Chapter Text
They easily found the Venatori terrorizing the region, much to Dorian’s satisfaction. It was a small group—two warriors and a mage. And, unfortunately, no one familiar.
They crouched behind a rock to devise an attack plan.
“They’ve got the advantage. Ready?” Trevelyan whispered.
“Always. After all… the advantage is ours.” Dorian replied with a confident smile, and saw the Inquisitor smile back. This time, that silly grin didn’t irritate Dorian, and he decided to ignore the moment.
After all, he wasn’t some soft fool.
“Just wait for my signal.” Dorian winked at him while moving toward the camp, hiding behind a tree.
After a second of focus, the mage quickly lowered his staff, letting out a growl as his body became wrapped in Fade energy, magic rushing through his veins until it burst from every part of him, striking the poor, terrible Venatori.
Slowly, the ground beneath the three men melted, turning into pure magma. The Venatori panicked, immediately running to escape the flames that erupted from the grass beneath their feet.
Luckily, one didn’t make it.
Unluckily, two did.
Well, at least the numbers were even now.
As soon as they regrouped, the enemy warrior charged at Dorian, shouting furiously as he brandished his sword. “Traitor!!!”
The irony.
Dorian dodged skillfully, spinning away to avoid having his arm sliced off, while casting a bolt—shimmering purple waves shot from his staff into the Venatori warrior, almost knocking him down with the impact, though he was stronger than that. At least he lost his helmet.
When he glanced away for a second to find Trevelyan, he saw the Inquisitor frozen in the same spot as before, sword raised, watching everything in awe.
Fury engulfed the Tevinter, and he was shouting before he even realized it. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING STANDING THERE??? POSING FOR A PAINTING!!??? THAT WAS THE SIGNAL!!!! MOVE!!!”
The Herald could throw him out of the Inquisition after the fight if he wanted, but at least that would mean they’d survive. Dorian wasn’t going to die to two ridiculous Venatori because the Great and Mighty Inquisitor had decided to stand there admiring him mid-battle.
As if shaken violently, the Inquisitor straightened, blinking several times, and rolled at the last second before a circle of ice could freeze his legs. The enemy mage was already casting his next spell, creating ice spikes that would soon fly toward him.
Dorian used the brief respite to refocus on his own fight, hurling the Venatori warrior away with a wave of energy. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Trevelyan charge the Venatori mage with his sword, only to pull back at the last second to leap away from a wall of ice. Even in the heat of battle, Dorian could hear the Inquisitor’s frustrated growl. He felt a shiver.
Dorian kept shooting fireballs at the Venatori warrior before him, preventing him from advancing, dodging his occasional lunges, while watching the glorious Inquisitor throw his shield into the mage’s throat to stop him from casting, then close in to drive his blade through the man’s heart. A splendid display of skill and strength.
But a single miserable second of distraction was enough for Dorian to nearly lose his head. The warrior’s sword stopped mere millimeters from his face, only spared by his staff blocking it in the nick of time. Now he strained to keep the Venatori’s blade from reaching his neck, gripping the dragon-headed metal shaft with all his strength—the only thing keeping him alive.
Thinking fast, Dorian sent a small flame into the Venatori’s arm, forcing him to recoil with a furious grunt. But the enemy soon managed to land a punch to his temple just as he was preparing his next spell. The dizzying pain hit him alongside a wave of rage. He could already feel hot blood running down his forehead, knowing his robes would be ruined within seconds.
A mocking laugh escaped his lips. This Venatori would pay dearly for such an affront. With a flick of his wrist, he cast the same spell he had studied for years alongside Alexius, and time around them slowed.
The Venatori warrior kept raising his sword to split Dorian’s skull, but very slowly. The mage swiftly pressed his palm—wreathed in the powerful magic of Nevarran Necromancy—against the man’s chest. Purple mist swirled around the warrior. Suddenly, time resumed its normal flow, and the enemy dropped his sword, fleeing, howling in terror.
In the blink of an eye, Dorian materialized beside the Inquisitor, greeting him cordially with a short, “Hello.” The poor Herald stared at him in astonishment, but his gaze kept drifting back to the Venatori, watching him succumb to despair. The least he deserved.
After a few seconds, Dorian decided it was enough. With a snap of his fingers, he triggered the arcane bomb inside the man’s heart, which exploded into bones, guts, and blood. A grotesque sight, he knew, but almost merciful compared to the horrors Venatori inflicted upon Tevinter and the rest of Thedas.
The Inquisitor, however, had gone pale. He stared fixedly at the small pieces of bloody flesh and bone, nearly in shock. Dorian resisted the urge to sigh. He’d probably have to start packing before nightfall.
Trying to draw the warrior’s attention, he used his usual lively, sarcastic tone. “See? I told you it would work out! There’s nothing I do that isn’t breathtaking. Literally.”
Trevelyan slowly turned to him, eyes still fixed on what was once a man, until he seemed to realize Dorian was right in front of him. His expression shifted from horror to concern in less than a second.
“Dorian! You’re bleeding!”
Oh really???? You don’t say!!!!
That was what the mage almost replied—until he met that gaze.
He had seen all kinds of looks before. Judgmental. Deceitful. Demanding. Over time, he had built a thick shell of arrogance to keep them from wounding him.
But the way the Inquisitor looked at him with genuine care—especially after seeing what the mage was capable of—shattered his armor instantly, and he had to find something else to say.
“Yes, unfortunately. Another fine set of robes ruined.”
He ignored the warmth spreading in his chest at the Inquisitor’s strange gaze, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it to the wound, casting a spell to dull the sting from the cut above his temple, while the pain from the blow reverberated through his temple and the side of his face. The blood had already run down his brow, across his face and neck, soaking the collar of his new blue silk-brocade robes, purchased shortly before leaving Tevinter.
He’d have to get new ones—once he found the coin. That damned Venatori had done a fine job with his studded leather-and-metal glove. Well, at least he’d been turned into mush.
“Just let me—ah.”
Dorian looked up to see the Inquisitor starting to move to help him, but stopping mid-sentence. Then the mage noticed Trevelyan was also injured—his sword frozen to his right hand and forearm.
For some reason, the Herald only seemed to realize his injury now, and his confused expression would have made Dorian burst out laughing if he hadn’t still been unsettled by the feeling from moments before. He’d seen that warm look before—though he couldn’t remember when.
“Just a second.” The Herald turned, trying to slam his wrist against the stone wall beside them to break the chunks of ice encasing it—but without success.
The incessant noise, along with the sheer stupidity of it all, made Dorian roll his eyes, deeply irritated by the pain, his ruined robe, and the fact that southerners were so simplistic. All this fuss was interrupting his train of thought.
“Maker’s breath, just give me your hand.” He let out an exasperated sigh, holding back from being too sharp with the man trying to help him.
The Inquisitor looked confused for a moment, then, after what felt like an eternity, finally realized who was talking to him. “Ah. Of course.”
The mage met the warrior’s eyes, his expression suddenly serious. “Trust me,” he warned, both hands wrapping around the Herald’s before focusing on his spell.
Though he could see the Inquisitor trying to stay calm, he caught his face tensing when small flames surrounded the frozen arm. As soon as the ice melted, the mage snuffed the fire, and the sword clattered to the ground.
The Inquisitor blinked, impressed, and removed his gloves, revealing his right hand covered in bruises—swollen, red, and slightly purple in places. Dorian couldn’t help but grimace at the sight. Trevelyan didn’t seem to mind, though, flexing his hand to test its movement.
“Thank you very much. That would have been a lot harder without you.” He smiled at the mage, who raised his eyebrows, shocked by the man’s eternal optimism. “I’ll be right back,” he added, heading toward the nearby stream.
The moment the Herald turned away, Dorian sat on a rock, deeply unsettled. A memory floated in the depths of his mind, though he couldn’t quite grasp it. When had he seen that look???
Though he very much wanted to solve the puzzle, he at least had the courtesy to ask, “Are you sure your hand’s all right? You could have trouble with it.”
“Oh, don’t worry. A little trouble sometimes makes things fun.”
He cursed his mind when the Inquisitor turned back to him—but it wasn’t Connor Trevelyan he saw. The man in his memory had deathly pale skin from the Blight’s curse, his hair thinning more each day. Though death surrounded him, his expression had remained serene and gentle.
And then the memory replayed in his head.
“Don’t get into trouble on my account.” He could still feel the faint shiver from when their fingers brushed around the handle of the basket full of fruit.
“I like trouble.” Despite the suggestion in the words, the tone carried affection rather than sensuality. Felix had always been so much better than him.
And there it was. The same look. Realizing how similar they were made his heart ache.
Dorian blinked himself out of the memories, seeing the Herald again, now sitting in front of him with that cute, stupid grin.
He quickly composed himself, not allowing the warrior to notice how guilt and pain were consuming him. He had become an expert at that.
“Well, let’s stitch you up before your robes get any worse,” Connor offered kindly.
“Ah, yes. At least the stitches will add an extra layer of rebellion to my charm.” He made another flippant remark, though his tone carried no amusement.
Luckily, Trevelyan didn’t notice, entirely serious as he pulled needle and thread from his bag, rummaging inside. “Where’s my flint???”
Dorian resisted the urge to throw his head back and yell in frustration. After all, the Herald was courteous enough to tend to his wounds, and given the man’s skill with blades, it was better not to irritate him. He settled for a deep breath, then cleared his throat, spell already ready. “Ahem.”
When the Inquisitor looked up, a fireball crackled before him. Again, it took him a moment to process. “…Right. Thanks.”
Seriously, had he never spent time with a mage before??? How did they get anything done???
His thoughts were interrupted by small pricks as Trevelyan began to work, and silence settled between them. Dorian noticed he was doing his best to be gentle, though the needle still made the mage flinch now and then.
He was so delicate for someone so dangerous. Another thing that reminded him of Felix. His heart warmed with another memory—when Alexius’s son had beaten him in a duel (by pure luck, of course) and then tended to his wounds with great care and affection. He regretted never telling him how much those moments had meant. Perhaps he’d never get the chance again.
Dorian noticed that the similarity between Felix and Trevelyan didn’t make him angry. The Inquisitor hadn’t chosen to help him, and now he had no idea what had happened to Felix and Alexius despite trying to investigate—that was true.
But the moment he’d thrown that in the Inquisitor’s face—which was only fair—he’d seen the regret and guilt seize the Free Marcher instantly. Connor Trevelyan truly wished he could have saved everyone. And that was a stumbling block to Dorian’s anger.
“Sorry for being so clumsy. My older sister Amber would have done this a thousand times better. And faster.”
The small distance between them made the Herald’s voice reverberate against the mage’s skin, and Dorian noticed it came out slightly husky—though almost imperceptibly so. For some reason, it sent a shiver down his spine, pulling him from his reflections.
“Actually, I’m more surprised at your finger skills, Inquisitor. That gives wings to the imagination.” He would always have a retort ready, and he took pride in it—one of his many talents that kept him in the position he deserved.
Trevelyan paused for a moment, then laughed—so awkwardly that he didn’t even reply—his copper-toned cheeks taking on a faint rosy hue. Dorian admitted he found it adorable.
The Inquisitor only spoke again moments later, when the pricks finally stopped. “All done. Did it hurt much?”
“No, I cast a spell.”
The reply made the warrior narrow his eyes. “…Hm.”
Dorian looked at him for a moment, waiting for questions or comments that would condemn his homeland—and when none came, his gaze returned forward.
A light hit on his head startled him. Wait. He hadn’t…
He looked back at Trevelyan, eyes wide, exasperated. The Inquisitor quickly put his hands behind his back and pressed his lips together, looking like someone who’d broken one of Josephine’s dolls—a mix of mischief and guilt.
On other occasions, the mage would have set the Inquisitor’s shiny armor alight for a moment just to watch him roll on the ground. But something stopped him. There was something in the way that idiot acted that disarmed him.
“Ow,” he said, almost growling, mouth open in indignation.
They stared at each other for a long moment until the Inquisitor let out a mischievous laugh, admitting his insolence. “Sorry, I had to test it.”
“I cast a spell to stabilize the cut, but that doesn’t make me untouchable, Inquisitor. Not yet, at least.”
The immature Herald of Andraste kept laughing in front of him. “Okay, I get it now.”
Then suddenly he stopped—something had caught his attention. “Aaaand you’re bleeding. Again. Sorry. Again.”
“That is unquestionably your fault. It’s nearly impossible to regulate blood pressure with a handsome man breathing down your neck.” Dorian shot back immediately, determined to fluster the Herald into silence. Maybe then he’d stop being ridiculous.
To his fury, Trevelyan laughed loudly again. “You say the strangest things, Dorian.”
“Like the truth?” he replied, unfazed.
Their eyes met again. Dorian was certain his wound was practically gushing blood, his heart pounding fast in his chest. Kaffas. What an impossible man.
The Inquisitor finished seconds later, completely red, to Dorian’s satisfaction.
“A-all done! Who would’ve thought you’d actually look charmingly rebellious with stitches on your forehead?” the warrior said, quickly stepping away from the mage, clearly flustered.
“Told you. I’m irresistible.”
At last, Dorian had his revenge for the cheeky tap. The Herald opened his mouth for a second, then shut it again, eyes dropping and face nearly glowing red.
Seeing that stupid grin on the Inquisitor’s face brought him a strange joy.
This was not good.
This was not part of the plan.