Chapter Text
Ocean
He was like the ocean, beautiful and dangerous, one second as calm and reflective as glass, another second stormy and rough, strong enough to shatter rock. That was the Inquisitor. Dorian was just the fool who saw this calm glassy water and fell in only to find he didn’t know how to swim as water filled his lungs.
Unfortunately, that analogy wasn’t far off from Dorian’s current predicament. He found himself clutching helplessly at his chest as it heaved, begging for air. He hacked and gagged around a foreign object in his throat, tears stinging his eyes as his vision spotted from lack of oxygen. Finally, relief filled him as the object escaped his lips, air flooding his lungs. He collapsed heavily on his hands and knees as his body shook in the aftermath of his coughing fit. When he finally managed to catch his breath and wipe the hot tears from his eyes, he dared to look at the object of his suffering. His blood ran cold as he stared, red petals of a chrysanthemum and daffodils laid in front of his shaking fingers. No… You can’t.
Before he even blinked the petals were alight in flame and reduced to ash. His body trembled at the realization, memories of Tevinter flooding his mind in hot red flashes of fear. ‘ You are no son of mine!’ ‘Faggot!’ ‘Ha! Love? You? Don’t be ridiculous, Pavus.’ Hot tears seared his cheeks as the beautiful face of the Inquisitor appeared, twisted into a grimace, disgust and disappointment; as he turned away. A choked sob ripped from Dorian’s throat as his chest constricted around his lungs. No! Not again! Never Again! Not him... please…
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The Beginning
Dorian could have guessed when it began, or maybe it was inevitable from the start. Maybe it was his fate since the day he was born. Maybe this was karma for all those years in Tevinter, in the brothels, in the back streets, in the taverns, for all the years he played around and tormented his family. Cruel that finally he would fall into the pit his countrymen so mocked, and to get such a ridiculous disease. A fatal disease , he reminded himself. A disease of unrequited love, the thought echoed through his mind. Yet how could he chastise himself? Who wouldn’t fall for a man like the Inquisitor? He was beautiful, tall, sharp cheekbones lightly dusted with freckles that seemed to cover his whole body, pearlescent skin making the rosy flush of his cheeks and golden vallaslin stand out in the cold. Golden eyes so captivating as if they bore into your very soul, white hair decadently braided in an up-do and out of the way, showing off his sharp pointed ears. The tights pants the elf wore didn’t help the ever growing crush either. Ugh, You’re gushing Pavus. He internally groaned.
That wasn’t what initially drew him to the man, not really. Sure he was good looking--alright, gorgeous--but he was powerful. Confident, poised, head held high even as the literal world weighed down on his shoulders. He made hard fought decisions in the blink of an eye yet he thought them all through, leaving nothing out. He took everything into consideration and went with his gut. He had no time to regret or fret if he made the right decision. He led an entire inquisition against an ancient, evil magister, and stood tall in the face of adversity. That's what attracted him. Well, if there was a handsome face and fine set of glistening muscles attached, Dorian wouldn't complain.
They had met under circumstances where it would have been expected if the elf had been more than a little suspicious. A stranger, a mage from Tevinter, a country that enslaved elves and used blood magic, fought endlessly with qunari, a foreigner asking for assistance. To be quite fair, Dorian was shocked to see an elf arrive with a qunari, dwarf, and another elf. What an odd Inquisition , was his immediate thought. Great, I have to appeal to an elf who thinks I am a slave owner and a qunari who just sees an enemy spy. He had heard stories of this man, the “Herald of Andraste”, apparently sent from the fade by the Maker, only survivor of the conclave explosion, and a mysterious mark growling in his palm. Dorian had to admit he was quite intrigued how that mark could close rifts into the veil.
He had expected a lot more resistance honestly, Dorian may have been a handsomely charming man, but those charms didn’t always outweigh the descrimination and distrust southerners had for his country. He stood as he watched the Herald and his companions take him in and was glad he wore one of his finer attires that not only showed off his musculature but his beautifully tan skin. He nervously scratched at the short hair at the sides and back of his neck under the large qunari’s trained eye. He quickly twirled his mustache to make sure he indeed looked in top form when the Herald turned to him finally.
Dorian explained how Felix and himself were trying to stop Felix’s father, Alexius from going too far, using time magic. They quickly joined the effort. The one-eyed qunari, The Iron Bull had little trust but didn’t outright behead him so this already went better than he thought. He informed them he was Alexius’s last apprentice and helped him develop the time magic, but Alexius had changed, no longer the man he knew. The Herald took it all in, just absorbing the info, and thinking of a way to stop Alexius and help Felix. Though, he hadn’t quite planned on being thrown through time into the future with his new friend, the Herald of Andraste, and was shocked by the trust the elf gave him to return them back to their timeline safely, even as he watched the elf’s companions die in a future they were trying to prevent. Dorian was quite ecstatic when the elf welcomed him to the Inquisition with open arms after Alexius was safely captured, time magic stopped, and a horrible future averted.
Dorian watched in awe as the Herald helped every single person who asked, no matter how small the task or how big the feat. A mighty man who held the title “Herald of Andraste” was out in ankle deep swamp water picking Blood Lotus for Maker’s sake! This man had a heart of gold, and Dorian fell fast. He had no right to, an “evil magister from Tevinter” as he frequently heard. They only saw his presence as a bad influence on the Herald, and who could blame them? His country is known for slaves, blood magic, and endless fighting with the Qunari, and useless politicians. He himself had left his own country because its society would rather destroy and bury him than accept who he was. That didn’t change how much he loved Tevinter, it was full of beautiful and incredibly wasted potential, but he could never convince anyone that he was anything other than evil. Yet, that is not how the Herald treated him, no he wasn’t an evil blood magister, he was just ‘Dorian’.
Haven was smaller than he had anticipated but he could feel the potential in the way the soldiers trained, in how the Inner Circle held their head high, and the faith they had for the Herald of Andraste. He watched the faces of the people of haven, how they saw the Herald, hope, fear, skepticism on their faces. Dorian could practically feel the weight on the elf's shoulders, the breach above them like a descending pressure on the rogue. Yet, he continued to smile, shoulders relaxed like the world wasn’t balancing precariously upon then. Dorian had to admit he admired him, and didn’t envy the role he was forced into, if the rumors were to be believed. To barely survive an explosion, walk physically out of the fade with a strange unknown mark, be accused of murder, with no clue as to what had happened; that had to take it’s tole on anyone. Then instead of being executed or running away, he stands and fights, closing rifts, helping any person who asks, like they hadn’t scorned him and blamed him. It took a strong man to do that, a stronger man than Dorian.
Dorian got himself acquainted with the other companions around Haven, the infamous Varric Tethras, a condescending elven mage named Solas, the Imperial Court mage Madame De Fer, also known as Vivienne. He also met a very strange city elf named Sera, a grumpy Gray Warden named Blackwall, and met one of the Bull’s Chargers. Tevinter man known as Cremisius Aclassi, or alternately as Krem. The Herald introduced him to the Inner circle, the Ex-Knight Commander Cullen Rutherford, Ambassador Josephine Montilyet, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast and Right hand of the Divine, and finally, Spymaster and Left hand of the Divine Leliana. He took a moment to appreciate the group, the handsome face of the templar, the strong glare from the seeker, the politically polite nod from the ambassador, and the calculated stare of the spymaster. Yes, what an interesting Inquisition.
The arguing and debating inside the War room could be heard throughout the Chantry for nearly two weeks as the Inner Circle came to a conclusion as to how they would handle the new rebel mages and the closing of the breach. The Herald ultimately had the final say, which made the elf visibly distressed. Dorian felt bad for the young man, having so much responsibility thrown on his shoulders, knowing the consequences of choosing incorrectly would lead to the destruction of the world. No one man should have that kind of weight on their shoulders alone.
Dorian would occasionally find the elf hiding in the hills near Haven, shoes nowhere to be seen, ears and nose red from the cold, hands shaking as he dug up the elfroot. The elf looked quite… enchanting. Like an animal in its natural habitat. No pressure, no title, not even boots. Just an elf in the wild. Dorian wasn’t much of an art man but if he could paint, this is the image that would inspire such an emotion in him. A fair skinned elf whose fingers and toes are red, nearly frost bitten, ears and nose sore from the wind chill, but a smile that spoke volumes. Tender, affectionate, gentle, there might not be a word that could describe the way this elf looks on this snowy landscape. It stole Dorian's very breath away as he watched the elf’s come out in hot puffs against the chilled air. Serene.
Maybe this is when it started. The seed planted, given water. Sprouting. Growing. The beginning of...
Mahanon’s ear suddenly twitched and he turned to Dorian. He stood abruptly and looked ashamed, “ Oh uh- I was merely searching for some elfroot, I will return to the War room shortly!” He was stammering, shoulders hitched high, hands balled into fists. He was very ashamed and stressed out if Dorian had to guess.
“Mahanon, you deserve to relax, run away even.” Dorian smiled, “It is perfectly alright. I am sure this is nothing like what you’re used to with your clan.” As Dorian spoke, his shoulders lowered slowly, until he mentioned the elven clan. All at once his body language raised red flags, ears pinned like a vice to his head as his arms shook, his pupils even dilated, his face was pale with fear. Dorian stepped forward, concern filling him at the elf's behavior but in a flash the elf returned to normal, like Dorian had imagined it all. Mahanon gave a small smile, mumbled a thanks, and stalked back toward Haven. Dorian was left to wonder if there was something deeply amiss with the new Herald or if he was beginning to hallucinate. Maybe I should cut back on the Antivan wine.
They all prepared as the day finally approached, the day to follow the Herald of Andraste to the breach, to finally close it. For good this time. They all knew realistically that this wasn’t the end, they still had no real idea of who orchestrated the conclave explosion or who created the Breach but that could wait. The people, all of Thedas needed a win on the board to lift their spirits, to bring them hope and faith in the Herald. This was it, the day they would save the world, or so it was planned. Yet, if you ask Varric, nothing ever goes to plan when Mahanon was involved.
Every available mage approached the breach and poured magic into him like a well and we all watched in awe as he reached towards the sky and sealed it. Every cheered, cried, celebrated, sighed in relief as Mahanon swayed with exhaustion. Dorian placed a hand at the small of his back to keep him steady. He had just saved the world, can’t have him falling on his ass now can we? Dorian smirked at the tired elf, and the elf smiled back. Everyone returned to Haven to see them already deep into their celebrations. They sang and danced, drank and ate, they cried and laughed. Dorian just couldn’t stop staring at the man responsible in complete awe. Mahanon had been thrown into such an incredibly insane circumstance against his will, and still valiantly took up the mantle they wanted, they needed. Not just any man could have done what he did. You’re fawning. Dorian smiled to himself as he sipped some well deserved wine, not bothering to take his eyes off the firm shape of the Heralds ass, what's the harm? I am only appreciating fine art. He continued to snicker to himself over his mug until he saw Cassandra and Mahanon’s expressions become serious.
Suddenly his drink was forgotten on the ground as he chased after the elf, staff in hand as he watched flickers of torch lights descend from the mountains. Bells rang from the towers, Cullen announcing the forces approaching. Panic spread through Haven as the citizens fled to the Chantry, and soldiers bearing their arms and shields. The inner circle approached the main gate battle reader, the tension visible in the air as Cullen reported the situation.
“It’s a massive force, the bulk over the mountain.”
“Under what banner?” Josephine questioned, her voice
“None.”
A chill ran through the air as they heard a thumping on the gate. They watched Mahanon steel himself and shove them aside to reveal a shadowy, almost frail looking boy whose features were hidden beneath a wide brimmed hat. He frantically approached Mahanon.
“I came to warn you, I came to help. People are coming to hurt you- you probably already know-” the boy spoke quickly, hardly taking a breath.
“What is this, what is going on? Who are you?” Mahanon was tense as he stared at the approaching force.
“My name is Cole, the templars come to kill you. The red templars went to the Elder one, you know him? He knows you. You took his mages” Cole turned, pointing to the mountain where a figure emerged. “There.” They all watched as a large, disfigured creature stood above the advancing troops of red templars. “ He is very angry that you took his mages.”
Mahanon tensed and looked to Cullen. “Haven is no fortress, we must control the battle. Hit them with everything we’ve got.” Cullen turned to the mages. “Inquisition! With the Herald! For your lives, for all of us!
Dorian fought but he couldn’t take his eyes off of Mahanon. He was not the serene elf in the snow, not the uncomfortable elf who feared the pressure of his title. This was a different man altogether. His eyes burned with determination as he cut through red templars, blood soaking his clothes, smearing his blades, and splattering the snow. He fiercely defended the trebuchet as they aimed, never stopping his onslaught until there was no enemy left standing. Dorian defended him as the elf loaded the last trebuchet himself, muscles straining with every turn of the cog until the trebuchet fired, dumping snow on the bulk of the mountain.
They all breathed a sigh of relief until they heard a blood curdling roar. A dragon?! The elf turned in with ferocity in his eyes as he declared a retreat. They ran as they watched Haven begin to be consumed in flame. Dorian halted as he realized Mahanon was no longer next to him. Panic made his blood chill in his veins as he scanned the snow for a body. He turned as he heard coughing, revealing the elf pulling a citizen from a burning building. Dorian felt his blood unfreeze as fiery golden eyes met his, urging him on. They continued to pull any survivors they could find from the burning ruble before slamming the door to the Chantry closed.
“I’ve seen an arch-demon, in the fade… it looked like that.” Cole spoke up after they finally made it inside.
“I don’t care what it looks like it’s cut a path for that army! They’ll kill everyone in Haven!” Cullen shouted. Cole looked at Mahanon.
“The Elder One doesn’t care about the village, he only wants the Herald.”
“If it will save these people, he can have me.” Mahanon's words brought silence upon the hall. He stood taller than life, shoulders squared, head held high as he turned to Cullen.
“The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche, to hit them again would mean to bury Haven but… I could turn that trebuchet, cause one last slide.” Cullen contemplated the elf offer as chancellor Roderick spoke up from Cole’s side.
“There is a path…”
Mahanon turned to Cullen. “Go.”
Dorian felt his heart sink in his chest at the solemn goodbye in those golden eyes. “What of your escape?” He had to ask, he had to know. The elf gave him a small smile before steeling himself and turning to the gates of the Chantry. No, no, no!
Dorian had watched this man struggle, fight, bleed, for this inquisition. Watched him fling himself into fire to save these people who once accused him of murder, who forced a title onto his shoulders, and now? Dorian was supposed to watch him offer one last sacrifice to save them all? They didn’t deserve this man, head held high with blades drawn as he raced to his death against all odds. They never deserved his bravery, his valor, his kindness, his friendship, his leadership. They never deserved him.
The beautiful, serene elf, the Herald of Andraste, Mahanon Lavellan, ran into the snow with silver hair soaked with blood and lyrium, bones aching from fatigue and as he carried Haven to safety, taking Dorian's heart with him.
They all watched as snow cascaded upon Haven, burying it and their Herald. Dorian truly felt the chill in his chest, hollow and frozen as though his heart was truly lost with Haven. His lungs burned with silent sobs as he trudged farther and farther away from the most beautiful man he had ever had the pleasure of knowing. The wind froze and swept his tears away, seeping all warmth from him, truly chilling him to his core. You should have done more. You could have helped him. You are such a coward. Useless. You let him die .
Dorian sobbed, gripping himself painfully as his lungs refused to take in air, his body shaking from fatigue and lack of lyrium, grief gripping him like a vice as it sank in. You practically killed him yourself. His mind screamed blame, begged for air, consciousness fading at the edges of his vision.
Suddenly Iron Bull slapped a massive hand on his back, snapping air back into his lungs from the shock. He blinked up at the qunari who gave him a pitying look before helping him to a nearby fire pit. Dorian slowly began to feel his limbs again but his chest felt vacant, like his own breathes echoed off the walls of his ribs unhindered. He hadn’t realized he had become so… attached to the young elf. Something about this was so ironic, that Dorian had expected the elf to mistrust him, even hate him just because of his country yet… They had become fast friends instead. He might have even grown to love that man one day, but… he was buried beneath an entire mountain, the weight of the mark and his title of Herald bearing down on his cold corpse. Dorian shuttered at the image as his eyes pricked again.
“There! He’s here!” Voices shouted as Cullen and Cassandra darted through the snow and Dorian’s world froze as he saw him.
Hardly standing on his own feet, body weak yet still he stood. How far had he come? How had he survived? broken , hurt, cold, alone in a blizzard? Dorian was shook to his core as he felt his heart return, bad-um, bad-um The elf’s golden eyes burned in the night as they locked with Dorians, a ferocity that set his body aflame. Bad-um bad-um , he inhaled sharply as the elf finally collapsed in the arms of Cassandra. He was a believer of the Maker and Andraste, and now he had to believe the Herald just might be blessed. Admiration, relief, hope filled him all at once leaving his shaking but he could not feel the cold any longer.
He was not the only one in awe, when Mahanon finally woke, the people of Haven fell to their knees in faith and gratitude. Mahanon hesitated, afraid of the pressure but then he did what Dorian admired so much. He squared his shoulders, raised his head, and led the people through the mountains to their new home, their new stronghold. Skyhold.
Skyhold
They all worked together to repair and prepare for the future in the new hold, grieving those lost in Haven, and welcoming the droves of newcomers. Dorian got his own room but he also laid his claim on a small alcove in the right tower. He placed a large chair in between two large bookshelves and beside a window. It was perfect for all the reading he would be doing, as well as all the drinking. It had a wonderful view of Skyhold too, giving him many chances to steal glances at a certain elf.
He tried to ignore the fluttering his heart did when the Inquisitor started visiting him at his small alcove of books in Skyhold. First it was just greetings in passing, then intentional visits. He had asked Dorian to start calling him Mahanon, making his stomach fill with butterflies. Don’t. He would remind himself whenever that kind smile was turned towards him. He merely smiled in return and showed the Inqu- Mahanon his recent find among the shelves. Small chats eventually turned to tea and pastries, then chess, and eventually just reading in comfortable company, wine in hand. They had grown quite familiar around each other, throwing witty bouts back and forth, talking about ancient history, or driving Cassandra mad with fake gossip. They even began to spend time in the Herald’s Rest with Bull and his Chargers, chatting around mead and ale. He had picked up on the elf's body language, when he was bored and trying not to show it, he would fiddle with his hands behind his back. When he was uncomfortable or happy it would show in the position of his ears. When he was holding back a comment for political reasons, his jaw would clench ever so slightly. Dorian was quite content in their, dare he say, friendship. Of course, that's when karma began to bare its treacherous fangs.
“Dorian, I need to speak to you.” Mahanon appeared, tension set in his jaw, brows knit.
Dorian senses the tension in the air as the Inquisitor stares, apprehensive.
“What’s on your mind?” Dorian tries for his usual, suave response but feels his stomach knot up.
“A letter has arrived for you.” Mahanon was no longer hiding the worry on his brow as his face filled with concern. Dorian felt the cold sweat begin on the back of his neck, nerves singing as he tried to play it off.
“Oh? A naughty letter?” Dorian feels the joke fall short, feeling his voice shake ever so slightly. He watched the elf’s ears pull in against his head, something Dorian noticed only happened when he was uncomfortable, as his brown knit in determination, reaching into his pocket. He revealed a cream envelope with a wax seal.
“Dorian,” His voice was firm but filled with concern, “It is from your father.”
Dorian felt his blood boil as his eyes narrowed in on the House Pavus wax seal in the elf’s hand. He very nearly ripped it from Mahanon’s grasp and stomped back into his alcove, using the afternoon sun to read the words on the page. He read them over and over and all he could do was scoff, rage filling him, followed by disbelief. “I know my son?!” Dorian’s hackles were raised, voice loud as it bounced off the towers echoing walls. Mahanon nearly flinched but instead bit his lip in helpless frustration. “What my father knows of me could barely fill a thimble! This is so typical! ” He was livid. Of course he was, he had every right to be. He ran hundreds of miles away from this man, left his country and everything behind and still this man tormented him.
“Let's go! Let's meet this so-called ‘family retainer’,” Dorian could feel the venom in his voice but suddenly it occurred to him just how afraid he was, hands trembling, “If it's a trap, we escape and kill everyone! You’re good at that!” Dorian cast a glance at Mahanon and realized his fear was not as well hidden as he had hoped with his poor joke. He gripped the letter painfully tight as he stormed off to prepare his horse. Dorian knew he would have to face his father eventually.
No, no no no no! He had expected an ambush, a henchman, maybe a retainer begging him or bribing him back to Tevinter but not this . Not him. Dorian stood in an empty tavern face to face with everything he feared. His childhood, his rejection, his denial, his identity, his father! His vision tunneled out, the edges filled with red as his anger seeped out of every pore. He lashed out, verbally and violently, the best way he knew how.
“What is “this” exactly, Father? Ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?” Dorain let the venom and bite slip into his voice, anger seeping from him.
Halward Pavus sighed. “This is how it has always been.”
“Lord Pavus, you went through all this to get Dorian here. Talk to him.” Mahanon chimed in, the elf's presence reassuring behind Dorian. But he was having none of it.
“Yes, Father. Talk to me. Let me hear how mystified you are by my anger.” Dorian glared fiercely at the magister on the step of the tavern. He suddenly felt Mahanon step back towards the door, and he turned.
“I should leave you to work this out…” Mahanon was offering him privacy, in a moment of vulnerability that he didn’t need to share. Dorian was far too furious to accept. He always had a flare for the dramatic.
“Oh, no you don't. I want a witness. I want someone to hear the truth.”
Mahanon saw the rage slip for a moment, pain, sorrow, vulnerability slipped into those gray eyes, his lip quivered a bit as he began his admission.
The magister Pavus tried to stop him, “Dorian, there's no need to-”
“I prefer the company of men. My father disapproves.”
For a moment Mahanon looked surprised, and finally confused. “So… That's what this is all about? Who you sleep with?” Mahanon genuinely looked so bewildered that something so… ‘small’ would cause all this drama. “Is that a big concern in Tevinter?”
Dorian looked at him briefly with warm eyes, the elf knew nothing of this kind of discrimination. Only knew that one's heart and desires were true and pure. So naive and innocent… Lord Pavus caught the look and scoffed,
“I should have known that's what this was about.” Again Mahanon was confused but Dorian reeled on the older magister.
“No! You don’t get to make those assumptions! You know nothing about the Inquisitor!” Dorian practically growled, and if looks could kill, there would be one less magister in the Minrathous. He turned back to Mahanon and sighed at the elf’s very uncomfortable posture, clearly confused about the conversation, ears pinned high and tight to his head.
“That's not all it’s about, and yes. Only if you're trying to live up to an impossible standard. Every Tevinter family is intermarying to distill the perfect mage, perfect body, perfect mind. The Perfect leader.” Dorian's jaw clenched around the words, “It means every perceived flaw- every aberration- is deviant and shameful. It must be hidden.” It was Lord Pavus’s turn to look hurt, shame filling his face as he stared at the floorboards.
Dorian turned to leave and his fathers weary eyes whipped up, “Dorian, please, if you’ll only listen to me!” That was probably the closest the magister had ever gotten to begging in his life.
“ Why? So you can spout more convenient lies?” Dorian approached him, in his face, his anger coming in full force at the proximity.
“He taught me to hate blood magic! ‘The resort of the weak mind’ . Those are his words!” Dorian's voice came out bitter, calculated, cold. It rose in volume as he continued, “But what was the first thing you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life?!” He was shouting now, emotions leaking into his voice, tears threatening to choke him, “You tried to!... Change me .” His voice broke. His whole body trembled as he stared at the man before him, remembering the words from so many years ago.
“I only wanted what was best for you” His father offered weakly, his regret painting his features.
“You wanted the best for you!” rage returning yet again, “You and your fucking legacy! Anything for that.” Dorian's jaw aches with the tension as he seethes with anger, his whole body taut. He slammed his fists into the bar as he just tried to breathe, quick puffs of air leaving him. Mahanon approached carefully and quietly. When he spoke his voice was soft and gentle.
“Don’t leave it like this, Dorian. You’ll never forgive yourself.” He placed a hand on Dorian's shoulder until the mage looked at him. Blue gray orbs looking into golden ones, a silent plea. Dorian sighed, feeling some of the tension leave him. He approached his father once more.
“Tell me why you came.” Dorian was stern.
“If I knew I would drive you to the Inquisition-”
“You didn’t! I joined because it was the right thing to do!” Dorian sighed, his voice becoming somber, “I once had a father who would have known that.” He turned his back to his father, his feet taking him to the door. He reached for the handle when,
“Once...I had a son who trusted me,” Lord Pavus spoke, his voice a matching deep somber note, Dorian turned to him, “A trust I betrayed. I only wanted to talk to him, to hear his voice again. To ask him…” He took a shuddering breath and looked Dorian in the eye, “ask him to forgive me.” Dorian couldn't breathe. All he wanted was to trust again to believe his father, to be loved, but… sometimes love just isn’t enough.
After their return to Skyhold Dorian was so lost. He had no idea how to feel. His father was regretful, he knew what he had done was wrong, it was out of desperation but… blood magic ? Risk altering the mind and maybe leaving him as a drooling vegetable? Or worse… if it had worked ? He shuddered at the thought. Why couldn’t he love who he was born to love? Why should he have to marry the girl and live the rest of his life screaming on the inside. No. He couldn’t do that. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shut out the memories, leaning hard into the windowsill.
“Are you… Alright?” Mahanon’s gentle voice was a welcome sound, turning to see the elf standing at the entrance of his alcove, wringing his hands in worry.
“No… I don’t know if I can forgive him.” Dorian sighed as he turned back to the window that was casting evening light across the floor. Mahanon stepped closer as Dorian explained what he couldn’t earlier in his fit of rage. His childhood, his father, how different Tevinter is. How unaccepted people like him were. Mahanon was so saddened, it showed in how far down his ears were, but he never interrupted. When he finished he felt a small weight lifted from his shoulders and smiled at Mahanon who was closer now. “Thank you for bringing me out there.” Suddenly he felt reason return as he recalled his display in the tavern and his stomach knotted with shame, “Maker must know what you think of me now, after that whole display.” Dorian nervously pushed out.
Mahanon just smiled that gentle smile and said “I don’t think less of you. More, if possible.”
Dorian released a huff of a laugh, “The things you say.” he smiled warmly before his face fell again. “My father never understood…” Dorian stared at his hands, brows knit, “living a lie… it festers inside you, like a poison.” He clenched his fists tight, knuckled white, “You have to fight for what’s in your heart.”
“I agree.”
Dorian barely had time to look up before he was enveloped into a tight embrace, shocked speechless.
“Dorian, you will never have to hide, lie, or pretend with me. Please don’ t.You are my friend, and I will always fight alongside you.” Mahanon’s voice shook with emotion, his arms tightening around Dorian's shoulders. Dorian felt his eyes prick with fresh tears as his heart betrayed him, thudding loudly against his ribs, butterflies filling his stomach at the affection. He slowly raised his trembling arms to encircle the elf back. Friends, you fool. He reminded himself as he pushed out the sound of his pounding heart.
I need a fucking drink. Or twenty. Best to see what Josephine is hiding in the cellar.
Almost like a curse, with every warm smile, every flutter of his heart, nightmares accompanied them. Nights spent in a cold sweat, unable to draw breath. Mahanon’s bloody corpse lying in the blinding white snow of Haven, blaming him, cursing him.. Demons taking shapes of men he used to know, men he trusted, Alexius, Felix, then old lovers, taunting him, deforming and twisting gruesomely. Then his father, cursing him, tying him down and cutting him open, finishing what he started. He would wake, throat raw from screaming or crying, he could never tell… the dark corners of his room sending shivers down his spine until the room was spinning, fire burning at his fingertips until there were no more shadows. He had to throw away the sheets, torched beyond help. He hardly slept, he instead sat in front of the window, drinking until the sun inevitably rose.
Dorian ignored every flutter of his stupid heart with every passing smile or giggle, every lingering touch that left his skin hot and especially every day dream and fantasy. Especially those . His gut would warm, then immediately fill with guilt. He would never admit to thinking about those rippling muscles under that armor and leather, what those golden eyes would look like in a heated stare, hooded, pupils blacked out filled with lust, sweat dripping off- NO no no not doing that. Dorian coughed into the book he was apparently reading but was most certain he had not read a single page in over an hour. His pounding heart, his eyes that followed, the fluttering in his gut meant nothing. He was just admiring his friend . What was wrong with a little looking? Dorian groaned, he didn’t even sound convincing to himself. Setting his book down he resigned himself to a nice stiff glass of wine from Josephine's hidden stash. He had been drinking more lately...
He admittedly spent too much time at his window in his alcove watching the elf scurry around. The elf would eagerly help anyone who asked, stop and chat with anyone who called to him, a charming smile the whole time. Mahanon would do favors, chores, chats, and then train. A routine he did when in Skyhold in between War table discussions and nobles, he would help make the people of Skyhold as comfortable and happy as possible. Dorian particularly liked the training part of the day though, when the elf threw off his outer layer, revealing thin underclothes. In less than an hour he would have sweated through even that, tearing that off to reveal glistening skin, freckled shoulders, and muscles rippling with every dagger swing. Slowly that perfect braid of silvery white hair would slip out of place, thoroughly mussed. Then the Inquisitor would rest, chest heaving with exertion as he smiled a wide grin of satisfaction, before heading to his quarters. Stop it! His fingers bit into his palms as he realized he had starred all day again.
Ever since the incident with his father, Mahanon visited Dorian more frequently, maybe he was worried? Blade shape, searing as it dug into my chest, throat raw from screaming, but he doesn’t stop. Dorian shook the nightmare from his mind. Maybe he had a right to be worried. Mahanon would always approach with a warm smile and sometimes even a bottle of wine. They felt closer, even if just by a step. They spoke about their childhood, well mostly Dorian. Mahanon’s ears pinned in an odd way when Dorian tried to ask about the elf's past, just like that time in Haven when he mentioned his clan. They spent long nights talking, reading, playing, drinking. Sometimes he would catch Mahanon, tired, a bit tipsy, lower his guard. He would lower his shoulders and rub circles into his marked palm and groan. Dorian had to assume the mark ached more than the elf let on. It’s nearly killed him more time than he could count, the Conclave, the Breech, Haven and Corypheus. Dorian shivered at the flashes of images in his mind as he stared at the green glow emanating from the elf's hand. He watched the man relax in a way he had never seen before and realized the Inquisitor had never been able to relax. Not since the conclave, being accused of murder, being chased by demons, the mark, corypheous, Skyhold and now he was the Inquisitor. From the moment he woke up in the temple, he never got a real chance to breathe. Dorian couldn’t help the strike of pity and sympathy that ran through him as he watched the elf slowly slump in his chair, his eyes fluttering shut.
Dorian sat there mesmerized as he watched the slow rise and fall of Mahanon’s chest as he fell into slumber. His cheeks were painted with a flush from the expensive Antivan Red they had consumed, vallaslin striking against tanned skin, rosy cheeks and the dusting of freckles. Silver hair rolling down his shoulders, relaxed and slumped into the chair. Dorian was overwhelmed by the implication that the Inquisitor trusted him. Trusted him enough to lower his guard, to fall asleep in his presence. It was incredibly warming, it made him swell with pride over their friendship, how far they had come but was equal parts terrifying . He had become such a close friend of the elf's, how could he ever think to muddle that with ridiculous feelings like romance? His heart was lost the day he saw that man in the snow pulling elfroot, when he ran to his death to save everyone, against a dragon, and when he returned. Any hope he had, it was better off letting it go now before it was too late. Dorian was hopelessly in unrequited love with Mahanon Lavellan.
Dorian let out a breath he didn't know he was holding in as the realization washed over him. The elf was off limits, he would protect this friendship, he had to. He would protect this man with his life.The sigh caused the elf to start, jolting awake, reaching for a dagger that was not in its holster before catching the mage's eyes. A moment of recognition flashed before his eyes before he relaxed again, groaning into his hand as he rubbed his eyes. Dorian chuckled nervously,
“Is that how you wake up every morning or am I special?” Dorian jested
Mahnon’s ears pinned down, as his face flushed, “I apologize... I have never fallen asleep like that.” Clearly embarrassed by his vulnerability, Mahanon stood. “I should probably retreat to my quarters before rumors spread of the drunk Inquisitor.” Mahanon laughed, a smile playing on those luscious lips, cheeks still warm and flushed.
“Oh what a scandal that would be! The wicked magister of Tevinter inebriating the Herald of Andraste!” Dorian returned with a warm smirk. The elf chuckled, smiling sincerely at Dorian, causing his heart to skip before the elf disappeared down the steps of the tower. You're a fool Pavus, it might already be too late.
Recently, Dorian had noticed the Inquisitor was hiding something, he wouldn’t admit it of course, but the elf was nervous around him and was visiting Leliana quite often. It wasn’t exactly unusual but just enough to be noticed. The elf would try to visit like usual but his body language would give him away in minutes. Something was definitely up. Was something stirring at the war table? Had Magister Pavus written again? Or maybe Mahanon had noticed his lingering, heated stare. Oh dear… Dorian sighed into his book. Dorian had all day to anxiously drink himself into a stupor due to a sudden trip the Herald took to Val Royeaux, by himself. Quite unusual. Dorian would have loved to join, get some shopping done, new clothes perhaps, new wax for his mustache maybe. Again he let out a long sigh. Maybe he could bother Cullen to a few games of chess or see if Vivienne wanted to have tea, she always helped entertain his need for dramatic conversation.
A few excruciatingly long days later, the Inquisitor returned from Val Royeaux and is obviously more nervous than when he left. He approaches Dorian, a flush on his cheeks, teeth worrying at his lower lip in an arousing way that Dorian tried desperately to ignore. Mahanon finally clears his throat and stands tall, holding out an item for Dorian. Dorian can’t help his nerves singing at how anxious the elf is before him and finally steps forward, eyes flicking down the object in his hand. His blood runs cold. He had seen that amulet so many times, but not in such a long time, he once hated looking at it but more recently longed for it. He had attempted to buy it back to no avail. How did he know? His heart swelled first with warm emotion, the thoughtfulness, the care, then it was crushed by memories of Tevinter, political bribes and favors, debts. He was so confused, how had he known, why had he done it, finally he snapped his eyes up at the elf.
“This.. Is the Pavus Birthright. How did you… Why?” Dorian couldn't decide whether to feel grateful or spiteful. “I got myself into this... I sold it because I was desperate, I wanted to be rid of anything from that family…” Dorian’s eyes wandered back down to the amulet as his thumb slid over the face. “I wanted to get it back on my own…” Now he glared at the Inquisitor, venom in his voice, “ What I didn’t want was to be indebted to you or anyone . Now I am.”
Mahanons ears dropped, pinned against his head tight as shame filled his features, eyebrows shot up, eyes wide.
“I… Did this for you…” his voice was small, almost like a child being scolded. Dorian felt guilt twist with the anger in his gut as he gripped the amulet tighter.
“My father asked about it, he noticed it was missing. It was childish to sell it. I...Love my country and this is a symbol. It means I’m part of it.” Dorian said, softer now. He stared at the elf who was cowering, guilt winding its way through his body visibly.
“Someone intelligent would cozy up to the Inquisitor if they could. It’d be foolish not to. He can open doors, get you whatever you want, shower you with gifts and power.” The elf looked up from the floor, eyes brimming with hurt at his words. “That’s what they’ll say.” Dorian’s anger was long forgotten, replaced by his own hurt, “I’m the magister who’s using you.”
Mahanon’s ears shot up towards the ceiling, still tight to his head as his shoulders hiked up. “No! You aren’t using me, I-I did this for you, I didn’t even ask! I-” the words were rushed, almost panicked.
“I don't care what they think of me, I care what they think of you .” I care what they think of us . Dorian sighed as he stared at the amulet once more, fondly as he remembered what he loved of his homeland. Suddenly the only feeling left in his gut was the guilt over the man next to him who had gone through incredible lengths to obtain this. Dorian stepped towards Mahanon. The man glanced up, worry written in the way his brows knit together.
“ I... am apparently an incredible ass at accepting gifts. I apologize. And.. I thank you.” Dorian made a small bow. Mahanon perked up a little at this, but his ears were still firmly planted to his head. Dorian chuckled as he observed just how ridiculous the usually put together Inquisitor was, shoulders high with anxiety, brows knit, hands wringing with worry, and bottom lip slightly swollen from all that nervous biting. Now that is tempting, his thoughts offered. He instead reached forward and laid a hand on the elf's shoulder, feeling the tension leave them from the contact. Suddenly the wind was knocked out of him as he was tackled into a ridiculously tight embrace on the floor of the alcove. He had no time to complain about his expensive clothes and he laughed heartily into the neck of the Inquisitor as he gripped him firmly back. The elf was ranting about asking next time but Dorian was lost in the man's body heat enveloping him. You can’t lose this.
A few weeks went by and he was recruited for a trip to the Western Approach with the Inquisitor, The Iron Bull and Cole. Cole was a bit weird, a spirit or something of the sort. Quite an odd character, tended to read everyone’s thoughts aloud without their discretion, with the sole intent to ‘pull out and stop the hurt’, his words. He eventually grows on you, as long as he doesn’t dig too deep. Which he does, often. Dorian noticed eerily that Cole never seemed to pull anything from the Inquisitor. He doubted it was because the Inquisitor had no hurt in his past, the way he dodged questions about it gave the impression of some deeply hidden feelings.
That is when it began. Or at least, when Dorian started to notice the symptoms. The soft scratch in his throat, begging him to cough lightly, sip water every now and then. He paid it no attention, blamed it on the new environment, sand and noxious gas, and long nights in that musty library. Maybe new southern allergies is what he joked when he coughed particularly loud, drawing the attention of the group. They would all cough when they got too close to the fumes or when the wind kicked up the sand particularly hard. The group continued throughout the next few weeks slaying Venatori and red templars, phoenix’s and studying the high dragon, much to the Iron Bull’s enjoyment. Dorian's cough persisted but he continued to credit it to the incredibly dry conditions and the sand in every crevice, complaining loudly about the horrid heat, making jests that he wouldn’t be able to get the sand out for weeks. Yet he found he was the only one with such a continuous cough. Maybe he was coming down with something? A southern cold perhaps?
One evening as the sun was setting over the horizon, the blazing heat finally fleeing to the quickly cooling night they had grown accustomed to, they had set up camp out of the wind, under a large rock overhang. He sat near the fire as scouts set up tents and prepared dinner. Dorian found his gaze following the ever helpful elf Inquisitor around the camp talking cheerily with the scouts. Seeing that familiar, charming smile spread across his face and Dorian felt his heart twist.
“Hurt. I wish that smile could be for me. I wish he would only look at me, see me like I see him. But he won’t. He never will. They never do. I shouldn’t wish for more. I can’t.” Cole spoke suddenly next to Dorian, making the mage jump, “but he looks at you all the time?” Cole cocked his head to the side, confused. Dorian sighed, shame filling him that his thoughts were on display and so obviously love sick.
“I’ll thank you for staying out of my thoughts. Unless you want me to think of much more entertaining things?” Dorian attempted a joke but paused, “...that's not the kind of looking I meant.” He mumbled as he stood and stalked off to his newly arranged tent, missing the calculated gaze of the Iron Bull as Cole muttered to himself. He tossed his traveling bag to the floor and started to remove his outer robes. He neatly folded his robes and placed them in the corner of the tent before closing his eyes and stretching. The moment he shut his eyes however, the image of the Mahanon smiling at the scout in camp flashed in his mind, causing his chest to ache. He grit his teeth at the childish reaction before a sharp intake of breath caused a spark of piercing pain through his ribs. He doubled over and coughed sharply for a few seconds before he could take a deep breath once more. Maybe he had caught something… Blasted desert.
By the time they returned to Skyhold, Dorian could almost feel rattling in his chest as he breathed in too deeply. The Inquisitor would send concerned glances his way whenever he coughed particularly rough. He ignored his own concern crawling up his spine as he left his horse in the stables, making it only a few steps before he was face to chest with Iron Bull, followed by Cole and the Inquisitor looking serious. Mahanon looked at Bull and nodded. “On it boss.” was all the warning he got before he was heaved over the qunari brute’s shoulder, barely missing the massive horns. He would never admit to the undignified yelp that left him as his world shifted upside down. He was hauled off, away from the Inquisitor and was thrown into the medic tent. He was so stunned he hardly noticed Cole sitting beside him. Bull stood just at the entrance as the medic approached Dorian and asked what was ailing him.
“Uh.. I believe there’s been a mistake, I am perfectly healthy-” Dorian tried to brush off the medic but was interrupted.
“Coughs, rattling breath, pain behind my ribs, sharp, breathe just need to breathe. Maybe too much sand, maybe caught a cold” Cole kindly spoke his inner concerns. The medic nodded and listened to Dorian cough and breathe and finally sent him on his way with a few concoctions of elfroot and who knows what. He was mildly irritated but also grateful he had friends who would worry about him. Friends. His eyes darted over to the tall figure of the Inquisitor chatting to some scouts, but clearly keeping an eye on Dorian as he left the medical tent. The elf waved, relief showing openly on his face as Dorian smiled and waved back. Right, friends. He ignored the tightening in his chest in response.
Adamant
Vishante Kaffas! First ancient magisters opening fucking holes in the sky, then templars shooting up on fucking red lyrium, then a fucking arch-demon dragon, and now they were storming Adamant and they were all throwing a damn party! Dorian had to say, being chased by an arch-demon was not his idea of a night out. His magic reserves were running low, his muscles aching with the fatigue, his mind feeling heavy with a fog. He ran, eyes on the back of the Inquisitor as his dagger found the space between armor on some fucking Gray Wardens for Makers sake, who wasn’t invited to this jamboree? ! His breath rattled in his chest as he finally halted to catch his breath, but he quickly lifted his staff, ready to fry that damn lizard to bits before-
His heart sank, a pain like none before slammed into his lungs, but he had no time to react as he watched in slow motion as the stones fell from below Mahanon’s feet, watched as his figure disappeared over the edge. He didn’t even hear the sound that was ripped from his own throat as he lunged forward after the vanishing man, before the remaining stone crumbled and they all fell.
Then a flash. He was almost relieved he hadn’t hit the ground. Except that flash had been green. Almost like the color of-
The air left his lungs as his back slammed into the ground, feeling something rattle loose in his lungs painfully. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, the pain and exhaustion crippling him for a few long, drawn out moments before he could draw in shallow breaths. As soon as he did, coughs wracked his body, feeling himself curl in protectively around his ribs as they throbbed. His ears were ringing but he thought he heard someone calling out to him before a gentle hand touched him, making him crack an eye open. Mahanon was kneeling beside him, besought with worry, covered in dust and a few minor cuts but overall fine. Dorian sighed in relief, the man was alright, he was alive . Then Mahanon was handing him an elfroot healing potion and Dorian tried to protest, they needed to save those- but the Inquisitor just popped the cork off and brought the bottle to the mage's lips. He gulped it down feeling the medicine slowly taking effect, making it easier to breathe.
Dorian sighed and laid on his back and took in his surroundings as the potion took hold. He found Iron Bull, visibly shaken, Cole who was panicking, Stroud and Hawke taking the situation slightly more composed. That's when fear gripped him again, hair standing on end as he realized where they had landed. He sat up abruptly, pain erupting from his ribs as he did, a sharp groan leaving him. Mahanon bit his lip as he remained close, tension clear in his shoulders were stiff, ears pulled down and flat. Dorian grasped his staff from the rubble next to him and pulled himself to his wobbling feet. They all stared at the stone and buildings, dark, floating, green, eerie, chilling, feeling the power surrounding them. Of course, the icing on the cake, they had entered the fucking fade. Physically. For the first time in over a thousand years and Dorian had the privilege to come along. He remembered the moment he saw the figure of the Inquisitor fall, the ache in his chest lashing out once more as he double checked the other man was alright. No, maybe it’s better that I am here. With him. Better than not knowing. Better than imagining…
They had trudged on, Dorian using his staff more like a walking stick to help move about the murky, wet, cavernous area. Just reach the breach in the veil, just need to escape. He felt the hair on his neck stand on end as they fought back demons and fearlings that played on their deepest fears as the Inquisitor pushed on. Dorian began to taste copper in his mouth as his magic reserves reached dangerous levels, his vision buzzing as he forced himself to move. The Inquisitor chased after his memories, stolen after the conclave explosion. Seeing flashes of visions, the cause of the explosion at the conclave, Corypheus, Gray Wardens, and the Divine. The Inquisitor still trudged on, probably holding on for the rest of the party, but Dorian could see his fatigue, the pain making his jaw tight, his muscles shake. Dorian struggled to keep his fear at bay, but watching Mahanon’s strong back ahead of him kept his weak legs moving. He had to stay strong, protect him, keep him alive.
“But didn’t you let him die in Haven?”
His blood turned to ice, his knees shaking under his own weight when a deep, loud voice boomed around them. The nightmare demon. He’s trying to get into our heads. Dorian tried to bite back his fear and the familiar taste of bile and copper on his tongue as the demon pulled at his weaknesses, his fears. He blocked it out just like the trembling in his hands as he held his staff. Images of the blood on the snow flashed behind his eyes, then in the fade, green, red, blood, screaming, crying.
“Why did you kill me? How could you leave me?” The demon used Mahanon’s voice now, echoing in his mind. Dorian’s lungs heaved, gripped like a vice in his chest as he was frozen in fear. Most of the other members of the party were in a similar state, except Mahanon. He approached every member, having them focus on him, pulling them from their own mind. He came to Dorian and gently coerced him forward, We have to escape. All of us.
They continued until they came across something he had never anticipated. Something he never wanted to see. Off the path, like it didn’t belong in the fade at all, all too real. Eerie silence, cold, empty. He stared at the rows of the tombstones with his friends' names on them. Each one carved with a name and… a fear . Dorian’s knee’s finally gave out when he saw his own. Dorian Pavus - Temptation. A large nameless stone sat in the center and Dorian felt his lungs constrict at the thought of who’s final resting place that was. No… Fear gripped him, like a wave crashing violently into the shore, it washed over him. How could he forget this fear? Fear of giving in, letting himself trust, give too much, believe, love. The world was tempting him in all the ways it knew how. With a kind smile and genuine affection. He felt sick, disgusted with himself at the twisting in his heart as he stared at that blank tombstone. His body shook uncontrollably, exhaustion and terror wracking his body. Shame, fear, guilt, hatred, shook him as images of Mahanon in that grave, blood on the snow, all over again. Tears seared down his face, Fool, fool, Fool!
The Inquisitor said nothing as he quite forcefully lifted him to his feet and pulled him away from the stones, biting his lip so fiercely it bled. Mahanon’s face filled with anger and grief as he trudged on, dragging the mage along. Dorian suddenly felt a form of pity, sorrow for the Inquisitor who couldn’t afford to wallow, to grieve, to fear, like he just did. He had to keep pushing forward no matter what. Just like in Haven when he stayed behind to let that mountain fall on him, giving himself to save everyone. The same man who faced an arch-demon, a dark-spawn magister, who became Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste. What makes you such a strong man? His lungs constricted and he coughed roughly as the elf slowed his pace. Mahanon turned suddenly, enveloping Dorian in a brief but strong hug before turning back. Dorian felt his heart flutter at the thought of having such a selfless and caring friend. I don’t deserve a man like you. You are the temptation that I fear so, and I was the fool so easily tempted.
Dorian's head pounded like a hammer against his skull as he saw the nightmare creature. He couldn’t believe such a beast existed, so monstrous in its form, striking fear into the whole group. But of course, our fearless leader who pulled his daggers from their leather hold, struck first. Dorian fought not to pass out from the exhaustion as he flung barriers and lightning, bile creeping back into his mouth with the familiar taste of copper. He was beyond his limit he knew, but he would fret about that if they survived. If , his mind supplied. His eyes followed the elf as he darted expertly around the battlefield, demon blood spraying off his daggers. Dorian’s vision spotted, his mouth pooling with blood when the beast fell limp at the Inquisitor's feet, and before he could breathe a sigh of relief, he was being fiercely thrown back through the swirling rift, losing sight of the elf as he glimpsed a massive, towering spider block off the remainder of the group.
Dorian was once again abruptly slammed into cobble and rubble, pain whiting out his vision as he gasped for air. He wheezed, his lungs refusing to take in air as his nerves screamed. His vision slowly returned, blurred and unfocused as he finally managed a few short breaths. His body declined to move, blood pooling in his throat causing him to choke. He looked frantically for that tall elf, that beautiful white hair, those golden eyes always aflame, anything, anything, but found nothing. He saw Bull and Cole, Cullen and many soldiers staring at the rift in silent anticipation, the ominous swirling green mocking him. No… His heart felt like it had stopped all movement, he couldn't breathe, his chest so tight it was seemingly impossible. Is this it? Is this when I lose him? He couldn't breathe. It ached, it throbbed, sharp, crushing, like he had broken all his ribs and threatened to end him, pierce right through his lungs to his heart. Mahanon, please, no you can’t! I need you, we need you, the world needs you! Kaffas! His vision was going black at the edges as he ran out of oxygen, the pain in his chest outweighing the alarms in his mind begging him to breathe. His face was burning with painfully hot tears searing their way down his cheeks, but he refused to look away even as his vision spotted, blurred. The last thing he saw before his vision finally faded to black was Stroud and Mahanon stumbling out of the rift, slamming it shut behind them. Then black.
Breathe!
Dorian awoke to a particular rough cough burning his lungs, his ribs aching in sore protest. He slowly opened his eyes to find the roof of a tent above him, turning he realised it was a healers tent. He attempted to sit up only to feel a firm hand on his shoulder holding him still, he turned to the other side to find a very blank faced Cole.
“I was told to keep you from moving. You are in pain. You should rest”
“Ah, good morning to you too, Cole.” Dorian's voice came out hoarse, resulting in another cough.
“You didn’t lose him, he is alive.” Cole said, seemingly out of context but Dorian caught on quick.
“Out of my mind Cole.” Dorian sighed as he took a mental assessment of his injuries. Bruised, if not cracked, ribs. Back definitely bruised. Extreme Magic drain, that explains the throbbing in his head. Ah and who could forget the ever present rattling in his lungs. It appears to have gotten worse. He could almost hear himself wheeze.
“Well, Cole as much as I enjoy the luxurious comforts this tent provides, I believe I am well enough to return to my room for a warm, much needed bath.” Dorian said in his most confident voice he could. Cole looked skeptical but nodded and stood.
“I was also told to tell the Inquisitor when you awoke.” was all the goodbye he got before the boy disappeared. Dorian half chuckled, sending a dull ache through his chest before he slowly sat up. He gathered his items scattered around the tent and lifted the tent flap to find a number of tents filled to the brim with injured. Adamant had been brutal on us all… He carefully made his way to his quarters and leaned back on the door when he finally was alone.
He was more exhausted than he originally thought. The mana drain had taken its toll on his whole body, the two separate falls leaving his ribs and back worse for wear, all his muscles ached and quivered. He settled on dropping his items at the door and began to strip off what clothes the medics had left him in. Gingerly he pulled the shirt over his head and stood in front of his bathroom mirror to see the way his ribs were different shades of purple and black. His back in a similar state. He looked quite worse for wear, hair a mess, covered in dried blood and demon ichor, sweat and tears. Which is why he was very upset to hear the Inquisitor barge into his room.
Dorian stepped out of his bathroom to look at the huffing elf in his doorway. He looked like he had run the whole way, concern and panic on his brow until he caught Dorian’s eyes. Relief washed over his features as his shoulders fell. But those beautiful golden eyes flicked downward and the concern returned tenfold. Kaffas, forgot about the bruises, shame filling him briefly as he remembered his appearance. The elf ran up to the mage and inspected his injuries gingerly, Dorian wincing when the elf grazed the purple skin. This would almost be romantic if it wasn’t, well, painful as all hell. So help me Maker. Dorian prayed silently as the elf examined him. Finally the elf resigned and sighed, looking at Dorian’s face. Dorian flushed to have that focused gaze suddenly on his disheveled appearance.
“Dorian, how are you feeling?” The elf's voice was soft, gentle. That's when the memories came back to Dorian. Tombstones, sobbing, Back aching on rubble and rock, his world falling in around him as he watched that damn green rift mock him as they all waited to see if the Herald would emerge from another fight victorious, but Dorian couldn’t give two shits about victory. He thought he had finally found someone who cared for him, genuinely, a friend . Felix had been the only one he had considered a man of similar standing, but the inquisitor was different. He was there for him through the Felix and Alexius matter, when no one trusted a mage from Tevinter, traveled through time with him, he hunted down the Venitory just because he asked, helped confront his father and went to such great lengths to get the Pavus Birthright back, pulled him through that rift. He was such a real, genuine friend- no, he was so much more. So much more than friendship, trust, more than love. Such a foreign concept for Dorian but something he longed for so deeply that the thought of it being ripped so cruelly from his fingertips just reminded him of that tombstone engraved with his name. Of course. I fell for temptation.
“You sent me ahead, and then didn’t follow. And for a moment..” Dorian’s voice was hoarse,shaking, breaking as he spoke, “For just a moment I was certain you wouldn’t.” Dorian starred into those golden eyes, trying to burn them into his memory. “I'm not sure I can forgive you for that.” He meant it as a half attempt at a joke, but he was unsure he could ever forgive this moment. Something had settled into his bones after that moment, something he didn’t want to admit. A new fear.
“Dorian… I am so sorry… I never meant to frighten you.” the elf’s eyes wandered to his hands, “There was so much… The memories, the demon in my head, then I had to choose . Between Hawke and Stroud. I had to choose who would die, there in the fade, leave them behind. ” Dorian gasped as reality hit him, he had only seen Stroud return from the fade, and here was the man who had made that choice. Mahanon’s hands shook as he continued. “I had to make such an important decision over someone's death, pick the one we needed to rebuild, let Stroud rebuild the Gray Wardens, let Hawke die the hero he is… was. ”
Dorian stepped closer as he noticed those golden eyes glass over, overflowing with tears. He lunged and held the elf tightly in an embrace. The Inquisitor had never broken down, never been taken down by anything, never shown weakness, yet here he was sobbing in Dorian’s arms. He had seen a glimpse of this in the snow at Haven, but they hadn’t been close then. So much has happened since then, so much that Mahanon probably blamed himself for. Dorian felt a flare of protectiveness swell in him as he held the man, suddenly not ‘The Inquisitor’, not the ‘Herald of Andraste”. No leader, just a man, seemingly small in his embrace as he shook with sobs, hot tears on his shoulder and they clung to each other desperately. He was just one man with the fate of the world resting on his shoulders over a stupid mark that was bound to his arm by circumstance. It's a wonder how he managed to last this long without falling apart.
Dorian threaded his hand through the bright white hair, and ran a hand down the man's back as his sobbing slowed. Suddenly he was more aware of the aching of his bruised ribs, protesting against the tight embrace. He lightly groaned, making the elf slowly pull away, rubbing fiercely at his swollen eyes.
“I-I'm sorry.” Mahanon hiccuped, “The fade was… a lot.”
“You never have to apologize to me Mahanon. We are friends, remember?” Dorian smiled gently and felt his heart somersault at the smile he got in return. A few hours later filled with comfortable drinking and chatting, he bid the Inquisitor goodnight. Finally intending to get that much needed bath, he approached his bathroom, reminiscing about the elvehn man. You've had too much to drink Pavus. Exhaustion pulled on his mind as he felt the warmth in his stomach move lower. Oh, what’s wrong with a little day dream?
Beautiful ivory skin speckled with freckles over toned muscled, sculpted by years of training, small faded scars standing contrast to the beautiful skin, golden eyes heated, focused, framed by gold vallaslin barely there, a fresh flush on high cheekbones. Usually neat hair now tousled, pulled from its braid, sweat glistening down goosebumps, lips red and kiss-swollen. Chest rising and falling with quick, heated breaths, a low moan being ripped from that perfect throat.
‘Amatus’
He found himself clutching helplessly at his chest as it heaved, fractured ribs protesting sharply with every movement, lungs begging for air, day dream broken by the crippling pain. He hacked and gagged around some foreign objects caught in his throat, tears stinging his eyes as his vision spotted from lack of oxygen. Fear turned his blood to ice as he continued to retch, copper and bile filling his mouth. Finally relief filled him as the object escaped his lips, air flooding his lungs. He collapsed heavily on his hands and knees as his body shook in the aftermath of his coughing fit, ribs throbbing. When he finally managed to catch his breath and wipe the hot tears from his eyes, he dared to look at the object of his suffering. His heart stopped as he stared, red petals of a chrysanthemum and daffodils laid in front of his shaking fingers. No… You can’t.
Before he even blinked the petals were alight in flame and reduced to ash. His body trembled at the realization, memories of Tevinter flooding his mind in short, intense flashes of fear. ‘ You are no son of mine!’ ‘Faggot!’ ‘Ha! Love? You? Don’t be ridiculous Pavus.’ Hot tears seared his cheeks as the beautiful face of the Inquisitor appeared, twisted into a grimace, disgust and disappointment as he turned away. A choked sob ripped from Dorian’s throat as his chest constricted around his lungs. No! Not again! Never Again! Not him...please… He ground his fistspainfully into his eyes, his throat aching around every choking sob. You fool, you damn fool!
Forbidden
Temptation
Rejection