Davrin had slayed ogres, fought Venatori, faced off against an evil elven god (and lost), without flinching. And at this moment, he would’ve taken fighting the Fangscorcher again to facing you.

“This is Assan,” were the first words he’d spoken to you in years. He made a motion at the griffon, who squawked like he was confused in reply. Assan glanced between the two of you. Davrin looked everywhere but your face.

Years ago, before Davrin had become a Grey Warden, he’d known you. Perhaps he’d loved you, he’d been too young and hungry for more than just life in a Dalish clan to tell. His early years were spent following you around. The elders in your clan called him your shadow. He grew out of the habit as years went by. Davrin longed for adventure. He saw no purpose in staying.

Sometimes he’d consider it, but it was only to stay with you. Mornings amongst the Halla, afternoons practicing archery, and nights exchanging a kiss or two or three. Love—if had been that—was not enough to stay his hand.

He’d left behind furious elders and a letter for you to find once he was long gone. Davrin knew if you asked him to stay, he wouldn’t dare refuse.

He was weak to you then as he was now.

If only you hadn’t recognized him. Surely he didn’t look the same. No longer was he awkwardly gangly with ears too big for his head. He’d grown tall, more muscular in comparison to most elves. Would you notice? He couldn’t stop himself from comparing the version of you in his mind to the one standing before him.

“You named one of the Halla that,” he continued as though he wasn’t sure if he should. Davrin couldn’t tell if you were mad. “Assan, I mean. I liked it so…”

Gods above, this was harder than fighting Darkspawn.