#i've actually written the reverse of this with sad young dorian

[trulycertain]

17. Omnia mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis. All things change, and we change with them.

Time travel weirdness. 2.4k. Thank you for the prompt! And sorry I’m incapable of being concise.

Dorian falls out of a rift somewhere unfamiliar, and of course, because that’s just his luck, it’s hailing. He’s always rather despised most hoods on robes - a little too Magisterium, and a little too, Yes, I’m just going to be subtle while I sneak in the back way and do blood magic - but he sighs and pulls this one over his head anyway, blinking. Kaffas, he really is becoming a proper magister.

The rift’s already disappeared, and his little light show doesn’t seem to have drawn any attention, luckily. The spell is at least quiet these days, even if he needs to perfect its ability to, oh yes, not drop him in the wrong place and time completely. Just a small matter, but one that he definitely needs to solve. Of course, that will involve running more experiments, and he can only hope they don’t all turn out as underwhelmingly as this one.

At first he thinks he must have landed in Ferelden, judging from the dismal weather - but he hears accents from people close by, and he realises. The Free Marches. Said people are wearing what appears to be Chantry robes, though there are also leathers and armour on display, and they’re running to escape the inclement weather, sodden skirting dragging through the mud. Ah yes, a southern Chantry - the perfect place for a very obviously Tevinter magister in foreign robes. He gives a mental sigh, and presses a hand to his arm, weaving a minor cloaking spell around himself; nothing that will make him invisible, just a charm that will make him… unobtrusive, not worth looking twice at. He starts forwards, and most don’t even glance at him, too busy scurrying for dryness and warmth.

Apart from… one. There’s a young man sitting on the steps of one of the buildings. His head is bowed, and he’s slowly becoming soaked, but he doesn’t even look up at the battering he’s taking from the elements - he just runs a hand briefly over his shaven, stubbled head, then returns it to resting on his knees with the other. His shirt might have been white once, but it’s wet through.

Dorian would envy such fortitude if he didn’t think it was more than a little insane. He makes to leave this… Chantry? no, not quite, training yard - better to keep his mana where it is - but something makes him pause. And before he can argue, his feet are carrying him quietly towards the building, and the yard’s now solitary occupant. He sees those shoulders tense; his presence has definitely been noted. He tries for a slow saunter and says, attempting airiness even while water is dripping off the end of his nose, “Are all Marchers this fond of storms?”

The stranger looks up, seeming surprised. 

And Dorian thinks that he looks familiar, somehow, though it’s hard to place exactly why - until he looks into those very blue eyes, recognises them, and stops in his tracks. “Gal?” he says, before he can stop himself. Kaffas. So much for being unobtrusive.

The man blinks, surprise breaking through the templar-trainee blankness. “Have we met?” 

And Dorian knows that voice with every fibre of his being, has spent too many nights listening to it through a sending crystal and grinned at the sound of it echoing in his quarters, quiet and warm and real. Perhaps this one is a little sharper, more noble round the edges in a way time will dull, but… It is Gal. Dorian looks him over again, somewhat surprised; he’s wondered what Gal would look like without the hair and tattoos, true, but he’d never realised the answer would be terribly young. Gal can only be… eighteen, perhaps even seventeen, by the looks of it. And there’s a dullness to his eyes that’s almost unrecognisable, and frightening.

Dorian manages, “No. I… No.” Then he casts a minor barrier to keep the hail and rain off and sits next to Gal, uncaring of the fact his robes will probably be ruined. He had much worse travelling with the Inquisition. “Are you sure you don’t want some sort of shelter?”

“Sure. Don’t worry about me.”

He should leave. He should start working on the counterspell, and… “You’re a templar trainee, yes?”

A snort of bitter laughter. “Did the Revered Mothers give it away?”

“Could be. Or perhaps it was the air of poorly-disguised misery.”

Something crosses Gal’s face at that - something caught-out and afraid - but he just says matter-of-factly, “You’re a magister.”

Once, Dorian would have argued against that and all it implies. Magister, no. Mage from Tevinter, yes. Before it was true. He sighs. “And yet you’re not running at me with smite and sword.”

Gal shrugs. “You haven’t tried to set me on fire yet. And I don’t feel blood magic.”

Dorian smiles at that, because it’s a very Gal answer, and they look out over the yard. 

“Why does a magister know my name? And why did you appear in the Marches?” Gal says. When Dorian looks at him, he explains, “Saw the portal. It wasn’t that well-cloaked.”

A magister. That’s all he is, to this Gal. Dorian thinks of Magister Pavus and the fact that that’s him now, no longer his father, and suddenly the hood is too heavy. He shoves it off, looking up at the grey sky. 

Gal hides it well - Chantry training, of course - but there’s the hint of a blink. Perhaps he was expecting someone older, or more… villainous.

Dorian sighs. “It wasn’t exactly intentional. Bit of an accident with time travel, and apparently it changes location, as well. All very inconvenient, but shit happens, as a friend would say.” A hint of a smile, quickly stifled, crosses Gal’s face at that, and Dorian continues, “I suppose I’m stranded in…” He looks around. “Ostwick?”

“Ostwick.” Gal confirms it and then looks at him, still with that surprised curiosity. “Time travel? Working time travel? Some kind of temporal displacement?” He’s leaning forwards a little, actually meeting Dorian’s eye now, even without realising it.

Dorian’s grinning before he can help himself, because some things never change. “Tevene technology. Or rather, my technology. There were some changes in the Veil which came at a convenient time.”

Gal looks intrigued - and concerned. “Changes?”

“You do realise I can’t risk telling you and disrupting the natural progression of - “

Gal tilts his head. “You’re from the future.”

“Ah. Damn.” Gal has never been unintelligent. Dorian should never have forgotten himself, but he was simply glad to see some light return to Gal’s eyes.

“And you… know me. Whenever you’re from.” Something desperate crosses Gal’s face, all of a sudden, and then his chin raises in stubbornness, as if he’s preparing for battle. It would be intimidating - even so much younger, this Gal is nearly as broad and sharp-jawed as his older self - except that Dorian knows that look, and he knows it means Gal is terribly, terribly afraid. Gal says, “Am I still here?”

And Dorian understands. He remembers the tales of a kicking twelve-year-old getting dragged through the gates; remembers hearing of whippings and lyrium addicts and a desperate escape attempt - one that will take place perhaps a year from now.

“Am I a templar?” Gal asks, more insistently.

 “No,” Dorian answers. “No, you aren’t.”

The relief that crosses Gal’s face must be painful. “I get out?”

“You do,” Dorian says, carefully. “And you manage it by yourself.” He can’t help the pride in his voice. His amatus, still a brilliant, mad bastard even back then. Or back now. This is all very confusing. Occupational hazard of chronomancy.

Gal smiles, bright and toothy, and for a moment Dorian recognises the man he’ll meet, give or take a decade. Then it fades, replaced by that curiosity, and Gal gestures to the stubble where his hair used to be. “Mine used to be that length.”

Suddenly Dorian realises that this Gal didn’t know him before, and he has to stop himself raising a selfconscious hand to his own hair. “Before they cut it off. Yes, I remember you telling me. Charming fellows, the Chantry lot.”

Perhaps something bitter is in his voice, because Gal’s head tilts. “I…? How did we meet?“

“Ah. No. I’ve said quite enough already.”

“Can’t imagine ending up in Tevinter. I don’t know, but… your face says I don’t. And you recognised this place. You came south?”

Dorian narrows his eyes and gives a wan smile. “Oh no you don’t.” He’s falling into it again, that easy teasing they’ve had for years.

That bright grin breaks through once more, and then Gal seems surprised by it. “Can’t blame me for trying.” 

Dorian wonders, with a pang, how long it is since Gal last smiled. Perhaps the Chantry does that to a person. At this age he was still gallivanting round Qarinus and probably scandalising the locals, with all the freedom an idiot young noble could hope for. (Well, except in affairs of the heart. But it’s no good to dwell on that now, with this strange mirror of the man he loves in front of him.) “Believe me, I can. I’d rather not break time and throw it down the privy, if you don’t mind.”

“Thought you’d done that already.” When Dorian snorts, Gal says, “How old am I, where you are?”

Dorian debates with himself, and then sighs and settles for the truth. “About ten months younger than I am.”

That not-quite-hidden surprise, and Gal looks him up and down. “Oh.” He swallows, and then says, with an unfamiliar, very young sort of caution, “It… doesn’t sound as if you dislike me. That me.”

“That might be because I don’t,” Dorian laughs. “Far from it.”

And Gal’s ears go pink.

Dorian’s smiling, albeit wanly, partly because the ears are more obvious without all the hair and he recognises that particular shade of magenta.

“What?” Gal grunts.

Dorian shakes his head, unable to explain how much it amuses him that even now, this Gal still thinks he’s handsome - and is trying desperately not to show it. Some things don’t change. You’re a tad young for me, he doesn’t say. By about eleven years. “Nothing.”

“We’re friends?” Gal says.

Well, aside from the small “love of my life” thing. “We are.” He stands, brushing off his robes. “And now I really ought to go and correct my mistake.”

“Probably shouldn’t ask for your name.”

Dorian pauses. “Probably not, no.” He grins. “It’s very Tevinter, though, I’ll tell you that. Unwieldy and noble, so on, the sort that horrifies the locals. Not quite as much to carry around as Galahad Owen Keir Trevelyan, however.” He can’t help remembering the last time he heard that name in its entirety, and his grin widens - even more so when Gal goes a fascinating shade of pink. It’s even more obvious without the tattoos. Gal must curse that pale Marcher complexion.

Dorian turns, and his smile fades as he thinks things through. Much as he’d like to grab this miserable young trainee and spirit him away, perhaps save him a few more years of this, he can’t. Things would change, perhaps irreparably. They might never even meet.

Would it be worth it? Yes, probably. Maker knows Gal might even be better off without knowing him. But the world’s a different story, and if it got blown up by the Elder One simply because he’s a softhearted fool…

So he starts to walk back towards the edge of the yard. Simple to slip back into the woods and then cast - hopefully, if time repairs itself the way it’s wont to do, Gal won’t even remember this. It might never have occurred.

“The - When we meet,” Gal starts, from behind him.

Dorian turns, raising a questioning brow.

“I’m… looking forward to it,” Gal says, quietly. And yes, one could light fires off those ears.

Dorian gives a mental sigh and heads back, then waves a hand - the barrier flickers and fades round him and transfers to Gal instead - before he follows it up with a strategic, controlled warmth spell. A very surprised, now very dry Gal stares at him. 

Dorian says, “Me too. Now get yourself under some kind of roof before you freeze to death and destroy your future completely. That barrier’s only going to last ten minutes.” His hair’s rapidly getting plastered to his face, and the rain’s somehow got down the neck of his robes. It always does, somehow. He’s missed many things about this part of the world, but not its weather.

Gal nods.

Dorian turns and walks away, then, telling himself that it’s only a minor change to the timeline. He casts the moment he gets out of sight -

- and lands in his study, sprawling in an ungraceful heap on his back. His warm, dry study. The rift closes behind him a moment later. Still clutching the amulet, he very weakly punches the air.

A tattooed, utterly bemused, rather upside-down face comes into view. “You all right?” 

He stares up at Gal. Tattoos, more hair, one arm, thirty-two. Good, that’s… slightly less odd. “The temporal displacement still needs some work,” he starts, still somewhat dazed. “It threw me straight into a hailstorm.”

“Maybe your magic has a sense of humour.” Gal grins, wide and bright, with no trace of a resigned, dull-eyed boy in it. “I’ll put that in the log.” At the silence that follows, he says, “Dorian, what are you - ?”

But then Dorian’s threading a hand through that familiar long hair, tugging Gal down and kissing him.

Dorian manages afterwards, “I’ve missed you, amatus.”

“You were gone less than an hour.” Gal’s still breathless. Then there’s that assessing headtilt, that curiosity. “But that’s not what you meant, is it?”

“That,” Dorian begins, grabbing a sturdy bookcase and getting to his feet, “is a very long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

Dorian snorts at the choice of words as he unbuckles his coat and throws it onto his favourite armchair, thinking of a Chantry miles and years ago. “Yes,” he says softly. “That you do.”