Sequel to "Chains", which you may access through my profile. This story will be much darker, so I apologize if you're interested in something as sugary-sweet as "Chains" was.

When the sky finally made good on a days-long threat to rain the drops made a musical sound on the armor of the approaching newcomers, and after the first spats of rain no more fell on the Commander and his waiting retinue, as Anders reached up with one hand and settled a telekinetic shield over the important people in their group. The Commander didn't need to look back to see the smirk on Anders' face at what the Circle might consider abuse of magic, small a thing as it was.

Cadryn—not so much the Commander, but Cadryn Amell, the man behind the title—stepped out from under the shield. Even these discomforts were welcome, in freedom. And being soaked would give him good reason to delay the important business of the day, perhaps spend a few moments alone...

Oghren sidled up next to Cadryn, grumbling quietly at the rain, muttering something about it sliding down inside his armor, and after a moment loudly proclaimed, "I don't see him."

Indeed, one distinct personage, one Cadryn could never miss, was absent from the group of recruits Alistair brought to the keep. Cassius strode at Alistair's side, somehow reining in a tense excitement without the necessary command to do so.

A cool mask settled into place, one learned late in his time at the Circle, refined during the Blight and perfected as Arl. Behind this he buried all his rage, his pain, his confusion, and greeted his fellow warden and the small group of recruits with him as would be expected.

"Welcome, brothers and sisters." A voice honed to resonance, trained to project for efficiency in spellcasting, carried the words with both authority and warmth. Just because he was miserable didn't mean these new recruits had to be. In fact, they'd probably be much easier to deal with if they were happy, inspired, shared that camaraderie Alistair had spoken of so fondly and Cadryn had never known. "With the Blight defeated, now stands before us a greater task. You are the first of a new legacy for Fereldan Gray Wardens, those who will lay down the bulwark on which our successors will stand when the next Blight comes. By your actions now will they succeed, our voices and our swords carried through ages to lend them the strength they will need. It will be the echo of our wisdom that guides them when lost, the work of our hands that will right them when they fall. Tomorrow, you will join us, and together we will build something that lasts."

Someone in the small crowd gave an overly enthusiastic cheer, and despite the rain the air ran electric with excitement. Seven new wardens would double their numbers, optimistically assuming they all survived the Joining. For the moment things seemed on a bit of an upswing, excusing a certain rogue's absence. "Sorry you missed all the action," got the soft laugh he expected. "Head on in, get dried off and settled. Won't do to have a mess of sick recruits on our hands." They did as asked, led in by Anders and Oghren, one or two stopping to shake his hand, eager eyes sparking up at him from young faces. Beyond the mask they got nothing, only a charismatic and personable leader glad to have their enthusiasm, someone who agreed they could make a difference. It took someone practiced at reading people, at reading him to see the weariness working in under the mask, the darkness growing in green eyes.

Once they passed Nathaniel remained, shifting from one foot to the other, uncertain. "Commander-"

"Just go," Cadryn said, giving Nathaniel as much of a reassuring smile as he could. It failed, somehow, but Nathaniel left anyway, hesitant.

And Cassius threw his weight against Cadryn's legs, knocking the mage to his back in the mud, and attacked him most viciously, pinning the mage to the ground and licking his face. Laughing, a short, sharp sound, Cadryn brought his good arm up to rub Cassius' head. "I missed you too, boy. More than you'll ever know." Stepping off, Cassius whined, perking his ears at that statement, but Cadryn just accepted a proffered hand up from Alistair, ignoring Cassius for the moment.

Alistair used that grip on his forearm to pull the mage into a one-armed embrace heedless of the mud and mabari slobber. "And it's good to see you, brother," Cadryn said. A sharp breath, then, "Where...?"

"Later," Alistair whispered. On drawing away, Alistair kept that arm wrapped around Cadryn's shoulders in a friendly gesture, and they began walking toward the keep. "What happened?"

"This?" Cadryn tapped his left forearm where it lay in a sling. "An armored ogre punched me out of a crushing prison spell. Broke this bone in at least four places," Cadryn gently laid his fingers against his left clavicle, "which wouldn't heal at all without magic, and as it stands is healing more slowly than it should. That made hunting down the new darkspawn incursion at its source very interesting, let me tell you." As soon as the rogue left earshot Cadryn pointed to his retreating form. "Do you know who that is?" Alistair shook his head. "Nathaniel Howe. And before you stroll up to give him a good thrashing," Cadryn held up his right hand in a staying gesture, "he's as loyal as they come. I thought you should know now, instead of being unpleasantly surprised."

"I appreciate that," Alistair said, tone turning dark. "It would be unseemly for the assistant Warden-Commander to knock out a fellow Warden first thing."

"I should warn you about the others, too." And Cadryn proceeded to do so as they entered the keep, preparing him for Anders' inevitable hostility towards a former Templar and Velanna's general agitation, and for Justice's mere existence.

"Then you've been busy, I take it? We only heard rumors in Denerim, frightening ones. But I caught that Anora isn't the least bit pleased with you about what happened in Amaranthine. She's considering convening the Landsmeet to discuss whether you're fit to rule here."

Anger lit up green eyes for a moment, the lines around them tightening, and from the set of his mouth Cadryn was about to say something foul about Anora—then it passed, faded so quickly Alistair wasn't sure he'd seen it at all. The mask settled into place, and that confused Alistair; Cadryn had never been reluctant about letting loose with his anger given a sympathetic ear. "She wasn't there. She couldn't understand." In his softening voice he sounded lost. "I had to protect what was still in my power to do so." Unobservant as he was, Alistair understood the mask now, and it frightened him.

"We need to talk," Alistair said, trying to change the subject. He needed a moment to think, to consider this new development, because he'd learned that plunging in headlong would only make things worse. "But not right now. Tonight?"

Cadryn nodded in response, and sought out a keep servant to show Alistair to his rooms. After the flurry of activity that must've passed through moments before the front hall stood eerily empty, and while ascending the stairs Alistair looked back to watch Cadryn, hoping against hope to see anything but what he saw.

The mage remained on the landing where they'd parted, gazing into the middle-distance, right hand idly playing with the gemmed earring he wore. Auburn hair and robes rain-slicked to his body exaggerated his shape and size: tall, heavily structured for a mage, but he'd always been very lean, not soft like the typical mage or thickly built like someone of his stature. Now he was little more than tight muscle stretched over an almost comically large frame. He looked wasted, ragged, and when he thought he was alone a hollowness crept into his eyes.

When he passed out of sight Alistair was almost thankful. During the Blight there had been periods where Cadryn's resolve weakened, but the mage hid it well, and Alistair only knew because Cadryn found the strength to be frank with him. This seemed different, deeper than a momentary despair.

And Alistair knew that, whatever Cadryn had seen or done, he wasn't the one who could make it right.

ooooooo

Somehow, "Tonight" never happened, slid past them, and Alistair refused to admit that he was putting the conversation off. So the next day happened, and the necessary Joining.

Each of the recruits got a few words of encouragement from the Commander. They were all young, mostly nervous, except one. By generous estimation she reached Cadryn's shoulders, petite frame but well-defined bone structure, cheekbones high and broad, an almost Antivan cast to her skin. Auburn hair fanned around her head in a wild flutter, as if permanently wind-swept, and green eyes bore a mix of pride and perpetual mirth.

"Your name?" Cadryn asked her.

"Melia Arvid," she answered, voice soft with a Highever accent.

And Alistair only realized now as she stood before Cadryn, beaming up at him, Cadryn looking down at her, lips twitching in a barely restrained scowl. "Does your mother know you're here?" Cadryn asked, voice soft and dark. They looked very similar, save for their statures.

"Yes." That cute smile widened, defiant. "And she can't do a damned thing about it, Ser."

"What do you think this is about?" Cadryn hissed. "Do you think you'll be part of some grand adventure? Are you after heroics? I could tell you about heroics-" Remembering where he was and what he was supposed to be doing, Cadryn stopped, sighed quietly. "I could send you home. I should send you home."

"But you won't," she said, still smiling, voice light. "Sigram said he met you in Denerim, after you slew the Archdemon. And 'half-Amell' is plenty enough to be family, he said. You send me back, mother will see me married off in a year or two and I'll be pushing out brats for some farmhand. I want to make a difference. I want to do this. Its still important, even without an Archdemon. You said so yourself." Cadryn finally relented to the scowl forming on his lips, glaring down at her. "Please, Uncle?"

"How old are you?" he asked, resolve crumbling.

"Sixteen." Her voice turned defiant, hands moving up to her hips to stand akimbo, as if the question offended her. "If I'm old enough to marry, I'm old enough to fight darkspawn."

Cadryn settled his right hand on her left shoulder, as his left was still in the sling, and pulled her close as if for an embrace. Melia looked pleasantly surprised, until he whispered in her ear such that no one else would hear, "Forty-six. Fifty, if you're very lucky. That's how long you'll live, if you do this."

When he let go and stood up properly she seemed dazed, a little frightened. Eyes fluttered, and she failed to regain her composure, but she whispered back, "Forty-eight."

"I had no choice," he muttered, grimly. "You do."

"And I've made it."

With a shaky breath Cadryn drew away, and once he moved away from her he regained his composure immediately. He faced the other recruits as Warden-Commander, stoic. "We have only a few words we say before the Joining. Alistair?"

ooooooo

Dinner passed both joyous and solemn for the newly Joined Wardens and their elders. Those newcomers were shocked, upset by what the Joining entailed, and those who'd already endured were quietly pleased they'd lost only two.

Cadryn spent most of dinner surreptitiously watching the new recruits. A young Dalish man, barely an adult so far as Cadryn could tell, had lapsed into awkward silence after failing to engage Velanna in conversation. His name escaped Cadryn at the moment, but supposedly the boy was an exceptional tracker, and had approached Alistair in Denerim.

A pair of Dwarven sisters, Ebba and Theu, chattered incessantly between themselves once the shock of seeing two fellow recruits die ebbed. Oghren attempted to insinuate himself into their conversation, but the girls were witty enough together to deflect any unwelcome attention. One bore the tattoos of a casteless dwarf, and the other no tattoos at all, but they looked similar enough to be sisters. According to Alistair Zevran had recruited them, and swore by their skill as a matched pair.

Melia almost immediately latched onto Nathaniel and Anders, talking to them in a fashion that Cadryn found somewhat too familiar. An unfamiliar and disconcerting possessive anger welled inside him at the sight, and left Cadryn dreading the next few months. He'd just met the girl yesterday, but got the feeling he'd be responsible for her for some time, if she was as much trouble as Sigram had once implied.

The last recruit worried him a little. Tauno hailed from Denerim's Alienage, and was remarkably tall for an elf, heavily muscled, silently enthusiastic, and probably oldest of the new recruits. Cadryn's estimations placed him around twenty-six. According to Alistair he'd been a gardener for an estate in Denerim, and needed the Wardens' protection after cutting down a trio of guards he found forcing themselves on a serving girl in his tool shed. The man had never held a sword before then, but had apparently done some truly devastating work on those guards. The way Tauno flinched when spoken to, stuttered in a too-soft voice, made Cadryn suspect some past trauma that would be difficult to overcome. The other elven wardens already regarded him with disgust and pity, and Cadryn worried about how the Alienage elf would behave in a sudden position of power, especially if so isolated.

Thankfully everyone retired early, which meant Cadryn had some time to himself. The front room of his apartments had been converted into a sort of study, and he had a good deal of work to do, requests to sign that involved the refurbishment of the city of Amaranthine, correspondence from the nobility to read over. He dropped heavily into the chair behind the desk, and once there opened one of the lower drawers instead of moving for the sheaf of papers sitting atop. Too busy with the recruits and running the Arling, he'd spent all day without, and reached in, hand shaking—as soon as the door opened he slammed the drawer shut, looked up. "Alistair," he greeted with a warm smile, and a private twinge of resentment.

"I figure I've put this off long enough," Alistair said, and he found a plain chair off to one side, hefted it in one hand and sat it down before the desk. In his other hand he carried a cloth sack. "Zevran sent a few things with me. I don't have all of them here, he sent... something else, which is in my room now, I'll have to give it to you later." Sitting, Alistair opened the bag, pulled out a fine glass bottle, stout and square, perhaps a hand tall and half a hand wide, the liquid in it a rich amber. This he sat on the table, before drawing out a small rectangular package that, by the curl of Alistair's hand around it, carried some heft. Then he withdrew a carefully folded piece of paper, held closed with a dab of red wax, which he handed over. "Don't open that yet. He wanted me to tell you the story first."

Turning the paper in his hand, Cadryn found no seal on the wax, and no name on the outside. "The story?"

"It happened the night I got back from Highever," Alistair said. "I got back early, so I guess they meant to catch him alone. That was two months ago, maybe? Anyway. He wanted me to tell the story just so. Had me repeat it twice."

"Go on," Cadryn said, trying to remain impassive. Alistair took a deep breath, and began.

:::

Zevran woke from a beautiful dream of faintly golden skin and sleek muscle under his hands, laid out on the sparkling sand of an Antivan beach, to a glint of moonlight off polished dragonbone. Unthinking, he lashed out, grasped a thin elven wrist harshly and pulled, unbalancing his attacker and using that momentum to flip him. Amateur, Zevran thought, because the dagger slipped from his attacker's hand on landing, thrown across the room, and Zevran used what he had on hand, whipping up a pillow and slamming it down on the elf's face, straddling him to keep him in place.

As the elf struggled beneath him Zevran made a few quick observations. First, that he felt a breeze from a window recently opened. Second, that this elf was young, young as he'd been on his first real mission (far from his first kill), but by the cast of his skin the elf was Antivan, and no Crow was ever really a child. So, no, as the thrashing faded to violent twitches, Zevran reasoned that he wasn't murdering a child, three years younger than his lover at the oldest. He was culling the ranks by removing an idiot novice.

That the sentiment occurred at all worried him.

No one was at the window, by the sound of things, the smell of things in his suddenly hypersensitive state of being, that spike of adrenaline and satisfaction as the boy beneath him stilled. But there was noise, a little shuffle of feet, outside the door. Zevran drew away, leaving the pillow behind, went for his own sword and dagger, but didn't bother with armor. Standing very close to the door, no more than a breath away, he listened, eyes closed—creaking leather, the unconscious scrape of a boot heel, so soft... they thought they were being silent, but too nervous to really be so.

Zevran burst out of the door and caught a glimpse of the Crow outside. This one was young too, human, a little paler than the elf but not by much, close-cropped hair ruddy. He had his hand on his dagger by the time Zevran's strike connected, a sharp blow up at the crook of neck and shoulder, piercing the windpipe and, accidentally, an artery. Zevran's dagger sank deep, and he jerked it out harshly, not caring what he tore on the way out. A little spurt of blood followed, coloring his hand, and the Crow fell to the stone floor with no more than an involuntary gasp, quietly choking his life out.

Fear in those green eyes, just an instant of it, had been striking. Zevran tossed his sword aside, not worried in the slightest about any other attackers, and kneeling curled the fingers of his free hand under the collar of the human Crow's armor, dragged the dying boy down the hall, leaving a thin trail of blood across stone and carpet alike.

They were bait, carefully chosen. Just good enough to think they had a chance, not good enough to be a genuine threat. A pair of them, one a starving little teen elf with wild and desperate eyes, the human a redhead, both thrown at him like meat at a starving dog. He still loved the satisfaction of a well-executed kill despite the mark of Rinna's death on it, and it had been so long, so these Crows he had been meant to kill. But there was deliberate symbolism here.

We will make you the instrument of your own demise, they said. A game.

This was how Zevran came to stand at Alistair's door, perfectly nude save a fine golden chain at his neck, one hand carrying a bloody dagger and the other a young Antivan man choking to death on his own blood. Zevran knocked with the pommel of the dagger until Alistair opened the door, and as Alistair's sleepiness sharpened into alarm the Crow choked out his last breath. Zevran looked down at the body as if just realizing he had brought it along, a sort of confusion and anger for it following after him, then threw it down on the threshold. When he looked back up he announced, "I am leaving."

Zevran recounted the story of what waking to the two assassins, and then explained, "They were not meant to succeed. They were bait and a message, rolled into one. Someone is here, in Denerim, trying to lure me out into a vulnerable position, trying to make me confront them. So I must leave instead, to confront them on my own terms. To strike at
the heart, as it were."

"You don't have to leave," Alistair said. "The Wardens can protect you. Cadryn can protect you—he's an Arl, now."

"This is precisely why I must leave." Zevran made no efforts to disguise the pain of this decision, seeing no point in it now. Alistair had become a friend somehow during the final weeks of the Blight, and more so since realizing Zevran's devotion to the Wardens' cause in Ferelden (and forgiving his refusal to go through the Joining). Some things were for Cadryn's ears alone, certain things impossible to say to anyone else for the Warden-Commander had wormed his way under Zevran's skin with his gentle but insistent manner... ever the healer, in all things. So Zevran now had the strength to stand before Alistair unmasked, if only for a few moments. "He would do everything in his power to protect me, but he cannot protect everyone. And when the streets of Denerim or Amaranthine run red with blood, people will clamor for him to give me up. He will never do it, and it will ruin him. They want this." That was why they'd sent a matched pair, the message. "I must leave. Tonight, if I can, before they do anything else."

It made a sadistic sort of logic, what the Crows meant to do, and Alistair figured it was the only way to touch someone like Zevran, in the graces of one so powerful. So he just nodded, and said, "I understand."

"Will you help me pack? There are few hours left in the night, and I wish to ask a favor of you." Alistair agreed, finally struck by just how ridiculous all of this was, and at once horrifying. Violence was simply a fact of life, but this was somehow different, colder, the way Zevran had moved before throwing the human assassin aside, the manner of his indifference to blood and his own nudity. The Crows were young, and the one smothered to death made him cringe, but Alistair learned the story and helped Zevran pack what few possessions he intended to take and accepted instructions for the rest dutifully.

And he waited patiently while Zevran penned three different copies of the letter and swore Alistair to secrecy on the fact that one of them was sentimental nonsense, discarded immediately.

:::

"He had me send the first letter by rider, insisted I should time it so that I arrived here before it could. And the third is that one there, which hasn't left my possession until now."

Cadryn said nothing, letting the story sink in for a moment, but he idly traced the dollop of red wax with a fingertip, staring down at the surface of his desk. "As much as it pains me to admit it," Cadryn finally said, eyes still distant, that hollowness sliding in, making Alistair shift uncomfortably in his seat, "he was right to do this. But I wish he had come to see me, first, impractical as it would've been."

"I should... I should just let you read the letter, shouldn't I? He meant it to be private, I think. I got the impression he wanted the other letter to be intercepted."

Cadryn finally regained some sense of place, looked up at Alistair and forced a smile. "You can stay a while, if you like, but I'd rather read this in private, yes."

Standing, Alistair gave him a little nod, hunching his shoulders into an apologetic posture. "I'll just go, then. Tomorrow?"

Cadryn understood the unspoken question there, trying to subtly ask if he would explain what had happened in Amaranthine. "Tomorrow," he answered, trying not to grimace, and Alistair left.

For a long while Cadryn sat turning the letter over in his hand, fingers twitching, trembling... it wouldn't do to have that as a distraction, so he sat the letter aside for a moment, went for the drawer again. He didn't indulge, just needed enough to take the edge off, to keep his hand from shaking while he read the letter, and waited a moment for that to sink in, distasteful as the admission of Zevran's apparent abandonment being the right thing.

Cadryn decided he was sick to death of the right thing. And when he no longer felt like he was about to rattle apart at his joints, Cadryn picked up the letter again, carefully pried the seal open, and unfolded it.

Cadryn,

I pray that this reaches you uninterrupted, and before my other letter. I trust Alistair will display some competence in this, for he has never failed in anything especially important. I ask that when it reaches you, you must read my other letter, and behave accordingly, but believe none of it. Rest assured, I love you.

It feels good to write those words. There is no more fear now. I think, facing the prospect of a protracted separation has dulled that pain. Ever the liberator, of all things including men's hearts, are you not?

I am certain Alistair has told you the story, and done so to my satisfaction. And I am certain you understand why I must go to Antiva, to settle this matter before it can come to your door and ruin this peace you have earned. I would give much to have you at my side, but if we are to have that future we have discussed, we must remain separate a little while longer. I will return to you as soon as I am able. Until then, I expect you to keep my effects safe (they should look familiar). The brandy I meant to share with you on my arrival, but it will be safer waiting with you, I think. Do not open it until I return to you.

The sword I meant to surprise you with, recalling your complaints about the weight of Fereldan and Dalish blades, about the way they make you strike. It is Rivaini in nature, and I think it will be more to your liking. Please, do not let your hand stray to the hilt too often when dealing with your nobles; this foil may be sharp, but is not nearly so witty or insightful as the one meant to be at your side.

I apologize for how melancholy this letter is, but I am in some haste to depart, and the art of articulation escapes me. I will not be able to write you again until my business is concluded, for fear it would be intercepted and my ruse uncovered.

I love you, and I will return to you. Above all else, you must believe in these two things.

Yours,
Zevran

He read the letter twice more before setting it aside, laying his head on the desk, and cried for the first time since Denerim.

So much for casting aside our old chains for new ones.