Chapter Text
Ainion's staff beat a soft rhythm on the rocky outcrop he perched upon. The wood resonated with an oddly melodic quality, harmonising with the stream's susurrus and the gentle bleats of the halla he watched over. It drifted, light but sure through the air, like a spell weaving a net of calm. But his staff was simple wood, broken off a tree to aid with herding, not one thrumming with magic, ready to make the fade manifest.
The sun twinkled on the water and reflected a myriad of colours and shifting patterns on the hallas' coats. Ainion was shaded by the reaching branches of a tree, dappling him. Where the light touched his black hair it revealed the subtle shades of brown and red, and his skin it made the envy of bronze for its richness. He was smiling, happy, peaceful; safe. It was exactly how Ninion remembered his twin.
He took a step forwards and instantly regretted it. The halla raised their heads and the few closest to him scampered back though Ainion's steady tapping quickly settled them, reminding them their trusted companion was there and would protect them.
“You walk like a giant,” Ainion chuckled.
“This is a dream.” Ainion did not answer his twin. He descended from his rock and then was beside Ninion.
“Whats this?” He had Ninion's hand. The anchor was smoldering warmly in his palm, embalming them in a subdued viridescent glow.
“I- it's the anchor,” Ninion replied. He hadn't expected the question and it set his thoughts in a jumble. A part of him screamed at him to grab Ainion and never let go, to say he was sorry, to make him understand how much he loved him. But he was distracted by thinking of how to explain the anchor when Ainion knew nothing of the Breach in the first place.
“It feels familiar, like elvhen magic?” Ainion peered at the mark, then turned Ninion's hand over to see if it went all the way through. Ninion couldn't help but laugh at his quizzical expression.
“Stop it!” he chided, pulling his hand back. “How would you know what magic would feel like anyway?” Ainion grinned and a flash of violet lit his eyes.
“Well Deshanna always said I must have some magic in me somewhere to make the halla listen to me so. And besides, we are twins, aren't we?” He held his arms out placatingly, but the illusion was over. Ninion stepped back, his skin gone icy with the cold fire of fury.
“You are bold to wear his face, demon,” he snarled, letting his anger bolster him with courage he didn't have. Instinct told him this was not a weak spirit come to taunt him, but a powerful threat he may not have the heart to fight. “You will pay for the insult you deal him!” The demon's expression didn't change but clouds swallowed the sun and the halla's hooves clattered on the riverbank stones as they fled.
“Come now,” it said, and though it kept Ainion's form its voice was twisted and wrong. “There's no need for slurs or threats. It's a pity you wouldn't let me comfort you further. Every night I hear you crying his name out into the fade, desperate for his spirit to hear you. Yet here I bring him to you and you are not satisfied.”
“Pride,” Ninion spat. “You are pride itself if you think yourself worthy to take his form. And help me? I'd sooner believe you were Ainion than believe you wanted nothing more than to help me. What do you want? Speak and then be gone. I have enough to contend with in my waking life without adding fatigue from a restless sleep to it.”
“I know,” it said, advancing on Ninion. “And I know how you hate it. How they all look to you and how the responsibility chafes on you like a slave collar. How worthless you feel, knowing you are none of the things they think you. How you feel you blaspheme through them every time you let them call you 'herald'. How you would throw it all to Corypheus if it meant you could be at your brother's side once more.” Ninion had been retreating but his back hit a wall and he was trapped. The demon's face was inches from his own. Its voice was soothing, but it sent chills crawling across Ninion's skin. “I can make that a reality. Like Dirthamen's ravens, I can guide you too him. You need no longer feel despair every time you look in a mirror. Please. Let me help you.”
Ninion's voice shook as he whispered “What do you want.” He didn't know if he was merely curious what the demon wanted in return, or if he were truly considering its offer.
“The mark.” As if on cue the anchor flared, lancing Ninion's eyes with stabs of green light, forcing them closed. “It doesn't belong to you. You don't even want it. It tortures you. Let me take it.” He willed his arms to push the demon away but they were leaden weights hanging by his sides. “You won't have to be their 'chosen one' anymore. You don't have to go back. There is nothing for you there.” The demon caressed his cheek. “You can be with me again.” Ninion could not repress his sobs at the sound of Ainion's voice. A hand gripped his shoulder and shook him.
“NO!” Ninion's eyes snapped open as the demon roared. His breath caught in his throat half way to a scream as Ainion's face tore off the Pride demon, it's cruel, grotesque maw opening in a shriek. It towered over him, violent whips of lightening cracking around it's limbs. It's giant, clawed hand snatched him up, snapping his head back dizzyingly.
Ninion's heart jumped a little as he plunged from the Fade. It took him a moment to get his bearings; to realise that the hand on his shoulder was human, familiar. Dorian's. He glanced over at him to see his face was neutral, but still caught a glimpse of concern in the silverite eyes. Letting out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, he ran a hand through his sweat dampened hair. He was chilled to his bones in the biting Emprise night, making his teeth chatter. Even his organs seemed to shiver, though he wondered how much of it was to do with the cold. He rolled to face Dorian and tucked himself further into his embrace. Warm. Real.
“Thank you,” he breathed into his chest, hoping it conveyed more than gratitude for being awakened. Dorian's moustache tickled his forehead with his smile.
“You were struggling in your sleep,” he explained. “Thought you might need some help.” Ninion shuddered thinking how close he had come to being beyond help.
“It's this damn cold,” he said, trying not to betray himself. “My Keeper always told me that nightmares and demon visits are more common in the cold.”
“And I suppose having a great gaping hole in the veil practically over your tent doesn't help much either.”
“I suppose.”
They lay together in silence for a time until it became obvious that, between the nightmare and the cold, sleep would not return to Ninion.
“Dorian?” He said as soft as he could.
“Mm?”
“I think I might go out and sit by the fire for a while.” There was a pause.
“You want me to join you?” It was more of an accusation than an offer.
“I would appreciate your company, but I know how you loathe the cold.” Ninion sat up and began to change into his warmer day wear. Dorian rolled away from him, cocooning himself in the remainder of the blanket. Just as Ninion was fitting his boots on by the tent flap Dorian gave an exaggerated sigh and threw the cover off dramatically.
“Wait for me, Nin,” he said with much exasperation. “It's much too cold to sleep with you gone anyway.”
“You just can't bear to be without me,” Ninion chuckled, tilting his head to watch Dorian pull on at least three pairs of leggings.
“Yes, well,” Dorian huffed, fixing his newly fur-lined cloak so it hung just-so. “If you continue to drag me around in the cold I don't know how much longer that may hold true, amatus.” He bit the last word off sarcastically, but the crook in his lips and the way his eyes narrowed fondly belied his words.
Once outside they accepted a warm mug of tea each from the lookout and sat huddled together by the fire. Beyond the camp, the malevolent glow of the red lyrium riddling the Emprise du Lion turned the thick clouds a dirty and eerie pink. But in the warm circle of the fire, Ninion could forget everything but the warmth of his vhenan next to him. The orange light emblazoning his skin a deep and golden brown; his wide and sculpted hands cupping the drink; the soft, absent minded smile crinkled his eyes. All of it shot a pang of love through his heart.
There is nothing for you there. He leaned his head onto Dorian's shoulder.
“There is everything for me here.”
“What was that?” Ninion started upright. He hadn't meant to say it aloud.
“Uh, nothing, just muttering to myself.” Dorian didn't look convinced but he didn't pry. Silence fell upon them, as soft as the falling snow.
“Nin, I always meant to ask.” Dorian's question was delicate, as though he knew it would lead onto thin ice. “What do your tattoos mean?” Ninion's hand automatically went to where the lines of his valaslin contoured his cheek and paused, debating to what degree he would answer. As deep as his love for Dorian was, there were somethings he did not - could not - share with anyone.
“I thought you would know,” he replied. “They are a dedication to the gods.” Dorian clicked his tongue in annoyance.
“Yes, I know that,” he said. “I meant, which is yours for?” Ninion flushed a little, suddenly shy and angled his face to cast it in shadow. Proud and vocal though he was about being Dalish, he hardly ever brought it up around Dorian. Partly because he never asked, but also out of fear it would drive a wedge between them. As critical as he was of his homeland, Dorian was as staunchly Tevinter as Ninion was Dalish. On the surface he didn't want him to think he was over playing his elfishness to provoke him. On a deeper level, he knew how one question lead to another and pondered whether he was willing to talk about it – able to after the dream. But Dorian's face was earnest and... perhaps it was time.
“Oh. Well, mine is for Dirthamen.”
“Isn't he the Keeper of Secrets? Or is that his twin Falon'din? I always get those two mixed up.” Ninion was impressed, though he supposed, for a man of his learning, the Elvhen pantheon was hardly obscure.
“No, you're right. Falon'din is the Friend of the Dead.”
“Now I'm curious!” Dorian twisted on the log they were sitting on to better see Ninion. “What secrets do you have? It must be something good if you chose to have it tattooed on your face.” Dorian looked so happily scandalised that Ninion could not help but laugh despite himself.
“Oh Dorian! For all your knowledge you know precious little!” Dorian laughed goodnaturedly and Ninion wondered if he could sense the weight behind the topic and was trying to lighten the mood. “There are many reasons one might pick Dirthamen, other than a literal interpretation of his title.”
“So, why did you pick him then?”
“You know the story? How Falon'din took the spirit of a deer across the veil but Dirthamen could not follow, and wandered aimlessly until he forced the ravens, fear and despair, to take him across to his beloved brother?” Dorian nodded, his eyes attentive and inquisitive. “Well... I suppose you could say my experience was similar to his around the time when I was to chose my Valaslin.” Dorian's brow furrowed slightly but he did not interrupt. Ninion looked away from him and took a deep breath, measuring his ability to continue. He had not spoken aloud of his choice of valaslin – of Ainion – for many years, but it was still raw, and after his dream each word felt like stitching a wound with no Elfroot to dull the pain. “I'm... I had a twin. When we were... he... he died. I was... upset” Dorian gave a bleak “huff” of a laugh at the understatement. “As you can imagine. Worse, it was the week we were meant to receive our valaslin. He was going to chose Ghilan'nain because he had a way with the halla no one had seen for generations. I was going to pick Andruil to match him. But after he died I needed people to remember I was once one half of a whole. So anything other than Dirthamen seemed pointless. I wanted to seek guidance from him on how to cope with the separation. It seemed so unbearable, but I knew he would understand.
“My keeper wanted to postpone the ritual. I think she was afraid I intended to take my life. You know, to follow my brother across the veil like Dirthamen? But really, it was a promise. That I would do my 'aimless wandering' and that one day we would be together again.” The silence seemed oppressive and suddenly Ninion wished he had not spoken of any of it; made some story up instead. But he knew that to lie, to deny his twin, would have felt worse.
“What was his name?” Dorian's voice was thick, but Ninion did not dare look up from the now-cold tea in his hands.
“Ainion.” The name came smoothly off his tongue, though it had not graced it in years. When the silence returned he laughed to banish it and the tears threatening to spill. “I'm sorry, Dorian. You asked a perfectly innocent question and I had to make it all gloomy!” Dorian put a warm hand on Ninion's knee, his face serious, but kind.
“Thank you for telling me. And...” the hint of a sheepish smile played on his lips, “I hope I make your wanderings less aimless... as you do mine.” Ninion tried and failed to restrain the wry smile.
“That was especially mawkish of you,” he teased, glad the tone of the conversation was on to safer ground. Dorian returned with a grin of his own, leaning forwards.
“Don't get used to it.” He rested his forehead against Ninion's. “But mawkish or not, I meant it.” Ninion hooked his hands on the nape of Dorian's neck and leaned into him.
“I know. And you do.”