#dorian pavus: inquisitor. [ you have too many people asking you for everything under the sun. i won't be one of them. ]

[iniziare]

Tag drop: Dorian Pavus

[the-halo-of-my-memory]

Nitpicking & Picnicking (DA Gift Exchange 2020)

Paring: OC Female Inquisitor (Marzeyna Lavellan) x Cullen Rutherford

Word Count: 4,9k

Summary: The Inquisition overhear that Cullen and Marzeyna are courting but have yet to spend some time together outside of Inquisition hours. They decide to help them out with a picnic, much to the chagrin of Cullen. 

Warning(s): language, second hand embarrassment, Cullen nearly having a stroke, the usual Inquisition shenanigans, and fluff. 

A/N: This is a note to my future self. Future Jess, never sign up for another Secret Santa thing here again. You got so distracted by bullshit this year, you nearly forgot and then panicked for the last 48 hours of this. Nice job!

Anyways, @crqstalite this is my gift for you for the @dagiftexchange! I figured a sorta crack fic with fluff would be perfect for your Marzeyna and Cullen. And naturally, the rest of the Inquisition came with lol. I seriously hope you like it. 

I also wanna thank @dorathedestroyer64 and @callthedarknessdown for helping me a million by beta reading this and just being all around sweet friends (ily you guys <3) 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When she wakes the sunlight is in her eyes, and in the not so far distance, the noise of the men and women of the inquisition sparring rings. Swords striking, armor crashing, and the voices of many speaking, yelling, and giving orders. 

Nuzzling the corner of her pillow, Marzenya recognizes one voice among the others.

It’s Commander Cullen Rutherford. 

Her Commander Cullen Rutherford. 

The kiss on the battlements. . . it still leaves her breathless a week later. 

It was everything she wanted and so much more. 

Yes, she had been kissed before. It was some years ago, back when she was with the clan. It was with a fellow elf and it was just a kiss for the sake of kissing. There were a few others as well. 

But with Cullen, she understood why people did it. To have him near her, hands on her cheeks, and his warm lips upon her own...it stopped her embarrassment right in its place after being caught by that scout. Jim was his name. 

Nevermind him. The kiss! The kiss was what she wanted to think about at this moment. 

When they connected, she forgot to breathe. That kiss robbed her of breath and the burning in her lungs was worth it. 

It was becoming a part of her schedule. She would always come up to see him before breakfast, before going off on her duties. To see him not yet the commander and her, not yet the inquisitor. But simply as Marzeyna and Cullen. To say his name without speaking of war tactics or about Inquisition affairs is almost like singing  a melody. She can and will say his name whenever she likes when she’s at his office. 

And when he says her name, it’s like the winds have said it, biting at her skin, and giving her chills up and down her spine. It makes the blood in her heart run warm and gives her butterflies in her stomach. She’d be lying if she denied that one of the main reasons why she runs to see him was just to hear him say her name. 

Marzeyna. . . 

And so here she was, in his office. His face lights up at the sight of her, like the sun rising. 

“Good morning, Cullen.” 

“Good morning, Marzeyna,” he smiles back at her. Oh, the butterflies are back. 

“Are you busy at the moment?” she asks. 

“Not quite yet,” he says. “But I can spare some time if you’d like.” 

“I would, thank you.” 

And so they carve out that little space and time talking to one another. Nothing about the Inquisition. That could wait for the time being. Cullen would sit at his desk and she would sit atop it, next to his paperwork. 

The moment was only that: a moment. And it had to end eventually. 

Usually Marzeyna would usually slip off the desk and give Cullen a kiss on the cheek before leaving, but this time they were interrupted.  

“Commander Cullen, we need to make preparations for today’s—” 

It was Cassandra. She entered the room with a board in hand with papers clipped on it. Her eyes, glued to the ink, failed to notice the two at first. When she did, she trailed off. 

An uncomfortable silence settled in the air. It was awkward, no doubt. 

Although caught in only a chaste moment of closeness, it felt scandalizing all the same. This time they spent together was for them alone, and to be interrupted turned the pure intimacy of conversation into an act far more compromising and less innocent than the simple poetry of their enlaced fingers. 

There were already rumors circulating around the barracks and the rest of Skyhold as it is. They just had to kiss outside for some to see, didn’t they? 

And now Cassandra knows. Great. 

Well, she already had her suspicions. Cassandra always kept an eye on Marzeyna (which she was always grateful for) and no doubt she caught the dopey smiles and doe-eyes she subconsciously made when she looked at Cullen during war table meetings. 

Yeah, Leliana and Josephine probably know too. 

“I beg your pardon,” Cassandra says, “am I interrupting something?” 

“Oh! No, seeker,” Marzeyna can feel the heat coloring her cheeks. “I was just heading out,” She slips off the desk and gives a nod to Cullen, who nods back with that crooked smile she adored on his face. Too bad she couldn’t kiss him with Cassandra here. She bids them both a good morning before leaving.

*********

The moment had to end. And so be it. 

If only it was a moment longer, Cullen sighs. He didn’t get the kiss he found himself looking forward to every morning, but it was obvious why she didn’t give him one. 

Back to business. 

The seeker steps forward and lays her board of papers on his desk. 

“I know it is none of my concern,” she says, carefully picking her words, “but I must ask. Are you courting the inquisitor?” 

“Uh-” 

It was a simple yes or no question and yet he did not know how to answer it. 

Courting. It was such a strange word. It felt too proper for him, the son of Fereldan farmers.  A word meant for royals and nobles. He was neither of them. 

But technically speaking. . . 

“Er uh . . . yes, I am courting the Inquisitor.” 

Cassandra raises a brow, a smirk pulling aside her lips.

"But I assure you, seeker! We are keeping our personal affairs away from our duties with the Inquisition. We will not shirk our duties and—"

"Cullen, that's enough."

She hides her smile with a fist and she's laughing? At him?

"I know you two will not neglect your duties and will remain professional when necessary."

Oh.

"Oh."

"Another question, if I may?"

"Go ahead."

"Have you spent some time with her?"

Cullen’s brows draw together. "Some—some time with her?"

"Yes. You are courting here." She reminds him, amused to have to elaborate further. 

"Y-Yes, I am."

Cassandra’s head tilts to the side. "Have you not spent some time with her after hours? Perhaps have taken her outside of Skyhold?"

If there were words in Cullen's head, they seem to have leaked out of his ears.

"I uh. . . haven't had the chance." He realizes. 

“A chance?"

"You do remember that we have an Inquisition to run?”

"Of course I do," Casandra scowls and crosses her arms. "But you must make time for Marzeyna if you expect this courtship to be successful."

"Excuse me?”

"Do not worry. Myself and the others shall help." And with that she picks up her board of papers and heads for the door.

Cullen was struck by a bolt of confusion.

"What in the blazes....”

****

Early evening arrived, the sun soon setting in an hour, and candles would need to be lit. 

With a familiar ache in his neck and shoulders, Cullen sits hunched over his desk with stacks of paperwork that needed his attention. 

Scout reports, operations that require his permission, requisitions, letters, etc. 

He could feel a headache coming on. The dull, slow creeping from the back of his skull. Having had so many since withdrawing from lyrium, he knows too well that it will soon spread and pulse along to the beat of his heart and grow sharp, clawing at his mind from the back of his eyes. 

A sigh escapes his lips. 

Maybe he needs to eat something. It was time for dinner. Perhaps he could find Marzeyna and have a meal with her in his office. Or maybe the garden, have a little picnic there. Watch the sunset together. 

Yes . . . that would be nice . . . 

Just as he’s about to get up from his seat, the door opposite his desk opens. 

“Commander Cullen, may I have a moment of your time?” 

It was that Tevinter mage, Dorian Pavus. 

This cannot be good. 

“Uh, you may.” 

“Wonderful!” The mage walks over and puts his hands on his desk. “A little birdie told me that our dear commander is courting our sweet little inquisitor.” 

“Was the little birdie perhaps Cassandra?” Cullen makes a face. 

“Perhaps,” Dorian says with a knowing look. “Though if I must be frank, we all had our suspicions before the little birdie came flying.” 

“We?” 

“Don’t be foolish, Cullen. We’ve seen the way you two look at each other. It’s so sweet and innocent, it makes me ill.” Dorian gives a sort of dreamy sigh. “Reminds of my youth.” 

Meanwhile the commander had grown two shades pinker. He doesn’t need a mirror to know that. 

“It-It was that obvious?” 

“I’m afraid so. But nevermind that. The same little birdie also told you that you have yet to spend some time with her outside of Inquisition affairs. Is that true?” 

It occurs to Cullen that he wanted nothing more in this moment than to bury his face in his gloved hands and scream. 

“Yes, that’s true. Look, Dorian. I don’t know if you noticed, but we are part of the Inquisition. We are in the middle of attempting to close the breach in the sky and defeat Corypheus, all while in the middle of mage/templar war.” 

A moment passes for his words to settle in.

“Alright, I see your point.” Tucking a fist under his chin, Dorian appears to be deep in thought. “Have you thought about it nonetheless?” 

“Of course I have, it’s just—” Cullen sighs. 

“Just what?” Dorian prompts. 

“It’s just. . . we have business to conduct. We can barely see each other outside of meetings.”

“Have you thought about making time?” 

Wait a minute. . . 

“Making time?” 

“Yes, making time. Cullen, I know you and Marzenya are busy people. I know we are in the middle of something awful and the two of you and the rest of us are trying to fix everything. The issue here is that you need to spend some time together or your work will consume your relationship. At the end of the day, you’ll want you to remember the memories you made with her, not with all this shit paperwork.” 

For a second, Cullen doesn’t know what to say. 

“Dorian, that was  . . . incredibly touching  of you to say.” 

“I know it was. People think I like to talk just to hear the sound of my voice, which is true. I have a lovely voice. Now come on!” 

By now, Dorian had walked over to the other side of the desk and was pulling the commander up and out of his seat by the arm. 

“Where are we going?” Cullen asks. 

“To make memories.” 

“I can’t I have reports to-” 

“What did I say about making memories?” 

****

The magister ended up taking the commander to Skyhold’s own pub, the Herald's Rest. Inside, the pub was packed with familiar faces, all engaged in banter and drinks sloshing in their hands. The music was lively and there was not a sad soul in sight. 

At least the morale was looking high, Cullen thought. 

Dorian takes him near the back end of the pub where the Iron Bull and his Chargers sat and made their new home. 

“Dorian! Commander! It’s nice to see you here! Come, take a seat!” Bull did look happy to see them. As Cullen takes a seat with the group, one of them, Krem, hands him a drink—though drinking is the last thing he wants to do while this headache continues to grow. 

“So what brings you here?” Bull asks after taking a swig of his drink. 

“I did,” says Dorian, “and you can thank me for that. And also, it turns out Cassandra was right. Our dear commander is courting our little inquisitor.” 

The incredulous look on Bull’s face says it all. 

“Shit, really?! Hey Cullen, congrats, man! Didn’t know you had it in you.” The “pat” on the shoulder he gave him nearly knocks him off balance in his chair. 

“Er uh, thank you.” 

As Bull is about to say something else, something across the room catches his attention. 

“Varric! Blackwall! Get over here! We gotta talk.” 

Oh, Maker take him. 

The warden and the crossbow dwarf take with them, and Blackwall obliges to take a drink while Varric denies. 

“Curly, it’s certainly a surprise to see you here.” 

“I could say the same, commander. What brings you here?”  

“Nevermind that,” interrupts an impatient Dorian. “What matters is this: the seeker was right. Cullen is courting Marzenya.” 

The two men’s eyes go wide and turn to Cullen. 

“I knew it!” Varric had a large smile on his face. “Who made the first move?” 

The commander’s face felt as hot as a kiln. 

“I-I guess it was technically I did-” 

“Ha! You owe a sovereign, Tiny.” 

Bull groans as he digs in his pockets. “Dammit. I was hoping Zey would be the one to grow balls.”

“I was thinking the same,” Dorian hands  a sovereign of his own to Blackwall. 

“Excuse me, have you all been making bets on my personal life?” Oh, that headache is coming along quite nicely. 

“Relax, Cullen,” says Blackwall, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We mean no harm. It was just you two were quite the spectacle, even back in Haven.” 

“He’s right,” Varric nods. “I know a romance in the making when I see it.” 

“Alright now, this is the important thing. Cullen has yet to  properly spend time with Marzeyna .” 

“Oh yeah?”” Bull raises a brow. 

Cullen sighs as he feels a blood vessel near his temple about to burst. 

“There is a giant hole in the sky we need to worry about first.” He points out. 

“That can wait.” 

Now that blood vessel is really going to burst. The commander stands abruptly from his chair, nearly knocking it over. His mouth is open, ready to debate, when a hand lands on his shoulder and pulls him back down. 

“Dorian’s right,” it was Blackwall. “This is more important.” 

“How?!” 

“This is a chance of love. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity and you can’t neglect that opportunity.” 

“I don’t-” 

Dorian interrupts him.  “We need to come up with some ideas for him to spend some time with Zey, any suggestions?”

“Have you thought about having drinks with her here?” Varric asks. 

“This isn’t the most romantic or intimate place for us,” Cullen rubs the back of his neck. 

“Have thought about having dinner with her in her quarters?” gestures Blackwall. 

The room is suddenly warming up. 

“That’s far too intimate for the time being.” 

“Mm!” Bull wipes his mouth after taking another swig of his drink with the back of his hand. “Have you thought about having sex with her?”

The room is now on fire. 

“I-! We’ve barely started!” Cullen says through his teeth. 

“No no, that’s a brilliant idea,” oh Blackwall, please no. “Sleeping with her will give you a good outlook on how your relationship is and will be.” 

“Hell yeah!” Spilling his beer, Bull is adding fuel to the metaphorical fire. “Take those damn gloves off for once and show her a good time!” 

Cullen knows his face is as red as apples and he blames the blood vessel that has surely now burst and his hemorrhaging underneath the surface of his skin. 

“Knock it off, the both of you,” hisses Dorian. “You know damn well the two of them are not like that. They can barely kiss as it is. We need to keep coming up with ideas. Cullen, have you thought of any yourself?” 

Rubbing his chin, the commander gives himself a moment to think. 

“I was thinking about having a picnic with her in the gardens.” He divulges. 

“Hey,” Varric crosses his arms, “that’s not a bad idea. A little fruit, cheese, and some wine and there you have it.” 

“Now that,” Dorian puts a hand on Cullen’s shoulder, “we can do.” 

“We?” That doesn’t sound good. 

���Yes, we shall aid you in your romantic endeavors.” 

“I don’t think-” Bull shuts him up with a wave of his hand. 

“Please, it’s just a picnic. How hard  can it be to set up?”

Dorian leans over in his chair toward the commander. 

“Just ask her to have a picnic with you tomorrow morning and we’ll have everything set up by evening.” 

It was honestly difficult to trust these men with personal affairs. Considering his schedule, to have everything set up tomorrow was a gift. 

So he sighs and agrees. 

****

It was barely mid-morning when Marzeyna’s heart burst out of her chest. 

Alright, not literally, but still!

When she went to see Cullen, he had just asked her to have a picnic with him in Skyhold’s garden this evening. 

Yes, they’ve shared a fair share of kisses and warm embraces. . . but everything was still so new and so precious, like a newborn babe. So full of love. 

She is still in the state that she was in when they first talked at Haven, long before the kiss. Now, her affection is acknowledged by the weight of his own affection. 

Marzeyna said yes to the picnic, of course. 

Much still needs to be done today and the picnic lingers in her mind in the meantime. 

She needs to seek some consultation. And she knows the perfect person. 

****

“Oh Vivienne, I’m so glad you have the time to help me.” 

“For you, my dear inquisitor, I’ll always clear my schedule.” 

They were in Vivienne's room above the court near the library. Evening was in a few hours and Marzeyna wasn’t exactly calm about this. 

It was just a picnic with Cullen. No big deal. Noooope. 

Oh, there goes her imagination. 

“I’ve never properly courted before. I’ve shared a few kisses back when I was with the clan, but nothing as serious as this. I’m afraid I’ll say or do something and he won’t be interested in me anymore.” 

Vivienne chuckles as they take a seat on the settee together. 

“Oh my dear, you’ve only just started. Do not worry about making mistakes. In fact, this is the perfect time to make mistakes. It shall aid you on how to improve both yourself and the relationship.” 

“Really” 

“Of course, really. Besides, I doubt a few ‘mistakes’ would deter the commander away.”

As the inquisitor spoke about her conversation with Cullen from earlier, their heads swiveled towards the sound of the door opening. 

“Did you two really think you could make plans without us?” 

It was Leliana, and behind her were Josephine and Cassandra. They walk over to them and take seats on Vivienne’s bed and a stool. 

“What are you three doing here?” Marzeyna asks. 

“We thought we’d come and help you with the picnic with the commander,” Josephine said with a smile. 

“Help me? How do you all know?” 

Cassandra clears her throat.

“We overheard Dorian speaking with Varric about the picnic and gathering things for Cullen. We three thought we would do the same for you.” 

Marzeyna swears that though her heart has yet to burst from her chest and out her ribcage, it certainly swells right then and there. 

“Oh, you lot are going to make me cry.” 

The five of them start to converse and throw ideas of what to do. 

“For starters,” Leliana speaks, “We need to figure out what you will wear.” 

“Wear?” Marzeyna shakes her head. “This is just a picnic, not a ball. Isn’t what I’m wearing right now just fine?” 

“Sure,” said Josephine, “but it doesn’t hurt to dress up for a small occasion like this. It will show the commander that you care and that you want to look good for him.” 

“I guess. . .” Humans are a weird race sometimes but that line of reasoning doesn’t sound absurd. 

Josephine continues. 

“I think I might have some simple skirts in quarters you could try on if you like.”

“I believe I may have some blouses you borrow as well,” Cassandra smiles at her. 

“I also have some jewelry if you’re interested,” Leliana said. “Something light like small earrings and a simple necklace. Maybe even a bracelet.” 

“And I shall aid you with a little hair and makeup,” Vivienne already had compacts of face paint ready for her. 

Okay, now she really is going to cry. 

****

Cullen made his way to Skyhold’s garden as the sun was about to set. Soon the sky would turn to different shades of colors and the stars would make their way in the dark. 

And to have Marzeyna with him when that happens would simply be a gift for him. 

When he arrives, the gardens are eerily empty. Nobody is there except for Varric, who holds a small basket in his arms. 

“Curly! I was wondering when you were going to show up. Got everything set up for you.” 

Walking over to him, Cullen spots the display before the both of them. 

On the grass lays a plain worn blanket, threading at one side. There’s a plate in the middle that holds fruits, cheeses, and sweets. Varric sets the basket down and reaches in and pulls out a bottle of wine and two glasses. 

“There’s also candles and matches in here in case you want to stick around past sundown.” 

For a moment, the commander loses his words. 

“You alright there, Curly? We didn’t forget anything, did we?” 

Cullen snaps back to reality. 

“N-No. No, this is . . . perfect.” 

“Good ‘cause it’s not gonna get any more perfect then this.” 

As Cullen takes a closer look at the display, he expects Varric to walk away, giving him the much needed space and quiet he’d like to share with the inquisitor. Instead, the dwarf walks over to the ledge a couple feet away. 

Just as Cullen is about to call out to him, he hears the sound of one of the doors opening. 

“Dorian, what are you-” 

“Oh, I’m just here to take in some fresh air,” the mage brushes off. “I’m also meeting Cassandra here for a game of chess. Don’t mind me.” He walks past him to the chess board where he once shared a game with the commander not far too long ago. 

Again, why is he here? Cullen goes to open his mouth to say something when the door opens again. 

“Good evening, Commander.” 

“Er uh . . . good evening, Cassandra.” 

The seeker walks past him to join Dorian at the chessboard. They speak in hushed tones that he cannot decipher. 

And then the doors open again. 

It’s Leliana and Josephine who also say “good evening” before rushing towards one of the garden benches and sitting themselves down. 

And then Blackwall walks in and utters his good evening and joins Varric by the ledge. 

And then another door opens, but it’s not from either entrance to the gardens. Instead, it’s from the upper level where the bedrooms are. There stood the tall forms of the Iron Bull and Vivienne in her headdress, arm and arm taking what appears to be...a stroll?

The blood vessel from last night suddenly wants revenge. 

“What in the Maker’s name-!” he starts but then the door opens again. 

Oh . . . 

It’s her . . . 

“Good evening, Cullen,” Marzeyna says, “I got your note.” 

Oh, that's right. He left a note for her in his office that told her to come meet with him in the garden at her earliest convenience. 

“Good evening, Marzeyna. . .” he breathes out. “You look beautiful tonight.” 

It’s true. He rarely saw her outside of her armor and indoor inquisition clothes that she wore to look the part. But tonight, she wore something else. Her hair is done up with strands of wavy hair outlining her face, showing off the earrings with red gems adorning her ears. Her face itself is painted, her eyelids swept with a glittery yellow, almost gold dust, and her mouth painted a brilliant shade of red that complimented her vallaslin. Her blouse hugged her exposed shoulders and from her neck hangs a simple gold necklace. The sleeves are long and rolled up below the elbow. Below that is a long skirt that exposes her ankles, revealing bare feet half wrapped in cloth. 

It wasn’t much, and yet it still steals his breath away. 

“Thank you,” she says and walks closer to him.

Their hands meet and he leans over to her to give her a kiss. 

Until that is when someone coughs and reminds him they aren’t alone. 

Without speaking, Cullen gently pulls her over to their little picnic and sits themselves down on the blanket. 

“I am sorry,” he says while pouring her a glass of wine. “But apparently the Inquisition wants to witness our little picnic.” 

“Inquisition?” Marzeyna looks around, her eyes widening at every angle. “Oh hell, almost everyone is here. Why?” 

“I don’t know,” Cullen rubs the back of neck. He’s seriously going to rub it raw one day. “I was about to tell everyone off when you arrived.” 

“Oh shit,” she murmurs into her wine. “They expect some kind of show from this, like a play. Maybe if we just sit here and whisper they’ll eventually get bored and leave.” 

“Let’s hope for it.” 

Conversations were attempted, but just as they really get into the meat of it, someone whispers, someone coughs, someone giggles. A near dozen pair of eyes were on them and Cullen could feel them burning into him in all directions. 

“They really are a persistent lot,” he mutters mostly to himself. 

“I’m afraid so,” Marzeyna replies as she takes a bite from a sweet tart from the plate. 

Time passes. It feels like an hour, but it’s really closer to twenty minutes. 

“Any minute now,” she says, her smile waning away, “they will all pick up and leave and it’ll be just the two of us.” 

They both sigh. 

Another moment passes. Nothing happens. Cullen’s pretty sure now that Dorian and Cassandra have yet to even make the second move in their game. Varric and Blackwall pretend to be interested in both the sky and ground. Leliana and Josephine appear to lean against one another, ready to fall asleep. The Iron Bull and Vivienne have long since gave up pretending to walk up and down the balcony and now lean against it. 

Cullen and Marzeyna no longer stare at each other as they space off into the distance, near tipsy on wine and full of fruit and sweets. 

“Alright, I give up.” Marzeyna takes in the rest of her wine and stands up. Cullen joins her as well. “Have you lot gotten bored yet? Nothing’s gonna happen. I don’t even know what you all expected.” 

“Honestly, neither did I,” says Dorian getting up from his seat to stretch his legs. “I’ll be off now.” 

“Dammit Cullen, take the gloves off already!” Bull yells from the balcony while making obscene hand gestures that Vivienne does not approve of. 

“I am not taking my gloves off!” Cullen yells back, his face quick to turn red. 

“Prude!” 

With that, everyone got up and made their way out, some laughing along the way. 

When silence finally fell and the two of them were the only ones there, they sat back down with a sigh of relief. 

The silence is broken when Marzeyna starts to laugh. 

It starts off as a small giggle and then it builds up to a good chuckle and soon enough, she’s cackling like a child does at inappropriate jokes. 

And he laughs with her. They laugh hard and loud until Cullen can feel another headache off in the distance. One he won’t complain about too terribly much. 

“I have to say, Cullen,” she speaks as she winds down, “this was the worst picnic I’ve ever had.” 

“My apologies,” he replies, clearing his dried throat. “I had a much better idea in my head. It was much more romantic and intimate and not full of witnesses.” She scoots herself closer to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“It’s alright, it’s the thought that counts.” 

The commander puts his hand over the Inquisitor’s and holds it closer to him so he can kiss the knuckles of her hand. 

“I appreciate that very much.” 

Marzeyna leans towards him and he wraps an arm around her shoulders and holds her other hand in his. 

“Let me make it up to you,” she says. “Let’s have breakfast in my quarters tomorrow morning. Just me and you. How does that sound?” 

Just me and her . . . 

“Dearest, that sounds lovely. . .” 

“Good, I prefer the sun rises than sunsets, to be honest.” 

“And why is that?” 

Marzeyna shrugs. “It's something I've always enjoyed since the clan. I like watching the world wake up with me. It’s a beautiful sight that reminds me I am alive and have a day ahead of me to live. And it reminds me of you, when I see you in the morning before breakfast. You are the first thing I think of when I wake up with the sun in my eyes.” 

She’s robbing him of words and breath again. He can’t help himself. 

Taking a hand to cup the side of her face, he leans in, closing his eyes, and catches her lips with his. 

With her, everything is perfect. With her, everything he’s been through is almost worth it. 

They part and she starts to laugh again. 

“What is it?” He can’t wipe the dumb smile he knows he has on his face. 

“Nothing,” she shakes her head. “It’s just that my lip paint is now all over your lips.” 

“Is it now?” 

“Yeah. Here, let me help you make it worse.” 

And she kisses him again. 

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 16: Trust

The Inquisitor’s work is never done, so when the opportunity arises to take some time away, you’d better grab it and run.

But what if it includes a lot more blood, sweat and red lyrium than you bargained for?

Read here or on AO3!

***************************

Cullen’s finger rhythmically tapping on the wooden armrest of his chair, the soft scratching of Josephine’s pen and the shuffling of papers as Leliana sifted through the remaining reports on the war table were the only sounds that disturbed the quiet that had fallen in the war room. A tiny crease formed between Leliana’s brows when she glanced at a thin piece of parchment, wrinkled at the edges and the cheap wax of its seal crumbling between her fingers.

Tristan stretched his arms over his head and cracked his neck, sighing impatiently.

“Well? What does it say?” he asked. He had been in that room, and in that uncomfortable chair, since late morning. To say that he was eager to leave would be an understatement.

“There is a man in the Emerald Graves,” Leliana said smoothly, still reading. “Goes by the name of Fairbanks. He says he has important information for us, in exchange for our help.”

“What sort of information?” Josephine said. She had been scribbling on her tablet, but now her hand had stopped and she was looking curiously at Leliana.

Leliana shook her head, a dark red strand of hair peeking out from beneath her hood with the movement. “He doesn’t say.”

“This is ridiculous,” Cullen cut in. “Why should we put our men in danger for information of doubtful quality or use? If he wants us to lend him our forces, he’d better be more specific in what he’s willing to give back.”

“And it’s not only that. He won’t just speak with anyone. He needs you to go there personally,” Leliana continued, her pale blue eyes focusing on Tristan. They were sparkling with something akin to amusement. “He says he will only talk to the Herald of Andraste.”

Tristan returned her unreadable look with a frown, resting his chin on his fist. “I’ll have to agree with Cullen on this. It is indeed ridiculous. I have better things to do than run around the Dales for a piece of dubious information.”

Leliana sat back in her chair, her eyes still on the letter. Her mouth was twisted slightly in a thoughtful frown. Sometimes, when Tristan looked at her, he could see a beautiful woman, with an inquisitive spirit and a knack for teasing jokes. Others, she would glance at him with those icy blue eyes of hers and would freeze him right to his very core.

At length, she spoke, her voice level and drawn out. “I think we should see what he has to say.”

“Why would we do that?” Cullen replied. “The Inquisitor is needed here. There is much more pressing business to attend to.”

“However cryptic his message is,” Leliana replied, eyeing him under the shadow of her cowl, “we cannot ignore the fact that we know next to nothing about the situation of the civil war in the forests of the Dales. The Inquisition currently holds but one outpost at the outskirts of the forest. There could be demon summonings and assassination plots happening and we wouldn’t even know it. If there’s a chance that this Fairbanks has some information of use,” she said slowly, “I think we should take it.”

Cullen’s back was straight and rigid as he prepared to interject, and Josephine had leaned forward to speak, but something in Leliana’s words made them both pause. They all turned to look at Tristan, awaiting his reaction. He twisted the ring on his finger thoughtfully.

“Your words have some merit, Leliana. I won’t lie.”Leliana’s eyebrow arched ever so slightly at him, but she said nothing as she schooled her features back to placidity. “Perhaps I should indeed go there and judge for myself whether his information is worth anything. We don’t have much to lose at this point.”

Cullen’s expression deepened. “I still believe that it is risky. We should send a dispatch of our men first to scout the area. Going in there completely blind would be unwise.”

“I agree,” Josephine said quickly. “There is no reason to place yourself in unnecessary danger, Your Worship. Your safety is of utmost importance.”

“I know it is,” Tristan replied, his scowl threatening to slither to the surface any minute. “That’s what you keep telling me, at least.”

Josephine gave him a small smile that only barely hid her exasperation, and placed her pen on the paper, ready to write his orders. Tristan nodded with a sigh.

“Very well. Send scouts ahead of us.”

“Excellent, Your Worship.” Her pen made a satisfying scratching nose as she wrote. “And with that, out meeting is adjourned.”

Tristan left the war council room, his head as heavy as it always was after a lengthy meeting. He had been running around the keep all morning. The sun was slowly creeping towards the snowy tops of the Frostback Mountains, and his work still wasn’t done. There were new requisitions that needed his attention, and several Inquisition followers that had requested his audience -he swore, if one more person presented themselves before him to ask him to settle a dispute about goats and chickens he might well lose his bloody mind-, not to mention his own training with Heir.

Try as he might, he couldn’t find a single moment to spare some days.

Running a hand through his hair, he crossed the wide yard towards Ser Morris’s office. The man had repeatedly asked him to inspect the requisitions that had been sent by the officers in the Hinterlands, and Tristan had long before ran out of excuses to avoid it. His office was right next to the training grounds too, and walking past them filled Tristan with a vague sense of unease. Too many people crowded in one place and ready to fall on one knee and swear fealty to him for his liking.

The training grounds were thankfully quiet at this time of day. Cassandra was alone by the sparring dummies, her practice sword cutting through them mercilessly. As soon as she heard him approach, she straightened up, giving him a careful look over.

Tristan stopped short. However much he wanted to ignore her and move on, she was still an important member of the Inquisition. It wouldn’t help to be at odds with her even more than they already were.

He inclined her head to her in greeting, and prepared to continue on his way. But before he could take a step forward, she threw her sword on the ground and approached him.

“Inquisitor,” she said flatly, “I wish to have a word with you.’

Straight to the point. The Seeker certainly wasn’t one to waste words. Tristan straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m listening.” If she knew how to be curt and abrupt, then he knew, too.

She didn’t seem to notice his bluntness as she wrung her hands before her. Tristan glanced at them, then back at her, curiosity stirring within him. He wondered idly what she could possibly have to say to him that made her so uncomfortable.

“There is something that’s been troubling me,” she said slowly. She took a breath, glancing around her before she spoke. “When I was in the order of the Seekers, there were a few high profile cases of Templars and mages going rogue. Something must be done about this.”

“Why aren’t the Seekers looking into it?”

“The order is hardly functioning now. I have written to them repeatedly, but have received no word. I’m not sure what’s happening with the Seekers anymore. Whatever it is, they’ve stopped going after these cases, and these people are dangerous. We need to go after them, or no one will.”

Tristan looked at her for a moment, considering. There were too many things that needed his attention. Another responsibility on top of the mountain of responsibilities he already had was the last thing he wanted. Cassandra returned his look levelly, her dark brown eyes fixed on his. For once, she seemed as if genuinely holding her breath, waiting for his answer.

He was surprised with how little he grumbled when he forced the words out of his mouth. “I can see how important this is to you, Seeker. I’ll look into it.”

A look of relief mingled with surprise blossomed on Cassandra’s face. It seemed as if she had hardly expected him to stop and listen to her, let alone accept. Tristan’s frown deepened only slightly. What kind of man did she think he was?

“That is… good to hear. I will mark the spots where they have been last seen on the map and show it to Sister Leliana. There is one of them in the Western Approach as far as I know. And another one in the Emerald Graves…”

“The Emerald Graves?” Tristan asked, interrupting her. “I will be going there soon. You should join me.”

The edges of her lips quivered with the beginnings of a smile, before her face took on a serious expression once more. “Of course, Inquisitor. It would please me greatly to accompany you.”

Tristan nodded. “Is that all?”

Cassandra straightened up, almost standing at attention. “Yes. I’ll start getting ready for our expedition straight away. Let me know when you would like us to leave.”

He gestured in acknowledgment and walked away towards Ser Morris’s office. As little as he was looking forward to travelling with Cassandra -they always ended up fighting like cats and dogs for some reason- perhaps this would be a chance for their relationship to become less… rocky. Perhaps.

Tristan let out a soft sigh. He fervently wished for the moment that day would finally be over.

******

“You seem distracted. Is everything alright?”

Dorian pulled back to gaze at him, the lone lamp that was lit overhead casting its trembling light on his face. The library was blissfully empty and quiet for once. Tristan had gone to him as soon as the last report he had signed was placed carefully in its envelope, and the candle on his desk reduced to a melted heap in its holder. Dorian had been at his study as usual, scribbling equations and diagrams on large pieces of smooth parchment, his handwriting elegant and precise even when hasty. Tristan had sat on the plush armchair next to his desk and watched him as he worked, nodding occasionally while Dorian chatted away about this and that magical theory that Tristan had never even heard of, sipping on his drink. He hadn’t missed a moment before taking his hand and pulling him onto his lap after the last apprentice had left, despite his laughing protests.

Tristan gazed back at him now, at the golden light falling on his smooth skin, the shadows moving about its surface. “Yes, everything’s fine,” he said in a tone he hoped was light. “I’m just a little tired.”

With a soft exhale, Dorian pushed a strand of hair behind Tristan’s ear. His fingers traced the curve of his ear, the line of his jaw, his eyes gliding gently over his features. He looked so beautiful and when he looked at him like that, as if he was some strange and fascinating thing. It made his heart flutter in his chest.

“You push yourself too hard,” Dorian said gently. “Some time away from it all would do you good.”

“If only it were that easy,” Tristan sighed, rubbing at his tired eyes. “There are so many things that need my attention. I barely have a moment to myself anymore.”

Dorian smoothed his palms along Tristan’s shoulders, slowly working the knots that were there. Tristan closed his eyes and leaned into his touch, humming with relief.

“You know,” Dorian said, “sometimes I can see you going about your business from my spot at the rotunda.”

“Do you? I’ve never noticed.”

Dorian nodded, a sigh escaping his lips. “I could watch you roam around Skyhold all day. Here and there you run, checking in on everyone. Why don’t they come to you, feed your grapes, rub your shoulders?”

Tristan laughed under his breath. “You know, I often wonder about that myself. I could have Leliana feed me grapes while Josephine signs off on all those reports for me so I don’t have to lift a finger. Do you think Cullen would agree to rub my shoulders? Now there’s a pretty picture.” A pinch on his right shoulder made him yelp.

Dorian sniffed in disapproval. “Serves you right.”

Tristan pulled him close, nuzzling his ear. He took a deep breath, inhaling Dorian’s warm and heady scent. “I don’t need Cullen when I have you to do that for me,” he said, placing a kiss on the soft skin of his neck. “And you do it so well…”

“Oh, you’re the sweet talker, aren’t you?” Dorian said, his laughter reverberating in the circular rotunda.

It was a bewitching sound, bright and warm, rich like honeyed wine. Tristan caught his slightly parted lips in a kiss, light and gentle, that still stirred a fire deep within him. He surrendered himself to it, eager for more.

“I can’t wait for some time alone with you,” Dorian whispered, his lips sliding to his ear.

Tristan’s fingers tightened imperceptibly about his waist as a shiver slid down his spine. He swallowed thickly, hoping his voice wasn’t trembling. “I’d love that, too. Though I fear it may be a while until it happens.”

Dorian looked at him quizzically, shifting his body on Tristan’s lap so he was facing him directly. “And why is that?”

“I will be leaving for the Emerald Graves soon. Apparently the civil war has been going worse than we thought. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

A dark shadow passed over Dorian’s face. “I don’t suppose you thought you’d be going without me, did you?”

Tristan blinked at him. “I, uh…” he mumbled. He rummaged through his brain for something to say, some sort of explanation, but no words came. In fact, it hadn’t even crossed his mind to take Dorian with him. It was a risky mission, and they would be walking straight into the middle of what might very well prove to be a trap, or at the very least, a particularly bloody and messy battle.

He shook his head decisively. “It’s too dangerous. We don’t even know who we will be up against.”

“That’s precisely why I should be coming with you!”

“Dorian,” Tristan pleaded, cupping his cheek, “you know I want nothing more than to spend as much time with you as I can. But if there’s an attack while we’re there, or it all turns out to be a trap, I want you nowhere near it. It’s best if you stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and we-“

“Stay here, while you’re out there, risking your life and fighting Maker knows who?” Dorian straightened up, swatting Tristan’s hand away from his cheek. His eyes flashed with indignation. “Not a chance.”

“Dorian…”

“You listen to me,” he said, wagging his finger before his face, “I am no damsel in need of protection, and you are no knight on a white horse, so you’d better give up the act. I’m coming, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

Tristan let out an exasperated huff and looked away, frowning. He could feel his guts twisting with unease. The last thing he wanted was to place Dorian in danger. Yet deep down he knew Dorian was right. They had gone on almost every mission together, since he had joined the Inquisition. Dorian had held his own in every fight so far, and he and Solas were by far the most skilled mages he knew. Tristan couldn't stop him from coming, simply because he was scared for his safety.

The fact that he could do nothing to deny him didn’t make the ball of apprehension in his stomach any less prominent.

Dorian was watching him, his arms folded before his chest and his brows furrowed in irritation. He looked as if ready to reach out for the nearest book and smack him on the head if he so much as thought of saying no.

“Fine,” he grumbled finally. “You can come.”

“Good,” Dorian said, nodding slowly. “I knew you would come to your senses.” A small smile crossed his lips as he leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Tristan’s neck. “Now, what outfits shall I bring with me? I’ve heard the weather there is quite splendid.”

*****

“This is the single worst place I’ve ever been in,” Dorian grumbled as they traipsed through the verdant forest.

Tristan bit back a laugh at his disgusted frown. Cassandra huffed in annoyance, while Varric chuckled under his breath.

“Not what you expected, Sparkler?” He shot him a mirthful smile. “Does nature hold no allure for you?”

Dorian sniffed his disapproval, waving away a fat fly that was buzzing near his face. “If by ‘allure’ you mean the piles of goat manure and the hordes of flying insects, then it definitely holds a lot of that,” he said curtly. “I had my doubts when we were in the Exalted Plains, but now I’m positive; the elves really were given the worst parts of Thedas.”

“I like that it’s so peaceful,” Cassandra replied. “The Dales have seen so much conflict, and yet they’re still beautiful.”

The only response Cassandra received was a groan from Tristan, a disgusted sound from Dorian, and a muffled chuckle from Varric, who seemed entirely too amused with all their grumbling.

The leaves overhead were shifting with the wind, their swiftly moving shadows casting dark shapes on the soft earth. It was an incredibly lush forest, with ancient trees, gurgling streams and scores of wild animals that seemed almost unfamiliar with human presence. At times, even Tristan could appreciate how beautiful it was, looking as if barely touched by civilization, save for the old elven ruins and the scattered Orlesian villas. One would have thought that no man had set foot upon the narrow gravel roads and footpaths in years, had it not been for the unmistakeable proof that war was, indeed, happening all around them. Upturned carriages lay at the side of the roads, their contents long before taking away, no doubt by bandits or the infamous Freemen of the Dales. Worse than that were the remains of bloody skirmishes, the charred earth and the heavy boot prints on the grass marring the serenity of the forest.

Despite the cool breeze and the dense shade provided by the trees, Tristan couldn’t deny sharing a little of Dorian’s exasperation after walking for what felt like hours. Sweat made his shirt cling to his back, and his feet were already killing him inside his tough leather boots. The uneven forest roads were not the ideal terrain for horses, so they had all left their mounts at the last Inquisition camp they had found, much to Tristan’s reluctance.

Scout Lace Harding had given them a map, showing them where Fairbanks’s encampment was supposed to be. It had been hours since they had left the last Inquisition camp, yet it still felt like they were going nowhere. All roads looked the same in that place, and most signs had been swallowed up by nature long before, so any hope of finding their way had been quite slim from the get go.

The crossing that stood before them was a rather small one, with a partially broken statue of a woman holding a bow peeking through the thick foliage.

“I wonder who that is,” Varric said, shielding his eyes from the light.

“Someone that wouldn’t care very much if I sat on their foot, I hope?” Dorian said, plopping on the smooth stone underneath the statue. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and patted his brow with a sigh.

Tristan took the map out of his pocket and glanced at it, tilting his head this way and that, trying to make sense of where they were. A small marking on the map, so small that he had to squint to see it, matched the statue that was right in front of him.

He glanced at the two roads that expanded before them. “I think it’s this way,” he said, pointing north. “It shouldn’t be too far away now.”

Dorian groaned as he stood back up, grumbling under his breath. “Whoever thought it was a good idea to start an encampment here, I’ll never know.”

Cassandra clicked her tongue in frustration. “If you’re going to be complaining all day long, Pavus, perhaps you should stay at the next campsite we find.”

“And rob you all of my shining presence? Perish the thought.” Dorian straightened up, flashing Cassandra a teasing smile. “Oh, just admit it. You would all be bored to death without me.”

“Hey, and what am I here for?” Varric said. “If it weren’t for my stories, the ride here from Skyhold would have been as dull as a wet weekend in Wycombe.”

“A wet weekend?” Dorian scoffed as they all started walking. “Any sort of weekend would be dull in Wycombe. Last time I was there it was a bit of a shithole.”

Varric eyed him quizzically for a moment, then gave a short laugh. “It’s a saying, Sparkler. Sometimes I forget how Free Marcher expressions might be lost on anyone that isn’t from the place. But I'll agree with you, Wycombe is definitely a shithole. It couldn’t compare to Kirkwall on its best of days.”

“Kirkwall? You can’t honestly mean that, can you?” Tristan said, shaking his head in disbelief. “As much as I know you love that place, Varric, you’ll have to admit that Ostwick is the superior city. It’s not called the gem of the Free Marches for nothing.”

Varric let out a loud guffaw. “Ostwick? Better than Kirkwall? You must be joking. If those Ostwickers hold their noses any higher, they’ll soon be walking about gazing at the sky. It’s a pretty city, but I’d take Kirkwall any day. You know what they say- you’ll have more fun at a Kirkwall funeral than an Ostwick wedding.”

“It seems you’ve never been to the Merchant District after dark on Satinalia, then,” Tristan said, a mischievous smile on his face. “Now that’s where the fun is.”

Cassandra let out a disgusted sound as she pushed forward, her heavy boots sinking in the overgrown path. “If you’re done arguing about your cities, I’d like to move on. The day isn’t getting any longer.”

Familiar sounds greeted them from afar as they walked on. They were the usual camp sounds; casual conversations, the scraping of ladles on iron pots, the sound of hurried footsteps as chores were being carried out. Soon, they found themselves walking down a small slope into a cavern. Its entrance was so inconspicuous, they would have missed it altogether had Tristan not walked in to take a look.

“Whoever this Fairbanks is, he sure knows how to choose a good camp spot,” Varric said thoughtfully, and Tristan couldn’t help but grudgingly agree.

“That information he’s supposed to give us better be good,” he said curtly. “I hope we haven’t gone through all this trouble for nothing.”

The armed guard at the entrance of the cavern -barely armed and hardly a guard, the faint blonde moustache on his upper lip only having grown a couple years before, at best- stopped them with a sharp look, his hand moving towards his sword hilt. His eyes widened when Tristan told him that he was the Inquisitor, and he muttered something hardly intelligible in Orlesian before disappearing inside the cave.

The people that passed by the entrance all stopped to gawk at them. The camp was crowded, more than Tristan would have thought. Their clothes were practically patchwork, assembled by all sorts of different fabrics and leathers, or anything else they had managed to get their hands on. He was surprised to see a few wearing dressed and coats that might have been expensive and well-made once, their edges now filthy and frayed. Perhaps they had been nobles or wealthy merchants before the war started. Suspicion shone in their eyes as they gazed at them. Not a few grew a couple shades paler when their eyes glided from Cassandra, to Varric, to him, until they settled themselves on Dorian and his staff. That Orlesians were a magic-fearing lot was no secret to anyone in Thedas.

Tristan glared at them all in return and ground his teeth when a tall elven woman stopped short as if frozen, her mouth dropping open. He was sure he heard her praying to the Maker in Orlesian.

“You’re the Inquisitor? The Herald of Andraste?”

Tristan turned to look at the man that had returned with the young guard. “Yes,” he said flatly. “And you must be Fairbanks.”

“That is correct. I have been waiting for you.”

Fairbanks wasn’t old, perhaps only slightly older than Tristan himself, yet the grim expression on his face made him look old beyond his years. His chestnut brown hair was gathered in a ponytail at the nape of his neck, and his brows furrowed as he folded his arms before his chest.

“And these are your companions, I assume? I rather odd assortment of people, if you don’t mind me saying,” he said. His frown got just that tiny bit deeper when he gave them all a careful look-over.

“I could say the same of your people.”

Fairbanks seemed startled for a moment before regaining his stern composure. “You’ll have to excuse my and my people’s wariness, Herald,” he said, making a soothing gesture, that managed to look sharp even as he intended for it to be appeasing. “Strangers are not usually welcome in these parts. We can never know when we will be attacked, or by whom. Trust is very hard to come by, as you can imagine, and most of my people have suffered greatly. And to see the Herald of Andraste, a Seeker of Truth, a dwarf and a mage, walking about so openly…” His eyes fixed themselves on Dorian and the staff hanging at his back.

Without even thinking, Tristan moved ever so slightly to the side, until he was almost standing in front of Dorian, shielding him from Fairbank’s scrutinizing gaze. “I hear you have information for me?” he asked through tight lips.

Fairbanks’s pale blue eyes snapped back to him. “I do.”

He looked at him intently for a moment, until Tristan could feel his annoyance building up. “Well?” he gestured impatiently. “Are you going to tell me or are we just going to stand here all day?”

“I’ll tell you,” Fairbanks said slowly, carefully, “but I need your help with something first.”

Tristan heard Cassandra huffing behind him. For once, he agreed with her. “I know you do,” Tristan replied. “Name your price, Fairbanks.”

The man’s nostrils flared only slightly at Tristan’s brusque tone. “I believe we can help each other, Herald.” He took a deep breath, glancing around him before he spoke. “Those men that have occupied these forests, the Freemen of the Dales as they call themselves, they are aggressive bastards. They’ve killed a dozen of my men. We’ve tried to fight back but we can’t match their strength. You can.”

Tristan’s scowl got deeper as he glared at Fairbanks. “So you want me to kill them for you.”

“Kill their leaders. The rest should disband after that.”

“What you’re suggesting may be a lot of work, and it’s certainly no simple matter. I will be putting myself and my people in danger.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest, mirroring Fairbanks’s stance. “I don’t think a piece of information is worth all that trouble.”

“I assure you that it is worth your trouble. But I can tell you nothing until you agree to help me first.”

Tristan stared long and hard at him. Fairbanks didn’t even flinch, refusing to lower his gaze. It was obvious that the man was unwilling to back down. It was time for tougher measures, it seemed.

“I don’t think this is going to work. Perhaps I should be going. I’ve wasted enough time as it is,” Tristan said sourly, turning around to leave.

Walking away was a gamble and he knew it, but he had always been a gambling man. It wasn’t very often that his bets didn’t pay off. He hadn’t even taken two steps before Fairbanks stopped him.

“Inquisitor,” he said, grabbing his arm. Tristan glanced at him over his shoulder, not bothering to hide his frown. Fairbanks let his arm go, taking a step back.

“Forgive me. I was never any good at bartering. And you drive a hard bargain,” he added, with a small smile. It disappeared as he cleared his throat. “If I give you the information you need, will you consider helping me?”

Tristan gave him a long, considering look. After a sufficient amount of time had passed, he nodded slowly, praying that he wouldn’t regret it.

Fairbanks returned his nod, exhaling softly. “You might think that the Freemen are not your concern, but you would be wrong. By attacking them, you will be dealing a serious blow on your enemy, too.”

“What enemy?” Cassandra said, taking a step forward. She was slightly taller than Fairbanks, and she looked threatening enough in that armour of hers, but he didn’t bat an eyelid. “Speak plainly. We have no time for riddles.”

Fairbanks took a sharp breath before he spoke. “The Freemen are colluding with the Red Templars.”

Silence spread amongst them all. Tristan exchanged a quick glance with Cassandra. Her brows were furrowed, her lips pinched bloodless.

“How do you know that?” she asked slowly.

“We’ve seen them through the woods heading to the Freemen bases, leaving with crates. The Freemen were nothing but a few bandit groups but a few months ago, attacking whatever they could get their hands on. But since the Red Templars appeared, they have started banding together. They must be behind it all. The Freemen’s attacks are not sporadic anymore. They are organized. Targeted.” He let out a short huff. “I don’t know what they are trying to do, but whatever it is, they need to be stopped.”

Tristan mulled over his words, twisting the ring on his finger. If the Red Templars had made it all the way there, that meant Corypheus’s influence had spread far more than they had initially thought. The bastard was spreading all over Thedas like a disease, destroying everything in his path. The infection had to be stopped, and the wound cauterized. Whatever it took.

“Alright,” he said, looking Fairbanks straight in the eye. “I’ll deal with the Freemen.”

The relief on the man’s face was palpable, but he reined it in. “There’s something more,” he said. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “The Freemen are holding some of my people. As far as I know they went in to one of their bases steal supplies, and the Freemen caught them and imprisoned them. They are being led by a woman named Costeau, a former Chantry sister. They’re at the Veridium mine, not far from here. We have tried to recover them, but it’s no use. I hope you’ll find the means to save them, Your Worship.”

Tristan nodded reluctantly. “I’ll do what I can, Fairbanks.”

****

Fairbanks’s words didn’t leave Tristan’s mind, even after they had left the camp a long way behind. He couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that overcame him, that feeling of helplessness mingled with seething rage that always gripped him whenever he thought of Corypheus. His plans were obvious in the way they worked, but not in what they were trying to accomplish. Tristan hated that creature with a passion, but most of all he struggled to understand him. Even after so many months of searching, and Leliana’s spies combing through every piece of evidence of his movements they could find, they still knew so little about him. It had been months since Haven, yet they barely knew more than before they started.

Haven. The very thought sent an icy chill down his back, and a flood of rage through his chest. All those people, innocent people, dead, for nothing. He clenched his fists tightly as he walked. If only he had him right there, where he could twist his neck and sink his daggers deep into his flesh, if only he could rip him apart and rid the world of his stench-

“That Fairbanks, huh? Interesting character.”

Varric’s voice stirred him out of his grim thoughts. He was walking beside him, Bianca resting easily over his shoulder.

“There’s… something about him,” Tristan said sullenly. “I don’t know if we can trust him.”

“How so?” Dorian chimed in. He came to walk by Tristan’s other side, using his staff as a walking stick as they traipsed through the overgrown paths. There was a glint of perspiration on his brow, and his cologne tingled his nostrils. His long, elegant fingers were wrapped around the wood of his staff, his velvet skin glowing in the sun. A deep, painful longing gripped Tristan as he gazed at him. At that moment, he would trade everything he had, and more, to simply be alone with him, somewhere far away from all that mess.

Reluctantly, Tristan took his eyes off him and focused on the road ahead. “I’m not sure. I think he’s hiding something.”

“Fairbanks is an unusual name for an Orlesian, I know that much,” Varric said thoughtfully.

“It’s not just that.” Tristan ran a hand through his hair and squinted against the light. “Did you see how he held himself? He stood tall even amongst us. Any commoner would have cowered before the Herald of Andraste and his party. His clothes were worn, but of fine make. He told Harding that he was just a simple man that cared too much about the refugees to leave them on their own. I think there’s more to him than that.”

Varric nodded, rubbing his chin. “He’s an odd one, that’s for sure.”

“You think he’s a noble then?” Dorian said. “The Orlesian nobles I’ve met did not care much about anything beyond their own noses. I would be pleasantly surprised to see anyone of noble descent taking interest in those poor wretches.”

“Perhaps he’s the illegitimate son of some high and mighty lord,” Varric mused. “Perhaps he inherited a fair amount of gold once said lord kicked the bucket, and he’s now making good use of it by helping others. Or maybe he married into nobility, or has a wealthy mistress that funds his little escapades. He’s not a bad-looking fellow. I wouldn’t be surprised if he managed to slither into some snooty Orlesian noblewoman's bed.”

“There he goes with the tales again,” Cassandra said, rolling her eyes.

Varric laughed loudly, nudging Cassandra with his elbow. “For someone who says they don’t like my stories, you certainly seem to listen to every single one, Seeker.”

“That’s because you never stop talking,” she spat, her nose wrinkling in annoyance. “And there isn’t much else to distract me here either.”

“But I thought you were fond of the countryside,” Dorian offered with an innocent smile. “Did something happen to change your mind?”

“Yes. I’m surrounded by idiots from all sides,” Cassandra said, letting out a disgusted sound as she walked away from them.

Tristan sneaked a glance at Dorian, a wide mirthful smile painted on his lips. When Dorian caught his eye and winked at him, it was more than he could do to conceal his laughter.

After a while, the road they had followed took an abrupt downward slope, leading to a cave.

“That must be the mine,” Varric whispered, unslinging Bianca from his shoulder at the sound of men talking from within the cavern.

With a wave of his hand, Tristan motioned for them all to be quiet and walk softly. Whoever was in that cave, the last thing Tristan wanted was to alert him to their presence.

They had only taken a couple steps when Dorian paused, pressing a hand to his forehead.

Tristan stopped short, turning around to look at him. His eyes were pressed together tightly, and he suddenly seemed unable to take a step.

“Dorian,” he breathed as softly as he could, reaching out to him. “What’s the matter? Are you hurt?”

Dorian took a deep breath. He blinked a few times and nodded towards the mine. “There’s something going on in there. I can feel it. It feels like… like red lyrium.”

Tristan glanced at Varric over his shoulder. The dwarf’s eyes were wide, and he seemed a couple shades paler than he had a moment before. He approached them gingerly, stepping on quiet feet.

“If there’s red lyrium here, then that means Fairbanks was right. The Red Templars are here, and they probably have been for far longer than he thought. Red lyrium takes time to mine. It’s probably been their base of operations for quite a while.”

Tristan’s stomach twisted in knots. He couldn’t feel the lyrium from so far away, yet looking at Dorian, he knew that that must be it. They had only encountered the stuff once before, in a cave in the Hinterlands, and the result had not been much different. Even though Dorian had stayed away from it, he had still looked as if he was about to retch any minute.

“Are you sure you want to come with?” Tristan said reluctantly. “You could stay back. I’m sure we’ll manage.”

Dorian shook his head vigorously. “I’m alright. It’s just a dizzy spell. I’ll get over it.” Tristan didn’t take his eyes off him, his brows knit in concern, but Dorian waved his worries away. “I’ll be fine. Lead the way.”

With a sharp exhale that did nothing to get rid of the tension that had settled itself in his stomach, Tristan walked on, carefully treading along the narrow path. He didn’t miss Cassandra’s wary looks his way as he did so.

Hidden in the shadows just outside the cave, Tristan could see several armed men, and a tall woman in plate armour sitting on an upturned crate. They all seemed worse for wear, their uniforms frayed from time and use, but the woman’s armour looked freshly cleaned and shined. Her shield, the gilding on it amongst the most extravagant Tristan had ever seen, was placed right beside her, glinting in the sun slithering in through the cracks on the ceiling of the cave. She must have been the woman Fairbanks told them about, Sister Costeau.

As silently as he could, Tristan turned around, motioning to Cassandra. The seasoned warrior did not need more than a few hand signals to understand his plan of attack. She let out a huff, like a bull ready to charge, and ran ahead, sliding her sword out of her scabbard.

The din of steel crashing against steel echoed in the small cavern. Tristan was unsheathing his daggers when the blonde haired Orlesian woman pushed back Cassandra’s attack, her eyes wide in shock. She wasn’t even wearing her helmet, and her golden curls bounced around her face as she deflected Cassandra’s barrage of blows, stepping backwards.

A fireball flew past him with a loud whoosh, crashing against an unfortunate soldier. The man screamed as the flames consumed him, clutching at his face and rolling on the ground. The other men around him stared in horror as he writhed, their hands still hovering over their sword handles. They were so shocked, they barely even reacted when Tristan ran his blades across his throat, ending his misery.

Varric had positioned himself on a tall crate, safely away from the din of battle, as he picked apart the Freemen with his bow. Cassandra’s attacks had their commander taking cautious steps back, yet the look of determination that had now replaced her surprise proved that she wouldn’t back down so easily.

A loud grunt sounded behind Tristan, and he rolled away before a hammer stroke the cave wall behind him. He turned around only to see an ox of a man pursuing him, his war hammer gripped so tightly, his knuckles were white. His eyes were narrowed, and his mouth was twisted with rage. He raised his hammer again, ready to swing, cursing in Orlesian.

Tristan leapt away, the giant hammer cutting through the air right beside him. Before the man could lift his weapon to attack again, Tristan rolled behind him, plunging his daggers as deep as he could through the gaps in his armour. The man growled in pain and staggered back. Blood was slowly seeping through his clothes when he turned to face him.

“Fils de pute!” he yelled. “We won't let you take what is ours!”

Tristan did not even stop to think about what the man was talking about -what was theirs, exactly?- , slashing at him with his blades instead. His daggers were well coated with paralysing poison, and sure enough, the man’s steps became slower and more dragged with every second that passed. It wasn’t long before he had fallen to his knees, swollen tongue lolling out of his slack mouth, face pressed down on the earth.

The poison Tristan had used was a fast acting one. When he sank his blade at the back of the man’s neck, cutting through his spinal cord, he considered it a mercy.

The small cave had swiftly been turned into a bloody battlefield, with Cassandra fighting hard against Sister Costeau, Dorian’s spell burning and weakening the soldiers and Varric picking apart anyone that was left with his bow. It wasn’t long before the Freemen band was reduced to a couple men, scrambling to get away, Varric’s arrows cutting through the air past them as they fled.

Sister Costeau was the only one left standing. The woman was a fearsome warrior, matching Cassandra blow for blow. Their exchanges were so swift, they even seemed choreographed, Cassandra dancing around her, her steel blade swishing as she slashed. The other woman held a tight defence, although she was getting weary, her movements not quite as sharp and precise as they had been.

Tristan watched Cassandra’s merciless attacks in quiet fascination, gripping his daggers tightly. His eyes were pealed for an opening, any opening, that would allow him to sweep in and cut the woman down, but there was none. She was too well trained, and too agile, even in her weariness, to allow for him to intervene.

Varric grumbled beside him, fitting an arrow through Bianca. “This is gonna hurt,” he mumbled silently, bringing his bow to his eyes.

He struggled visibly to get the right angle. The women were barely stopping to take breath, so bent were they on ending each other. With a soft exhale, Varric moved his finger to the trigger, and pulled.

His arrow cut through the air with a satisfying hiss, landing on the woman’s forehead with a wet, crunching sound. Her blonde curls glinted in the sun as her head swung back with the force of the blow, her eyes staring right above her as she fell backwards. Her body was limp and motionless when it hit the ground.

Cassandra spun around, glaring at Varric. “Why did you do that? I could have taken her!”

“I know you could,” Varric said, slinging Bianca over his shoulder. “I thought I would end her misery a little sooner.”

Cassandra’s nostrils flared, and her lips were pressed in a tight line as she exhaled. Her short dark brown fringe was stuck to the sweat on her forehead, and her chest rose and fell swiftly under her armour with her panting breaths. She slid her sword inside its scabbard.

“She was an admirable foe,” Cassandra said solemnly. “I wonder what made those people abandon their duty to pursue this war of their own.”

“I guess we’ll never know now,” Dorian replied flatly, leaning on his staff. He still looked pale and tired, as if he was about to be sick.

Tristan sheathed his blades and swiftly walked over to him. Dorian’s eyes followed him across the room, as if he was the only one there. When he approached him, Tristan brought his hand up, touching his forehead with the back of his hand. “Do you feel ill?” he said, checking his temperature.

Dorian shook his head and waved his hand away. “I’m alright. How many times do I have to say it?”

His tone cut through Tristan, more so because he sounded breathless rather than curt. A quick glance around the cave made him aware that there was much more red lyrium in its interior, the glowing rock pulsating with heat as it crawled along the walls.

He turned to Dorian, lowering his voice. “This place is not good for you. You’d better wait outside.”

Before Dorian could respond, a voice echoed behind them, from within the bowels of the mine.

“Help us! Please!”

Tristan, Cassandra and Varric exchanged a wary look.

“Those must be the survivors Fairbanks was talking about,” Varric said.

Tristan nodded and motioned for Cassandra and Varric to go in. “See if you can get them out. I’ll be there in a moment.”

When the two of them were safely out of earshot, Tristan returned to Dorian. Without a word, Tristan took his hand, leading him out of the cave. Thankfully, he brought no resistance. Tristan even felt his fingers tightening imperceptibly about his as they walked, away from that sickening place, with the lyrium glimmering all around them.

He led him to a wide, smooth stone under a tree outside the cave, safely away from the infernal stuff. “Sit.”

Dorian turned to look at him, arching his eyebrow. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”

“I know you aren’t. Just sit. Please?”

With a sharp huff, Dorian obeyed, sitting down under the cool shade of the tall tree. Tristan reached inside his pocket for his water flask and gave it to him. Dorian shot him a frown as he accepted it and pulled out the cork.

“Is that how you’re going to be acting now? Like a worrisome Chantry sister?”

“I think so, yes. You’re not the only one that gets to fuss over me anymore,” Tristan told him with a wry smile.

Dorian chuckled softly as he tipped the flask over his lips, drinking eagerly. When he had had his fill, he wiped his lips with his knuckle and gave it back to Tristan, exhaling softly.

“That thing,” he said, looking towards the cave entrance, his shoulders shuddering slightly. “It’s positively evil. It makes my skin crawl whenever I’m around it, and my head feels like it’s about to burst.”

Tristan’s chest tightened uncomfortably with concern at his words. He sat next to him with a sigh. “Are you sure you don’t want to head back to the camp? Varric, Cassandra and I will be alright.”

“Absolutely not. I’m not leaving you alone. This place is infested with those Freemen. And they’re not a friendly lot, in case you haven’t noticed.” He shook his head. “You need a mage with you. You know that.”

“I need you to be safe more than I need your magic, Dorian.”

Dorian rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation. “I have to say, I never expected you to fret so much about my safety. It’s starting to get a bit stale.”

“Is that so?”

Tristan met his defiant look with a cool and placid one of his own. They stared at each other for several long moments, before Dorian’s irritation melted in a smile. Tristan couldn’t quite help the laughter that bubbled from his lips.

Dorian caught him by the lapels of his leather armour and pulled him close, his mouth only a hair away from Tristan’s. “Whatever did I see in you, hm?”

“My wit and charm, perhaps?”

He tilted his head, gazing at him as if in thought. “No. Not quite. You haven’t got enough of it, you see.”

Tristan huffed a laugh. “Ass.”

“Well, you do have a fair bit of that,” Dorian said with a mirthful smile, pulling him in for a kiss.

Before their lips could touch, Cassandra’s voice came from inside the cave, calling him in.

Tristan let out a sigh and reluctantly pulled away from Dorian. “Stay here,” he told him, standing up. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Cassandra was at the back of the cave with Varric, and several people were standing around her. They were filthy, their clothes tattered and they themselves worse for wear. They all looked at him wide eyed as he approached.

“Well?” he asked, glancing around him. “What happened here?”

“These are the people from Fairbanks’s camp that were brought and imprisoned here.”

A short woman with hair the colour of darkened leather and her skin a pale and sickly yellow stepped forward.

“I am Gertrude,” she said in a heavy Orlesian accent. “Is it true what your companions say? Are you the Herald of Andraste?”

Tristan nodded, and the woman let out a sigh of relief. “We thought Fairbanks had given us up for dead. He doesn’t have the power to fight back the Freemen. To think that he would ask you for help…” Her large brown eyes looked heavy and moist when she looked at him. “Thank you for rescuing us. I don’t know how much longer we would have been able to endure.”

There was an expression of deep sympathy on Cassandra’s face as she looked at the woman and the other refugees. Tristan didn’t think you would ever see so much softness in her features. Her voice was low and gentle when she spoke. “The Freemen. Did they torture you? For… information?”

Gertrude’s lips pressed momentarily in a thin line, and her gaze became very bleak. “Some of us, yes. But… they didn’t seem to care very much about the information we had to give them. The Red Templars though…”

She hesitated for a long moment, until Tristan gestured for her to continue. They had wasted enough time as it is, and standing amongst the red lyrium nodes for so long was starting to make him uneasy.

Gertrude shook her head only slightly, as if giving herself courage. “The Red Templars were the worst. They forced us to mine that red crystal, all day long until we couldn’t take anymore. They even took some of our people and-and fed them that when they protested,” she said, pointing to the red lyrium. “They forced that vile thing down their throats, right in front of us. There was nothing we could do.”

“Well, shit,” Varric said, shaking his head.

“And that’s not even the worst of it. They took two of our people away somewhere, and never brought them back. My cousin, Jacques, was among them. No one knows what happened to them. It’s been three days now.” Her voice broke slightly as she spoke the last words. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and gave them a pleading look. “You have to save them. Please.”

Tristan’s stomach twisted in knots with the quiver in her voice and the helpless expressions on the other refugees’ faces. He brushed his knuckle over his ring in an attempt to calm his nerves somewhat. Their gazes on him felt impossibly heavy all of a sudden. Whatever could he possibly do to save all of them?

“We’ll… see what we can do,” he offered with reserve.

Gertrude gave him a decisive nod and straightened back up. “That is all we ask, Herald.”

“There’s something else, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said, giving Gertrude a sympathetic nod. “Gertrude here was telling me that the woman we killed was indeed Sister Costeau, one of the leaders of the Freemen. They were stationed here to mine the red lyrium, while the Red Templars roamed the Emerald Graves. One of their other strongholds is an abandoned mansion not far from here. But it seems that they have been having some internal issues of their own.”

“It’s true,” Gertrude said, nodding vigorously. “One of the Freemen leaders has locked himself up in the mansion and is not letting anyone in. A band of Red Templars passed through here a few days ago on their way there. There’s been no sight of them since.”

“Internal strife? Now, that’s what I like to hear,” Varric chimed in. “We could use it to our advantage.”

Tristan didn’t reply as he kept twisting his ring, deep in thought. Attacking the mansion would be their best bet in dealing the Freemen a fatal blow, and possibly getting information about the Red Templars’ movements as well. It was risky, and would probably bring them face to face with what could be hordes of red lyrium-crazed enemies, thirsty for blood, but it didn’t seem like they would get a better chance at dismantling the Freemen any time soon.

He glanced towards the entrance of the cave, beyond which Dorian sat. His mouth felt bitter and dry at the thought of taking him there, but if he so much as suggested that he get back to the camp again, Dorian would certainly have his hide that time.

He let out a heavy sigh as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Alright,” he said grimly. “Let’s do it. Let’s get those bastards.”

[trulycertain]

The WIP Post

Here, have some teasers/extracts from things I’m working on. All Shield Raised this time round. But when people ask, “Just how many ridiculous AUs do you have for these two?” I sort of have to answer.

Reprise (7/9)

“How did this happen?” Dorian’s all but snarling, and the troops are watching him, wide-eyed. He realises too late that there’s a smell of ozone in the air. He touches his hair and feels it rising under his fingers; he pushes it back, into some semblance of order, and gets himself under control. Kaffas. He hasn’t had this issue for years, since… he doesn’t know when.

(Since he watched Gal dying, thrashing before his eyes in that hideous green, and the magic came from him in desperate waves, the Veil tearing under his fingers as he tried to do something, anything.)

He continues his pacing, because movement, movement is something he can do with all this energy, and if he stops and thinks he might set someone on fire. “There were troops. There were mages. So tell me, how did this happen?” The anger is receding, and it sounds too much like a plea.

Josephine swallows and looks over her notes again, spreading the pieces of parchment across the war table. “There were…”

The door opens, and then Marius staggers and half-falls through. Dorian catches him just in time. Blood is seeping from a wound on his forehead, and his eyes are glazed. “We found more Venatori than we’d accounted for. We couldn’t…”

“You need to get that looked at,” Dorian says, as Josephine watches them with well-hidden worry. He tries not to remember another Tevene reject marching into a war room to stares and confusion, years ago. It’s times like these he misses Cullen. “How many more?” When there’s no response, the man just staring at the war table, Dorian presses, “Try not to faint on me. How many, Marius?”

“They carried him away before we could… Kaffas. Canavara, esta Venatori - ”

Dorian looks to Josephine and can tell she understands, or at least gets the gist. Not that there’s much to get; Marius is babbling.

She says gently, “And the rest of you?” She’s gentler than Dorian would have been. Asking bluntly, How many dead? probably wouldn’t inspire confidence.

“They still have the others. They said they would use them for.. for a blood ritual. They were in… Kaffas, they were in cages.”

“Were they planning to transport them?” Dorian demands.

“Not then. Perhaps later, they didn’t say...” Marius rubs at his forehead, and his hands come away bloody. “I’m sorry, I...” He lapses into silence, listing slightly.

“Josephine, can you...” Dorian starts.

“I will find him something to eat,” she says. “He appears to be in shock.”

“Thank you.” He hands over the shivering, bloody mage, who Josephine manages to support admirably, the way she does most things. Then he reaches out and feels the Veil: better-reinforced since Gal’s efforts, but it’s still little effort to reach through. He has enough mana. He can -

“You must send troops. Surely you can stay here.”

He looks sharply back to Josephine, who’s managing to project worried concern at him even with Marius listing against her. Am I that obvious? he wants to ask.

“You have a certain expression when you are planning,” she says, in answer to his unvoiced question. “But you must remain here, to - “

“No.” He doesn’t patronise her by starting an argument; they’re both better than that. His voice is quiet, but it is firm. “I sat here comfortably and sent troops, and this happened. Those are my people, my… Our soldiers and the Inquisitor – former Inquisitor, as if it bloody matters – are captive in Maker-knows-what conditions. I’m not about to sit and do paperwork when I should be...” He pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, because he can’t stand to look at all that sensible concern. “I should have been there.”

depth over distance

Gal doesn’t run. It’s fleeing and he won’t pretend, but he doesn’t run. 

He doesn’t know how he finds himself there, but somewhere along the way Ostwick stone turns to sand, dipping beneath his boots. It’s been… three years. More. Must be. But his feet carry him until he’s standing, looking out at the ocean and feeling the breeze against his face.

He closes his eyes. Thinks of his mother’s words and her pale face and They’ll laugh at you, they’ll drag your name through the mud...

No. He blinks against the sun in his eyes. He’d forgotten how warm it was here, after months in Ferelden and in the Frostbacks. The sea is here in front of him but vast, a blue ribbon to the horizon. Calm and bright, sparkling in the sun, like it was when he was twelve and it looked like the world, and twenty and it was the only place his parents couldn’t find him, and now, when it’s...

Home’s a fortress and a warm voice in his ear and cursing in Tevene at dropped books. Home’s salt and the wind in his hair and knowing he hasn’t given in yet, and it has been for years.

The boots are the first to go. He steps out of them, and then throws aside the socks, too, keeps walking. The sand’s warm between his toes. Then he throws aside his hairtie and the stiff tabard; the things he only wears for court, that he used to wear for his mother’s bloody parties. (My son turned quickly to my guest. It always does, in the end.)

Sand turns to sea, water lapping at his feet. He keeps going, tosses aside his shirt. He should do something about the breeches, or at least care; once he would have.

Please tell me there are tales of skinny dipping, he remembers Dorian saying, grinning fiendishly, and he’d responded sheepishly, Maybe a few. He’d said, I miss the sea. Ostwick’s coastal. Always made me feel better being near it, like that explained it. Like that was even half of it.

It’s been hot recently – Ostwick often is, this time of year – but the water’s still bracing. He inhales and keeps going. The cold’s almost enough -

My own son, and I passed you on like chattel.

Almost enough.

He remembers being twenty-one and being told he was going to marry one of the de Launcets, and this time he wouldn’t escape it. They’d already found him when he’d run from the Chantry. He remembers wading in and thinking he could just keep walking. Not come back. Quiet and simple. He remembers going back and ending up with another tattoo because at least the pain was a decent distraction and it reminded him he was… well. He absentmindedly touches the design on his hip, runs his hands over waves of ink, then shoves them back into the sea and keeps wading.

He left you, Galahad. He’s probably already found someone new.

He left you.

When the water reaches his chest, he holds his breath and ducks under –

And then there’s only the cold on his face and the roar of water in his ears and the shock in his system. It drowns everything else out, and it’s…

Enough.

He surfaces, gasping and then grinning at the sky like he’s Fade-touched, pushing soaking hair out of his face and blinking at the sun.

Sodding cold, he remembers some nobles’ son hissing, shivering, and he’d just grinned and replied, Tells you you’re alive.

You mad bastard, Dorian had said, the time Gal dived in at the Storm Coast – but he’d been grinning, and he’d added, Have you ever had a spell-warm towel, by the way? I’ll be here when you want to shiver your way back onto shore, amatus.

Gal stands there, looking at the Waking Sea. Vast and bigger than any of this, but… He’s been through the Fade and through half of Thedas. A sea’s not so far. Two months isn’t that long.  He looks out to the horizon – not like he’ll see Tevinter, but he closes his eyes and knows there’s a tired mage on another coast thinking of him. It’s enough.

He thinks of the nearly-last thing he said to his mother, the thing that made them both stop and stare. Never something he thought he’d want, but… there’s a lot about him that’s changed. Maybe this one’s Dorian’s fault too. He tilts his head, considers it, and then throws himself back into the water. Might as well swim, now he’s here.

that not-actually-a-villain AU

He remembers Josephine’s words. You must be careful, Galahad. We know the lord is Venatori, and his asking to meet with you is surely a trap.

He’d shrugged. I ought to go. It worked out well last time I walked into one.

He remembers that twisted Redcliffe. The song all around him and the sky torn open. Red lyrium tang on the tongue. Leliana dying with the Chant half-said. Being certain he’d be next. And then the strange rift that pulled him into the present, left him gasping and bloody on a stone floor but alive enough to defeat Alexius.

He’s shown into a study. A fire and a few candles cast low light, and shadows flicker on the walls. Past the couches, a desk is littered with papers - he sees strange symbols and equations, and one looks like it’s… something about reversing temporal flow? But that’s impossible. He squints at it. Looks again. It almost seems like…

“That one took me three days to solve. Impressive, isn’t it?”

He tries not to show his surprise, and probably fails. He glances behind him and can’t stop himself from saying, “You’re manipulating rifts.”

“In a minor way, yes. Nothing compared to what you can do, but then I have less to work with. My pathway to the Fade isn’t nearly so direct.” The Tevinter sits on one of the couches, gestures to the other. “Please, rest your legs. Marching here to kill me must have been exhausting.”

Fuck.

Gal makes his way to the couch and lowers himself onto it, looking around. The servants have gone, and it looks like they’re alone, though if he believes that then he really is the Herald of Andraste. He looks at the man who’s called him here, and he admits, he’s surprised. He’d expected some grey, hook-nosed magister with spiked robes and armed guards. Instead he’s sitting opposite a man who can’t be older than him by much, if anything, who’s wearing simple battlemage leathers. Not that it matters.

He tries to find the words. “Why would I be here to kill you?”

The Tevinter - Pavus, that was it - smiles. “Because I’m Venatori, of course.” He lifts a decanter. “Brandy?”

that weird time travel thing

Dorian is nineteen, and the world has just ended. It’s his own fault, of course. He misread the signals, and he made a foolish, stupid attempt... He just hadn’t expected to be rejected so thoroughly. Or publicly. He didn’t especially appreciate the split lip, either. He supposes he’d given Saul more credit.

It might have been salvageable if the bastard hadn’t gone to his father. He could have dealt with anything but the look of disappointed horror. I will deal with him, Father had said. And then there had been the talk about this being a phase, and discretion, and the family name - it’s always the family name, as if a house that has lasted through generations and Blights and the Magisterium’s disapproval will be destroyed by a bit of buggery. Shouting is easy enough to grow deaf to, but the quiet disappointment, the resignation, they’re more difficult to deal with.

His father, for all his neat words about phases and being too young to know what you want, Dorian, is beginning to realise. This isn’t something to grow out of and cast aside; he will always be this, and there will never be a woman, an exception to marry and have miserable but acceptable heirs with. And it’s the bloody shame in his father’s eyes. All the prizes, all the spells... It’ll never be enough, because his son is this, and it disgusts him.

He could take family friends’ scorn if it came to it, he could even take the rejections and the blows - but his father seeing the truth of who he is and turning away from him? A different matter entirely.

And so he’s here, sitting in the darkness of his room, wondering if there’s anything decent to drink. Likely a pointless consideration, because his father will no doubt have locked it away. He’s about to head for the study - his father will have left already, probably to apologise to the Valerius family for the attempted besmirching of their son’s honour - when there is a flash, a clatter.

He steps back, quietly reaching for the staff he’s propped against the bookcase, and he has a grip on it when the smoke clears.

In his room is... a man, apparently, sprawled inelegantly across the floor. Big, looking like any other soldier, except for the long hair that can’t be regulation, the lack of one arm and the unfamiliar armour. The stranger coughs, attempting to climb to his feet, before looking up. And then freezes.

There’s something about his eyes... Dorian doesn’t know why a shiver runs up his spine, or why he lowers his staff. He tries to keep his voice level, calm, as he says, “Is there a reason you’re ruining the carpets?”

Knight Shop daftness

“So. Modern History.”

The sound of hammering stops. There are steps, and then Gal’s leaning around the door, and those startlingly blue eyes are squinting at him. “Who told you?”

“Your professor, actually. I’d forgotten how much of a bore Wilhelm can be when he starts on the brandy.” He sees the inevitable wariness and says, “No, it wasn’t intentional, yes, it was a coincidence. I hadn’t expected you to come up in conversation.” He sighs. “Here I’d hoped for something more… medieval. The disappointment is crushing, you know.”

Gal’s eyes narrow further. “You’ll live. Give me back that tape measure.”

He complies with a raised brow, playing at hardship.

Gal hesitates, exhaling. “I do quite like the medieval era,” he says, as he heads back into the room. “I just wanted something more… relevant. Considered Political Science.”

“Was there a reason for this sudden interest in academia? Most people start before twenty-nine.”

“I wanted to do it myself.” Gal looks intent on his measuring, but it must be an act. He also seems to be thinking over his words carefully before he speaks, as if seeking to be diplomatic. “Had a few jobs. My parents weren’t impressed.”

“Were they the sort who wanted to shuffle you straight off to Oxbridge?”

A low noise that might be a snort. “There’s that. But Trevelyans don’t work. Not unless they’re surgeons, or barristers.”

…Ah. He can’t help himself. He moves closer and takes a seat on the bed, wondering why he feels like a visitor in what’s meant to be his room. “I didn’t know you were one of that clan.”

Definitely a snort, sharp and without humour. “Most people don’t.”

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus x Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 10: Thread of Gold

Question: What happens when a broody/salty dum-dum and a flashy/charismatic dork share an ill-timed kiss, but are still way too confused and/or frustrated to admit their feelings for each other?

Answer: Awkward. Lots and lots of awkward. Some pining. But mostly awkward.

Read here or on AO3!

****************

When Dorian’s lips closed over his, Tristan thought his heart would jump out of his throat.

It was like he had suddenly pressed his mouth against velvet. Dorian’s lips were soft and pliant, drawing him in with an intensity that stole the air from his lungs. The strong taste of brandy lingered on his tongue when he pressed it against Tristan’s lips, prying them apart.

It was like time had suddenly stopped. It shifted and warped around him, around them, around that very moment. The seconds stretched on languidly, hazily, until they felt like minutes, like hours, like the blink of an eye. He completely forgot about everything going on around him as he lost himself in that sweet sensation. A small moan escaped Dorian, the soft sound vibrating through Tristan, making him shiver.

It was like...

Fuck, it was good. It was so unbearably, infuriatingly good that Tristan almost forgot that Dorian was drunk.

Yet, he was. There was an insistent tug on his consciousness, nagging at him even through his numbness. Dorian was drunk, and he probably didn’t even know what he was doing. As the sober party in this equation, Tristan had to put a stop to this. But leaning into the kiss was far easier than stopping it, and Tristan found himself battling against all odds to convince himself to break it.

Dorian’s hand left his neck to travel down, deft fingers pulling at the hem of his shirt. When Tristan felt warm fingers slithering under his clothes, he pulled back with a gasp. Dorian stared at him, blinking drunkenly.

“Dorian” Tristan said breathlessly. “I… can’t. I’m sorry.”

Dorian regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. Alcohol made him unusually slow in his reactions. “What’s wrong?”

Tristan let out a shaky sigh as he tried to pull away. Dorian’s hold on him didn’t falter. He tried to slither his hand ever upward under his clothes, but Tristan closed his fingers around his wrist to stop him. “No” he said again, more decisively this time. “We can’t. It’s not… it’s not right.”

A small, teasing smile curled Dorian’s lips. “And here I thought our Inquisitor liked playing with fire.”

Tristan frowned as he looked at him. Dorian returned his gaze, his steely grey eyes peering straight into his, if in a slightly hazy manner. “What do you mean?”

Dorian let out a small chuckle as he leaned forward and brushed his nose over Tristan’s. “You’ve said that you don’t care what people say about you. In that case, courting the ‘wicked, yet ultimately wicked magister’ is a sure-fire way to ruin your reputation.”

Oh.

Oh.

Tristan froze. He gazed into Dorian’s eyes, for the first time noticing the bitterness hiding behind his façade. The tiny crack in the polished silver. It lasted only for a moment before melting into another of his usual teasing smiles. Even in the depths of his inebriation, Dorian took great care to hide his feelings, Tristan realised with a pang of sadness.

Dorian surged forward again, but Tristan pulled back as if stung. All the pieces started falling together in his mind. Dorian’s wariness ever since that moment they had shared in his tent in the Hinterlands. His unease, his troubled looks around the room, to make sure no one was watching. His questions, time and time again, about what people thought of him.

He actually believed that his mere presence would ruin Tristan’s reputation. And Tristan had possibly led him to believe that. Saying that he didn’t care about people’s talk was not too far away from admitting that people did talk. About him. About them. And talk they did, frequently and with questionable motives, about the Inquisitor spending time with the ‘Tevinter’. Worse still, he had not even taken a moment to assess how Dorian would be affected by his attentions.

The realisation felt like a punch in the gut. Easing himself out of Dorian’s grasp, he tried not to let any of his hurt show on his face.

With significant effort, Dorian pushed himself up on his elbow. His head lolled just a little before he fixed Tristan with a confused stare. “Where are you going?”

“It’s late” Tristan said, straightening up. “I should let you rest.”

Dorian blinked sleepily. He glanced around him, as if assessing the room. “There’s more than enough space here. Why don’t you spend the night? I have some…” he paused for a moment, a deep yawn interrupting his speech, “interesting propositions for you.”

A tiny, pained smile came unbidden on Tristan’s lips. Even laughing at Dorian’s jokes was hard now that he had seen the hurt they were trying to conceal. “That would be… most unwise.” He ran his fingers through his hair and glanced towards the door. When he looked back at Dorian, he was watching him, confusion shining through his eyes, glazed over from the alcohol. Tristan pulled the blanket back over Dorian’s chest before taking a step back. “Goodnight, Dorian. Sleep tight.”

Dorian opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.

Tristan didn’t even look back as he turned around and exited the room, letting the door close softly behind him. When he was safely into his own room, he let out a heavy sigh. The air felt unbearably heavy and stifling, and he walked over to the wide window, opening it to let some fresh air in. The view of the city was breath-taking. The tall white spires and domes with their intricate decorations shone eerily under the moon light. Music, songs and laughter were still audible from the many inns in that district, but the sound was soft and vague, like a lullaby carried away by the wind. The calm waters of the Waking Sea glittered in the night, the stars from the night sky reflecting on its dark surface.

He peered absently at it, taking a moment to calm his beating heart and the incessant thoughts in his head. He suddenly felt like the biggest, most insufferable fool in all of Thedas.

What was he doing? What had he been thinking? How had he let everything get so far? He had been spending time with Dorian without ever taking a moment to think about… anything. About his position, Dorian’s position. The Inquisition. It would all have been fine if he were another nobody, just looking to have some fun and get by, but now… It was painful to realise how little he understood his own reality. How utterly oblivious he was of the consequences. His trip to Val Royeaux had only made him more aware of how most people thought about the world. He had seen how everyone glared at Dorian, how they thought that Tevinter was the source of all evil. Tristan couldn’t even begin to imagine the burden Dorian must have been carrying all this time, being the bearer of such a depressing legacy. And all Tristan had done was make his position even more precarious, by making him the target of murderous glares and vulgar jokes, spoken by witless fools. All that, when, as the Inquisitor, he should have been protecting him.

And to think that Dorian believed that he was the one to ruin his reputation…

Blight, he couldn’t do this to him. Dorian’s situation was delicate as it was, without his own aid. He should stay away. Pretend nothing at all had happened and stay the hell away. Do the right thing, for once in his life.

It was not like Dorian would remember any of what had happened in the morning.

With a sigh that carried more bitterness than he would care to admit, he took off his clothes and slithered into bed.

~

Dorian cracked open one eyelid. Then the other. The rays of the morning sun peaking in through the thick curtains felt like stabs at the back of his brain. His head felt heavy like a boulder, and every breath was positively agonising. It didn’t help much that his stomach roiled painfully, no doubt from whatever swill he had managed to down the previous night.

With a muffled groan, he turned over to lie on his belly, shoving one pillow right over his head. He didn’t want to wake up and face the world. Not just yet.

He sleepily tried to go over the events of the previous night. He had spent most of it in the common room of the inn. There was music and laughter and drinks. Lots and lots of drinks. That man, Eluard, had asked him to try an awful, brownish drink the inn had, straight from the Korcari Wilds, but Dorian had remained unconvinced until he played and lost at cards. Then he had tried a glass, and more besides.

After that, the night was pretty much a blur. He remembered singing an old Orlesian song, one that he had always liked, ever since he was a boy. It was such a wistful and melancholy little number. It was pretty much the only Orlesian he knew, but he knew he could sing that song perfectly even if he barely remembered his own name.

After the song, he did remember seeing Trevelyan across the room. He was standing by the door, watching him. Dorian’s heart had done a distinctive little flip when he caught sight of him. With his plain white shirt and his blonde hair, it had seemed to Dorian like he was gleaming, like a firefly in the night. His hair had been hanging loose about his face, like it always was, his clothes simple, yet well made. Trevelyan was never one to bother too much with superfluous decorations and fancy clothes. Compared to the Orlesians around him, with their extravagant clothes and their ornate masks and heavy perfumes, he was completely unadorned, save for that ring he always wore. Dorian didn’t quite know how he managed it, yet he always managed to look… regal. Resplendent. A diamond in a sea of cheap glass ornaments.

He had hopped to his side, not wasting a single moment before dragging him back to their table. They had drunk and laughed -he could vaguely remember Eluard saying something idiotic to him, but he couldn’t recall what- and then Trevelyan had helped him to his room. And then…

Dorian’s blood froze in his veins.

“Kaffas!” he spat, jolting bolt upright. “Kaffas, kaffas, kaffas, kaffas…”

No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t! Surely it was only a figment of his imagination. A particularly vivid dream, perhaps. He had been having plenty of those lately, he absently remarked, with Trevelyan as the protagonist.

Yet, he knew that it wasn’t. It was far too vivid for it to be a dream. Trevelyan’s lips against his own, the feel of his smooth skin under his fingertips, his shaky breath washing over him... From what he could remember, it was good. Incredibly so, in fact. Dorian could always tell straight away when meeting someone whether they would be a good kisser or not, but with Trevelyan it had been far beyond his expectations. His lips were tender, precise, soft with care. There was the taste of brandy on his tongue, but beyond that there was a sweetness, such sweetness, that was just him. And the feel of him hovering over him, the warmth of his body so close to his, fasta vass, the feel of it…

There was a fire coursing through him just at the very thought. But that fire was violently doused when he remembered that Trevelyan had broken off the kiss and walked away.

So. Pavus had managed to drink himself into a stupor and utterly embarrass himself yet again. It might have been a surprise if it hadn’t happened hundreds of times in the past. Dorian would normally laugh it off and forget about it the next day. But this time… This time, if the earth split in half and swallowed him, he would most probably cry with joy.

With a painful grunt, he kicked the covers off him and sat up on the bed, willing the contents of his stomach to stay where they were. Getting up and dressing himself was a struggle. He was most probably late for breakfast and would miss Trevelyan, which almost caused a wave of relief to wash through him. Still, he spent an inordinate amount of time fixing his hair in front of the mirror, making sure that every hair was in place. If he did spot Trevelyan in the large dining room, he had to be looking his absolute best.

He rummaged through his travel chest, frantically searching for something to wear. His fingers brushed against rich velvet, and he immediately grabbed it. The cloak he pulled out was the finest he had brought with him, a cobalt blue velvet one with golden embroidery on the lapels. Dorian had paid a handsome sum to have the thread of gold shipped directly from Minrathous. He had thought about using the southern version of it, but when his tailor had presented it to him he had almost gagged. What passed for fashion in this part of the world was nobody’s business.

Dorian dressed himself with as much care and diligence as if he were putting his armour on. And wasn’t he, in a way? He had learned long ago that the best tactic in situations like these was to go for the offensive. And nothing did the trick better than a dramatic entrance.

With a last careful look in the mirror, and a last swipe of his palms over his shirt to straighten it, he walked towards the door. It felt oddly as if he were going to his own execution.

The common room was unusually quiet for that time of day. Only a few patrons occupied the small tables, and the scent of fresh baked scones and tarts hung thickly in the air. They smelt delicious, but Dorian wouldn’t have been able to even look at one at that point, let alone eat it. His stomach was in knots, as much from his hangover as from his nervousness. When he spotted Trevelyan sitting by one of the tables, his heart almost lurched in his chest.

He was wearing a simple cream coloured blouse and his usual dark leather breeches. His dark blue coat, stark and simply cut, was thrown carelessly over the back of a chair nearby. He was mindlessly chewing on a piece of berry tart as he skimmed through a report on the desk. He didn’t seem to have noticed Dorian at all.

Dorian put on his most disarming smile, hoping that he wasn’t looking as sick as he felt, and walked decisively over to his table. Trevelyan glanced up from the report, and his eyes widened as soon as he took in Dorian’s features. A few crumbles of tart were stuck at the edge of his mouth, and he brushed them away hastily as he swallowed and stood up. His eyes glided over him for a moment before snapping back up to his face.

“Lord Pavus” he said, straightening up.

His formality drove a shot of bitterness through Dorian. So they were back at official titles, were they? Well. Two could play this game.

“My lord Herald Inquisitor” Dorian replied, bowing his head. When he straightened up, he thought he saw a small frown passing over Trevelyan’s features, but it was polished away instantly. He sat back down, politely gesturing for Dorian to take a seat as well, should he wished.

Dorian most certainly took a seat, making sure his cloak didn’t get wrinkled as he did so. Trevelyan’s eyes darted uneasily about the room before he glanced at him.

“Did you sleep well?”

Dorian inclined his head and gave him a small, polite smile. “Very well, thank you. And you?”

“Yes, so did I.” He fumbled about with the reports in his hand, stacking the pages and smoothing them over with his palm. He leaned forward on the table, then seemed to change his mind, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other instead.

Dorian watched him intently. The awkwardness and his stalling were grating at his nerves. He cleared his throat, intent on whisking it away and clearing the air once and for all. “Inquisitor, I wanted to-“

“Would you care for some tea?” Trevelyan asked abruptly, sitting up and glancing towards the innkeeper behind the bar.

Dorian blinked at him. He didn’t seem to pay him any mind at all as he gestured to the innkeeper. “No, thank you, I’m-“

“A cup of the Rivaini black tea, please” Trevelyan told the burly innkeeper as soon as he approached the table. “Do you take any honey in it? Or whisky? They have an excellent rye whisky here. Straight from Starkhaven” he said, turning to Dorian.

Dorian opened and closed his mouth. What on earth was wrong with this man? He looked at Trevelyan, who seemed engrossed in taking his order, and the innkeeper, who was eyeing them both curiously. Dorian was obviously not getting any words in today.

He let out a small sigh of defeat, sitting back in his chair and waving his hand indifferently. “Certainly. Why not.”

Trevelyan nodded to the innkeeper, who gave him a wide, ingratiating smile and walked swiftly towards the bar. Dorian glanced at him, and let out a soft sigh.

“I, uh…” Trevelyan started, then stopped. He cleared his throat and tried again. “We will be leaving for Skyhold today.”

Dorian nodded slowly. “Yes, I am aware.”

“Right." He rubbed the back of his neck, then straightened up again. When he spoke, he was peering at something at the far end of the room, as if he were talking to himself. “Our ship is leaving for Jader in the afternoon. You can… have a walk about town. Or stay here, if you would like. I have another meeting now, but after I come back, we’ll leave straight away.”

Dorian followed his gaze, curious to see what he was looking at, but found nothing of note. The cold indifference in Trevelyan's tone was infuriating, but Dorian pushed his annoyance down and took a deep breath. He forced a smile on his face, hoping that Trevelyan would deign to look at him this time. “As you wish, Inquisitor."

The hiss of the boiling water and the chink of a cup set on a saucer sounded faintly from behind the bar. The silence that stretched between them while they waited for the tea was almost painful, heavy with awkwardness and anticipation. Trevelyan gave him a small, uneasy half smile in between glancing at the reports on the table before him. There was a tiny, barely perceptible dimple at the corner of his mouth when he smiled. Amidst the hazy cloud of his inebriation the previous night, that small detail shone brilliantly in Dorian’s mind. For once, he had been close enough to see it. He wondered that he had never noticed it before. Perhaps it was because Trevelyan smiled so rarely, that when he did, Dorian was too transfixed by the glitter in his eyes or the soft sound of his laugh to notice anything else. Maker, he really had a beautiful smile. It was such a shame that it didn’t show more often.

The very thought filled him with a vague sadness, that was suddenly too much for him to bear. Not to mention that his head was still throbbing, and he probably wasn’t capable of clear thought. He barely paid the innkeeper any mind as he placed the cup of tea by the table and walked away. Dorian leaned forward, his palm on the table before him.

“Inquisitor” he said softly, drawing closer. Trevelyan lifted his eyes from the reports. The absent look in his eyes quickly melted into a half panicked one, his brows drawn together as he noticed the intent on Dorian’s face, and him drawing closer. He pulled slightly back, away from him. His instinctive movement made Dorian’s heart thrum painfully in his chest, but he brushed the hurt away. He had to clear the air, no matter what. “I wished to speak to you about last night. I wished to… to apologise for my behaviour, if it was inappropriate. What I did was… It was-“

“It’s fine.”

Dorian blinked at him. Trevelyan wasn’t even looking at him anymore, so absorbed was he in gathering his things from the table. Annoyance sparked in Dorian’s chest, but he pushed forward still, lowering his voice. “But, Inquisitor,” he pressed on, “I should-“

“Dorian, it’s fine” he replied quickly, cutting him off again. He stood up, his reports tucked under one arm, his coat draped over the other. “I have to leave for my meeting now. Make sure you get ready for our journey back to Skyhold.”

He hesitated only for a heartbeat before turning around and stalking towards the inn’s door. He wasn’t exactly running, but it was dangerously close.

Dorian was left staring after him. An odd feeling of emptiness spread through him. This had not gone as he had thought it would. He had expected it to be awkward and stiff, but he never thought Trevelyan would be so cold towards him. He was even colder and far more reserved than he had been when they had first met, and Maker knew Trevelyan could be as closed up as a clam when he chose. This whole debacle was getting from bad to worse.

He hurriedly sipped on his tea and stood up. He was not going to sit about, wallowing in his misery. He was in Val Royeaux, one of the most beautiful and renowned cities in Thedas. Who knew how long it would be before he had a chance to see a civilized place again? He resolved to take advantage of his time there as much as he could.

With his cloak billowing behind him, he stepped out into a warm, sunny morning. The paved streets of Val Royeaux were busy as always, the white marbles glinting in the sun. He let his eyes roam idly over the intricate fountains and the statues that decorated the wide market square. The streets were full of lavishly dressed Orlesians, their servants tittering behind them. Not a few eyes strayed towards him as he passed. Their gazes held a mix of hostility and apprehension, barely obscured by their masks. Dorian held his head high, and even gave in to the temptation of flashing a bright smile to a few that glared particularly intensely.

He walked to the vendors' stalls, pretending to browse their wares for lack of something else to do. The market here was not so different than the ones back home. The exotic artefacts, the lush fabrics, the jewellery... There was even a street magician swallowing and breathing fire at the street corner, and a curious crowd gathered around him. Dorian watched him too, his mind already drifting to memories of his childhood, when his father would take him to the Minrathous market. He would watch the street magicians with wide eyes as they pulled doves out of their hats, or made pennies disappear in thin air only to seemingly pull them out of a bystander's ear. He remembered how fascinated he was, how he would give himself headaches trying to puzzle out their tricks. Until he had found out his own magic, that was. After that, it had been an upward slope of research and lifelong fascination with the thing. He had never looked the same way at street magicians ever again.

Still, the man here was not too bad. Dorian took a copper out of his coin purse and tossed it in his upturned hat on the floor before walking away, ignoring the gathered crowd's looks in his general direction.

Before leaving Minrathous, Dorian had never realised how different he looked to the people around him. He wasn’t quite sure what it was that gave him away exactly. The colour of his skin was unusual here, that was certain, but was it something more? Was it his hair, his eyes, the way he moved? The way he talked, the way he dressed? Whatever it was, it often made him feel like a fish out of water. Even in Minrathous he had often been the object of attention, with his outfits and his appearance. He had been used to people looking at him like a strange, fascinating thing, and Dorian didn’t mind when they stared or whispered about him to each other. Most days, even here, he could almost pretend that people were staring at him because of his outfits, rather than... well, himself. Almost. He didn't have much luck at pretending that day, though. He could already feel the unease slithering its way in as he walked down the busy market street.

Dorian let out a heavy sigh. He never thought he would see the day, but he actually missed Minrathous. A great deal, in fact. At least there he could blend in with the crowd. Not that he would ever want to, but he could still have that choice. At that very moment, that made a world of difference.

He stopped by the stall of a street vendor, selling intricate polished copper plates and mirrors. Dorian caught his reflection on the surface of a particularly shiny one. A couple strands of hair were sticking out, and he paused for a moment to run his fingers through his glossy black curls to fix them in place. Two tired eyes stared back at him, the noticeable circles underneath them darkening their outline, and he winced at how haggard he looked. The thread of gold embroidery on his coat glimmered beautifully, though. He smoothed his palm over it, relishing in the feel of the rich dark fabric. With a sharp breath, he straightened his shoulders and tossed his head back defiantly. If these Orlesians were going to glare, the least he could do was provide them with something dashing to glare at.

Trevelyan returned to the tavern before noon just as he had said. Dorian had just settled down at a table to have his humble lunch of pheasant tart, the books and a small pocket mirror he had bought on the chair beside him, when he burst through the door, with the ambassadors Lady Josephine had sent with him at his heel. He looked flustered, his eyebrows knit in concern.

Dorian stood up, drawing close to him. He didn’t even get the chance to speak at all before Trevelyan gave him the news.

“Our ship will not be leaving after all. Jader’s port is closed because of a land squabble between the ruling nobles that has gotten out of control.”

Dorian gaped at him. “Does that mean we’re stranded here?”

One of the ambassadors, a short Antivan woman with large chestnut eyes and her mass of black hair pinned in a braided bun at the top of her head, took a tiny step forward. “No, my lord. We will be travelling through land. I petitioned with the Mayor of Val Royeaux, who was kind enough to lend us horses and a wagon.”

“We need to leave soon” Trevelyan interjected. He was twisting that ring on his finger, like he always was. “Now, if possible. We need to have crossed as much distance as we can before sundown. There is still the civil war going on in many parts of the countryside, so we need to be careful.”

“Of course” Dorian said, somewhat breathlessly. Trevelyan nodded grimly and spun on his heel, walking swiftly towards the stairs to his room before Dorian could utter another word. The short brunette ambassador eyed him warily before following Trevelyan, gesturing at her associate, a tall boy lumbering behind her with a pack of papers and reports.

Dorian stood for a moment in the center of the half empty common room, with its tall ornate stained glass windows and its inviting hearth. Just the thought of leaving all that behind to travel for days on horseback made his back ache. His appetite had already left him, and his head still felt sore and heavy like an overripe melon. Watching Trevelyan's back disappear behind the stair corner, Dorian wondered idly how much worse this day could actually go.