, whether I am their commander or not." It was as much a threat as a promise. No Warden would allow whatever it was that Loren was so scared Alistair would find out. "You would do well in remembering what it is to be Fereldan."
Bann Loren's mouth was opening and closing, trying to find words, but Alistair wouldn't let him. He had lost everything; there was nothing left for them to take from him, except his Wardens. He was not about to let them slip from him too. Someone who hired kidnappers didn't keep their promises, and he wasn't going to stake Zevran's life on the honor of Bann Loren. No matter what was said here, Zevran would have died anyway.
"Bann Loren," he said quickly, his eyes flashing. "Rest assured that the queen will hear of this." His right hand was still tight on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it if necessary. The huge man at Loren's side straightened up, but made no move in response to the Warden's words.
"I will hear of what, Alistair?" The door creaked slightly, and everyone looked up. Anora stood there, delicately grasping the handle of the door as she surveyed the scene before her. The entire group of Banns and Arls were with her, clearly having been on their way to collect Alistair and Teagan before the meeting was started.
Alistair hesitated only long enough to look pointedly at Bann Loren, and then he closed the distance between himself and the queen, dropping to one knee as soon as he was within arm's reach. "Your majesty," he said softly, holding up the damning scrap of cloth. "Bann Loren has issued a threat on the life of one of my men--"
"He is an elf! He is not even a Warden!" Loren's voice was cracking, but Alistair didn't turn to see the expression on the other man's face. He felt Anora's fingers lightly lifting the bloody cloth from his hand, and he stayed kneeling until she touched his shoulder.
"Settle yourself, Bann Loren," she commanded coldly, the braid in her hand now. "Explain what is going on here. What is this, precisely?"
Alistair stood slowly, looking over his shoulder at the Bann in question. Everyone was expecting something, as they filed into the room. A gasp was heard behind him; the point of delivering an object like that was quite obvious, and no one missed the implications behind it. The older man was frowning, his brows furrowed deeply as he looked at them all.
"I can explain," a voice called out, and Alistair felt something cold wash through him. His arms dropped limply to his side, and he turned toward the door, suddenly clear of everyone except a very naked, very bloodied elf. His blond hair hung limply around his face, smeared with blood but otherwise clean. He took a step, closed his eyes, then another. Alistair saw the tremble in his lover's legs and he rushed forward, catching the elf before he hit the ground. His arms wrapped around Zevran, pulling him close, but immediately let go when the elf made a low moan of pain.
His back was raw, a horrific mixture of blood and scabs and medicine all over it. How he had managed to get away, to walk was incredible, and Alistair didn't even hesitate before he pulled off his traveling cloak, wrapping the other man in it in a single smooth motion. He hadn't managed it fast enough though, because he heard the strangled noise from several throats that signaled their own outrage at the treatment of anyone, elf or no.
There was only a moment where they all stood, staring at the bloodied and nearly broken Zevran-- there was a wound on his arm that was still sluggishly dripping blood onto the floor-- and then Anora was glaring back at the man responsible, announcing that he was under arrest for the capture and torture of a citizen.
His giant of a guard had vanished, and Alistair would have given chase except for Zevran's light grasp on his hand. Weak as the elf was, he could have easily shaken it off, but when he turned to look at his lover, he found himself paralyzed, incapable of leaving him to be protected by someone else. Not yet. He could hear Anora calling her guards, and then he didn't care anymore. He was pulling Zevran against him, quietly thanking the Maker that the elf was alive, that he seemed to be as unbroken as could be expected.
Then Zevran was pushing him away, gasping slightly for breath as he swallowed back what had to be tears of pain. His dark eyes were red-rimmed, and when Alistair reached up to try to dry his face, the elf pushed him toward Anora, nodding just slightly. "Finish it," he whispered, and Alistair knew what he meant. Finish what they came here to do, what everyone needed to see him do all over again. Finish securing their freedom, their future.
He let Zevran go then and moved back before Anora, who stopped speaking just long enough to look at him. Curiosity spread over her face for a heartbeat, and then her eyes widened and she nodded, knowing what he was about to do.
"Queen Anora," he said, his voice surprisingly clear, "I relinquish all claim to the throne that I or my heirs might have. You are our Queen, and such it should stay." No matter what else was happening, it was vital to make everyone here understand this. "I am a Warden, not a Theirin." She touched his shoulder then, and took both of his hands in hers as she gently pulled him up.
"Grey Warden Alistair," she replied, her own voice matching his, "you have proven yourself courageous and capable. You are more than fit to lead the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, and I would have no other; you have my support in your command."
As soon as she released him, he bowed to her, a fleeting memory of Duncan bowing to Cailan in his mind. "My queen, I must take Zevran to a healer immediately." And she released him from her presence. He scooped the elf into his arms and headed out. Normally, he would have carried someone injured so badly with their knees over one arm, their back against his other, but with Zevran's back so raw it would have done more harm than good. Instead, he let the elf face him, coaxed those bare thighs to wrap around his hips, his arms around Alistair's shoulders. His face was pressed into the Warden's neck, and Alistair could feel the little hiccupping breaths that the elf was drawing. A heated wetness was on his neck, and Alistair's eyes closed as he walked out with his lover.
The cloak fell around the elf in thick folds, shielding him from the prying eyes around the courtyard. With Anora and the legion of nobility at his back, Alistair knew they had to be a sight for everyone, a spectacle of the highest degree. He hesitated for only a moment before he set the elf down, letting him stand on his own while Alistair unhitched the horse. Then the Warden was astride the horse and he reached down to help Zevran up behind him. Even this was unusual, as he would have preferred to have the other man in front of him, where he could not only see him but hold him and make certain that he didn't fall.
His wounds wouldn't allow for that though, and instead, Alistair just reminded him quietly to hold on before they were gone, leaving the estate behind. The Chantry wasn't far, and they would have someone there who could heal, be it a mage who was closely watched or a natural healer who worked with herbs and poultices. He wasn't certain, but Alistair figured that in a city as large as Denerim, they would keep a mage, despite the risk.
They reached the Chantry quickly, and within nothing short of a heartbeat, Zevran was back in Alistair's arms as they entered the building. A templar had seen either the desperation in Alistair's eyes or the crest on the shield on his back and quickly grabbed the horse's reins. Once inside, the sisters had swept Zevran away from him, leaving Alistair standing before the statue of Andraste. He felt something inside of him shifting, cracking, shattering.
Heat pricked at the backs of his eyes, and he reached up to touch where Zevran's own tears had touched his neck. He cupped his palm over the spot, his own eyes closing as he slid down to his knees in front of the statue. Maker help him, he mouthed, but he couldn't make the words come out. He was never particularly religious, something that had shocked almost everyone who had met him, including the elf now in the hands of the Maker himself. For a moment, he hesitated, and then he drew out his mother's amulet, felt the weight of it in his hand.
He couldn't do anything else, but he could offer Zevran his prayers.
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Shades of Grey