Chapter Text
Apparently after being seen out and about, and making a drunken embarrassment of himself, the Inquisitor deemed it was about time Dorian joined another expedition. The Inquisitor mentioned nothing of the night before or Dorian’s behavior and he was glad for that. He wouldn’t know what to say if the man asked, maybe some excuse about bad Southern ale. Again Iron Bull, Cole, Dorian, and the Inquisitor headed to Emprise du Lion. Dorian was miserable, He had to physically tear his gaze away from the elf so often it was exhausting, digging fingers into his thigh sending small shocks of lightning to his skin as a reminder. Bull had brought his coughing potions to help open his airway and provide a calming effect. He's trying to help. He ignored the rattling in his lungs, the aching of his lungs, and focused on the throbbing of the burn still fresh on his skin. He could feel Cole practically biting his tongue to keep himself from speaking, too much hurt to even know where to begin.
They finally reached the freezing landscape of Emprise du Lion, setting up camp and fires, feeding the horses and resting. Dorian had hardly spoken on the trip besides a few usual complaints, “Mountains. Cold. ‘Let’s bring Dorian!’ ” sarcasm in his tone. Dorian knew he was being obviously somber and it irked him to be so obvious, to let his facade slip, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He spoke less and less, merely played it off as much as he could as having a hoarse voice from coughing, wishing not to strain it farther.
Dorian slunk into his tent while dinner was being prepared, intent on setting up his bed roll and getting out of the dreadful cold. He laid out his bed roll and furs, placing his traveling bag in the corner, retrieving a lamp. He lit it with the flick of his wrist and flinched at the movement taking in a hissing breath, feeling irritated skin pull and shift. He pulled back his sleeve and stared at the hand shaped burn mark on his wrist, and remembered the night he gave it to himself. How he had embarrassed himself in front of the Inquisitor, how he had ran. Like a child. Like a coward. You deserved this. He just stared as he brought his fingers up the burned flesh, pressing into the seared skin, feeling sharp sparks of pain as he burned fresh wounds over the old ones.. Again he heated the tips of his fingers until his skin sizzled under the contact, hissing in through clenched teeth. You deserve this, you disgusting faggot. He dug his fingers in harder, his arm shaking as his muscles clenched in the pain. Fucking disgusting queer, ‘you are not my son’ rang his fathers words as he groaned, slamming his eyes shut as he focused on the scalding pain, no buzz of alcohol this time as his mind swirled in self depreciation. After a long moment, he finally removed his fingers and shuttered at the ache they left, pulling his sleeve down he decided not to heal the wound. Let it hurt for a while, you deserve it anyway. You deserve to hurt. He would never love you, someone so weak and pathetic, a coward. What a joke, you’ll die as you lived. Alone.
Dorian let out a shuddering breath as he felt his lungs rattle, his throat constricting around a sharp cough, intense pain crawling up as he choked and hacked, blood in his mouth, gagging as his airway was blocked. He fell to his knees, clutching painfully at his throat begging the object to move, to let him breathe. His mind raced still, you deserve this, just let it end here. No one would miss you. Hot tears streamed down his face, bile and blood filled his mouth as the object was finally dislodged from his esophagus, taking in shaking breaths as he coughed around the ache in his throat. Dorian blinked back tears to focus on the Scabiosa bloom, only half but much larger than anything he had choked up before. Mourning bride? He scanned his frazzled mind for the definition of the flowers' meaning, finally landing on; 'Unfortunate attachment, I have lost all’. Ah, what a joke indeed. He lit the flower aflame and watched it burn to nothing as he wiped the sweat and tears from his face, his body trembling in exhaustion.
Dorian knew he had been heard from outside his tent and stood, reluctantly lifting the tent flap to find Bull standing nearby eyeing him. He merely waved him off as he headed to the fire looking for some much needed dinner, pretending to be normal even as his stomach churned. He sat on a log near the warm fire, realizing just how cold he was, shivering as he reached for some charred meat off the fire. Too late had he noticed his grave mistake. He had reached forward with an injured hand, his sleeve riding up his wrist, the light of the fire illuminating the injury. He had also failed to notice the elf sitting across from him, eyebrows now shooting up his forehead. Kaffas. He was too tired, too emotional, too vulnerable for this.
The tall elf stood swiftly, racing around the fire pit, gripping Dorians arm by the elbow, peeling the sleeve back. Dorian hissed at the rough treatment and watched Mahanon’s face contort with concern and anger. Dorian had yet to heal the most recent burns so the injury looked quite atrocious in the light of the fire. Shame twisted in his gut as he lowered his head in an attempt to escape somehow. Gross, disgusting-
“My, oh my Inquisitor, I didn’t know you liked it rough.” Dorian tried for his normal banter but the elf’s jaw clenched tight.
“Dorian.” Mahanon’s voice was firm, but furious. Dorian flinched at the sound, head whipping back up to look into those fiery golden eyes. “Who. Did. This.” The elf’s jaw was clenched tight around every word like he was growling. Of course, he could never fathom you’d do this to yourself, that you were so weak, such a coward- Shame filled him as he bit down on his lip, hard. He shook his head at the elf, not trusting his voice.
“Dorian. Tell me. ” The elf was gripping his elbow painfully tight, “ Now.”
Dorian nearly whimpered as his eyes pricked, he had never seen the elf so angry before, he was being protective but what would he say when he found out? That Dorian wasn’t a victim but instead that he was just… weak. Pathetic. He did whimper now but lifted a trembling hand to his own burnt wrist, still not trusting his own voice. Mahanon’s grip immediately loosened, all the anger fleeing his face and was replaced with overwhelming concern. Mahanon knelt down next to the mage who was desperately holding back tears and his need to bolt, get away, run. Coward.
“Oh, Dorian...” Mahanon’s voice was trembling, filled with emotions Dorian couldn’t pick out, no, didn’t want to . Dorian stared into those golden eyes, filled with compassion and sympathy, and he felt his heart ache. He wanted so bad to just give in, to sink into those arms, to let this beautiful man take care of him. To take all the pain and exhaustion away, to just give this man his heart and let him heal it. It was all he wanted, needed . But he couldn’t. Life was so cruel. He couldn’t look into those golden orbs anymore and turned away. Dorian reached over and healed the burn to completion reluctantly, just to get the elf to stop looking at him like that , before Dorian gave in . He stood and turned back to his tent, dinner forgotten.
“See? All better! No need to fret that pretty little head of yours Inquisitor!” Dorian spat as he raced back to his tent before the elf could reply.
Stupid stupid stupid! You absolute dolt! Dorian chastised himself as he climbed under his furs, squeezing his eyes shut, hoping the fade didn’t torment him like the waking world did.
Apparently the fade had a different idea. He stood in the dark, eerie realm of the fade. Not the beautiful, elaborate dreams he was used to, instead it was the landscape he saw in Adamant. Surrounded by cold stone, floating, wet, dark. Fear filled his as the phantom pain returned to his ribs, his body heavy with exhaustion. He leaned on his staff and was overcome with dejavu as he scanned the area, finally seeing another form in the distance. His heart was in his ears as he approached slowly, his lungs seeming to squeeze tighter in his chest with every step. Suddenly, he saw it, recognition hitting him. That beautiful white hair, flowing down his back as he turned, golden eyes meeting gray ones. Dorian felt his heart swell without permission, Mahanon was gorgeous. Here in the fade he could admire as much as he wanted. His golden Vallaslin shining beautifully against his pale skin, his freckles sprinkled beautifully all over, standing in contrast. Eyes glistening, golder than any gem he had ever seen, fierce and sharper than any blade. Maker, this man was perfect. Dorian swooned but suddenly the fade shifted.
Darker. Colder. He couldn’t feel his feet touching the ground, Mahanon’s face shadowed. His body shivered as he watched the elf's face contort with loathing and disgust. Dorian’s lungs cut off all air as his heart sank to his stomach. The elf was shouting but he couldn’t hear, blood in his ears as the edges of his vision grayed out, tears pooling. He knows, he knows! He hates you, you’re disgusting, he hates you, how could you- He clutched his throat as it tore, feeling vines crawl up his esophagus, blood pouring from his mouth as he watched yellow carnations, and marigolds fall from his mouth. Rejection, cruelty. Dorian choked and sobbed as he watched Mahanon turn and walk away from him, the darkness closing in around him as his lungs burned.
Dorian sat straight up in his bed roll, clutching painfully at his chest as he inhaled sharply, a cold sweat chilling him in the winter air. He clutched painfully at his throat, his mind fogged with exhaustion and fear. Why?! Why why why?! His eyes pricked as he gripped his throat tighter, You just had to fall in love, just had to get a stupid disease, now you’re dying. Might as well die now, end it now Dorian. His second hand joined the first, gripping painfully around his windpipe. His vision began to spot as it blurred with tears, his lungs burning. You're going to die anyway. He will never love you. He slammed his eyes shut as he felt his consciousness begin to slip.
“Dorian!” Suddenly his hand was forcibly ripped from his own throat, a sob ripped from his throat as he sucked in air. He thrashed as large hands pinned him down, sobs wracking his whole body as his mind throbbed with oxygen again. He finally opened his eyes to find Cole and The Iron Bull standing above him, distress across their faces. He relented and just silently sobbed in the Iron Bull’s grip. You can’t even die the way you want.
“I’m going to die anyways, he will never love me. I don’t want to suffer anymore. He plagues me while awake and asleep.” Cole spoke softly, glancing at Bull. “Why did this have to happen to me? Why did I fall in love? Why can’t he love me back? Just let me die.” Iron Bull’s face twisted as Cole continued. Dorian just shut his eyes, unable to look at them any longer. Bull slowly let go of Dorian's hands, which he wrapped around himself.
Bull offered Dorian an elfroot potion but the mage didn’t move to take it. He then forced him to sit up so he could bandage his throat. Dorian was so eerily quiet, eyes on his hands as Bull worked, applying a salve first. When he was done, Dorian laid back down, curled in on himself. Bull decided to sit just outside the tent, Cole stayed nearby so he could hear Dorian just in case, but Dorian just silently cried himself to sleep.
When Dorian did finally rise, it was nearly midday and his mind was much clearer. The memories of the night before foggy as he stepped out of his tent. He was surprised to find the Bull had not moved. He gave a small smile to the Qunari as he walked past, a small thank you in his eyes. His stomach rumbled loudly as he approached the fire, making the tall elf turn around. Any smile that had been on his features quickly fell as his eyes flicked down Dorian. Dorian was confused until he reached his hand up to his neck feeling the familiar feeling of gauze under his fingertips. Shame twisted his stomach, turning his blood cold under the stare of the elf. He couldn’t help the trembling of his limbs as he was frozen in that golden gaze. Mahanon approached him slowly, like you would a spooked animal, and then embraced him. Dorian was stunned. Mahanon said nothing, no anger, no pity, no fear, just held him. Strong, confident, warm. Dorian’s heart fluttered, eyes pricking at the kindness, before his lungs constricted causing him to wheeze.
The elf pulled back and ran a hand through the mage's dark hair. “We are returning to Skyhold. Immediately.” His voice was firm, no room for question. He turned and nodded at Bull, and proceeded to prepare his mount. Dorian stood still stunned, confused and touched by the kindness of his friends. Bull had packed his tent for him, which he would have normally protested something like I’m not dead yet, but he couldn’t find it in himself to argue.
When they did arrive in Skyhold, Dorian was exhausted. All the emotional and physical stress boiling over. He barely managed to make it to his bed before losing consciousness. His consciousness kept slipping in and out, unsure if he was dreaming or awake, he saw worried faces and comrades, but he was too tired to move.
He dreamt of Mahanon, his silhouette in the snow, serene and beautiful and Dorian falls in love all over again. Then he is back in the fade, the unmarked tombstone mocking him, images of his death plaguing him. The battle field to a Red Templar, or to red lyrium poisoning, to the arch-demon, then Dorian was right back in Haven again. Watching helplessly as Mahanon disappeared in a mountain of snow. Sinister voices whispering in the shadows, what if he had never made it? What if he never defeats Corypheus? Then he was shown himself lying lifeless on the ground surrounded by blood filled flowers. He will never love you, all alone.
=
He woke groggily in a cold sweat to find a quiet room, a towel placed upon his head and a guard at the door. He groaned as he attempted to sit up in bed, his muscles straining with the effort. What happened to me? The guard jumped and ran out the door calling to someone. In a matter of seconds Cole teleported into the room, Herald on his heels.
“Dorian! Thank the Maker you’re awake!” Mahanon had dark circles under his eyes and concern on his face, ears pinned high and tight to his head. He hadn’t even put his boots on.
“What happened?” Dorian asked, his voice unusually sore. He couldn’t bring himself to look Mahanon in the eyes, the fade dreams haunting him.
“As soon as we arrived in Skyhold, you crashed. We sent someone to check on you, to make sure you were alright.” Mahanon’s eyes flicked to his neck and his wrists. Ah. “ What we discovered was you had come down with a terrible fever.”
“A fever? How odd.” must have been bad if my memory is hazy. “How long was I out?”
“Five days.” Mahanon looked serious. “We had a doctor come and give you a full look over to make sure we knew the cause of your fever.” Mahanon was purposefully leading to something, his eyes held sympathy. Lyrium overdose? Not enough Lyrium? Perhaps a southern bug or- Finally it clicked, he had said a full look over. Oh god. He knows . They all know. Dorian looked up at the elf and waited in the silence, fear filling his veins. How much does he know?
“It seems you have a disease only mages can get. The doctor explained that with very intense treatment it could be taken out but if left untreated it would be deadly.” Dorian felt shame burn on his face, turning away from Mahanon.
“I can’t.”
“What?”
“I can’t, I won’t remove them.”
“D-dorian you will die!!” Mahanons voice trembled.
“I am okay with that.” Dorian felt hot tears burn down his cheeks, refusing to look up at the elf.
“Based on previous signs and behavior I am deeming you unfit to make that decision.” Mahanon put on his Inquisition voice though it continued to tremble. Now Dorian's head whipped up, fear and anger apparent.
“That’s not your decision!! It’s my body!” Dorian’s hoarse voice strained to yell.
“You have tried to hurt yourself already, I have testimonials. I won’t let a depressive episode choose to take you from us.” Mahanon turned to walk out but Dorian flung his trembling body across the room, clinging to him.
“P-please I beg you, D-don’t remove them!! They are.. So.. so important to me. I can't...I can’t lose them.” Dorian trembled in fear, tears pouring down his face desperately as he clung as tight as his weak fingers would allow, knuckles white.
“What are they?” Mahanon was calmer now, firmer, his tone informing him it was in fact, not a question.
“The doctor… He didn’t say?” Dorian looked up at the elf, confused.
“No, and I need to know what they are so I can… Make this decision. Why are there flowers growing in your lungs? Why would you choose them over yourself?” Mahanon’s eyes were sharp as he stared at the weak, frail Dorian. Dorian released his vice grip on the elf and looked down at the ground.
“They mean… That even though I tried so hard not to, I fell back into a pit of my own design, and that I am alone in it. It means that my days are numbered for my cowardice. Weak. a mere child falling for the same trap over and over until he can no longer move.” Dorian cried as he gently spoke.
“Dorian…” Mahanon’s voice was soft but urging him on.
“It means… I fell in love. Fast, deeply, uncontrollably. The flowers are every thought and day dream, every fear and anxiety, forming silent words in my throat until they suffocate me. It means I will be forever cursed to love yet be unloved until the very love I have takes my final breath.”
Dorian sobbed, “If you take them out, you take my love with it. That is why I can’t have you taking them from me.” Dorian shook with sobs.
“You love him that much? When he doesn't love you? Yet you’re willing to die for him?!” Mahanon’s grief was written vibrantly across his face.
“Yes.” Dorian whispered.
Mahanon looked at Dorian in a way he couldn’t explain. Grief? Anger? Pity? His eyes are almost glassy but jaw taut, as if holding back words physically. He turned abruptly and stormed from the room as if running from something. Dorian collapsed on the floor, his body numb as his mind whirred. He knows, he knows he knows they all know. How pathetic how stupid. Shame filled him as tears blurred his vision. His lungs lurched and he choked. Hacking and clawing at his throat as everything seemed to sting. He gagged and vomited, copper and buile on his tongue as flowers rained from his mouth. Purple Hyacinth and primrose Sorrow, I can’t live without you. Ha, stupid. I hate these damn lungs of mine. This damn stupid heart for falling in love again. He was suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of grief, for himself, for his life, for his love. This would be the end. The last time, and that amazing man would never know. He sobbed in sorrow and frustration, magic surging in his hands as he angrily dug burning fingers into his chest, sobs shaking him. He bent all the way over himself, head resting on the cold floor. You never should have come to the south! He sobbed as images of their adventure flashed behind his tears, beautiful white hair reflecting in the sun, sun kissed freckles, golden eyes piercing through him, and all he could do is wish that before he died, he kissed those lips just once. You’re such a fool Pavus.
“Amatus” he whispered into bitterly cold stone.