Chapter Text
She wakes in her own bed in her little Minrathous apartment, and feels not only cold, but hollow. The window to her right has been left carelessly open, and the early morning breeze tickles her skin, igniting goosebumps in its wake. A bird sits perched on the windowsill, and they look at each other, for a moment. The small thing tilts its head, and she swears the look in its eyes is disapproving. It chirps – loudly and jarringly in the morning stillness, before leaving her even more alone.
Her head pounds with the leftover magic that buzzes around in her brain and the memories that come flooding back to her – cold blue eyes growing colder than she has ever seen them.
There is a glass that at one point held wine next to her bed. She grabs it and throws it at the wall with a shrill scream. It shatters and the fractured pieces make her think of him, again. She is loath to admit she doesn’t feel any better. At all.
The Archon’s palace’s golden-gilded roof glitters in the soft sunlight outside her window, and it takes no time at all to throw on a cloak and her boots and make her way to the marble steps.
The guards recognize her easily by now, though they make no moves to hide their distaste at her pointed ears. She finds she really couldn’t care less. The wards at the entrance to the upper level allow her to slide through without any resistance, and her footsteps clink on the polished wooden floors.
The two more guards standing outside the doors to the Archon’s quarters actually do have the gall to speak up and try to stop her, citing the early hour and that the Archon “must not be disturbed”, but they are silenced with little more than a thought. She may be an elf, but she is a mage, and this is Tevinter.
She takes a pillow from a chair that sits near the entrance, next to a hilariously ornate bookshelf, and hits Dorian hard in the face with it, effectively smacking him out of the Fade.
“By the Maker’s arse, woman, I was having a sex dream!” He says, disgruntled, and without even opening his eyes, just hugging his pillow closer and rolling over to his stomach.
It takes a moment, but when she says nothing, he sits up, rubbing at his eyes and looking at her, concern in his dark features.
“You’re never this quiet. Do I need to pardon you again?”
The joke falls flat in the silence of his massive quarters, and she does not even crack a smirk. He waits and the silence stretches until she can find the words, simple as they are.
“I saw him.”
Dorian looks as if he is about to respond but catches himself before he can blurt out something rash, and instead opts to put on the silk robe that hangs next to his bed and the half-drank bottle of wine on his bedside table. He crosses the room quickly to his desk where she sits, fiddling with a quill, and puts the bottle in front of her.
“It’s the seventh bell of the morning.”
“It’s a special occasion.”
She acquiesces, and takes a strong gulp, wiping the excess off her lips.
“Dirthamen’s temple, the one my scouts unearthed in the Arbor Wilds, that was suspected to have a map of Elvehnan used in the war with the dwarves.”
“Yes, possibly giving a clue to the location of another Orb. I do actually listen to you, you know.”
She shoots him an annoyed look, and he gestures at the wine bottle, again, and insistently.
“It worked. And then it didn’t. I went too far.” She says, running her finger in circles over the rim of the bottle. She looks at it, deliberating, before taking a few large gulps. After a few moments, the words come easier.
“He came to stop me, as I suspected. But…” she pauses, thinking of the fear in his eyes at that moment, “He was… is, afraid that those loyal to the trapped Evanuris will use me to get to him.”
Dorian’s left brow raises, and then his eyes narrow, just a little. His hand taps his chin once, twice. “I suppose that’s a rational possibility we probably should have anticipated. After all, we are exploiting his weakness to you for our own purposes. It would be dense of us to assume no one would attempt the same. But you are here, in one piece, however mangled.”
She shoots him a dirty look and thinks that if she still had the middle finger on her left hand, she’d be giving it to him right now.
“They did come, but Solas got there first. The fact that they knew where I’d be is more than a bit concerning. With any other enemy, I’d worry we have a mole, but in this case I think it’s more likely they’d infiltrate our dreams.” She sighs, thoughtful for a moment, before continuing. The wine bottle in her hand feeling significantly lighter.
“He took me to one of his safehouses, just to get me away. It was perfect, I doubt he ever would’ve brought me there if it wasn’t the only way to save me. He had all sorts of information there, and I thought-“ She stops herself, running her hand over her face. “I don’t know what I thought. That he would let his guard down, spill something when he was distracted, that I could glean something from one of the papers on his desk while he slept. And I think I could have, but he saw right through it.” The look on his face is all she sees when she closes her eyes, how betrayed he looked. She knows she shouldn’t feel bad, not really, not after everything, but to see his pain like that, so plainly, and to know she put it there…
It makes her wonder, bitterly, how he has done the same to her so many times.
“And he will likely not make the same mistake again.” Dorian finishes for her.
“All I’ve managed to do is drive him further away.” She affirms, the sadness in her voice entirely genuine.
Dorian rests his hand on her knee and when she looks at him, his eyes are bright.
“It will not be easy, but you vowed you would not give up on him.” He says, his voice strong and true. And it surprises her for a moment. She knows Dorian would walk through fire for her, but his feelings towards Solas had never been quite as complementary. She remembers a large book, accidentally falling over the library’s ledge, and the argument that ensued afterwards that had her and Sera cackling with laughter, and her heart pangs in grief for a simpler time.
“You almost sound as though you approve,” she says, a small smile forming on her face as Dorian immediately withdraws his hand and rolls his eyes.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, darling, I still think you could find a far more fortuitus and fashionable match. Especially for someone of your status and talent!” He exclaims, wrapping his robe around himself and standing from the chair across from her.
She laughs, a little, and sadly, and Dorian leans down to tip the wine bottle to her mouth once again, causing her to laugh more and practically dribble it all down her chest.
“Now, while you get deliciously drunk off of the finest wine in Tevinter and forget about your truly impressive boy problems, I am going to use my political prowess to investigate these pesky little locked-up Elven gods that are so eager to meet you. Do be a dear and don’t get yourself into any trouble for at least another week, my old heart can’t handle it.” He says as he dresses in his elaborate robes for the day and heads out the door, “Let yourself out!” trailing behind him.
She takes another sip of his very expensive wine and feels a little less alone.
-
The ride to from Minrathous to Val Rayoux is not only insufferably long, but incredibly boring. Each soft tap of her horses’ hooves on the dirt road feels like a hole being drilled into her brain, and the heat of the sun beats upon her back without mercy. Her dark red coat does little to help, and she feels the steady path of a drip of sweat make its way down her temple, but the heat is not worth sacrificing her anonymity for. The road has just begun to empty as she leaves behind the tendrils of city and subsequent villages and farms that surround it, and entered the true wilderness. Her horse veers to the right side of the road, desperate for any lick of shade.
It is not a trip she would, under any normal circumstances, embark upon alone. Less due to any real danger and more due to her short attention span and deep hatred of boredom, but Divine Victoria waits for no one, including the ex-Inquisitor, and Leliana’s cryptic and concerning message requesting a visit was enough to get Nymeria on her horse the next morning. And so she digs her heels into her horses side, and breaks into a run.
It is not uncommon to see cartfulls of elven slaves, bound and gagged and crammed into too-small carts, on the road to Minrathous. It makes her blood boil within her veins, but while she is a powerful mage, she is still but one woman, and she has little choice but to let the carts pass her by, deepening the despair in her heart with each rotation of their wheels. However, when an elven woman, no older than her, with a baby on her hip and a bruise on her cheek, runs out in front of her horse screaming for help, she is off of her horse and rushing to help within a single second.
“Please! Please- you have to help us. The slavers- we were traveling to my Papa’s place in Ghislain, I’m a servant for a Mother in Val Rayeux – and they killed my husband and-“ she screams, near hysterics, chest heaving for air.
“It’s alright, I’m going to get you out of here, I won’t let them take you, I promise.” She says, placing a steadying hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“You are too kind,” she says reaching out and cupping Nymeria’s cheek with her hand. Her nails are long, long enough to graze her cheekbone with their sharp edge. It’s odd, undeniably, and she finds herself tensing at the unwelcome gesture, but Orlesians are always overly touchy, she tells herself.
But before she can speak further, she watches as something in the woman’s eyes change, the tears dried up and gone, and the glint in them has transformed from that of prey to that of a predator.
She notices three things, then, that she should have noticed before. One, despite the bitter heat, the woman’s brow is devoid of sweat. Two, the woman is too tall for an elf. And three, the baby does not cry despite his mother’s apparent terror, he only looks straight ahead, unseeing. Foolish, she scolds herself, for being so soft, so gullible.
The woman smiles, her teeth sharp like a snake’s fangs before a bite. Then, the world goes dark.