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Contrary to popular belief, Rohirian Lavellan’s first thing to do when he returned from the depths of those cursed Eluvians was not, in fact, to join the council to decide the fate of the Inquisition.
Also contrary to popular belief even among some of the most trusted members of the Inquisition, it wasn’t Solas who cut off Rohirian’s arm. That happened later.
Dorian remembers it all a little too well.
When he’d found Rohirian after Solas was done with him, he was on his knees, clutching his left forearm as if his life depended on it. He was holding back tears, his teeth clenched, the eerie green light coming off his arm like a demon eating at his soul. And yet, when he saw Dorian staring at him with terror, he tried to smile.
“I think I need a hand here,” he’d said. That outrageous barbarian.
Refusing Cassandra and Bull’s help, Dorian had half-carried him back, wiping his forehead and staying as far away from his left hand as possible. He felt that even if he dared to look at it, he’d cause Rohirian pain. He smuggled him in his ambassador’s apartment in the Winter Palace and put him on his own bed. He left the others to let Leliana know; as soon as she found out, so would everyone that needed to know. That was the end of Dorian’s thoughts concerning the Inquisition. He didn’t care about the Inquisitor; he cared about Rohirian.
He brought him water and got him out of his armour, then kissed him softly on the forehead and tied his hair back so it wouldn’t bother him. If he could pretend it was just a fever, maybe it would go away. And Rohirian didn’t talk much, even though he did make the effort from time to time. He tried to pull himself up, and tried to make it easier for Dorian, but the green venom was lighting up the veins up to his temples and down to his knees. Dorian tried every spell he’d ever heard of, trying to get rid of the Anchor more frantically than he’d ever thought he would. Bull was bringing him books by the dozen, and Cole was ghosting over his bed, tending to Rohirian’s needs whenever Dorian wasn’t looking. Varric had run off, saying something about Hawke and his connections; if he moved fast, maybe he could do something. Cassandra and Vivienne were talking loudly with Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine, Maker knew what about. Bull did mention he heard them say something about finding Solas and getting hold of Val Royaux’s best physicians, but his words didn’t register. He had no idea where the others were. Trying to help in their own way, he guessed, fully aware that if they messed with Dorian they’d never live to see the end of it.
Dorian realised that it the sun had gone down only because his eyes watered trying to read the final line of a spell that probably would prove as useless as the others.
“Hold on, amatus,” he whispered, wiping away the sweat from Rohirian’s forehead with a cold towel. Rohirian managed to look at him and smile.
“Vhenan, give it up,” he said. His Dalish accent came back when he knew he wasn’t being watched. “You can’t stop it.”
“Nonsense. I won’t let you die just because that blighted piece of filth decided it would be fun to break the world. He’s not taking you from me. I’ll find something, I promise.” He flicked his fingers and the candles on the bedside table lit up with golden flames, dancing at the sound of Rohirian’s uneven breathing. He felt the magic from his very core wrapping itself around Rohirian’s arm, desperately trying to heal it, at least to hold it together. It was exhausting, but if it worked…
“I won’t die yet,” Rohirian said, his voice still hoarse. “There are too many people who wish to see me dead, vhenan. I won’t give them… the satisfaction.” He grimaced as he pulled himself upwards. Dorian’s hand instinctively reached out to help him, but Rohirian ignored it and did it clumsily on his own. He took a deep breath.
“Dorian, love,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I won’t die, but I need your help.” He looked straight into Dorian’s eyes, and Dorian’s heartbeat quickened. “My arm. It needs to come off.”
Dorian’s mouth was dry. He hadn’t wanted to believe it would come to that.
“There must be another way,” he said, knowing how hollow his words sounded. “I won’t give up on you.”
“That’s why it needs to be done,” Rohirian insisted. “If we don’t do it now, it will spread, and it will kill me. It needs to go.”
“But –“ Dorian started, and stopped. What was there to say? But you’re an archer, a logical man might have said, and a good one at that; the sky might split in half again; you need this hand to keep everyone safe. Dorian almost said it. But he wasn’t feeling it. That’s the hand I hold at night, he thought. That’s the hand that fits over my chest and warms me. How will you tie your hair and hold me close to you and what if you’re wrong and it doesn’t work? How will you cope? How can I see you try to cope? You don’t deserve more pain, you don’t need more troubles. Maker’s breath, haven’t you had enough already?
He bit his cheek, anger rising inside him. Unable to stop himself, he grabbed his book and threw it at the wall, where it thumped open, pages scattering around. “Kaffas!” he hissed. He kneeled close to Rohirian and took his face in his hands. “Amatus, you can’t mean this. If there’s a way and we don’t use it, there’s no going back. Are you –“
“There’s no other way. I feel it in my blood, and I won’t last much longer. Solas said so.”
“Why would you believe anything this – this –“
“I don’t have to trust him to feel what he said is true,” Rohirian insisted. “I’ll manage. If this is what it takes for me to keep on kicking for a while, then so be it. But I –“ he took a deep breath. “I can’t do it on my own, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone else worry about me.”
“Amatus –”
“I’ll help.”
Dorian almost fell off the side of the bed. “Cole! You’re still here?”
Cole’s face was, as always, hidden under his hat. Dorian always wondered if he stayed hidden when he as alone. “I never left,” Cole said quietly. “I’ll help.”
“You mean –“
“You know that he’s right.” He looked at the glowing mess that was Rohirian’s left forearm, almost bereft of shape. It barely even looked like a limb. “There are rivers of glowing darkness flowing in him. There are phantoms of ancient elves, and the pain of a lonely wolf, and it’s poison that goes into his heart. The light touched him, but now it burns, and it burns, and it won’t let him be. He’ll come back to you, after.”
Dorian clenched his teeth. “Amatus?”
Rohirian sat a little straighter up. “Go for it. I’m dying here.”
Cole started moving, but Dorian raised his arm and pressed it gently against his chest, stopping him. “No,” he said, “I’ll do it.”
Cole slid his belt out, and handed it to Rohirian, who took it with his good hand and bit into it. Cole grabbed Rohirian’s shoulders, and held him tight. Rohirian closed his eyes tight, and reached out for Dorian’s hand.
Dorian gave it to him, and squeezed.
Then he let go of the magic he’d been keeping on Rohirian, and grabbed Cole’s dagger.
Rohirian didn’t make a sound; he just bit harder into the belt. His left arm glowed angrily, and Dorian saw bits of light falling off and disappearing, burning tiny black barks onto the sheets. He felt the ancient magic coming off of it; he grabbed Rohirian’s upper arm and, muttering a prayer in his mother tongue, ignoring the burning tears in his eyes, lowered the dagger.
It felt like cutting into butter. No blood came out.
The bits of green light fell off, and smoke came out of the sheets as they burnt the shape of an arm’s ghost on the cloth. The glowing veins on Rohirian’s skin flickered and shrank as he breathed heavily, his eyes shut firmly, his right hand squeezing the life out of Dorian’s. They retreated back into his elbow, and disappeared with a sound like burning iron getting suddenly under cold water.
Then came the blood.
Rohirian muffled a scream. Cole wrapped himself around him, like he was hugging a child. Dorian found the last bits of magic in him and sent it all onto Rohirian’s limb. The skin wrapped itself around the bone, the bleeding slowly stopped. There were streams of tears on Rohirian’s cheeks, almost following the markings of his clan on his skin. Dorian promised himself he wasn’t going to cry. He had practised the art of looking strong, and by the Maker, he was good at it. Now all he needed was to do it once more. For him.
Cole moved away from the bed. He could have left, or just moved back into the shadows, but Dorian didn’t notice. He moved his hand from Rohirian’s upper arm to his shoulder, then to his neck, then to his cheek. He wiped the tears away with his thumb.
“It’s over,” he whispered. He gently removed the belt from Rohirian’s mouth and put it away. “It’s over, amatus.”
Rohirian opened his eyes. He looked down at his arm, ending at the elbow and marked with the remains of the Anchor, scarred on his skin in the shape of his veins. Dorian leaned forward, waiting for that non-verbal permission he was used to. Rohirian came half an inch closer to him, and it was enough; Dorian pressed his lips against his lover’s forehead, softly, hoping to take all the pain and the unfairness and take it in his own body, to keep it and destroy it and dance on its ashes. But no magic he was willing to associate himself with could do that, so he just kissed Rohirian’s forehead again, and his lips were as gentle as a whisper. He moved a little backwards only after Rohirian moved.
Rohirian breathed out, and looked up at Dorian with fire in his eyes.
“No, vhenan,” he said. “What I’ve been preparing for, what’s to come… it’s just beginning.”
And he lowered his head on the curve of Dorian’s neck, and breathed in the scent of him until the stink of the burnt sheets seemed like a nightmare, and nothing more.