Chapter Text
Nothing will last forever except the need for those with power to wield it against the weak. That left it to the weak to find ways to fight back, however impossible or implausible the odds might seem. About the only plentiful element given to them was surprise, at least in Shianni’s experience. Everything else that was at their disposal was either fought for, stolen, or brought to life through the unending power of spite.
A hahren was to be above such things, or at least that was what some thought. They should have the steadiness of a rock that breaks the stream, the advocate of their people in the face of endless cuts, both large and small. But even the rock would be worn away with time, and anger boiled so much hotter than water. When that hahren was also a Bann it only added to those duties, to the responsibilities that came from her people and now the crown itself.
Shianni had given that, been that, for so long within Denerim. Dealing with kings, lords, thieves, and the hunger in the faces that surrounded her had consumed so much of her thoughts, her life, her very self. The blight had devastated Ferelden and the alienage had survived, she had survived. And her words had started to carry some weight as the elves rebuilt. Promises were made, some kept, most bent, many broken, but her people had survived. They had pulled through and while an outsider might not listen, Shianni knew that this was the closest to thriving she had ever seen in her young life.
But with each success, Shianni still remembered the faces that should have been sharing in what fortune they had. The Darkspawn had taken their share, the humans of Ferelden more, but then there were the lost. Faces, voices, names, pasts and futures, all lost to the greed of Howe, Loghain, and the ravenous forces of Tevinter. They lived, died, loved, cried, and none of the alienage knew. The years passed by and the losses never filled, the empty hollow in the crowd that gathered around the Vhenadahl.
Ghosts haunted Shianni just beyond the corner of her eyes. She knew she wasn’t the only one they stalked. What information she could get with the power she had, she leveraged. Years of whispers, destroyed notes, and rumors fell to her feet as she snatched them when she could. Any moment she could spare from the living was given to the lost and every then, it was so very little. What was one elf, no matter the title before her name, to do in Denerim when the lost were scattered to the farthest points of Thedas?
Impossibility didn’t matter, couldn’t matter. There was no such thing as too much time, no such thing as forgiveness for this sin. And so Shianni pulled together those pieces, rumors, and scraps. She quietly began to put contingencies in order. Her responsibilities always went to the alienage first. When she disappeared under the cover of night with little more than a note that she would be in touch, she knew the wheel would continue to move for some time.
Passage to Wycome had been the first step of the plan she had spent years planning. It was how she found herself in a room in a tavern, coin enough for a bed with a door and a lock. Elven coin went further here since the Inquisition seemed content to put the Dalish partially in charge. The Bann in Shianni thought about what she could teach them from her work in Denerim, what she could learn from a council that contained more than just one solitary elf. But the plan did not include those duties.
A locked door, a lit candle, and privacy from all but the sounds that filtered in from the tavern below and rooms around had Shianni spreading out what information she had, the sketched out idea, and the list. She did not hear the window open and only noticed the strange flicker for her candle as if from an unexpected breeze.
“Why, if it isn’t my grumpiest cousin-in-law” tutted a familiar, grating voice that materialized from the shadows. The ice of surprise in Shianni’s spine burned to anger as she looked up to see him lounging upon the window sill.
Zevran Arianai, former crow assassin and eternal pain in her ass, looked perfectly at home perched within her rented window. Shianni was sorely tempted to shove him and be done with it. The temptation was resisted only because she knew that the only way she’d be able to do so was if he wanted her to.
“You’re not my cousin-in-law.” she muttered, turning back to her precious bits of paper and shoving them away before he could get a proper look.
The Antivan sighed with all the indignity he could summon, slipping down from the window to invade the small room that barely counted as such. His arrival was not exactly unexpected, more annoying that she had not managed to get further before he had caught up. “I do not think the Maker and Andraste had some formal paper, so alas neither do I.” he bemoaned, voice low enough to not leak through the walls but loud enough that Shianni had to hear.
Honestly Shianni wasn’t entirely sure how he did it. She had so much trouble keeping her voice down. “Is my cousin supposed to be Andraste or the Maker in today’s blasphemy?”
“A question for the scholars.” Zevran flashed a smile that caught the light of her candle. “I am but her servant.”
Right, because that was really why he was here. Someone had somehow gotten word to the infamously hard to reach Warden-Commander, which led to the Antivan in her room now. Nothing worked faster than the alienage rumor mill, Shianni had just hoped she had covered her tracks well enough. Maybe part of her had hoped that her cousin, famous Hero of Ferelden or not, might have been the one to track her down instead of her lover.
Shianni was used to being disappointed though, of making her own hope. Staring down the assassin, they both knew what she was going to say. “I’m not going back. Not yet. So you can go and tell Esti that you tried.”
“Yes, yes, let me get comfortable before we begin to argue.” Zevran answered with a wave of his hand.
And get comfortable he did, taking his seat on the threadbare bed. Leaning back upon his hands, a tilt of his head invited her to sit beside him. It was a familiar back and forth honestly, over the years. Marriage or not, the assassin was as much family as Esti or Soris, with the same habit of showing up exactly when Shianni either needed him most or wanted him around the least.
“I’ll stand.”
He shrugged, accepting it and moving right along as if her glaring at him on her bed was nothing of note. And given how often their conversations consisted of her glaring, from his perspective that might just be what he thought she looked like. Maybe over the years her face really had stuck like that.
“You must understand what position you put me in. You leave with nothing but a vague note and false trails. Esti, Soris, Alistair, they are all asking each other where you’ve gone. And then for some reason they all get mad at me because where could she have gotten these ideas from. Who could possibly have told her the things to set her on this path.” a chiding click of his tongue. “Whatever shall I do with you?”
“Nothing” Shianni answered because that was the only answer she would accept, the only answer that the pit in her soul would accept. “Zevran, it’s time. Andraste’s ass, it’s past time! What was the point of any of the information, any of the leads if I’m not supposed to act?”
“And yet your people still need you at home, they need their Bann and she has left.” he answered, voice soft and chiding as one explaining to an errant child. “You have money now. Power. Connections. You should hire those who specialize in these things. There is no reason for you to be here.”
How he stayed so calm and amused drove her absolutely mad. The idea that she could just continue to sit back, to try and pull strings, to do things without doing them was eating her alive. Her people needed her, no matter where they were.
“These are my people!” she snapped, barely keeping leash on her voice. Not that she imagined that anyone would actually check on her, few people did that especially for a stranger. But attention wasn’t what she needed. So she kept her voice down, her anger bottled up in her lungs. “I have a lead. A name. A route. I need to do it. I need this. They’ve been left behind too long.”
The candle caught his eyes as he watched her. They always reminded Shianni of coins. She remembered having the same thought the first time he had appeared from nowhere, months after the blight. The silence in which he had moved to get rid of the body of some wannabe assassin against her own life, the way he held her hand till it stopped shaking before her senses returned to pull away. When the next one came, she had thought he would be proud at how steady her hand stayed.
Those coins watched her, likely determining if he could simply knock her out and drag her home and how long it would take for her to leave again. She stared back into them, daring him to stop her, to try, to accept that this would always happen, that the only way to stop her would be to put an end to this pain and they both knew there was no end.
When he looked away, shaking his head, Shianni gave herself the chance to hope. “It shouldn’t be you, but I understand.” Zevran’s voice carried the weight of regrets that could not be fixed, of the understanding of trying despite all chances of failure.
And that let her move to sit next to him, one of her hands coming to rest next to his. Not touching, never touching, but with the comfort of family, the hope of comradery. “You could come with me. I know this is a real lead. I could find one of them, maybe more. I could bring them home. We could bring them home.”
“Ah, Shianni.” his smile was stripped of all but a near ever present fond weariness. “I am always in the mood to kill slavers. But unfortunately I have an engagement I must keep.”
“Then I’ll go alone.” her spine straightened, her stare defiant. “Zevran, I can’t lose this chance. I won’t.”
“You are both so stubborn. It is far too much for a simple man such as myself. I can get you help, but you must give me time. There are plenty of mercenaries to be found in the Free Marches, plenty of favors to call in.”
“No.” The authority of the Bann of Denerim’s Alienage came naturally after so many years, the ability to say no was an intoxicating power. She wouldn’t be told to wait, not any longer. Not when she had something that was real, someone she could stop, the best chance she’d had to bring a lost home in over a decade. “I can’t lose them. I’m leaving at first light.”
Unless you stop me was the unspoken fear. They both knew that in a battle of outright skill, Zevran would win handedly. And they both knew that she would never be able to forgive him if he did. She wondered if her cousin was too much of a coward to face Shianni’s hatred herself, and at the same time thanked the Maker that they would never have to know.
But his hands raised in surrender, slapping his thighs before getting to his feet. “I’ll have them catch you. We both know you should not be traveling alone. That you’ve not even a guard. You will make me a nagging grandmother, yet. I should spike your wine and be done with it.”
Shianni could almost smile, or at least she could feel her scowl ease. “I guess neither of us are doing what we should.”
Zevran played the part of the grandmother well, shaking his head as he reached out the window to grab what appeared to be a quiver he had hung just outside. How he had managed all that without her noticing baffled her. After how many times she’d been nearly taken out, Shianni honestly thought she had a decent sense for those trained in stealth. Then again, he was one of the ones who helped her with what she did know.
“Somehow I thought it might come to this. A gift from your cousin and your favorite cousin-in-law.” Zevran offered the quiver up, Shianni watching him with caution before grabbing it.
It was fully stocked, even in the candlelight she could tell that the fletching was finely done. The leather was nicely stitched, simple but sturdy. Andraste’s sunburst rose in relief at its top, a rain of stitched arrows falling upon her enemies beneath. Her fingers ran along the design, coming to the pouch near its base. As she slipped the clasp, she could hear the amusement in his voice. “Ah, be careful with those. I mixed them myself.”
Which was all Shianni needed to hear to secure it till there was better light. But this was, well, likely as close to approval as she would get from Esti. It was something, even if it wasn’t her family at her back. At the very least she could carry her family along, bury their anger of wood and metal in the hearts of those who had tried to take everything from them.
“Thank you.” she whispered.
“As much as I would like to hold that thank you over you forever, thank me when you are not dead. Because if you do die, I’m sure your cousin will somehow find a way to kill the Maker. After she kills me for letting it happen.” His mask of breezy cheer returned. “Now, if you would be so kind as to tell me exactly what information you have, I can see how quickly I can call in favors. It is now a rush since someone could not be bothered to tell me they were going on a grand, foolish adventure. The things we do for family.”
When Shianni looked up, the earnest affection in his smile drew one from her to match.
“Fenris! Fancy meeting you here. And you got a haircut.”
The surprise of a familiar voice was unanticipated, which likely had been by design. He had found the corner of the bar, his back to its wall, and somehow he still had not fully seen the pirate that was now making herself at home at his table. Which likely meant she had known exactly where to find him, a thought that tore at his chest in a way he decided was entirely worth ignoring.
“Isabela.” he answered, his eyes steady on her while keeping note of when the other half would show up. There would be another half.
“It’s been years.” the pirate took the wine bottle from his hand as if no time at all had past, as if this was The Hanged Man, as Kirkwall did not feel like a dream better forgotten most days.
“That is how time passes.” he agreed, taking the bottle back and pointedly ignoring the pout of her lip when he did. “What do you want?”
Isabela’s eyes widened in what was likely an intentionally weak attempt at shock. “Want? Couldn’t I just be excited to see an old friend? We have so much to catch up on on this entirely spontaneous-”
“Isabela.” he growled, resulting in an eye roll from the woman who had been one of his closest friends.
“Ugh, fine. Yes. I need something. Are you happy now?” she answered, the pout fully in place now and he imagined here to stay.
“Where’s Hawke?” he asked, with her pout providing enough comfort that likely Hawke was still alive whatever this supposed favor was.
“Where’s who? Oh hey, Fenris, you got a haircut!” answered a second familiar voice and Fenris damned the Maker for rogue’s and their ability to seemingly disappear from reality only to reappear when inconvenient. While he understood the talents in theory, there were times deep in his bottle that he wondered if perhaps it was closer to magic than he would like. These two had always seemed to defy his ability to keep track of threats. Or perhaps his mind still had not caught up with the reality that their friendship was in the past, buried under rubble in Kirkwall.
Corrine Hawke pulled a chair up, sitting on it so she could lean her chin on its back to flash her always dazzling grin at Fenris. Again, as if nothing had changed, as if they were all gathering for Wicked Grace and Varric, Donnic, and the abomination were simply running late. The smile on her face seemed to even believe that, something Fenris could not even begin to fathom.
“Yes. I got a haircut.”
“It looks good. Goes with the whole scowly thing you’ve always had. It’s my favorite scowl in the world.” Hawke went to reach for the bottle this time. Fenris made sure to keep it from her, which meant she obviously was not trying very hard.
“What do you want?” he asked again.
Hawke held out a hand to Isabela, which Isabela dropped a coin into with all the annoyance of someone who had lost a bet. Likely because it seemed exactly like that was what had happened. His eyes narrowed towards Hawke, who simply shrugged against her chair. “She thought you’d be excited.”
“I’m an optimist!” Isabela countered.
“An optimist who still has not answered my question.” he added, pointedly taking a drink from his bottle to prevent further attempts at them stealing it. Not that it would truly stop them, it never had before.
“It’s your dream come true!” Hawke beamed. “You get to rescue a damsel in distress from slavers, while also making sure those slavers are very, very dead.”
Perhaps he was more drunk than he thought and this was all simply an illusion, there was no Hawke, no Isabela, and he would wake up in some alleyway with less of a headache than he could feel coming on. “Damsel rescuing seems more your line of work, Hawke, from what I remember. It is not what I dream of.” he answered, adding after a moment. “Though you are correct on the slavers.”
A look was shared between the women before Isabela took over. They clearly had talked previously, knew what they were approaching him on, but he had always marveled at the way the two seemed to nearly read one anothers minds towards the end. It seemed that had not changed, instead the rest of the world simply moved on without disturbing their connection. How lovely for them.
“Look. A friend of mine needs a favor.” Isabela’s voice dipped to below the rumble of the bar, creating the illusion of privacy.
“Zevran, remember him?” Hawke added helpfully.
Fenris did, finding himself leaning towards their voices out of a forgotten habit. “The terrible assassin.”
“Yes, well, no, not important. He’s got a runaway Ferelden Bann.”
A huff of near laughter escaped him. There were many things in this world, many depravities and cruelties he knew the Tevinters capable of, but enslaving a noble from a foreign country seemed more like what they would do after they had already conquered it, not before. “Tevinter slavers have a Ferelden Bann? That seems unlikely.”
“They don’t exactly have her. It’s more of a her hunting them with a possible death wish situation, from what I gathered.” Isabela explained, which honestly did not explain much of anything.
“That seems quite the situation you’ll have to resolve. I fail to see how this involves me.”
The look they gave him was identical, one he remembered all too well as meaning something along the lines of stop being an ass. He was not particularly inclined to do so.
“Outside of a Ferelden Bann getting herself killed on foreign soil isn’t exactly a great look with the Inquisition still running around, and every country in Thedas on edge, making it everyone’s problem.” He could almost swear that Isabela was gritting her teeth. “We know you’re already hunting slavers. You already know more about their routes and habits right now than we do. We have some information, but you’d be faster at finding her. And probably better luck keeping her alive.”
“Plus she’s a little twitchy about humans. A lot twitchy, actually.” Hawke added, Isabela nodding along as if that was a good point and not entirely ridiculous.
“A Ferelden Bann is... twitchy about humans.” Fenris should not be curious. He should not care. This was Hawke and Isabela’s problem, they could take this job if it needed to be done so badly. Or they could call in the Inquisition, he had heard rumors the Champion of Kirkwall and the pirate had become involved.
“Right, which in case you hadn’t noticed, we both are.” Hawke helpfully pointed to both herself and Isabela, as if the humans in question were somehow a mystery to him.
“I had noticed, yes.”
“Fenris.” Isabela said his name and its sound was so familiar on her lips, from bygone conversations when he had confided in her, before he learned yet again that it was a useless pursuit. People like him did not have confidants. “She’s an elf. We know who she’s for and the general area she’s going on some kind of revenge mission in. I’ve half the payment already, the other half is in Denerim when she’s escorted back. Preferably alive.”
The coin purse hit the table. He knew the heavy sound well enough and with a glance within it was confirmed. It was more than enough coin to keep him from needing to take additional work for a very long while, should he wish. A tempting offer, one just as tempting to refuse purely out of spite for the presumption after so long. But his feelings on long gone friends did not change the fact that there was a slave that would need to be killed either way.
An elven Bann.
“I agree to nothing before I hear the details.”