Denerim was quieter at night, though its main streets still bustled with open taverns and passersby.

The inn they had chosen for the evening was a simple one, filled with the scent of roasting meat and ale. It was a small yet crowded place, the background conversations occasionally interrupted by bursts of laughter. Zevran lounged comfortably, boots propped up on the empty chair beside him, sipping his drink as he surveyed the room.

The scene was entertaining, to say the least. A group of mercenaries, judging by their worn leathers, hovered on the verge of throwing punches over a hand of Wicked Grace. In the corner of his vision, a sly waitress flirted with an older noble, her honeyed words coaxing him into another round of drinks. On the far side of the room, a cluster of Templars sat together, their eyes sweeping the crowd as if searching for someone — or something.

And yet, Zevran’s attention kept drifting toward Darya. Her presence felt much like a magnet, pulling him towards her effortlessly. He watched as she returned to their table with something tucked behind her back.

He raised a brow. Interesting.

“My dear Warden, you look far too pleased with yourself,” Zevran smirked. “Should I be concerned?”

Darya’s lips curled into a smile of her own. “Not this time.”

Then, she set a small plate in front of him.

Of all the things Zevran might have expected, a cake was certainly not one of them. It was a simple dessert, round and brown, its chocolate topping glistening under the dim lights. At its center sat a single lit candle.

He blinked.

"Happy Nameday," she said, watching him with an amused look. "Did you truly think I’d forget?"

For a moment, Zevran just stared at his plate. Then, a quiet chuckle escaped him.

“Ah.” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, this is unexpected.”

She raised a brow. “How so?”

It was not often that Zevran found himself without words, yet Darya had a habit of surprising him in ways he never anticipated. He gestured vaguely at the cake.

“I am not sure what to say. I’m not used to this,” he admitted.

She tilted her head slightly. “You’ve never had a Nameday gift before?”

Zevran let out a thoughtful hum, leaning back in his chair. “Gifts, certainly. But not like this.” He glanced at the candle. “You see, the Crows had their own way of celebrating the passing of another year. If you were successful, you lived to see another. If you were not… well, you can imagine the rest.”

Darya didn’t look away. There was no pity in her gaze, only silent understanding.

Zevran exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “For all the luxuries I had, Namedays were not something we wasted time on. No one needed to celebrate the life of someone so easily replaced.”

The words sat heavy between them, and for a second, Zevran wondered if he had ruined the occasion.

Darya propped her elbows on the table, studying him patiently. “I see," she pondered. "Would you like to celebrate it now?”

He hesitated — but only for a breath. “I… think so, yes.”

“Good.” Her lips lifted in approval. “Now you simply need to make a wish.”

Zevran turned back to the candle, his expression softening.

What was there to wish for, really? 

As a Crow, he had spent several years believing he was nothing more than a weapon — something to be used and eventually discarded. He had expected to die nameless and forgotten, as so many of his kind did. That was what he had been taught to accept.

But now… he was part of something bigger than he had ever imagined. With someone who had remembered his Nameday when no one else ever had. Someone who cared enough to place a candle in front of him and tell him to make a wish.

He closed his eyes, allowing the thought to settle in his chest, then blew out.

When he opened them again, Darya was watching him, a small smirk playing at her lips. “There,” she said, resting her chin on her hand. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

Zevran chuckled. “I suppose not.” He picked up his fork, a flicker of amusement crossing his features. “But I must admit, my dear Warden, you’ve set a dangerous precedent. If this is how you celebrate my Nameday, what should I expect next time? A grand feast? A statue in my honor?”

Darya huffed out a laugh. “I’m afraid you’ll have to see it for yourself, handsome.”

Her words brought a genuine smile to his lips. In that small moment between them, Zevran’s gaze softened, his chest filled with an unfamiliar warmth.

Perhaps, he thought, what he had longed for was right in front of him.

For @tevivinter, @lasatfat and @dadrunkwriting

Elgaris 'Elegy' Ingellvar x Lucanis Dellamorte, (SFW, Pining, First date, first kiss) 1651 words.

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It’s not that Elgaris is ashamed of their body. Not anymore. You don’t put that much work into decorating something you don’t care about. Elgaris’s body is a tapestry of careful and purposeful scars artfully recreating the skeletal structure beneath skin, fat, and muscle, a few accidental scars that tell the story of what the battles and close calls they have survived, and the twin pink lines beneath each pectoral- their proudest and hardest earned- the battle for peace in their own body and to live as their most authentic self.

It's still a little surreal, still sometimes finds them lingering a moment longer than necessary in front of the full-length mirror after stepping out of the bath, eyes following the trail of water drops as they slide down their flat chest to their belly. But finally, for the first time in their life everyone else can see the person they always knew was inside. And if they don’t like what they see? Elgaris is secure enough not to be bothered by it.

This, though… it’s different.

Lucanis sees them. Of course he does. He always has, but tonight…

Elgaris can feel their heart hammering against their ribs as they slowly make their way down the hall from their quarters to the library and main living space. They take a slow, trembling breath, steadying themselves, then another. They focus on the cool stone beneath their feet with each step, a soft smile playing at the corners of their mouth as their dress swishes about them, the faintest whisper of the silks with each step.

“Holy crap,” Taash gapes as Elgaris steps out onto the terrace, eyes wide as they take in their new attire. “Lucanis seen that yet,” the qunari asks. Elgaris shakes their head, a gentle blush coloring the tips of their ears where they poke out from beneath their tight blonde spirals which free from any immediate concerns of conflict or work for them to interfere with, aren’t pulled back into their usual ponytail, but instead, hang loosely framing their face and ticking bare shoulders, a simple braid pulling back those few stubborn shorter pieces that would otherwise fall into their eyes.

“Omigosh, Rook, you look so pretty,” Lace exclaims excitedly as she makes her way to the top of the stairs.

“Yeah,” Taash agrees awkwardly. Clearly no better at compliments when the feelings are strickly platonic than they seem to be in what Elgaris has observed lately between them and their dwarven companion, though Lace doesn't seem too troubled by it.

“Thank you,” Elgaris smiles softly, the blush creeping up into their cheeks now, ducking their gaze shyly to their feet and the small, intricately embroidered flowers that adorn the dress- chrysanthemums, poppies, marigolds, dahlias, lilacs, carnations, lilies, roses, forget-me-nots, orchids, and tulips. Delicate, colorful reminders of the fragility and fleeting nature of life, and immortality and legacy of memory. It is a far cry from their Mourn Watcher robes they have continued to wear even after so long away from the Necropolis, and yet their origin and home is handstitched together into every inch of the fabric here too. “You- you don’t think it’s too much,” the elf asks, a little uncertainly.

“No way,” Lace grins, shaking her head. “You look lovely. I’m glad you bought it. You deserve to feel pretty, to take a moment for yourself. We’ve been doing nothing but running ever since the ritual, you especially.”

“Yeah, this is gonna give Lucanis a heart attack,” Taash add with a chuckle. “I mean, in a good way,” they add with a shrug when Lace looks up at them.

“Go get ‘em kid,” Varric chuckles softly, leaning against the wall to the infirmary with a fond grin. “They’re right, you deserve to have something for yourself and a little happiness in all this mess.” Elgaris nods, nerves soothed a little by their companion’s reassurances as they say their goodnights and make their way across the courtyard to find Lucanis.

“Rook, I thought it was my turn to cook, why is Bellara-“ Lucanis says as the elf opens the door to the kitchen and dining area, before the assassin turns to face them and all words seem to leave him, the silence broken only by Bellara’s soft giggles.

“I asked her to,” Elgaris smiles, quietly thrilled with the way his eyes can’t seem to decide quite where to look, but haven’t once left them since they arrived. “I thought perhaps you and I might go out for the night,” the elf says softly. “Have dinner at Café Pierta and maybe wander the markets together afterwards,” they suggest hopefully. “Unless you’d rather stay in,” Elgaris adds after a moment when Lucanis still hasn’t said anything.

“No,” Lucanis replies quickly shaking his head, taking several stumbling steps forward to close the gap between them, the slightest distortion, a chorus of his own voice and Spite’s as they answer them bringing another soft smile to the elf’s face as she watches him. “No,” he repeats as he stops in front of them, dragging his gaze back up from the low plunge of their dress that highlights the skeletal patterned scars over their clavicle, sternum, and ribs to meet their large violet eyes, sparkling with hope, tenderness, and an inescapable partiality that makes Lucanis’s stomach do flips. “A night out with you sounds… perfect,” Lucanis confesses softly with a smile that makes Elgaris feel weak at the knees.

“Meirda,” Lucanis whispers softly, shaking his head softly, still not breaking eye contact with them. “Should I go change? I feel like I should go change. I’m not sure I have anything here that’s-“ the assassin mutters softly.

“Lucanis,” Elgaris interrupts softly, one of their small hands reaching out to clasp his own and offering it a reassuring squeeze. “You look fine,” they reassure him with a fond and patient smile, “handsome as ever.”

“Yes, but you look...“ Lucanis starts to protest, barely registering the compliment in his urgency to somehow prove himself worthy of their company, “like you stepped out of a dream,” the assassin breathes before Elgaris can say anything more, causing the elf to blush furiously.

“Oh,” Elgaris manages softly, briefly registering a stifled, gleeful squeal from behind Bellara’s hand clamped tight over her mouth as she is clearly doing her best trying to pretend to be busy with the dinner preparations for the rest of their companions during this exchange, rather than the reality, which is that the elf is likely taking meticulous notes for their next attempt at a romance serial. “Do you dream of me often,” the elf replies, before immediately kicking themselves for not thinking before opening their mouth. Why in the Fade did they say that?

“YES,” Spite answers before Lucanis can reply or protest, causing the assassin to wince a little in a way that makes the answer clear even to Bellara who doesn’t have the luxury Elgaris does as a skilled Mourn Watcher of being able to hear Spite. Elgaris, at least, has the good grace not to laugh at his expense.

“Never anything as good as this though,” Lucanis says softly, looking down to where their hands still clasp his own with a small smile, his thumb gently rubbing the back of their hand. “Shall we? If you’re sure I’m dressed well enough to be seen with you,” Lucanis says, gesturing towards the door. Elgaris nods, still smiling, still holding his hand as they make their way to the Eluvian that will bear them on to Treviso.

“I’m relatively certain we’re awake,” Elgaris says softly with a smile as they take their seats at the café a short while later.

“Oh? Because of the coffee,” Lucanis asks, taking another slow and grateful sip from his cup. Elgaris waits for him to swallow and set the cup back down on the table before answering with a mischievous smile, emboldened by their date and the way he’s scarcely been able to take his eyes off them since they walked into the dining hall.

“Because in my dreams, we’re usually kissing,” Elgaris whispers. Lucanis inhales sharply, eyes snapping open, pupils blown wide as he stares back at them.

“Rook- Elegy, I-“ Lucanis replies hoarsely, momentarily glancing out towards the canals, looking embarrassed.

“NO,” Spite interrupts. “ROOK OPENS DOORS. STOP CLOSING THEM.”

Elgaris does their best to suppress a smile at the spirit scolding the assassin’s hesitation and self-doubts.

“I’m sorry I ran off,” Lucanis whispers softly, still looking slightly shamed despite his spirit’s dressing down and the elf’s patience.

“It’s alright,” Elgaris replies gently. Of course, it had confused them. Frustrated them. To have come so very close to what the pair of them had seemed to be dancing around for so long, to what Elgaris had scarcely allowed themselves to dream they might have, let alone to find it amid all this. But hearing him speak with some of their other companions, talking to Spite when they had freed them both from the prison of his own mind, they’ve come to understand it. That he might be as unsure, as anxious about irrevocably ruining things between them and losing them as Elgaris is, maybe even more so. The fear lingers, even now. But the hope, the pull around their heart in his direction is stronger. “Stay with me now,” the elf asks hopefully, mindful of their cups as they reach across the table to clasp his hand in theirs as his eyes lift back up to meet theirs.

“I can’t begin to imagine what you see in me,” Lucanis admits shaking his head softly, “but I pray you never stop seeing it.”

“Never,” Elgaris promises fondly, a brilliant smile taking over their face as Lucanis stands and rounds the table, still holding their hand and gently tugging them up to their feet, before pulling them into his arms for a soft, tender kiss.