There's a moment, here, that Zevran can feel a tug somewhere under his ribs. Little hints he's been ignoring, pointed glances and questions he has put from his mind because-
Alistair is not like that. They are not like that. They have not been, they do not need to be, all is well as things are. Neither of them have much time as Alistair is a Warden and Zevran has this thing in his hand that he remains certain shall be the death of him. The hero always dies. And after Adamant, after Halamshiral, what else could he see himself as but a hero? What other ending could there be to his tale? And oh, how tragic to have a lover he might lose or that might lose him in turn.
Something for ballads and songs.
Again there is this moment that he ignored on the dancefloor, that he ignored in Adamant- that never had a chance to come up in the Fade. All the Nightmare would have had to do was lay the broken body of Alistair at his feet.
He still has not spoken of that future where he put a knife to the heart of Alistair as he smiled and joked, blood hard from lyrium. He knew then what he could not say, knew then what he would not be. And yet- standing on a cliff again. On a roof. Waiting for the wind to nudge him one way or another. Cowardice, perhaps, with how Cole looked to him about sparklers- how they had such light and such heat but died too quick. But weren't they pretty while they were lit? Zevran thought he meant Dorian.
But no. Now with a timid hesitance he can't quite swallow he slips a hand back to touch Alistair's wrist. Voice oddly quiet, he murmurs. "And where-"
He swallows. "Where would that put you, Alistair?"
no subject
Alistair is not like that. They are not like that. They have not been, they do not need to be, all is well as things are. Neither of them have much time as Alistair is a Warden and Zevran has this thing in his hand that he remains certain shall be the death of him. The hero always dies. And after Adamant, after Halamshiral, what else could he see himself as but a hero? What other ending could there be to his tale? And oh, how tragic to have a lover he might lose or that might lose him in turn.
Something for ballads and songs.
Again there is this moment that he ignored on the dancefloor, that he ignored in Adamant- that never had a chance to come up in the Fade. All the Nightmare would have had to do was lay the broken body of Alistair at his feet.
He still has not spoken of that future where he put a knife to the heart of Alistair as he smiled and joked, blood hard from lyrium. He knew then what he could not say, knew then what he would not be. And yet- standing on a cliff again. On a roof. Waiting for the wind to nudge him one way or another. Cowardice, perhaps, with how Cole looked to him about sparklers- how they had such light and such heat but died too quick. But weren't they pretty while they were lit? Zevran thought he meant Dorian.
But no. Now with a timid hesitance he can't quite swallow he slips a hand back to touch Alistair's wrist. Voice oddly quiet, he murmurs. "And where-"
He swallows. "Where would that put you, Alistair?"