Chapter Text
"If we are going to do this, we need to do it now."
Dorian's head snaps up, sweat beading across his brow, and he locks eyes with Lavellan. He knows that she'll be the one to do it, to cross the fade and find a way to save the boy -- she'll find a way to make this happen without further bloodshed, if there is such a way -- but for the burden to always fall on her is... unfair. He can see her squaring her shoulders, opening her mouth to claim responsibility, and he thinks not this time.
"I will do it," he says, drawing every eye in the room, from the templars to the mages. He grips his staff, spine straight and eyes hard, and insists, "I'm the best option we've got, and everyone here knows it."
"No ego on this one," Lavellan says faintly, and at her side, Solas locks eyes with him.
It surprises him that Cullen is the one to back him up, though he doesn't look him in the eye as he does it. All he says is, "If anyone can reach him, it will be Dorian. We waste time; either destroy the demon in the Fade, or we take his head from his shoulders now."
Tied down and thrashing despite it, eyes wild and inhuman, Reyson bares his teeth and screams, one long, guttural noise.
---
The last time he was in the fade, he walked it physically. It is not an experience he ever cares to repeat, and if he's honest with himself, he's avoided even dream-walking since then. His magic still feels like home as much as it ever has, but there is a part of him that feels he has -- violated, perhaps -- certainly trespassed, like the Magisters of old, on sacred ground.
That it was not his choice matters little. Had he left a mark? Had any of them?
(Would they find Stroud here, wandering, fighting, lost? No, more likely he's dead. Dead, and now is not the time.)
He gathers his bearings, the blurred edges of the world shifting just outside of his periphery, and ventures deep into an unfamiliar hold.
---
"Kinloch," he realizes, the word bitter and heavy in his mouth, and he hopes that he isn't going to bear witness to the Circle's end. Time is already of the essence, and he can't afford to get distracted chasing down memories, especially memories not his own. "Lovely. Reyson, my dear boy, you are my least favorite pupil."
He ascends another flight of stairs, stomach clenched tight like a fist, and reminds himself: this is the Fade. This is his stomping ground, and he has bent it to his will many, many times in the past. He will do so again, and he will save Reyson from the clutches of whatever demon has ensnared him.
He will do this, because he must.
---
He finds Reyson huddled up against a wall, arms banded tight around his knees, and he looks younger than Dorian knows him to be. It may just be the fear on his face, or the way he flinches back from Dorian's presence, confusion and terror etched in his look in equal parts.
"You were never here," Reyson mumbles through heavy lips, shoulders pressed against stone. "What is this about?"
"You are in the Fade," Dorian says crisply, striding across the room and looking down at Reyson, not unkindly. "And a demon has possessed your waking form. Solas and Vivienne have managed to subdue it for now without hurting you, but you and I have a job to do."
Slow-dawning horror creeps over Reyson's face, and he brings his hands up, fingers curling over his cheeks. "I'm... am I an abomination?"
"Not yet," Dorian says darkly, and in the next breath there's a staff in his hands, heavy and solid and real. "And you won't be, if I have anything to say about it. Come on, Reyson."
---
The demons that come after him are usually more of the desire variety than the rage -- and he's not in any rush to examine that particular truth in any great detail -- but that doesn't mean he's at a disadvantage, exactly, dealing with this one. Dorian learned from a young age to leash his anger and his temper just as he did his happiness and his passion, one of the few useful life lessons of being a Magister's son, and he is not one to be intimidated by any demon.
He'd dealt with worse on his first trip into the Fade, alone.
No, it's that he has to drag Reyson along with him, manage his fear and his horror and watch as it warps the Fade around them, that makes this difficult.
"Get ahold of yourself," he says, sharp and commanding, as Reyson's feet stutter beside him. "You are playing right into its hands. Can't you feel the Fade? Make it yours."
Maker knew the demon was draining Reyson's life, inch by inch, to sustain it, so he'd bloody well better start fighting back.
---
Tales are only heroic after the fact.
Sometimes, the grand battle is nothing more than pain and struggle, and even when you win, you still lose something.
Dorian knows all about that.
---
He comes back to himself with a shudder, tasting copper and knowing fully well that it's only his imagination, and a pair of strong hands catch him before he slumps. Cullen is searching his face, eyes warm and worried, as the sounds of Reyson's quiet, hitched sobs stand in backdrop to the conversation.
"Are you all right?" Cullen asks, frowning when Dorian pushes past him to stumble over to Reyson. The magical bonds have been removed, and the boy is no longer struggling, but he is crying, palms pressed to his eyes, shoulders bowed in.
"You're all right now," Dorian says, reaching out to curl a finger around Reyson's shoulder, and the boy flinches away. Something hot balls up in Dorian's throat, but he speaks around it, voice rough. "You did well."
Reaching out with a trembling hand, Reyson curls a fist in Fiona's sleeve, dragging her close. She bends at the waist, ear to his mouth, and her eyes are large and sad when they meet Dorian's.
"I apologize," she murmurs, subtly positioning herself between them. "Reyson has been through a great deal. Please, give him time."
Dorian watches, stomach churning helplessly and angrily, as Fiona gathers her apprentice up in her arms and guides him away. In the quiet of the room around him, the assembled mages are clearing away the evidence of the spell, sharing significant looks rather than speaking.
Dorian remains standing, flexing his hands at his sides, and tries to ignore the pressure building in his chest.
"Dorian," Cullen murmurs, coming to stand beside him, but not touch. Always so considerate, his Commander. "You saved him. You understand that, don't you?"
Words press up against the backs of his teeth, and he tries to swallow them down, knows that Cullen deserves better than the roil in his gut. "Did I?"
"You did," is said with more conviction this time, and Cullen turns, fingers brushing Dorian's elbow.
He yanks away, and hates himself for the shutter that falls over Cullen's face.
"I wouldn't have needed to if your mages were educated properly," he spits, grief buried under the venom in his tone. "If they had any sort of defense outside of -- of fear and ignorance and the threat of a templar's sword bearing down on their necks, perhaps they wouldn't be violated to begin with!"
Cullen sucks in a sharp breath, and lets his hand fall to his side. "You are upset," he says stiffly, and Dorian isn't certain if he wants to laugh or scream as Cullen continues, dogged and calm. "Am I helping or hurting, Dorian?"
The pause is too long before he answers, and that's answer enough.
Cullen nods shortly and steps away.
---
Fiona joins him in the library later, her shoulders straight and eyes guarded, as she thanks him for his assistance.
He could play the game, and perhaps if it hadn't been quite so long a day and he wasn't feeling quite so scooped raw from his merry ventures in the Fade, he would. Instead, he simply asks, "How is he?"
She laces her hands in front of her stomach. "He has requested the Brand."
Dorian lurches forward, but before he can say anything, Fiona holds up her hand. "He is sleeping now. Dreamlessly. We will not allow him to make such a decision in the heat of the moment, but it is... within his right... to request."
"No," he says, hands curled atop his knees. "It's barbaric. Fucking -- why don't you arm them, why do you -- this is --"
Something harsh comes into her face, and it quiets him, if only briefly.
"Do not lecture me on the condition of my people," she says, very softly. "I am grateful for your assistance, but that gratitude will not forgive disrespect. I will care for him and try to talk him down from this, as is my responsibility, and you will respect his decision, whatsoever it should be. It is not your place to do otherwise."
He bites the inside of his cheek so hard that he tastes blood.
---
Cullen finds him in his office hours later, posture deceptively casual, a candle burning bright on the corner of his desk.
"Do you know, he wants to be made Tranquil." No greeting, no apology for earlier -- even the idea of it sticks in his throat, and he can't decide if one is truly due or not -- but at least Dorian's voice is steady, gaze calm. "Actually requested it."
Cullen sighs, crossing to the stand tucked up against the far wall of his office, and begins to remove his armor. "Yes. Vivienne and the Inquisitor addressed the mages, and it was discussed."
"It's not a solution," he says flatly, and then they both fall into silence, the only noise the practiced, quiet clink of armor as it is removed.
Down to a simple tunic and breeches, Cullen takes a place at his window, arms crossed loose over his chest. At this angle, neither of them is quite facing the other, and the setting sun casts a warm glow across Cullen's face.
"Have you ever had a demon in your mind, Dorian?" His tone is measured, and Dorian's hands tighten into fists. "Have you ever felt that -- that grisly echo of your thoughts? Been the passenger in your own mind? I'd have done anything to stop it."
Nausea swells, and Dorian wants to reach for Cullen, but he can tell by the set of his shoulders and the steady, even cadence of his voice that it would not be welcome. They've discussed this, of course -- Dorian knows what Cullen suffered, and what he became through that suffering, the choices he made. It's true that Dorian has never been marked in the way Cullen and now Reyson have, that he has always had the tools to defend himself and so will never fully understand that particular brand of horror.
He's horrors of his own, of course, but to argue his point right now feels... unworthy, in the face of Cullen's experience compared to his theory.
Cullen digs his shoulder into the window's frame, and if possible, he voice quiets even further. "They say that eventually, the lyrium will make you forget. There have been times I've wondered if that would not be a kindness. If the nightmares would stop, and I would know peace again."
"Cullen," he manages, and Cullen finally turns to him, smile tired.
"It would be no blessing. I came to realize that, eventually, coming out of one of my darker moments." He leans over the chair, hand tentative as it cups Dorian's cheek. He turns his face into it, closing his eyes. "But I had to make that choice for myself, Dorian."
Dorian's shoulders bow, and he says, desperately soft, "I have to believe there's a better way."
Cullen leans in, pressing chapped lips to a furrowed brow, but says nothing.
(He fears that his words, as always, would be inadequate. This, at least, he can do.)