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Dorian winced as he slipped his pack over his shoulder, his back aching from where he’d landed when the Terror threw him. It had been a difficult battle. Tight quarters and powerful demons did not mix well, and he was mostly just happy that they’d all made it out without too many serious injuries.
Currently, they were cleaning their wounds as best they could at their camp near Redcliff Farms, using the stream that was just this side of too cold. Varric was sitting on a rock by the edge of the water, holding a cloth to his arm where the Greater Terror had slashed through his heavy coat. The bleeding was stopping now, but only after he’d downed a potion. Bull, who had taken the brunt of a despair demon’s attack, was in the medical tent being treated for mild hypothermia and a concussion. He had insisted this was unnecessary, but Mahanon had all but ordered him to get checked out due to the amount of blood pouring from the wound on his head. Luckily he had agreed, if reluctantly.
Mahanon, who had managed to stay out of the fighting for the first bit had been knocked down into the water by a Terror, which had then raked its claws down his chest. There had been a moment of panic when Dorian had seen him go down, and then cold fear when those deadly claws had met flesh. It had taken him a moment to see that Mahanon had managed to erect a barrier just in time.
Unfortunately, the barrier had only been so effective, and the Terror had managed to claw through it and Mahanon’s armor, though to what extent Mahanon was currently trying to find out.
He had his grey/blue coat laying over a rock, and he was already unbuttoning his leather vest when Dorian made his way over. There were deep cuts in the fabric that Dorian could see were bloody at the edges. “Need any help?” he asked, raising an eyebrow when the elf startled.
“I think I’m alright for now,” said Mahanon, wincing as the leather began to peel away. Underneath, his undershirt was stained red with blood but it wasn’t horrible, even considering the water making it spread further. Dorian knew that he’d suffered far worse during their trip into the future. That said, a not too insignificant part of him still worried. The part that was just beginning to admit to what he’d been feeling for the elf over the past few weeks.
He crouched down next to the Herald, dipping his hands in the water to try and get some of the dirt off. It didn’t do much good, as he hadn’t brought any soap, but it still felt nice all the same. “That must have been the hardest rift we’ve ever closed,” he said, trying to fill the silence more than anything else.
“I agree.” said Mahanon, “And I thought the one at the Temple was bad. Though, I suppose we did have more men for that one.” He paused with his hands at the bottom of his shirt. “Do you think you can help me get this off?” he asked after a second, turning to look at Dorian with his large blue eyes. The Altus felt his breath hitch, as it did every time Mahanon turned his gaze on him.
He’d seen elven eyes before of course, mostly his family’s slaves, but some others as well. Mahanon’s were nothing like them. The iris was slightly larger and seemed to reflect the light around them, glinting oddly when he moved his head. Once, a few weeks back, they had been hiking back to camp while the sun was setting. Too dark to see, Dorian had conjured a ball of flames to aide them. Mahanon had strolled ahead, away from the light, and when he’d turned back to say something to Bull his eyes had flashed green, almost exactly like a cat. Dorian had asked him about it when they got back to camp, and Mahanon had told him that though their city cousins had lost the ability, Dalish elves could see in the dark.
“Dorian?” came Mahanon’s soft voice, a small, amused smile on his lips.
“Yes, right, of course.” answered the Altus, his cheeks heating in a blush. He never let himself get so distracted by someone’s eyes before. Not that Mahanon’s weren’t worth getting lost in, but now was hardly the time. He wasn’t even completely certain the elf was even interested in him, to be honest, though he’d never seen Mahanon actually flirt with any other members of the Inquisition. He shook his head, pulling his attention back to the present. He really needed to get a grip on himself. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”
“I need to get this shirt off, but I’m not sure I can lift my arms.” said Mahanon, “If you can just help me pull it over my head I can see what that demon did.”
“Not a problem, my dear Herald,” replied Dorian, shifting so he was behind the elf instead of beside him. He slid his still wet hands under the fabric at Mahanon’s back, pushing it gently upwards over pale, smooth skin and fresh and healing bruises. Mahanon helped as best he could, arching forward a little so Dorian could more easily guide the fabric over his head. There was a long, mostly healed cut on Mahanon’s side that Dorian knew was from a Red Templar who had slipped by Cassandra, and a few moles dotted here and there that Dorian couldn’t help but imagine mapping out with his tongue and teeth until the elf was shivering with desire-not that he thought about that sort of thing very often, mind you. What made him pause, though, were two long, oddly shaped scars just under Mahanon’s shoulder blades.
They were a raised and puckered pink, the skin around them darker than the rest on the elf’s body, and whatever wound had caused them must have been deep. Dorian had never seen anything like them, though he didn’t pretend to be an expert on scars. He didn’t notice that he’d stopped moving until he felt Mahanon tense under his hands. “Not very pretty, are they?” he asked, trying for casual but there was a note of discomfort and dejection in his voice.
“Uh, well they’re not…horrible.” Great job, Dorian, very convincing. He felt Mahanon tense further, shifting away slightly, pulling his shirt the rest of the way off, and it was with this movement that Dorian realized that there were pale blue lines decorating the tops of his shoulders. More tattoos? “What I mean to say is that, no they aren’t very pretty, but I’m glad you survived whatever caused them.” He said finally, wondering where his Tevinter upbringing went when he talked to Mahanon.
“Smooth as always, Sparkler.” said Varric from his place on the rock, and Dorian was of half a mind to tell him where he could shove his opinion when Varric continued with, “That looks like scars from a poison spider bite, am I right?”
“Yes,” answered Mahanon as he set his bloody tunic in the water to get at least a little less horrific. He pressed a clean cloth to his chest, and when he turned back around to face Dorian, he saw that those soft blue lines on Mahanon’s shoulders extended down over his arms, perfectly accentuated his collarbones, and trailed off towards his hips. It was a truly a mouthwatering sight, those strange looping patterns that mimicked those of Mahanon’s vallaslin, contrasting with his far too pale skin and dotted here and there with moles and freckles.
Mahanon wasn’t Dorian’s usual type to be sure; much smaller, slimmer, and paler, but at the moment Dorian’s libido didn’t give two shits about any of that. What he did care about, however, were the five bright red lines that cut through those beautiful tattoos that were only partially covered by the cloth.
“...a friend back in Kirkwall that was bitten by one of those bastards. He was healed pretty quickly but it did a number on him.” Dorian heard Varric say, though he’d missed when the dwarf had started talking, to busy admiring the sight in front of him. He looked up, about to ask Mahanon if he needed any help, only to be met once again with those intense blue eyes, this time sparkling with what looked like amusement. He’d been caught staring it seemed.
“I was lucky Keeper is such an adept healer,” Mahanon said, eyebrow raising and lips twitching in a smirk. Dorian could feel his cheeks heating. He hadn’t been this prone to blushing since he was a boy sneaking kisses in darkened hallways. It was maddening. “I’ve had some problems from it, but nothing overly debilitating. They ache sometimes, and occasionally I have trouble breathing, but other than that I’m fine. Oh, and it turned my hair white, so there’s that.”
“Wait, a spider bite turned your hair white? It wasn’t always like that?” asked Dorian, finally waking from his stupor.
“No, Dorian, I wasn’t born with the hair of an old man. It actually used to be red,” answered Mahanon, smirk widening. “Also, I wasn't always this pasty. I was fair skinned, but not death pale before the, uh...incident.” The smirk dimmed for just a second, his features twisting into something darker, sadder, but before Dorian could truly process what the expression meant it was gone.
“I’ve never heard of that happening,” said Varric, his writer's curiosity kicking in.
“Well, it wasn’t caused by the venom directly. It was because it took me a bit to get treatment, and by that time I was barely an inch from death, by all accounts. I was unconscious for two weeks, everyone but Keeper thought I’d not make it, and when I did finally wake up my hair was white. Stress, they said. It’s never grown back in its old color.” Mahanon explained all of this casually, as if almost dying of a spider bite and being in a coma for two weeks was an everyday occurrence. Then again, after walking out of the Fade, becoming the Herald of Andraste, and a quick jaunt to the future maybe something like that did seem mundane and boring. Dorian didn’t want to find out.
“Well, at least it looks good,” said Varric. “I knew a human who had hair so white it was nearly see through. It was less than attractive.”
Mahanon laughed, wincing when it pulled the cuts on his chest. “I can imagine,” he said, pulling the cloth away. The marks were angry red, though they were shallow and had mostly stopped bleeding. He tucked the cloth under his arm and pulled out some elfroot from the pouch he kept it in, popping the leaves in his mouth.
Dorian, who was not entirely sure what he was expecting, knew that it definitely wasn’t that. After a few seconds of chewing, Mahanon spit the green paste into his palm and began to rub it over the wounds. It only took a quick look at Varric to confirm that Dorian wasn’t the only one that was a little disgusted.
“You remind me of Daisy.” said the dwarf with a shake of his head. “She used to do that all the time. The best was when she tried to use it on Anders. He looked like someone had just shit in his bed.”
“Old Dalish remedy for when you don’t have time to brew a proper ointment,” said Mahanon, wincing as he rubbed the green paste over one of the deeper cuts. “Works well enough, but it stings like shit.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much what Daisy said too,” replied Varric a little wistfully. Dorian was still trying to figure out if half chewed elfroot was at all sanitary. He doubted that it was. Unaware of this, Mahanon pulled another roll of bandages out of his pack and began to wrap them around his torso. Clearly, it was painful to do because after a moment he muttered under his breath and stopped.
“I could help if you like,” said Dorian, a little more eagerly than was probably appropriate. Damn his fucking hormones straight to the void.
“That would be great. Ma serannas.” It was a Dalish phrase that Dorian had heard before, usually from Mahanon himself, but this time for some reason he noticed the way it changed Mahanon’s accent almost entirely. It was, honestly, more attractive than it had a right to be.
Ignoring his own terrible mind, he stepped closer to the elf, who did his best to lift his arms and let Dorian wrap the bandage around the wounds. That first thing Dorian noticed was that despite looking like the personification of winter and being nearly frozen a minute ago from being knocked arse over tits into an icy river, Mahanon was actually quite warm now. The few places where Dorian accidentally touched skin were soft, and from this distance, Dorian could see a light smattering of barely-there freckles over the tops of Mahanon’s shoulders that he hadn’t noticed while helping the elf remove his shirt earlier. He finished bandaging Mahanon as quickly as he could, stepping away far enough that the elf could not feel crowded.
Mahanon slipped his torn vest back on, forgoing his currently soaking tunic, and then shrugged into his coat. He picked up his staff, a simple wooden thing that looked like a fallen tree branch with a large raw crystal wound into the twigs at the top, and grabbed his dripping, still pink tunic out of the water.
“I think that we should call it a night. Maybe open one of those bottles you keep finding. What do you say, oh Herald?” asked Varric as he slid off the rock, Bianca strapped to his back, a bandage over his arm.
“I think that may be the best idea you’ve had all day, Varric,” answered Mahanon, slinging his pack over his shoulder so they could make the short trek back to camp. Dorian had to admit that a good stiff drink sounded wonderful after everything they had done today.
“I second that. Best hurry though, the Bull will be free in no time and then it’ll be a fight to get the bottle away from him,” said Dorian, grimacing as his legs protested walking over the rough ground. Good thing he had a staff to help him.
“Good thing I have more than one bottle,” said Mahanon with a laugh. “Drinks for all! To surviving all the bullshit the world had thrown at us!”
“And to surviving what it’s got in store for us next!” cried Dorian, hoping against all hope that it was easier than what they’d already faced. A foolish notion, but a man could dream.
“And having drinks to keep us from remembering it all!” cheered Varric, punching the air with his uninjured arm. This made Mahanon laugh, an infectious things that soon had Dorian joining in.
Yes, despite all that had happened, and all that he feared would happen, there was nowhere else Dorian would rather be than with the Inquisition.