Chapter Text
Every oncoming and passing light made him flinch, but the mage stopped ducking beneath the trees a few miles back. The tendons in his legs were screaming with each footfall against the dirty concrete; his very finely stitched leather dress shoes were made for trips down the aisle to a woman he’d only ever spoken to in passing, to give some political appearance, or for wandering ballrooms as if each step were not strategic and meticulously planned. Now they were ragged, the soles beginning to break, laces frayed. A few cars slowed down beside him, but he walked faster those moments, until they sped back up. Although the highway sign hours back had welcomed him to Sunny Free Marches, he couldn’t take any chances, not when there was no doubt some alert out claiming he’d been dragged into one of the massive corporate trucks passing by. No doubt one driven by some Nevarran Tal-Vashoth making deliveries, if it meant the blame could be redirected and some poor fool framed.
No, it wasn’t fair or safe to either Dorian or any driver to allow himself to be picked up as a hitchhiker.
He stayed on the highway as it came up to a bridge. In the distance, mountains bled into the sky, forests a blur of blue and green. His heart pounded in his ears. Every stride took him further and further away. The idea of it numbed him, eyes dead and wide, mind static.
The sun slipped up the icy sky, stinging the mage while warming his clammy skin. He shuddered. Every few hours he spent some magic to heal himself, but the sweat was getting cold on his forehead, weighing down his hair and making him itch all over. He had run out of what little food he’d brought with him, and it felt like it had been days now. His stomach twisted, but he couldn’t stop now.
Somewhere near the afternoon, the sky went black too quickly. Wobbling slightly, he pulled himself a few more steps before slipping down, his last sight a glimpse of the Waking Sea.
********
Just as quickly as the black had overcome him, a fluorescent white enveloped him and threw him against a large wax sheet on a cold table. His ribs sank against his lungs, and it took him a few moments to realize that his body was screaming through his mouth this time, however hoarsely.
Dorian sent electricity to his fingertips, but cut it off when that only hurt more. These white lights broke into his eye sockets, pulled his brain apart, and panic surged through every gap. He turned his gaze hard enough to snap his neck (though it was aching enough he wasn’t totally convinced it wasn’t already shattered).
Aside from an array of cotton swabs and tongue depressors on the counter, and a pamphlet with a man smiling for Overcoming Lyrium Addiction, he was alone.
The room was hardly bigger than a walk-in closet. A single shuttered window let in enough light to balance out the unnatural brightness of the overheard bulbs. The clock on the wall was a white circle with little triangles poking out of it and a short tail at the bottom -- a cat? -- if it was right, then it was around noon now.
Tears poured down when he pulled himself up and dropped to his feet, but he kept moving until he reached the door.
The handle turned before his hand reached it, and Dorian found himself staring into the brown eyes of a man in a coat that radiated with the white of the room, the name “Anders” embroidered in green across the breast.
“Oh, Maker, no, please sit back down--”
“I’m not going back,” he sputtered, flinching when something pushed down his shoulder back down to Thedas.
The man sighed, fighting through exhaustion to keep his face from aging another decade each second. “You’ve got to go back, your feet were bleeding when they picked you up, and your ankle has a nasty sprain about now.”
“No!” Dorian pushed him again, but he was too weak to actually make a dent. His voice cracked again in protest, “No, you can’t send me back to those monsters.”
“I meant back to the table, but -- come now, they’re not that bad. Some of them are a bit … off … but they’re good people at heart. They brought you here, after all.”
“Fuck off, they drove me here!” The absolute nerve, it sent a hot rage through the mage’s body, sparks hitting his fingers like a cheap lighter low on fluid. The static in his body turned to daggers.
“Well, yes, of course they did,” the blond man blinked, eyebrow arched. “I know a motorcycle sidecar isn’t the ideal medical transport, but it’s better than letting you just die there. Look, just sit down, so I can check your vitals. Please?”
In some haze, Dorian felt himself be lowered onto a wheeled stool, with an ugly, dull blue sleeve wrapped around his upper arm while the light-skinned, stocky doctor watched a dial, pumping it tighter and checking for his blood pressure. Anders ran through his usual list -- blood pressure, heart rate, reflexes, eye response -- his patient was shaken, terrified, and much below his peak, though still functioning as if through sheer spite.
Anders broke the sterile, white silence. “So, how exactly does a Nevarran apostate make it to the Waking Sea alone, on foot, with an empty stomach? I mean, it’s the most interesting story I’ve had all week, between the panicky dwarves new to surface life and maybe two ex-Templars looking for a fix. I fancy a walk now and then, but I barely make it half a block, much less halfway down the Imperial Highway. I’m not sure if you look too young or too old to go on some soul-searching hike like that. What’s your name, anyhow?”
Dorian blinked, trying to piece through the rambling. The man was only talking to fill the space, but… “Nevarran?”
“Wow, your parents must be big patriots.”
“Vishante kaffas, no -- I’m… my name is Dorian, I’m not from-- I’m not Nevarran.”
At the curse, Anders’s eyes widened. “Oh, you’re Tevinter? Ha! Bull’s going to get a kick out of this. Oh, I mean, that is -- if you are comfortable disclosing that information. Your privacy is my top priority next to your health.”
The dark-skinned man’s nerves fell back into place. He was stunned. Everything felt surreal as his enraged panic subsided. A laugh bubbled in his throat, not quite falling out.
“I’m going to use some healing magic on your legs, and then I want you to step over to this scale so I can weigh you. Is that alright, Dorian?”
He was grinning, winking though he knew he was an absolute mess right now. “Oh, no need to ask twice about putting those lovely hands on me, doctor.”
The healer cleared his throat, rolling his eyes with a soft smile. His touch was feather-light, and the spell poured out like an incorporeal muscle cream, sliding up the rest of his body, leaving behind the taste of pulpy orange juice on Dorian’s tongue. The knots in his body began to untwist themselves with gentle tugs. A dull ache washed over him. The Tevinter let himself be led to the scale, an ancient, cracked thing Anders shifted like an abacus at the top while scribbling down the information with a nod.
“Okay! You seem to be doing a lot better, but you still really need to get some actual rest and food in you.” Anders put his clipboard down onto one of the counters, crossing his arms and leaning back against it. “I can bring you something here, but if you’re open to this, the people who brought you in offered a key card to the motel they’re shacked up in right now, it’s just downtown.” He cleared his throat, glancing away. “You don’t seem too interested in rejoining them, though, so if you don’t want to do that, then by all means stay here. I can bring lunch back.”
Dorian lifted himself back onto the cushioned exam counter. The wax paper crunched loudly beneath him.
He hesitated, weighing options. He didn’t want to stop running. Freedom was still not quite in his grasp, and every second not moving made his stomach churn -- but part of that could also be the fact every meal he’d had in the past week or so had been eaten hurriedly behind some trees alongside the highway and side roads. He itched; it felt like little bugs were crawling all over his skin, and his hair felt heavy with oil and dirt, mustache drooping over his lips.
If nothing else, a shower would be nice. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to relax for a bit.” He scratched his chin, considering how much of the story he needed to disclose. It hadn’t been anyone hired by his father who had picked him up to be stitched up, but Anders couldn’t know of his terrors. “These, ah... fellows of yours. Where are they staying?”
“I’ll drive you, if you’d like. It’s just up the street, it’s, well,” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “They’re staying above The Stuttering Chanter’s.”
“The what.”
“I told them the Hyatt had perfectly nice rooms, but apparently Rocky’s not allowed back after last time. Bull’s got a few rooms at that inn. There’s showers, don’t worry, it’s not a complete dump.”
Dorian hummed, looking around for his bag. “In that case, I will take you up on that lunch offer later. Bar food does not sound appetizing right now.” He smirked, pulling his messenger bag into his lap and checking the disposable phone he’d grabbed at store near the border.
Thankfully, no notifications. Yet.