Chapter Text
"Green eyes across the library, smell of parchment. They always watch. You hate it, but you don't mind him so much."
"Cole, what are you talking about?" The Inquisitor sounded a little too guarded to be clueless.
"New, young. Can't be much older than you. He talks a little- smiles at the apprentices like he's there for their sake, their support, not the Chantry's... Hope he stays that way- you doubt it." Cole took a breath, paused to gather more from the clouds as Morgan's mind came to settle on the images the spirit-boy's words brought to the fore. "You ask his name. He smiles to be asked and doesn't fit his armour: Mathew."
Morgan didn't stop Cole. They stood, a little stunned, but calm. The memories were raw, but the nerves had yet to be hit.
"Both stumbling over words. Cautious. Scared. Directness is dangerous: 'My friend has pretty eyes, doesn't she?' 'Yours are prettier'- Pulse races at his words, but not like hers would. You know they watch him too...their eyes are heavier- make your skin itch. 'Pretty' doesn't mean the same from them..."
"Alright Cole, enough now," the scolding was light, but the need to end this narrative train was real. Cole, it seemed, did not hear.
"So many walls and doors. You’ve kept them closed so long…” Cole's brows visibly wrinkled under his unkept hair and the wide shadow of his hat. “But there are cracks and the pain seeps out like muddy water. I want to help but I can’t see it all-“
“Cole! Enough!” Morgan’s voice was so rarely raised it sounded utterly foreign. Silence struck the group in response for a several strained seconds.
“I’m sorry. I’ve made it worse?” Cole eventually said, hands more fidgety than usual.
"No just..." Morgan faltered, realising both Dorian and Cassandra were now paying his response full attention; that they had been listening to every word spoken even before his outburst.
"Just...that's enough, alright?" The Inquisitor finished weakly and pushed on ahead up the grassy slope.
They found the demon at the heart of an overgrown ruin in the Exalted Plains. It rose up to fight, but paused, emanating energy and hatred. A creature of rage, it’s beastly focus seemed to centre on the Inquisitor.
"What's this?" Came the deep, humming voice, laced with both malice and amusement. "A little Mage child, playing at leadership..."
The creature gave a sound akin to a chuckle, edges sharp enough to cut flint. Morgan was silent, spine straight and staff in hand: ready.
"Inquisitor, this beast is a demon, heed nothing it says," Cassandra was fire and purpose.
"Inquisitor...?" The demon drew out the title like a unspoken joke. "Is that what you are, little Mage? Such power in the title and you...oh, so small."
"Be silent creature!" Cassandra stepped forward, blade drawn.
"The Seeker speaks for you, little Mage?" The creature continued to mock. "A glorified Templar. All the power and the trapping of the Order, and you let her speak for you...The Circle is gone and still you bow, kneel, scrape...beg."
"I bow to no one," Morgan seemed to rise taller, stronger, angrier... "I trust the word of my companions."
"And do they trust you?" The demon spoke with a slithering tone. "Or do they watch you, Mage? Always watching...always waiting. One slip and they'll crush you little Mage-blood bastard, little half-breed brat. Family gone, Circle gone- but you're still trapped and they're still watching...that itch at the back of your neck. You can feel it, every time you're alone. You know you're not. And they're waiting and oh how you're blood boils, little Mage, little prisoner..."
"Do not fall for its enticements, Inquisitor. It seeks to anger you," Dorian offered in a low tone.
Morgan breathed slowly and deeply and tried not to think about the itch developing at the back of their neck.
"You never fought back, did you?" The slithering voice was like a toxic haze around Morgan's head. "All they did to you and not once did you try to stop it. You've power burning in your very veins, and what? You cried and cried. But you wanted to burn them, didn't you little Mage? Why didn't you do it? You begged. Knelt for them...whatever the mighty Templars demanded- Too weak. Too small. Too soft. Too scared. But you could do it. You could tear them apart, make them feel every second of your pain, make them breath it like you. You can do it little Mage. You just need more power...more fire. I can give you an inferno...all I need is-"
Cassandra lunged. The demon lurched back, straight into a mine of ice Dorian had cast. Cole slipped around to strike the creature, unseen, from behind. A cry went up from the great Rage Demon and lesser creatures burst from the corners and wings of the ancient structure.
The battle was hard won, but it ended in the Inquisition's favour. When the the demon finally fell, Morgan breathed a sigh of exhausted relief. It took all of five seconds for Cassandra to round on him.
"Tell me you weren't actually listening to a demon's scheming, Inquisitor?” she said in a tone undoubtedly accusative.
"It got to me...that- that's all," Morgan was leaning into his staff, barely managing to stay upright.
"That's all?!" Cassandra's eyebrows shot up. "It was a demon. We should have attacked on sight, but you listened to it! You let it 'get to you'!"
Morgan shrunk further into his staff, drained voice just clinging to the point he had to make: "A blind attack would have been foolish- we'd have..."
"We'd have all been demon food by evening, I'm sure, Seeker." Dorian finished the hanging thought and Morgan cast him a look that translated to thanks. "Now I think we'd best drag our illustrious leader back to camp before he keels over, don't you?"
They were all worn by the fight, but Morgan was much more so than the others. He was drained not just of energy and mana, but seemed to have lost some other force as well. Dorian was sure the Inquisitor's eyes were darker, he was distracted. The demon's words had sent his mind somewhere it longed not to be, somewhere dark indeed.
They met up with the Inquisition scouts making camp just over the river and saw wounds tended to and stomachs filled as best could be provided for. Dorian noted Morgan barely picked at the lean stew, tearing little pieces out of their bread distractedly. His shoulder had been bandaged but otherwise his physical wounds were minimal. He needed rest, and food. Neither of which was he giving himself.
Morgan was seated a little way off from the rest of their party, facing away from the camp and out into the frost edged trees beyond. Dorian approached cautiously.
“Now I can’t say I hold these rations to much. Practically barbarian really. But at least I can offer you something warm and with a semblance of flavour to accompany it.” Dorian places himself down on the smooth rock Morgan had seated themself on, holding out the steaming concoction of tea he had brewed over the fire with the few supplies he’d been able to scavenge together.
Morgan was clearly taken off guard by Dorian’s appearance by their side despite the care of his approach, but wordlessly took the offered mug. They both sat silently for a moment while they sipped from the sorry-looking wooden mugs. The tea was indeed warm. It soothed the rawness in Morgan’s throat he had not even noticed fully in his hazy state of exhaustion. It tasted earthy, a little spiced, and sweetened as excessively as possible in these wilds Dorian found himself dragged to. The smell got up Morgan’s nose and seemed to warm them right but through their skull.
“Thank you.” Morgan said eventually.
“Any time, Inquisitor,” Dorian flashed a winning smile.
“Oh Creators- just ‘Morgan’ please.” Morgan let a ghost of a smile crack across his own face.
“Just Morgan it is then oh great and mighty leader,” Dorian laughed, it was infectious, even if Morgan’s own capacity for humour was dampened by his exhaustion and his heart was hardly in it.
“I notice you often curse by Elven gods...” Dorian ventured after a few more sips of tea and silence. “Care to shed some light on that, so to speak? If I may intrude, that is? I’m sure I’ve been told the Trevelyan’s are a deeply Maker-fearing clan?”
“They are indeed. Of the Bann’s children two were pledged to the Chantry almost at birth. Gavin as a Templar and Beatrix was raised at the Chantry in Tantervale for Sisterhood.” Morgan replied.
“Hmm- and where do you fit in?” Dorian probed from behind his tea.
“I’m not much observant of any thing, but I’m as likely to curse the Maker as invoke Elgar’nan.” Morgan smiled with a self deprecating air. “I grew up in a devoutly Andrastian household, with the love of an Elven mother and a dozen other servants always seeming warmer than the Chantry’s ire. I suppose I ended up a little bastardised all round.”
Dorian had heard Morgan’s parentage alluded to, but not formally confirmed. “She was a servant, then? Your mother?”
“I believe she still is though…” Morgan’s gaze seemed to skitter away into the distance. “Letters were restricted in the Circle. And examined, of course, by the Templars. They would burn whole pages they thought might be unfit or encouraging of dissent or suspected were encoded… Last I heard she had left the Trevelyans’ service. That was over two years ago. Since then, nothing. If she was lucky she managed to return to her childhood clan but most likely she found a better house to work for. I only hope she did not meet some slaver or bandit’s path; or else, Mythal’s mercy… pray she did not follow me to Kirkwall.”
“By the Maker…” Dorian’s voice was ladened with pity that turned Morgan’s stomach. “You’ve no lead on her still?”
“Leliana has been looking. Her agents, rather. Not that I asked, of course, she informed me a week after we arrived at Skyhold she’s been having the trail of my origins followed since I was spit out of the Breach. It is her business to find my mother if she was somewhere to be found, as she would tell it.”
“If anyone can find a trail I’m sure it’s our dear talented spymaster.” Dorian said in a effort to brighten the tone, though his penchant for bitter jibs still got the better of him. “A caring mother is worth seeking out, not that I’ve had much luck I must say… all the more reason to value yours.”
Morgan held his cup quietly for a moment. “For all my childhood was harrowing she was… is the best of parents.” Morgan smiled sadly to himself. “Not many would take a mage-blood child in their stride… let alone…”
Morgan hesitated a moment before softly adding “let alone something closer to a son where one thought a daughter.”
Morgan bit at his lip unable to mask the self consciousness of such an admission, for all he tried to slip it quietly into the already confessional conversation. He felt this statement like a stone dropped between them, desperately hoping Dorian wouldn’t respond with disgust.
“Hmm I can’t say I can much imagine the struggle of a young mage here in the South. I wouldn’t insult you by pretending my experiences have been anything like yours but…” Dorian placed a hand, still warm from his steaming cup, on Morgan’s arm. “I understand, at least, what it is to grow up feeling like a disappointment to some unwritten standard of propriety.”
Dorian felt the tension in Morgan’s frame lessen a little. He wondered if the Inquisitor had feared a harsh reaction. Dorian had to admit it was less a revaluation than a confirmation of his fairly strong suspicions about Morgan’s childhood and assigned gender. There were a few clarifying questions to be asked, of course, but reassurance can first.
“If it helps…” Dorian ventured, hoping it was even slightly the right thing to say. “My dear friend, Maevaris- perhaps even ‘mentor’ of a type I suppose… either way she told me once: ‘those of us who have the joy of so flagrantly mocking disapproval also earn the right to choose our own family’. Dear Mae always did have a flair for the dramatic. Maybe even more than me,” Dorian chuckled.
“- She certainly caused a decent stir when she started attending at the Magisterium in her father’s place and refused to acknowledge anyone who used any name but her chosen one. And woe betide anyone who dared not address her as ‘my lady’.”
Morgan picked up the thread. He smiled weakly at Dorian’s effort, and the notion of others even slightly ‘like him’ out in the world.
“And she is respected as a woman by the powers that be?”
“That lot of vipers wouldn’t dare disrespect Mae. Of course people talk… but they fear her connections and abilities far more than even the most curmudgeonly sort are affronted by someone refusing to live in miserable conformity.” Dorian’s eyes almost gleamed with the meaning behind the words.
Morgan was silently reeling. He wasn’t sure what he had hoped for when he let the implication of his birth fall into place. This confirmation, albeit gently coded in a layer of depersonalisation, of a degree of understanding… even a camaraderie, that Morgan hadn’t thought might be possible.
“She sounds formidable indeed.” Morgan replied.
“Very much so.” Dorian turned his bright gaze meaningfully onto Morgan. “I could name at least a few other impressively formidable sorts who I can’t imagine anyone would dare challenge however openly they might wish to live their life.”
For his part, Dorian was struck by the Inquisitor, and not for the first time. Despite the vulnerability seeping into his eyes, Dorian was as in awe as ever with the Inquisitor’s quiet strength…
Morgan’s. Dorian corrected himself, not letting the unbidden trill of pleasure at the familiarity show on his face. Nor did he admit the implicit trust of Morgan’s confidence in him fanned something in his breast. Such trivialities weren’t Dorian’s game. Besides, he wasn’t even playing right now. That Inquisitor Trevelyan seemed to warm just a little at the sound of his first name on Dorian’s lips, or that he consented to give this view into his personal history… all this Dorian refused to overthink in this moment.
“If I may ask…” Dorian willed himself to allow the question to be as lightly offered as if he were asking how Morgan took their tea. “Have myself and your other devoted followers misspoken in calling you ‘Lord Inquisitor’? If you have any other preference please by all means-”
“No ‘Lord’ is fine… well I can’t say I enjoy titles in themselves but that is probably the bastard in me talking,” Morgan smiled a little, lopsided and amused. “But no you have not misspoken. Not that I entirely see myself as ‘a man’ per se but… I’m certainly not a ‘Lady’.”
As much as the word ‘man’ in application to themself seemed to taste sour to Morgan, the word ‘Lady’ twisted their face like acid.
“In that case, you are formidable indeed, my Lord.” Dorian smirked teasingly, a blush dared to graze Morgan’s cheeks despite themself.
Satisfied with his accomplishments, Dorian changed the subject. Spoke on such light pap as the climate, the history of the region, the finer points of translation of ancient Tevene in texts of magical theory. Morgan lifted mostly out of the depth of himself. His weak smiles strengthened just a little, but seemed more genuine. Dorian talked with him long enough to see his mind run to exhaustion to match his body so the rest might find him. He was not sure how to state his thanks, but as Dorian bid him goodnight and urged him towards his tent he hoped that the glow of his appreciation was obvious enough. Morgan felt its warmth, certainly, as he watched the undeniably handsome man cross the camp to his own bed.
Morgan thought if he was a better person the deceit alone of bringing Dorian unawares to meet a family retainer would have been enough to dissuade him from it. Morgan, however, found they thought first of that warm glow the man set off in their stomach. That was what made it impossible to deceive him, more than any personal morals ever could.
“Dorian,” Morgan approached the alcove Dorian kept to in the library, “there’s…a letter you should see…”
“A letter? Is it a naughty letter? A humorous proposal from some Antivan dowager?” Dorian jibbed.
“No it’s... from your father.” Morgan felt like he’d dropped a mass of lead into the bubbling stream of Dorian’s warm humour.
When they set off for Redcliffe soon after Morgan hoped that they wouldn’t regret not simply throwing the letter into a fire grate. Part of them was terrified that should this go a certain way, they may even lose Dorian from the Inquisition. The idea of the warmth of Dorian’s laugh sailing off to Minrathous made Morgan’s heart sink into their boots.
Dorian’s father put Morgan’s nerves on edge in an all too familiar way. When Dorian decided to shove the lingering notion of propriety and spell it out, Morgan was hardly surprised by the news: “I prefer the company of men, my father disapproves.”
Morgan didn’t intend to allow Magister Halward any more room to contest than Dorian did.
“… that’s a big concern, in Tevinter then?” Morgan knew the expectations of upper class existence, even if not the cultural habits he was stepping in.
When Dorian told of his father’s attempt to ‘change him’ he caught the look on Morgan’s face. There was sympathy in their eyes that Dorian of course recognised as beyond simple pity, it was caring, and it was a genuine and personal understanding of that fear. Dorian knew Morgan understood.
Which is why Dorian listened when Morgan said, “don’t leave it like this. You’ll not forgive yourself for it.” He knew Morgan didn’t care a second for Halward; only for Dorian’s pain.
So Dorian heard his father out, if only to more fully rebuke the assumptions of his motives and choices. Morgan gave them space, though kept their staff in reach as they waited outside the tavern. When Dorian emerged Morgan allowed him the right to silence. The rest of their companions read the tone. The journey back to Skyhold was a particularly cold one, but no one pushed anyone too hard, thankfully.
Later, safely enclosed in the semi-privacy of the library alcove Dorian had claimed as his own, that silence finally ran out its own course. Morgan sort out Dorian some hours after their return to Skyhold. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. As he ascended the stairs to the library the thoughts bouncing around his head were no more sensical than they had been hours before.
When Dorian turned to him, exhaustion just barely dominating the sadness in his eyes, Morgan’s head seemed to empty into his chest. All he could do was speak the warmth there…
“Are you alright?”
“Not really.” Dorian replied before turning to face the Inquisitor, more composed. “Thank you for bringing me out there. It wasn’t what I expected but… it’s something. Maker knows what you must think of me now. After that whole display.”
“I think you’re very brave.” Morgan said with the fullest sincerity. “It’s not easy to abandon tradition and walk your own path.”
Dorian was taken aback at the fullness of emotion behind the words. In that moment, he did as was his instinct and deflected:
“At any rate, time to go drink myself into a stupor. It’s been that sort of a day.”
Morgan left him to his thoughts, their own still rebounding about their head.
Dorian wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scream at Mother Giselle’s insinuations. He went for terse mockery, only made more pointed when the Inquisitor appeared at the library stairs.
‘You must know how this looks’ she says?! The absolute nerve!
Morgan saw her off swiftly, but not before Dorian had been reassured of the damaging nature of his very presence near the Inquisitor. It felt only right to spell out just what the ‘talk’ might be. Morgan deserved to keep his reputation untainted by this.
“The assumption in some corners is that you and I are… intimate.” Dorian offered, fully expecting the rebuking he’d been sure was coming for weeks now.
Instead, bolder than Dorian had seen him outside of battle, Morgan smiled: “that’s not the worst assumption they could have, is it?”
“I don’t know, is it?” Dorian quipped back, not one to be outplayed at his own game.
“Do you always answer a question with a question?” Morgan retorted, leaning back against the bookshelf behind them, head cocked almost coyly.
“Would you like me to answer in some other fashion?” Dorian took a step closer.
Morgan swallowed down the anxiety he was desperate not to display. He wasn’t a natural to this sort of dance but he knew the steps. Using them in this context, when he so desperately wanted the outcome and yet was thrilled in the game… it was new. He felt breathless. Young. Or perhaps his own age for the first time in years.
“If you’re capable.” Morgan replied, heart skipping in their chest.
Dorian kissed them swiftly. Morgan’s chest almost exploded.
Morgan had been kissed before. He’d never, however, felt so deeply inclined to kiss back as he did now.
He’d said he thought Dorian brave, and he’d meant it. He felt the boldness in the heat of him. The fervour of a man who had learned to seize a chance. A man who had looked his homeland, his life of comfort, and himself in the face and chosen his own path. Dorian had been rejected and disappointed a hundred different ways before and he wasn’t afraid of it, or at least had long ago figured out how to take it. He saw a chance here and he took it and left the Inquisitor to decide where that led.
And Morgan kissed him back.
Drawing back a few moments later, Dorian wore the smirk of a cat who’d just got the richest of the palace cream. Surprising even to himself, Morgan found he didn’t mind. Indeed he couldn’t help but smile back.
“You realise this… makes the rumours somewhat true?” Morgan prodded.
“Evidently.” Dorian stepped away, raising an eyebrow playfully. “We might have to explore the fully truth of them later. In private.”
Morgan felt their heart jolt even more violently than it already had that afternoon. Creators… the thoughts bustling around their head then… more than a few trilling around at the prospect of getting to ‘explore’ Dorian. Of being ‘explored’…
“I… would like that very much.” Morgan spilled out the words awkwardly, feeling the flush blooming on their cheeks. “I suppose I shall… see you later then. I’m sure I’m needed at the war table…”
Dorian only smiled more, “best hurry along my dear Inquisitor. You know where to find me.”
Morgan all but tumbled down the stairs. Pausing to catch him breath in the doorway to the rotunda and silently thanking all the gods that Solas appeared to be occupied elsewhere at present.
It was a few weeks and more than a few lingering glances and even one or two more kisses stolen quickly in the more private recess of Skyhold that Morgan heard a knock on his door late in the evening. He’d been expecting it. The previous evening as he had been convinced to indulge Varric and Bull in a game of cards at the Herald’s Rest, Dorian had appeared to join their game.
“How much do I have to clean you out before I convince you to wager swapping rooms, eh Inquisitor?” Varric jibbed when Morgan was already several hands down. “Reckon I’ll call us even if you give me your opulent appointments and take my poxy room and the leaking ceiling.”
“Not a chance Varric. And I’ve had that roof looked at, if it’s still an issue take it to the quartermaster.” Morgan laughed.
“Can’t blame me for trying, that tower of yours looks mighty attractive from down in my little nock.” Varric replied, peering at his cards.
“It’s much colder than it looks up there.” Morgan offered. “The view’s not half bad after a few years in the Gallows though, I’ll give it that.”
Varric nodded his agreement. Morgan and he had discussed Kirkwall at length. Morgan, of course, had seen little of it beyond the Circle, but still Varric seemed to enjoy having a shared knowledge of the city. It reminded him it was real, solid. Home was still there. And they both took solace in the frequent reminders that the Gallows in its prison-ly horror held not a single mage anymore.
“You’ll have to let me come judge that view for myself some time.” Dorian leaned in a little to say this, flirtation obvious.
Morgan, emboldened by the few mugs of ale in their system smiled just slightly and replied in a low voice: “it’s by far it’s best at sunset. Do come and enjoy it when you wish.”
Morgan had meant the invitation. Though he doubted that he’d ever have had the courage to make it without some alcohol in his system. He was sat at his desk, distractedly leafing through some report or other from Leliana or Josephine, sipping at the cup of wine in his free hand. All he could think of was whether Dorian might appear or not. Of drawing him into the room, kissing him with all the passion Morgan stumbled over when aware of the eyes of the many occupants of Skyhold the previous times. Of having each other, quite wholly alone. Of unfastening all the ties and stays of Dorian’s armoured clothes, letting hands and lips explore the planes of him. Of Dorian’s hands on him-
Morgan’s mind caught on something. He felt his muscles twitch involuntarily, splashing just a few drops of wine onto the papers before him. He knew those jerks of motion, trying to shake off some unwelcome image or other. He refused to think about whatever it was his mind was trying to push away.
Dorian probably wouldn’t even take Morgan’s vague invitation. Why would he even want-?
It was that moment exactly that the knock came on the door.
“Come in.” Morgan managed to call across the room.
They rose from their desk to see Dorian ascending the lack stairs into the Inquisitor’s chambers.
“So…” Dorian drawled, self confidence flowing off him in what seemed his natural element. “It’s nice, all this flirting business. I am, however, not a nice man.”
He sauntered towards Morgan, who stood hoping they looked less like a spooked rabbit than they feared. Their grip on their wine cup tightened.
“Here’s my proposal…” Dorian ventured, “we dispense with all the chit chat and move onto something… more interesting.”
Dorian was in front of Morgan now, a inch or two all that stood between their bodies and everything the subtext of their heated conversation at suggested. Morgan’s heart was in his throat. His blood, however, was rapidly shifting…elsewhere.
Morgan wanted to be fine. The fire was crackling, the glass doors shuttered up from the cold air outside, the last light of the day dipping over the mountains and colouring shards of the floor in yellows and greens from the artful detailing of the glasswork. He lifted his cup and gulped altogether too quickly at the wine, coughing awkwardly to avoid chocking. He needed to be fine.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say the all powerful Inquisitor is nervous," Dorian joked, he always did, but there was understanding in it. He was giving Morgan the cue to voice that skittishness in his eye.
Morgan smiled in a fashion he hoped was convincing, following the joke and burying the rest as he placed his wine down on the desk. "Maybe a little."
"I'm sure I can think of ways to smooth out a few errant nerves," Dorian smiled back, playful. "If you so wish, of course."
He was giving Morgan every chance to wriggle free with each step he took closer. Morgan's breath hitched. His conscious thought process screamed at his instinctual one to shut up and trust this. He willed his stomach to stop churring. But his legs only went numb as he stood, one hand gripping the edge of the desk behind him and his eyes on Dorian.
Dorian who still held that inviting little smile. Dorian whose cheekbones Morgan's hesitant gaze had traced a hundred thousand times since they had met. Dorian whose voice lit up a subtle little blissful pressure point in Morgan's spine as it washed over him while they discussed history or magical theory. Dorian whose eyes shone with playfulness as he made his jokes and snide remarks, and passion when he was stirred to talk of things which gave rise to his blood.
Dorian who Morgan wanted so very, very desperately. Dorian who was here, in his chambers, smiling that damned smile and giving him chances to bolt.
"I do very much so wish," Morgan smiled their own smile back and let go of the desk, stepping forward deliberately.
They kissed and it was bliss. That point in Morgan's spine flared up like a surge of lightning had passed through them. Given the amount of raw magical potential in both of the participating parties, exactly that wasn't actually all that improbable. Regardless of whether it was magical intervention or a baser chemical instinct, it felt good. And when Dorian put a hand on the his hip, stepping backwards, guiding them across the room, artful tongue easing past lips and teeth...it was more than good enough for Morgan to lose track of any other thoughts but that tongue in his mouth and that body against his. And Maker, but did he want this.
Dorian turned them around gracefully and Morgan felt his legs hit the bed. Then his back. Ever-so-talented fingers worked the fastenings of his shirt and he did not for a second want to break the perfect and growing heat of this kiss.
The weight of the body above him made something jerk in his gut.
He planted his less talented hands on that body's hips, holding, steadying, reminding. Behind closed eyelids Morgan held on to the image of rich and warm brown skin, held on to the contrast of the bright, sharp blue-grey eyes. They clung to that and reminded themself who this was and everything this wasn't. Dorian. This was Dorian. Morgan clung to what that name meant now: clung to the warmth of a blush it brought to his neck and cheeks when the thought caught him off-guard, reading reports at the war table; clung to the smiles sharp laughter pulled to his face from his greyest moods; clung to the heat that pooled in his gut, first at little comments and sly smirks, then at more and more deliberate looks and touches; clung to the want that so genuinely and surprisingly had rushed down on him on thoughts of Dorian; clung so tightly, so, so tight, he-
The wonderfully distracting kiss was broken.
A chuckle, and soft hands eased Morgan's bruising clutch away. "Do relax, my dear Inquisitor. It should make this more comfortable for us both."
Morgan blushed and mumbled a 'sorry'. It took a moment for him to dare to meet Dorian's gaze. When he did it was warm both by expression and by nature alone; more blue than grey in the lick of the fire and candle lights, and framed more softly than the looks Morgan's buried memories pulled up to torment him with. This was Dorian, and Morgan wanted to be fine. So he smiled and met the warm gaze, attempting to offer a similar expression back.
Dorian leaned down again, smiling as he kissed Morgan's jaw. The Inquisitor's breath hitched for a second as Dorian trailed similar, light kisses down their neck and to their collarbone. As Dorian’s hips and thighs settled more fixedly over Morgan's hipbones their breath caught again, heartbeat spiking. They swallowed the thick lump in their throat and thought about the delicious friction of it, not the weight, the fact of being held down. It was a by-product, not an intention. It was Dorian, not their memories playing dark tricks. To those warm lips and tongue were added teeth. Dorian bit in the lightest, most expert way at a sensitive point on Morgan's neck. They rasped a little groan of a noise and clutched again at Dorian's hips.
Dorian smirked at the noise and the blush on the Inquisitor's face as he skimmed his nimble fingers up from Morgan's shoulders along his arms. He guided both limbs up above Morgan's head and pinned them there effortlessly, wrists lightly and almost teasingly gripped in his smooth hands. Morgan's nervous pulse caught, then hammered fast and cold. Dorian rocked forwards on his bent knees. Morgan felt the flimsiness of his own hips. The lightness of his bones. Dorian didn’t seem to have much weight on Morgan when they were next to each other on a battlefield but his shoulders were undoubtedly broader, arms slightly stronger, frame a good few inches taller. In the second of that cold beat of his heart Morgan felt smaller that he had in years.
The blood flowed straight out from Morgan's head to limbs they silently begged not to shake. It took every fibre of concentration they could summon not to show the panicked instinct they was determined to ignore. Dorian drew back a little, releasing one of Morgan’s wrists to run his fingers over Morgan's tense shoulder, offering a look of concern.
"Relax..." He said in barely more than a whisper.
He stroked down Morgan's chest in a gesture of intended comfort, catching at the layers of fabric gathering there. Morgan's every muscle tensed.
-The weight of a fully-fledged Templar Knight alone is enough to crush the air out of him. The calloused fingers gripping his jaw are harsh. The Knight Lieutenant bites out phrases in a tone that makes Morgan's gut twist, as if desperate to escape the state the rest of his body is in.
"I warned you about your behaviour, Apprentice. I told you to watch that tongue."
"Kneel."
...
"Please, Ser I-"
"Kneel!"
...
The other Templars in the room are watching and Morgan gets halfway to counting them as the Knight Lieutenant pulls at his hair. His robes. Four? Five?
Green eyes full of pain flash over at him and Morgan's fill with moisture.
He is beyond understanding the scattered voices as sense but he can hear the laughter and mockery as they uncover the wrappings over his chest, the harsh tugs that remove them.
The eyes all on him. But the green pair shut. The Knight Lieutenant's heavy fingers stroke over his naked chest.-
"Stop!" Morgan shoved suddenly upwards with magical and physical energies that pushed out violently and had Dorian tumbling off the bed. "Don't touch me!"
By the time Dorian was able to make sense of his surrounding and pick himself off the floor, Morgan was sitting bolt upright, with his knees drawn up to his chest, breathing in fast and frantic pants.
Dorian was about to open his mouth, to say something that might begin to be appropriate. Though honestly he had no idea what that would be. He was, however, becoming more and more aware of a sinking feeling in his stomach that, piecing together the little slips of past the Inquisitor had let show, told Dorian he knew where this was going. And he prayed he was wrong.
Morgan spoke first anyway, voice low and eyes lower, fixed on his bare feet: "They always watched...then they made demands. And I begged. Knelt for them...whatever they wanted..."
'Bow, kneel, scrape...beg,' the words of the demon rang in Dorian's ears. '...All they did to you and not once did you try to stop it...You cried and cried...You begged. Knelt for them...whatever the mighty Templars demanded- Too weak. Too small. Too scared.'
"Oh, Morgan...I didn't-I'm so sorry." Nothing Dorian could think to say even began to sound sufficient. "Would you prefer if I left?"
"No." Morgan said, head snapping up sharply.
His cheeks coloured and he ducked his head down again.
"Please...don't- don't go..." He said in a low murmur. "I'm sorry I pushed you like that. Maker, I didn't mean-"
"Hush, there's no need to apologise. I'm truly sorry for making you at all uncomfortable." Dorian replied clear as a bell, then softer, more gently, asked: "What would you like me to do now?"
Morgan looked up, ash-blonde hair falling across his red-rimmed eyes. He looked so very small on the vast, off-white sheets of his bed, so lost. He twisted his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists. All he could say was:
"Please don't leave."
"Don't worry Inquisitor, I swear I won't go anywhere until you direct me otherwise." Dorian tried to say it with a light smile; Morgan appreciated the effort.
For a while he sat silently and just looked at Dorian, stood a few feet away at the foot of the wide bed. Dorian still had his boots on. For some reason Morgan thought that was actually quite funny.
"Come and sit with me?" It had the infliction of a question the way Morgan said it; Dorian's answer was to calmly approach the bed.
He took his boots and a few of his various belts and buckles off before he slid himself onto the mattress, back against the cushion covered headboard. He'd noticed Morgan looking at them, probably. He was careful not to move at all quickly, or do anything Morgan wouldn't predict...almost as if minding a spooked animal, Morgan thought, though maybe that wasn't what Dorian meant to convey. By the time Dorian was resting those two inches away from him, Morgan's pale eyes were downcast again.
"I wanted to be fine." Morgan said to his curled fingers rather than to Dorian. "I wanted to- finally really did...I've flirted and danced around it all a little before. But I actually wanted to face it- I thought, more than I feared it..."
"Morgan, there's no reason we have to at all, if that's not what you want." Dorian kept his reference as vague as his cue.
Morgan looked up at him, almost steadily, biting an already reddened lower lip.
"Maker, I do really fucking want you." It was the surest thing Morgan had said all evening.
Dorian smiled, beautifully charming enough that he may have been trying to prove Morgan's point.
"Well, for that one can hardly blame you." Dorian said smooth as velvet and Morgan just barely smiled: just.
“I keep telling myself to focus on that-“ Morgan stumbled, cheeks flushing just a little at the subject of his desire and eyes softening as they darted away. Even now Dorian couldn’t help but find it adorably enchanting. “-on… how much I want to… with you…but…”
Morgan hesitated, swallowing thickly. Dorian carefully moved his hand closer to Morgan’s, inching out with brushing fingertips and, on receiving no rejection, slowing twinning their fingers. Morgan squeezed Dorian’s hand once softly in acceptance.
“…I can’t help but-“ Morgan struggled out. “Feel the creeping ghosts of all of it. I try to focus on this but- when you-“
Morgan gripped Dorian’s hand tightly for a moment.
“When you- held me… when you held me down like that I- I couldn’t.” Morgan chocked. “All I could feel was a Templar on top of me…”
Morgan’s voice cracked, loosing its minimal volume entirely and breaking into muffled sobs. He pulled his hand away from Dorian’s to hide his face into his palms.
Dorian didn’t know what to do. His instinctive desire was to stop this, somehow: solve and heal all the hurt and the damage and fix everything that had ever made Morgan weep. He knew he couldn’t do that. He wasn’t even sure he could begin to say something that might make the next few seconds more bearable for Morgan. Morgan who was gleamingly bright, with intelligence sparkling in his eyes and an unprecedented hopefulness at his very core that somehow the type of struggle Dorian wouldn’t wish on his bitterest enemies had failed to eradicate… Morgan who Dorian honestly thought might be the most beautiful creature he’d ever known.
“Morgan, I am so, so sorry.” Dorian didn’t exactly give his mouth permission to begin stumbling out the words but it did so anyway. “I know there’s nothing I can say that makes that better but- Maker, you’re probably the strongest soul I’ve ever met…”
Carefully, Dorian took both of Morgan’s hand in his own, drawing them away from the Inquisitor’s face.
“One can’t rewrite the pain of the past… but you get to decide on the pages that follow.” Dorian hoped it sounded profound rather than pompous.
Dorian’s eyes glimmered as they caught the flicker of candlelight. Despite all the turbulence of his mind at that moment, Morgan was still enchanted by them. By Dorian.
He couldn’t find his voice right now, but he held Dorian’s hands and met his gaze with damp golden eyes. Dorian drew one hand free to lift towards Morgan’s face. When Morgan didn’t flinch away, he slowly touched the smooth arch of his cheek. Morgan leaned silently into the touch.
“You are truly the most spectacular of creatures,” Dorian’s voice was soft, warm and sweet like a honeyed whiskey. It flowed over Morgan and altogether melted him.
“Will you… stay with me tonight?” Morgan hesitated, his free hand finding Dorian’s upon his cheek, stroking over the back of his palm. “Not… -I mean I don’t think I can tonight but-”
“I would be honoured my dear Inquisitor.” Dorian smiled, tracing the curve of Morgan’s cheek bone with his thumb.
It felt a natural as the movement of water to find himself folding in Dorian’s arms. There were more murmured words and reassurances, but the turbulence of Morgan’s mind settled quickly into exhaustion. Sleep found them with Dorian’s arm about their waist and one hand softly stroking through their hair.
Morgan woke to see Dorian gazing out onto their balcony.
“It is indeed a wonderful view.” Dorian mused, turning to smile at Morgan. “I quite like your quarters, you know?”
“You do?” Morgan sat up sleepily.
Dorian wandered back towards the bed, taking a seat besides Morgan.
“Not that I couldn’t suggest some changes. Your taste is a little… austere.”
Morgan smiled. They could sense a tension in the air.
“You seem a little… distracted.” Morgan ventured.
“Hmm perhaps you’re just distracting.” Dorian quipped.
“Perhaps… but you normally manage more eloquence in my company.” Morgan replied, anxiety beginning to claw its way into their voice.
“Very well,” Dorian smiled, concealing his own anxious thoughts and thinking what the pair they made in that regard, “you’ve rooted me out of me… I’m curious where this goes, you and I? If you were hoping to have our fun I am more than happy to oblige whenever you wish- flesh willing of course.”
Dorian almost chuckled at his own joke. Mostly he tried with all his strength to push down all his trickily edged emotions. This was up to Morgan. He got to set the rules and draw the lines and if that meant a neat line painted out under all of this… all of them… then Dorian would take that.
“We can leave it at that, if that’s what you want. Or leave it all here if you’d rather put it all to bed- if you pardon the phrase.” Dorian couldn’t help the self deprecation, not when Morgan was looking at him with those big blue eyes, wide and bare in the creeping light of the dawn coming on. The flecks of green were just visible in their depth…
-Maker this was not helping.
“We leave it there or here or anywhere, if you wish, get on with killing archdemons and such… I walk away. I won’t be pleased. But I’d rather now than later…” Dorian couldn’t tear himself from the depth of concern and concern and turmoil and hopefulness and everything in those Maker-damned eyes; he swallowed and finished his thought: “Later might be dangerous.”
“Why dangerous?” Morgan asked.
Dorian finally tore his gaze away. “Walking away might be harder then.” He answered.
“…I want more than… ‘fun’ Dorian,” Morgan replied, voice bare and almost cracking. “I said I wanted this with you and I meant it… I wouldn’t have tried- wouldn’t have let myself want you if I didn’t… if I didn’t trust you. More than trust you I care for you and- I want more, Dorian.”
‘Trust’ was a weighty thing. Dorian felt the mass of it in his chest, the shape of Morgan’s feelings slowly being offered up. Yet it didn’t feel suffocating… unknown, yes. New and maybe even scary, yes. But Dorian found the weight warm, tender. Undeniably welcome.
“Speechless I see.” Morgan joked self consciously and Dorian realised how long he’d held that silent surprise.
“I was… expecting something different.” He said. “Where I come from anything not between a man and a woman… it’s about pleasure. It’s accepted. But taken no further. You learn not to hope for more. You’d be foolish to.”
Morgan caught Dorian’s gaze again, holding it steadily, letting himself feeling everything he was feeling, maybe for the first time he could remember.
“Where I come from…” Morgan echoed, slowly. “Coming of age in the Circle. In Kirkwall of all places… you learn not to hope, too. You learn that affection… that desire- that even choice itself isn’t your own. Mages find ways, in corners and hidden places… but it’s never for long and there are always consequences. Templars find ways too. Find what to hide and what to let be seen. Then it seemed they had all the choice… but even they were hiding. Hiding shame and desire and hate and bundling it all up to smash about the head of the next poor Apprentice…”
Morgan swallowed, letting the images fall away and holding on to all of the fullness in their gut. All the warmth and the hope and the fear: “But we’re not where either of us came from anymore. I’m learning to choose. I’m learning to hope. And I think… I hope you are too, Dorian. Because this… we are more.”
“Funny I didn’t recognise it then,” Dorian replied, sincere under all the falling façades. “I suppose I didn’t dare let myself admit I might hope…”
Morgan took Dorian’s hand in his own, pulling it to the lower region of his chest, right where Dorian could feel the wrapping on his chest flatten out and end over the plate of his sternum.
“I want… to be with you, Dorian.” Morgan grasped for the right words. “And if you’ll give me the time… I want that to include us…”
Morgan blushed as they reached for the terms. They didn’t want to say ‘fucking’… or even ‘sex’. Other terms suck in their throat as sentimental or overly exposing…
“I want that to be physical… but I want it to be more than that. If that’s what you want too?”: Morgan eventually settled for those words.
Dorian placed his free hand on Morgan’s cheek, leaning in to press their lips softly together, breathing each other in slowly.
“Yes.” Dorian just whispered against Morgan’s mouth. “I want that too, very much.”