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meowsgirldrawing · 5 months

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Fenris, meet Brivia...and her magic!

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Word- 2,500

“Let’s see here…” Dorian’s finger traces under his chin, brow deep in ponder as his eyes trail over the books, “Would ‘Serah Mastry’s Relics’ be a best match? Or perhaps ‘History of the Soulistic Elements’ serves better?”

The woman next to him thinks hard, thumbing through the first’s description.

“Maybe…the second? I was hoping to find out more on the Elemental factors, not really a collection in vagueness.” Hawke decides, nodding fairly.

Dorian’s reaction is nothing but understanding, putting away the others and helping her to find a few more. Never can be too safe- especially when dealing with the magical arts well known to both.

The only non-mage in the room stands meters away, posed against a wall pillar. His face, specifically his green eyes, is drawn into absolute boredom. And maybe a tad of untoned anxiousness. His fingers tap along his dark coat, his left foot- the one on the ground- taps silent beats on the floor, the rest of his body tense.

Fenris, while having moved on for himself from his past of Tevinter for the most part, still doesn’t enjoy being back in his ‘home country’. Maker knows how he and Hawke were even able to sneak into Minrathous just to speak with the former Inquisitor’s deemed best friend, all in the hopes of finding specific items for a friend of their own.

Honestly- A mage and a lyrium-adorned elf.

It would’ve sent tongues wagging and swords- or staffs- drawing if they had been seen.

Anyhow, after explaining the situation to Magister Dorian Pavus, an apparent ‘good’ Magister- Fenris remains to keep his eyes on him, no doubt the mage feels it so- he graciously guided them to one of his main libraries, quick to grab a good few well known on the shelves.

The elf is silent in his sigh, dreading how slowly time is passing. Hawke seems quite the opposite, given how she and Dorian burst into a small fit of laughter

His ear pricks up at footsteps.

With head-turning jadedly, his thoughts turn sour.

There's a young girl, who can't be older than 8, clinging to the hand of a servant elf. They pause somewhat in the doorway, at the little girl’s tug that has the older one bending down to hear her better.

Fenris feels a frown pulling at his already lowered lips. He doesn’t recall any mention of children. Recalling his knowledge of Tevinter in the past, children were only there as child slaves or, undecidedly fortunate or not, children of older ones. Even then, most didn’t stay in the hold older than 2 years old. Much less 8. Magisters’ usual tendencies involved the selling of such age groups for either extra coin, felt they were a waste of space, or had other Magisters offering to buy them for ‘reasonable’ prices for whatever reason they sought for. The youngest slave you’d see actually working when they were at the age of cognitive mindsets. 12 and up.

Any younger age was deemed too hard to deal with as they would have to ‘raise them’.

But…albeit this Magister Pavus doesn’t own slaves, at least- he was known to have freed all the ones he could in his family’s name, giving them the opportunity to still work but be treated as hired workers, or shown availability to leave and find work outside.

Then why is the little-

Fenris stares at the scene. The girl’s long, brown curls bob lightly. Her giggles faint to his ears as she points up at a picture, her mouth moving in a possible question perhaps.

The older woman flickers her eyes up, taking a good look, before turning back and answering whatever it was with a gentle smile.

They almost seem like mother and daughter.

Satisfied it seems, the two go forward, continuing their walk without a care.

Fenris remains ever curious.

Until now, he’s been in control of himself. Even his mouth.

Until now, “ Do your servants own any children?”

Hawke and Pavus pause in their search, both gravitating their heads swiftly in his direction.

A part of him winces. The other part doesn’t care.

“I’m sorry, what?” Dorian asks, a trimmed brow higher than default. Hawke blinks. Near crystal blue eyes danced between the two men.

“A child. I saw her walk past just now.”

Dorian stays confused, thinking for a good moment. Then starts laughing. It’s not loud, but it continues to startle Fenris, putting his nerves more… nerve-wracked.

“Oh! Oh, no. None of the Servants have any children. A rare moment in time it seems, usually-”

Fenris stopped listening. He stands straighter as his mind slips to the first thing.

Child labor.

Possibly not the worse thing to actual slaves, but-

The girl is barely 8. If she has no parents, then is he just keeping her for some sake? Perhaps easy persuasion for a servant. She is no human, the pricks of her ear were clear through the curls.

His teeth tense.

Varania was basically raised similarly, raised under a magister’s rule into learning the harsh ways to get around. And to be raised in this place, other than give the child somewhere that will give her a better upbringing-

Before he even realizes it, Fenris made it across half the ground between them. Dorian’s feet hasten him back, arms tensing, “Now- Ser Fenris-”

“Then are you keeping her here for some ulterior motive or do you not have a thought process at all?! Huh!?”

The mage flips to flabbergasted, a twitch agitated at the accusation. “Excuse me?! Brivia-”

“That’s her name? Such a little girl has no need to be in a place-”

“Fenris!” Hawke keeps to her spot mostly; her side bracing a bit in front of the Magister.

He’s not looking at her; seething straight ahead at the pompous wearing ‘ruler’ of this household. He knew it! Even some of the ‘nicest’ ones have something under their tainted sleeves.

His arm flies in a motion that has Pavus flinching and Hawke staring, hard. “You know what happened to Varania, Hawke! How are we so sure he isn’t putting that little one in a similar circumstance!” He spits out. Burning morphs under his skin, the familiar urge of his markings spark to life. Glittering the ground and the closest objects near him in a striking blue tone.

Hawke dips her gaze for a second, catching something behind him. It never clicks in his mind until a presence is closer. The tile a sheer couple of feet from him shifts. His marks crackle at something nearby.

Around he spins, a gauntlet flying to his sword’s hold where it rests in its sleeve.

The girl!

She’s…glaring- no seethes..up at him?

Her ears are pinned to her head as much as possible, full turquoise color glints in her pinched eyes, and her fists are at her sides. On rather an instinct, he recognizes the frost around it.

He follows the trail like a line; leading right down to his booted feet. It’s then he sees the ice threatening to touch. It gets worse as spikes slowly lift from the ground, pointing at his shins.

Fenris’s once furious demeanor flips like a switch. It turns blank, honest to Andraste herself- he barely mumbles, “..Huh?”

Brivia’s lips lift into a snarl. It could almost look..oddly cute. If his legs weren’t being threatened by impalement. God, Hawke’s rubbed off on him too much.

“Don’t. Touch. Papa.”

His green eyes blink. “...Uh…”

In a snap, it disappears, spikes lose their hold from her and start melting, and she skirts past him and up to the Magister.

Dorian has no hesitation in scooping her up, safe and cooing at her softly. Trying to calm her down all while she tightens herself around him as much as she physically can. He runs a hand down her back, soothing circles in repeat,

“I’m not ‘keeping’ her here. I’m raising her here.” He states, a quiet moment before his eyes turn from down at Brivia and then up towards Fenris. He looks like he’s short from glaring at him.

Fenris steps back, “ Wha..”

The probably not too much older man pitches his brow, the other arm holding a tittering Brivia, “I’m her father. I adopted her under a decision between my husband and I.”

“How?” Hawke can’t keep her gaze from the little girl, “I thought-” Her jaw is low.

“There were some laws that people tried to throw at me, if that’s what you’re thinking. But I had my own protection to throw back at them, so- rather unfortunate for them- they had no choice but to let me sign at the end.” His eyes swipe back to Fenris, “I have the papers if need proof.”

“..No-” His eyes are stuck on Brivia’s back. She’s trembling only barely; the strong persona she put up for so long before she cracked in her father’s arms.

Her father’s..arms.

Her father.

“......” Fenris doesn’t have a clue as to what to respond with.

“..I’ve heard bits and pieces of your past, Ser Fenris.” His eyes flick up, meeting the Magister’s.

Dorian’s eyes are full of as much understanding as he can. As much as he can in grand spite of their differences. Not a lick of pity.

Fenris can’t even steel his face. It’s wide-eyed

, likely a little furrow in them, mouth in a thin line. He swallows but keeps quiet.

Dorian leans his lower back into the desk, adjusting his arms. Brivia is breathing calmer now, just hiding in the crook of his neck, pushing down the short, fanned-out collar around the top of Dorian’s outfit. Still, his hand never lets off her back.

“My husband found Brivia during a job and brought her home to us. Not even 2 months later, and I was already getting the papers ready…” His mouth quirks, tilting down, “Isn’t that right, darling? “

A glimpse of her face and she’s pressing down a small smile.

Out of the corner of his eye, Fenris catches Hawke’s short fidgeting. Her gingerly tapping of fingers, eyes wide but in curiosity at the girl.

Brivia shifts, noticing it.

When he thought she would shy away from it, surely startled by them- she doesn’t. She moves slowly, yes, but eventually lifts her head high enough to see Hawke clearer. Her face was uncertain but just as curious.

A soft, gentle smile spreads on Hawke, “Hello~!” Dorian chuckles in the background as Brivia lifts a little wave. “Hi..” She whispers.

“That was a neat spell you just did!” Hawke can’t help but comment. Fenris’s head twirls, What-

Like- Did you not just see it pointing at my legs earlier?

“The scary elf startled you, huh?”

Hawke, I swear to the maker-

Brivia looks hesitant, a quick eye shift to Fenris then back at her. He holds any face change when she nods.

Hawke coos, lifting an inviting hand. Brivia takes less time now, giving in and grabbing her hand with a significantly smaller, freckled hand. Rubbing her thumb along the back and knuckles, Hawke’s smile remains ever soft. “I’m sorry about that, little one. I promise he didn’t mean to! Believe me or not, but he’s rather nice.”

“A little prickly-”

“But very nice!” Hawke swats Dorian’s arm.

The little girl, if she wasn’t as hesitant as before, she definitely was now. Her gaze turned to him but flickered down, then back up. She can’t seem to stay looking at him long.

Fenris steps only slightly forward. Brivia pauses, but, at Dorian’s help in adjusting, she shuffles in his arms until she’s facing Fenris more. The girl only continues to surprise him concludingly; her chin lifts, bridging high as if she’s suddenly unafraid now. Her eyes switch focus and her lips twirl into a soft pout.

Judging by side perspectives, Hawke catches her hand from flying to her mouth, swallowing her obvious giggle. Dorian’s smile keeps calm but proud, watching for Brivia’s reactions.

“..Hello..” As much as a small part of his attempts for the same voice Hawke used, his voice is soft, but preferably in volume.

“...Hi.” Brivia mumbles through her pout.

“I..” He can feel it, his cheeks heating up under Dorian and Hawke’s gazes. But he keeps his head up, determined to fix his mistake. “I apologize for my actions.”

He ignores the snort from Hawke, “I believed something that wasn’t true….I hope…you can forgive..me?” It’s odd, he’s heard children apologize after running into his legs in the rowdy streets of Kirkwall, never expected to be on the other side of it, minus the running into the legs of the obviously shorter girl.

Not that it’s a pride thing, he can apologize just as well as anyone with a brain. His mind just had never come up with this type of scenario.

Brivia once again pauses, a thoughtful girl at that, then her eyes dart a few centimeters from his face. Before he can glance behind him, more eyes on them perhaps? She lifts a hand, affably trailing it along her ear. “..Your ears look like mine.”

“Yes.” Fenris agrees. Not sure where this is heading.

Her hand breaks from her ear to hover in the air, slightly towards him. Both Hawke and Fenris see what she’s asking without a word.

“Darling,” Hawke says, knowing Fenris’s ideals on touching, “I’m sorry but I don’t think-”

Fenris one-ups her and leans forward, right enough so she can reach. It takes her a second, probably listening to Hawke, but soon he feels small, shy fingers tap on the edge of his ear. They thumb at the curve, where the pointy part resides. Noticing her increased wonder, he manages to give a soft flick. Her hand moves away, but a giggle escapes.

“How did you do that?” Her question tumbles out in the midst of her giggles. As Fenris resumes position, he can’t help the smirk on his face. It’s softer at the edges however, “You’ll learn in time, you won’t even know you’re doing it until someone points it out.”

Eyes that held uncertainty, a spark of fear overpowered by as much anger as a child can have when protective, now blooms in wonderment and surprise, a great lick of joy too. She spins as best she can to her father, patting his shoulder, “ Papa! Papa! Could I move my ears too?”

“Hm…” He playfully scrutinizes her ears, before tsking, “Might be a while, my dear. They are quite short compared to Ser Fenris here.”

Her lower lip puckers out a bit, a low pout as she plays with his collar, “Aww..”

Hawke’s giggle has Brivia look up again, “Buut…” Her fingers nip lightly at her ears, pulling ticklish giggles out again, “They are just as adorable.”

Fenris can’t help but smile, watching the sweet scene.

A Magister who bought and lost a slave.

A Magister who found and kept a daughter.

Two from the same world, both ending in happiness despite their difference.

“Agreed.” He says simply.

#dragon age #dragon age fenris #Brivia Pavus #dorian pavus #female hawke #Dragon age fanfic #Post tresspasser #Oc insert #Dorian is a dad #Magister Dorian

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cha1nbreak · 1 year

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@doriaen

she should not be surprised. maevaris had mentioned hosting other guests, and there has been a certain look about her smile and eyes that calpernia had noted but ignored ; it was a conspiratorial sort of glance, a smile that spoke of knowing more than calpernia did about the given situation.

DORIAN PAVUS is a face calpernia knows all too well. she does her best not to choke upon the pomegranate seed she had just popped into her mouth when he graced the entrance of the room maevaris has certainly made herself scarce from ; perhaps calpernia ought to stand or some other such movement, but she remains where she is seated and blinks at him just once before tipping her head. pale hair is loose about her face and her stave is only a stride and a half away, but not within her hands. it is not as though pavus is likely to sling a spell at her, if mae trusts the two of them alone in one room, but calpernia's fingers itch for the stave. she is not well-liked amongst the magisters and the feeling is rather mutual - - - most meetings with those bearing such a title do not end without a duel.

"when maevaris seemed to imply i may know her other guest, i suppose i ought to have seen this coming. she is always quite adamant i listen to her speaking of your lucerni." it is not as though calpernia is a magister or will ever rise to such a rank in her lifetime. those outside of maevaris' little bubble will never see her as nothing but an upstart, an incaensor, a slave who tried to rise above and was nearly burned to a crisp by it - - - saved only by the pity and mercy of her once-enemy. NO, calpernia will never be a magister, and she scarcely sees the use in trying to rebuilt the magisterium at all instead of let it all burn. she holds those words though and pops another red pip into her mouth ; he will not see her sweat at his presence, thank you.

#doriaen #* v ; post inq #this got so long god #don't feel need to match length #slavery /

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the-dreadful-canine · 3 years

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Thank you v much for the tag @noire-pandora, @oxygenforthewicked, @emerald-amidst-gold and @dungeons-and-dragon-age I appreciate you all~ 🥰

On this fine day, I bring a snippet of the gang having a sweet moment at the tavern (but then I throw angst in the end because I am built like this).

Cw for: gambling, drinking, mentions of blood, ptsd, mild panic attack (it sounds really bad omg)

Balanced on the back legs of her chair, Elizabeth hid a soft smile behind a sip of her cup’s contents. The well-fed fire burned merrily on the hearth, bathing her chilled skin and the tavern in flickers of gold and orange, enhancing the homey atmosphere its patrons created. Scouts, Chargers and members of the Inner Circle alike gathered, piling around a couple of hastily pushed together tables.

Groans of defeat and pleased laughs filled the air, fistfuls of sweets, coins and the odd piece of clothing changed hands at the end of another round of Wicked Grace.

Following the self-assigned role of fire keeper, she eased the chair’ legs on the floor, turning back to the flames. It burned low, so she fed it a new log. Reaching her will outwards, Elizabeth called out to some of the curious *kindlings floating above the table, coaxing them to feed on the offered wood.

“Kadan, please.” The sudden baritone rising above the hushed gambling made her head turn, and she watched a coatless Dorian caught on his lover’s embrace. He had his nose in the air, arms crossed and eyes closed, a clear dismissal to whatever Bull tried to convince him of.

Finding his reasoning ignored, Bull let go of his lover with a sigh. Who was more than happy to return to the table and take a healthy gulp of his glass. With less grace than the usual he bent halfway under the thing, returning moments later with a triumphant expression. Whistles and hoots followed the clinking thud of his shiny boots being dropped over wood, and more than one pair of eyebrows rising at the rare bet.

“Deal me in, rogue.” Dorian spoke, managing to appear somewhat regal even while hastily tucking his now much colder feet under himself.

“You sure, Sparkler?” Varric drawled, eying the expensive item “That’s quite the pretty thing to risk.”

“And it’s about to look prettier surrounded by everyone’s piles of coins I’ll win this round.”

“A brave claim for someone clad only in a shirt and breeches.” Taunted Josephine from over her hand of cards. The ambassador perched like a golden dragon on her chair, her loot spread around her. “This will be a pretty addition to my collection.”

“You, Montilyet, shall rob me of no more items,” he scoffed, “for I have picked up on your tell.”

“A lady has no tells, Pavus.” She retorts swiftly, sipping from her wine with a smile like the cat who ate a canary gracing her face.

“Oh but she does.” called a voice from the door, a series of disheartened mutters rising from the table when the owner revealed herself. “If you know where to look.” she smirked, eying the offered footwear. “Now Mister Tethras, if you will?” Leliana spoke, roosting smoothly on a chair and motioning for Varric to deal her some cards.

Elizabeth nearly snorted on her drink when a chunk of the table suddenly decided to skip the round in a wave of half-baked excuses. Wise decision. But her favorite necromant’s wisdom had drowned somewhere around his fifth serving of liquor and he grew bolder, teasing the new rival, and she shook her head.

How in the Void Dorian still had enough clarity of mind to play Grace was beyond her. Their shared taste for the spicy, embrium-infused drink meant they were sharing a bottle this night; she was barely half her second cup and already her body started to feel all kinds of woozy. But then again, her ability to hold her liquor was never anything to boast about.

A fond smile made way to her face when the laughing and voices of other companions joined the growing banter. They were precious, these moments of peace where they could all come together and enjoy each other’s company. Even if for a few hours, they could ignore the ever-looming presence of the falling skies and rising evil magisters.

Much too often the hearth provided a melancholic light devoid of warmth and drinks not for loosening and unwinding with friends. The burning found at the bottom of the cup was a way to numb down the senses. To forget the days on the battlefield. To hope their bloodstained souls would not stain in crimsom their sleeping hours.

Something cold and sticky seeped on her thigh, and only then Elizabeth noticed the shaking hands. The spilled red liquid trailed down her fingers to pool on the rug, like blood pouring from a gaping wound. She closed her eyes and held her breath, willing her mind to settle. But it was too late. The homey smell of burning wood and roasting meat wafting from the kitchens twisted, and the stench of smoke and scorched flesh filled her nostrils instead. The laughing voices, warm and friendly grew louder, too loud. They bled and mixed into each other until all she heard was a cacophony of horrified screams of the uncountable lives she had to take just to survive.

A gentle, firm tug at her hand, pulls her from the edge of the vortex inside her mind and she reopens her eyes, blinking away the blur of unshed tears. Pale blue stares back at her, the familiar depths filled with so much empathy and understanding and it feels like an anchor; one she allows to ground her.

She can’t hear his words at first, but works trough the calming exercises until his blessedly monotonous and unwavering voice returns to her. The rest of the tavern’s voices and noises following soon enough.

Once awareness returns Elizabeth notices the rug she’s sitting in, the walls of the attic a familiar sight. She has no memory of getting there, but is thankful all the same. The boy in front of her gets up from his crouch, tugging her to her feet with a strength that never ceases to surprise her.

“Come.”

“Cole,” she tries pulling her hand out of his, but the spirit refuses to yield his grasp “thank you for coming to my aid but, really. I’m alright. I’ll be alright.”

“You are hurting.”

“Well, once you reach your thirties, you’re always hurting somewhere.” She jokes, trying to lighten the mood, but Cole sees right through her act, and although his face wears the usual neutral expression, his eyes scream his disapproval. With a sigh, she gives in, allowing him to drag her down the flights of stairs to the floor level.

“I can’t make you forget. They can help.” He says with a ghost of a smile once they reach the last step of the stairs. And then he’s gone.

There’s no time to feel awkward for standing alone in a dark corner, Varric’s finding her in a heartbeat. He calls out to her then, a wide grin on his face, warm brown eyes glimmering from something more than being on high spirits.

“Stop hiding, Stabby!” the table perks up at the mention of her nickname. More eyes and smiles turning to greet her “You’ve got too little alcohol and way too much dignity left in your body, you’re making us all look bad!”

The giggles and assorted noises of agreement wash over her like a warm cocoon, and weight she wasn’t even aware being on her shoulders slowly melts away.

Maybe Cole was right, she thinks - hopes -, while walking to the table. They could help.

* I tweaked Elizabeth's abilities based off her origins. She's from Earth not Thedas, and so I gave her earth-like magic: her 'magic' comes not from the Fade, but from borrowing from the elementals in the ambient. The kindlings mentioned in the scene are that, smol fire elementals attracted by the flames of the hearth.

#wip wednesday #i had this scene come to me at 2am and you can bet i got up to write it down before i forgot it #oc: elizabeth montes #dorian pavus #the iron bull #josephine montilyet #leliana dragon age #cole dragon age #varric tethras #cw: alcohol #cw: blood #cw: ptsd #cw: panic attack #my writing #mgit #modern girl in thedas #cw: gambling

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wavesofinkdrops · 3 years

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Take Me to the Depths with You

Read on AO3

Fenris/Dorian (Dragon Age), Rated M

Summary: The other eyes him for a moment, green eyes tracing him carefully. The deep timbre of his voice when he speaks takes Dorian by surprise, and quite a bit with interest. “What?” he asks, and it’s barely a question with the way he bares his teeth at the word. The look of intense distaste on his face remains.

Dorian’s smile hasn’t left his lips, but it’s hardly a welcoming one. “I like to get to know the men whose intense gazes linger on me,” he says flippantly, and the way the elf’s eyes narrow, he knows he’s on his first mistake of the evening. Night.

Warnings: Various warnings apply, this list is incomplete. Overall, PTSD/flashbacks, implied alcoholism, past sexual abuse/negative sexual experiences, non-graphical/implied sex, canon-compliant (and canonically implied) violence, internalised homophobia/homophobic language, (brief) racist language, (brief) instance of choking. The fic does have a happy ending, but it comes with a lot of angst before it. A more comprehensive list of tags/warnings is on AO3.

***

The sharp edge to the elf’s glare is entirely for his personal benefit, Dorian knows that much.

The Herald’s Rest is nigh empty at this hour. The single glass of the swill they call wine that Dorian had meant to come fetch to help soothe him into unconsciousness had turned into numerous more than were originally intended. Then again, he had hardly ever cared about his own intentions when it came to drink, and he was not planning on starting anytime soon, either. Cabot had grunted whether he wanted the whole bottle, to make matters easier, but Dorian had waved him off — his progress through the bottles was information he was unwilling to think about. Skyhold knew far too well his penchant as it was without him keeping track of it, too. It was easier to ignore this way. A mask of any kind is mask enough, wear it long enough and you forget your own reflection, and the pretense solidifies. A lesson he’d learned early.

One of the few remaining patrons is the infamous elf Dorian heard ghosted in behind the Champion of Kirkwall into the Inquisition. And the elf’s gaze is intermittently fixed on him, as if prepared for Dorian to attack any minute, otherwise giving the rest of the tavern a wary glance-over, before inevitably landing on him again.

“Yes?” Dorian calls over to him with an unpleasant smile on his lips, realising that perhaps by now the wine’s gotten to his mind and addled his capacity for self-preservation, since he’s calling over an elf that doesn’t look far from the definition of murderous intent . Then again, it had to be something else, he’d only had enough glasses to perhaps justify poor decisions, but he should not yet be at the stage of hoping to die by a provoked accident. At least as far as he was aware.

The elf’s glare sours even further, but he stands and comes over to Dorian’s table, having knocked back the rest of his drink and left the glass behind. There's a determination in the elf's gait that catches Dorian. He can tell the elf is stone-cold sober, and that makes him wonder what exactly a man was doing at the Rest at this hour, yet still somehow sober and visibly intent on staying so? It also meant he'd recently missed the elf's entrance into the Herald's Rest, which was another tally against how much alcohol he'd consumed so far.

The other eyes him for a moment, green eyes tracing him carefully. The deep timbre of his voice when he speaks takes Dorian by surprise, and quite a bit with interest. “What?” he asks, and it’s barely a question with the way he bares his teeth at the word. The look of intense distaste on his face remains.

“Dorian of House Pavus,” the elf says, and Dorian’s almost amused by the way he’s echoed his own introduction back to him despite having likely heard it second-hand at best. He’s done his research, it’s clear. The question remains, why?

Dorian merely sweeps his hand leisurely in front of him, palm open and conceding this fact, but makes no additional response. It wasn’t a question.

The other’s eyes narrow further. “A magister?” There’s the barest hint of a faded Tevinter accent on him, one that’s been worn off by years of disuse, but it’s been crudely painted over by a desperate imitation of a Fereldan provenance, intended to hide whatever past the Tevinter elf was trying to disown.

Dorian hides his snort into his glass as he takes a sip. He responds after he’s put his glass back down. “At this rate? Hardly.” There’s the barest quirk of the elf’s eyebrow, but Dorian presses on, eager to flip the topic. “Yet I know not a word of who you are, other than perhaps a guard dog for the Champion.”

Something flashes in the elf’s eyes. “Watch your tongue, mage.” If his words had been cold before, these are a threat. Second transgression, clearly.

That really means he should have known better. But instead, he’s trying to drown enough things at the bottom of whatever bottle he’s draining, so common sense can be yet another victim for the day. He sends him a leering grin, eyelashes veiling his eyes. “Is that an invitation, elf?”

It seems that is the third transgression.

The elf gives him a last blazing glare. “If you don’t, I will cut it out .” He leaves, storming out of the Herald’s Rest, the door slamming shut behind him on the blizzard outside.

***

Dorian corners Varric the next day. “Who’s the elf?” is the eloquent conversation opener he provides. He can’t be blamed for lack of flourish for the day, since the headache slamming behind his ears would be enough to take out the Iron Bull.

He’s used to it, and the guilt behind the hangover is enough to keep him on his feet. Something about the vicious cycle of evading his problems and drinking that created an unbreakable trap that ended in guilt.

Varric gives a laugh. “We’ve got a few of those around here, Sparkler, you’ll have to be more specific.”

Dorian almost says with the vallaslin , but realises that with some number of Dalish elves in and around the Inquisition, it barely narrows it down. “The one who came with the Champion.”

“Fenris?” Varric’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “Why? What happened?”

Dorian gives him an equal look of astonishment. “And that’s your first assumption, that something happened? You wound me.”

Varric shakes his head. “I think you’re the last person who should be going near that elf. He’s got a chip on his shoulder about mages, specifically Tevinter mages with a link to the Magisterium. Can’t blame him, but I doubt it’d be good for your health.”

Dorian leans against the wall. Getting discouraged from doing something is only an incentive to do it more. A hard habit to break, that one. His curiosity is less than satiated.

“An escaped slave, right? Why hasn’t he returned to his clan then?”

Varric’s confusion rises, before realisation crosses his features and he shakes his head again. “He’s not Dalish, Sparkler. That’s not vallaslin on his face, it’s lyrium.”

There’s a pause as Dorian considers this, and then he understands. A lyrium elf. The Wolf. He’s heard of him, of course, it was scandal enough when the Magisterium had gotten wind of Danarius losing him. Well, it certainly explains the elf’s peculiar behaviour the previous night.

The knowledge leaves with it a leaden taste behind that Dorian swallows around, forced to think again of the horrors endured by those who fell into the Imperium’s hands.

With that, he leaves Varric to the rest of his day, and instead proceeds to turn himself to something more productive than falling to the spiral of dread that comes when he thinks too hard on Tevinter — it’s particularly dreadful wanting to return to a nation he’s less and less sure is possible to fix by the day.

***

It’s by accident Fenris crosses his path again in the library, some days after the exchange Dorian had with Varric. He had decided to avoid the elf, preferring his organs where they are.

He finds him seated on a windowsill with a book in his lap in Dorian’s usual corner of the library, but Dorian hides his startle better than the elf does. Fenris is out of his comfortable curl faster than Dorian can blink.

“What do you want, mage?” he challenges, and it’s obvious he’s concealing how he jumped like a startled halla at the appearance.

Dorian merely turns to a shelf, continuing to look for whichever book he’d come searching for. “I believe I’m here to do what people generally do in libraries — find books, that is.” There’s a moment of silence, before Dorian continues. “If it’s any worth, I acted foolishly when we last spoke. I wasn’t aware of your past.”

Fenris scoffs audibly. “And now you are, and you’ve grown wisdom?”

“People in Skyhold like to talk.” Hardly about Fenris, but the truth of where he got his information mattered little. “I hadn’t realised you were the pet project Danarius advertised across Minrathous.”

“If it’s a deathwish you have, find someone else to satisfy you.”

“Ah, but you make such a good option,” Dorian provides, and the fact the elf is strikingly beautiful and so visibly detrimental to his well-being is clearly making everything worse. It clearly hadn’t been just the wine the other night. He wonders why his words remain so biting, and realises it’s because he’s desperate for a reaction. It would almost be pathetic if it weren’t putting his life on the line whenever he spoke to the elf.

“I have no interest in being a magister’s exotic plaything.” There’s a snarl in Fenris’ voice, and Dorian doesn’t even wonder what the damage he bears behind the words might be — he can figure it out well enough on his own.

It’s hardly even worth correcting, on most fronts. And he still turns to Fenris. “I’ve no interest in having a plaything,” he replies, before retreating with the book he’d come for in his hands.

***

The first time they have to come to terms with one another is when they share their first mission together, by the Inquisitor’s personal request.

The outing itself is uneventful, but in the aftermath of the adrenaline, the lyrium and the magic and the fight, they’re both wound tight. They’re sitting by the fire when the other members of their team are resting, the silence around them makes the fire crack like a whip. Fenris has taken first watch, while Sera and the Inquisitor are already slumbering. Dorian’s made the unwise decision to keep Fenris company.

“Why does the Inquisitor trust you?” Fenris asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Dorian doesn’t take his eyes off the flickering flames in front of him. “Are you looking for holes in her reasoning?”

“I’ve had little luck figuring you out.”

Dorian’s lip quirks imperceptibly. Usually he’d be flattered at this kind of attention lavished on him by someone else. “I assure you, one of my talents is incredible shallowness.”

“Your saying that points to the opposite, mage. Why desert Tevinter?”

Dorian remains silent. He knows Fenris is asking to goad him; he’s likely already gotten enough of an answer from the Inquisition. He can feel the agitation in Fenris, vivid despite the way he seems to sit idly.

“Why leave a perfect life behind?”

“Perfection has its costs,” is all Dorian is willing to say, almost grit out, by way of explanation. It’s meaningless words, but he knows Fenris can glean enough from their hollowness itself to know it’s not flippantness but avoidance that masks the truth. But the tension between them doesn’t relent, it only comes to a head. And in a rare case of candour, the pain that slips into the words is true.

Their conversation doesn't progress from there. They’re standing at the edge of a blade that tips in the wrong direction.

Dorian can feel the way the lyrium flares under his hands as they kiss, and he can tell it’s a bad idea the moment Fenris’ teeth dig at his skin just on the side of too much . He doesn’t even want to rectify it — he doesn’t want kind from Fenris.

Everything goes wrong the first time they’re together. Dorian can tell Fenris twitches at the wrong moments, and Dorian’s mind won’t stop drifting to the blood and the darkness and it makes him want to forget even more. It’s desperate, it’s bruising, and it’s everything neither of them need but both of them want.

Dorian’s life has been a series of unhealthy pleasures. He finds safety in the comfort of routine, despite how it may someday kill him — how it very well nearly has. He lets his mind drift away from that thought, to be dealt with only once necessary. Not before that.

***

There are lines neither of them are willing to cross, but anything in-between is within bounds. It’s evidently self-destructive, what they’re doing, but they’re both more than content to let it be that way.

Fenris sometimes accidentally calls him magister in bed. Dorian’s happy to let him use him as he pleases, and in return takes the distraction when he can get it.

He can tell whenever Fenris loses himself in a memory from the way his eyes glaze over or his breath hitches just too much and too wrong, but whenever he tries to retreat he’s abruptly halted. His questions are met with avoidance, his assurances are met with being ignored.

Dorian knows he slips, too, and that Fenris notices it; the sharp way his eyes observe every detail of his movements is too precise to miss it if he falls too fast into submission or looks away at certain movements.

It’s a silent pact they have, to notice these things and pretend they didn’t happen. And yet, they both always proceed to avoid the motions that caused hesitance on the first try. It’s a false sense of uncaring, a pretense of disregard despite the way they’re both far too aware of the other’s weaknesses. It reminds Dorian so much and yet so little of the stints he had in Tevinter — painful. His considerate partners ended up hurting as much as his cruel partners did, if in a vastly different way.

But with Fenris, with the pain comes something else. Dorian’s Andrastian in a way no one else recognises very easily, and most of the time, he sways on his own faith. Fenris manages to bring him to blasphemy and prayers he’s never uttered before. He doesn’t think where he’s learned these skills, and instead he takes pleasure in seeing the way that the control Fenris carefully builds around himself crumbles down around him when Dorian takes his own turn.

Perhaps it’s easy enough to act like nothing’s wrong, if their minds are in turmoil but their every vein and every nerve screams for more like an addiction.

When it’s over, Fenris never spends time in the bed and Dorian can instead see him lace up his leathers and make his way to the balcony, decidedly ignoring the man still in his bed. Dorian’s left to watch as the moon reflects off the still-shining lyrium markings, both of them having long since accepted Dorian’s loss of control over his magic in the throes of it.

Dorian spends some time observing the way the elf sits himself on the balcony railing, a solid gust of wind away from falling several stories down. After enough time spent with the futility of the moment, he gets up and dresses.

Dorian doesn’t try to stay the night. Fenris doesn’t bother to ask him to.

***

There’s a thin, raised scar near the crook of Dorian’s elbow, a narrow line, perhaps three inches long, down the forearm. There’s enough scars on Dorian from being around the Inquisition that it’s easier to ignore, but Fenris recognises it immediately, and he draws every wrong conclusion from it.

“What is this?” The question is rhetorical, and Dorian knows where the conversation is going to go. Everything is written plain as day on Fenris’ face, and he’s almost tempted to let the elf think what he wants of it — after all, whatever it was that they had between themselves was bound to break off someday. The chasm separating them is infinite.

There’s a dangerous grip on his wrist, not that Dorian’s tried to take his hand back. There’s so much fury in Fenris — he has tenderness, too, and that always stings Dorian when he displays that soft side of his. It’s all too foreign, too wrong, and too undeserved for him to allow himself to process it properly. But his anger, the burning rage that’s so easy to trigger in him, that, Dorian can handle.

“What is this?” Fenris repeats, his thin fingers digging into Dorian’s skin. “Since when have you had this?”

Dorian’s gaze doesn’t wander from the scar. He briefly wonders if hearing about the degeneracy of the upper classes of Tevinter would please Fenris, but he figures the former slave has also seen enough to know more about them than Dorian does.

“What happened to the last resort of the weak mind, Pavus?”

It’s peculiar, Dorian thinks, how there’s almost concern in Fenris’ voice. His stare at the scar remains detached, much like the way he’s thrown into the memories of how he got the scar until he looks up at Fenris’ eyes. Their deep green searches his eyes, demanding answers — begging for them.

His resolve shatters. “It’s the reason I left Tevinter,” he says quietly, before finally attempting to snatch his hand back to himself. Fenris lets him.

“What, you performed blood magic and they found out?”

Dorian sits up in the bed, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and taking his night robe to drape it over himself.

“Answer the question,” Fenris demands, and Dorian wants nothing more than that. The pain on Fenris’ face is too much for him to bear, but he doesn’t know how to frame the matter. Presentation matters.

“Is that what you still think of me?” Dorian snaps back instead of answering, standing and realising he isn’t sure where he was aiming to go. So he turns to look at Fenris. “Do you truly think I’ve been a blood mage this whole time?” He’s not sure he wants to know the answer, because he knows that if that’s the case, he’s spent months in the wrong bed for all the wrong reasons.

There’s a pause when he can see Fenris considering it for himself, before reaching a conclusion. “Fine. So you’re not a blood mage, and yet miraculously you have a scar on your…”

Dorian looks away when he sees Fenris’ brows furrow. The fact that it’s confusion on his face and not shock like the few others who’d heard of the matter is a bare consolation. Perhaps it’s the sense of kinship with someone who knows what Tevinter is like.

“You were bled?” This time, the words are a question, but he’s hardly asking.

“I’ve perhaps never been quite the scion of the house my parents would have wished, but being an unrelenting invert was too far for my father.” He bites back the venom of the words, but the betrayal stills seeps through them.

Fenris doesn’t reply to that, instead simply gauging Dorian. A second later he crosses the line.

“If you wish, you might stay the night.” It’s an invitation, and it’s left up to him, and the words burn with the memory it brings.

Stay, why don’t you? We’ve nowhere to be.

Dorian can almost smell the mixture of cinnamon and sweat and blood, and he thinks he’s going to be sick.

I’d love to.

“No. I’ll take my leave,” he says with finality.

***

They both know they’re playing a dangerous game they’re bound to lose, when their opponent is time itself. It’s a matter of weeks before they’re both deeper than either of them is willing to admit, and perhaps they’re already there anyway. Dorian knows he’s acting like his feelings haven’t been involved since the first moment they touched, and he’s doing his utmost to pretend like he can break this off any moment he wants.

If he were to guess, he’d guess that Fenris knows this too. The confirmation of it comes when Fenris avoids him like the plague outside of their momentary trysts, and when he’s with him he’s asserting every ounce of dominance his slim body carries — which, from an elf with no small amount of power at his disposition, is not an unimpressive and unattractive prospect. It’s a false sense of distance he’s created between them. Dorian knows this can only lead to one of them getting hurt, but he lets the illusion happen as long as he can.

When they’ve both hid their vulnerabilities, desperate to act as if they never existed, it’s bound to falter. There come two breaking points.

The first is when Dorian accidentally spent the night in Fenris’ bed. He fell asleep after an evening spent well that had grown far too long, and before he realised he’d drifted off. He wakes up with a hand around his throat and the elf’s lyrium shining vividly in the darkness of the night, not even a moon to brighten the sky.

“ Fenris —”

The elf snaps out of it, his markings flickering and soon dim again — yet not completely settled, casting still a blue ember of a glow around him — and he scrambles away from Dorian. Dorian coughs the air back into his lungs, grateful that he’d managed to return to reality quickly enough.

When he looks back at Fenris, the elf is trembling, with his back to Dorian. Dorian sits up, trying to gauge whether he should simply leave or comfort Fenris.

“Fenris,” he says softly, and he knows that his facade has already broken, the mask has already slipped from his face. “Look at me.”

He never gives the elf orders of any kind — he’s wiser than that. He can tell Fenris needs a grounding presence, though, and he can’t provide that as a half-measure, no matter how unafflicted he tries to say. The treacherous conscience that every day begs him to return to Tevinter and fix it is the same one that makes him fold now.

Fenris turns to him, and his eyes are more lost than Dorian’s ever seen them. Dorian debates whether to reach for him, but doesn’t have to consider it as he watches Fenris’ hand itself almost move towards him, so his instincts take over and he twines his fingers between Fenris’.

Dorian can try to pretend he’s still aloof. That he’s not falling. That he won’t let himself be overrun by his feelings, unlike for each and every damned boy he’d ever loved for being kind.

“I don’t wish to speak about it,” Fenris says, and Dorian doesn’t argue. Instead, he just sits, thoughts drifting between the bruises he can feel at his neck.

Fenris’ eyes stray guiltily there too.

After a while of sitting in the bed, Dorian finds himself tugging Fenris back to lie down. The elf complies, and despite his vow to never stay the night, for fear of what might happen after it, Dorian finds himself wrapping his arms around Fenris and holding him close, feeling his breathing at the crook of his neck. There are still tremors running through him, and Dorian can hear the faintest whisper from him just as he’s about to drift back to sleep.

“I can’t go back.”

Dorian can’t be sure what he means, but the feeling is raw, and he can hear in his voice the fear of vulnerability he’s familiar with. He forgets to ask what the words meant, in the morning.

***

The second breaking point comes around with the Inquisitor informing him of a letter. The words of the letter are by now engraved into his mind, and he can’t very well forget it despite his best previous attempts to drink it into the bottom of a glass. He has to know, but he’s terrified of what that might mean.

Fenris doesn’t let him try to weasel a half-answer, instead reading the letter for himself despite Dorian’s protests.

“Are you planning on attending this meeting?” There’s a bitter note to his voice, and it’s something that comes from somewhere personal.

“I have to know,” is the explanation he offers, but Fenris’ expression drains further.

“It’s a trap,” Fenris states.

“You’re very certain of that.”

“Because I’ve been on the same end as you, Dorian.” Fenris hands the letter back to him, and Dorian spends far too much time folding it properly.

“Would you like to share, or shall I have to remain in plain mystery of your ominous warning?”

There’s a moment’s pause as Fenris’ eyes trace the carpet, and he leans nonchalantly against the wall near where Dorian’s lounging in an armchair. “I have a sister. I corresponded with her, after finding out about her. I arranged to meet her.” His eyes rise to meet Dorian’s, finally, and it’s not in the least reassuring. “Upon going to the arranged meeting, Varania was there, and so was Danarius. She’d led him there for her personal gain.”

His voice is pure steel, as if the incident doesn’t affect him, as if it’s someone else’s story he’s retelling. Dorian knows it’s something he’s refused to process. He can’t blame him.

“I don’t trust such a meeting set up by any Magister.”

“Perhaps this retainer is a henchman, hired to knock me over the head and drag me back to Tevinter.”

“Or worse,” Fenris says, gaze drifting to Dorian’s arm.

Dorian has the sudden memory of the way he’d been captured in bed, the bodies of murdered men lining the corridor as he was dragged back to his father’s estate.

Or worse is perhaps not a far-fetched option.

“I have to know.” Fenris doesn’t say anything to that.

Dorian’s almost grateful for it, except when he finds himself ready to leave and Fenris stands beside him, armed to the teeth. No amount of arguing with the elf is going to dissuade him from coming with them, so he doesn’t even try. He would rather Fenris not see the state he’d left his affairs in back in Tevinter, but perhaps it was better he lay all of his cards bare.

Fenris had been right; the meeting is little more than a farce, and it goes just about as well as Dorian had dared expect.

He leaves feeling worse than he had before entering and spends the way back in silence. Fenris doesn’t press, and the Inquisitor — kind enough to accompany them, largely to ascertain neither caused too much damage, and that Dorian would make it out alive — doesn’t seem keen to be the first to break the silence.

They reach Skyhold again, and it’s late, and it’s cold, and Dorian’s ready to collapse and sleep for days on end. The ideal might be to just sleep through the rest of his life, he feels in that moment. But Fenris is at his side even as he makes his way to his own quarters, and Dorian doesn’t question it.

He arrives at his room, and sets his armour and staff aside, as Fenris lays his weapons away.

Neither of them says a word as they silently move to the bed, Dorian far too drained to even attempt to do anything. To his surprise and comfort, Fenris gathers him in his arms. The reflection of this against the nights Dorian holds Fenris through nightmares is vivid. Fenris has been there for him through Dorian’s own nightmares, but this is something else; it follows a pain not provided by his own imagination, but instead by a very harsh reality.

Perhaps it’s what makes the embrace feel that much more real.

***

It’s some days spent in unsettling silence and avoidance later that Fenris comes to his quarters. The days have been miserable, with the weight of everything behind and between them pressing down with urgency. Fenris’ past is intricately woven into every part of him, and Dorian’s past makes him a flighty presence on the best of days. But he’s in his room, standing near the desk when Fenris approaches him until he’s standing just in front of him. Dorian looks at him, realising only now that Fenris is shorter than him. It’s not something he’s ever considered, especially when the elf seems always such a presence with his thorned armour and extravagant greatsword.

“I do not know how to do this. How to be this,” Fenris says, and they’re so close Dorian can feel the tension between them ready to snap.

“Neither do I.” His eyes search Fenris’. What do you want?

What can I give?

“You’re not an easy man to love.”

Dorian’s lip quirks involuntarily, even as the weight of the words sinks into his heart.

Love?

“I believe it’s a burden we both share,” he responds in kind, his voice barely above a whisper. It’s theirs. All of this, only theirs. He dare not hope.

“I can’t be a slave, not to a Tevinter. Not to anyone.”

Dorian can guess the meaning behind the words. The fear, the worry, the terror of falling back into old behaviours.

“I can’t have you, nor let you have me, the way you deserve to love someone.” And Dorian means it, because he’ll never be able to give him a stable relationship, especially when he’s made it clear he aims to return to a land that would have Fenris in irons just as soon as he stepped across the border.

Fenris’ hands come to cup his face and Dorian’s hands fist in Fenris’ tunic. There’s hesitance on both their parts, a question that remains unasked, words that remain unsaid. It almost feels like the world is running out of time.

The kiss is searing, but not as a sudden flashfire. It is a searing that spreads through them in increments, before it takes over everything they feel, making sure that there’s nothing else between them than this feeling and each other.

“If you’ll have me, amatus ,” Dorian whispers when they’re a breath apart, foreheads pressed to each other’s, “I swear to do right by you.”

It’s about as much as he can promise. He can’t promise perfection or unshakeable loyalty. He will only swear to what he can give, and that’s his heart and a vow for love and respect.

Fenris nods almost imperceptibly. “And I, you.”

Dorian knows they’ll both hurt, with the way that their pasts haunt them. But perhaps they can hope to hurt through it, together. It makes nothing right, it doesn’t fix anything.

It’s a promise.

#dorian pavus #fenris #fenrian #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age ii #my writing #fanfic #angst #trauma #angst with a happy ending #heed the warnings please #theyre both damaged #but its slow healing #consensual but probably not safe or sane

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crackinglamb · 3 years

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Chapters: 46/? Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Solas (Dragon Age)/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Solas|Fen'Harel, Rogue Inquisitor, Varric Tethras, Cassandra Pentaghast, Vivienne (Dragon Age), Sera (Dragon Age), Fiona (Dragon Age), Gereon Alexius, Felix Alexius, Dorian Pavus, The Iron Bull (Dragon Age), Blackwall (Dragon Age), Leliana (Dragon Age), Cullen Rutherford, Josephine Montilyet, Lace Harding, Cole (Dragon Age), Sky Watcher (Dragon Age), Wisdom (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Modern Girl in Thedas, not a self-insert, Non-Canon Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Diary/Journal, Alcohol, Swearing, Snark, Pining, Emotional Slow Burn, Explicit Sexual Content, Repeated Poor Life Choices In Bed, Solas Being Solas (Dragon Age), Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Additional Characters to Be Added As They Show Up, NOW WITH VISUALS Series: Part 1 of Wicked Things Summary:

Imogen McLean is glad she's played the series before. She's read all the novels, she's flipped through the comics. She knows what's going to happen. She's got secrets to keep and canon to break. Now if she could just keep her hands off the Dread Wolf, this might all go a bit easier. Besides, he's got plans of his own. He's not the staying kind, and she knows better than to get attached.

You hear that, Thedas? She's not going to get attached. She's not.

Beta'd by Iron_Angel. NSFW will be marked with **.

*This fic now has embedded images. More will be added as I take/receive them. Most chapters have something in them, some have several. Screenshots were taken by me, any art is credited to its artist.*

46 - The Trouble With Being Clever

“Your friend, the spirit,” he said slowly. Carefully. “She spoke of you often in our debates. She said that I reminded her of you. At least, I'm assuming she meant you. Pride, is it?” Solas said nothing but shifted his stance to stand more upright. His typical hiding behind a facade pose. Dorian chuckled. “Ah yes, there it is. Tell me, Solas, are you truly...immortal?”

“D, why would you ask that?” Imogen sputtered.

He turned his gaze on her. “It explains a great deal. The ancient knowledge, the breadth of it, the use of it. Resistance to the Blight. The quite personally taken affront at my homeland's conquest of Arlathan.” His lips quirked as he glanced back at Solas's stiff, formal posture. “His imperious manner that slips out unbidden from the trappings of a humble hedge mage. I've seen veteran Magisters with less silverite in their spines.”

“Mortal men will forever grasp at straws,” Solas said coldly.

Dorian didn't seem dissuaded in the slightest. He smirked and tilted his head. “Yes, mortal men. Among whom you do not count yourself. I'm right, aren't I?”

#Lamb writes #dragon age inquisition #solas x ofc #solas x original female character #dorian is too smart for his own good #what a wicked game to play

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kibuto · 4 years

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Fictober 2020 - Prompt 15

Prompt: 15. Not interested, thank you Fanfiction: Dragon Age Inquisition Characters/Pairings: Pavellan (Dorian Pavus and Tamvir Lavellan) Warnings: Casual Orlesian racism

(Continued from Prompt 12) Making his way through the throngs of masked guests, Tam tried to hold his head high and pretend he belonged there. The faked confidence lasted all of a single room; as soon as he made it to the door, he was back to skirting around the edges of the walls again. He just couldn't handle the way people stared and how the ladies whispered behind their fans.

Even if he had every right to be there, that knowledge didn't stop him from feeling out of place. He longed for a tree he could climb and disappear into until the festivities were over. Maybe he could get up on the roof without Leliana finding out? Unlikely. And even if he could, then he'd feel guilty for not fulfilling his role as the Inquisitor. He needed to see and be seen, to mingle and let himself be measured by all these self-important strangers.

Tam suppressed a shudder and made his careful, stealthy way to the garden. Dorian should be there somewhere, charming everyone he met with his sparkling wit and silver tongue. Many in attendance seemed curious to meet the 'evil Tevinter magister'. From the twittered gossip Tam had briefly overheard before, Dorian was almost as much of a novelty as he was himself. To the Orlesian nobility they were a pair of pigs that had been trained to do tricks for their enjoyment.

A small knot of people were standing and chatting directly in front of the doors that led out to where Tam wanted to go. The large, open window nearby was a tempting alternative to having to push past them. If Leliana or Josephine heard that Tam had been seen climbing through windows, though, it wouldn't be good. A new frisson of anxiety passed through him and he clenched and unclenched his hands. He tried to settle himself with a deep breath and put his shoulders back, remembering what Hawke had told him. Pick your position and stick with it. He just had to pretend that he had every right to be there and politely scoot past them. Easy.

The group continued to block the exit, so Tam had no choice but to push past them. It was a little surprising that nobody else had yet. "I beg your pardon," he said, trying to sound more confident about it than he actually felt. None of them even glanced in his direction. Before his courage could flag, Tam pushed past the nearest of them and walked through to the garden.

That was, of course, just what was required for the man he'd unavoidably bumped into to notice he was there. "Excuse you!" he huffed, the barely visible portion of his face beginning to flush at Tam's audacity.

"The very nerve!" the woman holding his elbow agreed. "The Empress is giving her rabbits far too much leniency."

"What do you expect from a woman who bedded one?" one of the others added with a sniff of disdain. "Someone should be keeping track of the servants. Will one of you report this rude little knife-ear, or must I do everything myself?"

"Wait!" The second woman in the group threw out one hand to stop the man who'd made the suggestion. "Boy, what is your name?"

Tam desperately wanted to just run and hide and leave them to complain amongst themselves. But they'd seen him, and they knew. He cleared his throat and looked the young woman in the eye through her mask. "I am Inquisitor Tamvir Lavellan," he said. Surely the title would lend him some of the stature he knew he didn't have on his own. "And I apologize for any offense." He bowed slightly and turned to make his exit. As much as he wanted to run, he kept his steps calm and even.

"I knew it!" the second woman exclaimed. She hurried after Tam in order to grab his hand and bring him to a halt. "Inquisitor, won't you stay and chat with us? I have been so very curious about the mysterious and magnificent leader of the new Inquisition."

The first couple who'd insulted Tam looked taken aback, and the other man had an expression of undisguised disgust. He closed his mouth with an audible click and attempted to school himself with little success.

"My apologies," Tam tried. "I'm supposed to be meeting someone--"

The woman attached herself to Tam's arm and stroked the breast of his fancy jacket with her lacquered fingernails. "Surely they can wait? You simply must stay, just for a few moments at least."

Tam was overwhelmed by the strong scent of her perfume, and he shuddered under the provocative touch. Her other hand clamped onto his arm like a vice. "Your offer is very kind, my lady, but--"

Again Tam was interrupted, but this time it was a more welcome one.

"Ah, there you are!" Dorian called, lifting a hand in greeting as he approached. "I was wondering where you may have gotten delayed, amatus." Although he smiled broadly, there was a possessive aura that radiated from him. He slid his hand into Tam's free one and pulled him easily away from the Orlesian lady.

Tam was grateful for the rescue. He released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, only to be knocked even more off balance with Dorian's next actions.

Dorian swept Tam nearly off his feet, dipping him backward as he'd done in some of their dance practices, and planted a considerably less than chaste kiss on his mouth. Though the hazy white noise that blanked out most of his ability to hear, Tam caught the shocked gasps of those nearest and watching. Dorian stood him back on his feet and Tam held tight to him; if he didn't, he was pretty certain he was going to fall flat on his butt.

Even Dorian's voice came from a distance, his bright smile still plastered to his face. "He's not interested. Thank you. You may go now," he told the group. His arm around Tam's shoulders, he turned the two of them around to walk deeper into the illusion of seclusion offered by the carefully landscaped and manicured garden.

#fictober20 #Dragon Age #Pavellan #Dorian Pavus #Tamvir Lavellan #Ki writes stuff

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blarrghe · 3 years

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"Watching me while I sweat from exercising" for Dorianders because... of reasons? XD

Up on AO3 or uner the cut! (the formattinig is probably better on AO3 tumblr is the actual worst)

Befriending Magister Dorian Pavus continued to be the worst decision Anders had made since the one that had landed him in Tevinter in the first place. Not at the least because being friends with Magister Dorian Pavus was, on a scheduling level, practically impossible. It was almost maddening, how neither of them ever seemed to have any blighted free time. There was Dorian, very important and very busy, always rushing off to meetings or press events or fundraisers or galas, only available for a quick coffee or for trying to convince Anders to go out clubbing at two in the morning. Which, frankly, he had less than no interest in doing — for several reasons, only minimally to do with the fact that the music gave him a headache (the thought of standing by and watching Dorian dance and practice his smarmy lines on attractive club goers made up most of the rest of it). And then there was his own life, overflowing with unkempt medical notes and overdue bills, and a schedule packed with night shifts and on-call hours that made maintaining a regular sleep schedule impossible, never mind a social life. But despite all that, it was nice to have someone to talk to again. Someone passionate and revolutionary and witty and… just about as lonely as he was, so better not to go messing it up. Better to try to maintain this one terrible friendship — the only one he had that wasn't with a "work friend", or a cat. It was just a really difficult thing to do, between the unrepenting workdays and restless nights filled with dreams of his beautiful Maker-damned face.

Dorian, however, was remarkably good at being his friend. He always managed to make time. Drew it out of thin air, it seemed, conjured it up like magic between his press conferences and business trips. He had this impossibly serendipitous way of always seeming to send a text offering to meet for coffee right as Anders' break was coming up, and thanks to his own life of impossible hours he was always amenable to a spot of caffeine well into the evening. Other times, he'd offer up an address, saying "meet me here tonight if by the end of your shift you're still alive", and Anders would reply "doubtful", and then show up later anyway to the movie theater, or concert hall, or burlesque playhouse, only to fall asleep in his seat once the lights went down — which, at the burlesque playhouse at least, everyone seemed to find incredibly amusing.

Today, his shift would be finished at an uncommonly early hour, having started at one that was painfully so. And even though his work-to-sleep ratio for the week was currently hovering at around four to one, when a text came in from Dorian during his break that read simply, "lunch later? Meet me if you have an hour free." He cheerfully replied "I'm off at noon!" And decided to postpone his much-needed afternoon nap. Friends with Dorian, he smiled, terrible decision.

----

Anders did not work out. Whatever strength he had he came by naturally, by way of pushing hospital equipment around and running up and down stairs all day. His calves, as a result, were particularly firm, and he had defined, if skinny, biceps. His core was probably strong enough, what with the constant balancing act that was keeping up with his daily life, but if he had wanted abs he would probably have to do something about his diet; more protein, fewer sugary carbs, meals that weren't eaten while standing on a city bus. But a personal beauty routine had always been low on his priority list. If he was looking to impress someone, he usually tried to get his bad jokes and the somewhat trashy rebel-mage aesthetic (which he also came by naturally) to do the job for him. It was not, historically, the best strategy. But he also wasn't looking. Dorian, on the other hand, had beauty routines for his beauty routines. Apparently the way to make up for the sleeplessness of a busy life was to exercise regularly, drink exceptionally expensive vitamin concoctions (despite the fact that his friend, who was a doctor, had told him repeatedly that the vitamins in such quantities were oversaturated, contradictory, and essentially useless), and to apply a laundry list of products to one's skin and hair — that, at least, seemed to work.

And so it was that when Anders showed up at the designated spot, practically asleep on his feet and slouching eagerly off the bus towards the promise of an hour of good company and food, that he discovered that the place Dorian had instructed him to meet at was not a restaurant, or even a coffee shop, but a gym. A gym with wide glass windows facing the street, so that the gorgeous, obviously affluent, gym-membership-holders could sweat it out while on display for the benefit of all the less beautiful and less lucky passersby. Or perhaps it was the other way around, and rich people got a kick out of running in place for their health while watching working folk run breathlessly after the busses that pulled up to the dirty old bus shelter on the street outside. Anders didn't know, he didn't go to gyms. But Dorian did; he went to this gym. He paid an exorbitant membership fee and wore a tight t-shirt branded with the gym's logo while he ran himself sweaty on a treadmill, spraying fancy water into his mouth like he was advertising the stuff, and towelling himself off with the clean white towels provided while still running, panting with the efforts of his impressively athletic exertions. This, Anders discovered by staring at him as he did it, through the clear glass window from the street, his mouth falling open and throat going dry until Dorian spotted him, and he snapped his mouth shut while his cheeks went red. Dorian's cheeks were also red, a bead of sweat dripping down over one in a long glistening trail from his temple. He pressed some buttons on the treadmill, slowed down to a walk, smiled, and waved. Anders, like a dumbfounded puppet on a string, raised his hand and dropped it again, in some approximation of returning the greeting.

Ten minutes later, Dorian met Anders outside the door of the clean, white and minimalist setting of the gym's lobby with his regular (still tight) clothes on and his damp hair fragrant with some kind of rich, flower-infused cream.

"You got here faster than I expected, sorry you had to wait."

"Good bus timing," Anders shrugged, pointedly not looking at him. One intolerable sensation at a time, and he still smelled amazing.

"You know there's an app for the schedules, GPS tracking and everything." Dorian commented. Why he knew that, when he'd probably never taken public transportation in his life, Anders couldn't guess. But then, Dorian was infinitely more organized than he was; good with schedules. Anders, meanwhile, struggled to keep his own thoughts straight, never mind the kinds of itineraries that Dorian kept. So he just nodded along, certain that he would never remember to check, or even download, the recommended app.

Dorian led them up to the intersection, and pressed the button at the crosswalk, every simple movement somehow upright and deliberate. "So, lunch? I'm starving, there's a great place across the street."

Anders glanced back at the gleaming white and chrome of the gym, and the equally sleek boutiques to either side of it. He frowned, fingering the well-worn leather billfold in his pocket. "How great?" He asked, cautiously.

"Great as in healthy, all vegan food and local produce and the like." Dorian smirked at him, and Anders made the mistake of looking at it. He blushed, and frowned some more.

"Oh, great." He said, with very little enthusiasm. A twelve dollar salad and one of those ludicrous vitamin waters, just what he and his malnourished billfold needed.

"You're a doctor, you can't live on cup noodles and granola bars all the time. It sets a bad example." Dorian berated, lightly, in return.

"At least cup noodles have salt." Anders protested, "Maybe too much, but that's better than none at all. And you know organic is just a buzzword, not everything organic is healthier. And the hoops of getting branded "Organic" just make it harder for actual family owned farmers, who grow perfectly healthy crops, to market to sellers," he ranted about it, albeit halfheartedly, until Dorian sighed and shook his head.

"Which is why I said local, not organic. And I've been, I promise they use seasonings. You really think I'd debase myself by dining somewhere that didn't know how to properly use spice?"

Anders grunted, still disapproving.

"It's good, really. You'll like it there, they have cats."

"They have…?" Anders spun to watch Dorian, squinting in confusion at him as he brightened the world about him with another one of those obnoxiously perfect smiles.

"Cats, they're all very tame. You can sit with them while you eat or play with them afterwards. An endeavour of the local animal shelter to help encourage adoption, as I understand it." Dorian explained casually. Then the light changed and he set off walking. Anders followed, significantly less grumpily, though now his stomach was turning flips for an entirely different reason besides hunger.

Forget Kirkwall, actually. Befriending Dorian was, hands down, the absolute worst decision he’d ever made.

#dorianders #dorian x anders #my fic #my writing #modern au #dragon age fanfic #friends to lovers #mutual idiot pining #dorian #anders #what if we were

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ofgoodmenarchive · 3 years

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The first in a series of drabbles exploring my Blood Mage!Dorian AU.

Priceless Rewards

It was a beautiful day in the south and Dorian was terribly bored.

Alright, so maybe 'beautiful' was a stretch- but there was no rain, which by Ferelden standards counted for beauteous. Still the sky was dreary- even here in the Hinterlands, the so called 'Heart of the South'. Constant damp livened the vegetation- everything was so green- and so in his way! He couldn't walk two steps without having to wrestle nettles or vines from his robes.

Why did I agree to this again?

They needed someone not overtly suspicious, he supposed- at least, not suspicious in a particular manner. Dorian could be suspected of many things; by his appearance alone he could be accused of blood magic and perhaps some dubious forms of necromancy. Why else adorn himself in human bones, how else to explain the flash of amber that sometimes possessed his eyes?

Altogether, Dorian ascertained he had to be wearing a whole person- and that excluded his staff, shaped from a spine and skull.

Not all the same person, mind you. Still not a welcoming sight to most.

Granted none were innocent in his eyes- all had threatened his survival in one way or other.

Besides- as long as no one suspected him of working with the Venatori, it didn't matter how he was judged. His employers knew that- and Dorian knew he needed gold and influence to maintain the lifestyle craved by his inner demon.

So there he was, traipsing through the south with a sack full of magical equipment, questing to study Rifts for a group of mad cultists.

I don't know why they're bothering...

What did exploding an old woman and her Chantry puppets really achieve?

From his viewpoint, it merely added complication- now there was this 'Herald of Andraste' for the fools to contend with.

Why can't people just appreciate life for what it is?

He considered to himself with a laugh, kicking aside more vines.

Then again- if the world lacked such madmen, who would risk contracting Dorian for anything? An open practitioner of blood magic, long-disgraced from his house? Of course whenever someone sought him out, their motivations were not exactly chivalrous.

While pondering this he approached a Rift and began work. Recognising him as one of their own, the demons barely glanced.

Speaking of which- he was really in need of proper sustenance. Food and wine can fulfil Desire for only so long- especially while sleeping out in the cold wild and not luxurious sheets.

Technically his employers were to blame- anyone with sense was hiding and anyone who might be some fun was miserable. Not that he faulted the local populace for cowering from demons, Templars, mages, holes in reality and Maker knows what else.

Well. Us, for one. We're here too.

It was gradually creating an issue. Desire's primary source of nourishment came from the desire of others. For Dorian, this meant fuelling himself through a man's desire towards him. When times were well and the populace cheerful, no matter his place he could easily find a willing participant.

However when times were tougher or in this case, when fear of magic and the unknown ran rampant, meeting someone receptive was trying.

Actually...when you think about it-

this whole thing is Halward's fault.

A phrase Dorian said to himself often, spitting his father's name like a curse.

Just as often, he would sense the demon admonish what it viewed as weakness.

Well am I wrong?

We wouldn't have met if it weren't for him.

Waiting for devices to conclude their measurements, he plopped onto the grass and reminisced.

Dorian had been just a boy, as belligerent a youth as could be. Or that's how his father would excuse it, he was sure.

Perhaps Halward even liked that about his son- sometimes. When he put it to use, when his belligerence somehow went hand-in-hand with achievement.

Not when it caused him to loudly reject their plans, state he'd rather die than live in denial of himself, then run off into the night.

If he hadn't found me...everything might be different.

Unfortunately Halward ferreted him out somehow. What happened next was a tangle of memory and emotion- what he did recall, was standing in a circle of fire while a voice hissed through his mind.

Small. Such a small morsel.

What does the human think I can do with this?

A sensation like needles puncturing his skull. He'd cried out but couldn't move. The creature burrowed into his consciousness, processed and digested in seconds.

Oh...?

So much desire.

Ambition.

Potential.

His heart drummed, limbs shaken- but still he was incapable of movement. All he saw was flame and all he heard was this ravenous intruder.

A small meal...but still a meal.

I could take it all.

That's what he wants me to do, you know.

Whether through his own discernment or whatever link was strung between them, he understood what the creature meant. Panic increasing, Dorian's thoughts raced, floundering to convey them-

So he told you 'oh go eat this desire for me', and you're just going to do it?!

Aren't you a Desire Demon?!

Don't you want to experience life?!

Instead you're just going to- going to-

have a little snack and slink back into the Fade?!

When we can both maximise our potential- together?!

The voice fell silent, pensive. Dorian stammered to solidify his point.

Just- just don't change who I am- that's all I ask.

It had fulfilled that promise- for the most part. When Dorian awoke he'd been in his bed, unchanged in every way that mattered to him.

Turning around, a pair of void-black eyes peered back and he'd screamed.

That was the first encounter with his shadow. It was structured vaguely as he was, had his voice, developed as he did. Yet was just a walking silhouette- that only he could see.

Thankfully his demon's wanderings were on an inconsistent basis.

However it didn't take long for Halward- and everyone else, really- to note Dorian changed in every way they hadn't instructed.

Always a morbid child, fixated on necromancy and the dead. His bond with the demon increased this fixation tenfold. Before then, Dorian sometimes preserved deceased animals and toyed with the idea of reviving them with Fade-Wisps. Now it was an unseemly habit- which his family loathed. Cheerful, bumbling creatures of bone and treated flesh roamed the estate, causing minor chaos and disrupting social events.

Eventually his father screamed at him-

“Dorian Pavus! Clear this undead menagerie or I will take care of them myself!”

“I WILL NOT!” He'd shrieked back, tossing mice-bones across his bedroom.

Halward did take care of them himself- to the boy's heartbreak and despair. By that point he knew there was discussion of somehow altering him again- he ran and this time, was free.

Feeling nostalgic?

Desire lured him to the present moment- sitting cross-legged on a nearby rock-pile, seeming amused in it's posture. His shadow- not nearly as intimidating as it had been to him years ago. Dorian smiled, sighing wistfully.

“Something like that...I think it's more that I'm under-stimulated.”

His companion mirrored this need with a drawn-out exhale.

“Yes, yes, I know...but when we're done with this, we'll be paid, and then we can head somewhere people aren't so actively terrified for their lives.”

It hummed lowly at this but issued no official complaint. Overall the creature was content in deferring to his judgement- Dorian had never steered them wrong. They were usually well fed, occupied by an exciting project and comfortable- this whole apocalypse business was an unplanned circumstance. Even Dorian hadn't known the Venatori's goals- merely sought to benefit.

The creature's focus appeared to divert- features unobscured enough to gather simple expression.

“Hrm? Someone there?” He wondered aloud, glancing. Activity further along- a loose group of people trudging through under-brush, chatting casually though he couldn't hear. Dorian lingered at first but soon recognised the Inquisition symbol- a single, glaring eye.

“Not the people we should try explaining ourselves to, I think.” He decided, chuckling in exasperation. Dorian scooped up his instruments and willed his form to move; vanishing with a flash of embers, he materialised behind some trees and knelt. One advantage to his demonic condition was an ability to veil himself- as long as he didn't do anything too attention-grabbing. Standing around in the open was therefore not viable, so he watched and waited.

Two humans, a dwarf and an elf. A human woman and the elf appeared to lead the pack, both bearing the Inquisition crest. The group ventured for the Rift and Dorian frowned, wondering for their sanity.

A dazzling beam shot outwards, leading his gaze to the elf's hand- connecting him and the Rift. Next there was an explosion and the party launched into combat, too confusing and swift for Dorian to properly assess. By the end all demons and disruptions were extinguished and the elf stood to one side, surveying the area.

Dorian couldn't make out terribly much- obvious details; the radiance emitted by his hand and the weapon used in lieu of a staff, a sword-hilt with light where there would be steel. Dark hair, pale, Dalish- judging by the blue patterns decorating his face. Much taller than elves inclined towards being- he loomed over his party and seemed awkwardly aware of it, stooping whenever one moved to speak with him.

Each person drifted to scout the clearings edge and Dorian sat perfectly still. None wandered his direction and the elf appeared disinterested, loitering where the Rift had been dispelled.

Until he abruptly turned and marched almost straight for Dorian. Stopping just as suddenly, he peered down at scorched earth left by the maleficar's retreat.

Maker's breath!

Don't tell me he's going to notice me because of that?!

He was near enough for Dorian to study closer- light scarring on serious features, frosty eyes that pierced everything they saw.

Intense- but attractive. Perhaps more-so because of that intensity.

For a few heartbeats he was certain he'd been spotted- but the elf swivelled away, muttering.

“Something wrong?” The woman asked, her voice distinctly Nevarran.

“Burnt ground. I thought it odd.” He answered, falling in pace with his fellows.

“Why odd? It would be from a demon, no?”

“I saw none there when we fought.” His speech was a little stilted- possibly more accustomed to his native tongue.

“From the Rift, then. It hardly matters.”

Their discussion was swallowed by forest and Dorian sprang forth, unleashing his shock.

“That's the Herald?!” He exclaimed, laughing in charmed bewilderment.

Feeling eyes upon him, Dorian faced his shadow- standing within the tree-cluster, watching it's host ponderously.

Without speech or much communication at all, he knew they thought as one.

Dorian tossed the bag of instruments to the ground and booted it aside, half-snarling, half-laughing.

“To the void with this dirty work!” Meeting his companion's gaze, he smirked. “I just thought of a reward the Venatori can't possibly hand over to us!”

Vague contours of the creature's mouth parted, displaying pointed teeth in a grin.

The Herald of Andraste.

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pellelavellan-a · 3 years

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More Pelle x Dorian Winter Palace

cw: very very light sexual content

He hadn't seen Dorian since their argument up on the balcony. He still wasn't even sure if it was the right thing to do, leaving him standing there like that while he disappeared back into the party. He hadn't even accepted the apology. He was so wrapped up in being angry that he felt Dorian was ashamed of him that he never stopped to listen. It was amazing that the altus still put up with his mood swings.

They weren't even anything exclusive, they'd kissed a few times, maybe gotten a little handsy in the security that dark corners provided but nothing more. It was not for lack of desire that their relationship didn't go any further than that, at least not for Pelle it wasn't. He thought of Dorian a lot, often in ways that were hardly appropriate to say aloud. His imagination ran rampant picturing what the altus ' body was like beneath those clothes, how dangerously attractive he might look pleasantly disheveled, what it would be like please him. It excited him in a way that he dared not entertain unless it was within the solace of his own room, at least there he could afford the privacy to deal with his sexually charged fantasies.

It was perhaps, his maddening desire to be closer to Dorian that was to blame for his emotional outbursts. It frustrated him, seeing that Dorian was battling something internal that he insisted on keeping to himself. It tormented the elf more that he didn't know what that thing was. Yes his relationship with his father was...not great to put it far too plainly but--he hated not knowing whether or not his feelings for the altus were unrequited or if Dorian was simply afraid to express it. He most certainly was not helping constantly picking fights with him but--it was as if he could not always control the way he reacted. He did often wish he could take his words back though, Dorian more often than not did not deserve them. The issue was simple, he cared for Dorian...a lot. It was him who was complicated.

A few glasses of wine had eased his nerves, and before long he'd forgotten about their fight earlier. Once he was certain he wouldn't be missed he'd taken the liberty of making off to the library until things quieted down. The wine had gotten him through the socializing with a positive attitude, but once his social meter had depleted not even the wine could convince him to stay.

He was seated atop one of many tables with no more than a single candle lit beside him as he skimmed through a romance novel that was perfectly absurd in all the right ways.He wasn't one to reach for such books, as the stories had always felt so unrealistic and corny to him, but tonight it was all he could think of. It comforted him to read about two lovers bickering and tripping over their feelings for one another. Luckily for them, they weren't real people, and things always worked out for them despite all their stumbling. He wasn't so sure he could say the same for himself.

"I thought you might be here," the altus' voice cut through the silence.

The Inquisitor glanced up to see Dorian standing there with a glass of wine in each hand. It saddened the elf to see him look so troubled, though after their last exchange he wouldn't blame Dorian if he thought he was still angry with him. Had their roles been reversed, he too might be apprehensive about approaching.

"Join me?" Pelle asked, pushing a chair out to the altus with his bare foot.

Much to his surprise, Dorian didn't hesitate to sit. For a moment he said nothing. The two of them just sat in silence drinking the wine he brought while Pelle pretended he was still reading. He didn't know why he was expecting Dorian to say something about their fight. Perhaps it was unfair to expect it when it was him who had walked away. It was him who owed Dorian the apology, not the other way around.

"I'm sorry I was so harsh with you," said Pelle. "you didn't deserve that."

"Don't be," Dorian replied. "you're right. I can't protect you." Pelle shook his head. "But--"

"But," Dorian continued. I want to make it abundantly clear that I would never ask you to change. You can be an ass but I envy you, and that's not an easy thing for me to say.

"Jealous? Of me?" The Inquisitor repeated with surprise. "What could you possibly be jealous o--" he was laughing when he asked initially but the laughter had left him when he turned away from his book for the first time since they began speaking.

Dorian hadn't provided any reasons to speak for, but the way his eyes were fixed on the elf had answered for him. He couldn't describe the expression, but he could feel the warmth in it. The two of them might have fooled around before, but never had Dorian looked at him with such...adoration? Was that the word? He got butterflies in his stomach just thinking about it. Dorian Pavus, admiring him? Of all people. He thanked the Creators for such dim lighting or Dorian might have seen how red he'd become.

His heart was doing leaps in his chest, and just like that all those wonderful thoughts he had about the altus both the romantic and those a little less so started flooding his mind all at once. He had to do something, he couldn't just stare stupidly at him forever (though he most certainly could have). He set the book aside and stood up off the table. "I still owe you a dance don't I?" the elf offered, stretching a hand out.

"Here?" asked Dorian. It did seem a little silly. Dancing in a dark library full of things to run into. He hadn't really thought about that.

"I can see just fine," was the excuse he ran with. "I'll lead. I promise won't let us hit anything."

That was a lie once they'd gotten started. He was nervous at first, and yes he did certainly back into a bookcase or two in the process. Neither of them minded his clumsiness. Thankfully, he'd afforded himself permission to laugh at himself which made his shortcomings as a dance partner all the easier. Once he found his footing he lead them just fine. The lack of music didn't bother him at all. After all, he much preferred their idle conversation to fill the silence over music anyways. It was nice to speak with someone whose conversation did not feel so forced. They spoke very little about all of the business of why they'd attended in the first place, rather they discussed the people, the food, the party itself. Pelle gossiped about the ridiculous Orlesians he'd been forced to make small talk with--and their even more ridiculous fashion choices. Dorian shared stories about the parties he'd been forced to attend back home in Tevinter. It was fascinating, listening to Dorian talk about Tevinter. Down south Pelle never heard anything about Tevinter other than 'evil magisters,' the country got had a pretty bad reputation most anywhere else. He liked hearing Dorian's perspective, it was different hearing about it from someone who actually liked his homeland despite its issues. Overall, he liked this dance much better than the one he'd been doing all night.

#drabble #pelle x dorian #me at first: this will be smut #at the end: this is the height of romance but not smut #emotional smut maybe #mayhaps i will write smut in another drabble post

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lord-woolsley · 4 years

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Stumbling Steps

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition (Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford) Chapters: 1/1 (3105 words) Rating: Teen And Up Summary: Surrounded by at least 12 nobles Cullen had felt quite uncomfortable since they had arrived at the Winter Palace but with the evening progressing and the alcohol flowing his “suitors“ had become bolder. Cullen is in distress, Dorian saves the day. Rant: If you like it, please leave some love on ao3. ♡ Ao3: Link

Stumbling Steps

“Smile, Commander, you’re so handsome when you smile.“ “He’s just as handsome when he doesn’t.“

Cullen asked himself if the Maker intended to punish him for something. Maybe for leaving the Order, standing against the Chantry‘s will by supporting the Inquisition or more likely for the disaster that had happened in Kirkwall. That must have been it. The Maker probably blamed him for not seeing through Meredith’s grand scheme earlier or maybe he had done something wrong during his time at the Circle Tower in Ferelden and couldn’t remember anymore. Most of it was a blur anyway.

He had been the Templar recruit who had fled from the Hero of Ferelden after all because she – he still blushed thinking about it - had flirted with him. This here is what happens to guys that run away instead of facing their problems, he thought to himself.

He sometimes should have shown more initiative, he was aware of that. Blindly following orders had been his weakness in the past, one he was happy he had overcome.

Cullen didn’t know for which of these shortcomings he was punished here exactly but he had obviously done something very very wrong to deserve this.

Surrounded by at least 12 nobles he had felt quite uncomfortable since they had arrived at the Winter Palace but with the evening progressing and the alcohol flowing his “suitors“ had become bolder. Cullen was pretty sure someone had squeezed his butt just now.

“Did you grab...my bottom?“, he asked, his face flushed red but his voice angry. “I couldn’t help myself.“, the lady exclaimed, she sounded like she thought she was entitled to do to him whatever she desired. Nobles. He wanted to retch.

The woman didn’t seem to notice it or she just didn’t care. Cullen frowned and feared it was the latter because she was already holding out a hand again, trying to touch the scar on his lip. Cullen used his Templar training and dodged. He was being attacked here after all, not with weapons but with something far worse.

“Are you married, Commander?“ “Not yet... but I‘m already taken.“ It was a blatant lie but he had hoped some of them would show at least some respect considering the prospect of him being in a relationship. "Still single, then.“ Or not.

Why would he even think these people cared about someone being taken, had they harassed him the whole evening without any consent from his side, the opposite even. He doubted even a ring on his finger could have stopped or avoided this.

Cullen wanted to escape the Ballroom, run away and leave Halamshiral for good, doing exactly what he had done to the Hero of Ferelden all those years ago. He wanted to be a coward again. Corypheus, the Breach and the assassination attempt on Celene’s life be damned.

“You must dance with me, Commander, you cannot stand about all evening.“ “I‘m afraid not, thank you.“

This was definitely the woman who had grabbed his butt a few second ago. He would rather dance with an archdemon in Haven’s ruins with Solas watching and commenting on his bad posture instead of staying here for one minute longer. But he had to be polite and couldn’t risk to snap, Josephine‘s disappointment would be unbearable if he endangered their plan just because some nobles couldn’t keep it in their pants. Their cause was greater than this and he was the Commander of the Inquisition after all, he wouldn’t bow to some royals behaving abysmal.

The worst disappointment of the evening so far had been that the Inquisitor had witnessed some of the harassing and didn’t do or say anything about it. She had seen mostly the flirting, Cullen supposed. He was pretty sure Herah would have stepped in if she had witnessed someone touching him without his consent. But she hadn’t seen the extent of their actions and probably thought he was the victim of some annoying courting and bickering. No harm in that.

She had given him an apologetic look - pitiful even - and suggested he should talk to Josephine about it or Leliana if he wanted one of them assassinated. Leliana‘s methods were unconventional at least but the thought of an arrow through that horrible woman’s face was lightening his mood. Or maybe Josie could spread a handful of filthy rumors and destroy some reputations.

If he only knew where Lady Montilyet or Leliana were lingering tonight or if these suitors would let him go to search for one of them.

They had zeroed in on him and he couldn’t find the smallest gap to slip through, he was literally glued to the spot. He was being held captive by - it was embarrassing - a flock of noble ladies and their petticoats and even some gentlemen who were at least a bit more discreet, probably because they didn’t want to ruin their reputations.

He was their prey, a piece of meat, and they were hungry wolves that hadn‘t been fed for months, so it seemed.

Cullen was gazing at Herah who would soon leave him here to die - he wished for the sweet release of death at this point - Sera now seemingly glued to her side, chuckling and grinning like an idiot. Nothing unusual about that.

Inquisitor Adaar was red-faced and he was pretty sure Sera had just said something really dirty to her. About an empty broom closet and peaches and breeches. It even rhymed awfully. That must have been Seras attempt at seduction if he wasn’t mistaken completely. Not that he, by any means, was better at creating romantic phrases or paying compliments if they weren’t about the weather. She was definitely more forward than he would ever be.

His thoughts must have jinxed it because in that exact moment Sera started to make loud smooching noises. Cullen wasn’t sure if she intended to mock him or if she wanted to encourage Inquisitor Adaar for whatever awaited her in that broom closet.

Both women left his side eventually, fleeing from strangers approaching them, mostly nobles that thought it would be advantageous to be seen with the Herald of Andraste. He could understand it to an extent. Herah had it hard enough already, most nobles at Halamshiral didn’t treat a Qunari kindly. She deserved to get away from all this for a while.

Cullen could only guess what Sera and Herah were up to after Sera’s remark. The thought made him blush. At least the Inquisitor was having fun while he was suffering. He would rather have all the side effects of his Lyrium withdrawal all at once instead of being touched by strangers without manners.

He longingly stared after them, seeing Sera’s blonde hair disappear in the crowd. He was on his own now.

Cullen wished he could pay an empty broom closet a visit as well until the event was over. Sweet solitude.

"Commander, that woman you‘re in a relationship with, does she really exist?“, another lady asked and he knew he would start to blush and stutter any second in search for an excuse or an inscrutable lie.

But for the first time this evening he was lucky. When he saw Dorian stumbling to the buffet, alone, unoccupied and an empty wine glass in hand he saw his chance.

“Dorian, sweetheart, I‘m here.“ He waved at the mage and really hoped Dorian was either drunk enough not to notice his weird behavior or quick enough to catch up on the situation Cullen was currently trapped in.

The Tevinter shot him a confused look but came closer nevertheless.

“Here he is, my date, the person I told you about, the man I’m in a relationship with.“, Cullen stuttered, pointing at Dorian who was clearly trying to make sense of the situation.

“Ah, my Commander, I thought I had lost you.“ Thank the Maker Dorian was playing along. He was undoubtedly a smart man.

“Cullen, you can’t be serious?“, one of the ladies screeched in his ear, a painful noise leaving it ringing for multiple seconds. Leliana‘s ravens could learn a lot from this woman‘s high-pitched exclamation.

“Isn’t this the evil Tevinter Magister everyone was gossiping about the whole night? I know he’s with the Inquisition but we were warned about him, everyone said he should be avoided at all costs. He‘s no suitable company for someone as handsome and heroic as you.“

Hearing the word Magister Dorian rolled his eyes but he didn’t comment on it. Cullen could feel him correcting the term to „Altus“ in his head, followed by "Southerners, can’t recognize the difference between a dog and a cat.“

“That is for me to decide.“, Cullen said. "I‘m glad, Commander, otherwise this relationship would be rather one-sided, wouldn’t it be?“ Dorian was offering Cullen his arm to desperately cling to which to his own shame Cullen did.

“Amatus, you promised me a dance. I couldn’t find you until now but I‘m here to take you up on it.“ “Of course, love.“ Cullen was clearing his throat and was trying to shoot Dorian what he thought was an affectionate gaze.

One of the ladies actually had the indecency to grasp after Dorian‘s arm and was trying to shove him away from Cullen.

“I really wouldn’t do this if I were you.“, the mage said, voice sharp. "There‘s a clear lack of blood magic tonight for my taste. You wouldn’t want to witness some, would you? A real taste of a Tevinter party. I could arrange that.“

Cullen was always surprised how eloquent Dorian was and how he always found a way out of the most horrible situations. Using his status as the evil Tevinter mage everyone was making him out to be was risky but it definitely seemed to work in this case.

The woman - and many others of his suitors - looked shocked and were hiding their disapproval with throwing their hands to their faces to cover their eyes. Like this childish gesture could make Dorian vanish and disappear from the spot if they pressed their eyes shut hard enough.

“Scandalous.“, two were whispering to each other. “What a waste. A man like the Commander..., I didn’t know he shared certain quirks with the empress.“ “I wouldn’t let her hear you.“, Dorian said. "Or should I tell her myself?“ "She wouldn’t believe you, you‘re from Tevinter." "You really wanna try me? I can be pretty persuasive.", Dorian asked, his words a warning.

The lady was silent for a moment before she bowed her head, slowly shaking it.

“Of course not, I apologize.“, the woman said, clearly not meaning it. She was faking a smile which distorted her face into an ugly grimace behind her mask.

“As if these quirks are the only problem here, the evil Magister has clearly enchanted him.“, one of the gentleman said.

“With my charms and wits maybe. Or my handsome face.“, Dorian said smugly. “All assets you people are visibly lacking. And now if you would be so kind to excuse us, the Commander owes me a dance.“ “That I do.“ Cullen would grant Dorian all the dances in the world for saving him.

With their arms locked they left the Ballroom in search of a quiet spot for Cullen to recover. They were in luck, one of the balconies was empty and even had some free benches to rest on.

“What just happened?“, Dorian asked. „Apart from the obvious, of course.“ “I apologize for using you as my escape plan, Dorian, I am deeply sorry.“ “No, no, it‘s fine. Their behavior, horrible that. Reminds me of home. I wouldn’t even wish this on my father or the Venatori. Maybe on Corypheus though. He wouldn’t be able to destroy the world. Those ladies would never let him go. They would tear him to pieces with their prying gazes. Oh, Corypheus, you owe me a dance." Dorian was spinning his empty wine glass in his hand while speaking.

"Oh, I didn’t even let you get a new drink.“, Cullen said, trying to apologize. Again. ”That was obviously why you came inside, wasn’t it? And now you left empty-handed." "I wouldn’t exactly call this empty-handed. I‘ve got quite a handful." Dorian gestured to their linked arms, an amused grin spreading on his lips.

"Well, I had enough to drink for the evening anyway. I’m feeling a bit tipsy already.“, Dorian started "But let’s not change the subject over something so unimportant as an empty glass of wine - as good as the Orlesian stuff might be. I‘m just gonna get the whole bottle later." Dorian placed his empty glass on one of the benches.

"So, Commander, do tell. Why me? Wasn’t there someone else the Commander of the Inquisition could have faked an romantic involvement with? I‘m pretty sure the Lady Seeker was around somewhere." "... Nevermind, when I think about it now, she would have probably chopped your head off for the idea alone. I was the safer bet, no head chopping here. Even though: you’re aware this is enough for a scandal? You won’t be able to save yourself from the rumors. The evil Tevinter Magister", Dorian mentioned the wrong title with his typical annoyance "... and a man on top of that. We will be the talk of the evening, not even an assassination attempt can change that. In my experience Orlesians are that close-minded."

Cullen hadn’t thought of that, clearly. He had just wanted to get away from these people as far and as quick as possible, not taking the consequences into consideration. He needed to make this right at some point but this wasn’t the time for it neither could he do something about it while being trapped in the Winter Palace. This was Josephine’s strength, not his.

Cullen felt guilty for making Dorian an even bigger victim of Orlesian gossip even though he himself didn’t care too much about their insults if they only kept their physical distance. But maybe Dorian felt different about this.

“I‘m not ashamed of being seen with you, Dorian.“ Cullen said after a long moment of silence. He actually meant it.

“Oh, Commander, you do surprise me.“, Dorian said, faint smile spreading on his face. “It‘s nice having some company after all. You could think I smell of cabbages with everyone trying to stay as far away from me as possible. I was already at my seventh glass of wine when you saw me heading inside. I needed to keep myself entertained somehow. I was feeling rather lonely and a bit drunk now as well to be fair.“ “I‘m still glad you‘re here, Dorian. Can I make it up to you somehow? As a little thank you for saving me. Maybe even with the dance I promised to you earlier. I have to warn you though I‘m a terrible dancer. But one who keeps his word.“ “Are you sure? Dancing with the evil Magister, in full view of every noble in Orlais. How shocking.“ “They‘ll live.“, Cullen said.

He was surprised by his own confidence regarding the gossip. But that was the point, wasn’t it? It was nothing like idle hearsay after all and it wouldn’t bear any real problem for any of them. Especially not if they would manage to save the empress at the end of night. Orlais would be in debt to the Inquisition and only positive word of their members would spread.

“You say that now. If you can find me ten silk scarves, I‘ve got a dance that will really shock them.“ “I-", Cullen started “don’t know what to say to that. I just hope you‘re a better dancer than I am. In dances that don’t involve silk scarves that is.“

A red color was spreading from his cheeks to his throat while he was trying to get that picture of Dorian doing some erotic Tevinter dance out of his head. Without much success, he had to admit. Who would even say a thing like that? Dorian Pavus obviously.

"Oh, I am indeed.“, Dorian said, he didn’t seem to notice how flustered the Commander was at his words. Which was great, Cullen thought. It left him with the last pieces of his dignity still intact.

"Picture me a boy of 15, being forced by his mother to dance with every suitable lady in the room. You learn some things even if you don’t want to. But you see, it‘s of use now. Mother certainly wouldn’t approve of it now, as you can imagine. But enough talk. Let‘s dance.“

Dorian was bowing and offering his hand to Cullen. Every lady would have been envious of the perfection and grace with which Dorian executed that gesture. If it wouldn’t have been the evil Tevinter asking for a dance of course and some noble gentleman instead.

Cullen was certainly blushing because of Dorian’s performance but he took the mages hand in his own anyway and was instantly pulled into Dorian‘s grip whose fingers were placed on Cullen’s waist immediately.

“Is this okay for you, Commander? If this is too much physical contact after what you‘ve just been through, I understand. We can postpone our little dance or leave it be if that‘s more to your liking.“ “I’m good. You decide, Dorian.“

The mage shook his head and made some “Tsk, tsk.“ noises but started with slow and practiced steps even Cullen could follow.

“Thank Godness one of us has a little initiative.“, Dorian chuckled.

Cullen didn’t know if the nobility was actually watching them from inside the Ballroom but he didn’t lie, he couldn’t care less about it. He owed Dorian that dance and it was most definitely more pleasant than being trapped by harassing strangers, noble or not. He actually quite enjoyed himself after the horror of the last hours. A moment of peace with someone he liked.

“After our beautiful dance I’m actually quite sad you‘re not interested in men at all. A shame, that.“ “Yes, a shame.“, Cullen agreed without even thinking about it.

•

Suddenly one of the bushes next to the railing of the balcony Dorian and Cullen were dancing on started to chuckle and when both men followed the noise with their gazes to uncover its origin, they looked straight into the amused faces of Sera and the Inquisitor. Both women were trying to hide behind its leafs while failing miserably. Sera‘s laughter wasn’t exactly subtle either.

“So much for an empty broom closet.“, Cullen stated. Sera was grinning at him. “No, this is so much better." The Inquisitor nodded. “And here I was thinking our dear Commander would be the knight in shining armor tonight. How wrong I was."

#Cullrian #fanfiction #Dorian Pavus x Cullen Rutherford #Dorian Pavus #Cullen Rutherford #dragon age inquisition #dai #dragon age #da #dragon age fanfiction #writing #my writing #my stuff #ao3 #oneshot

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meowsgirldrawing · 5 months

Text

Dorian and his elven daughter

Word Count- 2,706

AO3- Link

Masterlist- Link

“Oh, fuck that.”

Dorian laughs, gripping the amulet in his hand tightly. His laugh echoes against the interior of his office, which is big enough to be considered a master bedroom honestly. He hears Bellatrix’s giggles emit from the crystal as his calms.

“I mean, the guy acts like an indecent asshole-”

“Are there any decent ones?”

“ You would know. ANYWAY-,”

Dorian bursts into more laughter.

“then turns around, acting shocked when you give it back to him- mind you, in a civilized manner. Jeez. Tevinter sounds great. ” She retorts, causing him seconds from wheezing in his chair.

After a moment, he breaths. He leans back in his chair and chuckles finally evening out. His hand holds against his chin, smiling wryly, “Maybe you can come to the next Imperial sphere, it’ll be grand! We can comment on the man’s attire- scare him into thinking the worst.”

“ Oh dear! I saw the Inquisitor and Magister Pavus speaking ill, I hope my luscious seat still shines afterward! ” Her voice deepens, the scornful attempt at a Tevinter accent could make his grandparents and father turn in their graves.

“I thought you didn’t like your former title though? A change of heart maybe?” He teases.

“Dor Dor, I’ve had to accept by now that it will follow me to my grave and even afterwards, whether I want it to or not. Might as well get some use of it.” She shrugs in spite of the fact he can’t see it, “Especially against some entitled, fucking wise-ass who tries to insult one of my favorite nieces.”

“Yes well, you’ll be glad to know that he not only looked like the most miserable, silliest person there, but I saw him practically run out with his tail between his legs soon after.

She snickers, “Good.”

“Thankfully, there was no falter in the new arrangements so everyone matter-of-factly expected Briva and I at the next gathering without trouble.”

A low whistle, “Damn, Dor, look at youuuu! Already some change in the social rank. Metaphorically, of course.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, “Tis similar, still have much more work that will last well over a lifetime or two.”

“Yeah, well- good thing you- wait… FUCK! TURNIP, NO!-” A thud, Bellatrix coughs, and some shuffling. Dorian pauses, looking down at the crystal in his palm. It flicks from light to off, indicating more to the commotion. He hesitates, “Bella?” He taps it, all the same of knowing it’s alright- just something to check, “Bellatrix? Is everything alright?”

Soon, the crystal shines bright again with the elf’s voice coming through, albeit, breathless.

“The dog…jumped..on me.” More shuffling, “I think he heard my.. grt- whistling. …This is why I’m a cat person.”

He breaks into laughter as she huffs, “Are you alright?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, fucker.” She growls, her tone still light.

“Ass.”

“Shit-talker.”

He goes to continue their game when he notices Gilmi, one of the head servants of his household, standing nervously by the door, waiting patiently.

“Bella?”

“Yeah? Is everything alright?” She clearly picked up his change of tone.

“Not sure. I’ll send back for you once I’m done.”

“Got it, Dor Dor. Tell Briva her favorite Aunt said hi.”

He motions for the servant to come in, snickering, “You know she has close to 6 other Aunts, yes?”

“Un-noted. Take care.”

“You do the same.” The connection cuts and he stashes the amulet carefully back into his desk, giving the servant his full attention.

“Is something the matter, dear?”

“Not…exactly sir, Miss Briva is the library. Uhm, something occurred and now she’s scared. Mister Jervah told me to just come get you.”

The moment Dorian heard the second line, he jerked from his chair, his gut clenched. He doesn’t waste time, quickly thanking the elf before making his way down to the library. The clicking of boots doesn’t help his nerves. They only add to the ever-growing fear, his hands tight, and mind racing at any horror his daughter was frightened of.

Possibilities flood though. An assassin paid to kidnap or hurt her- Well, he knows the guards would have stopped and alerted him immediately, but still…. An animal at the window?- Briva absolutely adores them, she would have been running in, wanting to show him honestly. A book she shouldn’t have read, Then again, he holds all of the spell tomes or spell-based ones on a high shelf or locked in his office, safe……STILL-

Arriving at the doors, he makes haste in opening and coming through.

All right, time to throw all the previous worries out the window, along with his sanity- specifically the barely hanging nail one from across the room, shattered glass scattered around on on top of the window seal. One that completes the look of a tornado, fire, and ice-mixed wonderland.

Books are thrown off shelves, some burned with others frozen in crystal cold. The curtains scorched from the bottom up, continuous crackles hitting his ears. The floor has puddles of water, as well as short layers of ice in some spots- his foot almost slips but he steadies himself on a half-burned desk near the door.

He trudged slowly around the room, tensely looking everywhere with wide, fearful eyes, also casting out swift but small spells to counter the others. All the while, calling out for his little girl. Fear has him caged at this point; with all this mass of destruction, no wonder his little one was terrified.

“Briva, darling. Papa’s here, I-”

“Ser Pavus,”

He turns, presently holding a piece of paper, one that Briva had obviously been working on beforehand. The ink was fresh and oily.

“Jervah, where’s my daughter?” Maintaining his calm and ever-resounding nature in his voice. In spite of this, the older elf looks upon him with understanding. He motions towards the door across the library. It’s an extra room, made specifically for when he and Briva are focusing on her studies.

As Dorian crosses the foothold, Jervah speaks up assuringly, “I let the others know to leave you two be. You will need it.” Not understanding this but knowing he will soon, the Magister nods, before returning to his most important.

He casts a minor spell, a light orb that lights up the room. “Briva?...Briva, honey.” His voice is tight, trying his damndest to sound heartening- despite his own heart currently moving-

He stops at the shuffling. Moving the orb closer in its direction, he sees a small figure under the middle table- scooting further under it as if to hide from the light. He sighs, relief flooding over him when realization hits.

Dorian takes his time, hands behind his back as he sends multiple orbs around corners of the room, lighting it up more until it turns into a soft, light blue hue. Her favorite color.

“...Briva? Is everything alright, my dearest?”

She doesn’t respond, concealing her face in her knees, arms wrapped around her tightly. With a kneel, he takes notice of the ice around her fingertips.

Oh..

He blinks.

So that’s what happened….Another wave of relief, Her powers just manifested. That’s all..

Now, he speaks up, “Briva, dear, are you alright? Are you hurt?”

She takes a moment before shaking her head, just barely. “Do you want to come out?”

Another shake of the head.

“Alright,” He sits down and tucks his legs under him. His robes fell around him, touching the ice residue and crowding around the two of them. She moves her head up quickly.

“No!”

He stops, looking at her.

She gnaws on her lip. Her eyes were blotchy and red, with tears streaming down her bubbly cheeks as her pointed ears droop slightly.

“Y-you’re gonna mess up y-your outfit.”

Dorian can’t help himself- a short laugh escapes from him. Mae, the loving sport, was always saying how Briva could be his blood by how she acted at times; it’s clear as ever even now. Still chuckling at her confused and worried look, he gently coaxes her out from the table.

“Please, it’ll soon be water. It’s fine, I promise.”

She’s hesitant, bunching her light florid, green dress in her tiny hands. Reluctantly she moves and settles into his lap. Now sensing she wasn’t in trouble, she buried her face into his chest. Unfortunately, she starts tearing up again when his arms wrap around her in a tight, but soft cradle.

The patient quietness gets mellowed out as Dorian runs a soothing hand through her curly hair, “Are you alright, my dear?”

She doesn’t speak but nods. “What about your hands? Are they cold?”

A pause before another small nod.

“Here.” With an easy hand, he warms it just enough yet pauses when she flinches. He frowns, concerned. Briva has never been afraid of his magic. Nor Mae’s, Estel’s, or any other of her mage Aunts and Uncles. Curious yes, but never frightened. Only when she sees it in public or from other Magisters in general is when she gets somewhat nervous- that’s when he pulls her closer as to soothe her thoughts.

Kaffas- she just discovered herself that she has mage blood and after experiencing something such that is emotionally reeling to most young ones- especially at her age! Dorian curses inwardly at himself. The first thing I go and do is use one of the main elements.

Dorian moves his hand away an inch, “Is this alright, dear?”

She looks up before glancing down at his hand. She gives a small nod and lends her hand back.

As the frost disappears from her fingers, Dorian leans his back on the table side. It digs into his upper back, but he pays it no mind. He could care less when his daughter is his main concern at the moment.

“What happened?” Her body stills at the question.

“Briva?”

“... I-im sorry.. ” Dorian tilts his head, “Whatever for, my dearest?”

Her hands wipe her eyes, sniffling and whimpering. “I ruined the Library. The b-books are ruined! I-i didn't mean to- I was only reading what Mister Jervah gave me and then-,” A small sob escapes her, tearing at his heart. Every urge in his body fights against the instinct to hug her tightly to him, to hide her away from it; as much as he wants to, she needs some room to speak.

“A-and then! -Ice and fire came… I think I h-hurt Mr.Jervah!” Briva cries.

“Mr.Jervah said he was alright, dear. No need to worry.” He assures, brushing the curly hair from her face.

“B–b-but, in the Library! I-”

“The books, curtains, and any other affected object there can be replaced. You cannot, however.”

Briva looks down as her hands fumble in her lap. “..I’m sorry, papa..”

Dorian smiles, pulling her closer, “Briva, darling.”

She glances back up. The tears get gently wiped away by him, swiftly pulling down his long sleeve to dry her cheeks. As he does this, he continues, “Dear, you know what happened exactly, yes?”

She pauses. “I’m like Papa?”

He chuckles, nodding along, “Yes, you have what many consider, mage blood. You will learn more as you grow, but, “ He adjusts himself, still holding Briva in his lap, “You understand what that means, correct.” He checks.

“Yes, But,” She bites her cheek, “Isn’t it…dangerous? Aunt Mae said some people think mages are scary.”

He sighs, “Unfortunately people believe that, of course. It’s just like how many believe your other father is a scary beast all because of his appearance.”

“But father is nice! He’s not a beast.”

“I know that. But it’s an undeserving fact, sadly.”

She goes quiet again. A less tight grip on her dress, the same one that bundles around her, barely touching the ground underneath her father’s lap. She studies the way to fabric lay, thinking through her next words. Dorian is patient, only humming and brushing through her hair contently.

She’s hesitant, “ Can I…can I use my magic like yours?” She looks up, “Like how you used it to help Aunt Bellatrix and Estel?”

He smiles as she continues, “You said you only use it when the aid for people is needed, you helped people…I wanna do that.”

“With time and careful studies, indeed. It can be done, my dearest.”

It’s almost like she was never crying, never scared- her bright smile grew on her face before she erupted in giggles and hugged him. Like every time, he never hesitates to reciprocate, holding her close as chuckles leave him.

After leading her out of the study, Dorian and Briva find Jervah standing near the entrance of the Library. His grin matches Dorian's, as he greets Briva, who runs up to him with a worry in her brow. “Mister Jervah! Are you alright?”

The older man chuckles, kneeling down, “I am alright, madam. No need to worry.” She gives a shy smile and hugs him.

As Briva talks with Jervah, Dorian’s happiness starts to dwindle. Slowly and awfully as new anxiety kicks in. She’s a mage. His hidden gaze ponders over his daughter, who’s giggling as Jervah holds her up.

An elven mage….In Tevinter .

She’s going to have many troubles try and run through her. People are going to look upon her as nothing other than a unique piece for a stealer’s collection, or an unwanted soon enemy. People will want to hurt her.. His darling little girl. The dear one that his husband, Fuliz, saved close to 6 years ago.

Well….He perks up, “Briva?”

She looks over, smiling, “Yes, Papa?”

“Would you like to go with Miss Gilmi and get cleaned up? Papa and Jervah will take care of things here.”

She tilts her head, “Surely I can at least gather the saved books?”

Oh bless her , he instead shakes his head but keeps his smile plastered, “I’m quite sure, my dearest.” Leaning down, he welcomes her quick hug, placing a kiss on her head, “Run along now, we’ll be fine.”

With a nod and a small grin, she does so. Grabbing onto Gilmi’s outreached hand, she waves as the two leave.

He waves back, waiting for them to be completely out of view before he speaks in a quiet but firm tone, “Jervah, for now on: please notify the guards and staff to keep an extra eye on all entrances, no matter the circumstances. And if anything happens that concerns Briva or strange behavior from staff, tell me immediately.”

“Of course, sir.” Jervah bows, and makes his way out. Dorian turns, hands behind his back as he casts out spells. As chairs and tables float back to positions, the curtains being pulled down for replacement, and frost being melted and dried away, he stands near the window. His eyes ogle at the gate that guards his home.

He once felt shame and dishonor for who he was, for where he was from, for his decisions on who to love and be around. He feels his jaw clench, no matter what, he will make absolutely sure Briva will not ever feel the same still lingering feeling he feels now.

While his fears from before have just become stilling nightmares and comments he can now brush off without a blink,

While he now has a wonderful and sweet husband waiting to come visit him and their girl in between mercenary missions,

While he has multiple friends all over Thedas that wouldn’t think twice to help him when heeded-

The judgment and disdain from his peers continue like an endorsed flame. People look upon him and send assassins of words or people in their wake, in their distaste. People fight to stop his coming dent in their country, and all would turn towards his little girl when she joins his side. All for her pointed ears and now magic.

Well…he smirks lightly, spinning back to the room and out the door.

They best send their biggest armies at him and his own growing power, cause the Fade will have to destroy itself before he allows any of them to even step a foot near her.

She is his daughter, no matter the blood. As long as he lives and breathes, she doesn’t have to be afraid. Never like he once was.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #Dorian pavus #Brivia Pavus #Dorian is a dad #papa dorian pavus #oc insert #Dragon age fanfic #Post Tresspasser #male adaar #Fuliz Adaar #dorian x inquisitor #Dorian x male adaar

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rileymcdaniels · 4 years

Text

Dear Winter, I hope you like your name.

@magicaltalents

“I promised Felicity that I would go with her and Sam today. Is that okay?” Eden nearly hops with excitement as she walks next to her papa, grinning up at him.

It’s the Harvest Festival, which is her favorite time of year and not just because her birthday was last week. Their town’s main thoroughfare is lined with vendors selling everything from apple candy and autumn beer to fine woolen clothing for the winter. There are entertainers of all kinds playing music and telling stories.

“Sure,” Papa says. “Here.”

Eden holds her hand out, surprised when two gold pieces are dropped into her palm. She beams. “Thank you!” she chirps, putting the money in her pocket for safekeeping.

“Don’t tell your mother,” he warns, but he’s smiling.

Eden giggles as Mama catches up to them, Eden’s little brother at her heels. Her brother is five and has recently decided to become very annoying, so she ignores him. Eden much prefers Alara, who is six months old and asleep in Mama’s arms. Eden goes up onto her tiptoes to peer at Alara’s face and kiss her round baby cheeks.

“Wait before you run off,” Mama says as she passes Alara to Papa, who cradles her with his arm.

Mama refastens Eden’s cloak as Eden stands still, impatient with excitement but obedient. “There,” Mama says as she looks Eden over. “I know you were disappointed we wouldn’t be able to stay as long as usual.”

“Alara’s too little,” Eden says, shrugging like she has never been bothered by anything in her life. “I don’t care.”

Mama smiles. “Your papa and I decided you’re old enough to stay a little longer. Be home before supper, alright?”

Eden bounces, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt, waving at her parents as she dashes off. Felicity and Samantha, twins with bright red hair, are easy enough to find, and together, the girls go off to enjoy the festival.

They split the cost of one of Miss Turner’s famously sized pumpkin pastries and eat it sitting on a bench near the blacksmith. With the rest of their money, Sam and Felicity buy real silk ribbons so the dresses they wear to the Chantry each week will not be so boring.

Eden does not need ribbons. She has never attended Chantry services in her life. And after last week, she isn’t even curious anymore. Eden’s palms itch as she thinks about watching her brother tumble out of a tree and the crackling energy that exploded from her hands to form a protective bubble around him so he hit the ground without a scratch on him.

Once the twins tuck their new ribbons into their pockets, Eden buys apple candy and hot apple cider for all three of them. She puts the handful of silver pieces she has left back into her pocket with her apple candy. Sam leads the way to a bard with the largest audience.

The bard is a stout human woman whose glorious textured curls fall down to her waist, and the bard begins a story just as they walk up.

Eden hears the story of the Inquisition and of Corypheus and of an end of the world that never came to pass that afternoon. It’s not the first time she has heard the story. She doesn’t remember the first time she heard it. She knows most of the names.

Seeker Cassandra is her Aunt Cassandra, who taught her to throw a punch when she was six. Magister Pavus is Uncle Dorian, and Eden makes a face to hear someone talk about him so seriously because Uncle Dorian is absolutely ridiculous. Eden has never deigned to call Uncle Bull The Iron Bull in her life. Her parents still do not know about the copy of The Viper’s Nest by Uncle Varric that she keeps under her pillow, and if her brother knows what’s good for him, they never will.

The archer with deadly aim – although the bard seems to knows more about the archer’s love for the Herald than anything else – is her mama.

And to her, the Lord Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, is just her papa.

But – the bard’s telling is not the story she knows. Her mouth tightens as she looks around and watches people’s faces. When the story is over, Felicity and Sam chatter excitedly, but Eden follows a step or two behind, head heavy with questions.

“Are you okay?”

Sam and Felicity are looking at her with concern.

“What? Oh, yes, sorry. Um. I think I’m going to go home. I promised my mama I wouldn’t stay too late.”

The twins nod and say goodbye as Eden takes the path away from town towards her house. It’s not far, only a few minutes, but it’s not even close to suppertime, so she takes it slow.

The story she just heard is a lot bigger than the one she’s heard before. Maybe she used to just be too little to understand it. It’s not like she thinks about it everyday. And Corypheus had been dead for ages by the time she was born.

The world had almost been destroyed. She almost was never born. But she was. She’s eleven years old. Just this morning, Papa had asked her, in a long-suffering tone, to be a little kinder to her brother. Mama nagged her about picking up her books yesterday.

They saved the world.

And then, as the house comes into view, it occurs to her that Papa is more powerful than empresses and kings. Or he was. And the bard said Papa deliberately left all of that for a quieter life. It didn’t end naturally like Mama used to say. It occurs to her that Papa and Mama would have known that they were having her when Papa left the Inquisition.

Papa had been greater than an emperor or king or Archon, but he and Mama came here, to their little house and farm, a few months before she was born. She hesitates before opening the front door. Papa didn’t have to do that. Lots of important people have kids but stay important. But unlike those kids, Papa is there to ruffle her hair and remind her to be nice to her brother and kiss Mama everyday.

“I’m home!” Eden calls out as she opens the door and hangs up her cloak, kicking her shoes off. She only just remembers to nudge them out of the walkway before going further into the house.

Mama comes down the stairs, smiling. “Hey, little love. You’re back early. Everything okay?”

Eden nods and looks down at her stocking feet to avoid seeing the skepticism in Mama’s eyes. “Nothing’s wrong. Felicity and Sam were bickering and I didn’t want to listen to them,” she lies. She swallows around the lump in her throat, and she pops up onto her toes to kiss Mama’s cheek. “Where’s Papa?”

“Getting Alara to sleep,” Mama says. “He’s going to start supper soon.” Mama pauses and looks at her. “I love you, Eden. I am so proud to be your mother.”

Tears threaten Eden’s composure, so she just nods. Mama always seems to know what she means even when she can’t say it, so she probably understands.

Eden goes up the stairs to her parents’ bedroom and peeks in. Papa is looking at Alara in her crib with soft eyes, and Eden taps lightly on the door to get his attention.

He looks up and smiles when he sees her. “Hey. Did you have fun today?”

Tears burn at her eyes again, but she nods. “It was good.” There are more words she wants to say, other words, but they get all tangled in her mouth. And she’s shy all of a sudden. She hesitates at the door.

Her papa saved the whole world. He was more important than the empress of Orlais. And now, instead of being the most important person in the world, he’s leaning down to kiss Alara’s forehead as she sleeps.

Eden crosses the room to him, and he rests his arm around her shoulders when she wraps her arms tightly around his waist. She presses her face against his chest.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, rubbing gentle circles on her back.

“I love you, Papa,” she says, mouth pressed against his shirt’s fabric. A couple of tears slip out. “I’m so glad you’re my papa.”

#magicaltalents #riley and caleb and eden: the morning is breaking and all is new

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bzrcdragons942 · 4 years

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It’s not WIP Wednesday because it’s... Finished Work Wednesday?... What I Wrote Wednesday? Yeah, that one. Alliteration! I figured I should post this before I drive myself insane nitpicking at it. It’s the new longest thing I’ve written at 1616 words. (1612 excluding translations but 1616 is so much better)

Summary: @nakmor-leigh‘s Inquisitor Krystal Trevelyan introduces her advisors to who she hopes is the newest addition to the Inquisition, the ex-Venatori, not ex-blood mage, Tirena. Two out of three somewhat agreeing to her presence is acceptable. (I haven’t written it, but Tirena’s recruitment quest starts with information gathered in the Western Approach about a traitor within the Venatori and ends with locating and entering the hidden, horrible prison in the Approach or even the Hissing Wastes that Tirena is actively trying to break out of. This previous one shot shows her connection to Livius Erimond. Mind the tags in that one.)

Tags: anti cullen (just in case), smoking

“A blood mage?! We are trying to stop the crazed fanatics not invite them in!"

From her position against the side wall, Tirena observed the Inquisition’s Templar pace part of the vaulted room where worldly decisions were made. It wasn't a coincidence his route defended the only rational exit. Shame if those windows were damaged.

The Inquisitor, out of armor and in a gown more fitting to her… soft personality, was unaffected by this predictable outburst. It was the norm. The Inquisitor’s sweet and accepting approach was not.

"I wanted all of you to hear this in person, not through a letter. Tirena just has a different set of skills, like every member helping the Inquisition."

"I'll admit it's not what I expected... but we already combat outrageous rumor and speculation about Lord Pavus. However, this will be used to further question your judgement, Krystal," the Antivan Ambassador spoke at the Inquisitor's side around papers and more papers.

The Inquisitor nodded but her quiet "I know" was overridden.

“I have relented on many questionable decisions, Inquisitor, but you cannot ally us with a blood mage. I won’t allow it!”

“She has been our ally behind the curtain since we settled at Skyhold. Unknown until the correct dots were connected. Many of our people live because of her actions.”

Tirena's eyebrows twitched up at the clear admiration and defense in Nightingale's voice.

The Inquisitor confirmed those words in her too gentle way, “She isn't our enemy. Together, all different kinds of us, we've lasted this long, and Tirena has been a part of that in her own way.”

The Templar persisted with teeth clenched as hard as the hand on his sword, “I strongly advise against this. Blood magic is forbidden for good reasons. It’s dangerous, manipulative, infectious. Demons are loose all over Thedas and you walk one right into Skyhold!”

“Uncontrollable,” Tirena finally spoke up, pushing off from the wall. Tired of this fool and pointless circles. “That is the word you mean. Your Chantry despises not having a chain for anything and everything. And I despise being talked about as if I’m not standing twenty feet from you.”

He stopped pacing at her movement, addressing the room but focusing on her. “Your likes or dislikes are not a concern while we discuss having a Venatori blood mage among us. Why isn’t she locked in a cell until a decision is made?”

“Put me in chains and you’ll die like the others who did,” Tirena bared her teeth and snarled, overriding anyone else attempting to speak.

“At the very least, I insist on a Templar guard, an inspection that she isn’t an abomination-”

“Piss me off further, and you'll pray to your Maker for a simple abomination!”

“Please!”

Their advance stopped short of each other with, well, a short, pleading obstacle. Tirena halted before the overly affectionate Inquisitor touched her, while the Inquisitor placed a hand on piccolo soldato's (little soldier) sword arm.

"Attacking each other won't help."

And Tirena was indeed ready to attack. She had been fine with his left handed grip on his pommel, a centering, comfort thing she understood well, but his right arm crossing his body was a threat and a defense simultaneously. Not for the first time, or last, Tirena took pleasure in her height that forced him to glare up at her.

"Cullen, I know you experienced horrors, but your pain keeps blinding you. Please, keep an open mind and trust me." The Inquisitor soothed as privately as she could to him in an unbearable sympathetic voice- Tirena supposed as a mother should sound- before turning to Tirena. "Please don't threaten my people. Anger won't solve this."

No… that was unbearable.

Tirena glanced down at the Inquisitor's unique purple eyes. Her round face was the face of a stranger, but the emotion behind it was not. It used to stare back at Tirena, at eye level, the face of her bro- Seraph. His bleeding heart didn't exist quite so much on his sleeve, but the similarities were there. All about healing and "save the world", soothe and not burn… and showing her all the ways she couldn't see.

"I don't make threats. Only promises," Tirena said, stepping back from the Inquisitor.

The two opposing forces took up posts on opposite sides of the table, and Tirena traded running her nails over her thumb pad for a smoke to keep her occupied and calmer. The Templar's lip curled at her lighting the elfroot and blood lotus blend with her middle finger. Petty and childish? Yes. But she was above only so many things.

"I'm not one of your Circle beaten mages you pushed to desperation. This is my craft and my mind is my own, Templar."

"I am Commander of the Inquisition and a Templar no longer."

"Sure you are," Tirena said with a grin anything but kind and blew smoke out her nose.

A gentle throat clearing from the Inquisitor stopped further escalation but it was the Ambassador who spoke.

"We're here for a common cause. Commander, the Inquisition needs information about Magister Erimond and the… rituals he performs, and you, Miss Amphion, cannot storm a fortress on your own."

Infiltrating Adamant wasn't the problem. Dying before she killed Livius was. But fighting alongside the Inquisition posed another problem.

"You won't be able to 'save' him," Tirena directed at the Inquisitor. "Livius denies it, but he is a follower to the individual who provides him the most power. His father, the Magisterium, and now a being claiming to be straight from his nation's proud ancient history. He believes in the cause and will defend it with his dying breath."

There was an uncomfortable pause as the Inquisitor retreated into herself then murmured, "The future he's fighting for isn't what he thinks. I've seen it. At Redcliffe. Dorian, too. It's horrible."

Tirena hesitated with her smoke near her lips, waiting for the joke, the lie, the disbelief. The crestfallen look the Advisors had was nothing compared to the Inquisitor's. A retelling rather than firsthand experience.

"Even if he were to miraculously believe that, it matters not. I am going to kill him. Say no to that and I leave. Your Templar's wish fulfilled."

The three looked expectantly to their leader -after a piercing look between Tirena and the Templar- whose sad turned to thinking face oddly turned to a smile.

"A siege takes a lot of planning. I'll have time to change your mind."

Tirena stared at the confident optimist.

Somehow. Someway. Seraph is laughing at me right now.

Nightingale brought her away from thinking about unattainable things. Twice in the span of minutes made her head hurt. And bury her heart.

"You have intimate knowledge on more than Erimond. I expect reports whether you're leaving or not, on the ones still alive."

There was the famed and feared Spymaster.

"That information is with a reputable bookbinder." Tirena flicked her smoke away in a small burst of fire and looked at the Ambassador. "The same one who repairs your found tomes."

Piccolo soldato huffed, "You expect us to believe you know nothing?"

"Only close to nothing. If you want coherent details, collect the journal. Immediate retention and recall aren't my finest abilities."

Tirena pointed to her damaged ear and the scars adorning the side of her face and neck. The scars that unfortunately went much further than skin deep. They could believe her or not.

Distracting herself from lighting another smoke, Tirena wrote down the simple instructions, adding another paper to the Ambassador's pile. They discussed her staying in Skyhold until the information was confirmed, what would be at her disposal, to not flaunt her magic all while the Inquisitor and her Ambassador did their best to ease the regrowing hostility between blood mage and Templar as the conversation dragged on. Tirena's answers became clipped and vague, special half truths to cover the things she didn't remember at the moment and deterring the more personal inquiries.

Tirena failed to stick with one smoke. It was either that or begin pacing, or lose the little diplomatic skills she had remaining. And those skills were dwindling fast.

"The subject of me in this meeting is over. You have plans and decisions I want nothing to do with," Tirena motioned to the pieces set aside, off the map.

Despite her abrasive way to excuse herself, the other four agreed that she was no longer needed, with the Inquisitor suggesting Tirena rest and make herself at home. Tirena could have scoffed.

"As long as you don't leave Skyhold."

"Were you struck deaf when that was established?... I will remain, for now, but keep your distance, Templar, and I'll keep mine."

"Agreed… maleficar."

The Ambassador broke the increased tension, again, always showing more steel than expected, "I have an assistant outside who will show you to your new quarters."

"And we put together some welcome things for you. Clothes, soaps, snacks," The Inquisitor added.

"You'll find a map to Skyhold's common areas and a schedule for meals."

Tirena nodded her head in acknowledgement at the two women, "Grazie."

With that, Tirena left the war room. An odd name for an Inquisitor so opposed to violence. She refused to slow for the escort scrambling after her. Movement. She needed movement. And new outlets and coping. Tirena doubted the Inquisition would be like the Venatori and allow her to leave and murder as she pleased. Not without the proper permissions.

"Ah, Miss Amphion, I know I'm to take you to your quarters, but there's a problem with your things. Your dracolisk. It's, well, it's not letting anyone near.

Buono fanciullo. (Good boy)

"Lead on to the stables."

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #my ocs #tirena amphion #nakmor-leigh oc #krystal #smoking #anti cullen #oh the things i create #my fanfic

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wavesofinkdrops · 3 years

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Extempore, Ch. II

Previous | Read on AO3

Summary: The art of debate is tedious.

Chapter II: Mise en Scene

The first day was easily summarised as utter and complete boredom.

It had started well. After the complicating realisation that Fenris couldn’t read Tevene — Hawke had taught him Trade, and he’d not bothered to learn Tevene when the Imperium was not a place he’d ever planned to return to — they’d ended up making the most of it. Going over the basic jargon in the bill, making sure he understood every inch of the words on the actual page. That was fine. They even had a safety net, if anyone handed him anything to read, Fenris could simply hand it to Dorian, as if he were distracted. If there was anything important on it, Dorian would let him know.

When Dorian had said Fenris basically knew the bill already, he’d meant it. They’d worked on it for quite a while, really, so it was relatively quickly that they went through the key points and terms.

Where it devolved was when they hit the ‘debate manners’ part. Oration was not any strong suit of Fenris', and neither was it one he’d ever cared to try developing. As a slave, his task was to be quiet. After that, he’d been keener to solve problems with his sword, fists or lyrium powers — all such sweet talking was better left to men more twisted and disingenuous, something Fenris had no interest in being.

But now he’d had to go through various arguments and counterarguments and counter-counterarguments he may be faced with. He’d had to go through a million ways to frame the bill as beneficial — to the Tevene economy, to Magisters, to businesses and households alike. To the Tevinter military and domestic life alike, namely, all of the things he didn’t care about that were impacted by the bill. That the simple fact it being the right and humane thing to do was not sufficient was already disturbing enough to Fenris, let alone the fact that in order to pass it he needed to pretend like it was all the same to him. People’s lives. Economic profit. These things were not equivalent, and yet everything hinged on him acting like they were.

The day had wound up with Fenris with his forehead pressed to the expensive wood of the table, papers and sheets and memos scattered in front of him. Dorian, on the other hand, was sprawled into another chair, rubbing at his temple.

“Can I not go and take some elfroot-”

“You already took some,” Fenris grumbled in response from where his head was pressed against the cool table. “Morning. And noon. And an hour ago.”

“Well can’t I-”

“You cannot have more elfroot, no. Live with it.”

“I can’t just-”

“Pavus, I do it every day.”

That shut him up, for a while. Fenris raised himself, mostly just to wind up leaning back in his chair, his fingers flicking the corner of a piece of paper in front of him.

NO SWEARING.

Ah, yes, Dorian’s greatest reminder, the use of foul language. Apparently, it was inappropriate for the Magisterium to curse their mothers and families.

“Venhedis-”

“You cannot swear in the Magisterium, you are not ruining everything I've toiled for just because of the foul mouth you have on you.”

“And that has now become an issue? You swear up and down at the most minor inconvenience.”

“It's different when it's formal circumstances!”

No sword, no swears, nothing. He already despised Magisters before, but he hated being one even more. And they hadn’t even started on his appearance and presentation, let alone how he should hold himself. They’d really barely covered how he should speak. Dorian had gone through the ways to make anything sound like a benefit, how to enunciate and add tone enough to convince and to sway — something Fenris didn't particularly employ with his particular brand of monotone vocals. Dorian had even managed to squeeze in Tevene lessons. Yes, Fenris, you know Tevene, but you don't know the way Altus speak Tevene. Most people spoke both Tevene and Trade here, but Magisters used Tevene as a brand of superiority. Of their inherent place in Tevinter. The language the lower classes spoke was not the same as how the Magisters used it as a mark of status. As it turned out, Fenris could mold his Tevene to relatively suit Altus standards — Danarius had preferred Fenris quiet, but if he had to answer he had been required to answer properly. It hadn't therefore been too much trouble, but Fenris found himself more and more annoyed by the arrogance and superiority the Magisters held.

Before he could sour his thoughts further, he steered his thoughts away from what exactly his solution to the Magisterium would have been.

“Have you sent a message out to the Inquisitor, then?”

Dorian roused himself from the bored glare he had fixed on a floor stone. “Ah, yes, well. Unfortunately, she has no direct way to fix this. The good news is that she’s at least heard of something similar to this. She’ll go through the information she has, hopefully to get back to help us as soon as possible.”

Fenris waited for a moment. “That’s all? So we must simply… find a way to make this work?”

“Yes, that’s the current plan, apparently.”

Fenris stared at him. There really weren’t that many options anymore, were there? He’d have to practice. And…

“You are aware,” Fenris started, the pace of his wording languid on purpose, making sure to keep any smugness at bay, “that you need to practice, too?”

Dorian waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, be grumpy, grunt at people and threaten them with a sword if they so much as look at me. Am I close enough?”

Fenris resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “You could not be further from it. Everything about you — the way you walk, speak, hold eye contact — screams Altus. Which, for an elf in Tevinter, is a terrible idea if you want to keep your head attached to your shoulders and your blood inside you.”

At that, Dorian’s face dropped into a look of mild worry. “Yes, well, I do like them where they are.”

“ And, ” Fenris continued with an added emphasis, “if you want a body to return to, you’ll need to also learn to protect me. I’m defenseless, Pavus. I cannot use your mage powers.”

“I'm hardly defenseless if left to my own devices, thank you very much. And we’ll get to the basic spells!” he assured.

“And you need to know how to use a sword. And my markings, as displeasing as that might be.”

It had the completely opposite effect on Dorian. He immediately looked at his hands, the white rivers swirling across them.

“Can we do that tomorrow?”

It seemed like “ever-unsatisfied glorified librarian” — as the Inquisitor had affectionately called him — was very much an accurate observation on the Herald’s part. There was curiosity, worry, excitement glinting in his eyes. Fenris knew Dorian was aware of the pain using the markings brought — and for someone who wasn’t as used to them across years of use as Fenris was, it was likely to be psychologically taxing on the mage. But it was true that Dorian needed to know to use them enough at least to escape, or even to kill. It had been more than once Fenris had already used his lyrium powers to foil a plot against the Magister’s life.

The Magister he now temporarily was, meaning he was at constant threat of some poisoned wine or an unfortunate dagger. And it was up to Dorian to keep his body alive long enough to return to it. Fenris didn’t particularly want to contemplate what the possibility of one of them dying would mean; it seemed far too complex to try and begin untangling in the evening.

“If you’re certain that’s where you want to start. I can assure you, the sword would be better.”

Dorian scoffed. “I’m not letting this opportunity pass. While I know you despise them — and rightfully so, I understand, their source is horrid — they are a terrifying miracle of magic.”

Fenris remained silent. He knew what Dorian meant — there was a reason he’d been an experiment, and that this wasn’t common practice. Lyrium infusion was no easy feat by any stretch of the imagination, so he understood Dorian’s point. And in a way, this was the most harmless way for Dorian to investigate them—only Dorian would feel the pain caused by the markings, and if he was so sure…

“Fine,” he grunted before standing and stretching, his back protesting from having sat all day. “We’ll work on the markings tomorrow.”

Dorian gave an irritating smirk. “Shall we create a schedule for the time we have until the vote? It seems we both have things to learn.”

They did just that, bickering over their dinner as to who got which days and how much time to cover what. With the right willpower, they might just manage to pull off the worst performance between the two of them that had ever been seen.

#dorian pavus #fenris #fenris x dorian #fenrian #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age ii #my writing #fanfic #bodyswap au #theres more commentary and notes in the AO3 version #including my perspective on tevinter and languages #bc i spend way too much time thinking about that hellhole of an imperium #wtf tevinter #extempore

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