Zevran

Love is something eternal; the aspect may change, but not the essence

                In the first year or so following Rinna’s death Zevran had mourned the love which was lost, in his own peculiar way of course.  He had thrown himself into his work, his will to live not completely gone but thrown to the side as guilt consumed him.  The idea of love scared him but the idea of a raven haired beauty revisiting him in his nightmares, throwing accusations upon him, scared him that much more.

                In the first month or so following his joining of a certain Grey Warden Zevran had mourned his freedom yet followed the flame-haired beauty’s instruction none-the-less.  The more time he spent with her the more his former lover visited his dreams, accusations worsening each night until Zevran chose to fight until exhaustion.  Only then did were his dreams less violent but still the Rinna’s ghost visited upon him.

                Yet one night, without warning, his nightmares changed.  No longer did his raven-haired ghost visit upon him.  No longer did her cold touch caress his tan skin, promising to pull him into a hell he had flung her into.  No, not at all.  The nightmare was a new kind of torture which he had never dreamed of before.  The nightmare was one of love, an odd one which he had never asked for and which made him yearn for more when he awoke the next morning.  No, the raven hair was gone, cast aside, and yet he dreamed of caresses still.  He dream of pale hair and paler skin, a small frame pressed upon as it whispered foreign words into his curved ear.

“Ashke.”

Zevran’s dark lips turned the foreign word over as he sat by the fireside, his fingers running along the smooth side of his daggers.  The image of feathers visited upon his mind yet he could not identify his dream lover.  A name, not forgotten but lost during the chaos of battle, escaped him and made him feel empty.

Ah how he needed to be filled.  In more ways than one.

That night the elf visited the tent of one of the visiting mages, determined to find what was lost.  He needed to feel whole and what better way than to be filled, so to speak.  Yet, as pale as the mage was, as light as his hair was it was not right.  The thin fingers trailed over his skin and out of the corner of his eye Zevran saw a ghost.

Without a word he had climbed out of the bedding the next morning, guilt gnawing in his stomach.  He had woken up so hopeful, believing to wake up to a whispered language he could not remember.  He had expected to see feather light hair splayed over the covers, a feminine face lying on his chest and pale fingers hold onto him, searching for warmth.

No, this was not to be found. 

As the morning rays of light settled upon the camp Zevran dressed in his armor, readying for the oncoming final battle.  There were more important matters to consider and his dream lover must come last.  For a moment, just a moment, he thought he heard the word pass by his ear.  He had believed he felt a hand upon his shoulder and a well wish echoed in his head.  As the soldiers gathered nearby Zevran joined the side of his red-haired Warden, a cocky smirk upon his face and, for the first time in a long while, he felt as if was that much closer to being whole.