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Chapter Text

The trip from Haven back into the Hinterlands is proving to be easier by far than any of Dorian’s other escapades out onto the open road. Perhaps it’s the quality of the horse beneath him, sturdier and better tempered than the grim, weak legged creature he had managed to haggle out from under some backwater farmer months ago when he first reached the south. The new Inquisition horse master, a gruff man by the name of Dennet, was very dubious indeed about granting Dorian a new mount, but relented. 

It could also be attributed to their escort, flying Inquisition banners and setting camps that greatly surpass anything Dorian had ever been able to accomplish. A night in a tent that didn’t collapse under the first hint of wind had been very refreshing. 

The company wasn’t so bad either. The talkative dwarf with the horrible drama serials, the massive Qunari spy. Dorian would never have chosen such companions, but he can’t complain. Well. He can, and he does , but it’s mostly for lack of anything better to do. 

It’s either complain, or spend too much time examining the Herald of Andraste. The Herald interests Dorian. The way he hums to himself in Elven when he thinks no one is listening, and how nimbly his fingers work his ruddy brown hair into a braid over one shoulder without looking, and that eerily glowing mark on his hand. Visible always, even through gloves. It glows while he eats and when he casts spells, always there, shining away like a sick beacon with every move he makes. It’s beautiful, and terrible, in much the same way the Breach in the sky is both beautiful and terrible. 

Dorian remembers seeing it for the first time, almost open mouthed in shock and interest and a tinge of horror as that molten green light ripped through the air toward the rift in the Redcliffe chantry. The piercing hum, the trembling of the air, the prickle of foreign magic making Dorian’s skin crawl and hairs rise on end, building in intensity until he could hardly stand it and then snapping like a bow string pulled too taut. And then nothing, a stillness tinged with residue of the Fade and that rip in the air, simply gone. The only remnants a few glistening puddles on the floor and the Herald curled in on himself, cradling that blessed, cursed hand to his chest. 

That mark would be enough for Dorian to be interested in anyone, fascinating bit of magic that it is, but it isn’t just the mark. It’s the man. The Herald of Andraste, a man that fell out of the sky and into the lap of the most heretical organization Thedas has ever seen since the rise of the Imperial Chantry. Someone like that should be legendary: seven and a half feet tall, wielding an ax of bone, scorching the land beneath his feet in a blaze of holy retribution. Instead, the Herald is an elven mage, a man with long hair, a tattooed face, and a chipped front tooth. He wields a worn staff made of twisted wood, polished to a shine and more likely to cast a barrier spell than cleave a man in two. 

Dorian wonders if Andraste perhaps has a sense of humor. 

His head snaps up from his book (not his, he borrowed it from one of the scouts traveling with him to fill the long days and nights with something other than coming up with more ways to goad the others into bickering) when he hears his name. He looks directly into the Herald of Andraste’s face, dark amber eyes glinting in the waning sunset and firelight, surrounded by the branchy dark red tattoos that cover his face like vines on a tree. He’s holding a wooden bowl in his hands, and offering it to Dorian. 

“Ah. Thank you, Herald,” Dorian says politely. He sits a bit away from the others in the camp. The Inquisition soldiers are leery of him, due to his magic and being from Tevinter, and Dorian doesn’t particularly want to exact the ire of a dozen unwashed, armed commoners. Varric is chatting the ear off of a small group of them while the Iron Bull sharpens his massive axe and watches the rest of the camp with a sharp eye. 

Dorian is a bit surprised that the Herald would do him this favor. He hasn’t been as obviously standoffish as some of the others, but he watches Dorian closely and only shares the briefest of exchanges with him. Not rude, not fearful, but intensely wary. 

However, the Herald doesn’t turn on his heel and depart after Dorian takes the bowl. Instead, he plops himself down on an upside down crate next to where Dorian sits and pulls an apple and a knife from his pocket, paring off a piece and sliding it between his teeth. Dorian watches the swift, precise movements of the Herald’s hands while he eats the bland stew. 

“What are you reading?” The Herald asks after a moment. 

Dorian blinks, rather stupidly, before glancing at the cover of his book and saying, “It’s an Orlesian murder mystery. One of the scouts loaned it to me. It’s… alright, I suppose. Better than gnawing my hands off from boredom, at any rate.” 

The Herald huffs out a small sound that might be a laugh. Dorian feels gratified. “Do you read, Herald?” 

The Herald rolls his eyes spectacularly. “I have a name, you know.” Dorian does know: Ematuelanuren. A long, flowing, beautiful name that Dorian is hesitant to use. It feels too informal, familiar in a way that Dorian’s stiff, altus upbringing balks at. But, he dips his head in assent and Ematuelanuren shrugs. “To answer your question: not too often. There aren’t very many books where I come from. There are some, but no works of fiction, certainly.” 

Dorian nods. What he knows of the culture of the nomadic elven clans that wander the South would fill less than a teaspoon, but it makes sense that they wouldn’t exactly carry a library with them. At Ematuelanuren’s mention of where he comes from, curiosity wiggles in the back of Dorian’s mind, but he’s reminded of the days of suspicious gazes cast on him from the elf and refrains. 

“Listen,” Ematuelanuren says after a moment of silence between them, “we are mostly strangers, and I know that this hasn’t been the most welcoming environment. But I think that if we’re going to work together, there should be some measure of goodwill between us.”

Dorian arches an eyebrow, but Ematuelanuren just gazes back guilelessly. “So this is a gesture of goodwill?” He asks dubiously, and when Ematuelanuren nods, Dorian tilts his head. “Well. I appreciate it. Truly.” 

“You’re in an unfamiliar place, far from home, in a position you’re not used to. I know what that’s like, even if I can’t relate to your situation specifically,” Ematuelanuren continues. 

Dorian quirks a small smirk. “It has been quite taxing, you know. Roughing it with southern barbarians.” It’s a snide little comment, coming naturally to him in this moment of potential vulnerability, an instinctive reaction to kindness. He’s almost concerned Ematuelanuren might take it poorly, but the elf just scoffs. 

“Yes, someone pitching a tent for you every night, giving you furs to sleep on, food to warm your belly, a new horse to ride, and ample protection on the road. It must be horrible.” Ematuelanuren says flatly, finishing his apple and chucking the core over his shoulder. Dorian feels the beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth; this might be the first time he’s ever heard a joke out of the other man’s mouth. His tone betrays no humor, but his eyes shine mischievously. 

One of the soldiers in Varric’s little story circle releases a loud chortle, followed by scattered laughter from the others and Varric looks on, a satisfied smile on his face. The dwarf seems to be fueled by storytelling rather than food or water, drinking in the suspension of an audience and their laughter when the tension finally snaps like it’s what his life’s very essence is made of. Dorian looks from Varric to the Iron Bull, who casts an intimidating, towering figure even when seated on the ground. His bulk, his scarred flesh, and his massive weapons all create an image of a reaver with little more than bloodlust on his mind, but beneath it Dorian knows is a precise, mechanical mind. Being pinned by Bull’s full attention is more baring, and unsettling, than being stripped entirely naked. When the Qunari notices Dorian looking at him, he winks with excessive flair. 

“I have a question, if I may,” Dorian says, looking back to Ematuelanuren. His own eyes flash in the dark like a cat’s, which is distracting in its own way. 

“Alright,” Ematuelanuren says, shifting warily. 

“Why did you choose our little company for this expedition? I know I’m meant to come along because I’ve been in the castle before and am familiar with the castle’s layout. But why the others?” Dorian asks. 

Ematuelanuren tilts his head, considering. “Well, neither of them are strangers to subterfuge. I don’t know exactly what we’ll face in Redcliffe, but Varric can talk his way out of anything and knows how to command a room or disappear entirely from notice. The Iron Bull is a Qunari spy; if anyone knows how to deal with Tevinter cultists it ought to be him,” he pauses, and appears to turn a bit pink around the ears, “And… If I am to face down a Tevinter magister in his own lair, I would rather do it with the biggest Qunari I know at my side. For my own personal peace of mind, if nothing else.” He’s gazing past Dorian now, into the trees, clearly looking at something beyond simple scenery. 

He must be frightened out of his wits, Dorian realizes. Walking into a castle filled to the brim with Tevinters who want to see him personally dead with no plan aside from “play bait and wait for the Nightingale’s spies to save your skin”. Dorian shifts, considering a comforting pat on the shoulder, but thinks better of it. He’s never touched Ematuelanuren before, and doesn’t know how well he’d respond to it. Instead he awkwardly taps his hand against the corner of Ematuelanuren’s upturned crate and says, “There are many people here, and in this world, who are dedicated to protecting you. Try not to fret.” Useless words, but he hopes the sentiment makes up for it. 

Ematuelanuren’s mouth twitches in a small attempt at a smile. “Thank you, Dorian. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to speak with Leliana’s scout,” Ematuelanuren says, nodding in the direction of a slim elven woman with blonde hair standing at the opposite end of camp. She’s watching them casually, and tilts her head when they both look her way. 

“Of course. Thank you for dinner, and the conversation,” Dorian says cordially, watching as Ematuelanuren rises and walks away from him, leaving a faint scent of apples and embrium. 

Chapter Text

An hour ago (a year ago?) Dorian crept through these same halls on the heels of the elven scout Charter, taking servant passages that lacked the usual bustle of castle servants, cooks, and maids in their trek toward the throne room. At the time, he was impressed with the efficiency of these scouts; the deft way knives slid into the soft tissue of Venatori necks, catching bodies before they hit the floor with a clatter. Charter strangled a man twice her size without breaking a sweat, merely meeting Dorian’s eye as he watched with grim fascination as the man’s face went from red to purple to blue and he sagged in her arms. He stepped carefully over the body as they moved forward. 

Everything has changed. The halls are still mostly deserted, but the smell of rot and mold fills the air, everything turned uncomfortably warm and glowing with red lyrium. It’s everywhere: the walls, the floors, collapsing whole sections of the castle in its rapid growth. He can see it in the faces of his companions, pulsing under Varric’s skin, shining beneath the Iron Bull’s eyepatch. It’s distorted their voices, causing them to shake and grate. Soon they will be little more than poisoned husks. Unless they do something. Unless he does something. Ematuelanuren’s presence at his side is a comfort, the only living thing in his hellish dream that isn’t poisoned, though he has been very quiet. His eyes are shining and his face is set with grim determination, but Dorian knows the many expressions one can use to hide fear and grief. He saw Ematuelanuren’s slack jaw and wide horrified eyes when they stepped outside and beheld the sky, the way he cradled that poor chantry sister in his arms so gently when they found her in the torture chambers. 

He also remembers his words to Ematuelanuren, as foolish as they were to say: “I’m here. I’ll protect you.” Dorian intends to honor them. Staring around at the end of the world, he is intimately aware that the only person in the entirety of Thedas who can stop it is standing next to him, and that he would do anything to deliver Ematuelanuren to that destiny. 

“Do you know what happened to the others?” Ematuelanuren asks quietly. 

Varric sighs. “Some were executed, some just taken away, and some…” 

“Some ended up like Fiona?” Ematuelanuren guesses. Varric nods silently, and Ematuelanuren shakes his head. 

“Let’s just hope your pet Tevinter can get us out of this one,” the Iron Bull says grimly.

In the throne room, covered in blood and gore, facing down the monster that destroyed the world, what rattled Dorian most was seeing Felix. More than Alexius’ madness or the Breach eating the world or the demons or the red lyrium, Felix horrified him. His gray, waxy skin and hollow face, bulging eyes, senseless like an animal. Hunched in the corner like a terrible creature that had stolen his friend’s face and wore it like an ill fitting suit. The way several of his thin bones could be heard crunching when Leliana slit his throat and dropped his body to the floor. Even as demons and Venatori pour into the room, dragging the corpses of Varric and the Iron Bull with him, Dorian cannot remove that image or that sound from his mind. When Leliana falters and shouts as their adversaries come upon her and Ematuelanuren steps forward with his staff, instinctively, it is Felix he is thinking about when Dorian grabs his arm and pulls him back. 

Ematuelanuren has tears in his eyes, mouth pinched tightly to keep them from falling. He flinches with every horrible sound of Leliana being ripped apart, the demons drawing closer and closer. Finally, Dorian is ready, grabbing Ematuelanuren by the sleeve of his armor and hauling him through the strange time rift. Traveling through it feels like his flesh is being flayed from his body, his face being stretched and pulled taut. He loses track of his limbs, of Ematuelanuren, of everything, until finally his boots hit the floor. 

He sees the look of regret and despair cross Alexius’ face, but he seeks out Felix and sighs with relief when he sees his friend whole, if rather concerned. Comforted by this, he looks back to Ematuelanuren, who is regarding Alexius with an unreadable expression. Tears still brim in his eyes, blood still smears his face, but he is completely still, tense and hunched in on himself, staring at Alexius with great intensity. Dorian rather wonders if he won’t just burst into tears. He goes to speak, to say something witty to break the silent tension in the room, but before he can, Ematuelanuren lets out an ear splitting scream, launching himself over the throne and onto Alexius with alarming speed and strength. 

With a ferocity Dorian has never seen before and may well never see again, Ematuelanuren tackles Alexius to the floor and lands a hard, resounding punch to his face. Followed by another, and another. Dorian winces when he hears the crunch of Alexius’ nose giving way beneath Ematuelanuren’s fist. For a long, long moment, every single soul in the room simply stares in stunned silence as Ematuelanuren beats the magister to a bloody pulp, shouting expletives in an enraged mixture of Common and Elvish. Finally, just as Felix moves to intervene, the Iron Bull approaches and stays both Felix and Dorian with a single raised hand. He pries Ematuelanuren off of Alexius while the elf struggles, but ultimately he’s hopelessly outmatched, and the Iron Bull drags him off and away, setting him down by a pillar and planting a hand on his shoulder as he buckles over, breathing heavily. 

Dorian gazes down at Alexius, curled on the floor, clutching his ribs with one hand and his bloody mess of a face with the other. He feels something like numbness at the sight, as if all at once all the energy has been sapped out of him. He turns away. Felix passes him by to kneel by his father’s head, casting wary glances in the direction of Ematuelanuren, but the elf is now glaring at the ground as the Iron Bull and Varric speak to him softly. 

Grand Enchanter Fiona catches Dorian’s gaze. “What… happened?” she asks softly. 

Dorian stares at her for a long moment, and then sighs, and shrugs. “It’s complicated. We went through a rift in time and encountered a rather unkind future, suffice it to say.” 

The Grand Enchanter looks as if she’s about to inquire further, but then the great doors to the throne room slam open, and shiny Fereldan soldiers march through, followed by a gilded, fearsome King Alistair. He stands there for a moment, surveying the scene, and Dorian marvels how like a painting he looks. Golden brown hair brushes his neck, a simple crown on his head, face fierce but eyes somehow kind. Still, his expression is steeled when he stares down the Grand Enchanter, who seems to wither beneath that gaze. Dorian edges away slowly, not particularly interested in gaining the ire of royalty today, on top of everything else. 

The Iron Bull and Varric step back, allowing Ematuelanuren to come before the king. He’s still clearly beside himself, face streaked with tears and blood, braid loosened, but he wipes at his face with the back of his unmarked hand and manages an awkward bow before addressing him. Horrible form, but King Alistair doesn’t seem much like a man hung up on decorum. He stands in a circle to conference with Ematuelanuren, the Grand Enchanter, and Charter for several minutes, glaring the entire time, but eventually gives a stiff nod, stepping away to speak with the leader of his Royal Guard. Fiona, though still stricken, smiles at Ematuelanuren. 

Dorian watches as some of the great names of today’s world confer with one another for some time, until finally he approaches Charter. “What was all that business?” he asks, eyes still on Ematuelanuren and Fiona. 

She meets his eye and smirks. “The Mage Rebellion has joined the Inquisition, and Ferelden has agreed to not retaliate about today’s affairs, provided the entirety of the Rebellion has departed for Haven by week’s end.” Charter sighs. “I need to send word back. We’re going to need a lot more guards.” 

“All in a day’s work for you Inquisition lot, yes?” Dorian jokes, but Charter simply regards him coolly. 

“There’s no use pretending that you aren’t included in the ‘Inquisition lot’, Pavus. Especially after today,” she says, and then leaves him to speak lowly with the rest of the Nightingale’s agents. 

It takes the better part of two days to mobilize the mages residing in Redcliffe. Soldiers and scouts come with mounts and wagons and supplies, loading up the village with haste like an army of industrious little ants. At the center of it all is Ematuelanuren, now clean and seemingly calm, if a bit quiet. He coordinates the transition, meeting with soldiers, scouts, First Enchanters, and even Redcliffe’s mayor. He apologizes, reassures, and instructs in his quiet, thoughtful way. By the time everyone is ready to depart, the entire village is eating out of the palm of his hand. Chantry sisters bless him, merchants give him discounts, and the mayor shakes his hand vigorously. 

Dorian marvels at it all. “It’s no wonder Andraste chose you,” he says to Ematuelanuren as they make their final preparations to depart at the end of the week. 

Ematuelanuren frowns. “I don’t think she did. But why?” 

Dorian gestures around at the place. “Not many men would be able to mobilize over a hundred mages who, days ago, were set to be enslaved to Tevinter. You have quite a gift.” 

Ematuelanuren shrugs. “I was my clan’s First,” he says, and then when Dorian just looks at him blankly, he nods and elaborates. “Every clan has a Keeper, our leader. Every Keeper has a First, the one who is supposed to become Keeper next when our current one dies. Keepers are trained to take responsibility for leading the clan, among other things. This was like coordinating the clan when we were getting ready to travel, only… bigger.”  

“Your Keeper trained you well, then,” Dorian says. Ematuelanuren smiles, genuinely, for the first time Dorian’s seen in days. 

Ematuelanuren has mounted his horse, a chestnut Forder Ematuelanuren jokingly named Halla, when a blonde young man approaches the head of the caravan and steps up to him. A soldier standing nearby tenses, but Ematuelanuren waves him off. “Connor?” he says gently to the young man. He’s wearing a gray rucksack and a sheepish look on his face. 

“Your Worship, I thought about what you said. I think that I’d like to accompany you to Haven, if that’s still alright,” he says. 

“Of course. Find the Grand Enchanter. I’m glad you decided to join us, Connor,” Ematuelanuren says warmly and Connor smiles awkwardly, nodding before running off to find Fiona. 

“Was that the arl’s son?” Varric asks, staring after the mage. 

“Yes. He was worried about joining us, that the lack of templars would make it hazardous. I guess he changed his mind,” Ematuelanuren says casually, stroking his horse’s mane. 

“Didn’t he get possessed by a demon?” the Iron Bull asks dubiously from the back of his own mount, a large hart sturdy enough to carry him. 

“He isn’t possessed anymore,” Ematuelanuren replies, cutting narrowed eyes toward the Iron Bull. The Qunari grumbles, but says no more about it. 

They set off a short time later, Ematuelanuren, Dorian, and the others leading the long caravan of mages toward Haven. Somewhere toward the back of the line there is a caged wagon carrying Alexius with a full accompaniment of guards, including a former templar captain. Felix departed by ship the day before, heading back to Minrathous. He had looked rather ill when he left, and couldn’t look his father in the eye. 

“You seemed very affected by the events in the castle,” Dorian chances in saying, after about an hour of riding. 

“Were you not?” Ematuelanuren replies breezily, but his posture stiffens atop his mount. 

“Of course I was, but I was rather referring to your outburst after we arrived back through the rift. It was something to behold,” Dorian says and Ematuelanuren glares at him. “I wanted to ask how you’re feeling now.” 

Ematuelanuren sighs. “Every time I close my eyes, I see that horrible green sky. The red lyrium growing from Fiona. What the Venatori did to all those people. It sickens me, still. While we were there, I had to force myself to not think about the rest of the world. My family and my clan. I can only imagine what a Tevinter supremacist cult would do to the Dalish. When we came back, when we were safe, I was so angry. I hate Alexius for what he helped do, his role in all of this. His selfishness would have doomed the rest of the world. I don’t care whether or not he did it for his son, though I’m not convinced that’s the only reason he did it. I don’t care at all. I just wanted him to pay. I still do, but I don’t know that beating him to death with my hands is the best way to make it so.” 

Dorian stares at the side of his face, his hard glare at the road in front of him and his hands tight on the reins of his horse. “I’m sorry,” he says at last. 

“Only be sorry if we don’t see this Elder One gutted before all of that comes to pass,” Ematuelanuren replies grimly. 

“That’s a cause I can certainly get behind,” Dorian says with a short laugh. Ematuelanuren nods, not taking his eyes off of the road ahead. 

“Thank you for being there, Dorian,” he says, and that’s the last Dorian hears from him for quite a while.