The Death of a Master

written for Shadow's prompt "Zevran's Death" - many thanks at Jenovan for her language and grammar help!

At last he stood before him - the old master of the Crows. Long he had waited for this moment, this chance. Had prepared for it thoroughly. He carefully studied the elf - he was of medium size, very slim. His face was slender and distinctive. He should have been a beauty once, a man who could seduce many women and other men. His features had still something noble and appealing - despite the clear signs of age, despite the large scar that ranged across his right cheek and split his upper lip. Silver blonde hair was tightly combed off his face and tied in a ponytail. On the left side of his face was a tattoo - three curved black lines - simple yet memorable. He had eyes in the color of amber. But they did not shine. They lacked warmth. His voice sounded pleasantly singing and strangely cold at the same time.

"Master Horsan... It's you. Surprising. All alone?" haughtiness was around the lips of the old master.

"Your time is over, Zevran Arainai. After more than twenty years it is time for new blood."

"Then you want to replace me, yes? And you want to lead the Crows instead of me?"

"Hold your tongue and fight!"

The elf smiled and produced his weapons - two swords made of Dragonbone - old but well maintained and either equipped with three grand master runes. They sparkled and hummed in his hands - one was a present from her, the other her heritage.

Horsan drew dagger and sword made of Volcanic Aurum - sharper and stronger than Dragonbone - and grinned triumphantly.

"Not afraid of dying, old man?"

"You cannot kill me, Horsan. I died long ago." Master Zevran sneered. He parried the first sword blow.

The old assassin was still fast, skillful, used to the struggle; his thoughts were elsewhere. Again it was night around him and the terrible cold Ferelden rain pattered on the roof of Fort Drakon. His Grey Warden had set up an army. First Enchanter Irving was there, the Legion of the Dead with their leader Kardol, Arl Eamon in person. In addition, half a hundred Dalish archers in the best equipment. And of course, their closest companions - Wynne as healing-mage, Oghren, the dwarven warrior and he himself, the assassin, the Antivan Crow - had the honor of fighting on her side. The other Grey Warden, Alistair, was ordered to remain at the gates. Zevran had wondered about her decision, even scoffed at the man a little. He had still had no idea...

Only when she took the sword, stopping her assault just briefly to kiss him and to whisper" Forgive me!" in his ear; when he saw the single tear running down her cheek, this infinite sadness in her eyes as well as the determination to do the inevitable...

He might be old, his eyes cold, his smile cynical - his swords were quick. When he gave the much younger master the death knell, a light flickered in his eyes for one brief moment. It looked almost as if he would cry.

That's how she had decided, his Grey Warden. The first and only creature in the world he had ever loved. That this bumbling fool Alistair could become King and could drive Ferelden into its *to be expected* ruin, was more important for her than her own life. More important than her love to him, who was not a king, but only an elf and assassin. Only a Crow from Antiva.

Master Zevran Arainai carefully cleaned his swords and ordered his guards to remove the corpse.